The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(84)
Clayton gave a rueful smile as he gazed down at the metal appendage poking out of his sleeve.
“You are right, Mr. Wells,” the inspector avowed. “I lost it on a . . . mission.”
“I hope it was worth it,” Wells commiserated.
“Let’s say it was decisive,” the inspector replied, reluctant to expand.
Wells nodded, signaling that he was not going to interrogate him any further on the subject.
“It seems an exquisite piece of equipment,” he limited himself to responding.
“Yes, it is.” Clayton smiled, with visible pride, moving it toward Wells so he could inspect it more closely. “The work of a surgeon and a French master gunsmith.”
Feigning a greater interest than he in fact had, Wells cradled the prosthesis in his hands, as he might a holy relic. The young man acquiesced and explained to Wells that it could be unscrewed, allowing him to attach an assortment of gadgets whose functions ranged from eating through to killing. Wells recalled his uncle Williams, who had lost his right arm and would attach a hook to his stump, happily using it in place of a fork at mealtimes. But Clayton’s elaborate prosthesis made his uncle’s seem like the handiwork of a schoolboy. When Wells had finished his desultory inspection, he pulled his hands away, and silence descended once more in the carriage as the two men resumed their contemplation of the scenery.
“It’s ludicrous of you to suspect me of having some connection to the Martians simply because I wrote a novel announcing their invasion!” Wells suddenly declared, as if to himself.
The author’s outburst made the inspector jump.
“As ludicrous as someone re-creating a Martian invasion to win a woman’s heart?” he retorted with a grin.
“Well, we shall soon find out,” Wells murmured, shrugging.
Clayton nodded and went back to gazing at the landscape, bringing the conversation to a close. But presently, he gave a little cough, and to Wells’s astonishment, declared, “Incidentally, did I tell you I am a huge fan of your work? I’ve read all your novels with great pleasure.”
Wells nodded coldly. He was in no mood just then to be forced into polite acknowledgments of his admirer’s praise.
“I dabble a little myself, you know,” Clayton went on to say, with the overweening modesty of the beginner. He gave another little cough before adding: “Might I send you one of my manuscripts so that you can give me your opinion? It would mean a lot to me.”
“Certainly, Inspector Clayton, I’d be delighted. Send it to my residence on Mars,” Wells replied, focusing his gaze on the landscape framed by the window.
XXI
AFTER A FEW MORE MILES SPENT IN SILENCE, the carriage reached Horsell Common. Once they had crossed the bridge at Ottershaw that led to the sand quarries, they had begun to encounter groups of curious folk who had come from Woking or Chertsey to see the same thing. However, once they reached the Martian cylinder’s supposed landing site, that trickle of people turned into a tidal wave. Peeking through the window, Wells could see for himself that it was complete mayhem out there. The common was teeming with people, and here and there, lads were vending newspapers hot off the press, announcing with shrill cries a host of headlines voicing Man’s doubts and speculations about the object that had appeared on Horsell Common: “Are we under invasion from Mars? Strange machines in Woking. Fantasy becomes fact. We are not alone! Is H. G. Wells a Martian?” They came to a halt next to a dozen other coaches and cabriolets parked at the edge of the common, among which Wells could not help noticing an exceptionally fine-looking carriage. He and Clayton stepped out of the vehicle and made their way through the throng of cyclists, apple barrows, and ginger beer stands, toward a plume of smoke that denoted the cylinder’s position. As they drew near, Wells and Clayton could see that the machine was half buried in the sand. The impact of the missile had made a vast crater in the ground, flinging sand and gravel in every direction and setting alight the adjacent heather, which was still smoldering and sending wispy threads of smoke into the midday sky. They elbowed their way through the sea of spectators until they reached the front, where Wells was able to confirm that Murray had indeed done an excellent job. The so-called Martian cylinder was nearly identical to the one he had described in The War of the Worlds. A few boys near the edge of the pit were tossing stones at it. People had reacted just as he had predicted, creating a picnic atmosphere around the lethal machine. Some were having their photograph taken with the cylinder in the background like a monument.
As though reading Wells’s mind, Clayton gestured toward the scene, arms outspread, and said, “You will agree that it is like being in your novel.”
“Indeed, it is a perfect reconstruction,” Wells avowed with admiration. “Murray is the world’s greatest charlatan.”
“Doubtless he is, Mr. Wells, doubtless he is. Why, he even managed to conjure up identical weather: warm and without any breeze,” Clayton declared sarcastically. Then he took out his pocket watch and added, with mock disappointment, “He hasn’t managed to make our watches stop, though, and I seem to recall in your novel they did, and that all the compasses pointed to where the cylinder had landed.”
“I would take that part out if I could write it again . . . ,” Wells murmured absentmindedly.
His gaze had been drawn to a well-dressed young woman, who was observing the cylinder at one remove from the crowd. Like a widow’s veil, the frill on her parasol obscured part of her face, yet as she appeared to be the only wealthy-looking young lady there, Wells assumed she must be the woman Murray loved, who had probably traveled there in the luxurious carriage he had seen earlier. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw her begin nervously twirling her parasol. So, she really did exist. Murray had not made her up, however idealized Wells considered Murray’s portrait of her in his letter. Wells watched her closely while she gazed at the cylinder, her solemn expression in stark contrast to the relaxed gaiety of the others gathered there. And he could not help pitying her, for the girl would have to marry the millionaire if Murray succeeded in making a Martian emerge from the iron cylinder he had dragged there. That meant Murray must be there, Wells thought, perhaps mingling with the crowd, delighting in all the excitement he had created with his toy. Clayton went over to talk to the chief of police, who was trying to prevent the onlookers from getting too close to the pit. Wells took the opportunity to glance fleetingly at the noisy crowd, but Murray was nowhere to be seen. Might he have drastically changed his appearance so as not to be recognized? Wells wondered.