The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(82)
“So, the Master of Time isn’t dead after all . . . ,” Clayton muttered to himself, without looking up from the letter he was cradling in his hands, as he might a dove.
“Evidently not,” Wells replied disdainfully.
Clayton folded Murray’s letter, and, instead of giving it back to Wells, he slipped it inside his jacket pocket, a gesture that for Wells transformed it into an incontrovertible piece of evidence that absolved him of all guilt.
“Naturally this letter provides us with another possible explanation to consider,” said Clayton, in an amiable yet guarded manner.
Another! Wells bridled. How many more could there be? “Forgive me, Inspector,” he said, “but I am at a loss as to how any other explanation could be as simple and logical as the conclusive evidence of that letter.”
The young man smiled. “Quite so, Mr. Wells. However, I was trained to consider every avenue, without being restricted by logic or simplicity, concepts which are, moreover, subjective and overrated. My job is not to whittle down the possibilities, but rather to increase them. And that is why I refuse to ascribe the adjective ‘conclusive’ to any fact. The letter’s existence opens in my mind a host of fresh alternatives: you may have written it yourself, for example, to hamper the investigation and point the finger at a dead man.”
“B-but then,” stammered the astonished Wells, “am I to understand that the preposterous notion that I predicted a Martian invasion one year in advance, down to the very last detail, is in your view still worthy of consideration? Do you think I have some connection to the Martians, that my novel was a kind of premonition rather than a product of my imagination? Do you think I am their typist, or their messenger?”
“Calm down, Mr. Wells, there is no need to upset yourself,” the inspector insisted. “Nobody is accusing you of anything. We are simply two gentlemen having an informal discussion, are we not? And during the course of this interesting conversation I am communicating to you my tedious working methods. That is all.”
“The fact that you feel it necessary to reassure me about this hypothetical accusation only strengthens my anxiety, I can assure you.”
Clayton chuckled softly.
“All the same, allow me to insist that you have no reason to worry. I am not taking you in for questioning, much less arresting you. Not for the moment, anyway,” he added, gazing at Wells with an intensity that belied for an instant his mild, friendly manner. “I have simply requested that you accompany me to Woking in the hope that your presence there might help shed light on a mystery, which, for the time being, implicates you because of a connection to your novel. And you have been kind enough to accept, for which I am infinitely grateful.”
“Everything you say is true, Inspector; however, I feel I must emphasize that I have already been of assistance by handing over to you a letter that, in my opinion, clears up any mystery surrounding this tiresome affair,” Wells reiterated, unable to prevent a tone of sarcasm from entering his voice.
“Let us hope you are right, Mr. Wells. If so, we shall both be home in time for supper, and you will have an amusing story with which to regale your charming wife.”
With those words, Clayton became absorbed in contemplating the scenery, bringing the conversation to a close. Wells gave a sigh of resignation and did the same. For a few moments both men pretended they had an inordinate interest in studying the monotonous English countryside filing past the windows, until the silence became unbearable for Wells.
“Tell me, Inspector Clayton, what cases does Special Branch at Scotland Yard deal with?”
“I’m afraid I can’t give you any details about that, Mr. Wells,” the young man replied respectfully, his eyes still glued to the landscape outside.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Inspector. I’m not suggesting you disclose the contents of any secret files or anything. In fact, I know more than you think about the kind of information our country’s rulers conceal from their citizens,” Wells said, unable to resist showering the inspector with some of the mounting indignation he had been feeling since his visit to the Chamber of Marvels.
As though prey to a sudden spasm, the inspector turned his eyes from the window and fixed them on Wells.
“What are you trying to insinuate, Mr. Wells?”
“Nothing, Inspector,” Wells replied, backing down, daunted by the young man’s penetrating gaze. “I am merely curious about the kinds of cases your division deals with. As a writer I am in the habit of gathering information for future novels. It is something I do almost automatically.”
“I see,” the other man replied skeptically.
“Good, then can you not even tell me what kind of cases you investigate? Murders, political crime, espionage? The comings and goings of Martians on our planet?” Wells said with a forced smile.
The inspector reflected for a few moments, gazing back at the scenery. Then he turned to Wells, his lips set in that distinctive scowl conveying an impression of smugness, which whether deliberate or not, was beginning to get on the author’s nerves.
“Let’s say we deal with cases that at first sight defy any rational explanation, as it were,” the inspector finally conceded. “Everything that Man, and consequently Scotland Yard, cannot explain using reason, is passed on to Special Branch. You could say, Mr. Wells, that we are the dumping ground for all things inconceivable.”