The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(81)
However, as the days went by, Wells had managed to overcome his bewilderment, since in the long run knowing that miracles existed changed nothing, for perhaps the fairies only danced in his garden while he was asleep. Life went on as before, and he had no choice but to continue existing within the confines of the tangible world, the dull, quantifiable, inhospitable world. The rest was fantasy, fables, and old wives’ tales. Even so, Wells could not help feeling a tinge of resentment, the uncomfortable impression of being in a farce on a miniature stage designed by those in power who determined which props remained in the wings. What right did those men have to limit the world? Like him, they were mere specks of dust in the universe, a moment in time. But as the museum’s head curator had explained to Serviss, there were boundaries not all men were ready to cross. And Wells had paid the price, for he was clear about one thing: he would never write another fantasy novel. How could he, now that he knew there were more impossible things in the world than any writer could ever imagine? He had written a book speculating about the existence of Martians because he had never touched one before with his own hands. But that had changed: now he had, he had touched the arm of a genuine Martian, a Martian that had hurtled through space in a flying saucer, and that looked more like a moth than an octopus. With that in mind, what sense was there in helping Murray to re-create a Martian invasion as preposterous as the one he himself had described?
He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table in front of the picture window overlooking the garden. On the other side of the glass, a soft orange light was slowly tracing the outline of things. Wells gazed with quiet sadness at the vista appearing before him, knowing this was merely the tip of the iceberg, the rest of which was submerged, hidden from the vast majority of mankind. He sipped his coffee and sighed. That was enough. If he wanted to stay sane he should forget everything he had seen in the Chamber of Marvels, he told himself. And he tried to concentrate on resolving the problems he was having with the plot of Love and Mr. Lewisham, the realist novel he was planning to write.
It was then that something blinded him. A flash coming from outside. Wells stood up and narrowed his eyes, trying to see what had dazzled him, perhaps secretly hoping to glimpse at last one of the fairies he had seen in the photographs in the Chamber of Marvels. But, to his astonishment, he saw a metallic hand grappling with the latch on his gate. He watched, disconcerted. The prosthesis belonged to a slender young man in an elegant, sober three-piece suit. When at last he managed to open the gate with the aid of his left hand, Wells watched the young man walk up the stone path leading to the front door. Wells could tell from the air of frustration on his face that the man was annoyed at the clumsy artificial hand poking out of his right sleeve. Perhaps he had wanted to practice using it to open the gate, with disastrous results. What could such a fellow want with him? Wells hurried to open the door before the bell rang, so as not to wake Jane.
“Are you H. G. Wells, the author?” the stranger asked.
“I am,” Wells replied warily. “How can I help you?”
“I am Inspector Cornelius Clayton from the Special Branch at Scotland Yard,” the young man said, waving a credential in Wells’s face, “and I’m here to request that you accompany me to Woking.”
Wells remained silent, gazing at the stranger, who in turn gazed back at him without a word. The young man had a long, resolute-looking face, crowned by a mop of wavy hair that fell over his brow in a cascade of dark curls. Bushy eyebrows accentuated his narrow, intense eyes, and his full lips were set in a faint grimace, as though he were constantly aware of some nauseating stench. Lastly, his body was so angular it was not difficult to imagine him thrust down the barrel of a cannon waiting to be shot out in a circus ring.
“What for?” Wells asked at last, although he already knew the answer.
The inspector stared at him ominously before replying:
“A Martian cylinder appeared on Horsell Common tonight, exactly as you described in your novel.”
XX
NO MATTER HOW HARD THE INSPECTOR’S driver urged on the horses, it was impossible to make the journey from Worcester Park to Woking in less than three hours, Wells reflected, doing his best to give the impression that he was oblivious to the irksome jolting of the carriage. He was sitting bolt upright, hands folded neatly in his lap, having allowed his gaze to wander across the fields racing by outside as he tried to assimilate the absurd, exasperating situation in which the affairs of the heart had landed him. Another man’s heart this time, his own being so dull as to scarcely cause him any problem. For it appeared that Murray had succeeded. And without his help. Wells had no idea how, but the millionaire had contrived to adorn Horsell Common with a replica of the cylinder he had described in his novel. And it must have been quite a convincing one for Scotland Yard to send Inspector Clayton to ferry him to the scene. The young man had explained to Wells that although he had not yet seen the artifact in question, the description he had been given corresponded in every particular with the one in Wells’s novel, not to mention that it had turned up in exactly the same place. How could he possibly have known what the Martians were going to do a year in advance? he had inquired rather casually, even as he looked at the author askance. As far as the head of Special Branch, who had sent Clayton, was concerned, this was a logical question, especially if he believed in Martians, and on that matter Wells was in no doubt, for he had noticed a familiar-looking key decorated with a pair of angel’s wings round the young man’s neck. Even so, Wells could not help feeling a flash of anger at the hint of accusation in the inspector’s plainly rhetorical question. Wasn’t it more logical to think that someone might be trying to emulate his novel? Wells had replied, making no effort to conceal his irritation. And he was still waiting for an answer. He turned his gaze toward the inspector, who was silently absorbed in Murray’s letter, which Wells had produced to back up his argument. That letter cleared him of any accusation the inspector might make, however wild. The author awaited his reaction, trying to appear calm.