The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(87)
“Yes, I am he,” Murray replied, irate. “As you can see, I’ve risen from the grave.”
“Well, we can discuss that another time,” Clayton remarked coldly, trying to sit up straight despite being thrown about by the swaying carriage. “There’s a more pressing question that needs answering now. Tell me: are you behind all this?”
“Of course not!” the millionaire replied. “I’m no murderer!”
“Good, good. Yet it so happens that I am in possession of a letter from you addressed to Mr. Wells, here on my left, where you explain to him that you have to re-create the Martian invasion in his novel, today no less, in order to win the heart of the woman you love, whom I assume must be you, Miss . . .”
“Harlow,” the girl replied in a faint voice. “My name is Emma Harlow.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Harlow,” said Clayton, smiling graciously and doffing his hat before readdressing the millionaire. “Well, Mr. Murray, are you the author of that letter?”
“Yes, damn it!” Murray confessed. “And everything in it is true. I asked for Mr. Wells’s help, but he refused to reply, as he himself will confirm. I persisted in trying to re-create the invasion on my own, but after failing to come up with anything credible, I gave up. I only came here today because I read in the newspaper that someone else had pulled it off.”
“Do you really expect us to believe that people have nothing better to do than try to reenact the invasion in my novel!” Wells interrupted angrily.
“Please be quiet, Mr. Wells,” Clayton said. “Or I shall have no choice but to knock you unconscious.”
Wells stared at the inspector in amazement.
“How could I do anything that would put Miss Harlow’s life in danger?” Murray exclaimed.
“So that you could come to her rescue, I imagine, as you just did,” Wells retorted. “Who knows what a warped mind such as yours is capable of thinking up.”
“I would never put Miss Harlow’s life in danger!” Murray declared angrily.
Clayton appealed for calm once more, raising his artificial hand.
“Quite so,” he said, “but in the meantime, until we discover what is in that cylinder, I’m afraid, Mr. Murray, you are under arrest. And that goes for you too, Mr. Wells.”
“What!” protested the author.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but the situation is as follows: A strange machine is killing dozens of people just as you described in your novel a year ago, Mr. Wells. And you, Mr. Murray, are the author of a letter professing that you intend to reenact the invasion described by Mr. Wells. Regardless of what is actually going on, one or other of you has some explaining to do.” He paused, giving the two men time to assimilate what he had just said. “Now, Mr. Murray, order your driver to take us to Woking Station, please. I need to send a telegram to my superiors.”
Reluctantly, Murray drew back the hatch in the roof and gave the command.
“Excellent,” declared Clayton. “I shall inform them as soon as we arrive that I have detained the two main suspects. And I am sure the young lady will wish to telegraph her family to assure them she is safe and sound. And that she could not be in better hands,” Clayton added, giving Emma what was meant to be a winning smile, but which to the others appeared more sinister than anything else. No one broke the silence that descended on the carriage as it passed alongside the Maybury viaduct, then left behind the row of houses known as Oriental Terrace as it clattered toward Woking Station, while only a few miles away, Martians were preparing their invasion of the planet.
XXII
WHEN THEY REACHED WOKING STATION, Wells and his companions were astonished to discover everything carrying on as normal in the station. People came and went, apparently unflustered, while the trains were shunted around like beasts of burden. Fascinated, they watched how a train arrived from the north, emptied its passengers onto the platform, and then picked up others and continued on its way, as though nothing untoward was happening nearby. Only a faint red glow lit up the horizon, and a thin veil of smoke shrouded the sky. It was the horror of war, which from a distance gave the impression of an exquisitely decorative display. If news of the slaughter they had survived had reached Woking, no one there seemed unduly alarmed by it. No doubt they believed in the might of the British army, which was advancing toward the cylinders with great military strides, ready to defeat the Martians, or whatever they were, in a matter of hours, the same way they had always done when an enemy dared threaten the Empire.
“So far, the panic doesn’t seem to have spread here,” Clayton observed, glancing about. “Just as well: that means we need only concern ourselves with our plan.”
Pointing his pistol discreetly at Wells and Murray, Clayton ushered them to the stationmaster’s office, where he introduced himself, gave the stationmaster a prompt and in no way alarming account of the situation, and persuaded the man to let him lock the suspects up in one of the station’s storerooms.
“Try to behave like gentlemen,” Clayton appealed to Wells and Murray before shutting them in and leaving with Miss Harlow to telegraph his superiors.
The two men were obliged to remain on their feet in the center of the tiny room crammed with boxes, provisions, and tools, but which contained nothing they could sit on while they waited. In the moments that followed, they were content to simply eye each other in mistrust.