The Map of Chaos (27 page)

“Damn it, George, I never thought I'd find you in this crowd!”

Wells turned around with exaggerated caution. And there was Murray. Standing in front of him. The late Master of Time. Smiling at him with the warm enthusiasm of one who has just bumped into a childhood friend.

“George!” he exclaimed again, clapping Wells repeatedly on the shoulder. “What a wonderful coincidence! Oh, no, please don't say a word: you must think me terribly rude, and you are quite right.” Murray lowered his head in a gesture of remorse. “I'm a bounder, I know. Not a word of thanks during all this time, after what you did for me . . . Although I am not lying when I say I have thought of writing to you many times!”

Wells looked at Murray with the blank expression of a roast suckling pig, somewhat dampening his enthusiasm.

“Oh, come now, are you annoyed with me? Well, I suppose you have every right to be. What can I say in my defense? Only that during the past few months I have been floating on a cloud, that the Earth and everyone on it seems as remote and unreal to me as in a dream. But what can I say about love that you couldn't express far more poetically than I? Oh, George, George . . .” Murray seized Wells by both shoulders as if he were going to wring him out like a dishcloth, gazing into his eyes with such tenderness, Wells was afraid Murray's euphoria might end in an embrace. “But I shan't let you go on being annoyed! Why, I was going to write to you tomorrow to invite you to the reception I am giving next month at my residence, and I can tell you now that no excuse in the world is good enough to justify your not coming. However, it seems that fate has brought us together this evening and I am able to give you the wonderful news in person. Do you have any idea what I'm referring to?”

Wells could only shake his head feebly, dizzied by the frantic tirade of Murray, who was dragging out the suspense like a skilled conjuror.

“The charming Miss Harlow and myself . . . we are to be married!”

Murray smiled triumphantly, anticipating the other man's response. Until then, Wells had listened to Murray's prattle with a mixture of wonder and dread, like someone hearing a magic tree talk, but now he felt an age-old fury stirring inside. Wells took a step toward him.

“What are you playing at, Murray?” he hissed, almost choking with rage. “What the devil are you—”

But Murray didn't let him finish. He seized Wells by the arm and dragged him behind the column farthest from the crowd.

“Are you crazy, George?” he whispered dramatically, “You called me by my real name!”

“Let go of me, damn you!” Wells roared. “What do you think you're doing? And what the devil do you expect me to call you?”

Murray looked bewildered.

“You know perfectly well, George! Everyone calls me Montgomery Gilmore now.”

“Oh, yes, I know. But not me,” Wells hissed between gritted teeth. “I know perfectly well who you are and what you're capable of,
Gilliam Murray.
”

“Be quiet, George, I implore you!” the other man pleaded. “Emma might come over here at any moment and—”

Wells looked at him aghast.

“You mean to tell me even your betrothed doesn't know who you really are?”

“I—I . . . ,” Murray stammered. “I haven't gotten round to telling her yet, but I fully intend to do so . . . Of course I do! I just have to find the right moment . . .”

“The right moment,” repeated Wells sarcastically. “Perhaps you'll find it when she goes to visit you in jail. Assuming that she does, naturally.”

Murray narrowed his eyes.

“What are you insinuating?” he asked menacingly.

Wells recoiled slightly.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Do you know something about that accursed inspector who won't leave me in peace?” whispered Murray, seizing Wells's arm again. “Of course you do. I saw you with him when I stepped out of the balloon.”

“Let go of me,” Wells said firmly, trying to disguise the fear he felt at that flash of violence in Murray's eyes, which seemed to have risen to the surface from the depths of the old Gilliam. He was afraid now that the conversation would end in something less delicate than an embrace. “I said let—”

“You told him who I was, didn't you?” Murray interjected, clasping Wells's arm more tightly.

“Yes, damn it!” muttered Wells, torn between fear and rage. “I was forced to show him your letter. What choice did I have? He showed up at my house accusing me of having unleashed a Martian invasion. And for the love of God, Gilliam, if you wanted to go on pretending you were dead, do you really think the best way of doing it was to create a spectacle like that on Horsell Common?”

Murray remained silent, apparently engaged in some kind of inner struggle. Then he gazed with curiosity at his own hand clutching Wells's arm, almost as if it belonged to someone else. He instantly relaxed his grip, disgusted by his own gesture.

“Forgive me, George, I didn't mean to hurt you . . .” He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to take hold of himself. “I'm at my wit's end; that detective is driving me crazy, you know?” He contemplated Wells and screwed up his face. “Did Scotland Yard honestly think you had planned a Martian invasion? And was that long-legged pompous ass supposed to save us all? I'd like to see him fight a real Martian invasion . . . That pain in the neck is intent on investigating my old company, and he won't stop badgering me with questions . . . But have no fear. He won't find anything, because I have nothing to hide. And as far as I know, you can't be sent to prison for pretending to be dead, can you? What really worries me is that he is sparking rumors, and I couldn't bear any of them to reach Emma before I have a chance to tell her myself. Luckily, so far I've managed to hush them up.”

“I can imagine how you went about it,” Wells hissed with as much contempt as he could muster, rubbing his sore arm.

“Oh, no, George. That's not what I meant at all. I don't do that kind of thing anymore. As I told you in my letter, I'm a changed man. Money will hush most people up, if not everyone, but that detective seems immune to being bought off. He's like a dog with a bone. What the hell is he hoping to find?”

“The truth, I expect.”

“The truth?” Murray smiled wistfully. “And what is the truth, George? Where is it written? There's nothing left of Murray's Time Travel except dust and cobwebs, because the hole into the future closed up.”

“It closed up,” Wells repeated. “But of course.”

“That's right, George, it did. But you know perfectly well that the public, hungry for thrills, would never have accepted that. Which is why I decided to fake my own death, so that everyone would leave me in peace. And that's what I tried to explain to that detective friend of yours, but he doesn't believe a word I say.”

“Can you blame him?” muttered Wells.

“What's the matter with you, George?” Murray sighed in dismay. “Why are you suddenly acting like a child? I don't understand! When you replied to my letter I thought that meant bygones would be bygones.”

“What?” Wells looked at him in astonishment. “I never replied to your damnable letter.”

“Of course you did,” Murray said, bewildered.

“I tell you I didn't.”

“Oh, come now, why deny it? It's true, you weren't exactly expansive, but at least you wrote back. You told me not to bother reproducing the Martian invasion, and that if I wanted to win Emma over, I should simply make her laugh.”

Wells gave an incredulous snort.

“Have you lost your mind? Make her laugh? Why on earth would I advise you to do that?”

“I've no idea, George! But that's what you told me, and I followed your advice. That's why I put on that circus: to make Emma laugh. And it worked! It worked like a charm! You saw for yourself! Emma and I are in love and are going to be married, and all that happiness we owe in part to you, my friend.” Trembling with emotion, Murray gazed into Wells's eyes. “And what else could I have concluded from your letter, other than that you had decided to bury the hatchet? But why are you trying to deny it now? Do you regret having written?”

“Of course not! I mean, I can't regret something
I never did
!”

“Bertie?”

The two men wheeled round. A few yards away, a woman in a hat with pale pink roses on it was gazing at them quizzically.

“Is something the matter, Bertie?” asked Jane, alarmed by the sudden silence that had descended between the two men. “I couldn't find you anywhere, and our coach is third in line . . . Are you all right?”

“Yes, Jane, I'm quite all right,” he replied.

Wells scowled at Murray as he took his leave and walked over to his wife with the intention of taking her by the arm and leading her as far away as possible. But Murray bounded ahead of him. He planted himself in front of Jane and, before anyone could do anything, grasped her hand, and bowed.

“Mrs. Wells, allow me to introduce myself,” he said, kissing her hand ceremoniously. “Montgomery Gilmore, at your service. My face might seem familiar to you. Perhaps I remind you of the man who went to your house a few years ago to ask your husband's advice about a novel he had written . . . However, let me assure you that you are mistaken: I am not that man. You have in front of you a new man, one redeemed by love. And in the name of that love, of which I declare myself utterly unworthy, I implore you to put in a good word for me with your stubborn husband.”

Wells grunted. “It's time we were leaving, Jane!”

But his wife appeared not to hear him. She was gazing into Murray's eyes, her hand still clasped in his like a quivering bird. And she must have glimpsed something deep inside him, because, much to the despair of Wells, her lips spread in a gentle smile.

“You are quite right, Mr. . . . Gilmore,” she replied graciously. “Although this is the first time we meet, your face does seem familiar, but perhaps that is because your fame precedes you. I have heard much about you, not all of it good, I regret to say. However, I must tell you that the way you asked for your beloved's hand was the most beautiful, exciting, romantic gesture I have ever seen a man make to a woman.”

“For goodness' sake, Jane!” Wells cried. “Have you gone mad? Why do you insist on calling him Gilmore when you know as well as I do that—”

“I call him by the name he used to introduce himself, Bertie.”

“Enough!” Wells exploded. “This is the limit; we're going!”

He grabbed the arm of his wife, who managed to say good-bye to Murray with a fleeting, apologetic smile, and dragged her over to where the carriages were waiting at the curb. Murray blocked their way.

“George, I beg you, don't give me away,” he said. “If you don't want to be my friend, very well, I understand. But please don't reveal my secret, at least not before I've spoken to Emma. I will reward you if—”

“Montgomery Gilmore!” a clear voice tinkled behind them. “Where on earth have you been hiding? All you had to do was inquire about our carriage. I trust you aren't thinking of hiring a hot-air balloon, for my aunt wouldn't like it.”

Despite the playful tone in Emma's voice, the trio turned around with a start, like three conspirators caught in the act.

“Emma, my love!” Murray exclaimed, walking toward her with outstretched arms. “Where were you? I was worried sick. I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me!”

“Don't be silly! I'm the one who has spent the last fifteen minutes looking for you.”

“Really? Why, I've been here all the time, chatting with my dear friends the Wellses,” Murray replied, turning toward the couple with such a polished smile that Wells's gorge began to rise. “Mr. and Mrs. Wells, it is my honor to introduce you to my fiancée, Miss Emma Harlow. Darling, this is the author H. G. Wells and his charming wife.”

“Mr. Wells! What a pleasure it is to meet you!” Emma exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. “I'm a great admirer of your work. I've read all your novels.”

Wells kissed Emma's gracefully proffered hand, cursing Murray's aplomb and trying to suppress his rage. He would have liked nothing more than to unmask that impostor in front of the naïve young woman who had the misfortune to be betrothed to him. And yet, his sense of decorum, and above all his self-consciousness, far outweighed his sense of duty. But what if he dispensed with good manners and announced in a loud voice that Montgomery Gilmore was in fact Gilliam Murray, the deceased Master of Time? What face would Emma make then? Not to mention the obese lady clambering aboard her carriage clutching a miniature Pekinese to her ample bosom. Or the footman coming over to tell them their carriage was next in line, and the group of gentlemen next to them talking animatedly. Half of London society was crammed under the opera portico, jostling one another with genteel smiles. Wells was sure his revelation would provide them with a thrilling topic of conversation for the long, tedious winter season. And what could the all-powerful Murray do to stop him?

“Bertie, my dear, Miss Harlow asked you a question.”

“What?”

Wells blinked, bewildered, but before he could apologize, he felt a painful cramp in his stomach. He couldn't help giving a drawn-out groan.

“Bertie, whatever is the matter?” Jane was alarmed.

Suddenly pale, Wells pulled out his handkerchief and wiped away the sweat glistening on his brow, wondering whether he might be suffering a sudden attack of indigestion.

“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Wells?” he heard Emma inquire.

“Yes, yes, I'm quite all right. It's just, er . . . my shoes are pinching me,” he murmured, trying to straighten up. “Forgive me, Miss Harlow, what were you saying?”

“Oh, just that Monty told me you might not be able to come to the reception were are holding next month, and I wanted to know if there is any way I could change your minds. I am very persuasive when I want to be.”