The Map of Chaos (33 page)

“Quite so. But what if I were to offer you the possibility of
seeing
?” said Murray, with a mischievous grin. “Would you accept?”

Doyle looked at Murray suspiciously, trying to work out whether he was mocking him or not, but finally he replied to the offer as if it were genuine: “Without a doubt.”

“Even if the spirit in question was a dog?”

“A dog?”

“A bloodhound, to be precise,” Murray replied.

“Is that the best you can do? I thought with all your wealth you might pull something more . . . dramatic out of your hat,” Doyle retorted.

“Oh, I assure you this bloodhound is very dramatic. Are you familiar with Dartmoor?”

“Yes,” said Doyle. “That's where the prison is, in Princetown.”

“Well, there's a house on Dartmoor called Brook Manor, which the local inhabitants say is haunted. It seems a fellow called Richard Cabell, a local squire from Buckfastleigh, lived there about two hundred years ago. Cabell had a passion for hunting and was reputed to be a monstrously evil man, among other things because he sold his soul to the devil. One night, suspecting his wife was cuckolding him, he flew at her in a jealous rage. She fled across the moor, and Cabell gave chase with his hunting dog, which he made pick up her scent from some of her clothing. Finally he caught up with her and slew her. But the dog turned on its master, ripping Cabell's throat out before he was able to stab the creature to death. On July fifth, 1677, the remains of the man who had defamed everything he could possibly defame were buried, but that was only the beginning of the story. That night, a ghost appeared in the form of a dog howling on his grave and roaming the moor. This all happened a long time ago, but local people still claim that on some nights a ghostly dog can be seen prowling around the house. They say it looks like a bloodhound, only much bigger than any seen by mortal eyes. They say the dog breathes fire, its eyes burn like embers, and an eerie glow envelops it.”

There was a stunned silence, and everyone was secretly thankful that the window Wells resisted fixing hadn't rounded off Murray's tale with another untimely crash.

“Do you want to see the hound?” Murray then asked Doyle.

“Naturally, though I fear we must persuade the owner of the house to let us go there, and these things are delicate. In my experience—”

“You needn't worry about that, Mr. Doyle,” Murray interrupted, “because the house is mine. I bought it this very morning.”

“You bought a haunted house?” said Wells, astonished.

“That's right, George, and a couple of others besides. No one dared to buy them because of the strange phenomena that have been happening in those parts over the past few years, so they were going for a song. But, as you can see, where others see nothing but ghosts, I see a good business deal. Emma and I are thinking of going to visit the houses next week to see about renovations. You can come with us if you like, Mr. Doyle. And you, too, of course,” he said to Wells and Jane. “In fact, we could organize a jaunt. What do you say, Mr. Doyle? With any luck we'll bump into the phantom bloodhound.”

“I suspect those are mere folktales,” replied Doyle. “I shan't deny that I enjoy visiting haunted houses. Unfortunately, most of them turn out to be nothing more than lugubrious places. There are atmospheres that are very conducive to the power of suggestion, Mr. Gilmore, which make it easy to see strange phenomena where there are none.”

“Come with us, please!” Murray insisted. “And if we don't find any ghosts, you and I can still practice a bit of telepathy.”

“That's an offer I can't refuse, Mr. Gilmore,” replied Doyle, beaming at Murray.

Emma shook her head resignedly, then addressed Doyle.

“I'm so glad you've agreed to come, Mr. Doyle. It will be a pleasure for us to have you as our guest. And don't worry: I assure you my future husband means no offense with his boorishness. In fact, it is simply his irrepressible bluntness. Monty is the most genuine person I know. Of all his qualities, that is the one that made me fall in love with him,” she confessed with a charming smile, “though I quite understand that it doesn't have the same effect on you.”

For the first time since he had arrived at Arnold House, Doyle burst out laughing. A jovial rumble of stones rolling down a hillside, which caused Wells to sigh with relief. Doyle had laughed, and the atmosphere seemed to lighten up. Things might go more smoothly now, he reflected. Yes, perhaps Murray and Doyle would finally be able to enjoy a conversation free of tension, and possibly even get along. Just then, Jane noticed that the biscuits were finished and made ready to get up and bring some more, but Murray stood up first and politely offered to fetch the biscuit tin from the kitchen. And while Murray disappeared down the corridor, Doyle began to regale the two women with the fabulous arctic adventures he had been on when he had barely turned twenty. Wells slumped back in his chair almost voluptuously, content that the afternoon finally seemed to be taking the right turn. The wind was howling outside, whipping up the waves in the distance, and from time to time the attic window creaked menacingly, reminding everyone of Wells's laziness; the fire in the hearth spread its comforting warmth through the room, and everyone seemed to enjoy that unexpected moment of calm.

Unfortunately for Wells, this oasis of happiness lasted scarcely a few moments, because through the window, to which the others had their backs turned, Wells saw a despondent-looking Murray wandering around the garden, as if he had been told to play the most wretched man on Earth.

“Er . . . Murray seems to be having difficulty finding the biscuits. I'll go and lend him a hand,” Wells told Jane.

Jane nodded absentmindedly, engrossed in Doyle's adventures, while Wells headed for the corridor.

“But if that adventure taught me anything, it was that in order truly to appreciate a woman, a man must be separated from her for six months,” Wells heard Doyle say as he ducked out of the corridor and into the garden, making sure none of the others saw him.

I
F AT THAT MOMENT SOMEONE
had sat down in the chair Wells had just vacated, they would have seen the author, whom everyone assumed was in the kitchen, crossing the lawn with his jacket wrapped tightly around him. And if the sight of Wells intrigued him enough to make him get up out of his chair, go over to the window, and crane his neck at the right angle, he would also have seen him approach the burly man who was busy contemplating the hibiscus bush and pat him gingerly on the back a couple of times. Like you, dear readers, I, too, suspect that the conversation about to take place out in the garden promises to be far more interesting than Doyle's monologue, and so while he is busy describing the vast gatherings of seals that congregate on the icebergs to give birth en masse, let us go over and spy on Wells and Murray.

“You're quite mistaken if you think we keep the biscuit tin under the hibiscus bushes, Monty,” Wells jested.

Murray smiled glumly.

“I know you keep it in the basket in the kitchen. That's not why I came out here, George.”

“In that case, why did you decide to expose yourself to this wretched cold? What's the matter with you? A moment ago you were the world's most impudent impostor, and now you look like a ghost.”

“ ‘Monty is the most genuine person I know.' Didn't you hear what she said?” Murray replied without looking up from the shrubs.

“Yes, of course I did,” murmured Wells.

“Good, then you'll know how mistaken she is.”

So that was what was tormenting Murray. Yet again. Wells sighed, realizing they were about to become embroiled in another of their endless discussions about the convenience or not of revealing Murray's true identity to Emma. Those conversations the two men were obliged to have behind the women's backs never resolved anything; they simply allowed Murray to let off steam. Wells glanced over his shoulder toward the sitting room window and saw Doyle waving his arms in the air, as if he were making a couple of marionettes dance. For the moment no one seemed about to come looking for them.

“But, Monty,” he said, “we've been over this a hundred times. If you want to tell Emma who you really are, do it now, because the longer you stall, the more difficult it will become. Remember, it's been two years since you stepped out of that silly balloon. On the other hand, if you decide not to tell her, you must convince yourself it is the best thing for you both, so you can stop being affected by that kind of remark.”

“I know, George, but the problem is I can't decide. Part of me thinks I should come clean with her. Find the right moment and explain it to her as best I can. I'm sure she'll understand . . . Or at least I like to think so.”

“Then do it.”

“But the other part of me doesn't want to risk spoiling our happiness. If I lose Emma . . . if I lose her, George, I don't know what I'd do . . . I'm afraid I would lose the will to live.”

“Then don't do it.”

“You aren't much help, George,” Murray muttered.

“Damn it, Monty, it's for you to decide, not me!” exclaimed Wells, “And the sooner the better, because if you keep dragging this burden around with you, it will end up driving you crazy.”

Murray nodded, pursing his lips until they resembled a freshly stitched wound.

“It almost has, George. I spend half the time racked with guilt when I remember that she doesn't know who I am and the other half worrying that she might find out. Do you remember that Scotland Yard detective who kept hounding me a while back? The arrogant, lanky fellow to whom you revealed my identity so as to save your own skin . . .”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” Wells replied uncomfortably. “I already told you I was sorry. What was I supposed to do? At the time you and I were—”

“I know, George, I know, and I don't blame you. But the fact remains that during those few months when he was pursuing me I had a dreadful time. I spent a fortune thwarting his various attempts to unmask me. He was like a dog with a bone. It got to the point where I ran out of ideas. I had bribed half of London, but that arrogant devil was still intent upon exposing me. I tell you, it was a veritable war of attrition, but the most difficult part was trying to hide my alarm from Emma. And then one day, out of the blue, when he all but had me cornered, he stopped chasing me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he suddenly seemed to lose all interest in the investigation, and he hasn't troubled me since.”

“And you never discovered why he gave up?”

“I imagine some superior of his whom I bribed must have called him off, but I find it hard to believe that a fellow like that wouldn't kick up a fuss. It could be that he gave up of his own accord, unaware that his quarry was about to surrender. Who knows, perhaps he isn't as dogged as I thought. Then I calmed down, you see. And I began to toy with the idea that after this no one could ever discover my secret. Until this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?” Wells was surprised.

“Yes, all my old fears came flooding back when I saw Doyle. I was afraid he might recognize me, that he'd use his powers of deduction, and in no time he'd be calling me by my real name.”

Wells laughed.

“Oh, come now, why on earth would Doyle connect you to Gilliam Murray? That would be like thinking I have a time machine in my attic.”

Murray shrugged.

“I imagine that like most of his readers I have always assumed he was as shrewd as his detective.” He paused and seemed to reflect. “In fact, when Murray's Time Travel still existed, Doyle was one of my most passionate defenders. Did you know he wrote several articles attacking those who accused me of being an impostor? We even exchanged correspondence, in which I described in great detail how I had discovered the hole leading to the fourth dimension during a trip to Africa. When he showed an interest in traveling to the year 2000, I even wrote to tell him that, as a sign of my appreciation for his vindication of me, I would organize an expedition especially for him, just as I had for the queen. But unfortunately, while I was organizing it . . . well, you know . . . the hole disappeared.”

“Hmm. A real pity. Doyle would have loved your future.”

“And so when I saw him here . . . ,” Murray went on, ignoring Wells's remark, “Good God, George, I thought one glimpse of me and he would give the game away. And what's more, in front of Emma. And yet he didn't recognize me, and the fact that not even the creator of Sherlock Holmes himself was able to do so makes me think my secret is safe. Everyone seems to have forgotten all about the Master of Time. Emma need never know my secret, unless I reveal it to her myself.”

Murray's head started to droop, as if his thoughts weighed him down like lead, until finally he was staring at his shoes. Wells waited patiently for him to continue.

“I could let sleeping dogs lie, of course,” he said at length. “That way I would run no risks; I would only have to struggle with my remorse. But you can't imagine the terrible bitterness I feel knowing that I'm deceiving her! And I have no idea what to do. What advice can you give me, George?”

“I'm not qualified to give you any advice, Monty.”

“Oh, come. You gave me the best advice anyone has ever given me in your letter. Please tell me what to do.”

“I never wrote that damned— Oh, it doesn't matter.” Wells gave a weary sigh. “Very well, Monty, I'll tell you what I would do.”

But for several moments Wells said nothing. He felt incapable of deciding which of the two options was the best, since there were arguments in favor of both. He could advise Murray to confess, insisting Emma deserved to know his true identity. But he could just as well recommend he keep quiet, insisting that she was blissful in her ignorance and it didn't matter what he might have done in the past because he had changed so radically, it was as if someone else had done them. But the worst thing of all, Wells told himself, wasn't that he couldn't help Murray choose between the two options, but rather that he couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Try as he might (and he had been trying for two years) he couldn't understand what the problem was. As he saw it, there was no reason for Emma to be angry about something like that. If Jane had told him that prior to meeting him she had been the famous sword swallower Selma Cavalieri, would he have left her? Of course not. Nor did he understand why Murray was plagued with remorse by the thought that Emma didn't know who he really was. Wells was sure that, in his case, if he had decided that the best way to hold on to what he had was to keep a secret, he would have done so without hesitation. Why did Murray find that so difficult? He had no idea, but he sensed that wasn't the right question, and that he should be asking himself why he found it so easy. Because he lacked empathy, he told himself, that deficiency Jane so often referred to in order to explain his behavior. If he was empathic, he could have put himself in Murray's shoes and told him what the best course of action was for him. But that ability, instinctive in most people, was refused him. Murray had asked for his advice, and in order not to disappoint him, Wells could only choose one of those two options, however arbitrarily, and by means of that friendly gesture hide the fact that the lives of others were of no consequence to him.