The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (10 page)

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: N
ESTLE’S
M
ILK,
P
EARS
S
OAP,
A
LLSOPP’S,
K
OKO FOR
H
AIR,
N
ESTLE’S
M
ILK,
B
OVRIL,
S
ANITAS
S
OAP,
A
ZIL,
N
ESTLE’S
M
ILK,
N
ESTLE’S
M
ILK,
N
ESTLE’S
M
ILK
.

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!”

CHAPTER   9

JEDIDIAH’S EMPORIUM OF MECHANICAL MARVELS

The sign above the shop announced J
EDIDIAH’S
E
MPORIUM OF
M
ECHANICAL
M
ARVELS
. As Conan Doyle and Jean Leckie approached, a half-dozen street urchins scrummaged the windows, runny-noses smearing the glass as they ogled the multicolored toys on display.

Conan Doyle chided a path through the press of children with a throat-clearing
harrumph.
He thumbed the latch and a bell jangled as he swung wide the shop door and stood aside to allow Jean Leckie to enter. At that moment, one of the boys barged past, reached into the shop window, snatched a toy, and bolted.

“You young scoundrel!” Conan Doyle shouted impotently, but the boy was a blur of running arms and feet fast disappearing down the cobblestone street. “Stop!” He looked at his lady friend with concern. “That impudent tyke just pinched a toy right from under our noses.”

A rumble from behind made Conan Doyle turn. A large trapdoor in the floor flung upward and footsteps thumped up a flight of wooden steps. The figure that ascended from the cellar had a long white beard that spilled down upon his chest. He wore half-moon spectacles balanced upon his nose and a tasseled and richly embroidered burgundy smoking cap upon his head, beneath which his long white hair was pulled back and braided into a ponytail. With his avuncular demeanor and stained canvas apron, he resembled an emaciated Father Christmas.

“Welcome! Welcome,” said the man. “I am Jedidiah, owner of the emporium.”

Conan Doyle was about to speak when a mournful whistle interrupted him. He looked for the source of the sound and saw a miniature steam locomotive running on a set of steel tracks set high on the walls. The train orbited the shop in a frenzy of reciprocating motion and then plunged into the maw of a papier-m
â
ch
é
tunnel and vanished.

“I must apologize, sir,” Conan Doyle said. “We have inadvertently assisted a robbery. I was holding the door for the lady when a young guttersnipe snatched a toy from the display and took to his heels.”

The shopkeeper, a man who appeared to be in his sixties, rumbled with good-natured laughter.

“Do not be concerned. I think I know the boy. He has been staring at that toy for days with the kind of hopeless longing only a poor child can manifest.”

“But the lad is a thief! Should we not summon a constable?”

The older man shook his head dismissively. “There is no need. I did not become a toy maker seeking to become a rich man. I did so to make children happy.”

“How wonderful!” Jean beamed, and Conan Doyle, who was still perturbed about encouraging theft in the young, swallowed what he was about to say. “Now see here,” he said, drawing out his coin purse, “you must allow me to recompense you—”

The shopkeeper silenced him with a raised hand. “No, sir, that shall not be necessary. Perhaps if you find something to your fancy and make a purchase, that will help defray the loss.” Jedidiah looked from Conan Doyle to Jean Leckie with a sparkle in his eye and an amused smile. “But I see you are a handsome young couple, come to shop for your children.”

Conan Doyle blushed at the comment and quickly mumbled, “Actually, I was wondering if you could possibly mend this.” He pried the windup drummer from his deep coat pocket. “It is my son’s favorite toy and he is quite upset that it is broken.”

“How unfortunate. Let me see what I can do.” Jedidiah wiped his hands on his apron and took the toy. His tinkerer’s hands, stained with oil that marked every crease, poked and probed and gave the key an exploratory twist. After a ruminating pause he frowned and shook his head. “I am familiar with this make of toys. Inexpensive, but rather shabbily made. They soon break—an unfortunate situation guaranteed to break a child’s heart. He indicated the wares of his shop with a careless wave. “Everything in my shop is handmade by myself on the premises. Should a toy ever break, a customer may simply return it for free repair or replacement.”

“Ah,” Conan Doyle said. “So you cannot fix the toy? I had hoped … it is Kingsley’s favorite.”

Jedidiah raised a placating hand. “Do not give up hope so soon. Let me have a look inside.”

The toy maker produced a small screwdriver from an apron pocket and prized loose the tabs holding together the tin body. A black ribbon of coil spring unspooled and dangled. “As you can see,” Jedidiah noted, pointing to a gearwheel missing several teeth, “inferior gears. It has been overwound, stripping several teeth.”

“I see. Beyond repair. Dash it. Perhaps I can find something to replace it.”

“I cannot repair it,” Jedidiah said, looking craftily over his glasses, “but I can rebuild it. Properly. I’ll just take it to my workshop for a better look. Perhaps you and your pretty wife would care to browse while you wait?”

Both Conan Doyle and Jean Leckie squirmed a moment, embarrassed by the false presumption, but neither said anything to correct the mistake.

“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed. “That would be splendid.”

The shopkeeper nodded. He left the counter and tromped down the steps into the glowing cave of his cellar workshop.

“Isn’t it a dreamland?” Jean Leckie said, wandering the store, fondling toys hanging from the ceiling on cords and crowding the busy shelves. She touched a tinplate monkey in a red fez and it came to life, its arms winding forward and then snapping back as the monkey backflipped. The arms wound up again and the monkey backflipped a second time. “How funny!” she laughed.

Conan Doyle looked around, dazzled by the assortment. The shop displayed a few simple toys, such as stuffed bears, a maniacally smiling rocking horse, a few wooden swords and shields, but most everything was mechanical: windup, clockwork mechanisms of great ingenuity painted in colors to dazzle a child’s eye. “I could never bring Kingsley in here,” he remarked. “I should have to prise his hands off the counter to get him out!”

As Conan Doyle perused the shop, he found that it was much more than a simple toy store. It was also part museum and displayed a variety of wondrous mechanical contrivances. Then he glimpsed something hanging on the back wall that made his heart leap into his throat.

A steam motorcycle.

And a beautiful one at that. He had never seen such an advanced design. The motor was a compact unit streamlined into the fuel tank. Everything was beautifully wrought of painted steel and machined brass, all held together by shiny bolts. The motorcycle was fitted with a giant brass headlamp and two sculpted metal bucket seats, one for the rider and one for a pillion passenger. For a moment Conan Doyle was possessed by visions of swooping along a winding country lane on such a machine, gauntleted hands gripping the handlebars, cap on backward, eyes goggled against the rushing wind. And, of course, Miss Leckie would be seated pillion behind him, arms hugging about his waist, her long tresses tucked beneath a handsome bonnet, a silk scarf fluttering around her neck.

In all his life, he had never lusted so strongly after a material possession. He was at heart a Scotsman, cursed with the Caledonian habit of thrift. But, gripped by a mad impulse, he resolved on the spot to buy it—no matter what the expense. But then he noticed to his crushing disappointment a printed card affixed to the wall beside it: D
ISPLAY
O
NLY.
N
OT FOR
S
ALE
.

“Blast!” he muttered as the bubble of his fantasy burst.

Meanwhile, Jean had wandered deeper in the shop, and now her musical voice carried from the far back reaches. “Oh, Arthur, you must come and see this!”

Conan Doyle followed her voice to the back of the shop. When he finally found her, she was staring at something that dropped his jaw with surprise.

Sitting behind a low cabinet was a coffee-skinned man in a costume of the exotic east: a plumed turban and a crimson robe trimmed with white rabbit. An inlaid chessboard took pride of place atop the cabinet before him, which had its all of its doors left wide open to display its many brassy cogwheels, pulleys, and mechanisms of diabolical complexity. Atop the chessboard were ivory chess pieces set out, ready for a game. The turbaned man, who on closer inspection, proved to be a simple wooden dummy, held a long-stemmed pipe in one hand. Conan Doyle recognized instantly what he was confronted with.

“Extraordinary! It is a replica of—”

“The Automaton Chess Player,” Jean Leckie interjected before he could finish.

He looked at her, mouth agape. “You know of it?”

“Yes, Arthur. Although I am a
mere
woman I have a keen mind and am an active member of three lending libraries.” She gave him a cutting look that softened into a playful smirk. “As I told you in the park, I have made a study of all things occult since I was a young girl. It is a replica of Wolfgang von Kempelen’s mechanical chess player, one of the most famous automatons of all time. The original was built in 1789 to impress the Austrian court. Although many declared it a fake, no one could prove it so. The automaton defeated some of the greatest chess players of the day. It even defeated Napoleon. The original wound up in America where it was destroyed in a fire.”