allowed people to ride peacefully on country roads without exerting themselves too much. Charles, on the other hand, did not let himself be distracted by it and, having instantly identified the girl as Wells’s wife, he swiftly grabbed her arm and placed the barrel of the gun against her temple. Andrew was amazed by his speed and agility, as though he had spent his whole life making this kind of movement.
‘I’ll give you one more chance,’ Charles said to the author, who had turned pale.
The exchange that followed was as inconsequential as it was idiotic, but I will reproduce it word for word, even though it is scarcely worth mentioning, simply because I am not trying to make any one episode in this story stand out.
‘Jane,’ said Wells, in a faint, almost inaudible voice.
‘Bertie,’ replied Jane, alarmed.
‘Charles—‘ Andrew began.
‘Andrew,’ Charles interrupted him.
Then there was silence. The afternoon light threw their shadows into relief. The curtain at the window billowed slightly. Out in the garden, the branches of the tree that rose from the ground like a crooked pikestaff rustled eerily as they shook in the breeze. A group of pale shadows nodded, embarrassed by the clumsy melodrama of the scene, as if this were a novel by Henry James (who, incidentally, will also make an appearance in this story).
‘Very well, gentlemen,’ declared Wells at last, in a good-natured voice, rising from his chair. ‘I think we can solve this in a civilised way without anyone getting hurt.’
Andrew looked beseechingly at his cousin.
‘It’s up to you, Bertie.’ Charles gave a sardonic smile.
‘Let go of her and I’ll show you my time machine.’
Andrew stared at him in amazement. Were Gilliam Murray’s suspicions true? Did Wells really have a time machine?
Obviously pleased, Charles released Jane, who crossed the very short distance separating her from her beloved Bertie and threw her arms around him.
‘Don’t worry, Jane,’ the author calmed her. ‘Everything will be all right.’
‘Well, then,’ said Charles, impatiently.
Wells gently extricated himself from Jane’s embrace and contemplated Charles with visible distaste. ‘Follow me to the attic’
Forming a sort of funeral procession, with Wells leading the way, they climbed a creaking staircase that seemed as though it might give way beneath their feet at any moment. The attic had been built in the roof space above the second floor, and had an unpleasantly claustrophobic feel to it, due to the low, sloping ceiling and the extravagant collection of assorted bric-a-brac. In a corner under the window, through which the last rays of sunlight were filtering, stood the strange contraption. Judging from his cousin’s awed expression and the way he practically bowed before it, Andrew assumed this must be the time machine. He approached the object, examining it with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
At first sight, the machine capable of breaking down the barriers confining man to the present looked like some sort of sophisticated sleigh. However, the rectangular wooden pedestal to which it was fixed suggested it was not designed to travel through space, but would need to be dragged along, which would be difficult owing to its size. The apparatus was surrounded by a waist-high brass rail, a flimsy barrier that had to be stepped over to gain access to the sturdy seat in the middle. The seat vaguely resembled a barber’s chair, to which had been attached two exquisitely carved wooden arms, and was upholstered in rather lurid red velvet. In front of it, supported by two elegant bars, also made of brass, was a medium-sized dial, the control panel with three monitors showing the day, the month and the year. A delicate glass lever protruded from a wheel to the right of the dial. The machine seemed to have no other handles, and Andrew deduced that the whole thing worked by pulling on this single lever.
Behind the seat there was a complicated mechanism resembling a spirit still. A shaft stuck out of it, supporting a huge round disc covered with strange symbols. It looked as if it might spin round. Apparently designed to protect the machine, it was bigger than a Spartan shield, and was undoubtedly the most spectacular part of the contraption. Finally, a little plaque screwed to the control panel read: ‘Made by H. G. Wells’.
‘Are you an inventor, too?’ Andrew asked, taken aback.
‘Of course not – don’t be absurd,’ replied Wells, pretending to be annoyed. ‘As I already told you, I’m only a writer.’
‘Well, if you didn’t build it, where did you get it from?’
Wells sighed, apparently annoyed at having to explain himself to these strangers. Charles pressed the revolver into Jane’s temple once more, harder this time. ‘My cousin asked you a question, Mr Wells.’
The author shot him a black look. ‘Soon after my novel was published,’ he said, realising he had no choice but to comply with the intruders, ‘I received a letter from a scientist who told me that for years he had been secretly working on a time machine very similar to the one I described in my book. He said it was almost finished, and he wanted to show it to somebody, but he didn’t know whom. He considered, not without good reason, that it was a dangerous invention, capable of arousing unhealthy interest. My novel had convinced him I was the right man to confide in. We met a couple of times, with the aim of getting to know one another, of finding out whether we could really trust each other. We realised we could, not least because we had very similar ideas about the many inherent dangers of time travel. He built the machine here in this very attic. And the little plaque was his affectionate way of showing his gratitude for my collaboration. I don’t know if you remember my book, but this amazing machine is nothing like the hulking great thing illustrated on the cover. It doesn’t work in the same way, either, of course, but don’t ask me how it does, because I’m not a man of science.
‘When the time came to try it out, we decided he should have the honour. I would oversee the operation from the present. As we had no way of knowing whether the machine would withstand more than one journey, we decided to travel far into the past, but to a time that was peaceful. We chose a period prior to the Roman invasion, when this area was inhabited by witches and druids, a period that should not have entailed much danger, unless the druids wanted to sacrifice us to some deity. My friend boarded the machine, set it to the agreed date and pulled on the lever. I watched him disappear before my very eyes. Two hours later, the machine came back without him. It was perfectly intact, although there were a few worrying fresh bloodstains on the seat. I haven’t seen him since.’
