The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (3 page)

“Dressed for dinner,” he noted. “Lord Howell was evidently about to go out.”

He paused and sniffed in deeply. A bitter tang of cordite spooled in the air. He looked down to see the fingers of Lord Howell’s right hand still curled about the trigger of a revolver—a Webley Mark IV. Conan Doyle eased it from fingers stiffening with rigor and snapped open the barrel with a practiced flick of the wrist and dumped out a handful of spent shell casings into his palm.

“All six rounds have been fired.”

Conan Doyle gripped the corpse’s wrist. The body was cold and when he lifted the arm, it bent like a strip of India rubber—the bones had been smashed to fragments. He unbuttoned the tuxedo jacket and peeled open the blood-soaked fabric. A moment’s palpation revealed that the sternum and every rib were broken. He concluded his examination by patting down the stomach and legs, searching for bullet wounds. To his astonishment, he found not a one.

And then he looked up and his mouth dropped open in astonishment. One wall bore the bloody imprint of a body. He rose and stumbled closer. Something had hurled Lord Howell’s body at the wall with tremendous force, leaving a man-sized dent in the plaster and a ballistic spray of blood.

“What on earth could have done this?” Conan Doyle breathed.

Blenkinsop shook his head, baffled. “Now you know why I fetched you, sir. I can’t fathom none of it.”

The Scottish doctor finally turned away from his ghoulish task, wiping sticky blood from his hands on a handkerchief. He flashed a grim look at Detective Blenkinsop. “I can find no bullet wounds. Not a single one. That can only mean—”

“All this blood?” Blenkinsop interjected. “It’s not his?”

“Unbelievable, but yes.”

“There must have been multiple assailants,” Conan Doyle speculated. “Lord Howell fired six shots, many of which clearly found their target. If a single man lost that much blood he would have died on the spot.”

“If it was something
human
what killed him.” Detective Blenkinsop spoke aloud what Conan Doyle had secretly conjectured. The smashed front door, the demolished parlor, the body hurled against the wall and then beaten to a bag of broken bones—all after six shots spilled pints of blood everywhere—defied rational explanation. It seemed more like the attack of a raging monster than a man … or men.

“Pardon, Detective, but I must step outside to clear my head.”

When Conan Doyle emerged through the ruined doorway, Wilde was lurking by the front gate, smoking a cigarette. The Irishman saw Conan Doyle approach and drew him farther away with a nod.

“What is it, Oscar?”

“I believe I have spotted what your fellow Sherlock Holmes would have referred to as ‘a clue.’”

Conan Doyle’s eyebrows rose. He leaned close and whispered, “What?”

“Look at the gatepost on the right.” Wilde drew out his silver cigarette case, opened it with a practiced flick, and held it out to the two constables standing guard. “Care for a cigarette?”

The nearest constable turned his head, sneaking a subtle look-around. “Very decent of you, sir. Don’t mind if I do.” As he stepped forward, the gatepost he had been shielding came into view, giving Conan Doyle clear sight of a figure scrawled in chalk:

“Much obliged, sir. I’ll smoke it later.” The constable grinned as he tucked the cigarette in a pocket and stepped back to his post, hiding the chalk scrawl once again.

Conan Doyle and Wilde casually stepped away, leaning their heads together to confer.

“Just random graffiti?” Conan Doyle pondered.

“We are in Belgravia. A place where the idle scribbler and his ball of chalk seldom make an appearance.”

“Quite right.”

Something caught Conan Doyle’s eye, and he tugged at his friend’s sleeve, nodding at the road. “If you look at just the right angle, you can see a trail of bloody footprints leading off into the fog.”

The Irish wit peered down, eyes asquint. “Ah yes, I see them now. Should we inform your detective friend?”

Conan Doyle shook his head. “Not just yet. Perhaps you and I should investigate before the London constabulary has a chance to tramp all over them with their regulation size nines.” He stepped onto the road and nodded for his friend to follow. “Come, Oscar. Let’s see where they lead.”

Wilde’s face plummeted. “Ah, you expect me to accompany you? I had rather planned on standing sentinel at the front gate.”

“I need you to watch my back.”

Wilde’s expression betrayed a decided lack of enthusiasm. “Which begs the question, who shall watch mine?”

Conan Doyle stepped from the curb into the street and Wilde reluctantly traipsed after. In less than ten strides, the house, the Mariah, and the police officers vanished from sight.

“I do not think we should stray too far,” Wilde worried aloud, “lest we become lost in the fog.”

Conan Doyle did not reply. He had his head down, eyes scouring the pavement for footprints. They reached a low garden wall daubed with a bloody handprint.

“Look! He put out a hand here to steady himself.” Conan Doyle looked at Wilde and spoke in a voice coiled tight with urgency. “Come, the assailant cannot be far ahead.”

“That is precisely what I am afraid of.”

“Judging by the staggering gait, if the murderer is still alive, he’s badly wounded and unlikely to be a danger to us.”

They followed the trail of fading footprints as they reeled around a corner into a side street. But instead of petering out, the footsteps carried on. And on. And on. Until finally, in a circle of light beneath a streetlamp, they found the bloody corpse of a large man slumped facedown on the pavement, the staring eyes opaque with death.

“Riddled from front to back with bullet wounds,” Conan Doyle said. “I count at least five.” He fixed Wilde with an urgent look. “Guard the body, Oscar, I must fetch Detective Blenkinsop at once.”

Distress flashed across Wilde’s long face. “Come now, Arthur,” he laughed shakily. “Dead bodies require little guarding. Who would wish to steal one? I have seen my share of wakes and lyings-in growing up in Ireland and I have found that the dead seldom make for good company. They are poor conversationalists, and should one actually speak, I am sure it should have nothing I would like to hear.”

“Very well. You fetch Detective Blenkinsop and I shall remain behind.”

Wilde took one step away from the pool of light beneath the streetlamp and recoiled. It was clear he realized that becoming lost in the fog was a real possibility.

“On second thought,” he corrected, “you are quite right. It would be better if I remained here whilst you return for help.”

As Conan Doyle moved to step away, Wilde death-gripped his arm. “This would be an appropriate time for haste, Arthur.”

“I shall not dilly-dally.” In just three steps the fog swallowed the Scottish author. Two more and it suffocated even the sound of his footfalls.

Instantly, Wilde found himself totally … utterly … alone. A solitary figure marooned on an island of lamplight, his isolation was palpable. The street. The houses. London … no longer existed.

It was a bitter night. He squirmed his shoulders deeper into his fur coat, large hands rummaging for warmth in his fur-lined pockets. Cold radiated up from the pavement through the soles of his shiny leather shoes. He stamped his feet, setting frozen toes tingling. Reluctant to look back at the bullet-riddled corpse, he gazed instead into the seething grayness, shivering from more than the November chill.

Long … long … long minutes passed.

“Really,” he said aloud to keep himself company, “what
is
taking Arthur so long?” He finished his cigarette and tossed the glowing fag end away, then fumbled his silver cigarette case from his pocket, flicked a lucifer to life with his thumbnail, kindled another cigarette with shaking hands, and gloved them in his pockets once again. He drew in a comforting lungful of warm smoke and let it out. Then, from somewhere, a faint noise caught his ear:
wisssshthump … wisssssshthump … wissssssshthump …

It was a noise somehow familiar. He looked around, straining his eyes. The fog curled into arabesques, as though stirred by invisible shapes moving through it. A nervous glance confirmed the body was still there. But then, as he watched, the fingers of the left hand twitched.

Wilde’s eyes widened.

The left leg shivered and kicked.

The cigarette tumbled from Wilde’s lips.

The corpse heaved; the chest rose and fell.

Wilde’s head quivered atop his neck, but he could not look away.

And then, the arm flexed. Shifted. Drew back. A bloody hand grappled for a handhold and the corpse began to push itself up from the pavement.

Wilde took a step backward.

A plume of steam shot out both its nostrils with a pneumatic
hissssssssssssss.

Wilde stumbled backward several steps, unaware of the shape looming in the fog behind him.

The arm suddenly buckled and the corpse slumped facedown to the pavement with an expiring wheeze.

Wilde shrieked as a hand clamped upon his shoulder and a ghastly glowing face swam up through the fog. “It’s me, Oscar.” Conan Doyle was holding a police officer’s bull’s-eye lantern that lit his face eerily from below. A second wraith materialized beside him: Detective Blenkinsop.

“It moved,” Wilde said breathlessly. “It groaned and moved.”

“That happens,” Conan Doyle reassured. “Dead bodies are filled with gases. They gurgle. They twitch. Sometimes sit up. I have experienced it myself, working the morgue as a medical student. It’s simply—”

“No, you fail to understand. It struggled to rise—”

“Oscar, I assure you, the fellow is quite dead.”

But despite the reassurance, the Irishman was reluctant to approach any closer. Conan Doyle and Detective Blenkinsop stepped to the body, hitched their trouser legs, and dropped to a crouch for a closer examination. Lit from below, the glare from the bull’s-eye lanterns stretched their faces into black-socketed fright masks.

“I count five bullet holes,” Conan Doyle said.

“Lord Howell was quite the marksman. He only missed once.”

“How on earth did the man stagger this far after taking five bullets? It’s almost as if he walked until he ran out of blood.”

Blenkinsop shook his head. “Like I said, something awful queer…”

Conan Doyle did not respond. The night. The fog. The grotesque murder. Everything conspired to twist minds in an eldritch direction. Determined not to lose his grip on rationality, he asked, “When do you estimate this happened?”

“The neighbors said they heard a row about six o’clock. A lot of shoutin’ and yellin’. Then shots. Five or more. A footman from the house two doors down was sent to run and fetch the police. But it took a while for a constable to arrive—what with the fog and all.”

“Six o’clock?” Conan Doyle repeated. “That’s nearly four hours ago!” He touched a hand to the dead man’s throat and looked up at Detective Blenkinsop in amazement. “Impossible! Lord Howell’s body was quite cold. But this body is still warm. Very warm. Burning up, in fact, as if the man had a fever!” He grabbed the heavy arm and lifted its dead weight. “No sign of rigor; he could not have died more than half an hour ago.”

Detective Blenkinsop leaned closer, sniffed the corpse, and recoiled. “Ugh! He pongs something ’orrible. Like he’s been dead a fortnight!”

Conan Doyle had also noticed the distinctive stench of corruption. “Maybe that’s a clue: he could be a tanner … or an abattoir worker … or a resurrection man.” He dragged the beam of his lantern across the body. The corpse was dressed in a motley of tattered clothes picked from the bottom of a rag bin. Clothes too shabby even for a casual laborer. The lank mop of black hair was greasy and matted. The lantern beam swept across the exposed back of the neck and paused.

“Look,” Conan Doyle said, pointing. “He has a tattoo of some kind. Let’s see if we can’t get a better look at it.” He scrunched down to turn the head further toward the light.

The young detective leaned closer and shone his own light in the murderer’s face, but then let out a shout of surprise and sprang to his feet, backpedaling several steps.

“What is it?” Conan Doyle asked. “Do you recognize him?”

Blenkinsop nodded manically, never taking his startled eyes off the corpse. “Yeah, I know him. I’d know him anywhere. But it ain’t possible. It ain’t possible!”

“What is it? Speak up, man. Who is this fellow?”

“I know the face. A-a-and that butterfly tattoo on his neck. I only seen a tattoo like that once before. It’s Charlie Higginbotham, that is. And no doubt about it.”

“A criminal you are acquainted with?”

“Charlie’s a petty thief. A dip. A cracksman. Strictly small time. It’s him. It’s definitely him. But it can’t be … it just can’t.”

“What do you mean? Why ever not?”

Detective Blenkinsop fixed the Scottish author with a demented stare. “Two months ago, I collared Charlie for the murder of his wife. I even testified against him at the trial.” He paused to lick dry lips. “I watched him take the drop last week at Newgate Prison. Hanged for murder. The last time I seen Charlie Higginbotham the hangman was digging the rope out of his neck. And he was dead. Very dead!”