The Dead Assassin

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 façade 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.

“Evidently Ozymandius lied,” Wilde muttered. “His brother Solomon clearly did not die that day.”

Pinioned in the restraining chair was the corpse of the Italian valet, hanging slack and lifeless in its cage of iron bands. DeVayne left his seat and strode over to join them.

“I am the one who brought these two geniuses together. As I once said to you, Mister Wilde, in the new regime men such as these will be lauded as gods. Unfortunately, neither you nor Mister Doyle will live to see that day.” He turned to the engineer. “Solomon, I believe our friends need a demonstration of our improved assassin.”

DeVayne eyed both of them cruelly. “You were lucky to escape the first time. We discovered your little trick with the photograph. But this time I will ensure that the creature fully imprints upon you both. I shall tell it you murdered Vicente’s sister. The animal drives of hatred and rage are far stronger than the weak human notions of love and sentiment, as you will discover when the monster’s hand plunges through your ribcage and rips out your heart.” He nodded at Solomon. “Begin the resurrection.”

“One question, Solomon,” Conan Doyle called out. “What do you hope to gain by all this death and destruction? Will killing the queen somehow bring your family back?”

The gray-haired man in the black stovepipe regarded Conan Doyle a moment and sneered with derision. “The queen, sir? Shall I tell about our beloved monarch? I created a war-winning weapon: a guided torpedo that could destroy a warship from a mile away. The nose of the torpedo was fitted with a glass window. Inside was a pigeon trained to recognize the silhouette of a warship and steer toward it by pecking at metal paddles. But on the day of the demonstration, some fool released a flock of doves to welcome the queen. The pigeon saw the shadow of the doves on the surface of the water. Instinct took over from training and the pigeon turned to follow the flock. Dozens were killed. I saw my wife and beloved child go down before my eyes.” Solomon Arkwright’s chin quivered; his eyes filled with hot tears that melted before a glare of burning hatred. “But you know what the irony is?” He shook his head bitterly. “The accident fnished us as weapon makers. But not because of the people killed. Not because of the death of my wife and child. But because of the pigeon. The great animal lover Victoria was horrified that a weapon designed to save countless lives of British seamen required the sacrifice of a single bird. And so we were stricken from the list of weapons suppliers.”

Conan Doyle briefly wondered what was happening in the entrance hall and whether the servants had all fled the house. He decided to play for time. “Solomon,” he called out. “We have met your brother. We know what happened those many years ago. You suffered a terrible loss. But is what you are doing true to the memory of your loved ones?”

The engineer looked at Conan Doyle as if he were stupid. “Everything I do is for my family. I will revive their bodies… not just their memory.” Solomon’s head shook with a violent tremor.

Conan Doyle suddenly remembered the photograph of the Fog Committee. He had surmised that the figure in the stovepipe hat had deliberately turned his head to blur his own image. Now he understood the truth: it was the nervous tic the man had no doubt been left with after that tragic day when he saw his wife and child die before his eyes. Solomon Arkwright was a deeply traumatized man, but he might yet be reasoned with. “We have seen the bodies of your wife and son. They have deteriorated too far be revivified, no matter how clever your heart pump is.”

“The marquess’s magic will take up where our science leaves off.” Solomon’s words were raveled with desperation. “He has given me his solemn oath that we shall walk together again in this life.”

“Walk together? What, like that thing?” Wilde said, pointing to the dead man in the chair. “You will revive them as shambling monsters?”

“Shut up!” Solomon bellowed. “Shut up!”

The engineer spread open the monster’s shirt, revealing the brassy metal box. His fingers found and depressed the recessed plunger, which scratched a inner striker plate and ignited the carbide fuel. Soon they could hear the ascending hiss of water coming to a boil.

DeVayne and his two cronies stepped back behind the restraining chair, out of the monster’s field of view. The heart pump’s telltale sound filled the hall: wisssshthump… wisssssshthump… wissssssshthump…

Within minutes, the corpse began to quiver as hot blood pumped through cold flesh, dormant nerve endings fired, and limbs twitched. Then the creature stirred. It drew in a ragged breath and released a plume of steam.

DeVayne smiled as he watched. “Solomon has increased the steam engine’s output, raising the blood pressure to six times that of a normal human, bestowing the creature with unstoppable power.”

As the tissues engorged with blood, the thing in the chair seemed to inflate. Huge veins plumped on the face and neck and the skin darkened to the color of a sanguine bruise. Then, with a blood-chilling scream, the grizzled head rose up and the yellow eyes startled open.

The marquess leaned close to the gruesome head and purred into its ear: “The men you see before you are the cause of your suffering. They murdered your sister. Your soul will never know peace while they live. You must destroy Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle. Tear off their arms. Smash them. Peel the flesh from their bones. Crush and rend them utterly. Only then will you know peace. Only then will you be released from this prison of corrupt and stinking flesh you now inhabit.”

The monster began to writhe violently in the chair, an engine fueled by hatred. One iron band restraining an arm broke with a loud snap, and then another. The chair creaked and groaned as the monster rose to its feet, snapping the heavy timbers as if they were matchsticks. The monster stood erect, pausing a moment as if gathering momentum, the yellow eyes fixing upon the two friends, and then took a lunging step forward.

“Kill them!” DeVayne urged. “Kill! Kill! Ki—”

KAA-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

His words were drowned by a thunderous explosion that blew in the doors and snuffed out the gaslights. Suits of armor toppled and crashed. A pall of dust fell from the rafters and mixed with the smoke and steam swirling in through the doorway to form a blinding fog. When the pall of dust and smoke finally cleared, Conan Doyle and Wilde had vanished.

So had the monster.

Dr. Lamb looked terror-struck. “What was that explosion?”

A masked servant ran by the doorway.

“Wait!” DeVayne shouted, but the servant had already vanished.

“What do we do now?” Solomon asked. “The two meddlers have escaped and the house is on fire.”

DeVayne thought a moment and said, “We must proceed with our plan. Wilde and his friend are as good as dead. The monster will track them unerringly.” He turned to Solomon. “You must find the creature and bring him back.” He handed over Conan Doyle’s revolver. “In the unlikely event he hasn’t already killed them, use this and make sure they’re dead. The doctor and I will be waiting in my landau. We cannot delay. We must be inside the gates of Buckingham Palace before Big Ben strikes thirteen.”

Meanwhile Conan Doyle and Wilde were running pell-mell through the hallways. “I told you to shut that steam thing down, Arthur.”

“Yes. It worked rather better than I’d hoped.” But in the next instant he was struck by a dread realization. “We must find the dungeon where Miss Leckie and Vyvyan are being held, before the fire becomes a conflagration!”

They paused at the foot of the grand staircase.

“Only stairs going up,” Conan Doyle said. “None going down.”

“This is a mock Tudor manor. It only has two floors.”

“Then where would the dungeon be?”

Wilde thought a moment and said, “When we were in his rooms, DeVayne said his dungeon was nearby.”

“Where are his rooms?”

“Somewhere on the upper floor. I’m not sure exactly.”

From down the smoky corridor came a dreadfully familiar sound: wisssssshthump… wisssssshthump.… Through the swirling smoke, they glimpsed the monster, stumping toward them.”

“Quickly, Arthur, up the stairs!”

The two friends vaulted up the staircase with Wilde leading the way. They turned right and hurried along the corridor.

“Which room?”

“Alas, I cannot recall.”

“So many rooms. So many doors. How shall we ever find them?”

“Perhaps they are somewhere near. Close enough to hear us if we shout.”

Both men began to shout aloud: “JEAN! VYVYAN. JEAN! VYVYAN!”

Conan Doyle paused to look behind. Smoke was chimneying up the staircase and spreading along the upper landing. The smoke swirled and the monster stepped out of it and slouched after them.

“The creature’s following us.”

They loped on, shouting at the top of their lungs. “VYVYAN! JEAN!”

Wilde grabbed Conan Doyle’s arm and dragged him to a standstill.

“What?”

“I hear singing,” Wilde said. He looked at Conan Doyle with a mystified expression. “It sounds like… an aria?”

Conan Doyle instantly recognized the singer. “It’s Jean. She is a classically trained mezzo-soprano. That’s her singing.”

“How apropos. I suppose, if I must die, at least I shall have a suitably operatic death. Here I am running through a burning manor pursued by a raging monster. And all to the accompaniment of an aria. Even Wagner could not stage such a drama.”

They followed Jean Leckie’s soaring voice to a large set of double doors and crashed through them.

“These are his rooms!” Wilde said. He dashed about, searching amongst the elaborate furniture and the four-poster bed; however, Vyvyan and Jean Leckie were nowhere to be seen. Conan Doyle slammed the bedroom doors shut and bolted them.

“I’m afraid that won’t keep it out for long.”

“Hardly.”

“Jean!” Conan Doyle shouted. “Keep singing.”

The silvery aria started up again.

Wilde pointed. “It’s coming from the wall, behind the print.”

He pointed to the print DeVayne had so lovingly described in the bookshop. Conan Doyle examined it and speculated, “It must conceal a door.”

“Then there must be a catch or handle somewhere,” Wilde said, hands exploring the edges of the frame.

“Don’t bother!” Conan Doyle pulled the small silver penknife from his pocket, swung out the sharp blade, and slashed through the canvas in a giant X pattern. He and Wilde tore loose the flapping canvas to reveal a dungeon door, massive and heavy, bound together with iron straps and dozens of black rivets. Wilde grabbed the black iron ring and yanked, but to no avail.

“Damnation! It’s locked. We must batter it down.”

“With what?”

Wisssshthump… wisssssshthump… wisssssshthump…

The double doors suddenly burst inward from a blow. The stench of decaying flesh preceded the monster into the room. It paused a moment to fix them both with its ghastly, yellow-eyed stare.

Conan Doyle grabbed the statue of a small bronze satyr from a nearby table and brandished it like a club. But to his surprise, Wilde pushed him aside and stepped toward the monster. He dropped to his knees before it and clasped both hands together in a gesture of supplication. The beast stumbled toward him and raised a clublike arm, coiled to smash. But then Wilde addressed it in fluent Italian, speaking in an impassioned voice, smiting his own chest from time to time. The beast stood frozen. It seemed to be listening, its facial muscles rippling with an inner struggle as the last fragments of Vicente’s humanity warred with the resurrected monster he had been fashioned to be. Wilde finally finished and the monster looked down upon him, as if unsure what to do.

“What did you say to it?”

“I asked him to save my little boy. I implored him in the name of his sister and all the loved ones in Italy he will never see again.”

Suddenly, the monster lowered its arm. It looked from Wilde to the door and back. And then the face tightened into a snarling grimace; a rising growl roared from the lungs. Wilde reared back, anticipating a deathblow. But instead the creature shambled forward and struck the door a resounding blow. The great door shook, but held. Another blow and another. An iron strap tore loose and clanged to the ground. More blows. The wood cracked and split in places. The monster backed away and then charged the door, smashing into it with such force that the hinges tore loose from the frame and the door toppled inward. The monster backed away and Conan Doyle and Wilde rushed into the chamber.

The room inside resembled the dungeon in the print, although the cell was faux-painted plaster, not stone. Torture devices hung from the walls. Gaslights disguised as torches illuminated the windowless space.

Jean Leckie sat on a simple straw pallet in the corner, cradling Wilde’s boy in her lap. And now both cried out in relief.

“Papa!” Vyvyan croaked in a dry voice.

“My beloved child!” Wilde cried, scooping up his son and hugging him to his chest.

“Papa…”

“Yes, Papa came to get you. All the monsters in the universe could not have prevented it.”

Conan Doyle took Jean Leckie by the hands and drew her to her feet. Her lips trembled as she fought to control her churning emotions. Her eyes sparkled with tears. Conan Doyle drew her into his arms and they shared a long, soul-quaking embrace. Suddenly remembering the monster, he flung about to look. But the bedroom was empty. The creature had gone.

As the four stumbled back down the long hall to the grand staircase, the smoke was chokingly thick.

“Shall we never be free of this blasted fog in one form or another?” Wilde complained. They hurried down the staircase to the ground floor where dense smoke swirled. By now fire had climbed up the fine paneling and flames were licking across the ceiling, leaping from room to room.

“Quickly!” Conan Doyle urged. “We must reach the entrance hall before the fire cuts off our only exit.”

But as they ran along the hallway past the grand hall, they found their way blocked by a solitary figure in a stovepipe hat.

Solomon Arkwright.

He brandished the Webley revolver, threatening them. “You and Wilde may save yourselves, but the young lady and the boy must remain.”

“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 façade 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.

“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.”