The Map of Time Collection, page 165
“Good, that’s better. Now hand over the book, George, or your little wife will die,” said the voice.
“Please don’t hurt her!” Wells implored. Then he swallowed hard and, with a calm that belied his anguish, added: “Listen: I don’t have a book called The Map of Chaos, but I’ll give you whatever you ask for, I swear. I’ll give you anything. Anything . . .”
The creature grew impatient. “I don’t want anything from you, only my book!”
“Please, let her go, she can’t breathe, please . . . I tell you, she can’t breathe!” Wells cried, his voice cracking before it turned into a crazed howl: “Damn you, don’t you dare hurt her, or else . . .”
“Or else what?” the voice gloated.
Wells shook his head, his eyes blurry with tears, overwhelmed by the senselessness of it all. The fire had started spreading to the ceiling, and tiny red-hot splinters rained from above, scores of burning lights gently rocking as they floated down before dying out when they touched the floor. Sensing Wells’s helplessness, Murray began to edge his way around the table, but the voice brought him up short.
“Stop right there! I said nobody move or I’ll kill her!”
To prove this was no empty threat, he hoisted Jane another inch from the floor. Her toes were scarcely touching the ground now, and Wells, the tears streaming down his face, watched Jane’s hands claw at her neck as her face began to go purple. He saw her raise her arm, desperately groping the air with her fingers, as though fumbling for something behind her, but she only managed to loosen her hair.
But while Wells impotently contemplated Jane thrashing around, Doyle, his neck and shoulder drenched in blood, had focused his attention elsewhere: unbeknownst to the others, the handle of the door leading out into the hall had slowly started to turn. Murray’s coachman was coming to the rescue, possibly alerted by their cries; but this was of little comfort to Doyle, not just because of the old man’s lack of physical prowess, but because when he opened the door and looked inside, he would be unable to see any enemy, or to understand what was going on, and if Doyle tried to alert him, the creature would certainly kill Jane. Giddy from the fumes, Doyle struggled to think of a solution, but he was too late. The door swung open and the coachman’s head appeared. Seeing the flames, he declared: “Good heavens!” And that sufficed. Jane’s body jerked round like a rag doll, revealing that the creature had heard him, too. But then something unexpected happened: Jane, who seemed to be clasping something in her hand, thrust one arm back over her head, and the creature let out a terrible cry of pain and dropped her on the floor.
“My eye!” the voice howled as one of the long hairpins Jane used to fasten her bun shook violently from side to side, hanging in midair. “My eye!”
Wells rushed over to Jane, who was on her knees, retching and gasping for breath while her hairpin flailed around a few feet above their heads. All of a sudden, it swooped to the floor, then rose again, together with the sword Wells had dropped. Both floated toward the hallway door.
“Baskerville, get away from the door!” screamed Murray, realizing what was about to happen.
He leapt onto the table, tossing a sword to Doyle, who caught it in mid-flight as he, too, clambered onto the table. The two men bounded across it, brandishing their swords and spurring themselves on with simultaneous unintelligible cries. But the invisible creature reached the door before them, and the befuddled old man watched, paralyzed with shock, as the sword floated through the air toward him. The blade plunged effortlessly into his stomach like a knife through butter. The old man opened his eyes wide as he felt the sword slice open his guts, but he didn’t utter a single cry. His body, still pierced by the sword, was sent flying at Doyle and Murray as they sprinted toward him, and the three men collapsed in a heap of flesh and metal.
Doyle rose to his feet quickly and ran out into the hallway while Murray held Baskerville in his arms. Narrowing his eyes, Doyle was able to make out Jane’s hairpin floating up the stairs before it was flung violently to the ground, as if the Invisible Man had yanked it out in a desperate gesture. Doyle turned round and went back into the dining room, where the heat was by now unbearable.
“He’s on his way upstairs!” he declared, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve to protect himself from the fumes. There’s no escape up there! Let’s go after him, Gilmore!” Then, glancing at Wells, who was helping Jane to her feet, he commanded, “You two, carry the wounded out to the carriage! Take them to the hospital and then inform the police!”
“Have you lost your mind, Arthur?” Wells protested. “Forget about the creature! We must get out of here immediately!”
“It’s true, the fire is spreading fast,” Murray added.
Doyle studied the progress of the flames, which had now enveloped an entire wall and were making their way across the ceiling, curling around the supporting beams.
“I realize that, damn it!” he bellowed, trying to make himself heard above the noise of the crackling flames. “But listen to me: that monster will stop at nothing, don’t you see? If he had wanted to flee, he would have left through the front door and disappeared onto the moor. Yet he remained in the house, clearly because he means to kill us before we can get away. If we don’t stop him now that he is at a disadvantage, half-blind and unarmed, none of us will ever sleep easily again, especially not you, George.”
“But in case you hadn’t noticed, that thing is invisible!” Wells shouted frantically. “How the devil do you intend to find him if he doesn’t want you to?”
“We’ll find him!” exclaimed Murray before Doyle had a chance to reply. “Look, he’s showing us the way!”
Before their astonished eyes, spots of blood began to appear as if by magic on the floor. The reddish trail ran between Doyle’s feet, across the hall, and up the staircase.
“He’s leaving a trail of blood!” Doyle exclaimed, scarcely able to believe their luck. “We must move quickly!”
He strode over to Wood, who was still lying crumpled on the table, took him by the shoulders, and began to drag him toward the door. Infected by Doyle’s sudden burst of energy, the others picked up the old man, who groaned softly, as though not wishing to inconvenience them with his suffering. When they laid him on the hall floor, he looked feverishly at Jane.
“Are you all right, my dear?” he stammered, summoning every ounce of his waning strength to force a smile. “I couldn’t bear anything to happen to you . . .”
Moved by the words of this old man whom she barely knew, Jane assured him that she was perfectly well.
“The poor fellow’s delirious . . . ,” Wells muttered, slightly wary of the coachman’s excessive concern for his wife.
Doyle placed Wood next to Baskerville, who was gazing at the ceiling, gasping like a fish out of water. Blood trickled slowly from the corner of the old man’s mouth. After casting a professional eye over his wound, Doyle gave him a look of infinite sorrow, and they all knew there was no hope for him.
“George, carry them out to the coach. And try to stanch the bleeding with . . . well, I’m sure you’ll find something you can use.” Doyle sighed helplessly before looking straight at Wells. “Now listen carefully: Gilmore and I are going after that thing.” He glanced toward the staircase. “If we haven’t come out after fifteen minutes, go for help. Fifteen minutes, do you hear? Not a moment longer!”
Wells nodded resignedly. He still considered Doyle’s plan to hunt the creature down an act of folly, but he didn’t have the strength to argue about it. Doyle had ordered him to evacuate the wounded, which, compared to the task he had allotted himself, was incredibly simple, and so the best thing to do was obey. Doyle looked across at Murray.
“Are you with me, Gilmore?”
“Of course.” Murray grinned. “But if we are going to die together, Arthur, I think you should call me Gilliam—at least for this evening.”
21
WHILE JANE AND WELLS CARRIED the old man out of the house, Murray and Doyle headed toward the staircase. Wells feared for their lives, though less for that of Doyle, whom he had always considered quite indestructible—immune to the everyday events that killed off ordinary folk. He was more concerned about Gilliam, whom Death had begun stalking lately, disgruntled perhaps by the irreverent disappearing act he had performed in the fourth dimension.
“Wait, Arthur!” Murray exclaimed at that very instant. “Why limit ourselves to a pair of swords?” He approached one of the walls in the hallway, took down the enormous iron mace, and handed it ceremoniously to Doyle. “This admirable weapon was apparently made for you. Besides, I hear you’re a talented batsman, isn’t that right?”
Doyle hung his sword from his belt, gripped the mace in both hands, and felt the weight of it with satisfaction.
“What a splendid weapon!” he declared, striking the air with a couple of almighty blows. “What about you, Gilliam? Which weapon will you choose?”
Murray wheeled round. He was holding the big crossbow, which he had loaded with an arrow; Doyle had explained its complicated mechanism to them on the day of the excursion.
“The truth is, I’ve never considered myself a very honorable man,” he apologized with a half grin.
Despite the gloom, the trail of blood was quite visible against the marble steps. Doyle started the ascent, with Murray close behind, trying to fasten a second arrow to his belt. After hesitating a moment, he had finally taken it down off the wall. Two were better than one, he had thought, though he dearly hoped he wouldn’t have to reload the crossbow. Doyle located Jane’s hairpin on one of the stairs and stooped to pick it up carefully by one end. Noticing that it felt heavier than it should, he ran his finger slowly along it until he encountered an obstruction, something soft and viscous. He pulled a face.
“Good God, I think that’s his eye . . . I’ll be hanged if I understand what is going on here.”
With a look of disgust, he replaced the pin on the stair and continued his ascent. Murray followed, making sure he didn’t step on the invisible eyeball.
“Well, if you don’t understand, and you’re the expert . . . Oh, why don’t we ask that genuine medium you brought over from Africa?” he suggested, feigning a burst of enthusiasm. “What did you call him just now? Oh, yes . . . Woodie. It doesn’t sound quite as impressive as Amonka, does it?”
Doyle walked on, focusing on the trail of glittering rubies that seemed to sprout from the ground like evil flowers. He studied each stair closely, afraid the Invisible Man might have veered off suddenly, or even silently retraced his steps.
“I don’t think now is the right time to bring that up, Gilliam,” he muttered.
“Really? But there might not be another time, my dear Arthur,” said Murray, almost glued to Doyle’s back, pointing his crossbow at any shadow that seemed to move. “And I don’t want to die without knowing where you got hold of the poor wretch and, more important, how the devil he knew Emma’s nickname.”
“He’s my secretary.”
“What!”
“Don’t raise your voice!” Doyle commanded in a whisper. “Woodie is my secretary. There’s no such person as the Great Ankoma. George and I invented him.” Doyle continued climbing the stairs without turning round to contemplate Murray’s astonished face. “As for Emma’s nickname, the day I first mentioned the medium to you at your house, George slipped out of the room for a few moments. I imagine that, due to the state you were in, you don’t remember, but the truth is he took the opportunity to search your study for anything we might be able to use. He came across your and Emma’s correspondence in a drawer of your desk. That’s where he discovered your nicknames . . . Mr. Impossible.”
Murray tried to choose one of the many questions buzzing round in his head while they climbed a few more steps in silence.
“But what the devil made you want to hold a phony séance in the first place?” he finally asked.
“To stop you from killing yourself,” Doyle replied. “George was desperate . . . He felt he was to blame for the accident and for Emma’s death. It was he who advised you to come clean with her, remember? And he considered it his duty to help you finish what you had started. He thought it was the only way you would find any peace. When George came to my house and told me that the only way to save you was to let you communicate with Emma during a séance, I assumed he meant a real one, but he soon disabused me. George wanted you to talk to her, but he didn’t want to take any risks. He wanted to be in control of all the variables: the medium, Emma’s responses, her forgiveness of you . . . everything. He wanted her to command you to go on living, even to force you to be happy, insofar as you could be . . .” Doyle shook his head and gave a wry grin. “I don’t know how he managed to convince me to take part in one of those phony séances I have spoken out against so strongly . . . But damn it all, you know, I almost ended up enjoying it! You must admit we managed to build up a fairly compelling tale: the mysterious medium, the hand of fate . . .”
“But I saw Emma in the garden!” Murray interrupted.
“Oh, yes, that . . . ,” said Doyle, pausing to examine the trail of blood with a frown, like a housekeeper finding fault with the housemaid’s work. “The Emma in the garden was also our doing,” he confessed, resuming his ascent. “That was Miss Leckie, who kindly offered to help us out. With the aid of some of your servants, we got hold of one of Emma’s dresses and a parasol. It was all we could think of. We were desperate! Time was passing, and we had failed to persuade you to attend the séance with the Great Ankoma . . .”
“So, when you challenged me to jump out of the window . . .” Murray reflected. “What you really wanted was for me to see Miss Leckie!”
“Elementary, my dear Gilliam.” Doyle grinned at him.
“Good heavens! . . . But what if I hadn’t seen her? What if I’d jumped?”
“She was clearly visible,” Doyle said with a shrug. “Besides, I knew you wouldn’t do it.”
“Good heavens . . . ,” Murray repeated, incapable of saying anything more.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Doyle carefully examined the floor once more.
“The trail heads toward the right wing,” he announced, signaling with his chin the long corridor receding into the darkness.
“That corridor is a dead end . . . ,” Murray murmured with a distracted air. “All the rooms on that side are locked, apart from the one the builders use to store their plaster and tools.”
“Then it won’t be so difficult to hunt him down,” said Doyle. “Though we could do with a bit more . . . energy.”
From his pocket he plucked a small box of cocaine tablets with an image on the lid of two children playing innocently, and he offered one to Murray.
“No, thanks, Arthur,” Murray said. “I think the rage I feel will suffice.”
“As you wish.” Doyle shrugged. He took a tablet, put the box away, and with a show of bravado lifted his mace. “Let’s find that son of a bitch!”
But before he could step forward Murray restrained him, clasping his arm.
“Wait a moment, Arthur . . . I realize that this invisible monster isn’t another of your little hoaxes.” He reflected for a moment about what he was going to say. “No, of course it isn’t. Running poor Baskerville through with a sword would have been going too far, even for you. But”—he looked straight at Doyle—“what about what happened with the mirror?”
“That wasn’t our doing either,” said Doyle. “We insisted on holding the séance at Brook Manor in order to practice the slate trick without anyone seeing; that would have been impossible at your house, and you spent much of your time at the Wellses’, and as for my place . . . well, I could never have forgiven myself if my wife or children had found out that I was helping to organize a fraudulent séance. But what happened with the mirror . . . how could we have managed a stunt like that?” he gasped, betraying his own unease at the memory of it. “What we saw in the mirror was truly incredible, a mystery we need to look into dispassionately. But first we must get out of here alive, don’t you agree?”
Murray nodded but made no attempt to move.
“And what exactly did we see, Arthur? Where was Emma?”
“I can’t tell you that, my friend,” Doyle confessed, shaking his head in perplexity.
“Was that the Hereafter you so often talk about?”
Doyle lowered the mace to the floor and sighed wearily.
“I don’t believe it was, Gilliam. I think what we saw in the mirror was . . . another world.”
“Another world?”
“Yes, another world. And the mirror must be an entry point, a sort of portal . . .” Doyle paused to reflect. “I was reminded of the hole the Reed People made in the air, weren’t you?”
“Why, yes, of course.” Murray nodded with a knowing air.
“If I’m not mistaken, that magic hole was also a portal, only it led to the fourth dimension, a vast pink plain filled with other portals to other moments in our past and future. But what if it wasn’t true? What if that plain wasn’t the fourth dimension but rather a sort of antechamber to other worlds? And what if mirrors are shortcuts, portals that lead directly into other realities, without passing through the great antechamber?”
“Other realities?”
“Yes, things that might have happened but for some reason didn’t, or vice versa.” Doyle was speaking hesitantly, as though thinking aloud. “I don’t know whether you noticed that in the reflection I was wearing a different suit.” Murray shook his head slowly. “Well, I was. The one I put on this morning, and that I changed for this one after spilling coffee on it. Do you realize what that means? It is as if we had seen a parallel world where things happened differently. I didn’t spill coffee down my front, and Emma . . .”
“And Emma didn’t die!” Murray finished Doyle’s sentence, more perplexed than elated.
“No, in that parallel world she wasn’t the one who died in the accident,” Doyle corrected Murray, staring hard at him. He watched Murray’s bewilderment give way to alarm as he gradually understood what that implied. But Doyle didn’t give him a chance to carry on thinking, for he needed Murray to be as alert as possible. He lifted the mace and peered into the shifting darkness at the end of the corridor. “But let’s put that to one side now, Gilliam. We have to catch an accursed ghost.”
