Dancers at the End of Time (34 page)

He slipped it into its old place. "I was going to offer it in exchange. As I understood…"

"You understand nothing at all, Mr. Carnelian. It would be best if you left…"

"Leave with him, Amelia. I insist upon it." Mr. Underwood lowered his hands, drew out his pocket handkerchief and, with a precise, thoughtful air, glancing often at the white cloth, mopped his brow. "It is what you both want, is it not? Your freedom. Oh, I gladly give it to you. You pollute the sanctity of my home!"

"Harold, I can scarcely believe the vehemence — you have always preached charity. You are normally so 
calm
!"

"Should I be calm, now?"

"I suppose not, but…"

"All my life I have lived by certain principles — principles I understood you to share. Must I join you in throwing them aside? Your father, the Reverend Mr. Vernon, once warned me that you were overly inclined to high spirits. When we married, I found no sign of that side of your character and assumed that the sober business of being a good wife had driven it from you. Instead, it was buried. And not very deeply, either!"

"I fear, Harold, that it is you who are mad!"

He turned his back on them. "Go!"

"You will regret this, Harold. You know you will."

"Regret my wife conducting a liaison under my own roof with a convicted murderer? Yes!" He laughed without humour. "I suppose I shall!"

Jherek took Mrs. Underwood's arm. "Shall we be off?"

Her imploring eyes were still upon her husband, but she allowed Jherek to lead her to the door.

And then they were in the peace of Collins Avenue. Jherek realized that Mrs. Underwood was disturbed by the parting.

"I think Mr. Underwood accepted the situation very well, don't you? There you are, you see, all your fears, Mrs. Underwood, were groundless. The truth is always worth telling. Mr. Underwood said as much. Perhaps he did not behave as gracefully as one might have hoped, but still…"

"Mr. Carnelian, I know my husband. This behaviour is untypical, to say the least. You have been responsible for making him undergo greater strain than anyone should have to tolerate. I, too, am partly responsible…"

"Why are you speaking in a whisper, Mrs. Underwood?"

"The neighbours." She shook her head. "We might as well walk a little, I suppose. It will give Harold time to think things over. These Bible Meetings of his sometimes take rather more out of him than one might expect. He is very dedicated. His people have been missionaries for generations. It was always his regret that he could not follow in his father's footsteps. His health, while not singularly poor, is badly affected by hot climates. He has been like it from a small child, his mother was telling me." She checked her flow. "I am babbling, I fear."

"Babble on, beautiful Mrs. Underwood!" Jherek's stride was light and long. "We shall soon be where we both belong. I remember every word of the letter Mr. Griffiths read to me. Particularly the last part: '— and so I must tell you, Jherek, that I do love you, that I miss you, that I shall always remember you.' Oh, how happy I am. Now I know what happiness is!"

"Mr. Carnelian, I wrote that letter in haste." She added resentfully. "I thought you were about to die."

"I can't understand why."

A deep sigh escaped her and she did not explain further.

They walked through a number of streets very similar to Collins Avenue (Jherek wondered how the people could find their way to their individual dwellings) and after a while Jherek noticed that she was shivering. He, himself, had become conscious of an increased chill in the air. He removed his coat and put it around her shoulders. She did not resist the gesture.

"Thank you," she said. "If I were not a sensible woman, Mr. Carnelian, I might at this moment be thinking that I have been ruined. I prefer to think, however, that Harold will come to understand his error and that we may be reconciled."

"He will live with Maude Emily," Jherek told her. "He indicated as much. She will comfort him."

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear." Mrs. Underwood shook her head. The road had given way to a path which ran between first fences and then hedges. Beyond the hedges were open fields. The sky was clear and a large moon offered plenty of light.

"I think that we are probably going in the wrong direction for the 
Rose and Crown
."

"Why should you wish to visit a public house?"

" 
Public
 house?"

"Why do you want go to the 
Rose and Crown
, Mr. Carnelian?"

"To see Mr. Wells, of course, Mrs. Underwood. To ask him the name of a good maker of time machines."

"In my age, there are no such things as time machines. If this acquaintance of yours told you that, he was probably having some sort of joke with you."

"Oh, no. Our conversation was most serious. He was one of the few people I have met in your world who seemed to know exactly what I was talking about."

"He was doubtless humouring you. Where did this conversation take place?"

"On the train. And what a marvellous experience that was, in its own right. I shall be making plenty of modifications as soon as we return."

"Then you have no means, as yet, of escaping to your original period?"

"Well, no, but I can't see any difficulty, really."

"There could be difficulties for both of us if Maude Emily, as I suspect, went for a policeman. If my husband has not had time to calm down he will inform the policeman, when he arrives, that an escaped murderer and his female accomplice are even now in the vicinity of Bromley — and that the man is armed. What was that thing you were waving, anyway?"

"The deceptor-gun? Would you like me to demonstrate it?"

"I think not."

From the distance the silence of the night was broken by the sound of a high-pitched whistling.

"The police!" gasped Mrs. Underwood. "It is as I feared." She clutched his arm, then removed her hand almost immediately. "If they find you, you are doomed!"

"Why so? You refer to the gentlemen with the helmets who helped me before. They will have access to a time machine. It was thanks to them, after all, that I was able to return to my own age on my previous visit."

She ignored him, pushing him through a gate and into a field. It smelled sweet and he paused to take the scent into his lungs. "There is no question," he began, "that I have much to learn. Smells, for instance, are generally missing in my reproductions, and when they do exist they lack subtlety. If there were only some way of recording…"

"Silence!" she whispered urgently. "See, they are coming this way." She pointed back to the road. A number of small, dancing lights were in evidence. "It is their bullseyes. The whole of the Bromley constabulary must be on your trail!"

Again a whistle sounded. They crouched behind the hedge, listening to the swish of bicycle tyres over the unmade road.

"They'll be making for the railway station, that's my guess," said a gruff voice. "They'd be fools to head for open countryside. We're on a wild-goose chase."

"You can never be sure about madmen," said another voice. "I was part of the lot what tracked down the Lewisham Murderer three years ago. They found 'im cool as a cucumber in a boarding 'ouse not five streets away from the scene of the crime. 'E'd bin there for a fortnight, while we raced about half of Kent night and day catching nothing but colds in the 'ead."

"I 
still
 think they'll try for a train. That bloke said 'e 
came
 on the train."

"We're not entirely sure it was the same man. Besides, 'e said 
two
 men, obviously friends, got off the train. What 'appened to the other?"

"I don't believe 'e 
did
 come on the train."

"What's 'e doin' in Bromley, any'ow?" said a third voice complainingly.

"Come back for 'is bit o' stuff — you know what some women're like — go 'ead over 'eels for that sort. I've seen it before — perficktly decent women brought low by a smooth-talking villain. If she ain't careful I'd say she'll be 'is next victim."

"Often the way it goes," another agreed.

They passed out of earshot. Mrs. Underwood seemed to have a high colour again. "Really!" she said. "So I already have a reputation as the consort of criminals. Mud sticks, as they say. Well, Mr.

Carnelian, you will never understand the damage you have done, I know, but I am currently very much regretting that I allowed my better nature to take me to the Old Bailey in your defence! Even at the time, there was a hint of gossip — but now — well, I shall have to consider leaving the country. And poor Harold — why should he be made to suffer?"

"Leaving? Good." He stood up, brushing pieces of straw from his trousers. "Now, let's go and find Mr. Wells."

"Mr. Carnelian — it is really far too dangerous. You heard those policemen. The station is being watched. They are combing Bromley for us!"

Jherek was still puzzled. "If they wish to talk to us, why do we not let them? What harm can they do us?"

"Considerable harm, Mr. Carnelian. Take my word for it."

He shrugged. "Very well, Mrs. Underwood, I shall. However, there is still the question of Mr.

Wells…"

"I assure you, also, that this Mr. Wells of yours can be nothing but a charlatan. Time machines do not exist in this century."

"I believe he has written a book on them."

Understanding dawned. She frowned. "There 
was
 a book. I read about it last year. A fantasy.

Fiction. It was nothing but fiction!"

"What is 'fiction'?"

"A made-up story — about things which are not real."

"Everything, surely, is 
real?
 "

"About things which do not exist…" She was labouring, trying to find the right words.

"But time machines 
do
 exist. You know that, Mrs. Underwood, as well as I do!"

"Not yet," she said. "Not in 1896."

"Mr. Wells suggested otherwise. Who am I to believe?"

"You love me?"

"You know that I do."

"Then believe 
me
," she said firmly, and she took his hand and led him across the field.

Some time later, they lay in a dry ditch, looking at the outline of a building Mrs. Underwood had described as a farmhouse. Once or twice they had seen the lights of the policemen's lanterns some way off, but now it seemed their pursuers had lost the trail. Jherek was still not entirely convinced that Mrs.

Underwood had interpreted the situation correctly.

"I distinctly heard one of them say they were looking for geese," he informed her. She seemed tired from all the running about and her eyes kept closing as she tried to find a more comfortable position in the ditch. "Geese, and not people."

"We must get the assistance of some influential man, who will take up your case, perhaps be able to convince the authorities of the truth." She had pointedly ignored almost all his comments since they had left the house. "I wonder — this Mr. Wells is a writer. You mentioned his reference to the 
Saturday
 
Review
? That is quite a respectable journal — or at least it used to be. I haven't seen a copy for some time. If he could publish something — or if he has friends in the legal profession. Possibly it would be a good idea to try to see him, after all. If we hide in that barn during the night and leave early in the morning, we might be able to get to him after the police have decided we have made our escape."

Wearily, she rose. "Come along, Mr. Carnelian." She began to tramp across the field towards the barn.

In approaching the barn, they had to pass close to the farmyard and now several dogs began to bark excitedly. An upper window was flung open, a lantern blazed, a deep voice called: "Who is it?

What is it?"

"Good evening to you," cried Jherek. Mrs. Underwood tried to cover his mouth with her hand but it was too late. "We are out for a stroll, sampling the joys of your countryside. I must congratulate you…"

"By cracky, it's the lunatic!" explained the unseen man. "The one we were warned was on the loose.

I'll get my gun!"

"Oh, this is unbearable!" wept Mrs. Underwood. "And look!"

Three or four lights could be seen in the distance.

"The police?"

"Without doubt."

From the farmhouse came a great banging about, shouts and barkings, and lights appeared downstairs. Mrs. Underwood grabbed Jherek by the sleeve and drew him inside the first building. In the darkness something snorted and stamped.

"It's a horse!" said Jherek. "They always delight me and I have seen so many now."

Mrs. Underwood was speaking to the horse, stroking its nose, murmuring to it. It became calmer.

From the farmyard there was a sudden report and the deep-voiced man yelled: "Oh, damn! I've shot the pig!"

"We have one chance of escape now," said Mrs. Underwood, flinging a blanket over the horse's back. "Pass me that saddle, Mr. Carnelian, and hurry."

He did not know what a "saddle" was, but he gathered it must be a strange contraption made out of leather and brass which hung on the wall near to his head. It was heavy. As best he could, he helped her put it on the horse's back. Expertly she tightened straps and passed a ribbon of leather around the beast's head. He watched admiringly.

"Now," she hissed, "quickly. Mount."

"Is this the proper time for such things, do you think?"

"Climb onto the horse, and then help me up."

"I have no idea how…"

She showed him. "Put your foot in this. I'll steady the animal. Fling your leg over the saddle, find the other stirrup — that's this — and take hold of the reins. We have no alternative."

"Very well. This is great fun, Mrs. Underwood. I am glad that your sense of pleasure is returning."

Climbing onto the horse was much harder than he would have thought, but eventually, just as another shot rang out, he was sitting astride the beast, his feet in the appropriate metal loops. Hitching up her skirts, Mrs. Underwood managed to seat herself neatly across the saddle. She took the reins, saying to him "Hang on to me!" and then the horse was trotting swiftly out of its stall and into the yard.