Percy Thibodeau genially accused Coleridge of having read his own convictions into Milton’s essay, quoting in support some of his own essays, and the obviously flattered poet replied at some length, pointing out the many points on which he differed with Milton; “But when dealing with a man of Milton’s stature,” he said with a smile, “vanity prompts me to dwell upon the opinions I share with him.”
Darrow fished a watch from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it and got to his feet. “I’m afraid our party will have to be on our way now,” he said. “Time and tide wait for no man, and we’ve got a long voyage ahead of us.”
Chairs rutched noisily back from the table and people got to their feet and began fumbling arms through coat-sleeves. Nearly everyone, including Doyle, made a point of shaking hands with Coleridge, and Percy Thibodeau kissed him on the cheek. “Your Sara could hardly object to a kiss from a woman my age,” she said.
The woman Doyle suspected to be a celebrity spiritualist had, sure enough, begun to go into some kind of trance, and Benner hurried over and, smiling, whispered something to her.
She came out of it instantly, and allowed herself to be led by the elbow out of the room.
“Benner,” said Darrow. “Oh, sorry, carry on. Mr. Doyle—would you please go tell Clitheroe to bring the coaches around front?”
“Certainly.” Doyle paused in the doorway to take a last look at Coleridge—he was afraid he hadn’t paid enough attention, hadn’t got as much out of the evening as, say, the Thibodeaus—and then he sighed and turned away.
The hall was dark, and the floor uneven, and Benner and the unhappy medium were not in sight. Doyle groped his way around a corner, but instead of the entry hall found himself at the foot of a staircase, the bottom few steps of which were lit by a candle in a wall cresset. It must be the other way, he thought, and turned around.
He started violently, for a very tall man was standing directly behind him; his face was craggy and unpleasantly lined, as if from a long lifetime of disagreeable expressions, and his head was as bald as a vulture’s.
“God, you startled me,” Doyle exclaimed. “Excuse me, I seem to have—”
With surprising strength the man seized Doyle’s hand and, whirling him about, wrenched it up between his shoulder blades, and just as Doyle gasped at the sudden pain a wet cloth was pressed over his face so that instead of air he inhaled the sharply aromatic fumes of ether. He was off balance anyway, so he kicked backward with the strength of total panic, and he felt the heel of his boot collide hard with bone, but the powerful arms that held him didn’t even flinch. His struggles made him gulp in more of the fumes in spite of his efforts to hold his breath. He could feel a warm bulk of unconsciousness swelling in the back of his head, and he wondered frantically why someone, Darrow, Benner, Coleridge even, didn’t round the corner and shout an alarm.
With his last flicker of bewildered consciousness it occurred to him that this must be the “cadaverous old bald-headed guy” that Benner had startled in his tent in Islington in 1805, five years or a few hours ago.
* * *
The evening’s ride, which Damnable Richard had been enjoying as a respite from the sweaty labor of melting down more of an apparently endless supply of Britannia metal spoons, had now been spoiled for him by Wilbur’s description of how their quarry had appeared in that field. “I sneaked out and followed the old man,” Wilbur had whispered to him as they waited on the driver’s bench of the wagon for their chief to return, “and he went through the woods slow, by stops and starts, carrying a couple of his weird toys—he had that clay pot with acid and lead in it, you know, that stings you if you touch the two metal buttons on top? He kept stopping to touch it, the Beng only knows why, and I could see his hand jump back every time when it stung him. And he had that telescope thing with rutter pictures in it.”
Richard knew he meant the sextant; Wilbur could never understand that it was not called the sex-tent, and so he’d always assumed the chief was looking at dirty pictures when he peered through it. “And he stopped a lot of times to look through it—to keep his blood flowing quick, I judge. So I watched him from behind a tree as he started out across that field, looking at his tit pictures and then stinging himself, like maybe he was sorry. Then one time he touched the pot and his hand didn’t jump back. He looked at it and shook it and touched it again, and he didn’t jerk, so I knew it was broken. Right after that he ran back to the trees quick, no stops this time, and I flattened out, afraid he’d see me. He didn’t, though, and when I peeked up he was behind a tree maybe fifty yards away from me, staring hard at the empty field. So I did too, more than a little scared, because whatever he was up to had even him acting jumpy.”
As Wilbur paused for breath, Richard had reached into his shirt and held his finger and thumb over the ears of his little wooden monkey, for he always suspected scary talk would upset it. “Well,” Wilbur had gone on, “we stayed there for a few minutes, and I didn’t dare leave for fear he’d hear me. And, all of a sudden there was a loud thump sound, and a quick gust of wind in the treetops, and I looked out just in time to see a big black tent collapsing in the middle of the field.” He had squeezed Damnable Richard’s shoulder at this point. “And it wasn’t there when I peeked out a few seconds before! It just appeared there, you see? I made warding signs and said ‘Garlic!’ about a dozen times, for anybody could see this was the Beng’s work. Then a couple of fancy-dressed chals come crawling out from under the tent and pull it away, and what do you think? There were two coaches inside, with their lamps burning and all! And people in both of them, and horses harnessed up all ready to go. And one of these bengo chals says, real loud, ‘What a jump! Is everybody all right? How about the horses?’ Another one shushed him. Then a couple of them folded up their tent and buried it, and the two coaches headed for the road. That’s when the chief ran back to camp, me right behind, and got us into this wagon to follow them.”
Wilbur had now retired to the back of the wagon and was, to judge by his loud, slow breathing, seizing the opportunity to take a short nap. Damnable Richard envied him the ability simply to stop thinking about upsetting things. The old gypsy shifted uneasily on the driver’s bench and stared at the back door of the Crown and Anchor. Even being in the city made him nervous, what with all the gorgios staring at him, and the prastamengros always eager to clap a Romany chal into prison, but to learn that there was sorcery afoot that made his head ache with the danger of it all. Richard had an ungypsylike ability to compare past and present situations, and he wished forlornly that old Amenophis Fikee hadn’t disappeared, eight years ago; the picking had been rich enough when he was their chief, and life had been a lot less stressful. He put his hand into his shirt again and petted the monkey’s head reassuringly with his thumb.
The tavern’s back door squeaked open and Doctor Romany, carrying a limp body over his shoulder, bobbed across the alley toward the wagon. “Up, Wilbur,” Richard hissed, a moment before their chief appeared at the back opening.
“Help me get this fellow in, Wilbur,” said Romany softly.
“Avo, rya,” said the instantly alert Wilbur.
“Carefully, you idiot. Don’t bang his head—I need what’s in it. Avo, on the blankets, that’s kushto. Now bind and gag him.” The old chief drew the back opening shut, laced it up, and then, surprisingly agile in his spring-soled shoes, hurried around and climbed up on the driver’s bench beside Richard. “They’re evidently about to leave here,” he said. “I netted one, but let’s follow the rest.”
“Avo, rya,” acknowledged Richard. He clicked his tongue at the horses and the wagon surged forward, the canvas cover flapping as the high iron hoops rocked back and forth. They turned onto the Strand two blocks east of the Crown and Anchor, and then drew in to the curb.
They waited nearly half an hour, during which time a number of pedestrians wandered up, attracted by the ornately painted letters that spelled out DOCTOR ROMANY’S TRAVELLING EGYPCIAN FAIR across the canvas sides of the wagon. Then Romany’s eyes narrowed. “Richard! There they go at last—after them.”
The reins snapped and the wagon swung out into traffic. The street was crowded with carriages and hansoms, the two coaches were receding quickly, and the old gypsy had to stand up on the foot board and use every bit of his horse-handling skill even to keep their quarry in sight.
Doctor Romany pulled a watch from his pocket as they careened to the right into St. Martin’s Lane, amid angry and scared yells from other drivers, and he eyed it and then thrust it away. “They must intend to get back to the gate before it closes,” Richard heard him say to himself.
The three hastening vehicles, two together and one trailing, retraced the course they’d followed earlier in the
