“He changed his name and seemingly his identity, from Solomon to Jedidiah.”
A floorboard creaked behind them. Conan Doyle spun and aimed the revolver, finger tensed on the trigger.
“Don’t shoot!” Detective Blenkinsop stood in the parlor doorway, the old veteran lurking behind.
“Detective Blenkinsop!” Conan Doyle exclaimed. “Thank goodness. You’d better come look at this.”
“What is it, sir?” Blenkinsop asked. He had obviously dressed in a hurry, for the front of his coat was misbuttoned. “What have you found?”
Conan Doyle nodded and the young detective stepped forward and peered at the two automatons. “Strewth!” he exclaimed raising his homburg and scratching his head. “Proper lifelike, ain’t they?”
“I believe Jedidiah is involved in a revolutionary plot that is unraveling at this very moment. I fear he is behind the kidnapping of Mister Wilde’s son and my friend, Miss Jean Leckie. Moreover, I believe he is behind the dead men who are coming to life and assassinating key members of the government.”
Blenkinsop let out a whistle. “All pretty serious charges. I mean, them big dolls is proper queer all right, but they ain’t against the law. I can’t go to Commissioner Burke unless we got something more substantial. Some proper kind of proof.”
Conan Doyle sagged visibly. “You are correct, Tom. We shall just have to keep searching the premises until we find it.” He thought a moment and said, “I believe a thorough probe of the cellar workshop should be next.”
As the men stepped back into the toyshop, a crouching shape stirred to life in the shadows, luminous eyes aglow. Startled, Blenkinsop turned and fired a single shot. BANG! Silver smoke purled in the air as the men crept forward and discovered what it was. The bullet had struck the wooden head of the Automaton Turk cleanly between the eyes. Despite the injury, the Turk stared demonically as his wooden arm lifted the pipe to his carved lips, exhaled a tendril of steam, and then swept smoothly across the chessboard and tapped three times.
“What is this infernal device?” Conan Doyle asked. He started to snatch open the various doors, revealing the clockwork mechanisms within. At the heart was a metal box, warm to the touch. His fingers fumbled a latch and the door sprung open. No one was prepared for the horror they found within.
A pair of living eyes stared back at them like bloody marbles and below, glistening white fangs. The men recoiled, exclaiming in shock and disgust. What they had found was an abomination: a monkey’s head, very much alive, although severed from its physical body. A metal collar encircled the stump of a neck. Rubber hoses pulsed with blood being pumped by a steam pump, leather bellows creaked up and down, pumping air, replacing lungs.
The ghastly secret of the Turkish Automaton revealed.
“Blimey! That’s nasty, that is!” Detective Blenkinsop breathed. He covered his mouth with his hand and turned away.
“What is it?” the blind veteran asked. “What’s he see?”
“A sin against man and nature,” Wilde hissed.
Conan Doyle touched a hand to his friend’s arm. They shared a look that acknowledged both were gripped by horrid speculation as to the well-being of their loved ones. “Come,” he urged, “we must search the workshop.”
The door in the floor flung open when Conan Doyle yanked the rope and the men peered down the precipitous steps. A light had been left burning as if someone or something down there waited for them. Detective Blenkinsop brandished his pistol and stepped cautiously forward. “I should be the one to lead the way,” he said. “This is now police business.”
They left the Crimean veteran to guard the top of the stairs and crept down the creaking steps, eyes probing the shadows. At the bottom they found a well laid-out workshop: half-assembled toys scattered atop workbenches, rolls of tinplate neatly stacked, tools hanging from hooks on the walls. There was nothing sinister about the place. No place prisoners could be held. No hidden cubbyholes.
“Nothing here,” Blenkinsop said. “Not a sausage.”
“Blast!” Wilde shouted, his voice cracking with disappointment. “Where can they be?”
Conan Doyle looked about the workshop. “Wait. There is something odd about this space.”
“Odd?” Blenkinsop said.
“It is too small. The shop upstairs is quite large. This looks to be half the size.”
He crossed to one wall, examining the bricks. “Note that the bricks on this wall are much newer than the bricks on the opposite wall.” His eyes traced the brickwork until he found what he was searching for: a straight crack that ran from floor to ceiling. The workbench set against the wall bore a cut that ran at an angle and intersected the same crack. He studied the hooks projecting from the brickwork. Only one was not hung with a tool. He grasped it and gave an experimental tug. The hook swung down on an invisible hinge and the wall opened with a clunk, rotating smoothly on an invisible pivot. They crossed through into the resurrection chamber.
“Another workshop,” Wilde said.
Conan Doyle looked around at the giant restraining chair, the laboratory tables, and the scarred wooden operating bench. “A workshop for evil. This is where they assemble their monsters.”
Blenkinsop found the door to the old larder. “Wonder where this leads?” He opened the door and went in. Conan Doyle and Wilde waited. After what seemed a very long time, Blenkinsop reemerged. Only now his expression was dire.
“What?” Wilde asked.
“Everything’s cold in there. On ice. And there’s two metal coffins.”
Wilde exchanged a look of dread with his friend.
Conan Doyle handed Blenkinsop the hissing lantern. “You open them, Tom.”
The younger man nodded. “Yeah. Right you are.” He stepped back into the larder and they heard the clang of metal lids being thrown open. Blenkinsop emerged moments later, his face ashen. He licked his lips, struggling to find his voice. “A young woman … pretty.” He looked at Wilde. “And a little boy.”
At the news, Wilde clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a moan of despair. Conan Doyle stepped forward and said, “I must see for myself.” He took the lantern and entered the larder. By the time he stepped back out, Wilde was shaking with dread anticipation.
“It’s all right, Oscar. It’s not Vyvyan, nor is it Jean. The two metal tanks contain the bodies of Solomon’s young wife and son. Although preserved in chilled alcohol, the corpses have deteriorated quite badly.”
Wilde shook his head. “Dear Lord, what demons are driving this man? Surely, he does not hope to revivify their corpses after so long?”
A terrible thought occurred to Conan Doyle. Maybe he does not. Maybe that is why he has abducted Miss Leckie and Wilde’s young boy. Perhaps he will somehow replace his missing family. He made the mistake of looking at Wilde. As the two friends’ eyes met, it was as if the thought was transmitted telepathically between them.
“Dear God, no!” Wilde breathed.
“Come!” Conan Doyle shouted as he hurried back across the workshop and charged up the wooden steps to the toyshop.
“What now, Doctor Doyle?” Blenkinsop shouted as he and Wilde hurried along behind.
“Our course of action is clear. All paths lead to one man: Rufus DeVayne, the Marquess of Gravistock. We must hurry to his family seat. I’ll warrant that is where Jean and Vyvyan have been taken. And I’ll warrant that is where we will find Jedidiah, or as he is really known, Solomon Arkwright. We cannot delay a moment longer, for fear of what is happening to our loved ones. Oscar and I will lead the charge.”
“Sorry, sir,” Blenkinsop said. “But I believe that is my job.”
“I must differ with you, Tom. You must alert your colleagues in the police and then I want you to go to Buckingham Palace.”
“To the palace? Me?” He laughed. “Copper or not, I doubt they would let the likes of me in.”
“I will give you a note explaining everything. You must deliver it personally to a man named Cypher. Saying his nam
e will open doors.”
“A bloke named Cypher?”
“They will understand. Now Oscar and I must make haste.”
“But how will you get there in this fog? The trains do not run. There’s not a hansom to be had.”
Conan Doyle pondered a moment, brows knit, but then something hanging on the wall caught his eye and a tight smile formed upon his face. “I think the evil genius Solomon Arkwright has provided the answer.” He pointed to the steam motorcycle hanging on the wall.
After they wheeled it out of the shop and onto the street, it took Conan Doyle ten minutes of head scratching before he could puzzle out its operation. “The water goes in here,” he said, patting the streamlined brass tank. “And the calcium carbide pellets go in here.” He yanked the cork from a smoked glass bottle and tipped a stream of white pellets into a metal reservoir. “Now, I believe the boiler is lit using this striker.” He depressed a spring-loaded plunger. There was a scratching sound and the foop! of a gas flame lighting. Within moments, the boiler hissed as it worked up a head of steam. He climbed astride the saddle, opened a petcock, and pistons began to drive up and down in their cylinders. And with that the machine came to life, throbbing between his legs, tendrils of steam wraithing about the engine. He had discovered two pairs of goggles hanging from a hook above the motorcycle and now he pulled on a pair and handed the spare to Wilde. “Here, Oscar, you will be needing these.”
“Whatever for?”
“To keep the wind out of your eyes.”
The Irishman chuckled ironically. “Oscar Wilde, ride upon such a contrivance? Surely you jest. Oscar Wilde does not ride bicycles or motorcycles. A hansom cab is the only two-wheeled vehicle I deign to ride inside.”
“How did you imagine we were going to get there?”
“I imagined you would ride, whilst I perambulate alongside.”
“Think of Vyvyan; we have no time.”
“But how will we see? The fog is so thick one can barely walk in it.”
Conan Doyle sparked a lighter and the steam cycle’s huge carbide headlamp flared to life, hurling a dazzling beam before it.
“Good lord, you have awakened a cyclopean beast!”
“Hop on,” Conan shouted above the clattering racket. “This way, we’ll be there inside half an hour.”
With great awkwardness, even for him, Wilde cocked a leg and straddled the bike, settling his backside into the bucket-like pillion saddle with the exaggerated caution of a hemorrhoid sufferer.
“Are you aboard?” Conan Doyle shouted over his shoulder.
“Only my most vulnerable appendages.”
“Right, then. Here we go. Hang on tight.”
Gears ground as Conan Doyle yanked levers, squeezed calipers, rotated handgrips, searching for a clutch. He gripped a small lever on the handlebars, pulled it back, and the motor revolutions climbed to a roar, the machine vibrating dangerously beneath them. A relief valve popped, jetting steam with a shriek. He threw more levers and then finally got lucky and found the clutch by slipping a toe beneath a foot pedal and lifting upward. Gears engaged with a graunch and the machine leaped forward. The cobblestones were greasy with fog and the back tire broke loose and spun madly. Conan Doyle snatched the handlebars left and right, fighting to stay upright. They veered across the road, mounted the sidewalk, careened off a wall and back onto the street. A lamppost loomed. Wilde shrieked and closed his eyes, hunkering behind Conan Doyle. Somehow they managed to swerve around it, although it clipped the Scotsman’s elbow painfully.
Suddenly the bike was flying along Winchester Street at a meteoric ten miles an hour, a speed which seemed much faster because of the fog and the necessity to dodge and weave around abandoned carriages blocking the roadway. Like men straddling a spluttering comet, they streaked through the streets of London and soon began the long, slow climb to Hampstead, where the fog finally began to thin. During the first five minutes of riding Conan Doyle attempted to slow for a corner only to discover that the machine had yet to be fitted with brakes. He decided not to broach the matter with Wilde who, lapsed Catholic though he was, was frantically reciting the rosary at the top of his voice.
As for stopping, Conan Doyle reasoned that wouldn’t be necessary until they reached the DeVayne family seat, at which point he would just have to improvise.
CHAPTER 31
A TOAST TO DEATH
The Fog Committee sat convened around the long table in the great hall of DeVayne’s ancestral seat for what they all hoped would be the final time.
DeVayne rose from his chair at the head of the long feasting table and addressed the assemblage of dour-faced members. “Gentlemen, we are mere hours away from writing our names in the history books.” He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The masked servants, who had been standing silently around the edges of the room, moved forward, bearing trays with crystal goblets and sparkling decanters filled with the green liquor. DeVayne seized a glass and bade the other members to follow suit. “Such a momentous occasion calls for a toast.”
“A toast to what?” the judge asked.
“A toast to death,” DeVayne answered, and added, “the death of the old regime and the birth of a new British republic.”
“What is this concoction?” asked the old admiral, eyeing the deep jade drink with obvious doubt.
“The libation of the gods,” DeVayne answered. “A drink for those who dare ascend the steps of Olympus. Come, join me in a toast to our great enterprise.”
The others took up their glasses, but no one drank.
DeVayne noticed their reluctance and sighed in exasperation. “Honestly, gentlemen, do you think I would poison you at this juncture? When we stand upon the threshold of victory?” To demonstrate, he quaffed his drink in one long gulp and thrust the goblet at the servant who quickly refilled it. “A toast, gentlemen. In just a few hours, the world will change for us all.” He smiled. “A toast to the new republic.”
All the members of the Fog Committee rose and reached across the table, to chink glasses.
“To the new republic!”
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.”
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