The Map of Time Collection, page 161
Doyle gave a rueful sigh and walked over to the window, gazing with satisfaction over the narrow valley where the woods converged, like a monarch appreciating the peace that enveloped his domain. Then he heard Touie stretch behind him.
“I love the view from this window, Arthur,” she said, as if in his zeal to surround her with comfort and beauty her husband had also been responsible for ordering Nature (which had unquestioningly obeyed his booming voice) to rearrange her valleys and mountains to create that idyllic landscape. “And nothing makes me happier than the thought that I will continue enjoying it in the Hereafter, for as you once told me, there everything will be exactly as it is here.”
“That’s right, my dear,” Doyle assured her. “Everything will be exactly the same.”
He said this without turning, so that she couldn’t see the corners of his mouth turn down in despair as he realized that the word “everything” comprised much more than that landscape. If after death everything stayed the same, then Touie, Jean, and he would remain trapped in an eternal triangle. There was no doubt that one day Touie would die in this world, after which Jean and he would be free to love each other openly, but that love would be no more than a leafy glade in the forest of life, a brief respite whose duration would be determined by how valiant their hearts were, for as soon as they entered the Hereafter the broken triangle would be reestablished. And then, perhaps, Doyle would be accountable to Touie, who through some peephole in that other world might have caught sight of him loving another woman the way he had never been able to love her.
Doyle made a supreme effort to replace that look of despair with the cheerfully optimistic one he always wore in the face of Touie’s illness, so that she would forget the sword of Damocles hanging over her, and he turned toward his wife.
“Keep resting,” he told her. “You need to get your strength back. I’ll go down and do some work before lunch.”
She nodded, smiling meekly, and Doyle was able to flee downstairs, pondering the Hereafter whose existence he never tired of predicting but that might be his damnation, unless Touie forgave him in death for what he dared not confess to her in life.
Seated at the desk in the comfortable study he had installed on the ground floor, Doyle lit his pipe and tried to relax. As he puffed away distractedly, he glanced around at the furniture and the shelves where his favorite books jostled for space with his numerous sporting trophies. Instead of the persistent sound of cannon and rifle fire accompanied by the rumble of mortars that he was used to hearing in South Africa, the laughter of his children, Kingsley and Mary Louise, filtered in through the window, together with the clatter of the miniature railway he had built shortly after the house was finished, so that his children could enjoy an exhilarating ride around the piece of land their father had managed to wrest from the world. Any other man would have let himself rock contentedly amid that benign calm, but Doyle was a man of action, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before he became more exhausted by all that peacefulness than by the chaos of the war. Although there were many things he could do—on the homeward journey he had considered standing for the Edinburgh elections, starting a gun club in order to make better marksmen of the English, and even writing an essay about the war he had just survived—he was sure he would soon be longing for some adventure that would provide him with another opportunity to prove his manliness. He had no doubt that war was mankind’s most foolish mistake, and yet he believed that for any decent man it could also be an exciting journey capable of stirring his noblest virtues, which might otherwise have gone with him to the grave. Doyle had sent all his friends telegrams announcing his return, so that they knew they could once more depend on him, although he very much doubted any of them (for the most part other authors, agents, and publishers) would write back proposing he join them on some death-defying adventure. But at that stage, after less than a week of idleness, his demands were not quite so high: a simple luncheon invitation would suffice.
He banished these thoughts with a resigned shake of his head and told himself it was time to go back to his old routine after six months away. He decided to start with one of the most thankless of all the tasks he had to deal with whenever he returned from a trip: answering the backlog of correspondence. He stood up and called Wood, his secretary, who seconds later came into the study bearing a bag of letters. Alfred Wood was a primary-school teacher whom Doyle had employed whilst living in Portsmouth, not so much for his discretion, efficiency, and trustworthiness as for his cricketing skills. To begin with, Doyle had employed him as a simple secretary, but as time went on, almost unawares, he had started allotting him other tasks, such as that of messenger, driver, and typist. Occasionally, after Wood had beaten him at billiards or golf, Doyle had even sent him on some patently absurd errand simply out of revenge. Since his assistant had carried these tasks out without demur, pretending not to notice the odd nature of the request—or, worse, giving to understand from his gallant acceptance that he expected nothing less from his employer—this game of preposterous requests had become for both of them a diversion that enriched their relationship, or so Doyle liked to imagine, as they had never discussed the matter.
When Wood diligently emptied the bag of letters onto the desk, Doyle gazed at the large pile despondently.
“This is almost worse than war,” he groaned. “Much more tedious, in any case. War may be bad in many ways, Woodie, but it is never boring, that’s for sure.”
“You should know, sir, having been in more than one yourself . . .”
Both men gave a loud sigh and began the laborious task of sifting through Doyle’s correspondence. Much of it was addressed to Doyle from people convinced that anyone who could invent such complicated fictional crimes must obviously possess the necessary skills to solve real ones, and they therefore asked for his help in solving all kinds of cases. But much of it was also addressed to Sherlock Holmes himself at his nonexistent address of 221B Baker Street, which the sub–post office in London, with its habitual cooperativeness, had sent on to Undershaw. Before drowning in the Reichenbach Falls, the sleuth would receive all kinds of eccentric challenges from places as far afield as San Francisco and Moscow: complicated family mysteries, elaborate puzzles, and mathematical equations. But following Holmes’s tragic disappearance, only a handful of scatterbrains insisted on testing his intelligence. Nowadays, the vast majority of letters were from women wanting to clean Holmes’s rooms, and adventurers offering to organize expeditions to search for his remains; generally speaking, rather than demonstrate their affection for his creation, Doyle’s readers seemed to betray their own lack of reason. After reading the letters, the two men divided them into piles: those that deserved a reply and those that, on account of being deranged, preposterous, or downright unanswerable, deserved only to be used to light a fire.
“It would never have occurred to me that life could contain so many mysteries,” Doyle sighed after reading a letter containing the map of a supposed treasure buried on the South African coast by the crew of a shipwrecked vessel.
“Is that why you decided to invent a few more?” Wood inquired, plucking another letter from the pile. He opened it with the swiftness and elegance of someone with years of practice. “Ah, a Mrs. Emily Payne, recently widowed, offers to clean Holmes’s rooms. Well, that’s nothing new. But there’s an interesting difference: she also proposes to alleviate Watson’s grief, should Holmes’s devoted companion be in need.”
“On the fire pile,” grunted Doyle.
Woodie obeyed, even though it was the first letter they had received expressing concern for poor Watson. A few moments’ silence followed, broken only by the sound of envelopes being torn open.
“Well, listen to this,” said Doyle after a cursory glance, “a William Sharp claims he is the real Sherlock Holmes and declares that he will soon astonish the world with his exploits.”
Wood raised his eyebrows in a gesture of dutiful surprise as he perused another missive.
“And in this letter a Polish family insists you go to their country to solve the disappearance of a valuable necklace.”
Just then Cleeve the butler, who had also returned from South Africa without any Boer bullet embedded in his body, opened the study door to inform Doyle he had a visitor.
“Forgive me for disturbing you, sir, but the author H. G. Wells is waiting for you in the library.”
“Thank you, Cleeve.” Doyle stood up from his desk without trying to conceal his relief at this timely interruption. “Sorry, Woodie, I’m sure you can manage the rest on your own. And when you’ve finished classifying them, start replying to them yourself. After all, your writing is far more beautiful and legible than mine.”
“I appreciate the compliment, sir,” Wood replied, lamenting all the hours he had spent as a child perfecting his penmanship. “But where do I put the Polish letter? They’re willing to pay all your travel expenses, and you can name your reward. You must admit it’s a very tempting offer.”
Doyle grunted. “On the fire pile, Woodie, unless you want to go in my place.”
“And risk having you drown in correspondence during my absence, sir?” Doyle heard him retort. “Why, I should never forgive myself.”
Doyle strode off toward the library, at which point Cleeve gave up trying to follow him. He had spent enough time running after his master in South Africa, and so he strayed in the direction of the kitchen on the pretext of giving orders to the cook. Doyle hadn’t clapped eyes on Wells for six months, not since Montgomery Gilmore’s automobile drove into that gorge on the moor. He had regretted abandoning him in mid-tragedy but was loath to give up the medical posting he had fought so hard to obtain, nor was he close enough to the couple even to entertain the idea. Entering the study, he found Wells sitting on one of his custom-made, hand-carved Viking chairs, with the same forlorn air as a fly caught in the jaws of a carnivorous plant. As soon as Wells saw him, he leapt to his feet, and the two friends came together in one of those masculine embraces that are a perfect balance of affection and virility.
“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.
