The Map of the Sky (44 page)

Wells fell asleep thinking of Jane.

•   •   •

W
HEN HE AWOKE, HE
sat up slowly, his muscles aching, and glanced at his pocket watch. He had been asleep for nearly three hours, although he did not feel as rested as he had hoped, no doubt because he had not managed to drift into a pleasant slumber but rather a kind of half sleep that he could only describe as fitful. His recent experiences had seeped into his dreams, turning them into a merry-go-round of disturbing images. He could not recall any of them, and yet his mind was still darkened by a terrifying, familiar sensation of falling. One thing he did remember hearing was Inspector Clayton’s voice, urging him to wake up. This was why he found it so odd that the young man was still asleep alongside him. He looked at Clayton with a mixture of pity and annoyance, wondering whether they would have to cart him around for much longer. He even considered forcibly waking him up but then decided this was unwise. If the inspector’s sleeping fits were an illness, it might not be a good idea to interfere. He left Clayton on the bed, smoothed down his unruly locks in front of the grimy mirror, and walked out into the corridor.

The doors to the other rooms were open, so that Wells could see they were empty. He went downstairs in search of his companions, but they were not in the sitting room either. Embarrassed about having slept the longest, something that gossips like Murray might attribute to his lack of concern about the grave events unfurling around them, Wells approached the kitchen, which was also deserted. Suddenly, it occurred to him that the damned millionaire might have managed to persuade the girl to leave him and Clayton behind. But this fear was soon erased from his suggestible mind when he glimpsed Murray’s carriage through the window, standing exactly where they had left it. Unless they had decided to travel on foot, his companions must still be around somewhere. Wells reproached himself for his suspicions: though the millionaire was
petty-minded and untrustworthy, he appeared willing to set aside their differences given the circumstances. They were a team, now, whether he liked it or not. Baffled as to their whereabouts, the author left the house and surveyed the balmy morning that had spread over the world. The day was as calm as any other, save for the distant rumble of cannon fire from the southeast, telling him that somewhere the British artillery was doing battle with a tripod. In the other direction, a thick plume of smoke was rising beyond the distant hills that hid Epsom from view. Wells wondered how many tripods were positioned around London. Clayton had told him that other cylinders besides the one at Horsell had appeared on a golf course in Byfleet and near to Sevenoaks. However, if this was a proper invasion, there would certainly be more.

Suddenly, Wells heard his companions’ voices coming from the barn. As he headed for the door, Wells heard Emma exclaim in a frustrated voice, “This is much harder than I thought!”

“I believe rhythm is the key, Miss Harlow,” Murray replied to her calmly. “Try using short, sharp movements.”

Wells stopped in his tracks, disconcerted by the conversation.

“Are you sure?” Emma asked. “Won’t it hurt?”

“Such delicate hands as yours would be incapable of causing any pain, Miss Harlow,” was the millionaire’s reply.

“Very well, I shall try doing as you say,” the girl said resolutely.

A silence followed lasting several seconds, during which Wells stood motionless.

“Well?” he heard Murray ask.

“That doesn’t seem to work either,” the girl replied, somewhat dismayed.

“Maybe you’re pulling too hard,” Murray hazarded.

“Is that so?” Emma bridled. “Why don’t you do it yourself, then, instead of telling me what to do!”

“I didn’t mean to, Miss Harlow, I was merely suggesting—” Murray began apologizing, stopping in midsentence, as though the remaining words had stuck in his throat.

A fresh silence followed. Wells stood rooted to the spot, wondering whether or not to go in. They couldn’t possibly be . . .

“Perhaps we ought to tell Mr. Wells?” he heard Emma suggest. “He might be more experienced than us.”

Hearing his name, Wells blushed. Tell him?

“I doubt it somehow, Miss Harlow,” Murray replied hurriedly.

It piqued Wells that the millionaire should be so convinced of his lack of experience, even though he was unsure in what.

“Why not try placing your hand farther up,” he heard Murray propose.

“That’s it, I’ve had enough!” Emma flared. “Do it yourself!”

“All right, all right.” Murray tried to calm her. “But please don’t be upset, Miss Harlow. I only let you do it because I thought you liked trying new things.”

There followed another, lengthier silence. Wells resolved once and for all to go into the barn as he had originally planned. Uncertain what he might stumble upon, he approached the half-open door almost on tiptoe. When he reached it, he peeped inside apprehensively. The scene taking place inside came as a great relief. His two companions had their backs to the door and so were unaware of his presence. Murray was sitting on a milking stool, hunched forward, while a very large cow grudgingly allowed him to grope its teats with his big paws. The girl stood beside him, arms folded, viewing with a critical eye his feeble attempts to squeeze a few drops of milk from the creature.

“Well, Mr. Murray?” the author heard her say in a sarcastic voice. “Are you getting anywhere? Perhaps you should try using short, sharp movements?”

Wells grinned, and deciding that by barging in he would certainly spoil the scene, he was content to wait noiselessly beside the door, observing the millionaire’s laughable attempts to show the woman he loved that he could tackle even the most unexpected situations life threw at him.

“Cows are supremely generous creatures, Miss Harlow,” Wells heard
him pontificate. “This animal, for example, is only too willing to quench our thirst with her milk, and this is where skill comes in, for we must treat her udders with care and respect—”

As he spoke, the millionaire must have done something amiss, for the creature swung round so abruptly that it knocked him clean off the stool, causing him to utter a curse. Emma gave the prettiest laugh Wells had ever heard.

“Well, I’ve discovered another thing I do as badly as reenacting a Martian invasion,” the millionaire murmured, standing up with an embarrassed grin.

The air rippled once more with the sound of Emma’s mirth. Murray, too, began to laugh, and for a moment, which to Wells seemed magical, the two of them appeared to forget they were fleeing death, doubtless protected by that enveloping joy that had arisen from nowhere. Before one of them had time to turn round, the author moved quietly away from the door, walking back the way he had come. This was a shared moment that was exclusively theirs, and he did not want them to know he had witnessed it. As he walked back into the house, Wells felt envious of the millionaire, for he knew that making a girl laugh was the surest way to gain her affections.

Once in the kitchen, Wells was content to wait patiently for them to return, watching the barn door through the window. He was astonished to see two strange men walk past. They were shabbily dressed and were heading toward the barn in the same stealthy way that he himself had only moments before, but with far less innocent intentions, for both were armed with what looked like sharp blades. After his momentary incredulity, Wells bolted up and took a few hesitant steps. Were they the owners of the house? he wondered, then instantly ruled out the idea, because the men’s clothes were not those of country but of town folk. They could only be marauders, the kind of opportunists who use any type of social unrest to their own ends. And it was clear they were planning to surprise his companions, unaware that he in turn was watching them. This gave him an advantage over them, which any man more
determined and brave would exploit. But Wells was not such a man. He was incapable of calming his nerves sufficiently to confront the situation, to grab anything he could use as a weapon and attack from behind, knocking out the intruders with a pair of swift blows. His heart began thumping wildly, and, seized with panic, he found himself hurtling out of the house recklessly, noisily even, with the aim of yelling to alert his companions and thereby get himself off the hook. However, before he was able to make a sound, he felt a cold, sharp object pressing against his throat.

“Calm down, my friend,” a gruff voice whispered in his ear. “You wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for your companions.”

XXV

T
HERE WERE NOT TWO, BUT THREE OF THEM,
Wells realized with irritation, as the men herded them all into the house like an unruly flock of sheep. And regrettably their faces were more familiar than he would have liked. The two men who had taken his companions prisoner in the barn (one had emerged with his arm around the girl’s dainty neck while the other pushed the millionaire forward contemptuously) had looked vaguely familiar to him, but it had only dawned on him who they were when his attacker had pushed him into the corner of the sitting room, thus enabling Wells to see his face. It was coarse and stubbled, with small piggy eyes that flashed with a crude animal rage. But what allowed Wells to identify him was the makeshift bandage that was wound around his left foot, a soiled rag stained with various reddish hues. After one of his henchmen, an apelike, restless creature, handed him the pistol he had wrested off Murray, the lame man glowered at them ominously. For a few moments he said nothing, letting the situation sink in, giving them time to realize that the tables had turned since their skirmish at the station, which had left him with the indelible souvenir of a bullet in his foot. He grinned at them menacingly, relishing the opportunity fate had given him to smile that way at those he usually served. Wells shot a sidelong glance at Murray, who remained alert, jaw clenched, a faint expression of disdain on his lips, as though the possibility of dying bothered him less than having been overpowered by these louts. It was clear from his posture that he was more concerned for Emma’s safety than his own, for he was standing
as close to her as possible, as if preparing to shield her at the first sign of danger.

The limping man spoke at last. “Well, well. What a pleasant surprise, eh? There’s nothing I like more when traveling than to bump into old friends who I can share a pleasant moment with, don’t you agree, lads?”

The two henchmen guffawed loudly, drawing out their laughter until it sounded like forced braying. Murray clenched his jaw even more tightly and edged closer to Emma.

“Yes, life’s full of little surprises,” the lame man continued to reflect aloud. “Didn’t I say, lads: ‘If we take the Chobham road, we’ll catch up with our good friends.’ And so we have. Although, if we hadn’t seen that carriage with the big ‘G’ on it, we would have gone straight past, and wouldn’t that have been a shame?” he said to his comrades in mock regret. “But no, our friends were thoughtful enough to leave the carriage in full view, which shows they wanted to see us again. Am I right, miss? Of course you did! All the ladies who bump into good old Roy Bowen want a bit more of him. They can’t get enough. And good old Roy doesn’t like to disappoint a lady, no sir. I should warn you, though, your manners leave a lot to be desired, and if you want good old Roy Bowen to give you a good time, first you’ll have to learn how to behave.”

As he said these last words, he gazed fixedly at the young woman, who was no doubt having regrets for shooting him in the foot. Now they were all going to pay for her bravado, reflected Wells, who despite his fear could not help observing with anthropological interest the simple soul, whose desire for revenge had driven him to pursue them regardless of the fact that the world was falling down around them. His henchmen seemed not to care either: the man with the apelike face and the one who had helped him defend the carriage in the station, a bulky redheaded individual who revealed a row of blackened teeth when he smiled.

“Now let’s see how we can resolve this unpleasant situation,” the lame man resumed with menacing calm, his eyes still fixed on Emma.
“I pushed you to the ground, and in return you shot my foot off. Good. What should my response be now, miss?” The porter ogled the girl’s body with intentional crudeness. “Mmm . . . I think I know. And I’m sure your two friends here will have no trouble guessing what I have in mind either, because we men understand each other, don’t we, gents?” He smiled sardonically at Murray and Wells before turning his predatory gaze back to Emma. “If you come upstairs with me willingly, without a fight, I assure you it will be much more pleasurable for us both.”

“If you touch one hair on the lady’s head, I’ll kill you,” Murray interrupted icily.

The millionaire’s voice made Wells think this was not an empty boast. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, there would be few opportunities for him to carry out his threat.

“Ha, ha,” the lame man cackled. “You, kill me? I’m afraid you haven’t got the picture, big guts. Who’s got the gun now?”

“That changes nothing, Roy,” Murray replied coolly, confusing the porter by uttering his name, an effective way of showing that he inspired neither fear nor respect. “Go ahead: kill me, then I’ll kill you.”

“Really? And how do you propose to do that? Can you stop a bullet?” The lame man turned to his companions, looking for support. The two men let out appropriate guffaws. “It looks like we’ve got a genuine hero on our hands, lads.” The porter turned back to Murray, this time with a grimace of pity. “So, you’ll kill me if I touch a hair on the young lady’s head, will you?”

The millionaire smiled serenely. “That’s right, Roy,” he said, in the same tone he might use with a not very intelligent child.

“We’ll soon see,” the lame man hissed defiantly, “because I’m going to do much more than that.”

At that he fell silent, observing Murray with a mixture of anger and curiosity. Suddenly, he knitted his brow, as if he were doing calculations.

“Hold on,” he said. “Where’s the other fellow?”

“There was no one else in the shed, Roy,” the apelike fellow obligingly replied. “Only the lovebirds.”