The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(71)

“Of course no one would, Mr. Gilmore,” Emma said, cutting him short. “But many people believe there is life on Mars.”

“On Mars?”

“Yes, on Mars. Have you heard about the canals? Some scientists believe they prove there is intelligent life on our neighboring planet.”

“I have read something about it, yes,” said Gilmore, visibly ill at ease. “In that case, you want me to . . . ?”

Emma interrupted him once more, sliding across the table a volume that looked familiar to him.

“Do you know this, Mr. Gilmore?” she asked, gesturing toward the book she had placed next to the teacups. It was a novel with a light brown cover, published by Heinemann.

Gilmore took it gingerly in his huge hands and read aloud the title:

“The War of the Worlds . . . H. G. Wells.”

“A well-known English author wrote it,” Emma said. “It’s a story about Martians invading the Earth.”

“H. G. Wells . . . ,” Gilmore said under his breath.

“The Martians land on our planet in giant cylinders fired from Mars. The first of them appears one morning on Horsell Common, not far from London. In the crater made by the impact, the Martians build a flying machine in the shape of a stingray, in which they then advance on the nearby capital. In less than a fortnight, the Martians conquer London.” She paused, then chuckled. “I want you to reproduce that invasion.”

Gilmore raised his eyes from the book and looked at her, openmouthed.

“What are you saying?”

“You heard me: I want you to make everyone believe that Martians are invading the Earth.”

“Have you gone mad?” Gilmore exclaimed.

“You don’t have to reproduce the whole invasion, of course,” she explained. “The first stage would suffice.”

“The first stage? But, Miss Harlow, that’s—”

“Impossible?”

“That isn’t w-what I was going to say . . . ,” Gilmore stammered.

“Just as well, Mr. Gilmore; then you will have no problem carrying it out. If you succeed in making an alien cylinder appear on Horsell Common and have a Martian emerge from it and if the following day every newspaper in the world runs a headline about an invasion by our interplanetary neighbors, then I shall agree to become your wife.”

“A Martian invasion . . . ,” Gilmore spluttered, “you’re asking me to re-create a Martian invasion . . .”

“Yes, that’s what I desire,” confirmed Emma. “Think of it as a tribute to my great-grandfather, who made everyone believe the Moon was inhabited by unicorns and bat men.”

Gilmore sat back in his chair and contemplated the book for a few moments, shaking his head in disbelief.

“If you think you aren’t up to it, Mr. Gilmore, then I suggest you accept defeat,” said Emma. “And please, stop sending me those ridiculous messages assuring me you can attain the impossible.”

Gilmore gazed at her and laughed defiantly.

“The Martians will come to Horsell, Miss Harlow, I can promise you that,” Gilmore said, in the solemn tone of someone declaring his love. “They will come all the way from Mars so that I can marry you.”

“When?” she declared boldly.

Gilmore appeared to reflect.

“When? Mmm . . . let me see. It is May now. I could arrange to leave for England in a week’s time, and the journey would take the better part of a fortnight. After that I would need at least a couple of months to carry out your request . . . that will take us up to August. Yes, that should give me enough time . . . All right, Miss Harlow, do you think August first is a good day for the Martians to invade Earth?”

Emma nodded, smiling. “Perfect, Mr. Gilmore. And I promise to be on Horsell Common to see it,” she said, rising to her feet and stretching out her hand. “Until then, Mr. Gilmore.”

Surprised by her sudden departure, Gilmore leapt to his feet, hurriedly pulling the service bell before kissing her hand.

“Until then, Miss Harlow,” he repeated.

Emma nodded politely, then headed for the library door. As the footman escorted her once more to the main entrance, she reflected about how well the meeting had gone.

But let us leave the endless succession of rooms and return to the little patio. For our true concern is not what Emma might be thinking at that moment, still less the footman or for that matter the maid Daisy, who was waiting in the spacious hallway for her mistress to appear. Our true concern is what was going on inside the head of Montgomery Gilmore, who was completely baffled. Having said goodbye to Miss Harlow, he was seated once more, caressing the volume she had left behind, a pensive expression on his face. He ran his plump fingers over the author’s name in embossed letters below the title and shook his head in amused disbelief at life’s strange twists and turns.

“A Martian invasion . . . ,” he muttered. Heaving a deep sigh of resignation, he gazed tenderly at his dog and declared: “Can you believe it, Eternal?”

The golden retriever stared back at him with what his master liked to think was equal skepticism.





XVII

MONTGOMERY GILMORE WENT BACK TO England two years after his death.

His first port of call after arriving in London was a certain square in Soho, at the center of which stood a bronze effigy of the man who had gone down in the annals of History as the Master of Time. Not everyone had the privilege of contemplating his own memorial statue. Montgomery Gilmore, the man once known as Gilliam Murray, carefully compared the figure to himself, as though he were looking in a mirror. Yet the fact was that after the changes he had imposed on his own body, he bore only a vague resemblance to his own statue. He had once weighed more than two hundred and fifty pounds; he’d had to lose quite a bit in order to achieve a complete transformation. However, to be on the safe side, Murray had also grown whiskers and a beard, cut his hair, and even learned to dress less ostentatiously. He was pleased with the result. He grinned, amused at the conjuring gesture his supposed double was tracing in the air with one hand, like a perfect charlatan. He also appreciated the likeness the sculptor had achieved of his faithful dog, Eternal, whom on reflection he had left behind in New York in Elmer’s care, fearing that to bring him along might ruin his disguise.