The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (5 page)

“But, sir. I know what I saw and it was definitely—”

“Enough!” Burke barked with fury. He simmered a moment before speaking again. “With such a fog as this, it is impossible for anyone to make an accurate identification of a body. It is clear that you are emotionally overwrought. I suggest you return to the other officers. You will ride back to Scotland Yard in the Mariah.”

“But, sir!”

“That is quite enough, Detective! Unless you wish your suspension to be indefinite!”

Blenkinsop dropped his head in resignation and quietly muttered, “Yes, sir,” and then turned and trudged away into the fog.

“That is a brave young man,” Conan Doyle remarked in a voice taut with anger.

“No one doubts his bravery,” Burke responded. “It is his judgment I question. His promotion to detective at such an unseasoned age was, I fear, a mistake.”

“We witnessed the same thing,” Wilde put in. “Both Arthur and I.”

“About what you saw or imagined you saw, we shall speak of in the comfort and privacy of my carriage. The Yard is thankful for your, ah,
assistance
gentlemen, but now the case is in the hands of
professionals
. It is a foul night and I do not wish to keep you from the bosom of your family. Come along, let us conclude before anything else vanishes mysteriously.”

When they returned to Lord Howell’s house, the Italian valet, shackled hand and foot, was being manhandled into the back of the Black Mariah despite his howls and screams of pain. Conan Doyle would have preferred to ride with the prisoner in order to further question him, but Commissioner Burke was adamant that he and Wilde share his carriage.

They stood in the street, watching the Black Mariah pull away and vanish into the fog, and then the commissioner turned his corrosive gaze upon the two friends and said, “Of course, as this matter touches upon the safety of the realm, and as gentlemen, I expect you to say nothing of this matter to the newspapers. Especially, given the current air of unrest.”

“There have been threats?” Conan Doyle asked.

Burke barked a laugh. “Scotland Yard is awash in threats. Most are the impotent ramblings of lunatics and the feebleminded. Very few are of any real consequence.”

“Threats from whom?” Wilde inquired.

“Bolsheviks. Anarchists. And, of course…” he eyed the Irishman coldly and spoke the final word with such emphasis that spittle flew from his lips, “…
Fenians
.”

Conan Doyle saw the way the conversation was turning, and hurriedly put in, “I am certain the resources of Scotland Yard must be stretched right now, trying to defeat this anarchist threat.”

But his words had the reverse effect on Burke, who visibly bristled. “Hear me now,
Mister
Doyle, there is no
anarchist threat
. These people are a disorganized rabble of illiterate thugs. Compared to the sweeping powers of Scotland Yard and the Metropolitan Police Force, they represent a minor irritation. The dynamitards may set off their little whiz-bang’s here and there, but they do little real damage—apart from blowing themselves up occasionally.” He punctuated the remark with a sardonic laugh.

A bright flash that cut through the fog suddenly drew all eyes. Above the rooftops, a splash of light lit up the sides of tall buildings. Even from this distance, they watched the upward arc of flying masonry followed several seconds later by a rumbling detonation that struck like a fist to the chest, setting diaphragms aflutter.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!

The light flared and faded, and the darkness resounded to a brittle symphony of shattering glass followed, moments later, by the mournful shriek of police whistles, calling out the alarm.

“That looked like Whitehall to me,” Wilde observed.

“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed. “And something a little larger than a whiz-bang.”

At their glib comments, Commissioner Burke inflated with rage. He choked and spluttered but when he spoke again his voice thundered out in a nasal snarl: “I warn you two now, say nothing of tonight’s happenings to anyone. Not to the press. Not even your wives and loved ones…”

“You may count upon our discretion, Commissioner,” Conan Doyle assured, attempting to deflect his ire.

“Discretion, be damned! If I hear about either of you two scribblers playing
consulting detective
or in any way interfering in a police investigation, you will find yourselves in the deepest, darkest, dankest cell in Newgate. And with no official record of your arrest.
Do I make myself clear
?”

Distress rippled across Wilde’s face. Conan Doyle pressed his lips tight together, bridling at the naked threat, but neither man spoke. It was clear that their assent was not required.

CHAPTER   4

THE FOG COMMITTEE

It was the wrong side of 3:00
A.M.
when Conan Doyle shuffled after Wilde into the smoking room of Wilde’s club, the Albemarle, both men drooping with fatigue. The space was furnished with enormous winged armchairs upholstered in buttoned oxblood leather, and now they flopped into adjoining seats and groaned in weary unison.

“Dear Lord,” Conan Doyle said. “What a night!”

A waiter bearing a silver salver glided into the room, bowed, and asked, “Would you gentlemen be requiring anything?”

“Ah, Cranford,” Wilde said. “We’ve had a beastly night and the trains do not run due to the fog. Would you have a guest room made up for Doctor Doyle?”

Cranford’s mournful expression telegraphed the news before he spoke it. “With regrets, sir, all our rooms are taken—what with the fog and all.”

“That’s all right,” Conan Doyle said. “A large brandy and I could sleep at the top of Nelson’s column. This chair will seem luxurious by comparison.”

“Bother,” Wilde said. “Oh, and I suppose the kitchens are closed at this hour?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

Wilde fished in a pocket, tugged out a half-sovereign and tossed it onto the salver. “Fortunately I possess the skeleton key that opens all doors.”

Cranford stole a glimpse at the coin. “Yes, sir, I believe I can rouse the chef. Anything in particular you fancy?”

“Oh, nothing much: a dozen oysters, some p
â
t
é
and toast, fresh figs, a good brie and crackers, olives—green, not black—and, oh yes, a bottle of champagne.”

“Very good, sir. Vintage?”

Wilde answered with an insouciant wave. “You choose. I’m not fussy,” and quickly added, “But nothing that isn’t French. Nothing newer than an ’86. And nothing cheaper than five pounds a bottle.”

“I’ll check the cellar.” Cranford shifted his gaze to Conan Doyle. “And for Mister Wilde’s guest?”

“Your best brandy. Triple snit.”

“Ice or water?”

“Ice. Large chunk. Big enough to sink a ship.”

“As you wish, sir.” Cranford flourished his most obsequious bow and slid noiselessly from the room as if gliding on greased runners.

For several minutes, the two friends sat umbrellaed beneath an enervated silence as they awaited their drinks. Then a thought occurred to both men at the same instant.

“We left the body alone for scant minutes—” Conan Doyle began.

“And he was a big fellow—”

“So it would require two men, perhaps more, to lift him—”

“Even then, they could not carry such a weight very far.”

“And yet we heard no carriage come or go.”

“Perhaps the commissioner was right. Perhaps he did get up and walk away.”

Conan Doyle shifted in his chair and pondered. “How does one move a dead body without attracting attention?”

As he spoke the words, Cranford entered the room, balancing a tray with Conan Doyle’s brandy and Wilde’s champagne. Although he had undoubtedly overheard the remark, like all good British servants his demeanor betrayed nothing.

“What do you think, Cranford?” Wilde asked directly. “How would you move a dead body about London without attracting attention?”

The waiter paused to set the brandy down on Conan Doyle’s end table. “In a hearse, sir,” he said mildly. “That’s what they’re for, is it not?”

Wilde and Conan Doyle shared a look of surprised delight.

“Quite so,” Wilde laughed. “And we did see a hearse at the scene of the crime.”

“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed, “but that hearse had come to take away the body of Lord Howell.”

“Who is to say how many bodies it took away?”

Conan Doyle sat up in his chair, his fatigue suddenly forgotten. “You have a point. And looking back on it now, from the moment he entered the fray, Commissioner Burke seemed in great haste to wrap things up and cinch tight the bow on a murder investigation!”

Cranford popped the cork on the champagne, charged Wilde’s flute with effervescence, and returned the bottle to its ice bucket. “Your food will be forthcoming shortly, sir.”

Conan Doyle waited until the waiter had gone before saying, “While you were alone with the body, did you see a carriage of any kind?”

Wilde shook his head as he swished a mouthful of Perrier-Jou
ë
t.

“Hear anything?”

The Irishman allowed champagne to trickle down his throat before adding, “I did hear something. A very odd sound.”

“Oh, really?”

“It was faint, but sounded something like:
hissssss-ka-chung … hissssss-ka-chung
…”

“A steamer? No, it couldn’t have been, we were too far from the Thames … and no steamers would be running in such a fog.”

They were about to continue when Cranford sailed back in with a knife, fork, and napkin, arranging them silently on Wilde’s table before nodding a bow and dissolving into the fine walnut paneling.

“The man’s a ghost,” Conan Doyle muttered as he hefted his brandy.

“Yes,” Wilde agreed. “Cranford does not exit a room as much as disparate from it.”

Conan Doyle grew serious. “Speaking of servants, you don’t believe for a moment—”

“The Italian valet was somehow involved?” Wilde paused to sip his champagne. “No. I believe the young man is entirely innocent.”

“What about those pamphlets? Awfully incriminating.”

“And awfully convenient. In the space of a few minutes the police commissioner’s man has time to locate the valet’s room, search it, and return with a handful of damning evidence.”

Conan Doyle thoughtfully swirled his brandy. “Careful, Oscar. What you are suggesting smacks of conspiracy.”

“And does that not describe most assassinations? I watched Vicente’s face as those pamphlets were produced. I am convinced he had never seen them before.”

“And then there is the bullet-riddled body of a dead assassin. Three of us saw it and yet the commissioner showed not a jot of interest.”

Wilde shrugged. “You know the police: why let evidence stand in the way of a good trial and execution?”

Wilde’s comment sprung a frown to Conan Doyle’s lips. “If that happens, it will be a grave miscarriage of justice. Surely we must do something?”

“It is no longer our concern. Let us not forget Commissioner Burke’s generous offer of free accommodation in one of Her Majesty’s least luxurious prisons. I have been known to abandon a first-class hotel on a moment’s notice should I find the towels a tad scratchy. I doubt I would find Newgate much to my taste.”

Conan Doyle rumbled a grunt and said, “Point taken. I shall think no more on it.”

Wilde snatched up the day’s newspaper from the end table and vanished behind it, rattling the pages from time to time. But after several moments he lowered the paper and glowered at his friend. “Arthur, that is undoubtedly the noisiest silence I have ever
not
heard. Could you possibly think a little more quietly?”

Conan Doyle shifted in his chair and apologized. “Sorry. Still … bad business.”

“
Very
bad for business,” Wilde agreed. “This fog is caning my box office receipts.”

“I meant the murder of Lord Howell.”

“Yes, that, too.” The paper rattled violently and Wilde emitted a strangled sound. “Listen to this review of
An Ideal Husband:
‘Whilst Mister Wilde’s words were filled with light and illumination, the same could sadly not be said of the theater, which at one point was so obscured by fog and the footlights so dimmed that the play took on the aspect of a rather witty s
é
ance.’”

Wilde crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor. “This blasted fog is ruining me!”

The paper landed against Conan Doyle’s shins. When he leant forward to pick it up, a large photograph and its accompanying headline caught his eye: “Fog Committee Sees No Solution.”

He glanced at it a moment, and then folded the paper back upon itself and held up the article for his friend to see.

“It seems as though the government has already taken your advice, Oscar. They have appointed a ‘Fog Committee’ to look into the problem.”

Wilde squinted doubtfully at the newspaper. “‘A Fog Committee’?” he echoed, and choked on an ironic laugh. “Forming a committee is always the best possible way to achieve the minimum in the maximum time. Even the spelling is redundant: two m’s, two t’s, and two e’s. Why not save labor and spell it c-o-m-i-t-e? It would save precious ink and be equally ineffectual. Really, what would the world have gained if the English had not had such a spendthrift attitude to consonants?”

Conan Doyle chuckled as his eyes skimmed the text. The committee had concluded that the unusually dense fogs of recent months were purely a function of the vagaries of the English climate and that the much-bruited theory that the burning of coal in any way contributed to the fog was precisely that, a fantastical theory. The article went on to cite the historical record, with bad London fogs being reported as early as the time of King Stephen.

Wilde dredged the champagne bottle from its bucket, recharged his glass, and waved the bottle at Conan Doyle who, by way of declining, rattled the ice in his brandy. Wilde took a long sip, and wryly observed, “The government invariably forms committees to look into problems they have no intention of doing anything about. It is a classic stalling tactic employed in the hopes that either the problem will resolve itself or the government will eventually be voted out of power, at which point they can use the issue to cudgel the incoming administration.”