The Map of Time Collection, page 158
“There’s no need to apologize, my dear,” said Jane. “It was a truly beautiful description.”
Everyone agreed except for Murray, who simply gazed at Emma in admiration.
“And not only that,” Doyle chipped in excitedly. “It is also another way of expressing what I have always said: that part of what we are survives the death of our bodies. And why not? Perhaps death is a mere repetition of our lives on a higher plane, a sort of Hinton’s cube where we experience every instant of our lives simultaneously . . . And anyway, mediums have relayed numerous messages from spirits who describe the Hereafter as a carbon copy of their former lives.”
“I don’t think you understood a single word that my fiancée said, Doyle!” exclaimed Murray.
“Of course I did,” Doyle replied indignantly. “I am simply pointing out that there are many ways of expressing the same idea. Something transcends us, transcends our will, our perception of time and space—in other words, our death. Yes, even though our bodies turn to dust, part of us lives on forever. And I agree completely, Emma, that there must be places, as well as people, that serve as conduits for all that energy. Perhaps this house is one of those places, for there is no doubt that we all sense something now. You feel it, Emma, and George and I also feel it. And so do you, don’t you, Jean?”
The young woman nodded, her expression reflecting her unease.
“It must be the damp,” said Murray, wrinkling his nose and staring up at the ceiling.
“Oh, Monty, you are the limit,” sighed Emma. “I promise that if I die before you, I will come back to haunt you every night.”
“Well, you’ll need to find a proper conduit,” he reminded her with a grin.
“Well,” she retorted, “with your great fortune, I have no doubt that you would hire the best medium there is.”
“You can be sure of that, my darling.”
Emma’s eyes twinkled with amusement.
“And the séance would have to be held here at Brook Manor,” she demanded, tapping her foot on the floor. “If I were a spirit, I couldn’t possibly appear anywhere else. It is too delightfully sinister!”
“As always, my love, you show an exquisite taste in—”
Worried that the couple were about to initiate one of those conversations others find embarrassing, Jane hurriedly interrupted, asking Murray whether the house really suffered from damp.
“I’m afraid so, my dear,” Murray told her. “We have found serious damp problems throughout the house. Some of the floorboards are completely rotten, but nothing that can’t be fixed.”
With that, Murray motioned to the others to follow him through the second door. Heaving a sigh, Wells prepared to join them, but a big cobweb hanging from the ceiling became tangled in his hair, and he frantically brushed it away. Fearing the creature responsible for such a colossal web might be proportionate in size to its architectural feat and could now be running about on his back, Wells went up to the mirror and, performing various risky contortions, began to examine himself carefully. Then something he saw reflected in the mirror made him pause. The others were filing out of the room, not through the second door, but rather through the one they had entered moments before. Wells wheeled round, only to find himself even more flabbergasted. There they were, still walking through the second door, Murray at the fore, listing the different ways of combating damp, followed by Emma and Jane, who appeared rapt, and behind them Jean and Doyle, who at that moment whispered something in his companion’s ear that made her chuckle. Wells turned back to the mirror and felt his heart jump. There they were again, faithfully reflected, but filing through the wrong door. Unable to believe his own eyes, Wells turned his head from the real world to the reflected world and back again, watching his friends leaving the dining room through two different doors.
When they had all gone out, Wells stood mutely in front of the mirror, which now reflected a room that was empty except for one terrified man. He turned around and, although he could hear his friends’ voices clearly coming from beyond the doorway they had just gone through in the real world, ran across to the one they had stepped through in the mirror. As he expected, the room with the big fireplace was deserted. Wells stood for a moment staring awkwardly at the mounted deer heads, which were gazing at one another with the idiotic expression guests have when they have exhausted all possible conversations. Then he ran over to the other door, leading to the vast entrance hall, at the far end of which he discovered his companions climbing up to the first floor via the magnificent marble staircase. Wells opened his mouth, ready to call out, but closed it instantly. What on earth was he going to say to them? He returned to the dining room and walked back over to the mirror. Trying to think rationally, he told himself that, due to the way it was positioned or to some distortion in the glass, he must have experienced a strange optical illusion. He spent several minutes examining the mirror and the frame from every possible angle. He even lifted it slightly away from the wall but found nothing behind it. He stood facing it once more and examined the reflected image of the deserted dining room, which seemed identical now to the real one. The same portraits adorned the walls, the same crossed swords, the same lamp spilling its tentative pool of light onto the dusty table . . . the dusty table . . . Wells breathed in sharply. Resting his hands on the mirror, he narrowed his eyes and drew closer until the tip of his nose was almost touching the glass.
In the reflected dust on the reflected table, where Emma had written the two initials, there was nothing. Wells glanced over his shoulder, and he could see them even through the gloom. They were still there, illuminated by the lamplight, an “M” and an “E” clearly traced in the thick layer of real dust. Of course they were still there; why wouldn’t they be? He was alone in the room, and they couldn’t have erased themselves. Wells looked into the mirror again and confirmed once more that the initials weren’t reflected there. His head started to spin. Was this still an optical illusion he couldn’t account for? He tapped the cold surface gently with his splayed hands, as if to satisfy himself that it existed, that it had the consistency of a real object, that it wasn’t a figment of his imagination as well. And then he noticed that, on the side of his chin where he had the tiny scar that gave him such a complex, his reflection showed nothing. As he stood gaping at himself, a wave of sheer terror began to crawl up his spine and spread around the base of his skull like a hungry snake, ready to feed on his sanity. Because there was no other possible explanation for that horror except insanity! Wells ran his fingers over the familiar roughness of his scar, while his reflection stroked his pristine skin with what must have been the same terrified expression.
He staggered backward, and his reflection did the same, both of them covering their corresponding chins with their hands. And then, just as he was about to start screaming, the light in the room changed. Wells looked around him, puzzled, trying to perceive the nature of that change, for it wasn’t that there was any more or any less light but rather that a subtle variation in the same light had made everything seem suddenly less scary. He went back to the mirror with bated breath, and the Wells who lived in the mirror stared back at him with the same expectation, the same startled eyes, the same tension seizing his body . . . and the same scar on his chin.
Wells let out the breath he been holding in a whoosh as a growing sense of peace invaded him. Then he noticed the letters Emma had written in the dust, and he wanted to laugh, but he stopped himself, fearing he might succumb to a fit of hysterics. The sensation of normality was so overwhelming now that Wells couldn’t help but feel slightly ridiculous at being so terrified by a mere trick of the light. How could the atmosphere of that place have made him so suggestive? He stood for a long minute in front of the mirror, examining his face from every possible angle, without the illusion happening again. Finally he realized he couldn’t stay there forever, watching his reflection grow old, and he resolved to find his friends.
Wells went out to the hall through the same door the others had used and walked up the marble staircase leading to the first floor, until he reached a kind of gallery that, like an interior balcony, overlooked the entrance on each side of the staircase. Opposite the gallery was a tall window framing a leaden sky, with a long corridor on either side. Unsure which one to take, Wells listened out for a voice that might indicate where his companions were, but a dense silence enveloped him, punctuated only by the occasional creaks with which the wood announced its senescence. He decided to approach the window, in case something outside might give him a clue. It offered a splendid view of the moor, brooding gloomily beneath an ashen light. In the distance, beyond a band of rocks and heath, Wells glimpsed the swamp, where he understood several wretched ponies had drowned, and still farther away, dotted along the rolling hills, he saw a cluster of standing stones, ruined huts, and other relics of the ancient Britons. Wells realized, looking down, that he was above the curved driveway where the carriages were parked, and he contemplated the gloomy avenue bordered by two rows of trees, whose tops the wind continued to stir sensually. Then, on a jagged outcrop, Wells made out a dark, looming figure, outlined against the sky like a statue. It belonged to a very tall man who was leaning on a walking stick (or possibly a rifle, he was too far away for Wells to see) and appeared to be surveying the moor as though the place, and any soul brave enough to venture there, belonged to him. He was enveloped in a flowing cloak, which billowed in the wind so that it looked as if his body had gigantic wings, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat. Everything about him felt so familiar that Wells kept staring at him in astonishment, until a curious scene unfolding below caught his attention. Murray’s coachman was on the driveway and appeared to be behaving in an even odder and more alarming way than usual: he had crouched down behind Murray’s carriage and was peering out, apparently watching the watcher on the moor while simultaneously hiding from him. Astonished, Wells observed the old man as he glanced nervously a few times before making his way over to the Mercedes, stooping even more than his old back demanded, and ducked behind it before repeating the same ritual. Wells felt the urge to open the window and ask him in a very loud voice what on earth he was doing, purely out of a perverse desire to make the old boy jump out of his skin, but at that very moment a huge paw descended on his shoulder, almost causing him to leap out of his own.
“George! Where the devil have you been?”
Wells, exceedingly pale and clutching his chest, spun round to confront Murray.
“For goodness’ sake, Monty, are you trying to scare me out of my wits?”
“Are you joking? We’re the ones who got frightened when we realized you’d disappeared!”
“Well, you took your time,” muttered Wells.
“But I’ve been searching all over the house for you! Doyle was convinced some evil force had detained you, and so he sent me to search while he stayed behind to watch over the ladies in the north gallery. Good heavens, you even had Emma worried. But where the devil have you been?”
“I, er . . .” Wells hesitated to mention the mirror episode for fear of seeming like a madman or a fool. “Where do you think?” he said at last. “I’ve been here, watching your coachman. Monty, as I’ve told you many times, there’s something very peculiar about that old fellow’s behavior. And here you have another example,” he said pointing toward the window. “You can see for yourself. In my opinion he’s either hiding something or he’s off his rocker.”
Murray took a look outside.
“I can’t see anything, George.”
“What?” Wells also looked out. The coachman had gone, the driveway was deserted, and on the craggy rock beyond there was no one either. “Well, he was down there all right,” Wells said crossly, “apparently hiding from a strange figure on the moor. A man enveloped in a—”
“Yes, we all saw him!” Murray cut in. “Doyle says it was probably one of the prison guards from Princetown. Apparently whenever an inmate escapes they are often seen watching the roads and railway stations.”
“Well, your coachman doesn’t seem to be on such good terms with the prison guards. Don’t you find that a bit strange?”
Murray chuckled.
“Do you think he’s an escaped convict? The poor fellow is over eighty, George! How unforgiving you are when you take a dislike to someone. What must my villainous coachman do for you to give him a second chance?” He grinned ironically. “Save Jane’s life?”
“Don’t joke about such things, Monty. But speaking of second chances . . . ,” said Wells, realizing this might be his only opportunity to speak to Murray alone that day. “Don’t you think you might make an effort to give Doyle a second chance? I don’t know whether you’ve noticed that he doesn’t care much for your jokes . . . Damn it, Monty, Arthur is a friend of mine, and I only introduced you to him because I knew he was one of your favorite authors! I thought you two would get on so well. I don’t understand why you insist on riling him all the time.”
“I do nothing of the kind!” protested Murray. “At least, not intentionally. Frankly, I’ve never met anyone as thin-skinned. Except for you, of course.”
“Have it your own way, Monty. But in a few weeks’ time Doyle will be setting sail for the war in Africa.”
“Did he manage to enlist? But he’s no longer a young man!”
“No, but a friend has hired him as an assistant doctor in his field hospital. So he’ll be leaving soon, which is why I think you ought to be nicer to him, don’t you think? You know, men often don’t return from wars.”
“Oh, I have no doubt that Doyle is the sort who does. And if not, he’ll doubtless come back as an irascible ectoplasm.” Murray chortled. “But you’re right, George. I’ll try to be a bit nicer to our fastidious friend . . .”
“I don’t know whether ‘a bit’ will suffice, though I suspect that’s all you’re capable of . . . But let’s change the subject,” said Wells, adding in a hushed voice, “What about that other thing?”
“What other thing?”
“You know . . . Emma and you.”
“You mean the wedding? Oh, it’s all going splendidly. I think the first rehearsal will be—”
“Don’t try to bamboozle me, Monty! I’m asking you whether you have told Emma yet that you are the Master of Time!” Wells exploded, angrily stamping his foot.
Murray looked at him, taken aback.
“Would you mind awfully venting your frustration in some other way, George? This floor is particularly badly affected by damp. Another blow like that and we’ll both end up in the dining room.”
“Don’t change the subject!”
Murray contemplated him in silence for a few moments, grunted, and then darted down the right-hand corridor, leaving Wells alone in the empty gallery. Wells followed him into the corridor, pausing at the doorway where he had seen Murray slip through. It led to a small room, which the builders appeared to be using, as it was scattered with sacks of plaster and various tools. Wells discovered Murray pacing round the room like a caged animal. He observed with dismay as each step his friend took kicked up clouds of white dust that formed into pretty swirls in the air before settling on his polished shoes and his immaculate suit.
“Will you stand still for a moment, Monty?” he exclaimed, brushing off the sleeves of his jacket. “Otherwise we soon won’t be able to breathe in here! And tell me once and for all whether you’ve told Emma your secret.”
Murray came to a halt and looked at Wells with anguish.
“Since you mention it, George . . . There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell to you about that . . . ,” he began, and then fell silent, gazing at his hands, as if the remainder of his speech were written on them.
Wells sighed. It was just as he had thought. Murray still hadn’t said a word about it to Emma! He had suspected as much when he saw them climb out of the automobile, and now Murray had confirmed it. Good, good, Wells told himself; Murray hadn’t burned any bridges yet, and so he could still retract the advice he had given him. He had found the perfect opportunity, and when he had done so, he would finally be able to stop tormenting himself.
“Don’t imagine I haven’t thought a great deal about the advice you gave me,” Murray resumed at last while Wells nodded with a paternal smile. “In fact, I have pondered it at length and have reached the conclusion that . . . er, how can I put this without sounding rude . . . I think it is one of the stupidest pieces of advice I have ever been given in my life.”
