The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(92)
They pushed their way through the crowd as best they could, the two men carrying the inspector’s limp body and Emma clearing the way with her parasol when necessary, until they managed to leave the station. But once they reached the area reserved for waiting vehicles, they came across the same mayhem as inside. Murray’s carriage, like all the others, was surrounded by a surging crowd that was struggling to commandeer it. They had just managed to knock the driver from his perch and were enthusiastically beating the poor wretch as he dragged himself across the ground. Wells took the opportunity of leaving Clayton in Murray’s care a few yards from the carriage and helping the girl to climb aboard through the door farthest from the skirmish. But scarcely had Emma placed a foot on the running board when a man grabbed her arm and flung her callously to the ground. Without thinking, Wells seized hold of her aggressor’s jacket, before realizing with unease that the man was much bigger than he.
“That’s no way to treat a—”
A fist striking his face prevented him from finishing his sentence. Wells staggered and fell backward, landing close to the right-hand wheel. Half dazed by the blow, his mouth filled with blood, Wells watched from the ground as two burly men planted themselves in front of the carriage door, while the girl, scarcely a yard away, struggled to pull herself up. Wells noticed that the two brutes, both the one who had knocked him down with a right hook and his companion, were wearing the uniform of station porters. Until only an hour ago, he reflected, the two men had been obsequiously carrying the luggage of customers like him, in the hope of receiving a tip that would pay for their supper. But the Martians had created a new order in which blunt force prevailed. If the invasion flourished, it would be men like these who would flaunt their power and possibly even decide the fate of others. With no clear idea how to help the girl or make off with the carriage, Wells spat out a gob of blood and leaned on the wheel to hoist himself up, much to the amusement of the fellow who had knocked him down.
“Haven’t you had enough?” he yelled, turning toward Wells and raising his fist in a threatening gesture. “Do you want some more?”
Naturally, Wells did not. However, he clenched both fists, squaring up ridiculously, prepared to return the blows as best he could. He could not back down now. Scarcely had he time to raise his fists when a shot rang out, startling the crowd encircling the carriage. All turned in the direction of the noise. Wells saw Murray, pointing Clayton’s pistol into the air. The inspector was curled up next to the splayed-out legs of the millionaire, who, with an imperturbable smile, fired a second shot, which prompted the mob to step back from the carriage. Wells wondered what would become of the bullet, where it would land once the speed that propelled it skyward died out and it fell back to earth. After firing the shot, Murray slowly lowered his arm, like a snow-covered branch bowing under its load, and took aim at the crowd.
“That carriage belongs to me, gentlemen, and if any of you get near it, it’ll be the last thing you do,” he shouted, edging nimbly toward the band of men led by the two porters.
When he reached them, he offered the girl his hand, still brandishing the gun.
“Miss Harlow, allow me to help you,” he said gallantly.
The girl appeared to hesitate, then finally stood up, leaning her weight on his hand. She stood behind Murray, shaking the mud from her dress as she glanced about in a dazed fashion. Still pointing the gun at the porters, Murray gestured to Wells and Miss Harlow to climb aboard.
“Hey, Gilliam . . . ,” Wells whispered behind his back.
“What is it, George?”
“I think you’ve forgotten Inspector Clayton.”
Without lowering his weapon, Murray glanced over his shoulder and saw the inspector’s body lying on the ground where he had left it. He blurted out an oath between gritted teeth and turned his attention back to the group of thugs, who leered at him, and then once more to his companions, his gaze resting tentatively on the girl, who was still standing beside him, a bewildered expression on her face.
“Very well,” he said, making a decision. Then, handing Emma the gun, he said softly, “Miss Harlow, would you be so kind as to hold these gentlemen at bay while Mr. Wells and I lift the inspector into the carriage? Forgive me for asking, but do you believe you can manage that?”
Emma gazed with puzzlement at the weapon Murray was holding out, and then peered at him. Murray gave her a smile as warm as it was encouraging. This instantly roused the girl’s anger once more.
“Manage? Why of course, Mr. Murray,” she snapped, grabbing the weapon with her slender hands. “I don’t think it will be too difficult. You should try wearing a corset sometime.”
As the weapon changed hands, the porter who had attacked the girl let out a howl of laughter and took a step forward. As the girl aimed the revolver at him he stopped in his tracks.
“I’m warning you, my friend, one more step and I’ll do more than knock you to the ground,” she declared fiercely.
“Oh, I’m quaking in my shoes,” the porter mocked, turning to his band of men. “The little lady wants us to believe she can—”
However, he was unable to finish his sentence because Emma, with a sudden movement, lowered the gun and shot him in the foot. The bullet pierced the toe of his boot, a jet of blood spurting out. The porter fell to his knees cradling his foot, his face contorted with pain.