There was a deathly silence.
Charles lowered his pistol and asked: ‘Have you tried it?’
‘Yes,’ confessed Wells, a little shamefaced. ‘But only a few brief exploratory journeys into the past, no more than four or five years. And I was careful to change nothing, because I was afraid of the consequences that that might have on the fabric of time. I didn’t have the courage to venture into the future. I don’t share the same spirit of adventure as the inventor in my novel. This is all too much for me. In fact, I was thinking of destroying the thing.’
‘Destroying it?’ Charles exclaimed in horror. ‘But why?’
Wells shrugged, giving them to understand he was not quite sure of the answer to that question.
‘I don’t know what became of my friend,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps there is a guardian of time, who fires indiscriminately at anyone trying to change events in the past to their own advantage. In any case, I don’t know what to do with his extraordinary legacy’
He frowned at the machine, as though he were contemplating a cross he had to bear every time he went for a walk. ‘I dare not tell anyone about it, because I cannot even begin to imagine how it would change the world, for better or worse. Have you ever wondered what makes men act responsibly? I’ll tell you: they only have one go at things. If we had machines that allowed us to correct all our mistakes, even the most foolish ones, we would live in a world of irresponsible people. Given its potential, all I can really use it for is my own rather futile purposes. But what if one day I yield to temptation and decide to use it for personal gain – for example, to change something in my past, or to travel into the future in order to steal some incredible invention with which I could improve my present circumstances? I would be betraying my friend’s dream . . .’ He gave a despondent sigh. ‘As you can see, this amazing machine has become a burden to me.’
With these words, he looked Andrew up and down intimidatingly as though he were sizing him up for an imaginary coffin.
‘However, you wish to use it to save a life,’ he almost whispered. ‘What nobler cause could there be? If I let you do it and you succeed, it will justify the machine’s existence.’
‘Quite so. What nobler cause could there be than to save a life?’ Charles reaffirmed hurriedly – Wells’s unexpected consent had apparently left his cousin speechless. ‘And I assure you Andrew will succeed,’ he said, going over to his cousin and clapping him heartily on the shoulder. ‘My cousin will kill the Ripper and save Marie Kelly’
Wells glanced at his wife, seeking her approval.
‘Oh, Bertie, you must help him,’ declared Jane, full of excitement. ‘It’s so romantic’
Wells looked again at Andrew, trying to conceal the flash of envy his wife’s remark had triggered in him. But deep down he knew Jane had used the right adjective to describe what the young man intended to do. There was no place in his own ordered life for love like that, the sort that caused tragedies, or started wars requiring the construction of giant wooden horses: love that could easily end in death. No, he would never know what that kind of love was. He would never know what it meant to lose control, to be consumed, to give in to his instincts. And yet, despite his inability to abandon himself to these passions, as ardent as they were destructive, despite his pragmatic, cautious nature, which only allowed him to pursue harmless amorous liaisons that could not possibly degenerate into unhealthy obsessions, Jane loved him. All of a sudden this seemed an inexplicable miracle for which he ought to be thankful.
‘All right,’ he declared, now in good spirits. ‘Let’s do it. Let’s kill the monster and save the girl!’
Infected by his burst of enthusiasm, Charles took the cutting about Marie Kelly’s murder out of his bemused cousin’s pocket, and approached Wells so that they could study it together.
‘The crime took place on the seventh of November 1888, at about five in the morning,’ he pointed out. ‘Andrew needs to arrive a few minutes earlier, lie in wait for the Ripper near Marie Kelly’s room, then shoot the ogre when he appears.’
‘It sounds like a good plan,’ Wells agreed. ‘But we must bear in mind that the machine only travels through time, not space, which means it won’t move from here. Your cousin will need several hours’ leeway to reach London.’
Like an excited child, Wells leaped over to the machine and began adjusting the monitors on the control panel. ‘There we are,’ he declared. ‘I’ve programmed it to take your cousin back to that date. Now all we have to do is wait until two in the morning to begin the journey. That way he’ll arrive in Whitechapel in time to prevent the crime being committed.’
‘Perfect,’ exclaimed Charles.
The four looked at one another in silence, not knowing how to fill the time before the journey began. Luckily, one of them was a woman.
‘Have you had supper yet, gentlemen?’ asked Jane, showing the practical nature of her sex.
Less than an hour later, Charles and Andrew discovered that Wells had married an excellent cook. They were squeezed around the table in the narrow kitchen, tucking into one of the most delicious roasts they had ever eaten, a most agreeable way of passing the time until the early hours. During supper, Wells showed an interest in the voyages to the year 2000, and Charles spared no detail. Feeling as if he were recounting the plot of one of the fantasy novels he was so fond of, Charles described how he and the other tourists had travelled across the fourth dimension in a tramcar called the Cronotilus, until they reached the ruined London of the future. There, hidden behind a pile of rocks, they had witnessed the final battle between the evil Solomon and the brave Captain Derek Shackleton.
Wells bombarded him with so many questions that after he had finished his story, Charles asked the author why he had not gone on one of the expeditions, if he was so interested in the outcome of that future war. Wells went quiet, and Charles realised during the ensuing silence that he had unwittingly offended the author.
‘Forgive my inquisitiveness, Mr Wells,’ he apologised hurriedly. ‘Of course not everyone can afford a hundred pounds.’
‘Oh, it isn’t the money’ Jane broke in. ‘Mr Murray has invited Bertie to take part in his voyages on several occasions, but he always refuses.’
As she said this, she glanced at her husband, perhaps in the hope that he might feel encouraged to explain himself. But Wells stared at the joint of lamb with a mournful smile.
