The Map of Chaos (6 page)

Wells swallowed hard. He no longer doubted that this scene was going to end badly for them, and yet he couldn't help considering Murray's impassioned speech with a sense of fascination, for what he had just said confirmed a surprising fact: the Church was covertly involved in the fairy dust industry. It was easy enough to go one step further and realize that the Church had devised a cunning plan to repress man's imagination, the same way it had his capacity for love: it knew that preventing people from imagining would only make them want to imagine more, and so it had decided to make them doubt their capacity by creating a substance that artificially enhanced the imagination, and then making it illegal, so that it became at once fascinating and dangerous. Thus mankind had become addicted to fairy dust, convinced they needed it to be able to imagine, even though they had doubtless always possessed that gift. However, the Church still had to supply its devotees with the illegal substance, for it didn't wish to eradicate entirely that quality in man, which, like love, could lead to Knowledge. Only in order to reap the benefits without losing control over its subjects, the Church had to transform it into a sordid, clandestine addiction. And that was where Murray, the Master of Imagination, came in: by having him traffic in the illegal substance, the Church remained untarnished. Murray wasn't the first to have played that reviled but necessary role. The Church had produced other shadowy figures embodying everything that was despicable about the world, for each new generation. But it seemed Murray was to be the first to rebel against his fate.

“I'm tired of doing the dirty work for that bunch of old busybodies,” Murray went on, “while they go around pretending to despise me. I've had enough of grinding up fairies with my pestle and mortar so the world can go on imagining.” He gave an embittered laugh. “I don't want to continue being the Master of Imagination. I don't want to be remembered as the villain of the story when I die. No, I can think of a far better sobriquet. I want to be remembered as the Savior of Humanity! Could there be any greater achievement?” He grinned, his eyes moving from Dodgson to Wells, then back to Dodgson. “So, Professor, despite all your wisdom, you are a complete fool if you think I am simply going to accept your money and discreetly step aside so that you can take all the glory. That's not how the story is going to unfold.”

Murray looked into his eyes, waiting for a response.

“And h-how is it going to h-happen?” Charles replied at last.

“I'll tell you,” Murray said calmly, still staring straight at him. “It will happen like this: the eminent Professor Dodgson will blow his brains out on the afternoon of the fourteenth of January 1898—that is to say, this afternoon—after battling with depression for months, having been defeated in a crucial debate by his former pupil”—here Murray grinned at Wells—“to see who would save the universe.”

“My God . . . ,” Jane murmured, moving closer to Wells, who wrapped his arms around her as he observed with dread Murray's thugs, their bodies gradually tensing as their boss went on.

“It will be a great loss,” Murray continued, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. “A terrible shock, Professor, but after a few months everyone will have forgotten. And then the millionaire Gilliam Murray will announce that his team of scientists has succeeded in creating a magic hole in their laboratory, just as the great Professor Dodgson had planned to do—a hole through which humanity will be able to escape its dreadful fate.”

“What!” Charles exploded. “But the hole is
my
creation! I—I won't let you steal it!”

“Listen, Charles . . .” Wells tried to calm him, as he saw the two thugs raise their guns and aim at Dodgson.

“You won't
let
me?” Murray gave a hoarse, rasping laugh while Charles fidgeted nervously on the spot. “In case you hadn't realized, Professor, I didn't come here to ask your permission. I am Gilliam Murray, and I take what I want.” He gestured to the redheaded giant. “Martin, please. Aim at the temple. Remember, it has to look like suicide.”

The killer nodded and strolled over to where Charles was standing, unable to move. Wells made as if to help his friend but was stopped by the other man pointing his gun at him. Wells put his arms around his wife once more, and the couple watched the redheaded man press his gun against the old man's temple with theatrical delicacy. Dodgson, too bewildered and scared to do anything else, shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

“A few last words before you leave, Professor?” asked Murray, amused.

Charles scowled and tilted his head slightly, as though leaning against the gun that was about to kill him.

“W-When you don't know where you are going, one path is as good as any other,” he replied.

Wells swiftly placed a hand over his wife's eyes, and everything went dark. Jane didn't see what happened; she only heard a blast, followed by the muffled thud of a body hitting the ground. Then silence. A few seconds later, cracks appeared in the darkness as Wells moved his fingers away from her eyes, and Jane saw Murray gazing impassively at Dodgson's outstretched body while the redhead stood over him, holding a gun with a wisp of smoke rising from it.

“My God, Bertie . . . ,” she sobbed, burying her head in her husband's chest.

Murray turned to the couple.

“I have to confess, Mr. Wells, I wasn't expecting to find you here, accompanied by your wife, and”—he looked at Newton, who had started to bark ferociously—“your pet dog, so I'm afraid there is no part for you in my little play. But as I'm sure you'll understand, I can't let you live. And after I've killed you, I shall throw your bodies into the hole. As you said yourself, a magic hole is the perfect place to dispose of the evidence of a crime.”

“Damn you, Murray,” Wells hissed in disgust as he held on to Jane tightly. “I hope your
Albatross
sinks under your vast weight and crashes, preferably into the Church's Holy See.”

Murray gave a loud guffaw, then signaled to the thug whose weapon was trained on Wells.

“Go ahead, Tom. It doesn't need to look like suicide, so you can shoot them anywhere. Oh, and kill that damned mutt while you're at it.”

The young man answering to the name of Tom looked at the picturesque trio he was supposed to execute. He decided to start with the man. He cocked his pistol, extended his arm, and aimed at Wells's head. But Wells did not flinch. Rather than beg for mercy, close his eyes, lower his head, or improvise some last words, he stared straight at the youth. And for a split second the two men looked at each other in silence. Wells's bravery seemed to take the lad by surprise, or perhaps he was laughing to himself at this stupid display of courage, but in any event he delayed pulling the trigger. Wells guessed that, despite all his experience, the killer had never had to shoot someone who showed such dignity when helpless, moreover with the addition of a sobbing wife in his arms and a faithful hound at his feet. Realizing that the time it would take for the lad to pull the trigger was the only time he had in which to act, he wheeled round, grabbing Jane by the arm and pulling her toward the hole. If they were going to go through it, better alive than dead.

“Jump, Jane, jump!” he cried, shielding her body with his as they bridged the short distance between them and the hole Dodgson had managed to tunnel into the air.

Wells feared he would receive a bullet in his back at any moment, but as he lunged forward and his body started to go through the hole, he knew the killer would not have time to shoot. Newton followed them, leaping through just as the orifice folded in on itself with a deafening roar. Then what could have been a gust of cosmic wind swept through the room, accompanied by a flash of white light that blinded the three men left behind.

After the thunderous explosion, a heavy silence fell. Murray blinked a few times and finally saw that the hole had vanished. All that was left of it were a few strands of mist hovering above the metal stand. It took several moments for him to realize he no longer had anything to trade in, and that he would never be the savior of mankind.

It seemed History wasn't going to happen the way he had imagined either.

•  •  •

“I
T SEEMED
H
ISTORY WASN'T
going to happen the way he had imagined either,” Jane read. It was a good way to end a chapter, she reflected with a satisfied smile before blowing on the paper to dry the ink. Leaning back in her chair, she observed with delight the freshly cut roses on her desk. She had picked them from the rosebush that very morning as the sky chose the colors of dawn and the cold night air still lingered on their petals.

At that moment, Wells tiptoed into her study with his habitual reverence, as though afraid his manly presence might disrupt the delicate feminine atmosphere floating in the room. He spent a few moments contemplating the charming orderliness around him, whose enchantment was so alien to him, and his eyes flashed as he caught sight of the scribbled pages on his wife's desk.

“What are you writing, my dear?” he asked with feigned nonchalance.

Ever since his wife had told him she wanted to turn one of their unoccupied rooms into a study, Wells had resolved to spend part of his extremely limited and valuable time trying to find out what his wife was doing in there. Direct questioning had failed, because she merely replied with a shrug. Joshing hadn't worked either. “Are you drawing pictures of animals in there?” he had once asked, but Jane hadn't laughed the way she usually did when he said such things. Her silence was tomb-like, and since torture was not an option, Wells had been forced to resort to surprise incursions. Thus he had discovered that Jane went into her study to write, which wasn't much of a discovery, as he could almost have worked it out without having to go in there. She was hardly likely to use the room for breeding rabbits, practicing devil worship, or dancing naked. Besides, she had half jokingly threatened him with it. Now all he had to do was find out
what
she was writing.

“Oh, nothing of any interest,” Jane replied, quickly hiding the sheets of paper in her desk drawer, the lock of which Wells had unsuccessfully tried to force open. “I'll let you read it once it's finished.”

Once it's finished . . . That meant nothing. What if it was never finished? What if for some reason she decided not to finish it? What if the world came to an end first? If it did, he would never know what Jane had been doing during the three or four hours she spent in her study every day. Was she writing a diary? Or perhaps a recipe book? But why be so cagey about a recipe book?

“One of the things I most hate in life is couples who keep secrets from each other,” Wells said, being deliberately dramatic.

“I thought what you most hated was the fact that no one has invented an electric razor yet,” Jane chuckled. She went on talking to him as she took his arm and led him toward the door, trying not to give the impression she was getting rid of him. “But don't be such a grouch. What does it matter what I write? Your work is the important thing, Bertie, so stop wasting your time spying on me and get writing.”

“At least you know what I'm writing,” he grumbled. “I let you see everything I do, whereas you're . . .”

“. . . an unfathomable mystery to you, and you can't bear it, I know. I already explained it to you once: this is the only way of keeping your interest in me alive. I have to stop you from deciphering me, dear. Because if you understood everything about me, you would soon tire of me and start looking for other
mysteries,
and your crowning work, your true masterpiece, would never be written . . . So go back to your study and leave me with my
trivial
entertainments. They're not important. They aren't even as good as your earlier stories.”

“Don't you think
I
should be the judge of that?” Wells retorted, surprised rather than annoyed at suddenly finding himself on the other side of the door. “But I suppose you're right, as always. I should get back to my work and—”

“Splendid, dear.”

Jane gave her husband a parting wink and withdrew into her sanctuary. After shrugging, Wells went down to the ground floor, where he hid away in
his
study. Ensconced in his chair, he glanced wearily around him. Despite having placed all his books and knickknacks on the shelves as carefully as Jane, his room only gave off an atmosphere of sterile sedateness. However much he changed things round, the room never felt warm. Wells sighed and contemplated the sheaf of blank pages before him. He proposed to record on them all his hard-earned wisdom, everything he had seen. And who could tell: perhaps that knowledge might change the fate of the world, although Wells couldn't help wondering how much he was driven by altruism and how much by vanity. He reached for his pen, ready to begin his “crowning' work, as Jane had called it, while the sounds from the street and the neighboring park seeped in through his window, noises from a world that went by immersed in the smug satisfaction of believing itself unique . . .

T
HERE WAS NOTHING
I
NSPECTOR
C
ORNELIUS
Clayton would have liked more than for the dinner Valerie de Bompard had organized in honor of the successful outcome of his first case to end in a sudden attack of indigestion on the part of all her guests, himself excluded, the sooner for him to remain alone with the beautiful countess. And why should such a thing not happen? he mused, raising his fork mechanically to his mouth. After all, such unfortunate incidents fell within the bounds of the possible, especially since the castle cook already had experience in these matters, having three months earlier almost poisoned the entire domestic staff by serving them rotten food. However, the guests were already well into their second course and none of them showed signs of feeling the slightest bit queasy. And so Clayton resigned himself to having to endure the wretched dinner to the very end, telling himself he might find it more bearable if he forgot about the countess momentarily and simply enjoyed the praise lavished on him by the other guests. Did he not fully deserve it? Naturally: he was there as assistant to the legendary Captain Angus Sinclair, head of the mysterious Special Branch at Scotland Yard, but it had been his ingenious plan, and not the vain prestige of his superior, that had finally freed the town of Blackmoor from the terrible curse that had been hanging over it for months.