The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (16 page)

“You!” he said, addressing the shadowy figure inside the carriage. “What do you want from me? Why are you here?”

“You read about Lord Howell?”

Hogg went rigid at the name. “Of course. But he was murdered by his valet—”

“Don’t bloody believe it. A lie for the newspapers.”

“What are you saying?”

“You are in great danger.”

“Danger? Me? What … what do you mean?”

“The Fog Committee knows that you are Cypher’s man.”

“They … they…” Hogg trailed off. Swallowed hard. “Oh, God, no!” he moaned. His eyes grew crazed, his jowls quivered with distress. “What am I to do? I could go to the authorities. Cypher must help me—”

“You are on your own. We all are. Even Cypher cannot protect you now.”

“Y-you, m-must help me,” the big man blubbered. “Your brother and his mad friends will murder us all.”

A hand extended from the steamer, a pistol clutched in its grip. “Take this. Keep it near you at all times. Do not go abroad alone.”

Hogg’s eyes bulged at the sight of the weapon. “A pistol? No, I cannot—”

“Take it, you daft bugger! And God be with you.”

The banker squeamishly took the pistol. Before he could say anything further, there was a grinding of gears, and the steamer chugged away into the fog.

Tarquin Hogg jammed the pistol in the pocket of his robe and panted up the front steps of his home, pausing to throw an uneasy look around at the empty street, his brown eyes probing the shadows for lurkers. Had he lingered longer on the front steps, or looked harder, he might have just made out the vague human form standing in the shadow of the large oak tree opposite. Instead he fled indoors and banged the door shut on the night.

His butler was waiting in the hallway and fixed him with a questioning look. “Sir? Is something amiss?”

“Alderton, I want you to personally ensure that the doors and all the windows are securely locked—”

“But, of course—”

“And then I want you to post a footman at every door. And ensure each is armed with some kind of weapon.”

For once, the aging butler’s face lost its composure. “W-with a weapon? But whatever—”

“See to it!” the banker snapped. “And Alderton…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Before you came into service, you were in the army, were you not?”

“Yes, m’lud. Infantry. Royal Fusiliers.”

“So you know how to use a gun?”

The butler allowed himself a modest smile. “I dare say I was a fair old shot back in the day.”

“Good,” Hogg said. He reached into the pocket of his robe, produced the pistol, and held it out to his servant. “Take it.”

The butler’s composure broke as his face registered wide-eyed astonishment.

“Sir?”

“Take it!”

The butler numbly complied.

“I want you to guard the front door tonight. Sleep in a chair if you must. No one is to be allowed in. Do you understand? No one. And if someone tries to break in … shoot them dead.”

Minutes later, the banker slunk into his bedroom, closed the door, and leaned with his back against it, breathing hard. Suddenly he noticed the heavy curtains at the window stir. He froze and watched. The curtains stirred a second time, as if someone or something lurked behind them. Scarcely able to draw breath, he crept to the fireplace, drew the iron poker and stepped quietly to the curtains.

Once again, the curtains ballooned out and sucked back. Raising the poker high, he snatched aside the curtain.

Nothing.

But then he felt the icy fingers of a chill draft trail across his face and realized what had been causing the curtains to stir. Inexplicably, the French door to the balcony stood ajar, allowing cold night air to waft in. “Who the devil opened this?” he complained aloud. He bumped the door shut and yanked at the handle to ensure that it was latched properly. As he turned back to the room, he heard a bedspring creak and froze. But then his face smeared with a knowing grin. He tiptoed toward the bed and softly called out: “Myrtle, you naughty child. Is that you? Have you a surprise for your master?”

He reached the bed and gripped the bed curtains, ready to fling them wide. But then he paused, sniffing the air as he caught a whiff of something horrid.

From behind came a timid knock and the maid’s voice calling through the bedroom door, “Sir, it is me … Myrtle.”

Puzzled, he snatched open the bed curtains.

He had only seconds to register the grizzled mien, the hideous face with its ghastly yellow eyes, before two calloused hands seized him by the throat, crushing his windpipe. The poker slipped from his hand and thudded to the rug.

At that moment, the bedroom door opened and the maid slid inside. The young woman stood agog for speechless seconds, her eyes wide with terror.

A hulking man had hold of her master by the throat and, despite his bulk, held him suspended so that his feet kicked the air clear of the floor. And then as she watched, the bestial man twisted her master’s head violently around. Vertebrae popped with a zippering sound. Myrtle’s horrified face was the last thing Tarquin Hogg’s bulging eyes fixed upon before the light went out of them and his portly body danced a sick shiver of death.

A scream coiled inside her chest and ripped the air as it burst out. Her cries alerted Alderton, who bounded up the staircase and reached the open bedroom door just as the creature flung the body of Tarquin Hogg across the room, where it crashed into the far wall, shattering a mirror before thudding to the floor.

“Stop!” Alderton shouted at the back of the large figure dominating the room. When it turned to face him, the butler saw the yellow eyes, the kinked neck, and the purple-green hue of the face. And then it took a shambling step toward him.

BANG!

The first bullet hit the monster in the shoulder. A gout of blood spurted, but the creature kept coming.

BANG!

The second shot hit it in the stomach, staggering it momentarily. “Myrtle,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Go, lass. Run!”

With a whimper of terror, the maid turned and bolted from the room.

BANG! BANG!

Bullets hit. Blood gushed. Alderton backed away as it crashed through the doorway, breaking loose the doorjamb with a shoulder.

BANG!

Alderton retreated down the hallway as the creature came on.

He fired again, hitting the lower chest. From years in the military, he knew he had only one bullet left. “Make it count, Johnny boy,” he muttered to himself. He fought to steady his shaking hand and drew a bead dead center, aiming for the heart.

BANG!

There was a metallic clang. A three-foot gout of blue flame shot from the chest and a moment later: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM! The hallway exploded in a ball of fire.

CHAPTER   14

A DEEPLY DISTURBING DISCOVERY

Waterloo Station was just stirring from its foggy slumber as Conan Doyle stepped out of the station into the predawn murk. He had cabbed from the Albemarle to catch the first train back to his home in Surrey. At this early hour, the majority of daily commuters had yet to arrive, but carts rolled in and out of the echoing archways and the platforms bustled with the earliest risers in London: costermongers and barrow men scurrying to unload crates of vegetables and flowers bound for Covent Garden, sides of beef and sheep for Smithfield’s Market, fish and seafood for Billingsgate Market.

He was making for his favorite newspaper kiosk when his attention was deflected by a cheerful Cockney voice calling out: “Show your patriotism, sir, buy a ribbon from an old soldier.”

Standing in the shelter of a station arch was an elderly man in a battered pillbox hat and worn British army jacket. The uniform was in sad repair, the once-proud scarlet faded with the passing of years. One epaulet dangled loose. The gold brocade of the cuffs was frayed and threadbare in places, although the sleeves still bore the stripes of a sergeant. A Crimean War medal, tarnished and dull, hung crookedly on the jacket’s right breast. The man’s eyes were hidden behind opaque round spectacles. A white stick dangled from the crook of his arm. Hanging from a strap around his neck was a tray filled with trinkets: Union Jack bunting and ribbons. Up close, the skin of his face was shriveled and marked with a tracery of livid red lines.

Burns,
Conan Doyle thought.

“How much, my good fellow?”

“Sam’s me name, sir. And a sixpence is all. And gawd bless ya for helpin’ an old soldier.”

The Scotsman rummaged his pockets, found a coin, and dropped it into the collection box.

“Half a crown?” the veteran guessed, catching the ka-chunk of a higher denomination. “Very generous. Very generous, indeed. Allow me, sir.”

The veteran plucked a ribbon from his tray and pinned it to the lapel of Conan Doyle’s woolen coat with surprising alacrity. “You usually come to London on the eight thirty train, don’t you, sir?”

The Scottish author’s mouth dropped open with surprise. Apparently, the veteran considered himself a bit of an amateur Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes, I do. How on earth did you know that?”

“I recognize you by your hair oil and cologne. Very top drawer. Very distinctive.”

“Remarkable,” Conan Doyle said, “but tell me, how do you find your way about on these foggy mornings?”

“I taps me way around London,” the veteran explained, demonstrating by tapping his white cane upon the ground. “Day or night, fog or no fog, makes no nevermind to me.”

“Clever … and remarkable. I shall have to use that in one of my detective fictions.” He dug out another coin and dropped it in the veteran’s collection box. “There you go, Sam. That’s well worth another half-crown.”

“Thank ya kindly, sir. Gawd bless ya, and Gawd bless the Queen.”

As Conan Doyle approached the newspaper kiosk, his eye was caught by the hysterical message scrawled upon the reader board: A
SSASSINS
S
TRIKE
A
GAIN!
He hurriedly purchased a paper and snapped it open only to be flayed about the face by a giant screaming headline: “HOGG SLAUGHTERED!”

The Scottish author grimaced at the tasteless pun and scanned the subheading: “Bank of England president killed by anarchist bomber.” As he read the words, images of the previous evening swam up in his mind: the hoary figure they had witnessed shambling through the fog and the steam car and its stovepipe-hatted driver seen shortly before that. He stood pondering. If only he could visit the scene of the most recent assassination—a course of action fraught with danger after Commissioner Burke’s blunt threat. He momentarily considered his journalism contacts, but they would likely be fobbed off with an “official” description of events. He needed to somehow slip inside Hogg’s residence and see for himself what had transpired. He needed a type of disguise, a mask, and suddenly realized that he already knew an insider who could help them walk straight through the police guard as if invisible.

*   *   *

The door, which had been a stranger to paint for years, still bore the ghostly silhouette of where a knocker once hung. Conan Doyle was forced to remove his glove and knuckle the fibrous wood. Almost instantly, his knocking roused voices from inside. He caught the light tread of feet and the door was opened by a young woman with a babe balanced on her hip. The mother, barely out of her girlhood years, eyed him quickly up and down and snapped, “If it’s about the rent—”

“Ah, no,” he quickly put in. “I am an acquaintance of your husband’s. My name is Arthur Conan Doyle. I am the author of the Sherlock Ho—”

Abruptly, the woman slammed the door in his face with the force of a cannon blast.

The vehemence of the response rocked him back momentarily. He blinked away his surprise and turned to walk away, but then paused at the sound of raised voices: a man’s and a woman’s, arguing. In the background, the baby’s startled wailing. A moment later, the door snatched open again. This time it was answered by a cowed-looking young man. It took a moment to recognize Detective Blenkinsop so very out of uniform. He was wearing worn trousers gone baggy at the knees and a tea-stained under-vest. His thick dark hair was wildly mussed and it was clear his barber had not enjoyed a visit in days.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “A misunderstandin’. Come in, Doctor Doyle … please.”

Conan Doyle entered a modest room; it was clean, but furnished with a cheap assortment of mismatched furniture clearly on its third or fourth owners. Despite the chill outside, the space was humid and fugged with steam. Evidently, his visit coincided with washday—an iron cauldron bubbled on a hook in the small fireplace; baby nappies and a lady’s unmentionables dangled from a clothes rack winched tight to the ceiling. The young woman who had slammed the door in his face, evidently Blenkinsop’s wife, kept her back resolutely turned, bouncing the squalling baby in her arms as she glared out a window that offered only a view of a brick wall two feet opposite.

“My apologies,” Blenkinsop muttered in a low voice, “but the missus is a bit miffed—”

Overhearing his words, the young wife turned upon them, her pretty face ugly with rage. “Miffed? You nearly got him chucked off the force!”

“I’m just suspended,” Blenkinsop quickly countered.

“Suspended with no pay! No pay and us with a new babe!”

“Enough, Fanny,” Blenkinsop said. “It ain’t the gentleman’s fault—”

“I am sorry, I had no idea.” Conan Doyle reached into his pocket and drew out a clutch of banknotes, holding them out to Blenkinsop.

The detective looked at the notes hungrily, but shook his head. “I can’t take no charity—”

“This is not charity. I am here to interrupt your leisure. I wish to hire you.”

“Hire me? I don’t— What for?”

“I am still pursuing the Lord Howell case. Albeit…” He lowered his voice. “… in an
unofficial
capacity. I require the assistance of a professional detective. I could wish for no better than yourself.”

Blenkinsop and his wife exchanged a look freighted with meaning. Conan Doyle could almost see her visibly willing him to take the money. For the second time, the young detective eyeballed the banknotes.