only reason I could think of to justify the effort it would take to organise a third expedition,’ he said, recalling with irritation Jeff Wayne’s pompous delivery of Shackleton’s lines, and how scrawny he looked brandishing his rifle on top of the rock, ‘was money. But I’d already made enough for a dozen lifetimes, so that was no excuse either. On the other hand, I was sure my critics would sooner or later mount a concerted attack on me that not even Conan Doyle would be able to head off.’
Murray seized the door handle protruding from the wall, but made no attempt to turn it. Instead he turned to Wells, seeming contrite.
‘Doubtless I should have stopped then,’ he said, with regret, ‘setting in motion the plan I’d prepared even before I’d created the company. I would stage my own accidental death in the fourth dimension, eaten alive by one of my imaginary dragons before the eyes of a group of employees who, filled with grief, would see to it that the newspapers were informed of the tragic news. While I began my new life in America under another name, all England would mourn the passing of Gilliam Murray, the man who had revealed the mysteries of the future to them. However, despite the beauty of such an ending, something compelled me to carry on with my deception. Do you want to know what that was, Mr Wells?’
The writer merely shrugged.
‘I’ll do my best to explain, although I doubt you will understand. You see, in creating all of this, not only had I proved that my vision of the future was plausible, I had become a different person. I had become a character in my own story. I was no longer a simple glasshouse manufacturer. In your eyes I’m no more than an impostor, but to everyone else I’m a time lord, an intrepid entrepreneur who has braved a thousand adventures in Africa and who sleeps every night with his magical dog in a place where time has stopped. I suppose I didn’t want to close the company because that would have meant becoming an ordinary person again – a terribly rich but terribly ordinary person.’
And with that, he turned the knob and stepped into a cloud.
Wells followed him a few seconds later, behind the magical dog, only to discover his bad-tempered face multiplied by half a dozen mirrors. He was in a cramped dressing room full of boxes and frames, hanging from which were several helmets and suits of armour. Murray was watching him from a corner, a serene smile on his lips.
‘And I suppose I’ll deserve what I get, if you refuse to help me,’ he said.
There it was at last. As Wells had suspected, Murray had not gone to all the trouble of bringing him there simply to offer him a guided tour. No, something had happened and he had come unstuck. And now he needed his help. This was the
‘Yesterday I had a visit from Inspector Colin Garrett of Scotland Yard,’ Murray went on. ‘He is investigating the case of a tramp found murdered in Marylebone, not exactly an unusual occurrence in that neighbourhood. What makes this case so special is the murder weapon. The corpse has a huge hole in the chest, which you can look through as if it were a window. It appears to have been caused by some sort of heat ray. According to the pathologists, no weapon capable of inflicting such a wound exists. Not in our time, anyway. All of which has led the young inspector to suspect that the wretched tramp was murdered with a weapon of the future, specifically one of the rifles used by Captain Shackleton and his men, whose devastating effects he was able to observe when he formed part of the second expedition.’
He took a rifle out of a small cupboard and handed it to Wells. The writer could see that the so-called weapon was simply a piece of wood with a few knobs and pins added for show, like the accessories on the tram.
‘As you can see, it’s just a toy. The automatons’ woundings are achieved by tiny charges hidden under their armour. But for my customers, of course, it’s a weapon, as real as it is powerful,’ Murray explained, relieving Wells of the fake rifle and returning it to the cupboard with the others. ‘In short, Inspector Garrett believes one of the soldiers of the future, possibly Captain Shackleton himself, travelled back to our own time as a stowaway on the Cronotilus, and all he can think of is to travel on the third expedition to apprehend him before he does so and thereby prevent the crime. Yesterday he showed me a warrant signed by the prime minister authorising him to arrest a man who, from where we’re standing, hasn’t even been born yet. The inspector asked me to reserve three seats on the third expedition for him and two of his men. And, as I’m sure you’ll understand, I was in no position to refuse. What excuse could I have made?
‘In a little more than a week the inspector will travel to the year 2000 with the intention of arresting a murderer, but in fact he’ll uncover the greatest swindle of the century. Perhaps, given my lack of scruples, you think I could get out of this fix by handing one of my actors over to him. But to make that believable, not only would I have to produce another Cronotilus out of thin air, I would also have to get round the difficult problem of Garrett seeing himself as part of the second expedition. As you can appreciate, all that is far too complicated even for me. The only person who can prevent Garrett travelling to the future as he intends is you, Mr Wells. I need you to find the real murderer before the day of the third expedition.’
‘And why should I help you?’ asked Wells, more resigned than threatening.
This was the question they both knew would bring everything out into the open. Murray walked towards Wells with an alarmingly calm smile and, placing a plump hand on his shoulder, steered him gently to the other side of the room.
‘I’ve thought a great deal about how to answer that question, Mr Wells,’ he said, in a soft, almost sweet- sounding voice. ‘I could throw myself on your mercy. Yes, I could slump to my knees and beg for your help. Can you imagine that, Mr Wells? Can you see me snivelling like a child, tears dripping on to your shoes, crying that I don’t want my head chopped off? I’m sure that would do the trick: you think you’re better than me and are anxious to prove it.’ Murray opened a small door and propelled Wells through it with a light shove. ‘But I could also threaten you by telling you that if you refuse to help me your beloved Jane will suffer a nasty accident while out on her afternoon bicycle ride in the suburbs of Woking. I’m sure that would also do the trick. However, I’ve decided instead to appeal to your curiosity. You and I, and the actors of course, are the only ones who are aware this is all a big farce. Or, to put it another way, you and I are the only ones who are aware that time travel is impossible. And yet someone has done it. Doesn’t that make you curious? Will you just stand by and watch while young Garrett devotes all his energy to pursuing a fantasy when a real time traveller could be roaming the streets of London?’
Murray and Wells stared silently at one another.
‘I’m sure you won’t,’ Murray concluded.
And with these words, he closed the door of the future and deposited Wells back on 26 November 1896. The writer found himself in the dank alleyway behind Murray’s Time Travel, where a few cats were foraging in the rubbish. He had the impression that his trip to the year 2000 had been no more than a dream. On impulse, he thrust his hands into his jacket pockets, but they were empty: no one had slipped a flower into them.
