The Map of Chaos (42 page)

“My dear Arthur, I'm so glad you came back in one piece!” exclaimed Wells.

“Likewise, George. And I assure you it was no easy feat,” Doyle said with a grin that suggested all manner of death-defying adventures.

With a commanding gesture that was doubtless a carryover from his days in the army, Doyle signaled to Wells to sit down again while he went over to the drinks table to serve them a couple of glasses of port. He did so with such agility that Wells had the impression he had received the drink even before it was poured. In any event, he promptly found himself clutching a glass, with Doyle sitting opposite him on an identical chair.

“Well, Arthur,” he began, “I expect you have much to tell me.”

“You are quite right, my dear fellow. The return voyage on the
Briton
was so entertaining I could write several novels about it. I was traveling with the Duke of Norfolk and his brother Lord Edward Talbot, you know? An amusing pair. There were also several prominent army chaps, with whom I spent the crossing exchanging war stories into the small hours. Unfortunately, were joined along the way by a journalist called Bertram Fletcher Robinson, a terrible bore who almost ruined the entire journey.”

“How awful for you!” remarked Wells.

“It was, although not nearly as awful as whatever made you come here desperately seeking my help.”

Wells looked at him in astonishment.

“H-How did you know?” he stammered.

“Elementary, my dear Wells, elementary.” Doyle grinned. “You came here unannounced, when, as a stickler for etiquette, you usually send a telegram the day before, and furthermore, you look as if you've been dragged through a hedge backward: you are unkempt, you have bags under your eyes, and your suit is crumpled. But the most significant clue is the polite interest you showed while I recounted my adventures, which were no more than the chronicle of a tedious, banal ocean crossing. The old Wells would have interrupted me to say he had no interest in hearing about a cruise for retired people, yet you remained silent, nodding as I droned on, which proves you weren't listening to a word I said but were waiting for the best moment to broach your request. I don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that! Even my young son would have noticed. There is something seriously worrying you, my dear George, and the moment you knew I had returned from Africa, you came here because you think I can help . . . Am I wrong?”

Wells paused before running his hand across his brow. “Damn it, Arthur, you're right! I . . . Well, I apologize for not announcing my visit, but—”

“Oh, there's no need. I'm the one who should apologize. I regret having left . . . under those circumstances. I would have liked to attend the funeral at least.”

Wells waved a hand in the air. “Don't fret,” he said. “We all understood perfectly.”

“How are you?” Doyle asked gently.

Wells grunted, as though wanting to make it clear that this was not an easy question to answer.

“You know, when one half of a couple dies in such circumstances, the survivor always feels guilty for not having died in his or her place,” he said, as if this were something he knew from his own bitter experience.

“Quite so.” Doyle nodded, as if he, too, had firsthand knowledge of it.

“Except that Montgomery isn't only racked with guilt because he was driving, Arthur. Above all it is because Emma died before he was able to confess his secret to her,” Wells explained.

“His secret?”

“Yes, a secret very few know about. And that I am about to tell you.”

Like a cat about to pounce, a tense silence hung over the two men. It was finally broken by Doyle.

“Wait a moment, George! Whatever Gilmore's secret is, I don't think it's right that you tell me. I hardly know the fellow, and besides—”

“You have to know, Arthur. Because, as you said earlier, I need your help. And unless you know the whole story you won't be able to help me.”

“Very well, George. Whatever you say,” replied Doyle a little uneasily.

“Good, now listen: Montgomery Gilmore is actually an assumed name. Gilmore's real name is—”

Wells broke off in mid-sentence, not for dramatic effect, but rather because he wasn't even convinced that revealing Murray's true identity to Doyle would not simply make matters worse. All of a sudden, the plan he had spent the past few weeks dreaming up seemed unrealistic and absurd. But it was the only one he had.

“Well?” said Doyle expectantly.

“His real name is Gilliam Murray,” Wells declared at last, “better known as the Master of Time.”

Doyle contemplated him, dumbfounded.

“B-But . . . the Master of Time died,” he finally stammered.

“No, Arthur, he didn't die. He staged his own death and started a new life in New York under the assumed name of Montgomery Gilmore.”

“Good heavens!” Doyle exclaimed, then fell silent for a moment as he attempted to digest the revelation. Wells waited rather warily for him to say something else. “Now that you mention it, George, his face always seemed familiar. Well, I'll be darned: here am I, the creator of the most famous detective in the world, and yet it never occurred to me that—”

“How could it have?” Wells hastened to reassure him.

“Gilmore is Murray . . . Gilmore is Murray,” Doyle repeated, unable to overcome his astonishment. “Were you aware that I wrote several letters in his defense, George?”

Wells nodded quietly, allowing his friend to recover gradually from the shock before continuing.

“But . . . why stage his own death?” asked Doyle.

Wells realized Doyle had overcome his initial surprise and was now asking the appropriate questions. However, he wasn't sure Doyle would swallow the only reply Wells could give him.

“Well,” he said calmly, as though he himself believed what he was saying, “the hole in the year 2000 suddenly closed up without any warning, and nobody knew why. But Murray suspected that people wouldn't be satisfied with that explanation. He feared they might think he had made it up so as to avoid sharing his discovery with the world, and he decided the best thing to do was, well . . . pretend he'd been eaten by a dragon in the fourth dimension.”

Wells felt his pulse racing as for almost a whole minute Doyle contemplated him, pondering his reply.

“Carry on,” he said at last, in the tone of someone who knows he is being lied to but also understands that he has no right to dig any deeper.

Wells hurriedly changed the subject. “The fact is he met Emma as Montgomery Gilmore. And for the past two and a half years he has been debating whether or not to confess to her his true identity. The last time we discussed the subject was at Brook Manor, on the day of the accident. Monty told me he had decided not to say anything to her about it, but I, er . . . I convinced him he should.” Wells shrugged, pulling an awkward face. “And it seems he was trying to do that while driving the car. He was so nervous he lost control of the wheel. The result is that I, too, feel partly responsible for Emma's death. In fact, I feel almost wholly to blame,” he added in a strangled voice.

“I see,” Doyle sighed, astonished by this wave of guilt that had washed over everyone.

His voice increasingly choked with sorrow, Wells began to relate everything that had happened during the six months Doyle had been away—not only to inform him, but also to vent all the frustration and remorse that had begun to engulf him, and that, with his tendency to feel victimized, he could not help exaggerating. For the first few days, Murray had seemed numb, incapable of reacting, as though unconsciously he had decided that if he refused to accept his beloved's death it would miraculously no longer be true. But acceptance finally came, bringing with it grief—an intense grief that seemed to spill out from his insides in an inconsolable, almost inhuman weeping. Several weeks passed during which Murray was reduced to a broken creature for whom simply being alive was painful, as if someone had covered everything around him with thorns. Then, when the weeping finished, leaving his body a dried-out husk, rage rushed in, a rage directed at the world, the universe, and even at the God he did not believe in, a God who, unbeknownst to the happy couple, had plotted to snatch Emma away from him in an act of cosmic conspiracy. But his blind rage also gradually subsided, giving way to a phase of exalted promises (Wells had heard Murray propose a none-too-altruistic pact with Death, vowing to destroy everything of value in the world if only it would bring back his beloved Emma), philosophical ramblings, and macabre poetry. Sprawled on the sofa, a perennially topped-up drink in his hand, Murray would ramble on about the precariousness of existence and how impossible it was for him to accept that Emma had vanished forever, never to return, that she had left the world of the living, when he knew that she was still there, buried in Highgate Cemetery, only a few hours' carriage ride away, her beauty wilting, silent as a rose in the darkness of her coffin. And finally, the guilt that had been stalking him all that time, and which he had perhaps not wanted to yield to until he had reflected all he could on his beloved's death: guilt at failing to protect her, guilt at not loving her even more than he had, and above all guilt at not having confessed to her the truth about who he was. Because of the fear that had prevented him from doing so, all he had left was a handful of poisoned memories, for their love affair had been nothing but a great big lie. And Wells, who also felt guilty because of what had happened, even though Murray had never reproached him for it, realized with horror that his friend was preparing to take his own life. Wells's suspicions were soon confirmed when Murray announced that he had gone through the obligatory mourning period, and all he had to do now was decide how he would kill himself. And kill himself he would, regardless of anything Wells might have to say on the matter, for he couldn't go on living with the knowledge that he had deceived the person he loved most, that he would never be able to beg her for forgiveness.

“I tried to dissuade him, Arthur, I assure you. I used every argument under the sun. But it was useless. I could persuade him to confess his secret to Emma, but I can't persuade him to go on living, doubtless because what I say no longer means anything to him,” Wells lamented. “And so Murray is liable to kill himself at any moment. Jane and I have been watching over him day and night these past few months, but we can't go on like this forever, Arthur. We're exhausted. At some point we'll turn our backs and Murray will carry out his threat. I don't know when exactly, but I assure you he will do it, unless someone can convince him not to.”

“But if you, his closest friend, haven't been able to, then who?” said Doyle.

Wells gave what Doyle thought was a slightly demented smile.

“Emma,” he replied. “Emma can convince him.”

“Emma? But she's . . .”

Doyle didn't have the heart to finish the sentence, as though he feared killing her a second time. Wells finished it for him.

“Dead. Yes, Arthur, Emma is dead. Dead and buried. And yet she is the only person who can convince him. Murray needs to end the conversation they started in the automobile. He needs to tell her who he is and beg her for forgiveness. And we all know that there's only one way to contact the dead, don't we?”

Doyle raised his eyebrows.

“You mean . . . ?”

Wells looked straight at Doyle, attempting to convey the urgency of what he was about to ask him.

“Yes, a séance. I need Emma to contact Murray. I need her to forgive him in death for what he was unable to confess to her in life. And to do that, Arthur, I need your help.”

•  •  •

B
Y THEN
W
OOD HAD
read a dozen more letters, and for a further twenty minutes continued to wade despondently through his employer's correspondence, until Cleeve came into the study and interrupted him.

“Major Wood, the master requires you in the library.”

“Did he say why?” asked Wood a little uneasily.

“No, but he's still with Mr. Wells. And the two of them seem very . . . agitated. When I saw him in that state I feared the worst . . . but luckily all he wanted was for me to fetch you.”

“Oh, no.” Wood turned pale, with the same discretion that characterized his whole existence. “Tell me, Cleeve: he doesn't have that look, does he?”

The butler sighed regretfully.

“I'm afraid so, Major Wood.”

Doyle's secretary heaved such a sigh of despair that it relegated the butler to the level of simple apprentice in the art of outwardly expressing inner regret. In common with Cleeve, Wood feared nothing more than when his employer summoned him with that
look
in his eyes. It could mean many things, none of which boded well: an invitation to spend a few months at the battlefront, lessons in flying a hot-air balloon, or a madcap scheme to fight against some injustice that would doubtless involve treading a thin line between ridiculousness and illegality. What could it be this time? After exchanging a look of commiseration with Cleeve, Wood walked swiftly toward the library, straightening his impeccable jacket, smoothing his impeccable hair, and rehearsing the expression of placid indifference with which he habitually received his employer's most eccentric requests. And yet, underneath, he was far from being calm, which might explain why, when he reached the library door, he remained rather longer than was appropriate, knuckles poised, before rapping gently to announce his arrival. Wood could hear very clearly everything the two men were saying inside the room as they conversed with audible excitement.

“He'll accept because he's desperate!” Wells was saying. “Especially if the suggestion comes from you, Arthur. I saw the expression on his face when you explained to him about spiritualism the day I introduced you. I assure you, very few succeed in shutting him up the way you did, even if it was only for a moment . . . Besides, he has nothing to lose . . .”