The List Of Seven (14 page)

The restless touch of the waves and the air's salt tan§ brought back to Doyle a cornucopia of long-forgotten memories of days at sea. The pleasure they imparted must have crept into his features, for Sparks soon offered him the rudder. He gladly accepted. Sparks settled himself comfortabl> down into a coil of rope, pulled a packet of tobacco from his boot, and filled a pipe. With only the crisp crack of the sail and the screech of the seabirds to distract him, Doyle greedily drank in the riches of the unobstructed seascape. Whatevei manner of ordeal they had embarked upon seemed infinitely more manageable out here, in an open boat dwarfed by the ocean's immensity, a sight Doyle had oftentimes found comforting in far rougher waters than these.

It suddenly occurred to him: Why not complete the fugitive act and make for the Continent? As a seafaring man, Doyle knew there were a thousand distant, exotic ports of call into which a man could vanish and re-create himself, places his nameless, faceless persecutors would never hope to find. As he considered this possibility, it occurred to him how remarkably little bound him to his current life—family, friends, a few patients—but no wife, no child, no onerous financial obligations. Remove the sentiment of love and discover how dangerously fragile are rendered one's ties to the familiar world. How seductive the possibility of utter change. It was all Doyle could do to resist ruddering hard to port and setting course for the unknown. Perhaps that was the genuine siren's song of legend, the temptation to jettison the ballast of the past and rush weightless and unencumbered down a dark tunnel of rebirth. Perhaps that was the soul's destiny regardless.

But as he stood at the brink of that decision, into the vacuum created by that shimmering lure of escape returned his primal conviction that when confronted by authentic evil— and he felt certain this is what pursued him—to move off one's ground without a fight was an equal if not greater evil. An evil of failure and cowardice. One might pass a lifetime, or an endless string of lifetimes, without ever facing such an unequivocal assault as this against the covenant of what a man holds true about himself. Better to lose your life in defense of its sanctity than to turn tail and live out what remained of one's allotted days as a beaten dog. It was a hollow refuge that gave no shelter from self-loathing.

So he did not steer their boat to the east. No matter if his enemies were more numerous or powerful, they could flay the skin from his muscles and boil the bones before receiving the satisfaction of surrender. He felt fierce and cold-minded and righteous. And if they had harnessed some unholy power, so much the better: They were still flesh, and all flesh could be made to bleed.

"I don't suppose you remember the name of that last publisher you submitted your book to?" Sparks asked, gazing lazily over the side.

"Could have been any one of several. My account book was lost in the shambles of my room."

"How unfortunate."

"How did they do it, Jack? I can manufacture an explanation for nearly everything else that's happened—the seance and even beyond—but I can't for the life of me see that one clear."

Sparks nodded thoughtfully, chewing on his pipe. "From your description, it appears the parties responsible have happened upon some method to effect a change in the molecular structure of physical objects."

"But that would imply they're actually in possession of some dreadful arcane power."

"Yes, I suppose it would," Sparks said dryly.

"I find that unacceptable."

"If that is in fact what they've done, our opinions on it won't provide much of a deterrent, old boy. And while we're on the subject of inadequate explanations, there's also the matter of the gray hoods."

"You said that you didn't think those men were ... exactly alive."

"You're the doctor."

"For an informed opinion, I'd need to examine one of mem."

"Given their persistence, I'd say there's a better than fair chance you'll have that opportunity."

Their conversation had roused Larry from his rest. He crawled out from under the lean-to, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Larry's seen one of them up close, haven't you Larry?" asked Sparks.

"Wot's 'at, sir?" he asked, rummaging in his saddlebag for a sandwich.

"The gray hoods. Tell Dr. Doyle."

"Right. This was a few months back, sir," he said, tearing carnivorously into his Westphalian ham and cheese. "I'm on the job of tailin' a certain gent'l'man wot we've had before our attention for some time—"

"A material suspect in my investigation," added Sparks.

"Right. Now every Tuesday night this gent made a reg'lar habit of leavin' his fine Mayfair home by way of patronizin' a notorious, if not celebrated, house of joy in the nearby neighborhood of Soho, where his tastes tended to run in a somewhat unconventional direction—"

"That's not our concern at the moment, Larry," Sparks corrected.

"I read you correctly, sir. So after establishin' this pattern of the gentTman's migratory tendencies over a period of time, on this one occasion, 'stead of following him to his weekly assignation, I speculate upon myself to remain behind, enter the man's house in his absence, and have a butchers about the premises to see wot's wot," he continued with his mouth full, pausing for a generous tug of beer to wash down the last few Promethean bites.

"Old habits die hard," said Doyle dryly.

"Not to feather my own nest, sir, no sir, I'm right sworn off it, me and Barry both, God's truth," he said, crossing himself. "No, I cased his 'omestead in the strictest eventuality the gent might by chance've left some telling trifle lyin' about wot would lead us direct to a fuller understandin' of him and his compatriots' devious intentions."

"A list of communique of some sort," added Sparks.

"Just so. Even if such a thing had been left for instance inside a safe secreted away behind a map of the Hyperborean wilderness or a fancy oil portrait of his cows and kisses—that is, his missus—fussied up somewhat, idealized like, a bit shorter in the tooth and slimmer amidships than she might naturally be if truth were known, that's the artist's prerogative after all, idn't it, and I'm sure the bloke was paid handsomely for his trouble; these artistic types, he don't need a map to know which side his bread's buttered on—sorry, I digress. Whatever the case may be, I was nonetheless bound and de-

termined and in full possession of the required talents to secure such an item, wherever it might be found." He finished the sandwich, drained his beer, belched explosively, and tossed the bottle overboard.

"So I opened the safe. Unfortunately, I discovered within its confines nothing much more interestin' than a fat stack of stock certificates—worth a queen bee's honey, they were, too; right difficult to move on the street, mind you, you'd raise a lotta eyebrows luggin' that lot 'round, although the old Larry and Barry wouldn't'a half minded havin' a bash, not for a minute—along with a few French postcards of recent vintage that in no way contradicted, in fact tended to confirm wot I 'ad already ascertained regarding the man's unorthodox intimate preferences, and finally last will and testament leavin' lock, stock, and barrel of his considerable estate to none other than the fat woman so generously depicted in the paintin'."

"So in other words you found nothing," Doyle said impatiently, annoyed by the man's incorrigible loquacity.

"Not what I'd hoped for, no sir. However, after tossing the rest of the joint with no less disappointing returns, as I made my way back through the basement to the casement window wherein I had gained my entrance, I spied a door standing ajar. A mudroom or root cellar, which had escaped my attention on the way in. But wit' me eyes now more accustomed to the darkness, I noticed a shoe inside that door. A boot, to be exact, standing motionless. I could see a pants leg as well, to which said boot was clearly attached. I stood there, still as Nelson's statue, and studied this tableau for a full ten minutes. It was a hobnailed boot, steel around the toe, clean as a baby's bonnet. A very serious boot this was. A boot not to be trifled with. One swift kick to the midsection and your insides are as completely rearranged as a newlywed's furniture. During those ten minutes, that boot never moved. I tossed a penny into that room that in the stillness of that basement sounded like a naval gun salute. Not a twitch. This emboldened me no end. I took the initiative. I opened the door."

"One of the gray hoods," said Doyle.

"That it was, sir. Seated on a stool, in the dark, face covered, hands on its knees thusly—"

"It didn't react?"

"To the extent, sir, that my thought at this point was I had

stumbled upon the spoils of some mysterious theft from Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors. This figure before me did absolutely nothing to suggest to my senses that I was sharing this room with a living human being."

"What did you do?"

"I lit a candle from me pocket in order to carry out a more thorough examination. I cautiously reached out and touched the man's hand. A quick jab, like that. Nothing. I dripped hot candle wax on him. When that failed to win a response, I took out my pigsticker and gave him a nick. Never moved a muscle. But even though that skin was gray and cold as fish on a plate, something in my little brain kept telling me the man was not dead, not in the way of my understanding. Caught a chill, I did. The hair on the back of me neck stood up and said 'ello, and I've been in the presence of the recently departed more than a few times without so much as a never-you-mind. This lay entirely outside of my experience."

"Did you feel for a pulse or heartbeat?"

"I confess the thought of touching that squiff again was a bit too rich for my blood. I did what I thought the next best thing. I took off the hood."

"The blue thread—"

"Yes, sir, he did have a line of the blue thread, here, binding the lips, a rough job it was, too, and recent by the look of it—"

"And the eyes?"

'The eyes were closed, but the lids were not sewn shut—"

"Was he breathing?"

"Let him finish, Doyle," said Sparks.

"I don't know, sir, I didn't really have the luxury to check out that aspect of the situation, you see, 'cause when I got my first good peep at his airs and graces, I realized I knew this fella—"

"You knew him?"

"Yes, sir. Lansdown Dilks, a strong-armer from Wapping, a past master, he was, we all knew him in the life, a very bad character, too. That is until they pinched him cold, breakin' the neck of a shopkeeper in Brixton—"

"He was imprisoned?"

"Imprisoned, convicted of murder most foul, and packed off to prison three years ago. So you can imagine my surprise

to find the old boy in a Mayfair root cellar with his lips upholstered like a windup soldier waitin' for a twist on the key in its back—"

"What did you do?"

"I heard the front door open upstairs. And at the sound of it, Lansdown's eyes opened."

"His eyes opened?"

"You heard me correct, sir."

"Did he ... recognize you?"

"That's difficult to say, sir, 'cause I blew out the candle and was out the door, through that window, and halfway down the alley outside before the room got dark. And if I had it to do over, I'd do the same again. Lansdown Dilks was unpleasant enough in his previous incarnation to warrant the strict avoidance of his company; I figure the odds were hard against this new state havin' effected any positive turn in his disposition."

Doyle couldn't articulate a response. The wind shifted. Clouds were gathering off to the west. It seemed suddenly ten degrees colder. The ship's timers groaned as they crested a wave.

"Whose house was this?" Doyle finally asked.

Sparks and Larry exchanged a guarded look that Doyle intercepted and to which he took immediate exception.

"Good Christ, man!" he said preemptively. "If I'm the one they're after, I've a right to know. In for a penny, in for a pound—"

"It's for your own protection, Doyle—" protested Sparks.

"A bloody lot of good that's done me! I'm a witness to murder, two murders—three, including Petrovitch—I can't return to my own home, my whole life's undone! And I have the pleasure of looking confidently forward to a life of abject terror until they butcher me like market beef!"

''Easy on, Doctor—"

"I'm either with you, Jack, on the inside of what you know from this moment on, or to hell with you and this whole business—you can put in to shore right now, drop me off, and I'll take my chances!"

Despite his inbred horror of making a scene, Doyle secretly enjoyed the cleansing effect of his outburst. It seemed to unlock a door inside Sparks, although it still remained for the

door to be opened. Doyle took out his revolver and pointed it at the ship's hull.

"You've got ten seconds to make up your mind before I blow a hole in this damn boat, and you'll be lucky if any of us make it to shore," he said coolly, cocking back the hammer. "I'm quite serious."

Larry made a casual reach into his pocket.

"No, Larry," said Sparks, without looking at him.

Larry removed his hand. They waited.

"Time's up, Jack," Doyle said, raising the gun, ready to fire.

"The house belongs to Brigadier General Marcus McCauley Drummond. Royal Fusiliers, retired. Put the gun away, Doctor."

"I'm not familiar with the name," said Doyle, easing his finger off the trigger but not relaxing the hammer.

"General Drummond's service record was distinguished primarily by its lack of distinction," said Sparks, in a clipped tone free of asperity. "His officer's commission was purchased with family money, whereby his inexplicable rise to top rank comes clear: The Drummonds are one of the nation's most prominent munitions manufacturers, our foremost suppliers of bullet and mortar shot. They own plants in Blackpool and Manchester as well as three German companies producing heavy artillery. General Drummond was not a particularly avid consumer of his own inventory; during his twenty years of service no troop under his command ever fired a shot in anger.

"Upon the death of his father six years ago, the General cashiered out and assumed control of the family concern. The aggressiveness that was in such scant supply during his years in service to the Crown found its voice in commerce: Sales and profits have tripled. Last year Drummond married his eldest daughter into the Krupp family of Munich, his most formidable competitor on the Continent. The result is a potential monopoly. The General is now poised to dominate the international as well as domestic market. He is currently negotiating to purchase the company that manufactures the very service revolver you are holding in your hand. Is there anything else you wish to know?"