The List Of Seven (49 page)

"Workers. Factory workers," said Doyle.

Chandros shook his head, leaned in, and tapped Doyle on the chest for emphasis. "The answer," he said. 'The men you are looking at were until recently the lowest, most degraded form of human filth imaginable. Convicts: mean, vicious, blockheaded incorrigibles. Recruited for those very qualities, the worst of the lot from the lowest prisons and penal colonies of the nation and the world. Brought here—and believe me the prisons are only too glad to be rid of them—-to take part in a program that will prove our deliverance from blind enslavement to man's essential nature. Look at them."

The group's movements in the yard were well drilled, disciplined but unenthusiastic, if not sluggish, although none seemed to be performing under any sort of duress.

"Not so long ago those men could barely share common living space with other human beings for an hour without committing senseless acts of violence. The problem of crime. The problem of intolerance. The problem of brutality. Do you see? They all spring from the same fountainhead. Here and now, for the first time, they are completely rehabilitated, well provided for, and willing to give an honest day's work."

And so Bodger Nuggins was released from Newgate, thought Doyle. The intention seemed admirable enough—not all that different in conception, if not in scale, from what Jack Sparks tried to accomplish with men in the London underworld. But what was their method?

"How?" asked Doyle. "How is it done?"

"Direct intervention," said Chandros.

"What does that mean?"

"One of our colleagues has been studying this problem for many years. He has come to the conclusion that the fundamental aspects of personality begin in the brain. The brain is a physical organ, like the lungs or the liver, and it can be refashioned in ways we are only beginning to understand. You're a doctor. We believe that this low level of humanity— should we call it that? Why not?—is nothing more than a medical problem, a disease, like cholera or meningitis. It is a purely physical defect, and should be treated accordingly."

"Treated in what way?"

"I'm not familiar with the precise medical terms; the Professor will be happy to give you the particulars—"

"Treated surgically?"

"I am interested in results, Doctor. You see before you the more than encouraging results we have begun to realize with

this program, and not just with those factory workers: The entire household staff at Ravenscar is comprised of our suc-cessful efforts—our graduates, if you will. Let me assure you of this: Give a man a second chance at life, and he will be as grateful as a hound at your feet."

A second chance at life. Doyle felt his head spinning. The fray hoods. The ghouls at the museum. Automatons deprived of a will of their own. Doyle nodded agreeably to Chandros, turned away, and gripped the rail, trying not to betray his profound revulsion.

That's what they wanted the land for, Doyle realized— isolation to do this ungodly work. Bodger Nuggins caught wind of what lay in store and escaped, and they tracked him down and killed him. Something told Doyle he might have been one of the lucky ones. Whatever horrors had been committed on those sorry men below, the real monsters were here beside him on the balcony.

The last of the sunlight faded swiftly. The convicts in the enclosure were being marched off to another part of the compound. Doyle looked down at the central courtyard, his eye caught by a single wagon pulling in to what looked like a service entrance. As the driver dismounted and two servants moved forward to unload the delivery, a body clinging to the undercarriage rolled out from beneath the wagon and slipped into the shadows. None of the sentries or servants noticed the intruder made his move. Doyle couldn't make out the face from this distance, but something unmistakably familiar registered about the way the figure moved.

Jack.

A deep bell rang somewhere inside the house.

"Ah. Dinner will be served shortly," said Chandros. "Why don't you see if that charming companion of yours is ready to join us, Doctor?"

"Yes. Good," said Doyle.

"We'll see you at table then."

Doyle nodded. He heard the door open behind him; Chandros and Drummond moved inside. Doyle scanned the courtyard for another glimpse of the intruder but saw no trace of him. He waited a few moments, then followed the others inside. Doyle stepped quickly to his room, where the formidable servant was once again stationed at the door. As he entered, Doyle caught the blank, reflectionless plane of the man's eyes. They were as cold and lifeless as those of a fish on a platter. The door closed silently behind him.

chapter eighteen DINNER IS SERVED

SEATED BEFORE A VANITY, ElLEEN USED THE MIRROR TO APPLY

the lightest blush to her lips. She wore her hair in an elaborate chignon. A choker studded with what appeared to be diamonds encircled her neck. The form-hugging, off-the-shoulder black velvet dress their hosts had provided elevated her innate glamour to a classical level.

"Fitting they give me a dress in the bargain," she said, "seeing as how they ruined mine. Fasten me in the back, would you, Arthur?"

Doyle bent to attend to the disjointed hook and eye. She wore a subtle, entrancing perfume. He kissed her shoulder once, softly.

"They left makeup and jewelry as well." She touched the diamond earrings she was wearing. "These are not paste. What on earth are they up to?"

"Why don't we go find out?" said Doyle, moving to the davenport and, out of her sight, retrieving the syringes. He slipped them into his breast pocket, making certain they didn't create a giveaway bulge in the line.

"Who else is going to be there?"

"More than they bargained for," said Doyle, lowering his voice. "Jack's somewhere inside."

She looked at him. "Good. We won't give up without a fight."

"I'll try and keep you as far from harm's way—"

"Arthur, the bastards killed eighteen of my friends—"

"I won't let them hurt you—"

"Among them my fiance. He was sitting beside me at the seance that night, playing my brother."

Doyle collected himself. "Dennis."

"Yes. Dennis."

"I had no idea. I'm so terribly sorry."

Eileen nodded and turned away. Moments later she picked up a small black purse and presented herself. "Do I look all right? Lie if you must."

"Stunning. God's truth."

She smiled brightly, illuminating the room. He offered his arm, she took it, and they exited to the hall. The sen-ant stood aside as they made for the stairs. Music from below was accompanied by the buzz of conversation.

"I've a four-inch hat pin in my hair." she whispered. 'Tell me when, and I won't hesitate to use it."

"Don't be shy about applying it where it does the most

damage."

"Have I ever struck you as shy, Arthur?"

"No, dear," he said.

Eileen wrapped her arm securely around Doyle's, and they started down the grand staircase. The sight below was rare and sumptuous; lit by enormous candelabras, the table was set with fine silver and crystal. A string quartet played in the corner. Eight chairs occupied, guests dressed as if for a royal occasion. Sir John Chandros sat at the head of the table, the seat of honor empty to his right. As he spied Doyle and Eileen descending, conversation died, and attention shifted toward the stairs.

"Smile, darling," whispered Doyle. " 'Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of Death rode the six hundred....' " murmured Eileen under her breath. "Oh, my Lord ..." "What is it?"

"Look what the cat dragged in," she said, smiling and nodding toward the end of the table opposite to Chandros.

At the prompting of the silver-haired gent to his right, a man in his early twenties rose to greet them; of medium height, portly and pale, pinched features distorted by a dissolute bloat. A wispy mustache laden with wax and a goatish goatee intended a rakish flair that failed to convince, suggesting instead overreaching immaturity. Bedecked with ribbons, medals, and a sash, a constellation of new stains blotted his immaculately starched white dickey. As Doyle and Eileen reached the bottom of the stairs, Bishop Pillphrock, in High

Anglican surplice, steered them straight toward the young man, who waited as patiently as a well-trained ape.

"May I present His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor Edward, the Duke of Clarence," said the Bishop, with extreme unction. "Dr. -Arthur Conan Doyle."

"How7 do you do?" said the Duke blankly. Nothing registered in his eyes, set near together with the oafish glaze of a guinea pig.

"Your Highness," said Doyle.

"Miss Eileen Temple," said the Bishop.

"How do you do?" He displayed no spark of recognition. The man must be ill, thought Doyle; Eileen was not easily forgotten, even at a glance, and the Duke had once spent an entire evening in vigorous pursuit of her.

"Your Highness," said Eileen.

"The weather today has been unseasonably mild," said the Duke, with the spontaneous animation of a windup toy.

"An unusually clear day for this time of year," said Doyle, inundated by the sour wine saturating the Prince's breath.

"We are all truly blessed by such a day as this," added the Bishop, flashing an oily grin. "One can only attribute our great good fortune to the company of His Highness."

'The company of His Highness produces numerous fortunes," said Eileen graciously. "I know that at least one of his gifts, passed from father to son, has been repeatedly bestowed to women throughout England."

The Bishop appeared thunderstruck by Eileen's comment—a none-too-veiled reference to the unmarried Duke's renowned promiscuity and rumored venereal heritage. Prince Eddy wrinkled his brow slightly; confusion seemed almost too complicated a mental state for him to reach.

The eldest son of the eldest son of the Queen herself, second in line to the throne, thought Doyle; if there was ever a more convincing argument against the continued intermarriage of royal European bloodlines—

The throne.

The words of Spivey Quince and the boy in blue came rushing back—

The throne. Opening the passage.

We've been trying to interpret the warnings metaphorically. ...

"It seeks the throne. It will be King."

"His Highness has been so generous with the distribution of his bounty, it must be difficult to remember exactly where he's deposited it," added Eileen, smiling pleasantly, vivid spots of color highlighting her cheeks.

Bishop Pillphrock had gone as pale as a ghost, mouth yawning open, momentarily devoid of his abundant social lubricant. The Prince blinked many times and worked his lips silently. He looked like a broken toy.

"On hot afternoons," said the Prince timidly, "I'm very fond of strawberry ice cream."

The oddness of the non sequitur stilled even Eileen. A solitary tear escaped the Prince's bleary light eyes and ran into his splotchy whiskers.

"All I want," said the Prince in a wee voice that must have been familiar in the royal nursery, "is some peace and quiet and a little fun."

The silver-haired man to the Prince's right asserted himself, taking the Prince by the arm. "And so you shall have it. Your Highness has been sorely tried by his day's demanding schedule," said the man, easing the Duke back into his chair, "and is in need of nourishment to replenish his spirits."

"More wine," said the Prince, eyes downcast, sullenly sinking into himself.

"More wine!" barked the Bishop. "Thank you, Sir Nigel. His Highness's welfare is of course foremost in all our minds."

"So I would've thought," said Sir Nigel Gull, the silver-haired man, erstwhile physician to the prince. As he took his seat, Gull shot a withering glare at Eileen, A woman-hater, concluded Doyle instantly, remembering that the prolific rumors of the Prince's debauchery were not exclusively limited to the fairer sex.

"Please, be seated, won't you?" said the Bishop, regaining his form. "Miss Temple, if you would be so kind; our host has requested you for his right hand."

The Bishop held out her chair as Eileen sat to the right of Chandros, directly across from Alexander Sparks. The upright hulk of General Marcus McCauley Drummond stood on Sparks's left.

"And here for you, please, Dr. Doyle." Pillphrock indicated

a chair two spots to Eileen's right. "Welcome, all, welcome, welcome."

Pillphrock rang the serving bell and settled his girth be-tween Eileen and Doyle, who took his seat directly across from the only other female at the table, a darkly handsome woman whom he recognized as Lady Caroline Nicholson. Black hair bonneted a strong face, her features hawkish and unforgiving, more sensual than the photo had been able to convey. Her black eyes glittered with a predatory heat. She smiled cryptically.

The man to Doyle's immediate right had difficulty retaking his seat, wincing in pain. His right leg extended out as stiff as a board, the bulge of a poultice ballooning the pants leg around his knee. Slight, clean-shaven, pale, and pockmarked. Even with the spectacles he wore and the absence of makeup, Doyle recognized him as the Dark Man from the seance, the man he had shot in that leg. Professor Arminius Vamberg.

So they were accounted for, all seven, and the grandson of Queen Victoria in the bargain. Doyle looked up and met the willful, steady eyes of Alexander Sparks. The implied complicity of his smile was unnerving, as if he could gaze unimpeded into the private mind of anyone he scrutinized. Seeing no purpose in openly challenging him, Doyle looked away.

Sharing the same dull eyes and attentively vacant expression, a squadron of servants carried in a soup course, which, a ravenous Doyle was disappointed to see, proved to be a thin consomme.

"I made the discovery during my years in the Caribbean," offered Professor Vamberg unsolicited, in the harshly accented rasp that vividly recalled the night at 13 Cheshire.

"What's that?" asked Doyle.

"Have you spent any length of time in primitive cultures, Doctor?"

"Not if you exclude the French," said Doyle, trying to check his hunger from prompting him to pick up his bowl and drink.