The Map of Chaos

by Félix J Palma

  “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.”

  The smile vanished from Wells’s lips.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said it was a stupid piece of advice, George, and I’m sure you’d agree with me if you thought about it for a second. I shan’t deny that two years ago it would have been an excellent idea to confess everything to Emma, but not now . . . In any case, all couples have their secrets, don’t they? Look at your beloved Doyle . . . Not to mention you yourself! Yes, you, too, George. I understand your not wanting to admit to me that you replied to my letter, but I think it is terrible that you are incapable of confessing the truth to Jane . . . your own wife, George!” Murray wagged his head disapprovingly. “Come to think of it, compared to you two, I’m not so bad as all that . . . a tiny secret from my past that has nothing to do with the man I am today. So I have decided not to tell Emma anything.” Murray folded his arms as a sign of his determination. “And nothing you say, George, will make me change my mind.”

  Then Wells took a deep breath and . . . Ah, but what can I tell you, dear readers, that you don’t already know about man’s irresistible need to defend his most misguided and outmoded beliefs when someone else questions them! I am sure that you have found yourselves more than once justifying absurd notions you no longer believed in simply because someone doubted your ability to do so. And so, in order to spare you the lengthy and tedious conversation that ensued, in which both men put forward arguments those of you who have been paying attention will be only too familiar with, suffice it to say that Wells’s discourse was never more brilliant, lucid, and convincing, more ruthless and irrefutable in his reasoning and responses than in that debate that took place in the intimacy of the small room, amid clouds of plaster dust floating in the air like snowflakes in a storm. So that by the time the two friends heard Doyle’s booming voice as he came looking for them, concerned about how long they were t
aking, Murray left the room transformed once more into a man overcome with remorse, more eager than ever to atone for the unforgivable sin weighing on his conscience, whereas Wells did so puffed up with pride, triumphant and exhilarated, at least until the moment when it occurred to him what he had done.

  When the group gathered in the driveway to organize their departure for the second house they were to visit, Murray went over to Doyle, apparently keen to start honoring the pledge he had made to Wells that day.

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed the tour, Arthur.” Murray smiled, clapping Doyle on the back, to which the latter responded with a look of disbelief at his host’s sudden preoccupation with his well-being. “I say, the tale of the Cabells and the curse of the bloodhound would make an excellent idea for a novel, don’t you think?”

  “Possibly,” Doyle conceded reluctantly.

  “I knew you’d agree!” Murray rejoiced. “After all, we share the same taste in literature . . .”

  “Really, then why don’t you write it yourself?”

  “I would. But don’t forget: there has to be a logical explanation behind the ghostly dog the locals claim to have seen, and who better to discover it than Sherlock Holmes, the champion of reason? Wouldn’t a case with a supernatural twist challenge the mind of the greatest detective of all time and thrill your readers at the same time? Anyway, Arthur, you’re welcome to use my idea. Think of it as a gift. Only an immense talent such as yours could do it justice—even if that does mean rescuing poor Holmes from his watery grave. Don’t you agree?” Murray laughed and clapped Doyle on the back again. “But I’ve already explained to you how to do that.”

  “Yes, you have. But as I keep telling you, like it or not, Holmes is going to remain at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls, where he plunged together with Professor Moriarty, from whose embrace he was unable to free himself because he had never practiced jujitsu or wushu or . . .”

  “Of course, of course, splendid . . . ,” murmured Murray, who had just spied Emma waiting for him in the Mercedes and was no longer listening.

  She was perched in the driver’s seat, playing at steering the automobile. Murray swallowed. She looked so lovely, she trusted him so much, and he was going to hurt her so dreadfully . . .

  “Montgomery!” Wells shouted at his side. “Did you hear me?”

  “What?” Murray blinked.

  “I asked you where your coachman is hiding,” Wells replied, trying to conceal his annoyance.

  Murray looked about absentmindedly.

  “Oh, well . . . I don’t expect he can have gone very far at his age . . .”

  “I daresay he’s back in his prison cell . . .”

  Murray sighed.

  “Oh, damnation! I’ll go and find him. But not another word, George! I warn you, I’m not in the mood.”

  Wells snorted and climbed into the carriage, where Doyle and the two ladies were already settling into their seats.

  “But why are you resistant, darling?” Jean was saying to Doyle. “Montgomery’s idea is wonderful.”

  “Really? I don’t think it’s that good.”

  “Oh, but it would be so exciting . . . A new Sherlock Holmes adventure!” Jean declared eagerly. “Perhaps you could call it The Curse of the Hound.”

  “Don’t insist, my dear . . . ,” said Doyle. “Besides, that’s a terrible title.”

  “All right, what about . . . The Hound of Dartmoor?”

  “Please, Jean, leave it . . .”

  “Or Holmes Hounds a Hound?” Wells suggested.

  “Very amusing, Wells,” Doyle muttered. “Very amusing.”

  “The Hound of the Cabells?” Jane proposed.

  Doyle sighed and, finally surrendering, thought about it for a moment:

  “Hmm, The Hound of the Cabells isn’t bad at all. The Hound of the . . .”

  “Baskervilles!” Murray thundered, making the passengers in the carriage jump.

  “What the blazes is going on now?” Wells grumbled, leaning his head out of the window.

  “Baskervilles!” Murray boomed again, as if his coachman were several miles away, and at that very moment the old man emerged from the side house. “Damn it, Baskervilles!” he cried. “Where the devil have you been?”

  Wells watched with distaste as the old man made his way slowly over to the carriage while continuing to cast furtive glances toward the moor. Good heavens, was he really the only one who suspected that the old fellow was hiding something? In any event, since his and Murray’s stupid conversation in the room with the sacks of plaster, the man’s peculiar behavior had become the least of Wells’s worries. He sank back in his seat, annoyed at himself, sad, irritable, and depressed, while the old fellow scrambled onto the driver’s perch with surprising alacrity. The two women began a leisurely conversation about the latest Paris fashions, and Doyle shut his eyes. Wells wondered whether he was mulling over Murray’s idea for a novel but thought it far more likely that he was attempting to participate in the bubbling energies of the place. Wells sighed and let his gaze wander out of the window as he reflected about their excursion. So far it had been a disaster, although at least he had not had to confront any invisible men, he consoled himself darkly.

  After the carriage had gone, Murray took a deep breath, and putting on a smile, he turned toward where Emma was waiting for him in the automobile.

  She pointed a menacing finger at him. “Stay right there, Mr. Gilmore! You will be traveling in the passenger seat, for I am pleased to inform you that your future wife will be piloting this old wreck to the next port of call.”

  “I won’t hear of it, Emma,” protested Murray. “Driving this thing isn’t like steering a little two-horse buggy in the park. It’s difficult to control and very dangerous . . .”

  “So you don’t think I’m clever enough to do it? If I put my mind to it, I can do anything just as well as you, if not better.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of denying it, my darling. In fact, I’d say it is one of the few certainties in life. But driving, well . . . it’s not ladylike.”

  “What do you mean?” Emma retorted, ignoring the implied compliment. “Remember, you were the one who told me, on our way here, that the first long-distance journey in an automobile was made by Bertha Benz, a woman. And if I’m not mistaken, you said that she drove sixty-six miles, stopping off at pharmacies en route to fill the gasoline tank. So . . . why won’t you let me drive?”

  “Change places, please, Miss Mournful.”

  Emma had opened her mouth to protest but instantly closed it. Monty had addressed her by the nickname they used in private. Each had given the other a secret pet name, which they promised never to pronounce in front of anyone else, for by mutual agreement they had imbued it with the highest power any word could possess. They could spend all day larking about and making little digs at each other, but when one of them called the other by his or her nickname, it meant that the frivolous, delightful game they were playing must wait while something more serious took over. Emma’s nickname had come about the day that she had shown her fiancé a beautiful drawing she had brought with her from New York, a kind of map depicting an imaginary sky filled with wonderful creatures and fantastical marvels. Her great-grandfather had drawn the map especially for his daughter, and it spoke of other worlds where everything was possible. Perhaps that was why it had been such a comfort to her throughout her childhood, when she was a sad, mournful little girl who was convinced nothing would ever make her happy. But that little girl still hadn’t met Montgomery Gilmore, the most infuriating of her future suitors, the one who would assure her that he could make any of her wishes come true, however impossible that might seem.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Impossible?”

  Murray contemplated his fiancée, a lump in his throat, trying to commit to memory the light in her eyes, which were, perhaps for the last time, gazing at him with such tenderness. He pursed his lips until he felt he could speak without his voice faltering.

  “I don’t
want you to drive. There is something I have to tell you that . . . might upset you a little. In fact, I’m sure it will upset you a lot; you might even be angry with me. Although right now I’d give anything if an angry outburst were the only consequence I had to suffer. In any case, I’d better drive.” He opened the door and extended his arm to Emma, who looked at him, wondering whether she should ask him to be more specific about this mysterious subject or change seats obediently. “Please, Emma,” Murray insisted, thrusting his arm more forcefully at her as his eyes began to fill with tears. “Trust me.”

  Emma needed no more persuading. She took her fiancé’s hand and stepped out of the automobile, looking uneasily into the glinting eyes of that big man she had never seen weep.

  “It’s all right, darling,” she said, stroking his cheek. “I don’t know what it is you have to tell me, but I’m sure it can’t be all that bad. You know I trust you implicitly.”

  17

  TEN-YEAR-OLD TOMMY DAWKINS PEDALED AS hard as he could down the path from his back garden to the Hexworthy Road as he tried to outrun the wind. He could feel his ears buzzing and his hair blowing, and he was almost sure that right then nothing in the whole world was faster than he and his bike. When Benjamin Barrie saw him ride up to his door on that amazing machine, he would have to eat his words. That idiot was always making fun of him, saying he couldn’t walk without tripping over his own feet. Well, that morning Barrie would discover that walking and tripping over weren’t all he could do. Barrie was about to discover that Tommy Dawkins could fly.