“Good God, Arthur!” Jane cried as she saw the blood seeping through Doyle’s fingers. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, it’s only a scratch,” said Doyle, narrowing his eyes and looking around him. “But clearly that thing was intending something worse.”
Shaken by this clear attempt on Doyle’s life, the group remained huddled in the center of the room.
“Where the devil is it?” said Murray, his eyes darting round the room.
“Look, over there!” cried the petrified Great Ankoma, whose bushy beard had become unstuck and was dangling from his face.
They all saw one of the swords being unhooked from the shield he was pointing to. For a few seconds it remained suspended in the air, twisting slowly, the adjacent candles twinkling ominously along its blade, as if the creature had paused to marvel at its sharp edge before using it on them; then they looked on in terror as it cleaved the air with a couple of two-handed swishes. There was an evil threat implicit in those preparatory movements, but they also revealed the creature’s position. Doyle and Murray understood this at the same time. Murray grabbed a chair and, raising it above his head, hurled it at the sword. There was a grunt of pain as the weapon dropped to the floor, and then an angry roar split the air. Meanwhile, Doyle had plucked the sword from the painting and was advancing toward where the creature supposedly was, swinging the blade furiously with both hands as he shouted, “George, keep Jane safe! Woodie, Gilmore, grab a weapon! Surround the table and—”
Before he could finish his sentence, he doubled over, crying out in agony. A second later, he straightened up abruptly, his face toward the ceiling, as if he had received a powerful uppercut, and tottered for a moment before collapsing. Almost instantaneously, the Great Ankoma felt a violent shove propel him toward the dining room table. As though swept up by a tornado, he landed on it with a terrifying crunch of splintered bones and wood, while the oil lamp rolled onto the floor, depriving them of the main source of light in the room. Jane gave a bloodcurdling scream that was quickly eclipsed by the creature’s evil laugh.
“Give me the book, George!” the voice insisted. “Hand over The Map of Chaos and all this can end!”
He began to howl like an angry beast, and several of the portraits on the walls came crashing to the floor.
“Grab as many weapons as you can and defend yourselves!” Doyle spluttered, standing up and trying to make himself heard above the creature’s spine-chilling cries.
Murray obeyed. He unhooked a sword from the nearest wall and threw it to Wells, who, paralyzed by the hellish scene before his eyes, failed to catch it. The haft hit him on the head, and that seemed to rouse him. Sluggishly, he retrieved the weapon from the floor and looked at Murray, visibly dazed.
“Get Jane out of here!” Murray ordered, grabbing another sword from the wall.
Wells nodded but remained rooted to the spot. Jane took his arm and dragged him toward one of the doors. Murray looked around for Doyle. He was tracing broad circles with his sword as he made his way over to the table where Wood lay a heap. Murray followed him, also repeatedly lunging at the air around him. The creature’s yells had subsided, making it impossible to locate him. He could be anywhere. As soon as they reached Wood, Doyle felt for his pulse.
“Is he alive?” asked Murray, who had positioned himself behind Doyle and was still cleaving the air with his sword.
“Yes, he’s only unconscious, but we must get him out of here, Gilmore. Help me to—”
“We’re locked in!” Wells shouted from across the room, he and Jane having just tried both doors.
“What!” Murray exclaimed. “Where are the keys?”
“Damn! I left them in one of the doors,” replied Doyle. “Are you sure they’re not there, George?”
“Of course, Arthur, otherwise I wouldn’t have said we were locked in!” yelled Wells impatiently. He had sandwiched Jane between himself and the wall and was brandishing his weapon with more energy than dexterity, ready to protect her against any possible attack.
“Haven’t you a duplicate key on you, Gilmore?” Doyle whispered to Murray, listening for the slightest sound that might betray the creature’s position.
“No, but there’s a set in the hall, hanging on a hook by the main door,” Murray whispered back. “We could all try shouting to alert Baskerville, though I doubt the old fellow will hear us from outside . . . but, what the devil . . . ?”
Doyle swung round, feeling a burst of heat on his face as he saw what had shocked Murray: the flame from a fallen candle had set alight the oil from the lamp, and a tongue of fire was climbing up one of the faded wall hangings.
“Damnation! We have to put out the flames!” exclaimed Doyle, tossing Murray his sword. “Keep him away from me!”
Murray positioned himself behind Doyle, flourishing both swords vigorously while Doyle took off his jacket and used it to beat at the hangings, causing a flurry of sparks to rise with each blow. But his efforts were in vain. The barely smothered flames quickly spread to an adjacent portrait, and from there to the next, greedily devouring the ancient canvases and wooden frames. With a gesture of defeat, Doyle gave up trying to fight the fire. Plumes of dusky smoke, like a gigantic ectoplasm, had begun to materialize in the room, spreading with extraordinary speed, the tentacles reaching up to the ceiling. Both Doyle and Murray started to choke. Across the room, Wells and Jane were also watching the fire spread with a look of terror.
“We’re trapped in here with that thing!” Wells muttered, utterly defeated by the situation.
Just then Wells felt the air stir beside him, and before he could grasp what it meant, a sharp rap on his knuckles made him let go of his sword. Nervously, he watched it slide across the floor even as he felt Jane being wrenched from his side with the force of a punch that would break a jaw.
“Jane!” he yelled, stepping toward her.
“Stay where you are or I’ll kill her, George!” commanded the voice, coming now from behind Jane. “And you,” he added, addressing Murray and Doyle, “don’t move an inch or I’ll snap her scrawny neck before you can count to two!”
Uttering a cry of despair, Wells remained motionless. Murray and Doyle also froze, and for a long moment the three men watched helplessly as Jane, on tiptoes, remained almost suspended in the air, her face turning an ever darker shade of red. A tapestry engulfed in flames slipped off the wall with a quiet crackle, like rain falling on the ocean.
“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.
“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 hairpi
n 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.”
The Map of Chaos Page 36
