The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (40 page)

“You had a wife and child of your own once,” Wilde said. “You know full well the pain of loss. Would you inflict that upon others?”

But there was no pity in Solomon’s eyes. “Yes. I would burn the world to ash to be reunited with my family. Now send the woman and boy toward me and leave, or I will shoot them down before your eyes.”

Wilde and Conan Doyle shared a look. “What shall we do?” Wilde asked. “We are trapped between an inferno and a crazed man with a gun.”

But then something slouched into view behind Solomon, a gory figure that limped steadily along the burning hallway, unaffected by the scorching heat. Conan Doyle saw that it was bearing down upon Solomon and sought to distract him.

“Solomon. It’s not too late. Abandon this madness. The house is lost.”

In response, the toy maker raised the gun and aimed it at Conan Doyle’s heart. “I am a man already burning in hell. My soul will be damned for what I have done. And what I have yet to do. But I would pay that price willingly to have another second with my family. Would you not do the same?”

Solomon’s finger was tightening on the trigger when the creature stepped from behind and threw its arms about him, pinning his arms in a crushing embrace. As the monstrous grip tightened, the gun went off: BANG!, firing a bullet into the floor. And then again: BANG! Solomon choked for breath. His face purpled. Eyes bulged. A rib snapped with a sharp
pop!
He moaned, feet kicking, but the deadly embrace squeezed ever tighter.

The monster’s face convulsed as it fought to control its lips and tongue long enough to summon a particle of the man who had once been Vicente and articulate a final clutch of words.
“Pregate per me.”

“It spoke, Oscar! What did it say?”

“Pray for me,” Wilde answered in a breathless voice.

And with that, the monster stepped backward into the flames and ignited like a roman candle, and the thrashing form of Solomon Arkwright, imprisoned in its arms, also caught fire. His piercing shrieks were terrible to hear and the friends looked away.

“Quickly,” Conan Doyle urged, “we must get away. The monster’s steam boiler will likely rupture in the great heat.”

The group stumbled on, plunging into thickening smoke.

“Get down on all fours,” Conan Doyle urged. “The smoke will be less intense.”

They all dropped to the rug and groped blindly along the hallway.

“It’s getting hotter!” Jean Leckie cried.

“Surely we are crawling into the flames?” Wilde fretted.

“Just a bit farther,” Conan Doyle shouted. “The entrance hall is mostly marble. What little can burn has likely already been consumed.”

Conan Doyle had one arm about the waist of Miss Leckie, while Wilde held Vyvyan to his side. But even at floor level, the smoke was choking and the heat dizzying. The Scottish author could feel Jean’s trembling body beginning to falter as she crawled beside him. For a dreadful moment he feared he had made a fatal miscalculation and considered turning back, but by now all visibility was lost. Coughing and choking, hot sparks singeing their hair and faces, they inched along in a tedious crawl. Conan Doyle, sweating through his clothes, began to feel nauseous and woozy. Abruptly, the hall rug ended and he felt cool marble beneath his fingertips. The smoke brightened and suddenly he could see the diamond pattern of the marble tiles. Ahead, smoke swirled, revealing patches of sky. “Up,” he shouted. “Get up!” The four of them finally reached the double doors and staggered out of the burning building into fresh, clean air.

Waiting for them on the circular driveway were dozens of blue-uniformed constables with two black Mariahs and several horse-drawn wagons. Detective Blenkinsop stood in the middle of the melee, shouting orders. DeVayne’s servants sat in a knot on the grass lawn, their hands in manacles. Several had lost their masks, among them the man with the port-wine stain and others who had manned the hearse.

“Thank gawd!” Detective Blenkinsop said, rushing forward to greet them. “I had a horrible feeling you’d all burned alive in there.”

“DeVayne!” Wilde cried out. “Do you have DeVayne?”

Blenkinsop shook his head grimly. “No. Looks like he scarpered. Don’t you worry, though, we’ll track him down.”

“But he’s going to lead an armed revolt at the palace. We have to—” Conan Doyle stopped short as a carriage appeared coming from the stables: a yellow landau drawn by four African zebras.

They all watched, dumbfounded, as the zebras trotted toward them. Suddenly, Detective Blenkinsop gathered his wits and shouted, “Stop that carriage! It must not pass!”

Stirred into action, a dozen constables ran onto the gravel drive, linking arms to form a solid blue cordon. Conan Doyle feared the driver would spur the zebras and trample them, but the yellow landau drew to a halt. Suspecting a trick, Blenkinsop, Conan Doyle, and Wilde rushed over to see if the carriage was occupied.

The Marquess of Gravistock, Rufus DeVayne, lounged on the carriage seat, showing little concern for his situation. He was dressed as if for his own coronation in an outlandish getup: a plumed Napoleonic hat and a plush red military uniform with a white sash slashing across his breast, the jacket jangling with obscure medals he had no doubt awarded himself.

Detective Blenkinsop snatched open the carriage door and jerked a thumb at its lone occupant “Right you, out!”

DeVayne picked at bit of imaginary fluff on his sleeve and appeared not to hear. “There is no need to shout, officer. As a condition of my surrender, I insist that I travel in my own carriage.” He did not look at anyone as he spoke. “Royalty does not travel in conveyances used to transport common criminals.”

Detective Blenkinsop unleashed an angry snarl as he reached in, grabbed the front of DeVayne’s uniform jacket, and dragged him out of the carriage. The marquess juggled to keep the admiral’s hat upon his head, but seemed in denial of his situation.

“Is that it?” Conan Doyle said in a voice husky with anger. “You who are responsible for so much anguish, for so many deaths, surrender so meekly? Without a struggle?”

DeVayne answered with a foolish grin. “You sad little man. I am of the aristocracy. Cousin to the Prince of Wales. Fifth in line to the throne of England. They dare not try me in the public courts or imprison me in a common jail. Thanks to my little
soirees
I know too much about the peccadilloes of the rich and powerful: Which cabinet minister likes little girls. Which bishop prefers little boys. Which knight of the British Empire thrills to the sting of the lash. I especially know what cousin Bertie likes. If the British public found out about the Prince of Wales and his rather
peculiar
tastes, he would never ascend the throne. No, they dare not try me. They cannot jail me and they will not kill me. As before, I will be confined to a nice quiet sanitarium somewhere peaceful and rustic. I do hope it has a well-stocked wine cellar.”

At the remark, a howl of outrage tore from Wilde who balled his hand into a fist and drove it into DeVayne’s mocking face with all his might. The force of the blow broke the aristocrat’s nose and drove him to the ground. “You are everything vile! A murderer, a kidnapper, and you dare boast about it! You are the reverse of Dorian Gray. You are a portrait of disease hiding a stinking corruption within!”

DeVayne actually smiled as he looked up at Wilde, his nose crookedly twisted and dripping blood. From his madly dilated eyes, it was clear he had taken a massive dose of the green liquor.

“My creator!” he laughed. “Know this, Oscar: your downfall—when it comes—will be farther than mine. Perhaps they will let you visit me in my madhouse. We can stroll the grounds and reminisce about our magical time together.”

“Not this time, Marquess.”

All looked around at the strangely familiar voice. The ranks of police officers parted and the diminutive figure of Cypher stepped through, his hulking minders shadowing close behind. “This time you will not be sent to a sanitarium,” Cypher said with relish. “I have picked out a very special place where the Prince of Wales and all your highborn friends won’t find you. Where you are going has a cold climate and six months of darkness every winter. And I’m afraid this time you will not enjoy clean sheets and a soft bed. None of the locals speaks English, so you will be unable to send a message to your friends lurking in England. But you will be kept busy. The governor believes that long days of hard labor are beneficial for the character. I hope you like turnips, because that is all you will eat. And yet you will be rich in one thing: solitude. During the long winter nights you will have hours to reflect upon your wretched existence.” Cypher nodded to his two men. “Shackle him hand and foot. If he attempts to talk to anyone, gag him. No, on second thought, gag him anyway.”

For a delicious moment, DeVayne’s formidable hauteur collapsed in a wide-eyed, lip-trembling look of despair. And then he was scruffed by the hulking minders and dragged away to be slung into the back of a waiting Mariah.

Blenkinsop looked at Jean Leckie. “You all right, Miss?”

Jean Leckie stifled a cough on the back of her hand. Her pretty face was smudged with dirt and smoke. “Yes, quite well, thank you.” She turned and looked to Conan Doyle and Wilde. “Or rather, thanks to these two brave men.” Even though they had reached safety, Vyvyan obviously felt safe with Miss Leckie, for he still clung to her skirts. Blenkinsop reached down and ruffled the little boy’s hair.

“How you doin’ young ’un?” he asked.

“I was jolly frightened,” Vyvyan said, shyly, “but the nice lady said my daddy and his friend would come for us.”

“And they did, didn’t they, son?” Blenkinsop said.

Conan Doyle turned to Cypher. “Could you find someplace to keep them safe, until this business is over?”

“My pleasure,” Cypher replied, and nodded to his two minders. “These gentlemen will be their personal bodyguards.” At that moment, a four-wheeler appeared, coming from the direction of the stables. Cypher waved and it drew up before them.

“That carriage looks like Commissioner Burke’s black growler,” Conan Doyle said.

“He shan’t be needing it anymore,” Wilde noted.

The ginger minder Conan Doyle had nicknamed Dandelion opened the carriage door for Jean Leckie. Wilde picked up his little boy, hugged him extravagantly, and kissed him on both cheeks. “Vyvyan,” he said, “Daddy will take you home to Mummy soon, but first he has some grown-up business to see to. Your auntie Jean will look after you.” He handed his boy up to Burdock, who saw him settled on the carriage seat and pulled the door shut behind him. Jean Leckie quickly let down the carriage window. Conan Doyle moved forward to take her hand as she leaned out. “In spite of everything, I want you to know, Doctor Doyle, that I have greatly enjoyed making your acquaintance.” She flashed him a heart-crushing smile, and then her eyes moved to Wilde. “And you, too, Mister Wilde.”

Despite being disheveled, his mane of hair wildly mussed, his jacket marred with scorch marks and burn holes, the Irish wit straightened his posture and threw her a bow with a courtier’s flourish. “Oscar. You must call me Oscar. Only bank bailiffs and deranged madmen call me Mister Wilde. And you have my most utmost, heartfelt thanks for looking after my precious child.”

And with that, the growler rattled away.

Conan Doyle watched the carriage disappear over the top of the rise and then turned to face the others. “It just struck me. There is one rogue still unaccounted for.”

“Who is that?” Cypher asked.

Conan Doyle turned and studied the servants, who were being questioned where they sat upon the grass. Only one servant still kept the porcelain mask in place. Although it concealed his face, it could not disguise the extravagantly curled blond head of hair. The Scottish author stalked over and ripped off the mask, revealing the handsome features of Doctor Lamb. “Another one for you, Blenkinsop.”

Minutes later, Dr. Lamb and several of the surviving undertakers were hauled away in manacles. “You’re too late to stop the revolution!” Lamb shouted as he was goaded along by the prodding of nightsticks. “The people shall rise up and throw off their shack—” His final words were interrupted by a large policeman who clamped a hand over his face and shoved him into the back of a Mariah.

“Now what?” Oscar Wilde asked.

“We must return to the palace posthaste,” Cypher said. “There is still danger.”

From behind came a loud crack and the sound of shattering glass. The men looked around as a large section of the building’s fa
ç
ade collapsed in upon itself in a tumble of bricks and broken masonry, sending up huge tongues of crackling smoke and flame.

“Should I send for the fire boys?” Blenkinsop asked. “Seems a shame. Such a grand building. It might still be saved.”

Cypher shook his head, his lip curled in disgust. “No. Let it burn. There is nothing worth preserving here.”

*   *   *

Cypher rode with Conan Doyle and Wilde in the marquess’s zebra-drawn landau, which led the procession of Black Mariahs and police wagons on the trip back to London. When the strange cavalcade entered a dim and foggy Trafalgar Square, demonstrators were already massing, dozens clutching banners bearing the 13/13 symbol. As the demonstrators caught sight of them, many stopped to scream invective or hurl rocks and apple cores, but most just gawped at the spectacle of a carriage drawn by four zebras.

The mariahs and wagons turned off to take their prisoners to holding cells in nearby police stations, leaving the yellow landau to carry on unescorted. As it turned onto the Mall, the carriage was forced to a crawl by milling crowds of grim-faced men and women, all of them marching to lay siege to the royal palace. Disturbingly, many were armed with iron rods, pitchforks, and long wooden staves. Conan Doyle and Wilde shared an uneasy look. Their carriage could easily be overturned and all in it dragged out and set upon by the mob. But behind the wire-rimmed spectacles, Cypher’s bland countenance seemed unperturbed.

As the gates of Buckingham Palace came into view, Conan Doyle saw the red tunics of guardsmen ranked behind the tall iron railings, bayonets fixed to their rifles. He also noticed several hastily erected wooden towers on the palace grounds, their tops draped with tarpaulins, and his stomach churned with dread at what he guessed they might conceal.