The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (41 page)

“This will end in sorrow,” Wilde whispered.

Slowly, slowly, the landau managed to suck loose of the glutinous mass of humanity. At its approach, guardsmen threw wide the palace gates and the carriage rattled through them. The crowd surged behind, attempting to rush inside, but the gates banged shut in their faces. Conan Doyle turned and glanced back. They were safe behind the iron railings, but the restive mob was growing by the minute.

The carriage drew up in the shadow of the palace, and the three men clambered out and took up a position behind the wall of soldiers. Cypher produced a large brass pocket watch and flipped it open.

“Four minutes before one,” he blithely noted.

Conan Doyle and Wilde cast nervous glances back and forth as the minute hand ticked slowly toward the hour. And then the fateful moment arrived. The air seemed to tighten. In the ranks of soldiers standing to attention, many licked nervous lips. In the final seconds, even the crowd fell silent.

At last, the hour struck as Big Ben chimed once:
CLONG
.

The struck chime resonated outward across the capital … only to dissolve into silence.

Anxious glances passed around the crowd.

“It only struck once,” Conan Doyle said. “It only struck once!”

Cypher, who stood rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, allowed himself a cruel smile.

Minutes passed. The crowd grew restive and surged this way and that in a great, dark swarm. Shouts and angry voices called out as it became obvious that something had gone badly wrong. They had been lied to. Deceived. Big Ben had not chimed thirteen times as promised. A few rabble-rousers in the crowd began to shout and gesticulate, trying to jump-start the revolution without the agreed-upon signal. The mob grew restive and surged forward in a great wave of bodies. Those who were not ready were crushed up against the ironwork, pinned and helpless, while others began to scale the railings.

At that moment Cypher gave the slightest of nods to a nearby uniformed sergeant, who drew his sword and raised it high in the air. At the signal, soldiers atop the wooden towers threw aside the tarpaulins, revealing Gatling guns. The sergeant bellowed a command and the guardsmen massed in the palace yard raised their rifles, pointing out at the mob.

Conan Doyle’s stomach lurched. The British army was about to open fire on its own citizenry.

Several of the protesters had reached the top of the railings, with more scaling behind them. Cypher nodded a second time and the sergeant drew his sword down in a slashing motion.

A cry of protest started to rise from Conan Doyle’s throat, only to be drowned by a cacophonous din as the Gatling guns opened fire with a deafening, percussive CHUNKA-CHUNKA-CHUNKA, firing over the heads of the crowd, lacing the air with a deadly blur of flying lead. Hot shell casings showered down from the towers and rang metallic upon the parade ground.

Outside the railings, panic ensued. Banners toppled as the crowd turned and surged away. Many fell and were trampled in the mob’s mad, terrorized flight. Then the palace gates were thrown wide and ranks of soldiers marched out behind a thicket of bayonet points.

The revolution, which should have begun at one o’clock, had dissolved into chaos by three minutes past the hour. The army swept unopposed into the square where only a few unfortunate souls lay dead upon the ground, felled not by machine-gun fire, but trampled to death in the crowd’s panicked rush to escape. Minutes later, the only evidence, besides a scattering of corpses, were abandoned banners crumpled upon on the ground and the odd ownerless shoe.

Cypher turned to Conan Doyle and Wilde with a self-satisfied smile on his small face. “Now, gentlemen, you truly are relieved. You may go home to your families, safe in the knowledge that the British monarchy will endure for another thousand years.”

But as the two friends settled themselves back in the landau, Conan Doyle muttered to Wilde in a low voice, “I am no longer certain that is a good thing.”

CHAPTER   33

A SUMMONS TO THE PALACE

Three days later, the weather trough that had been stalled over England gathered its skirts and swept out into the Atlantic. Gusting winds from the Continent snapped the flags atop Marble Arch and scoured the last tendrils of fog from London’s alleyways and thoroughfares. It was on a blustery, blue-sky day that Conan Doyle debouched from the echoic vault of Waterloo Station to find Wilde’s private four-wheeler drawn up at the curb waiting to collect him.

He clambered aboard to find Wilde in a characteristic pose: legs crossed, an elbow cupped in one hand, the smoke from a Turkish cigarette curling up about his face.

“Oscar.” Conan Doyle nodded in greeting and dropped onto the seat cushion. He drew off his top hat and settled it next to him. Both men were dressed in their finest. Conan Doyle noticed Wilde’s own top hat on the seat beside him, although it was a choice of headgear he rarely favored.

“Did your family not accompany you?” Wilde asked. “The pulchritudinous Miss Jean Leckie?”

“They are coming up from Surrey on the next train.”

“Ah.”

“Are you still residing at your club these days, Oscar?”

Wilde exhaled a drowsy lungful of smoke and gave an insouciant wave. “You will be gratified to know that I spent the entire week in the domestic idylls of Tite Street indulging in the comforts of hearth, home, and family.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Wilde rapped the carriage ceiling with his walking stick and the carriage set off. Conan Doyle noticed the fine envelope on the seat beside his friend.

“I see you have been perusing your invitation.”

“I have read it six times since breakfast,” Wilde replied, picking at a fleck of tobacco on his tongue. “It seems to promise much, but says little.”

“It is vexingly vague as to what we are summoned for. You don’t think…”

“Think what?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Is that a new suit, Arthur?”

“Yes. And I note you have your topper with you. A touch formal for you?”

“I thought it appropriate. We are going to the palace, after all.”

“Yes, of course. I am sure it is just an interview, to hear, once again, the details of our side of the story.”

“I am less certain. Everything Mister Cypher does is
sub rosa,
I doubt he would send out a secret missive using the official stationery of Buckingham Palace. It even has the royal seal upon it.”

“So you think it possible—?”

“I definitely think it possible.”

“That we might be recognized—”

“Rewarded … for our contribution.”

“We did play a vital role in thwarting an assassination plot.”

“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed. “But, still, it is highly unlikely.”

They rode on in disingenuous silence, each pretending to take an interest in the sights of London rolling past the carriage window. Conan Doyle took out a journal from his leather satchel, flipped it open, and began to scribble.

“One of your Casebooks?” Wilde inquired.

“Yes. And I believe I am about to write the final chapter.” Conan Doyle set to scribbling, his pen filling the blank pages with his neat handwriting in blue ink.

But after several minutes, Wilde could not hold his peace and said, in a musing voice, “Sir Oscar Wilde. It has a certain ring to it, does it not?”

“It does, Oscar, it does. Likewise, I had rather thought that
Sir
Arthur Conan Doyle would look splendid on the spine of a book.”

Both men luxuriated in the daydream of knighthood for a moment longer and then the Scotsman shook himself back into the real world and returned to his Casebook. “Best not to speculate.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“It is unlikely.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“Yes.”

“Impossible.”

“Oh,” Wilde objected, “I would never say impossible!”

*   *   *

At the palace, the two colleagues were conducted into a plush antechamber close to the throne room. Cypher was waiting, sans his companion brutes. Conan Doyle was gratified to see that Detective Blenkinsop was already there. Upon receiving his invitation he had written to Cypher insisting that the young detective be recognized for his contribution.

“Tom!” Conan Doyle said, warmly shaking the man’s hand.

“Just wish the wife and nipper coulda been here,” Blenkinsop said, beaming with pride. “But, I know it has to be kept hushed up and all.” The young detective wore his mop of hair parted in the middle and slicked down with hair oil. He was kitted out in his very finest suit; his shoes, although worn at the heels, were polished to a luster.

Cypher smiled superiorly. “At your request, Doctor Doyle, I had the detective reinstated in the police … and he is to be promoted.”

“Marvelous!” Conan Doyle beamed. “Simply marvelous.” His demeanor suddenly waxed cautious. “And, ah, where is the Prince of Wales? I assume he will be attending.”

Cypher shook his head, looking like an unhappy puppet. “He will not, although it pains me to admit that his exact whereabouts are unknown. The prince somehow managed to evade the men I had following him. I believe he has absconded to Paris. Miss Bernhardt is performing there, and he has evidently rekindled his fondness for her.”

Conan Doyle ruffled his moustaches in an irritated fashion and shared a worried look with Wilde.

Cypher consulted his watch with a frown, and then turned to the men. “The time has come. Are we all ready, gentlemen?”

The men nodded, even while making frantic, last-second adjustments to their dress, cinching ties, combing moustaches.

“Your audience will be brief. I must warn you not to approach Her Majesty. Also, do not speak unless the queen speaks to you. When the audience is at an end, you will bow and take several steps backward, head lowered, before turning and leaving the royal presence. Do you understand?”

They all nodded and mumbled yeses.

Cypher led the way, and the rest of the party followed close behind.

Conan Doyle leaned toward Wilde and muttered sotto voce, “Be prepared, Oscar. Her Majesty is greatly ailing. You may find her appearance quite shocking.”

They crossed the hallway and entered the gilded fantasy of the throne room. Victoria Regina, as ever dressed in mourning black, waited upon her throne. Cypher led them to a spot a cautious distance from the monarch, where they stood in a line and bowed from the waist, although, once again, Conan Doyle had to fight the urge to drop to one knee.

From this distance, Victoria resembled a crumpled doll a child had clumsily arranged in a grown-up’s chair. Her glassy eyes fixed them with a spaniel’s gaze as she regarded them over her many chins. Her chest rose and fell fitfully. The head moved stiffly as Victoria swept her gaze across them and then raised a palsied hand in acknowledgment. When she spoke, her faltering voice could have been coming from a hundred miles away.

“Gentlemen,” she said in a breathless, asthmatic wheeze. “We are informed of the great service you have done for your queen and your nation.”

“We are here to serve, Your Majesty,” Cypher said in an obsequious voice.

But then Conan Doyle caught a whiff of cigar smoke and heard a fruity voice announce, “Ah, there you are, Mother.” He turned to see the Prince of Wales saunter into the room. Edward was not alone, and it took a moment for Conan Doyle to register the slender shadow pacing at his shoulder.

Rufus DeVayne.

“I heard that cousin Rufie has been a naughty boy again,” the prince said. “This time I had to spring him from a madhouse in Latvia.”

Across the room, jaws dropped, eyes widened. The next few seconds of shocked disbelief were to prove fatal.

Before Cypher could scream for the palace guards to seize him. Before Conan Doyle could shout a warning. Before anyone could move, DeVayne snatched something from his cloak—the two-shot derringer he had once offered to Wilde—and aimed it point-blank at the prince’s head. Mistaking it for a prank, the Prince of Wales drew the cigar from his mouth and said, “See, here, Rufie, that’s taking the joke a bit too far—”

“SILENCE!” Rufus DeVayne screamed. The derringer trembled in his hand as he fixed the room with a look that dared anyone to test his resolve.

“Drop the pistol,” Cypher threatened. “Or be cut down where you stand.”

DeVayne merely smiled. “The revolution lives so long as I draw breath. Kill me and I will resurrect myself in three days. But by this act I shall live forever.” He took a step away from the prince and spun around, aiming the derringer straight at Victoria. “So dies a tyrant!” he screamed. The gun fired with a percussive BANG! The bullet struck Victoria in the forehead. She startled. Her head lolled slack and she slumped upon the throne, eyes dead and staring. Blood trickled from the small bullet hole in her forehead and ran down her face.

DeVayne shouted in triumph and then swung the gun back to point it at the Prince of Wales’ heart. His finger was tightening on the trigger when Detective Blenkinsop, who was standing the closest, lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the young aristocrat, smothering his arms. They staggered across the room, grappling. But then BANG! a second shot rang out. Detective Blenkinsop flinched, a sickening tremor shook his frame, and then he relaxed and slumped at DeVayne’s feet.

In the next instant, one of the Beefeaters rushed forward and thrust the point of his halberd into the marquess’s back, running him through so that the spear point burst through his chest. DeVayne’s eyes widened. He staggered forward and looked down in disbelief at the metal shaft skewering his chest. He coughed, shooting out a spray of blood, and slowly crumpled to his knees. His eyes sparkled with tears. His long lashes fluttered. A weird, tremulous smile chased about his lips. Blood, frothy and arterial, trickled from the corners of his mouth. And then, incredibly, he seemed to rally, and spoke in a gurgly voice: “In three days, I shall rise again…” But then the light went out of his eyes and with a prolonged and weary sigh, as if sick of life, he relaxed into death and slumped backward until the spear propped him up, his arms falling akimbo.