fessor Sacker has told you was correct in many details: You have been made a target by a group traveling the Left-Handed Path.'
'Who are they?'
'This is unknown—'
'The Dark Brotherhood?'
'There are many names for that loose confederation of souls. Their hand is visible behind the sinister actions of countless factions around the world; do not mistake them for some benevolent protective order of lodge brothers. They are our counterparts in exploring what lies beyond, but their sole ambition is material power. They are exceedingly malicious and more than capable of ending your life, as they have done to my dear friend Petrovitch, who was, by the way, a highly advanced Adept who had been watching your progress with interest for some time —'
'My progress?'
She stilled him again and fixed him with her hypnotic gaze, which flared again with the persuasive power she had evidenced earlier onstage.
'You must not waver in your determination. It is your strongest asset. You must not fear, for that will let them in. Regarding all of these phenomena you have described, some of which I must admit are new to me—the blue thread, the strange state of your rooms, and so on—you must remember this: All of these manifestations they create mean absolutely nothing.'
'Is that true?'
'Not really, but I strongly advise you to adopt this attitude at once, or things will not go well for you. By the way, may I have this copy of my book? I should like to study it. They appear to have penetrated the skin and altered its molecular structure. If this is true, it is not good.'
He handed her the book, gulping back the impulse to ask her why? She studied the book for a moment before placing it in her satchel and turning to him for another long look.
'When things appear darkest, you have friends unknown or unseen—'
'Professor Sacker—'
'The Professor Sacker you have met tonight is a scholar of ancient Mystery Cults. He is a sympathetic colleague of ours,
an academic with no direct knowledge of your lamentable situation. The fact that the man who contacted you used his name is of great significance, which I encourage you to investigate.'
'What should I do?'
'What should you do? That is a most excellent question,' she said seriously. 'What do you think you should do?'
Doyle thought for a moment.
'I think I should visit Lady Nicholson's estate. Topping.'
'A sound idea. You are in the grip of a most interesting dilemma, Doctor. I sincerely hope our paths may cross again someday. Do you have copies of all my books?'
'As a matter of fact, they were lost in the—'
'Please see the boy outside. He will provide you with new editions at absolutely no cost. I trust they may prove useful to you.'
She turned away and began packing her satchel. Doyle suddenly remembered the talisman sitting in his pocket.
'Excuse me, Madame ... but what do you make of this?' and he showed her the metallic eye Sacker's imposter had given him. She took it from him, looked it over, tried to bend it, then bit down on it. It bore no marks, which drew a nod of approval.
'This is very good. If I were you, I would wear it around my neck.'
She handed it back and closed up her satchel.
'But what does it mean?'
'It is a symbol.'
'A symbol of what?' he asked, somewhat exasperated.
'It would take too long to explain. I must go now. I would invite you to supper, but I don't wish to unduly alarm the Professor. His health is frail, and we need him to finish his work before he passes on, as he is scheduled to do so later in the year.'
'Scheduled?'
'Come, come, Doctor. There is more on heaven and earth and so on. Shakespeare was an extremely advanced Adept. I trust you've read him extensively.'
'Yes.'
'Ah, the English educational system. Give us a kiss. A blessing on your head, Doctor Doyle. Do svidan'ya.'
A swirl of her cloak and she was out the door. Doyle's head swam. He spotted a large book on the floor beside her satchel, picked it up, and followed her.
She was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the young clerk. A short stack of her other works had been left behind on the table in the empty Grange Hall. He looked at the cover of the larger book in his hand.
Psychic Self-Defense, by H. P. Blavatsky.
Now I'm really on the griddle, Doyle thought: Blavatsky confirms that assassins are indeed on my trail— cold comfort there—and no practical help forthcoming from her, since she's clearly more interested in pursuing her own mysteriously imperative agenda. Who would have thought that after all this danger, one would place so low in her hierarchy of spiritual distress?
But then what did I expect, really, that she'd drop everything and rally to my defense? And if she had, what help could she actually have given? A middle-aged gunnysack of a woman with common personal habits and a cadre of effete, intellectual bookworms? I don't envy the poor buggers she's bustling off to rescue in my stead, I can tell you that. A stern talking-to and a bottle of vodka aren't what's in order here, no sir: What I need's a heavily armed squadron of steely dragoons standing picket, sabers at the ready, ready to lay down their lives.
He was walking again through the commons toward King's Parade.
My flat ruined, Petrovitch murdered—what will Leboux make of that when the body turns up?—prostitutes carved up in the street like a dog's breakfast, a child kidnapped, his mother killed before my eyes as sorcerers lure me into ambush, rescued by impostors, misdirected into a wild-goose chase where I'm nearly meat for some stone Gothic basilisk. I never did like Cambridge, breeding ground for ruling-class contempt, perpetuating the whole rotten system—easy, Doyle: Let's not drag in the whole litany of a lifetime's social complaints. One calamity at a time, old man.
First things first: lodging for the night. Not much money left. No one to contact for help: Blavatsky had been his best hope in that department. Her damned books felt like an anchor in his bag. The vanity of the woman; ask for help, she weighs you down with her collected works and flees the country.
He had a plan, after all: Topping. Now what does one say to the husband? 'Delighted to meet you Lord Nicholson— Yes, most unusual weather for this time of year, your for-sythia are thriving beyond all reasonable expectation. By the way, were you aware that your wife, Caroline, and her brother had their throats cut and brains bashed out in a squalid London tenement just the other day? No? Yes, sorry to say; I happened to be in the room at the time—'
All right, there was time enough to consider what his approach should be before he got there. The task at hand was getting through the night ahead of him alive.
An inn. Good. That's a start.
Doyle decided not to leave his bag in the room, although he felt secure enough to leave his coat on the bed. He took a seat by the fire in the public room and kept the bag in contact with his leg at all times. A half-dozen other patrons occupied the cozy snuggery: two elderly, donnish-looking men, a young married couple, and two solitary travelers, neither of whom in mien or aspect appeared to pose any threat.
Doyle nursed a hot buttered rum and studied the metallic eye. He considered Blavatsky's advice—perhaps I should make an amulet, what harm could come from it? Something caught his eye: the Indian woman again, ascending the stairs. Staying the night, apparently. Came up for the lecture. Probably returning to London
