The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(79)

Murray sat down once more at his desk, took out a sheet of paper, and paused for a moment. Did he have the nerve to do it? No. Yes. Of course he did; he had no choice. He was a man who knew how to read the signs. But above all he was a man at the end of his tether. And such men are capable of anything. Hunched over the blank page, Murray began writing the most humiliating letter of his life:

Dear George,

I imagine it will come as no surprise to you to receive a letter from a dead man, for we are both aware that you are the only man in all England who knows I am still alive. What will doubtless surprise you is the reason for my writing, and that is none other than to request your help. Yes, that is right, I am sending you this letter because I need your help.

Let me begin by not wasting time dissembling. We both know that our hatred of each other is unmitigated. Consequently, you will understand the humiliation I feel at having to write you this letter. However, I am willing to endure that humiliation if it means obtaining your help, which gives you some clue as to how desperate I am. Imagine me kneeling and begging at your feet, if it pleases you. It is of no consequence to me. I do not value my dignity enough not to sacrifice it. I realize the absurdity of asking for help from one’s enemy, and yet is it not also a sign of respect, a way of admitting one’s inferiority? And I fully recognize my own: as you know, I have always prided myself on my imagination. But now I need help from someone with a greater imagination than my own. And I know of none comparable to yours, George. It is as simple as that. If you help me, I will happily stop hating you, even though I don’t suppose that is much of an incentive. Bear in mind I will also owe you a favor, and, as you know, I am a millionaire now. That might be more of an incentive. If you help me, George, you may name your price. Any price. You have my word, George.

And why do I need your help? you must be wondering. Well, at the risk of rekindling your hatred of me, the matter relates to another of your novels, this time The War of the Worlds. As your brilliant mind has no doubt already deduced, I have to re-create a Martian invasion. However, this time I assure you I am not attempting to prove anything to you, nor do I intend to profit from it. You must believe me. I no longer need either of those things. This time I am driven by something I need more than anything in the world, and without which I shall die: love, George, the love of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. If you have been in love you will understand what I am referring to. I daresay you will find it hard, perhaps impossible, to believe that a man like me can fall in love, yet if you met her it would seem strange to you if I had not. Ah, George, I was unable to resist her charms, and I assure you her immense fortune is not one of them, for as I told you, I have enough money to last several lifetimes. No, George, I am referring to her charming smile, her golden skin, the savage sweetness of her eyes, even the adorable way she twirls her parasol when she is nervous . . . No man could be immune to her beauty, even you.

But in order to have her, I must arrange for a cylinder to land on Horsell Common on August 1, and for a Martian to emerge from it, just like in your novel, George. And I don’t know how! I have tried everything, but as I told you, my imagination has its limits. I need yours, George. Help me, please. If I pull it off, that woman will be my wife. And if that happens, I promise I shall no longer be your enemy, for Gilliam Murray will be finally laid to rest. Please, I beg you, I implore you, assist this lovesick soul.

Yours,

G.M.

Murray sank back in his chair and gazed at the humiliating letter, at the flowing lines of fresh ink covering the white page. Would his words achieve anything? He reflected that it might be wiser to threaten Wells, to warn him that Jane could be the victim of a cycling accident, for instance, but he instantly rejected the idea. He would have stooped that low once, but now that he was in love he dared not consider it. The thought was abhorrent to him. He could not bear the idea of Emma being hurt and so could therefore easily understand what Wells would feel if he received such a threat. Besides, he had no need to resort to his old thuggish ways, for he was convinced Wells would help him, for the simple reason that he believed himself superior to Murray and was eager to prove it. That kind of ploy always worked with people of integrity, which, rightly or wrongly, is what Wells undoubtedly considered himself. And he, Murray, had only sacrificed his dignity, which was no great loss. From now on, with Emma by his side, he would remodel himself, he would be reborn as a better person, a new man, uncorrupted, redeemed by love. He blew on the ink, placed the sheet of paper in an envelope, and sealed it.

The following day he posted the letter. And he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until at last he realized that Wells would never reply. Apparently, the author had no intention of helping him. Wells’s hatred was stronger than he had imagined; it clouded his mind, poisoned his thoughts. For a few days, Murray toyed with the idea of sending Wells a second, more servile letter, or even of calling on him, hurling himself at the author’s feet and clutching his skinny knees until Wells had no choice but to help him if he wanted to carry on with his life. But Murray soon dismissed those ideas as futile; a shrewd businessman such as he knew when someone was impervious to civilized methods of persuasion. Clearly, Wells would never help him. And so, if he wanted to produce a convincing Martian, he would have to do it without Wells’s help. And sooner rather than later; otherwise, on August 1 Emma would be smiling triumphantly as she contemplated the grass gently swaying in the summer breeze on Horsell Common, whose delicious earthly peace was undisturbed by any alien presence.