The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (31 page)

“Two mother’s ruin,” Conan Doyle said. “Best you got.”

The barman set two grimy glasses on the counter and sloshed into each a clear liquid with the turbidity and bouquet of turpentine. “Tanner a piece,” he grunted.

Conan Doyle slapped down a shilling and the barman disappeared to answer the braying voices of his importuning customers. The author clinked glasses with his friend and said, “Here’s to us, Oscar, poets and warriors both.”

“Sláinte agus táinte!”
Wilde replied with a traditional Irish toast.

Both men took a sip and choked. When Wilde could draw breath again, he wheezed, “I am certain the dray horse that produced this elixir is far from well. Let us repair to my club. Another sip of this juniper poison and I shall be struck blind.”

“It may not be drinkable, but it should prevent infection.” Conan Doyle tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in his gin glass, and pressed it to Wilde’s skinned and swollen knuckles, causing him to wince and cry out.

“Enough!” he gasped. “It will only kill the germs by first killing me!”

Conan Doyle took a moment to assess his own injuries. The knuckles of both hands were badly bruised and beginning to swell. His throbbing ear felt as if it had swollen to the size of a dinner plate.

“Oi! You bastards!” a voice bellowed and the room fell silent.

The ferret-faced man stood in the open doorway; crowded behind were a gang of twenty or more. The louts had regrouped and fetched reinforcements with them, most armed with clubs and staves.

“Oh, dear!” Wilde said. “How do we escape this?”

“I am quite done running for one evening.” Conan Doyle reached into a pocket and drew out a fistful of banknotes. “I shall buy our way out.” He flourished the bills for all to see. Then he shouted, “Drinks on me!” and flung the money into the air.

Pandemonium ensued as drinkers fought to scrabble up the money and their pursuers were pinned in the crush. Wilde ducked under the serving hatch while Conan Doyle vaulted onto the bar and over. The two friends ducked through a doorway. They passed through a room stacked with crates of gin bottles and through another door that opened onto a cobblestone yard secured by a bolted wooden gate. Flinging open the gate, they stumbled into a gloomy alleyway.

But they were not alone. A carriage pulled by African zebras had drawn up and two figures stood waiting.

CHAPTER   26

A NICE NIGHT FOR A DROWNING

“You and your companion have a talent for survival, Mister Wilde,” DeVayne said. “However, if our friends find you, it is likely you will both die a very unpleasant death.” The slender aristocrat sauntered up to Wilde and caressed his chin with the back of a leather-clad hand. “And despite our misunderstanding of the previous evening, I should be sad to see anything happen to that long, lovely Irish face.”

The four men stood in a frozen tableau. “You have the advantage of us, Marquess,” Wilde admitted.

Dr. Lamb coughed into his hand discreetly. “The mob will be upon us soon.”

“I can offer you gentlemen safe passage.” DeVayne indicated the carriage with a nod. “My carriage is at your disposal.”

Dr. Lamb held the carriage door open and stood waiting.

Wilde shot a glance at Conan Doyle, who shook his head. Should they step into the yellow landau they would place themselves utterly at DeVayne’s mercy.

Shouts and curses from behind told them that some of the thugs had followed them through the bar and were spilling into the gin shop’s cobbled yard.

Wilde suddenly broke from the spot, stepped to the carriage, and climbed in. Conan Doyle hesitated a moment and followed, his hands balled into fists ready to throw a punch. Fortunately, the carriage was empty and he bounced onto the seat beside Wilde.

Dr. Lamb and the marquess climbed aboard and sat opposite the two friends. The marquess rapped on the carriage roof and shouted, “Away!”

The carriage pulled out of the alleyway and turned left, passing the gin shop where a press of armed men choked the doorway as they tried to squeeze in. The landau passed by without slowing and Conan Doyle and Wilde released a pent-up breath.

The marquess’s expression betrayed his amusement at their predicament. “Did you gentlemen enjoy my speech?”

“I found it greatly surprising,” Wilde said. “I knew you were an acolyte of the occult, but I had no idea you also held political pretensions.”

“I am a deeply complicated man. Many underestimate me. An error of judgment that shall soon cost them dearly.” His face tightened in a feral smile, his eyes aglitter. “England is about to change, gentlemen. The glorious Empire is about to fall. You need to decide which side you stand on: the old, corrupt side, or the new, egalitarian side. When we come to power, those who have ruled for centuries will be swept aside. We shall establish a new order: a republic based on logic and reason, where gentlemen such as yourselves shall be exalted as gods.”

The carriage swept past streets lit by burning barricades and soon left St. Giles behind. Conan Doyle kept darting glances out the window, casting about for a familiar landmark, hoping to catch a glimpse of Iron Jim and his hansom cab. But the fog was thick and he had no sense of where they were nor in which direction they were heading.

The marquess and the doctor leaned, heads together, chuckling over some whispered secret. Abruptly, DeVayne rapped on the ceiling and the carriage drew to a halt. Both men tensed as the marquess drew a small dagger from his sleeve. “I offer you one last chance. Swear a blood oath that you will stand with me. If you decline, I shall drop you here and you must take your chances when the revolution comes.”

“I’m afraid I must decline your blood oath,” Wilde said. “I swoon at so much as a paper cut.”

“I also decline,” added Conan Doyle.

DeVayne sat in silent contemplation, tapping the tip of the dagger against his pursed lips. “Very well, your choice is made. Your fate decided. I urge you to remain uninvolved in the events that are about to unfold. I know a great deal about both of you.” He glared at Wilde. “I know about your two beautiful boys, and your tawdry diversions in the ‘special’ clubs of Soho.” He slid his gaze to Conan Doyle. “I know about your consumptive wife and your ongoing dalliance with the young woman. Oh, and I know about that ludicrous little puppet Cypher. Be assured, gentlemen, none who stand against us shall be spared.” He paused and then added, “Nor shall their families. Now get out.” DeVayne, having said all he wished to say, reclined back into his own personal darkness.

Conan Doyle and Wilde stepped down from the carriage. The door banged shut, a whip cracked about the zebras’ ears, and the landau lurched away, abandoning them to streets of rime and swirling fog. The two men looked about, baffled by what they saw, or rather failed to see. The only indications of civilization were the charcoal silhouettes of hulking brick warehouses. The mournful drone of a foghorn sounded in the distance.

“Where the devil are we?”

“This is clearly not where we left the hansom,” Conan Doyle observed. “He drew in a deep breath through his nose, scenting the air. “Judging by the thickness of the fog, the stink, and that steamer foghorn, I’d say we’re close to the Thames, but far downriver.”

Both men looked up at the clop-clop of approaching hooves.

“We’re in luck,” Wilde said. “That must be the hansom now.”

Both stared expectantly into the fog. Something large tore loose of the gray veil: a dark carriage drawn by two black horses with plumes bobbing atop their heads.

“A hearse!” Conan Doyle said.

“Hearse or hansom, I care not. Let’s flag it down.”

Both men shouted and waved at the oncoming hearse, which failed to slow or break rhythm. In fact, upon seeing them, the top-hatted driver whipped up the horses, which bore down on the two friends, forcing them to leap aside to avoid being trampled.

“Damn you!” Conan Doyle shouted after the driver. The hearse carried on and was swallowed up in the fog. The clopping of hooves suddenly slowed and stopped.

The two friends looked at each other.

“Did they see us?” Wilde asked. “Was it a mistake? Are they coming back for us?”

Conan Doyle shook his head uneasily. “I just realized something. I caught a glimpse of the driver’s face. He had a port-wine stain down one cheek.”

From somewhere in the fog, they heard a door creak open and slam shut. And then they heard a noise that filled them both with dread:
Wissssshhhthump … wissssshthump … wisssssshthump …

“Oh dear God,” Wilde moaned. “Not again!”

Fog swirled and a shadowy figure lurched toward them. It stepped into the light of the streetlamp and showed its impossible face.

“Vicente!” Conan Doyle gasped. “But we saw him hanged!”

The once-handsome head sat upon a neck twisted by the hangman’s rope. The face, bloated and ghastly, pulsed with swollen veins. The yellow eyes fixed upon them and the raggedy form slumped forward like something from a nightmare.

“RUN!” both shouted.

The two friends took to their heels, running away blindly into the thickening fog.

Wissssshhhthump … wissssshthump … wisssssshthump …

They came upon the wall of a warehouse and slid along it, hands groping the cinderous bricks. The wall abruptly ended and they followed the curbstone into another street. But in the blindfolding fog, every step was an act of faith.

“I have no sense of where we are,” Conan Doyle said. “We could be walking into a cul-de-sac.”

“Look,” Wilde said, pointing. “I believe I can make out several streetlamps. If we go this way—”

Whooossh! An arm swung from the fog and grazed Wilde’s face. He cried out in surprise. They hurried away, straining to follow the dull glow of streetlamps that seemed to recede before them. From behind came the
wissssshthump
and the scuffle of dragging feet.

“This is impossible,” Wilde whispered. “Vicente was dead. We saw him hanged.”

“He has been revivified. He is now some kind of monster.”

Wissssshhhthump … wissssshthump … wisssssshthump …

“Look!” Wilde said. “Up ahead. I think I see someone.”

“No. We cannot go that way. We cannot endanger innocent people.”

“Do we not number amongst the innocent, too? In fact, compared to the many scoundrels in London society, you and I are easily the most innocent!”

They hurried on, and soon beheld the comforting sight of two blue uniformed constables loitering on a street corner, chatting and laughing.

The officers startled as the two friends burst from the fog and ran up to them.

“Constables!” Conan Doyle said. “You must help us. We are being pursued by a monster.”

The policemen took in Conan Doyle’s stevedore clothing and Wilde’s worn aesthete clothing. “You lads out slumming? Been drinking have you?”

“No!”

“I had a nip of brandy earlier.”

“Oscar, shush!”

“He did ask.”

Wissssshhhthump …

“Look!” Conan Doyle said, pointing at the ragged form shambling toward them. “That’s him now!”

The two constables shared a knowing grin. “He’s had a few from the look of him. Friend of yours, is he?”

“No! It’s not a man at all! It’s a killer. A monster!”

“Gets like that when he’s had a few, does he?”

The dead man shambled into the glare of the streetlamp where the constables glimpsed the horrid face for the first time.

“Strewth!” the first officer said to his mate. “He don’t look too good, right enough!”

The first officer stepped forward to meet the creature, brandishing his truncheon. “We ain’t gonna have any trouble from you, sonny. Are we?”

In response, the monster swung a clublike arm that broke the constable’s collarbone and forced him screaming to his knees. He grappled for a hold of the monster’s ragged shirt, but it reached down, seized his helmeted head in both hands and twisted, breaking his neck. The monster let go and the constable slumped to the ground, dead and staring.

The second constable fumbled a whistle to his lips and split the silence with a sharp whistle blast. He leapt forward, truncheon drawn, and gave the monster a mighty whack across the head. It seemed not to feel anything and clamped a dead hand upon the constable’s face, forcing the whistle down his throat. The policeman choked and writhed, struggling momentarily before the creature tore the jaw from his skull. A ragged scream peeled from the policeman’s throat and he fell to the cobblestones, twitching and writhing.

The two friends cried out with horror and took to their heels, running away as fast as the fog would allow. The pavement underfoot was broken and heaved and Wilde caught a foot and sprawled on the ground. Conan Doyle grabbed him by the scruff and roughly dragged him to his feet.

Wissssshhhthump … wissssshthump … wisssssshthump …

They hurried on, nearly colliding with lampposts that loomed unexpected from the fog. They turned randomly right onto one street and then left onto another. The warehouses fell behind. By now the air had grown noticeably chill and damp and soon they nosed the unmistakable reek of the Thames.

“The river,” Wilde panted.

“Perhaps we are close to a bridge.”

“Shush!”

Wissssshhhthump … wissssshthump … wisssssshthump …

“It’s coming this way.”

“How can it follow us in all this fog?”

“It is a reanimated corpse, neither dead nor alive.”

Wissssshhhthump … wissssshthump … wisssssshthump …

They hurried on, and soon reached the tidal foreshore of the Thames. The only structures hereabouts were creaking wooden hovels where the poorest of the poor lived. Built of scrap lumber salvaged from the river, they stood teetering on support poles driven into the mud. The vague glimmer of tallow candles in a few of the glassless windows suggested habitation.

“Should we seek shelter with them?” Wilde asked.

“We will only endanger more lives.”

With thick fog cover and no streetlamps, the way ahead was unfathomably dark. But then, a gibbous moon, late rising above the river, lit the shifting panes of fog with light.