The Map of Chaos (39 page)

“Don't insist, my dear . . . ,” said Doyle. “Besides, that's a terrible title.”

“All right, what about . . .
The Hound of Dartmoor
?”

“Please, Jean, leave it . . .”

“Or
Holmes Hounds a Hound
?” Wells suggested.

“Very amusing, Wells,” Doyle muttered. “Very amusing.”

“
The Hound of the Cabells
?” Jane proposed.

Doyle sighed and, finally surrendering, thought about it for a moment:

“Hmm,
The Hound of the Cabells
isn't bad at all.
The Hound of the . . .
”

“Baskervilles!” Murray thundered, making the passengers in the carriage jump.

“What the blazes is going on now?” Wells grumbled, leaning his head out of the window.

“Baskervilles!” Murray boomed again, as if his coachman were several miles away, and at that very moment the old man emerged from the side house. “Damn it, Baskervilles!” he cried. “Where the devil have you been?”

Wells watched with distaste as the old man made his way slowly over to the carriage while continuing to cast furtive glances toward the moor. Good heavens, was he really the only one who suspected that the old fellow was hiding something? In any event, since his and Murray's stupid conversation in the room with the sacks of plaster, the man's peculiar behavior had become the least of Wells's worries. He sank back in his seat, annoyed at himself, sad, irritable, and depressed, while the old fellow scrambled onto the driver's perch with surprising alacrity. The two women began a leisurely conversation about the latest Paris fashions, and Doyle shut his eyes. Wells wondered whether he was mulling over Murray's idea for a novel but thought it far more likely that he was attempting to participate in the bubbling energies of the place. Wells sighed and let his gaze wander out of the window as he reflected about their excursion. So far it had been a disaster, although at least he had not had to confront any invisible men, he consoled himself darkly.

After the carriage had gone, Murray took a deep breath, and putting on a smile, he turned toward where Emma was waiting for him in the automobile.

She pointed a menacing finger at him. “Stay right there, Mr. Gilmore! You will be traveling in the passenger seat, for I am pleased to inform you that your future wife will be piloting this old wreck to the next port of call.”

“I won't hear of it, Emma,” protested Murray. “Driving this thing isn't like steering a little two-horse buggy in the park. It's difficult to control and very dangerous . . .”

“So you don't think I'm clever enough to do it? If I put my mind to it, I can do anything just as well as you, if not better.”

“I wouldn't dream of denying it, my darling. In fact, I'd say it is one of the few certainties in life. But driving, well . . . it's not ladylike.”

“What do you mean?” Emma retorted, ignoring the implied compliment. “Remember, you were the one who told me, on our way here, that the first long-distance journey in an automobile was made by Bertha Benz, a woman. And if I'm not mistaken, you said that she drove sixty-six miles, stopping off at pharmacies en route to fill the gasoline tank. So . . . why won't you let me drive?”

“Change places, please, Miss Mournful.”

Emma had opened her mouth to protest but instantly closed it. Monty had addressed her by the nickname they used in private. Each had given the other a secret pet name, which they promised never to pronounce in front of anyone else, for by mutual agreement they had imbued it with the highest power any word could possess. They could spend all day larking about and making little digs at each other, but when one of them called the other by his or her nickname, it meant that the frivolous, delightful game they were playing must wait while something more serious took over. Emma's nickname had come about the day that she had shown her fiancé a beautiful drawing she had brought with her from New York, a kind of map depicting an imaginary sky filled with wonderful creatures and fantastical marvels. Her great-grandfather had drawn the map especially for his daughter, and it spoke of other worlds where everything was possible. Perhaps that was why it had been such a comfort to her throughout her childhood, when she was a sad, mournful little girl who was convinced nothing would ever make her happy. But that little girl still hadn't met Montgomery Gilmore, the most infuriating of her future suitors, the one who would assure her that he could make any of her wishes come true, however impossible that might seem.

“What's wrong, Mr. Impossible?”

Murray contemplated his fiancée, a lump in his throat, trying to commit to memory the light in her eyes, which were, perhaps for the last time, gazing at him with such tenderness. He pursed his lips until he felt he could speak without his voice faltering.

“I don't want you to drive. There is something I have to tell you that . . . might upset you a little. In fact, I'm sure it will upset you a lot; you might even be angry with me. Although right now I'd give anything if an angry outburst were the only consequence I had to suffer. In any case, I'd better drive.” He opened the door and extended his arm to Emma, who looked at him, wondering whether she should ask him to be more specific about this mysterious subject or change seats obediently. “Please, Emma,” Murray insisted, thrusting his arm more forcefully at her as his eyes began to fill with tears. “Trust me.”

Emma needed no more persuading. She took her fiancé's hand and stepped out of the automobile, looking uneasily into the glinting eyes of that big man she had never seen weep.

“It's all right, darling,” she said, stroking his cheek. “I don't know what it is you have to tell me, but I'm sure it can't be all that bad. You know I trust you implicitly.”

T
EN-YEAR-OLD
T
OMMY
D
AWKINS PEDALED AS
hard as he could down the path from his back garden to the Hexworthy Road as he tried to outrun the wind. He could feel his ears buzzing and his hair blowing, and he was almost sure that right then nothing in the whole world was faster than he and his bike. When Benjamin Barrie saw him ride up to his door on that amazing machine, he would have to eat his words. That idiot was always making fun of him, saying he couldn't walk without tripping over his own feet. Well, that morning Barrie would discover that walking and tripping over weren't all he could do. Barrie was about to discover that Tommy Dawkins could fly.

When he saw the junction ahead of him, he began to pedal even harder, getting ready to swerve into the road with one of those sharp turns he had practiced so often toward dawn, before the servants were even up, and unbeknownst to his brother. He felt a pang of anxiety at the thought of the drubbing his brother Jim would give him if he ever found out he had been riding his precious bike without asking and had even gone to the village on it. Luckily, Tommy's brother had just gone to the war in South Africa, and by the time he came back, if he ever did, Tommy didn't think he would be upset over something so trivial. Tommy narrowed his eyes and leaned over the handlebars. So lost was he in dreams of glory, and so loud was the wind in his ears, that he didn't hear the roar of the automobile coming along the road he was about to ride out into, hidden from view behind a bend. And if Tommy had been five seconds slower spreading honey on his toast that morning or tying his shoelaces, then that day would certainly have been his last on earth. But fortunately for him he wasn't meant to die until fifteen years later in a train crash and so, seconds before Tommy swerved into the road, he was forced to slam on his brakes because of a miracle on wheels that suddenly appeared from round the bend. The bike skidded and came to a halt at the end of the path, so that Tommy could fling one foot to the ground.

And from there, the bike twisted between his legs, his eyes on stalks, Tommy watched the extraordinary machine hurtle by, leaving a thick cloud of dust in its wake. He had never seen anything like it, and he marveled at the shiny, cream-colored bodywork and the gigantic wheels spinning like mad, although he only caught a fleeting glimpse of the two people sitting inside it before the black plume of smoke gave him a coughing fit. By the time the fumes had subsided, the miraculous carriage had vanished round the next corner. Tommy wasted no time. He picked up his bike and began pedaling furiously, following the tracks the tires had left on the road. He had to see it again! He knew he would never catch up with it, but he needed to see it again even if only from afar: he wanted to remember every important detail when describing the amazing machine to that know-it-all Barrie, who would never believe his story otherwise. Several more bends in the road prevented him from attaining his goal for a while, but finally, after one of them, the ground suddenly sloped steeply down, giving Tommy a perfect view of the road ahead as it snaked along a shallow gorge. And there, several yards away, he spotted the machine and its telltale cloud of dust and fumes. Tommy stopped on the brow of the hill, sweating and out of breath, and gazed at it in astonishment. How beautiful it was! And how shiny! And now that it was going downhill, it seemed even faster. What would it be like to travel at that speed? Tommy wondered, intensely jealous of the couple inside. All at once, the smile froze on his lips. The vehicle had suddenly veered off the road and was rolling down a steep slope, bouncing over the rutted ground like a horse that has bolted; the man at the wheel seemed to have lost control. Tommy shuddered as he thought he heard the couple's desperate screams, and he was seized with panic as he realized the machine and its two occupants were careering hopelessly toward the edge of the gorge, into which they would plunge in a few seconds if someone didn't do something.

•  •  •

T
HE HANDFUL OF LOCALS
who found themselves in the Hexworthy Inn that morning tried not to stare at the two strangers sitting in front of the fireplace at the back of the room, speaking in hushed voices, oblivious to the curiosity they were arousing. Neither had removed his flowing cloak or wide-brimmed hat, hats they wore pulled down over their faces, and both had peculiar-looking canes between their knees, longer and thicker than the average walking stick, on whose handles an identical symbol shone: an eight-pointed star inside a circle. That wasn't the first time the regulars at the tavern had seen the two men there; in fact, they had appeared several times over the past few years, or if not exactly those two men, as some claimed, then two others very like them. In those heavy cloaks and those hats they never took off, they were almost impossible to tell apart, and the few words they deigned to exchange with others—if you could even call them words—resembled more a kind of metallic rattle, like the sound a tin bucket falling down a well would make. The fact was that little or nothing was known about them, or why they would appear only to disappear again for months, with no apparent rhyme or reason to their comings and goings. Some claimed to have seen them on the moor, posted on the hilltops like sinister sentries. On other occasions, as now, they would turn up without warning at the inn, always in pairs, and take a seat by the fire. They would order two tankards of ale, which they left untouched, and sit facing each other like statues, their unnerving stillness broken only by the slight tremor of their lips, an almost imperceptible vibration that suggested some form of communication, although, rather than talking or whispering, they seemed to be feeding, like fish, off the thoughts each dispersed through the air. No one had ever dared to ask them who they were or what they were doing there. In fact, everybody steered clear of them if they could and complained of the same disturbing feeling whenever they were close: as though an unbearable weight were crushing them, overwhelming them with all the misery and loneliness in the world. That very morning, Mr. Hall, the innkeeper, who, much to Mrs. Hall's despair, fancied himself a poet, had described it thus: it was, he said, akin to having a vast, immeasurable void in a starless universe suddenly expand inside you. And at that precise moment, Mrs. Hall had gone over to him to express her unease in far less poetic terms.

“Those two give me the creeps, George. And what's more, they're scaring away the customers. Why don't you go and ask them if they'll be wanting anything else while I see about laying the tables for lunch. Maybe they'll take the hint . . .”

“They'll be gone soon, woman,” Mr. Hall replied with feigned indifference. “You know they never stay very long. Besides, they tip well.”

“I don't want their money, George. I dread to think what sinister methods they use to get it . . . God, they're horrible . . . Lulu is under our bed, trembling,” she told him, as if the image of their little dog scared half to death might stir him. “Can't you hear the horses whinnying outside? They scare the animals and they scare me, too! I want them out of here, and I hope they never come back. I insist you go and talk to them, George Hall!”

“But they haven't done anything to you, Janny, have they?” Mr. Hall swallowed hard. He was as keen to see them leave as his wife, but he had no desire to approach them. “Besides, it would be rude of me to ask two gentlemen with perfect manners to—”

“I don't care if it makes you look rude, George!” his wife interrupted. Then she added in hushed tones, “I'll tell you one thing: I'm not often wrong about people, as you know, and I wouldn't be surprised if either of those two would hesitate for a second to butcher a child or a defenseless old woman . . .”

As though Mrs. Hall's words, although faintly whispered, had reached the ears of the two strangers, one of them forced his lips into a taut smile and in voice devoid of any inflection, he murmured to his companion: “Old women and children. They are what I'm always afraid I'll find when I pick up a scent.”