The List Of Seven (51 page)

"His Highness extends his regrets," said Gull roundly, "but it has been a most exhausting day. He will take the remainder of his meal in chambers before retiring."

Prince Eddy gestured and grumbled an objection. Gull whispered in his ear and pulled the thoroughly sodden man to his feet. Balking petulantly at Gull's instructions, the Prince yanked his arm away; his elbow hit his chair, and it crashed to the floor. Gull's face turned beet red.

"Good evening, Your Highness," said Alexander Sparks, His voice cut through the silence like a scalpel. "Rest well."

The Prince's expression turned meek and docile. He nodded meekly to Alexander. Dr. Gull took the Duke firmly by the arm and led him toward the stairs. Gull whispered to him again, the Prince stopped, assembled his tatterdemalion dignity, and addressed the table.

"Thank you all ... and good night," he said.

Similar felicitations were returned. Gull steered the Prince in a wide arc to the stairs. The Prince stumbled once, Gull righted him, and they began to climb, cautiously, one stair at a time. Prince Eddy looked as forlorn and toothless as a decrepit bear in a street circus.

As Doyle watched him go, something heavy dropped onto the table in front of him. His manuscript.

"Perhaps you can imagine my surprise, Dr. Doyle, when your ... manuscript first crossed the transom of Rathborne and Sons." Lady Nicholson spoke now, her voice low and throaty, ripe with voluptuously suggestive pauses.

Perhaps I can, thought Doyle.

"When Professor Vamberg and Mr. Graves—that is, Mr. Sparks—introduced themselves to us—"

"Some eleven years ago now," said the Bishop.

The fussy cleric's elaborations appeared to go over no better with Lady Nicholson than they had with Vamberg.

"Thank you, Your Worship. Sir John, General Drummond, and myself had shared and studied occultic knowledge for many years: We are of like mind. From the moment the Professor and Mr. Sparks came to England, made themselves known to us, and we dedicated ourselves to our ... joint interests ... absolute secrecy has been our foremost consideration. So, yes, imagine our surprise when that ... document . . . arrived on my desk. Written by a young, unknown, and unpublished physician—forgive me, a nobody—who, it seemed by the evidence available on the page, had been eavesdropping ... over our shoulders for these many years."

But it was an accident, he wanted to tell them. I lifted half of that folderol straight out of Blavatsky, and the rest was blind, stupid luck. Doyle knew that was not what they wished to hear, and it would avail him not to offer it up.

"So we are ..." Lady Nicholson purred, "and have been, for some time, most anxious to receive an ... explanation for ... this." She gestured languidly toward the book.

Doyle nodded slowly. He felt their eyes crawling over him like insects. "I do understand, Lady Nicholson. To begin, may I just say how greatly I admire what the lot of you have accomplished," Doyle said, affecting the stuffy academician persona he'd worn in the coach with Alexander. "How grand and enterprising your work. Visionary indeed. Bravo all. Most impressive."

"How did you come to know of ... our work?" asked Lady Nicholson.

"I can see there's no use in pretending, I may as well confess," said Doyle casually, praying his powers of invention would not pick this moment to fail him. "The plain truth is ... I've made a study of you."

"A study," said Lady Nicholson, cocking an eyebrow.

Veiled, discreet, and troubled looks passed back and forth among them.

"Oh yes," continued Doyle blithely. "Presumed and forsworn secrecy is one thing and all very well and good— heaven forbid it should be otherwise, given what you've been on about—and one would assume you'd have no difficulty whatsoever secreting the activities of seven such extraordinarily gifted individuals from the eyes and ears of such a modest admirer—a nobody, if you will. But an admirer in possession of such a profound desire to divine your purpose ... well, that's quite another kettle of fish entirely."

There was a lengthy silence.

"How?" demanded Drummond.

Doyle managed a lighthearted chuckle. "One might as well ask you, respectfully, General Drummond, sir, to freely divulge your most cherished military secrets. No, no, my investigative methods are not a subject I intend to discuss. Why, however. Now there's a proper question. Why? And the answer to that, my lords and lady, is something I would be only too happy to share with you."

Doyle leaned back, took a sip of wine, and smiled brazenly. He caught Eileen's eye for the briefest moment, during which she silently inquired if he had gone mad, realized this was distinctly not the case, and indicated her improvisatory cooperation was available if needed or called upon. He covertly nodded his acknowledgment.

"Why, then?" asked Alexander Sparks. He glowered lupinely, but there was uncertainty in his face.

This is the second time I've confounded him, thought Doyle. For some reason, he can't see past this ludicrous, slapdash facade I've constructed: The man has a blind spot.

"Why, indeed, Mr. Sparks," said Doyle, leaning confi-

dently forward. "Well. Here I sit among you. Granted, ad-judged against this august company, I am a man of humble means and undeniably moderate accomplishments. I hold no place in the world to compare remotely with anyone's at this table. What I do share with you is a passionate sympathy for your objectives. I share with you a passionate desire to see your plans come to fruition. And I have nurtured a perhaps reckless aspiration that by creating an opportunity to meet you, face-to-face, I could persuade you to allow me to play some part, however insignificant, in the fulfillment of your plans, in which I so strongly and fervently believe."

Running through Doyle's head like an urgent telegraph: The longer they let me jabber—and the longer I spin out this web of weightless nonsense—the longer they'll let us live and the more time I'll afford Jack, if he's inside, to make his move.

"So that is why you wrote this ... story?" asked Lady Nicholson, as if she found the word itself distasteful.

"That is precisely why I wrote my story, Madam, and exactly why I sent it to you as I did," said Doyle, opening his hands as if revealing cards in a poker game. "There it is. You've found me out."

More furtive looks exchanged. Doyle could see significant doubts persisting; Drummond, and to a lesser degree Chandros, seemed particularly unconverted.

"In addition to Rathborne and Sons, you submitted your manuscript to a number of other publishers," said Chandros reasonably.

"I did, Sir John, for one simple reason," said Doyle, assuming one would occur to him in the next instant. "One doesn't venture into a lion's den without creating a distraction. My method required subtlety. A straightforward approach to you I quite rightly felt would fall short, and I strongly suspected that you might well greet my efforts with no small disfavor, so I made those additional submissions, should you choose to investigate my intentions before responding, to lend yours an air of legitimacy. As it happened, I nearly lost my life in the bargain regardless, on more than a few occasions."

The table was silent. Doyle sensed he had a quorum leaning in his direction. He summoned his last reserves of sincerity to the fore.

"Please forgive me, but I must speak plainly; if you honestly thought I had no value to you I don't believe you would have gone to the trouble you did to test me with the seance. If, in your estimation, resolve and sacrifice and persistence count for anything—and I know they must or you would have killed me long before this—then I have faith you will, at the very least, allow me some nominal opportunity to prove myself to you and by so doing join you in whatsoever way you deem fit, to help bring your great plan to completion on this earth."

"What about my brother?" asked Alexander.

"Your brother?" Doyle had prepared himself for this riposte. "Your brother, Mr. Sparks, has abducted me against my will, twice, and come close to killing me more times than that. It has come to my understanding he is escaped from Bedlam; if his behavior is any indication, his internment there was not inappropriate."

"What does he want from you?"

"How does one decipher the ravings of a madman?" said Doyle dismissively. "One might as well try to solve the riddle of the Sphinx. Frankly, I'm just grateful to be rid of him."

A measured look passed between Sparks and Lady Nicholson; there's the axis of real power in this nest of snakes, noted Doyle.

"What do you know of ... our plan?" asked Lady Nicholson, with a provisional, but therefore significant, measure of respect.

"My understanding is you are attempting to return this being which Professor Vamberg has spoken of—the being I refer to in my manuscript as the Dweller on the Threshold—to the physical plane."

And now Doyle chanced his most daring leap of the offensive.

"And you are currently preparing a second attempt because your first effort—involving the birth of your son, Lady Nicholson, the blond child whom I saw depicted at the seance—has sadly and tragically failed."

That sent a bolt rocketing through the woman and on through the rest in a tumbling ricochet. Eileen's eyes widened

at this revelation. Doyle had gambled and come up aces. Prompted by an imperceptible signal from Sparks, Lady Nicholson extended their confidence in him another step.

"The physical vehicle was not strong enough," said the woman, without a trace of grief. "The boy was unable to ... bear the weight."

The physical vehicle: Good Christ, she's speaking about her own flesh and blood with the regretful sentiment of a poorly played game of darts.

"We impute the father," added Bishop Pillphrock piously. ''A weak man. A most weak and unserviceable man."

"It seems certain infirmities were ... passed along," said Lady Nicholson.

"I have met Lord Nicholson. I would have to say that does not surprise me, not at all," said Doyle. "One can only trust that your next standard-bearer proves to be as physically advantageous as is his position in the world."

"And who would that be?" asked Chandros mildly.

"Why, Prince Eddy, of course," said Doyle, taking another not altogether wild stab in the dark.

Another look between Nicholson and Alexander. Another nerve struck.

So that was the reason for Nigel Gull's presence in their midst: a short leash around the neck of the Crown Prince. Doyle barely had time to let the shock course through him. They believed they were going to bring this crepuscular phantom—Dark Lord, Dweller on the Threshold, call the Devil what you will—back to the world as presumptive heir to the throne of England.

"We are not immune to the ... persuasiveness and ... ingenuity of your arguments, Doctor," said Lady Nicholson.

"Just as we are duly impressed with your perseverance," added Sparks. "The seance was indeed a test. We needed to determine what you were made of. And what you knew."

"But given the risks involved, as you yourself have suggested, it is altogether fitting and proper that we look for additional . . . proof of your . . . suitability," said Lady Nicholson.

Doyle nodded. They've taken the bait, now I'll set the hook. "Most reasonable indeed, Lady—"

Doyle was distracted by something landing on the table in front of him. Although he hadn't seen the man move, Doyle knew that Sparks had tossed the object toward him.

A straight razor, blade exposed, gleaming in the candlelight.

"We would like to kill Miss Temple," said Sparks. "Here. Now."

Time stopped inside Doyle's mind.

"Kill Miss Temple," he repeated.

"Please," said Sparks.

You mustn't hesitate, Doyle. You mustn't blink. If Eileen is to have any chance at all ...

Where was Jack?

Doyle looked around the table. Alexander grinned. Pillphrock tittered nervously. Lady Nicholson's breathing had grown rapid and shallow; the woman was aroused by what she thought she was about to witness.

They wanted him to reenact the killing at the seance; this time there was to be no simulation.

Doyle didn't dare turn to Eileen.

"Yes, all right," Doyle said calmly.

Doyle picked up the razor, rose from his chair, and grasped its back to move it out of his way. Taking a step toward Eileen, he saw that five stone-eyed servants had moved in behind the table.

Eileen turned to look at him. Doyle let her know with his eyes:

Now.

Doyle pivoted on the ball of his foot and used the momentum of his turn to slash the razor down at Vamberg. Vamberg's eyes lit up behind his spectacles. He let out a cry, raising his left arm to ward off the blow: The razor sliced through the man's jacket and across his arm and hand. Crimson spurted onto the table from a severed vessel, splattering the manuscript.

Reaching into his pocket, with one motion Doyle pulled out the syringes and spun round the other way. The first sight that registered—Chandros leaning over to clamp Eileen's left hand onto the arm of her chair, the Bishop turning in his seat to pin down her right. Eileen stood halfway, slipped the Bishop's grasp, and drove her right fist directly into the face of -Chandros.

Bastards!" she yelled.

As her hand made contact with his flesh, the man screamed

violently, explosively, his hands flew to his face—to his right

eye—and as her fist drew back, Doyle saw that Eileen had

edged the four-inch hat pin firmly between her fingers; she had driven it deeply into the man's eye socket. Blood streamed out between Chandros's spasming fingers.

Before the Bishop could grab hold, Doyle secured his grip on the first syringe and thrust it into Pillphrock's fleshy throat, dropped the razor, and pushed down hard with both hands on the plunger, emptying the drug into the man's carotid artery. The Bishop screamed; halfway out his mouth, the sound cut off, strangulated by paralysis. His eyes bulged, his face turned purple and sclerotic, as the drug—a massive overdose of digitalis—raced into his bloodstream, where it would within seconds stop his heart.

"Run!" shouted Doyle.

Stunned by the suddenness of the attack, servants only now moved toward them from both sides of the table. Drummond rose to his feet; Lady Nicholson pushed her chair back from the table.