* * *
A moonless night starved of its shadows.
Outside fine residences guarded by spike-topped railings, a line of streetlamps receded dimly into the miasma, so that the farthest lamps showed as little more than smudges of titanium white on a palette painted in every hue of silence. From somewhere beyond the visible came the telltale sound: wisssshthump … wisssssshthump … wissssssshthump …
Silvery tissues of fog swirled as a shambling form tore loose of them. Guided by some internal compass, it slogged along the road in its wounded but indefatigable stride, the grizzled head looking neither left nor right.
Wisssshthump … wisssssshthump … wissssssshthump …
Suddenly the hoary man broke stride. Stumbled to a halt in front of a handsome Georgian house of six storeys. It was an area normally well policed of the poor, the indigent, of beggars and idle vandals. But tonight, someone had chalked a message on the low garden wall of the handsome house:
For a long moment, the horrid yellow eyes fixed upon the graffiti, as if in recognition. Then the head tilted on its muscular stump of a neck, and the glaucous gaze raked up the brickwork to a second story window that pulsed with the telltale flicker of a coal fire burning in the grate. The mouth slackened, releasing a rumbling, feral growl. The nostrils jetted plumes of steam. The figure stirred itself, and limped to the marble front step where it stood looking up. The bedroom boasted an iron-railed balcony, but the building’s façade was smooth limestone with few handholds. Impossible for a man to scale.
For a living man.
* * *
Conan Doyle rattled the ice chunk melting in his brandy. He looked up to thank the waiter, but Cranford had vanished, leaving only a stir in the air currents. He and Wilde lounged in a bubble of thoughtful silence as his thoughts boomeranged back, for the thousandth time, to Jean Leckie. Quite unconsciously, he fingered his breast pocket for her calling card, withdrew it from his pocket, and gave it a casual glance.
Only to stiffen with shock. Instead of the feminine script and the address in Blackheath, he held a rectangle of card scribbled with a cryptic message: Stay sharp! The young lady is a distraction. Cypher.
Wilde noticed his reaction. “Is something amiss?”
Flummoxed, Conan Doyle grappled for an answer. He had carefully secured Jean’s calling card in his breast pocket. But then he remembered Cypher’s bowler-hatted bruisers outside the theater. The “accidental” collision. The sharp punch in the kidney. Suddenly the truth broke upon him—they had picked his pocket. He felt a gull, a fool, a dupe. The brazen impudence of the man raised Conan Doyle’s dander. Immediately, he scorned his half promise to keep the matter secret. Leaning forward in his chair, he snatched the poker from the fire stand and rammed it into the logs, lifting and heaving until the fire roared up, popping and crackling and spitting hot sparks onto the hearth rug. He only settled back into his chair when the press of heat against his face forced him to retreat.
“You certainly gave the fire a damned good thrashing, Arthur. I take it something has greatly perturbed you.”
“I have something to confess.”
“We are hardly in a confessional box, but at least we now have the purgatorial flames dancing before us.”
“I had hoped to keep you out of this, but the world is out-of-kilter more than you know. Or could begin to guess.”
“Do not kill me with suspense, Arthur. Ennui is the only death appropriate for a poet.”
“This morning I had the most extraordinary meeting…”
And then Conan Doyle spent twenty minutes relating his abduction from Waterloo Station, his meeting with Cypher, and finally his audience with Victoria herself. When he had finished, Wilde sat staring at the fire through the refracting lens of his brandy glass before tossing back the dregs and wryly remarking, “After a tale such as that, I will not regale you with the story of my morning, which began with a rather amusing incident concerning a misplaced egg cup.” He leaned forward and set his glass down on the rug. “So our assassin is involved in these anarchist plots that threaten to bring down England, the Commonwealth, and the Empire?”
“Assassin or assassins.”
“And who do you think is likely to be the next victim?”
“I am not sure. I cannot help but speculate there is some link to the members of an organization you and I are already familiar with.”
Wilde asked the question by raising his extravagant eyebrows.
“Yes, Oscar, the so-called Fog Committee.”
* * *
The bedroom was large and expensively furnished. An enormous four-poster hung with heavy curtains occupied one half of the room. Seated in a leather tub chair before the throbbing coal fire, his heels resting upon the emaciated form of a tiger-skin rug, was a man who was the living antonym of emaciated: Tarquin Hogg, banker. Aptly named, for with his porcine girth, piggy eyes, pug nose, and dimply assemblage of chins, the banker could have easily ribboned as best of breed in any county fair. As he gripped the newspaper spread across his generous lap with one hand, the other fleshy trotter groped a plate stacked with mince pies. He crammed one into his salivating mouth and chewed juicily. The large man had draped his bulk in a quilted silk dressing gown of peacock blue; a red fez capped his silvery hair. But despite the comfort of his dress and the luxury of his surroundings, Hogg looked decidedly ill at ease. For once, he was griped with more than just gas pains. He gave the paper a vexed rattle and glared at a front-page headline that screamed: “Lord Howell Assassinated” while below an equally menacing subtitle muttered ominously: “Another public figure murdered.” The fleshy pillows of his brow knitted in consternation. He snatched the pince-nez from his nose. Chewed his lower lip. A gentle knock at the bedroom door dragged him from his brooding reverie. He crumpled the newspaper double, hiding the story, and called out thickly around a mouthful of masticated pastry, “Come.”
A maid slid quickly into the room. Young. White. Starched. Comely. She bobbed a curtsey and said, “Sir, there’s someone at the door.”
Hogg glared at her with bemusement. No honest person would venture abroad on such a vile night.
“Who the devil is it?”
The young maid shook her head helplessly. “A gentleman. I don’t know who, sir.” And then she held out something in her hand. “He sends you his card.”
The fat banker levered himself up from the chair, tightened the sash of his dressing gown, and snatched the card from the maid’s hand.
When he read the name on the calling card, the color drained from his face. “Where…?”
“Waiting outside, sir.”
“Very good,” he said, handing the card back. He made to leave the room but then paused a moment. “Myrtle, I want you to turn down my bed and close the bed curtains. Then fetch a warming pan.” He caressed a downy cheek with the back of his chubby hand. “When I return I shall have you warm my bed.”
The young woman dropped her eyes. Her lips quivered as she answered meekly, “Very good, sir.”
When Tarquin Hogg stepped out of his front door, a strange vision waited at the curbside. Whooshing and hissing, it sat vibrating on its hard rubber tires, a pall of steam wreathing about it: one of the new horseless carriages. A human form skulked in the shadows beneath the fabric hood: a figure indistinguishable apart from a tall top hat. The glass window let down and a hand beckoned from the gloomy interior. With a grunt of umbrage, Hogg cinched tight the belt of his robe against the bitter chill of the night and waddled down the marble steps in his slippered feet.
“You!” he said, addressing the shadowy figure inside the carriage. “What do you want from me? Why are you here?”
“You read about Lord Howell?”
Hogg went rigid at the name. “Of course. But he was murdered by his valet—”
“Don’t bloody believe it. A lie for the newspapers.”
“What are you saying?”
“You are in great danger.”
“Danger? Me? What �
� what do you mean?”
“The Fog Committee knows that you are Cypher’s man.”
“They … they…” Hogg trailed off. Swallowed hard. “Oh, God, no!” he moaned. His eyes grew crazed, his jowls quivered with distress. “What am I to do? I could go to the authorities. Cypher must help me—”
“You are on your own. We all are. Even Cypher cannot protect you now.”
“Y-you, m-must help me,” the big man blubbered. “Your brother and his mad friends will murder us all.”
A hand extended from the steamer, a pistol clutched in its grip. “Take this. Keep it near you at all times. Do not go abroad alone.”
Hogg’s eyes bulged at the sight of the weapon. “A pistol? No, I cannot—”
“Take it, you daft bugger! And God be with you.”
The banker squeamishly took the pistol. Before he could say anything further, there was a grinding of gears, and the steamer chugged away into the fog.
Tarquin Hogg jammed the pistol in the pocket of his robe and panted up the front steps of his home, pausing to throw an uneasy look around at the empty street, his brown eyes probing the shadows for lurkers. Had he lingered longer on the front steps, or looked harder, he might have just made out the vague human form standing in the shadow of the large oak tree opposite. Instead he fled indoors and banged the door shut on the night.
His butler was waiting in the hallway and fixed him with a questioning look. “Sir? Is something amiss?”
“Alderton, I want you to personally ensure that the doors and all the windows are securely locked—”
“But, of course—”
“And then I want you to post a footman at every door. And ensure each is armed with some kind of weapon.”
For once, the aging butler’s face lost its composure. “W-with a weapon? But whatever—”
“See to it!” the banker snapped. “And Alderton…”
“Yes, sir?”
“Before you came into service, you were in the army, were you not?”
“Yes, m’lud. Infantry. Royal Fusiliers.”
“So you know how to use a gun?”
The butler allowed himself a modest smile. “I dare say I was a fair old shot back in the day.”
“Good,” Hogg said. He reached into the pocket of his robe, produced the pistol, and held it out to his servant. “Take it.”
The butler’s composure broke as his face registered wide-eyed astonishment.
“Sir?”
“Take it!”
The butler numbly complied.
“I want you to guard the front door tonight. Sleep in a chair if you must. No one is to be allowed in. Do you understand? No one. And if someone tries to break in … shoot them dead.”
Minutes later, the banker slunk into his bedroom, closed the door, and leaned with his back against it, breathing hard. Suddenly he noticed the heavy curtains at the window stir. He froze and watched. The curtains stirred a second time, as if someone or something lurked behind them. Scarcely able to draw breath, he crept to the fireplace, drew the iron poker and stepped quietly to the curtains.
Once again, the curtains ballooned out and sucked back. Raising the poker high, he snatched aside the curtain.
Nothing.
But then he felt the icy fingers of a chill draft trail across his face and realized what had been causing the curtains to stir. Inexplicably, the French door to the balcony stood ajar, allowing cold night air to waft in. “Who the devil opened this?” he complained aloud. He bumped the door shut and yanked at the handle to ensure that it was latched properly. As he turned back to the room, he heard a bedspring creak and froze. But then his face smeared with a knowing grin. He tiptoed toward the bed and softly called out: “Myrtle, you naughty child. Is that you? Have you a surprise for your master?”
He reached the bed and gripped the bed curtains, ready to fling them wide. But then he paused, sniffing the air as he caught a whiff of something horrid.
From behind came a timid knock and the maid’s voice calling through the bedroom door, “Sir, it is me … Myrtle.”
Puzzled, he snatched open the bed curtains.
He had only seconds to register the grizzled mien, the hideous face with its ghastly yellow eyes, before two calloused hands seized him by the throat, crushing his windpipe. The poker slipped from his hand and thudded to the rug.
At that moment, the bedroom door opened and the maid slid inside. The young woman stood agog for speechless seconds, her eyes wide with terror.
A hulking man had hold of her master by the throat and, despite his bulk, held him suspended so that his feet kicked the air clear of the floor. And then as she watched, the bestial man twisted her master’s head violently around. Vertebrae popped with a zippering sound. Myrtle’s horrified face was the last thing Tarquin Hogg’s bulging eyes fixed upon before the light went out of them and his portly body danced a sick shiver of death.
A scream coiled inside her chest and ripped the air as it burst out. Her cries alerted Alderton, who bounded up the staircase and reached the open bedroom door just as the creature flung the body of Tarquin Hogg across the room, where it crashed into the far wall, shattering a mirror before thudding to the floor.
“Stop!” Alderton shouted at the back of the large figure dominating the room. When it turned to face him, the butler saw the yellow eyes, the kinked neck, and the purple-green hue of the face. And then it took a shambling step toward him.
BANG!
The first bullet hit the monster in the shoulder. A gout of blood spurted, but the creature kept coming.
BANG!
The second shot hit it in the stomach, staggering it momentarily. “Myrtle,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Go, lass. Run!”
With a whimper of terror, the maid turned and bolted from the room.
BANG! BANG!
Bullets hit. Blood gushed. Alderton backed away as it crashed through the doorway, breaking loose the doorjamb with a shoulder.
BANG!
Alderton retreated down the hallway as the creature came on.
He fired again, hitting the lower chest. From years in the military, he knew he had only one bullet left. “Make it count, Johnny boy,” he muttered to himself. He fought to steady his shaking hand and drew a bead dead center, aiming for the heart.
BANG!
There was a metallic clang. A three-foot gout of blue flame shot from the chest and a moment later: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM! The hallway exploded in a ball of fire.
CHAPTER 14
A DEEPLY DISTURBING DISCOVERY
Waterloo Station was just stirring from its foggy slumber as Conan Doyle stepped out of the station into the predawn murk. He had cabbed from the Albemarle to catch the first train back to his home in Surrey. At this early hour, the majority of daily commuters had yet to arrive, but carts rolled in and out of the echoing archways and the platforms bustled with the earliest risers in London: costermongers and barrow men scurrying to unload crates of vegetables and flowers bound for Covent Garden, sides of beef and sheep for Smithfield’s Market, fish and seafood for Billingsgate Market.
He was making for his favorite newspaper kiosk when his attention was deflected by a cheerful Cockney voice calling out: “Show your patriotism, sir, buy a ribbon from an old soldier.”
Standing in the shelter of a station arch was an elderly man in a battered pillbox hat and worn British army jacket. The uniform was in sad repair, the once-proud scarlet faded with the passing of years. One epaulet dangled loose. The gold brocade of the cuffs was frayed and threadbare in places, although the sleeves still bore the stripes of a sergeant. A Crimean War medal, tarnished and dull, hung crookedly on the jacket’s right breast. The man’s eyes were hidden behind opaque round spectacles. A white stick dangled from the crook of his arm. Hanging from a strap around his neck was a tray filled with trinkets: Union Jack bunting and ribbons. Up close, the skin of his face was shriveled and marked with a tracery of livid red lines.
Burns, Conan Doyle thought.
“How much, my good fellow?”
“Sam’s me name, sir. And a sixpence is all. And gawd bless ya for helpin’ an old soldier.”
The Scotsman rummaged his pockets, found a coin, and dropped it into the collection box.
“Half a crown?” the veteran guessed, catching the ka-chunk of a higher denomination. “Very generous. Very generous, indeed. Allow me, sir.”
The veteran plucked a ribbon from his tray and pinned it to the lapel of Conan Doyle’s woolen coat with surprising alacrity. “You usually come to London on the eight thirty train, don’t you, sir?”
The Scottish author’s mouth dropped open with surprise. Apparently, the veteran considered himself a bit of an amateur Sherlock Holmes.
“Yes, I do. How on earth did you know that?”
“I recognize you by your hair oil and cologne. Very top drawer. Very distinctive.”
“Remarkable,” Conan Doyle said, “but tell me, how do you find your way about on these foggy mornings?”
“I taps me way around London,” the veteran explained, demonstrating by tapping his white cane upon the ground. “Day or night, fog or no fog, makes no nevermind to me.”
“Clever … and remarkable. I shall have to use that in one of my detective fictions.” He dug out another coin and dropped it in the veteran’s collection box. “There you go, Sam. That’s well worth another half-crown.”
“Thank ya kindly, sir. Gawd bless ya, and Gawd bless the Queen.”
As Conan Doyle approached the newspaper kiosk, his eye was caught by the hysterical message scrawled upon the reader board: ASSASSINS STRIKE AGAIN! He hurriedly purchased a paper and snapped it open only to be flayed about the face by a giant screaming headline: “HOGG SLAUGHTERED!”
The Scottish author grimaced at the tasteless pun and scanned the subheading: “Bank of England president killed by anarchist bomber.” As he read the words, images of the previous evening swam up in his mind: the hoary figure they had witnessed shambling through the fog and the steam car and its stovepipe-hatted driver seen shortly before that. He stood pondering. If only he could visit the scene of the most recent assassination—a course of action fraught with danger after Commissioner Burke’s blunt threat. He momentarily considered his journalism contacts, but they would likely be fobbed off with an “official” description of events. He needed to somehow slip inside Hogg’s residence and see for himself what had transpired. He needed a type of disguise, a mask, and suddenly realized that he already knew an insider who could help them walk straight through the police guard as if invisible.
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