The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(152)
During our journey, as I brought up the rear with Inspector Clayton, I finally had a chance to reflect for a few moments on our plan. Despite what Wells had said, I was certain we should not leave London, convinced that Fate and not coincidence had brought our motley group together for a purpose. Glancing at the chain we formed, I pondered what part each link might play. Shackleton was at the front, untroubled by the foul smell, leading us through the maze of tunnels, a watchful expression on his face. I had no need to consider his role, for clearly it would be the most crucial of all. Behind him came Wells and his wife, who seemed relieved to be together again, yet despondent about the devastating speed of the invasion. I assumed that when it came time to defeat the Martians, it was natural for the only author who had described a Martian attack to be present. I had to admit that, despite our recent disagreement, I was relieved that Wells was part of our group, for even if his physical prowess didn’t apparently amount to much, I considered him one of the most intelligent men I had ever met. Following them, holding an embroidered handkerchief to her face, was the American girl. Her role in our group was a complete mystery to me, unless it was to manage the otherwise unmanageable Gilliam Murray. Murray had been nicknamed the Master of Time for having miraculously succeeded in taking us all to the year 2000, but clearly he held the key not only to the fourth dimension, but to the afterlife as well, from whence he had apparently returned. I wondered what if any Murray’s contribution to our group would be, apart from watching over Miss Harlow and attempting to belittle Shackleton. Behind him came the faithful coachman Harold, who was perhaps wondering why I had made him leave the basement in Queen’s Gate only to return there a few hours later, endangering our lives on both occasions. I imagined that of all of us, he was the most dispensable. Perhaps he had no part to play, except for having driven Shackleton and me to Primrose Hill. And finally, striding imperiously beside me, a pompous look on his face, was Inspector Clayton, whose inclusion in the group anyone would readily understand. But there was one other person: me. What role was I to play if our group was called upon to put a stop to the invasion? Perhaps, I reflected with a shudder, I had merely served to bring Shackleton and the others together. Yes, perhaps without my knowing it, I had already carried out my task, and, like Harold, I was dispensable.
I had been immersed in these thoughts for some time when, all of a sudden, Wells’s wife tripped over her flowing skirts and fell to the ground with a thud, almost dragging Wells with her. Murray and Emma rushed to her aid, while I made a mental note to tell all the women, once we reached Queen’s Gate, to follow the American girl’s example and change into something more suitable for escaping through the sewers. Fortunately, Jane got away with only twisting her left ankle. We had been walking for quite a while, and although Shackleton, who was clearly eager to be reunited with Claire, had insisted we press on, we decided to have a break so that Wells’s wife could rest her ankle. We took this opportunity to fill one another in on the horrors we had endured on our way to Primrose Hill. I told them about the naval battle I had seen on the Thames, and Wells gave an abridged version of his group’s perilous journey from Horsell Common with the tripods on their tail. Wells said he suspected the Martians had been living among us for a long time, possibly centuries, passing themselves off as human beings. I jested about having possibly rubbed elbows with them, for I could well imagine some of my more eccentric acquaintances hailing from other planets, but no one laughed.
When the conversation died away, I lit a cigarette and looked around for a place where I could smoke in peace. I needed a few moments alone to reflect about our situation. I noticed that to our right, amid a dizzying succession of identical archways, there was a tunnel that seemed to lead to the back of beyond, and I walked into it, not intending to stray far. Strolling absentmindedly, I came to a door, which was ajar. Intrigued, I pushed it open and discovered a tiny storeroom filled with tools and building materials. I glanced about, in case there was something in there we could use, but saw nothing, or rather everything in there looked useful, but I had no idea what our needs might be. In the end, I decided to sit down on a crate near the door and smoke my cigarette, imagining the startled look on Victoria’s face when, instead of returning with the invincible army of the future, I showed up in the basement with that ragged bunch, only to inform her we planned to flee through the stinking sewers of London to God knows where. Just then, I heard voices and footsteps echoing in the tunnel. Apparently someone else had felt a similar need for solitude. I could make out the voices of Murray and the American girl.
“Gilliam,” I heard Miss Harlow say, “you’re being unfair to Captain Shackleton. Knowing what you do about him gives you no right to speak to him like that.”
This admonishment surprised me. What had Emma meant? I wondered. What was it Murray knew about the captain?
“I don’t think—” Murray protested.
“Your remarks are hurtful, Gilliam,” she interrupted him, uninterested in his excuses. “But above all, unfair. Right now all of us need a reason, any reason, to carry on.”
“I already have a reason to go on, Emma. You know that.”
“Yes, I know,” the girl said softly. “Not that you need one; after all, you’re the great Gilliam Murray, the Master of Time—you don’t have to believe in anything or anyone. But the others do need something to believe in. And I’m convinced that the only thing that keeps them going now is their belief in Shackleton.” She paused before adding, “And it’s all your fault.”