The Map of the Sky (53 page)

“Who is she?” he asked.

“Countess Valerie Bompard,” the young man replied, trying unsuccessfully to disguise the catch in his voice as he uttered her name.

“A beautiful woman,” the author commented, unsure whether this was the word best suited to her.

“Yes, Valerie always had that effect on men: she made all who met her believe they were in the presence of the most beautiful woman in the world,” Clayton confirmed, in an oddly faint and weary voice, as though he were sedated.

“Did she die?” Wells asked, noticing that the inspector had referred to her in the past tense.

“I killed her,” Clayton replied in a cheerless voice.

Wells gazed at him in astonishment.

“It was my first case,” the inspector added. “The only one I solved with both my hands.”

Clayton let his gaze wander back to the portrait, as did Wells, vaguely disturbed by the inspector’s words. Had that woman been responsible for his losing his hand? Wells studied her more closely, and again he felt “beautiful” was not the best way to describe her. She was undeniably very striking, and yet her eyes gave off a kind of somber, animal glow that unsettled him. It was as though her pupils contained something greater than she, something elusive. Undoubtedly, thought Wells, if he had met her he would have found it hard to behave naturally in her presence. Much less woo her, he reflected. He had no idea what had gone on between this woman and the policeman, but whatever it was, the event had marked Clayton so deeply he had still not recovered from it, and doubtless never would. Wells toyed briefly with the idea of questioning him about it, because he thought Clayton might expect it. Perhaps he was longing to tell someone what had happened between him and the woman whose portrait he kept hidden in the cellar, especially since the world was about to end, and this was his clumsy way of saying so. However, Wells finally decided against it, because he did not want to risk the inspector humiliating him again by telling him there were things in the world he was not yet ready to know. This thought riled Wells somewhat, and he recalled how in the carriage on the way to Horsell, he had refrained from mentioning to Clayton his visit to the Chamber of Marvels, for fear he might be accused of trespassing. But things had changed so much since that distant morning, and all of a sudden it occurred to him that divulging this information was the perfect antidote to Clayton’s irritating qualms, the only way he could think of that would put them on an equal footing and enable them to conduct a balanced conversation.

“Yes, we live in a world full of mysteries,” he declared, smiling at the
portrait, “but, then, you know them all, don’t you, Clayton? You even knew what Martians looked like before we stumbled on one at Scotland Yard, didn’t you?”

Clayton turned from the portrait, and as though emerging from a deep sleep, he gazed at Wells, slightly bewildered.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said at last, coldly.

“Come now, Inspector, don’t treat me like a fool. I know perfectly well what you open with that little key round your neck.”

“Do you?” the inspector said, taken aback, instinctively touching it.

“Of course,” Wells affirmed, looking straight at him. “I’ve been in there.”

Clayton looked at him in amazement, then gave an amused smile.

“You truly are an intriguing man, Mr. Wells. So, you’ve seen the Martian and his spacecraft.”

“And all the other marvels hidden away from the world,” the author went on bitterly.

“Before you become so enraged that you hurl yourself at me, ruining our little chat, allow me to remind you what I told you the day we met: all that
fantasy
is in quarantine, so to speak. There’s no sense in announcing these marvels to the world when the majority will undoubtedly turn out to be fraudulent.”

“Really? Well, Inspector, the Martian and his spacecraft seemed real enough to me.”

“In that particular instance,” Clayton began to explain, “the government deemed it too dangerous to reveal to the world—”

“Well, perhaps if they had, this invasion would not have taken us quite so unawares,” Wells interjected.

“I’m not so sure . . . I’ve no idea how you managed to get into the Chamber of Marvels, Wells; what I do know is that you must have done so several days before I went to your house, otherwise you wouldn’t have seen the Martian, because it was stolen two days before the start of the invasion.”

“Stolen?”

“That’s right, Mr. Wells. In fact, the reason I went to your house in the first place was because I thought you might have taken it.”

“For God’s sake, Clayton! What the devil would I want with a dead Martian?”

“Who knows, Mr. Wells. It is my job to suspect everyone.” The inspector grinned. “It also occurred to me that Murray might have stolen it to make it emerge from his cylinder.”

“If he’d known there was a real Martian in the museum basement, you can be sure he would have done so,” Wells could not resist commenting.

“But it’s clear neither of you took it. Still, I’m convinced there is a connection between the theft of the Martian and the invasion. I can’t believe it’s a coincidence.”

“I congratulate you on having reached that conclusion, Inspector. Perhaps if you’d confided in me sooner, I might have helped you to reflect about this, but your infuriating obsession for keeping things to yourself—”

“Apparently I’m not the only one with bad habits, Mr. Wells. If you’d been open with me about your visit to the Chamber of Marvels . . . Let’s not waste time quarreling. There’s a far more pressing matter we need to discuss, and I confess that your having been in there will make it a lot easier for you to comprehend what I’m about to tell you.”

“Another mystery, Inspector?” the author remarked dryly. “Haven’t we had enough for one day?”

“This one concerns you, Mr. Wells. And I suggest you calm down and listen to what I have to say. We’re on the same side now, in case you hadn’t realized it.”

Wells shrugged but remained silent.

“Good,” said the inspector. “You must be wondering, Mr. Wells, why I’m showing you all this, and even revealing aspects of my work to you, which my code of ethics prohibits me from discussing with anyone. And yet I’ve made an exception in your case. Have you any idea why?”

“If we assume it has nothing to do with my irresistible charm,” Wells said sarcastically, “all I can think of is that nothing matters to you now we are about to die.”

The author’s quip elicited a loud guffaw from Clayton.

When he had finished laughing, he said, “I assure you, even that would not induce me to breach the rules. We are only authorized to do so when in the presence of a magical being.”

With this, he fell silent, simply observing Wells, who quickly lost his temper.

“What are you getting at, Inspector?” he exclaimed. “Are you suggesting I’m a vampire? I assure you my sacrum is perfectly normal. Don’t make me undress in order to prove it to you.”

“I need no such proof,” the inspector said, without returning his smile. “I saw your reflection in the mirror in the chamber.”

“Good. Well, what am I, then?”

“You are a time traveler,” Clayton declared solemnly.

Wells looked at him uneasily, then burst out laughing.

“What the devil makes you think that? Is it because I wrote
The Time Machine
? You’ve been reading too many of my novels, Inspector.”

Clayton gave a chilly smile.

“As I told you, in my work I come across the impossible,” he retorted.

“And have you come across people who travel from the future in machines like the one I invented?” Wells chortled.

“Yes and no,” Clayton said enigmatically. “I’ve come across a few time travelers. Except that they prefer traveling by other means. The machine you described may be quite plausible, but I’m afraid all future scientific attempts to travel in time will fail,” he avowed. “In the future people will travel in time using their minds.”

“Their minds?”

“Yes. And I have had what we might call . . . contact with some of these future time travelers, enough at any rate to discover that in the future the human brain will be found to possess a kind of button, which
when pressed, enables movement in any direction along the time spectrum, although, unfortunately, it is not possible to choose a destination.”

The author gazed at him in silent disbelief.

“Naturally, I’ve given you a very simplified explanation,” Clayton added. “But that is what it boils down to.”

“Assuming what you say is true,” Wells said, “what makes you think I can do it?”

“Because I saw you, Mr. Wells,” the young man replied.

“This isn’t funny, Inspector Clayton!” The author was becoming incensed. “I’m getting fed up with—”

The inspector interrupted him. “Do you remember our eventful stay at the farm?”

“Of course,” Wells muttered. “I shan’t forget that in a hurry.”

“Good. As you know, I woke up at a crucial time for all concerned. However, what you don’t know is that while I was up in the bedroom trying to listen in to what was happening below, you materialized asleep on the bed, despite being a captive of the intruders downstairs. That’s to say, you were in two places at once.”

“W-what . . . ?” Wells stammered.

“You can imagine how startled I was,” Clayton explained. “And from the way you tossed and turned on the bed, it was clear you were having a nightmare. It took me several minutes to realize what was happening, that you were traveling in time before my very eyes! I went over to the bed and tried to wake you by calling your name. But at that moment, you disappeared. And then there was only one Wells in the house.”

“I don’t understand,” the author said, shaking his head.

“I appreciate your confusion, Mr. Wells, but it is quite simple. As far as I know, time travelers can accidentally activate the button I referred to during moments of extreme tension. This is the usual way most people discover their, er . . . peculiar gift. I assume that while you were asleep on the bed next to me you must have had a disturbing nightmare, which caused you to press that button and travel at least four hours forward in time. That would explain why you appeared in the room while I was
glued to the door, giving me the fright of my life because at that moment your future self was downstairs. Then you must have accidentally activated the mechanism once more, this time propelling yourself back into the past, back to the bed where I was still lying unconscious, probably only a few minutes after you had left it. There you went on sleeping, and when you woke up you had no memory of traveling in time, because it had happened while you were asleep, as I said, probably due to tension. Of course, the future time travelers I have come across don’t need to experience tension in order to travel in time: they have perfected their technique and are able to travel at will. The government of the future has set up a training program to help time travelers develop their skill. Unfortunately, you have no one to help you master yours. In fact, you’re the oldest time traveler I’ve ever met. But in the end, of course, that is logical . . .”

The author opened his mouth to blurt out the hundred questions that had formulated in his head, but this meant accepting that what Clayton said was true: that time travelers existed, and he was one of them. And in the first instance this was something he was not prepared to believe.

“I don’t believe you,” he said.

“Very well.” Clayton shrugged, as though what Wells chose to believe was of no consequence to him. “There’s no reason why you should. I’ve done my duty, which was to inform you. Confidentially.”

With this, the inspector left the room and headed back toward the chamber. Wells followed him, on the one hand perturbed by Clayton’s revelation (which had reduced his own confession about the Chamber of Marvels to a mere sensational turn), and on the other annoyed at his arrogant indifference. But suddenly he remembered the bad dream he had had when he dozed off at the farm. When he awoke, Wells had remembered nothing of the dream. His only recollection was Clayton’s voice whispering to him, “Wake up, Mr. Wells, wake up.” But Clayton had not come round until at least four hours later, so how could he have possibly heard Clayton’s voice? Wells remembered the words of Clayton’s superior, Captain Sinclair: “Read this carefully and tell me what conclusions
you draw from it, no matter how far-fetched.” Wells sighed; he had to acknowledge that, impossible though it seemed, this could be an explanation, perhaps the only explanation. And what was the other thing Sinclair had told Clayton? “The impossible is sometimes the only solution.” Wells massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the headache growing behind his eyes. For the love of God, how could he possibly believe such a thing! Especially coming from that crank? He had written
The Time Machine
and then discovered he was a time traveler? He had written
The War of the Worlds
only to find himself fleeing from Martians? Would he become invisible next?

Fortunately, these thoughts that threatened to unhinge him subsided as they reached the chamber. There he beheld a scene for which he was unprepared. Had Captain Sinclair been present, Wells might have cited this as a far-fetched possibility. Yet love, too, was a magical sphere in which the impossible could happen. Ensconced in an armchair, a bandage round his wounded shoulder, Murray’s face was tilted toward the girl, who, her eyes gently closed, was perched on another seat waiting for their lips to touch.

Murray sat up abruptly in his chair, cleared his throat, and greeted Wells and Clayton in an irritated manner, trying to hide his embarrassment, while Emma did the same. Was Wells bent on foiling his every attempt to kiss the girl? Was this his way of getting back at Murray, by preserving his bachelorhood, making sure he remained chaste?

Oblivious to the romantic tableau he had just interrupted, the inspector glanced at his watch and announced, “It’s almost dawn. Mr. Wells and I will make our way to Primrose Hill in search of his wife. I think it’s best if we go through Regent’s Park.”

“Ahem . . . there’s no need for you to come with me, Clayton,” Wells said, unused to involving others in his private life.