The Dead Assassin

CHAPTER 8 A MASSIVE ATTACK OF HEART

As the tall gates of Hyde Park hove into view, Conan Doyle knuckled the cab ceiling and called out, “This is close enough.” The trapdoor above his head flung open and he jammed a crown into the grasping hand. The cab drew up at the curb and he leaped out.

Although the day had begun in dense fog, as he hurried through the park gates the wan November sun was gamely burning blue holes in the gray pall. He raced along the paths, dodging dawdling strollers, and at last approached the round pond. It was deserted, apart from the willowy grace of a solitary female figure. The woman was dressed in a long fur coat with a fur cap in the style of a Russian Cossack, both hands plunged into a matching muff. She was intently watching the mute swans whose white wings in the brittle winter light seemed to burn upon the water. They glided toward her, honking and stretching their necks to be fed, while a scrum of ducks quacked and waddled around her feet. For a moment he was half-convinced that it was another of Cypher’s tricks and that the woman would turn around and greet him with the face of a stranger. But at the sound of his approaching footsteps, she turned to look, their eyes met, and Jean Leckie’s exquisite features fountained with delight.

“Miss Leckie,” he panted, doffing his hat. “How lovely to see you again.” He drew off his glove and she offered him a cool clutch of gloved fingers and a beguiling smile.

“So pleasant to see you again, Doctor Doyle.”

Seeing her this close, in the full light of day, all the clever words he had been rehearsing evaporated from his tongue. There was an awkward silence until she bubbled gaily, “Whatever shall we do? Here we are at the duck pond with nothing to feed the birds.”

Suddenly remembering, Conan Doyle scrabbled in his coat pocket and drew out the bag of bread crusts Cypher had given him.

She clapped her hands with delight. “How clever and thoughtful you are!”

He nodded modestly. It was a small lie.

They spent the next half hour tossing bread to the waterfowl. Miss Leckie shrieked with giddy fear and laughter as the greedy swans snatched crusts with their finger-bruising beaks. When the bread ran out, the swans became a little too aggressive, and took to nuzzling at their pockets and pecking the cuffs of their coat sleeves, and so the two decided to retreat from the pond’s edge.

“A turn about the park, Miss Leckie?”

She glowed with approval. “That would be delightful, Doctor Doyle.”

Together they strolled the mostly empty pathways, the world receding and returning as they wandered through alternating regions of sunshine and fog. As they waded through a cooing flock of pigeons, the birds startled up in a cloud of flapping wings and Jean Leckie stumbled and clutched fast to him.

“I must take your arm, Doctor Doyle. A lady needs the support of a strong man.” She leaned her entire body into his, their faces came dangerously close, and her perfume filled his nostrils. It was a moment ripe with desire, but then it was suddenly over. They moved apart. He swallowed. Smiled amiably. And the two walked on as if nothing had occurred.

They reached the bridge over the Serpentine and paused to admire the view. At that moment, a song sparrow landed on the stone railing, flung back its head, and chirruped a melodious tune that seemed too large to be encompassed within such a tiny envelope of life. The bird finished its song and flew off. But then, as if in response, Jean Leckie opened her mouth and trilled up and down the musical scales in an operatic voice both beautiful and clear. Conan Doyle was taken aback and beamed with pleasure. A pair of strolling couples also stopped to listen as Miss Leckie sang a series of trills and arpeggios in a silvery voice. When she finished, the bystanders warmly applauded and she acknowledged them with a bashful giggle and a quick curtsey.

“You are wonderful,” Conan Doyle breathed. “Simply wonderful!”

“I am no grand diva, but my voice lessons are progressing. Some day, I should like to sing you an aria.”

“I look forward to it.”

As they descended from the bridge, Conan Doyle hesitated, choosing his words carefully before asking, “Do you have family in London, Miss Leckie?”

“I live with my parents in Blackheath.”

“Ah yes. You told me the other night.”

At that moment, they passed a park bench where a homeless beggar woman sat swaddled in a jumble of old coats and ragged clothes, a bag containing her worldly goods nestled at her feet. She hunched over into herself, a bloody rag clamped to her mouth as a jagged-edged cough racked her emaciated frame. It was a cough Conan Doyle knew only too well: the telltale death rattle of consumption. The woman looked up as they approached and her hollow, staring eyes looked deep into his. He drew in a sharp breath and faltered to a stop. His heart clenched painfully. It was his wife, Louise — she had somehow followed him there.

“What ever’s the matter?” Miss Leckie asked.

But in the next instant, he realized that the woman was not Touie. It was not his wife’s face he recognized — it was the mask of consumption. Still, the realization scorched his soul for knowing a moment of happiness. He quickly gathered himself and as they walked on Conan Doyle grappled to explain his reaction. “Ah, it was nothing. I merely remembered something I should not have forgotten.” He forced a strained smile and insisted, “Really, it is nothing for you to concern yourself.”

But she had caught the change in his face and drew him to a stop. “It is obviously not nothing. Tell me, how is your family?”

“I have a boy and a girl. They are well — flourishing. My wife—” He struggled to keep the hitch from his voice. “I have told you about my wife, Touie. About her condition. She endures, but I fear she is not long for this world.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he damned himself for uttering them, for they sounded like a promise: Be patient, for my wife will soon enough be gone.

But she saw the truth in his eyes and said, “I have told you a little about my experiences as a medium.” She took both of his large hands in hers. “I believe that all lives are part of a One Great Love into which our souls dissolve.”

His throat constricted. His eyes welled. Despite his outward appearance of strength and calm, the years of anguish over Touie and personal loneliness had flayed his soul to a thing of tattered threads. He realized for the first time that he, too, was an invalid — an emotional invalid. He had lost what little spontaneity he once had with the opposite sex. He felt clumsy and clueless and stymied. What to say? How to act? The moment drew taut, and Conan Doyle was seized by the terrible urge to lean forward and kiss her. She read the emotions swimming in his eyes and disarmed the moment by letting go of his hands and dropping her head demurely. The tension broken, she turned away and they resumed their slow promenade.

An embarrassed silence clung to them and for several minutes they said nothing. She stifled a cough on the back of her gloved hand. He said nothing and a moment later she coughed again, a little more insistently.

“Are you feeling well, Miss Leckie?”

“I am quite thirsty. Perhaps a cup of tea…”

Conan Doyle finally took the hint and cursed himself for not thinking of it first. “Yes, of course. We could find a tea shop. Would you like that?”

Miss Leckie smiled. “Oh could we? That would be most delightful!”

“There you have it, then. Tea for two, it is.”

As they strode toward the park gates, a strange sensation uncoiled in his chest, an emotion he had not felt in years. And then he realized what it was: happiness. His writing successes gave him satisfaction, but what he felt now was a soul-quaking sense of delight that goes by only one name: joy. The walls of the fortress he had built around his heart were crumbling. At times the vivacious young woman at his side made him feel old. Clumsy. Out of date. But she also made him feel terrifyingly alive. She was a being made of grace and loveliness. He also knew that, despite her youth, she was skilled at lovemaking. He realized for the first time — clod that he was — that it had been no accident that she had occupied the chair next to his at the SPR meeting. Rather, it was the kind of chance encounter that only results from careful planning. He was a successful author. He possessed fame and wealth. Had she set about to ensnare him? Was she deluding him? Leading him on? But then, in a moment of soul-searching, he was forced to confess his own culpability. He had noticed the lingering glances of the striking young lady at previous meetings of the SPR. And so, it was no accident that he had chosen to wax his moustaches and wear his finest clothing upon that fateful Monday evening.

They exited Hyde Park at Speaker’s Corner where a crowd milled. A man standing on a soapbox called for the overthrow of the monarchy and the establishment of a worker’s utopia. Some in the crowd, wearing bright red rosettes, cheered encouragement. Nearby, an Irishman was braying loudly about freedom for Ireland. Beyond him, a Trade Unionist sermonized about the loss of jobs from the rise of the infernal machine. “Smash the machines, before they smash us!” Shouts, catcalls, and counter calls filled the air, and many curses and vulgarities were cast back and forth. A lone constable loitered on the corner to keep the peace, looking sleepy and bored. Conan Doyle flushed to think he was exposing a young woman to vulgarity and tried to hurry through the crowd. But then they passed a group of women. An older lady wound with a sash reading VOTES FOR WOMEN was addressing the crowd when a stubble-faced man in rumpled clothes, reeking of gin, stumbled forward and bawled: “Shut up, ya poxy whores!”

Conan Doyle’s blood boiled. His large hands balled into fists. “You vile wretch!” he growled. “Curb your tongue in the presence of ladies or I’ll put you on the ground where you belong!”

The man threw Conan Doyle an off-kilter look, smiling slackly. “Eff off!”

Conan Doyle lunged for the man, but Jean Leckie gripped his arm and held him back.

“Please, Doctor Doyle. These women are steeled by battle. They are not frightened by the rantings of a shabby drunk.” Jean Leckie spoke up, addressing the man herself. “Like all small men full up with drink, you are a bully and a coward. I pity the poor woman married to you.”

“Oh yeah?” the man slurred. His bleary eyes shifted to Miss Leckie and his face slid into a sloppy leer. “Why don’t you and your dollymop go and fuh—”

The man still had the word on his lips, coiled and ready to fire, when Conan Doyle swung an uppercut that slammed into the point of the drunk’s chin, snapping his head back and laying him out cold on the pavement.

The crowd cheered Conan Doyle, which awoke the constable who looked about himself dozily and then began to saunter their way, dimly aware that something was amiss.

“Quickly, Arthur,” she said, seizing his hand. “We must away!”

The two put their heads down and pushed through the press of people until they reached the road.

Conan Doyle was mortified by his outburst of violence and stammered an apology, but his companion erupted in an infectious titter. Conan Doyle could not help but join in and soon was barking with laughter.

“You were magnificent!” he said.

“And you were my brave Sir Galahad, defending my honor.”

He saw a line of hansoms parked at the corner and steered her toward them. “Let’s take a cab, shall we?”

But Jean Leckie’s eyes were following a passing omnibus. “No, let’s ride the omnibus.”

Conan Doyle frowned skeptically. “Are you quite sure?”

“Oh yes, it is so exhilarating! Come along!”

Conan Doyle let himself be led by the hand as they dashed into the street after a passing omnibus. He had assumed Miss Leckie would wish to ride inside, shielded by glass windows from the elements, but instead she ran straight to the rear staircase, grabbed the railing and pulled herself aboard the moving vehicle. Conan Doyle leapt up behind her. “You wish to ride on top?” he questioned. “It is not considered decorous for ladies!”

“Do come along, Doctor Doyle,” she teased and sprang up the steps ahead of him, her flying skirts revealing black lace-up boots and a thrilling glimpse of shapely ankles clad in black stockings. Heart rumbling and face flushing, Conan Doyle tromped up the stairs after her. As they filed between rows of occupied seats, they ran a gauntlet of disapproving stares from a gallery of top hatted, po-faced men. Oblivious, Jean led Conan Doyle to the very front of the omnibus where they squeezed hip-to-hip onto the narrow bench.

“Oh, isn’t this supreme!” she exulted. “I feel quite giddy up here.”

“It’s the altitude. Perhaps we should remove to the lower carriage.”

“No,” she countered. “It is not the altitude that makes me dizzy, it is the company of a brave and handsome man.” She boldly took his hand and squeezed.

Conan Doyle’s heart stepped off a cliff… and fell weightless.

The November air was cold and smoky. As they turned onto Park Lane, the sepulchral Dome of St. Paul’s floated above the rooftops, hanging weightless in the yellow haze. It had been years since Conan Doyle had ridden atop an omnibus and he found himself delighting in the experience. Although only fifteen feet up, from this perch they seemed to be riding in a winged gondola flying low through London’s stony canyons. And the great city was a whirring, hissing, steam-driven contraption clanking noisily about them. At eye level, every bus, every building, every shop awning bore a shouting banner that drowned the clop of hooves, the rumble of cart wheels, the cries of street hawkers in a visual cacophony: NESTLE’S MILK, PEARS SOAP, ALLSOPP’S, KOKO FOR HAIR, NESTLE’S MILK, BOVRIL, SANITAS SOAP, AZIL, NESTLE’S MILK, NESTLE’S MILK, NESTLE’S MILK.

At times, falling white ash, like a mockery of snow, swirled in the air about their heads and danced off their shoulders. But Conan Doyle heard nothing, saw nothing but the fine down on Miss Leckie’s cheek and the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled.

“It is chilly,” she laughed. “I’m rather looking forward to my tea.” She leaned a hip into him and suddenly stiffened, a look of surprise on her face. “Oh!”

“What is it?”

“I felt something… hard.”

“W-What?” Conan Doyle stammered. He fished a hand in his coat pocket and withdrew Kingsley’s windup soldier. “It’s my little boy’s favorite toy. I’m afraid it’s broken. I was supposed to find a place where it could be mended. He is quite distraught.”

The two shared an embarrassed laugh and then an idea lit up Jean Leckie’s face. “I know of the most splendid toy shop just up the way.” She leapt to her feet and tugged at his hand. “Come, we must get off at the next stop. You must see it. It is a wonderland!”