The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(83)
The author shook his head, feigning surprise. Was it true, then? he wondered. Was everything he had seen in the Chamber of Marvels real?
“But,” the inspector added, “our work usually produces more evidence of the criminal imagination than of the unexpected. Almost every mystery has a simple explanation that would disappoint you as much as discovering the rabbit hidden in the lining of a conjurer’s hat.”
“So,” concluded Wells, “your job is to sift through the world’s illusions, to separate fact from fantasy.”
The inspector smiled. “That is an elegant way of describing it, worthy of a writer of your stature.”
“But what of the other cases?” Wells asked, brushing aside the compliment. “Those that continue to defy logical explanation after being analyzed by your remarkable minds?”
Clayton leaned back in his seat and observed with compassion the author’s attempt to reach the heart of the matter.
“Well . . .” The inspector paused for a few moments before continuing. “Let’s say such cases force us to accept the impossible, to believe that magic really exists.”
“And yet such cases never leak out to the public, do they? No one ever finds out about them, they go unreported,” Wells said, biting his tongue in order not to divulge what he knew, even as he tried to stifle the intense irritation he always felt when anyone underestimated his intelligence, or his knowledge.
“Understand that the majority of cases are never closed, Mr. Wells. Future generations will continue to investigate them long after you and I have become fodder for the worms. And I am convinced they will find logical and natural explanations to many of those that appear to us, shall we say . . . supernatural. Have you never thought of magic as a branch of science we have yet to discover or understand? I have. So, why alarm people with fears of the unknown, when many of these mysteries will be solved by the knowledge that lies beyond the mists of time?”
“I can see that you regard the public as a child to be protected at all costs from the monsters lurking in the darkness, in the hope that he will grow up and stop believing in them,” Wells responded irately.
“Or in the hope that a light we don’t yet possess will illuminate the darkness concealing those potential horrors, which if he knew about them would undoubtedly terrify him,” said Clayton, “by way of extending your excellent metaphor, Mr. Wells.”
“Perhaps you should stop treating people like children and recognize that there are those of us who would like to decide for ourselves what we wish and do not wish to know, Inspector Clayton!” Wells declared angrily, fed up with the young man’s tone.
“Mmmmm. That would make an interesting subject for debate, Mr. Wells,” Clayton replied calmly. “However, allow me to remind you that I am a humble inspector following orders, and naturally I take no part in my division’s or the government’s policy decisions regarding the information they make public. My job is to investigate cases, and in this one in particular, I intend to find out what is behind the appearance of a cylinder, which you described one year ago as coming from Mars. That is all.”
“Am I mistaken, then, in thinking that you have some proof of the existence of Martians, and that this isn’t the first time they have visited our planet?” Wells pounced, feeling a twinge of satisfaction when he saw that his remark had ruffled the inspector for the first time.
“What makes you think that?” said Clayton, looking at Wells mistrustfully.
“Simple logic, Inspector Clayton,” the author replied, emulating the young man’s smug grin. “Something must have happened to prove the existence of Martians, otherwise the discovery of a cylinder like the one in my novel, planted in exactly the same place I described, would have been viewed as no more than a childish prank, and not a reason to call in your division. Am I right?”
Clayton let out an amused chuckle, as though relieved by the author’s reply.
“Without doubt you’d make an excellent detective, Mr. Wells. If I weren’t such a fan of your novels, I would go so far as to suggest you’d chosen the wrong vocation.” He smiled. “But I fear there is no need for the kind of event you are suggesting. I’m sure that as the author of The War of the Worlds you understand better than anyone how conceited as well as illogical it would be to assume that we are the sole inhabitants of this vast universe, isn’t that so?”
Wells nodded resentfully. Clearly he would get no more information out of that insolent young man without admitting he had been inside the Chamber of Marvels and had therefore seen, and even touched, the Martian they had hidden in there, as well as the machine in which it had apparently flown through the blackness of space. But that was something he preferred to keep quiet about for the time being, lest he provide the inspector with a reason to arrest him: he had trespassed on private property, not to mention breaking a supposedly valuable object belonging to the museum, or to the government or to Scotland Yard, or whoever owned that astonishing assortment of miracles—or were they forgeries? Wells no longer knew what to think. Making an enemy of the inspector was not the most intelligent thing to do, Wells told himself. He had no idea what nonsense Murray had dreamed up, and how it might affect him, so it was better to have the law on his side just in case.
“Forgive me for prying, Inspector, it was unforgivably rude of me,” he apologized. “I understand perfectly that you aren’t at liberty to discuss your work, let alone with a stranger. I can only defend myself by saying that the reason for my curiosity is that I find your occupation fascinating. Even though I fear it is a dangerous one,” Wells said, gesturing toward the inspector’s artificial hand. “Or did you lose it carving the turkey?”