The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (38 page)

“Whatever for?”

“To keep the wind out of your eyes.”

The Irishman chuckled ironically. “Oscar Wilde, ride upon such a contrivance? Surely you jest. Oscar Wilde does not ride bicycles or motorcycles. A hansom cab is the only two-wheeled vehicle I deign to ride inside.”

“How did you imagine we were going to get there?”

“I imagined you would ride, whilst I perambulate alongside.”

“Think of Vyvyan; we have no time.”

“But how will we see? The fog is so thick one can barely walk in it.”

Conan Doyle sparked a lighter and the steam cycle’s huge carbide headlamp flared to life, hurling a dazzling beam before it.

“Good lord, you have awakened a cyclopean beast!”

“Hop on,” Conan shouted above the clattering racket. “This way, we’ll be there inside half an hour.”

With great awkwardness, even for him, Wilde cocked a leg and straddled the bike, settling his backside into the bucket-like pillion saddle with the exaggerated caution of a hemorrhoid sufferer.

“Are you aboard?” Conan Doyle shouted over his shoulder.

“Only my most vulnerable appendages.”

“Right, then. Here we go. Hang on tight.”

Gears ground as Conan Doyle yanked levers, squeezed calipers, rotated handgrips, searching for a clutch. He gripped a small lever on the handlebars, pulled it back, and the motor revolutions climbed to a roar, the machine vibrating dangerously beneath them. A relief valve popped, jetting steam with a shriek. He threw more levers and then finally got lucky and found the clutch by slipping a toe beneath a foot pedal and lifting upward. Gears engaged with a
graunch
and the machine leaped forward. The cobblestones were greasy with fog and the back tire broke loose and spun madly. Conan Doyle snatched the handlebars left and right, fighting to stay upright. They veered across the road, mounted the sidewalk, careened off a wall and back onto the street. A lamppost loomed. Wilde shrieked and closed his eyes, hunkering behind Conan Doyle. Somehow they managed to swerve around it, although it clipped the Scotsman’s elbow painfully.

Suddenly the bike was flying along Winchester Street at a meteoric ten miles an hour, a speed which seemed much faster because of the fog and the necessity to dodge and weave around abandoned carriages blocking the roadway. Like men straddling a spluttering comet, they streaked through the streets of London and soon began the long, slow climb to Hampstead, where the fog finally began to thin. During the first five minutes of riding Conan Doyle attempted to slow for a corner only to discover that the machine had yet to be fitted with brakes. He decided not to broach the matter with Wilde who, lapsed Catholic though he was, was frantically reciting the rosary at the top of his voice.

As for stopping, Conan Doyle reasoned that wouldn’t be necessary until they reached the DeVayne family seat, at which point he would just have to improvise.

CHAPTER   31

A TOAST TO DEATH

The Fog Committee sat convened around the long table in the great hall of DeVayne’s ancestral seat for what they all hoped would be the final time.

DeVayne rose from his chair at the head of the long feasting table and addressed the assemblage of dour-faced members. “Gentlemen, we are mere hours away from writing our names in the history books.” He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The masked servants, who had been standing silently around the edges of the room, moved forward, bearing trays with crystal goblets and sparkling decanters filled with the green liquor. DeVayne seized a glass and bade the other members to follow suit. “Such a momentous occasion calls for a toast.”

“A toast to what?” the judge asked.

“A toast to death,” DeVayne answered, and added, “the death of the old regime and the birth of a new British republic.”

“What is this concoction?” asked the old admiral, eyeing the deep jade drink with obvious doubt.

“The libation of the gods,” DeVayne answered. “A drink for those who dare ascend the steps of Olympus. Come, join me in a toast to our great enterprise.”

The others took up their glasses, but no one drank.

DeVayne noticed their reluctance and sighed in exasperation. “Honestly, gentlemen, do you think I would poison you at this juncture? When we stand upon the threshold of victory?” To demonstrate, he quaffed his drink in one long gulp and thrust the goblet at the servant who quickly refilled it. “A toast, gentlemen. In just a few hours, the world will change for us all.” He smiled. “A toast to the new republic.”

All the members of the Fog Committee rose and reached across the table, to chink glasses.

“To the new republic!”

CHAPTER   32

A WAGNERIAN DEATH

The steam cycle whooshed through the open gates of DeVayne’s mansion, its scorching carbide lamp lighting up the eyes of a pack of jackals and scattering them. Conan Doyle shouted to his pillion passenger, “I thought those were dogs, but they look like jackals.”

“Part of the marquess’s menagerie,” Wilde yelled back. “The beasts wander loose on the grounds. But don’t worry about the jackals, I’m sure the lions will keep them at bay.”

“Lions!”

As the steam cycle effortlessly sped up the steep drive, Conan Doyle eased back on the throttle lever, slowing the engine’s revolutions and using the uphill slope for braking. They coasted to a standstill at the crest of the hill, and he put his feet down to steady the machine. Below them, the brightly lit pile stood waiting. Although the circular drive was empty of carriages, it was currently occupied by a pride of lions that sauntered lazily and drowsed together in tawny heaps.

“Good Lord!” Conan Doyle remarked. “I had thought you were joking and was about to suggest we abandon the motorcycle here and proceed on foot.”

“Unless you can run faster than a gazelle, I highly recommend against that. The inside of the house is safe. There may be a few sheep wandering about, but the only carnivore roaming the halls is the marquess.”

Conan Doyle eased on the throttle until the engine revolutions climbed to a roar, and then shifted into gear and released the clutch. The steam cycle sprang forward and they plummeted down the hill at breakneck speed and careened into the circular drive, spraying gravel. The intention had been to stampede the lions, but the pride seemed drowsily unimpressed by the hissing steam cycle. They orbited once and then a second time.

“You are merely succeeding in annoying the beasts,” Wilde shouted, “and we are losing the advantage of surprise.”

Conan Doyle ground his teeth with frustration. If the lions wouldn’t move willingly, he’d force the issue. He let go of the throttle momentarily and fumbled the revolver from his overcoat pocket, pointing it in the air and pulling the trigger. BANG! The report of the gunshot slapped the limestone fa
ç
ade like a thunderclap and rebounded, rousing the lions into flight.

“Aha!” Conan Doyle triumphed. He fumbled to regain his hold on the handlebar while still clutching the revolver and inadvertently slammed the throttle lever hard against its stop. As the power surged full on, the steam cycle careened out of control. Suddenly they were pointing straight at the front steps. Conan Doyle barely had time to shout “Hang on!” as they rocketed up the marble staircase in a bone-shaking ascent and crashed through the great oaken doors. As the steam cycle shot across the marble entrance hall, the rear tire lost grip and the machine slewed from beneath them, spilling its riders. Carried by inertia, the riderless machine crashed into a heavy pedestal holding the bust of William Archibald DeVayne and toppled it, setting up a domino effect where one column slumped against its neighbor in a series of resounding crashes that ended with hundreds of years of DeVayne heritage scattered across the entrance hall in fragments.

The steam cycle came to rest in the middle of the entrance hall, where it lay spinning on its side in a widening pool of water, rear wheel turning madly, clouds of steam venting from a cracked boiler jacket. Conan Doyle and Wilde lay on their backs several feet away, winded but alive. Finally, both staggered to their feet amidst much grunting and groaning.

“Is there a chance they heard us?” Wilde asked.

Conan Doyle looked at his friend askance. “Heard us? A brass band and a firework display would have made less noise.”

Miraculously, Conan Doyle had managed to hang on to the pistol, and now he waved it to indicate the way. “Come along, Oscar, there’s no point in stealth now. We must rescue our loved ones. Time to beard the devil in his den.”

Wilde nodded at the steam cycle, which sputtered and hissed like a dragon in its death throes. “What about that thing? I fear it may start a fire.”

Conan Doyle pondered a moment. When the boiler ran dry it was entirely likely it would explode or catch fire. “Yes, I believe your concern is well founded. Still, a fire will give them something to contend with.” He fished in a coat pocket and pulled out the glass bottle of calcium carbide pellets. The hall table boasted a solitary vase holding freshly cut flowers that had somehow escaped the mayhem. He snatched out the vegetation, tossed it aside, and emptied the full bottle into it. The white pellets hit the water and erupted in a fury of frothing bubbles.

“What are you up to, Arthur?”

“Mischief. Should we encounter Mister DeVayne and his cronies, this may provide us with some fog of our own.”

A pair of masked servants ran into an entrance hall, mutely gesticulating with alarm.

“RUN!” Conan Doyle shouted at them. “RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! IT’S GOING TO EXPLODE!”

The servants needed no further persuasion, and bolted through the front doors, leaving the two friends to move unimpeded through the house. With a growing pall of steam following behind, the two authors tramped the empty hallway until they reached the open doors to the great hall where Wilde had witnessed the orgy. A quick glance inside revealed some kind of meeting under way. Conan Doyle held the pistol ready and whispered, “Prepare yourself, Oscar.” And with that, the two friends burst into the hall, ready for anything …

 … other than what they discovered.

Convened around a long table were all the faces they recognized from the newspaper clipping.

“The Fog Committee,” Conan Doyle breathed.

“Yes. And all quite dead.”

Shockingly, the cadre of high-powered politicos and industrial magnates, along with Edmund Burke, the commissioner of police, and the right honorable Judge Robert Jordan, sat slumped in their chairs, bodies relaxed in postures of death—heads hanging slackly, glazed eyes staring at nothing. Rufus DeVayne sat at the head of the table, host of the macabre dinner party, his head fallen to one side, eyes half-lidded, a trickle of green liquor dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Several of the Fog Committee had vomited in their last moments. Glutinous ropes of saliva trailed from the judge’s open mouth to the green syrup puddled on the table before him. The coal mine owner alone had managed to rise from his seat, but sprawled dead a foot from his toppled chair. Many cold dead fingers still gripped a glass holding dregs of the fatal green cocktail.

Conan Doyle set the gun down upon the table and felt at the judge’s throat. “Still warm. Death must have come upon them swiftly. The green liquor no doubt contains a poison of great efficacy.”

“But why? And why would DeVayne drink his own poison?”

A bottled-up laugh burst from somewhere, and suddenly DeVayne jerked upright in his seat, the rictus grin relaxing into a wicked smile. Conan Doyle grabbed for the gun but DeVayne lunged first and snatched it up. “Too slow, Doctor Doyle!” DeVayne cackled. He rose to his feet while keeping the gun leveled. “I know you’re asking yourself, how did he survive? Did he really take the poison? In fact, I drank two full glasses. But I have been taking small quantities of the poison for months to build up a resistance.”

“But why kill your fellow conspirators?” Conan Doyle asked.

“Who can be trusted in a conspiracy? They wanted me only as a figurehead. In the days after the revolution, I knew I would prove obsolete, disposable, an embarrassing reminder of the regime they had just overthrown. After any revolution, there comes a time when the revolutionaries turn upon each other, as during the days of
The Terror
. Besides, I no longer need them, and a dictatorship is far less messy to manage.”

“I care not what group of despots runs this country,” Wilde said. “You or the current rogues’ gallery. I came to get my boy back. Arthur came to get Miss Leckie. Return them to us and you can go about your sordid little revolution with no interference from us.”

DeVayne dropped back into his chair, sitting sideways, one leg dangling over the chair arm. He waved the pistol carelessly as he spoke. “I’m sorry, but you two are far too deeply involved. I trusted these fools more than I trust either of you, and I just killed them all. Besides, I have a special use for both the woman and your pretty young boy. They are waiting in my private dungeon right now. Oh, but don’t worry, I won’t kill them immediately. The rite of immortality requires the sacrifice of a virgin, and you absconded with my last two.”

“You monster!” Wilde spat. He lunged at DeVayne and Conan Doyle struggled to restrain him.

The marquess fixed Wilde with a pitying scowl. “Monster am I? Well, if it’s a monster you want, it’s a monster you shall have.” He raised his voice and called out, “Gentlemen, would you bring in our Italian friend. Mister Wilde and Doctor Doyle are anxious to become reacquainted.”

The double doors at the end of the hall opened and the two men entered pushing a wheeled version of the restraining chair. Conan Doyle recognized Dr. Lamb immediately, but gasped aloud when he saw the second figure: a frock-coated gentleman in a stovepipe hat. “Ozymandius Arkwright!” he hissed. “I knew he was somehow implicated in all this—” But then the words died in the Scotsman’s throat. As the figure approached, he saw that it was not Ozymandius, but Jedidiah, the toy maker and owner of the Emporium, transformed by his attire into an eerie echo of his square-jawed brother.