International munitions manufacturers. Orders from the Queen. His mind reeled.
'My father always said a man's most useful virtue is to recognize when he's in over his head,' he said wearily.
'Have a sandwich, guv,' said Larry kindly, offering the basket.
Doyle took one. Eating always made him feel better. At least he could still rely on that.
'I don't suppose you could prosecute Drummond for harboring a fugitive.'
'There was no trace of Mr. Dilks or any other gray hood on Larry's subsequent visits to the General's house,' Sparks explained. 'Even so, the case presents more insurmountable difficulties.'
'How's that?'
'According to the records of the Central Criminal Court, the prisoner Lansdown Dilks died in the hangman's noose last February. Authorities were kind enough to post us a photograph of his headstone.'
The sandwich sagged in Doyle's hand. His jaw was agape.
'The other point I should like to illuminate for you, Doyle, is that, generally speaking, conventional prosecution of whatever adversaries I might in the execution of my duties pursue is not necessarily, by any means, my primary objective,' Sparks said quietly. 'I am not, in other words, at all times necessarily bound to discharge my responsibilities within the strictest confines of the law.'
'No?'
'Not strictly, no. This frees me to rely on the talents of men under my command who would otherwise find the prerequisites for employment within the established law-enforcement system ... unduly rigorous.'
Doyle turned to Larry, who smiled, cracked open a bottle of stout with the gap in his teeth, and offered it to him.
'I see,' Doyle said, and took the beer.
'Now, Doctor, I have confided in you the true nature of my business,' Sparks said, leaning back and relighting his pipe. 'Are you still of a mind to cast your lot with me, or shall I instruct Larry to put in at the next negotiable beach?'
Sparks seemed perfectly content to wait him out indefinitely. For a moment, South America leapt irrationally into Doyle's mind as a third, immensely attractive alternative. He drank his beer and tried to brake the wheel of fortune spinning in his head.
'I'm with you,' said Doyle.
'Good man. And glad we are to have you,' said Sparks, energetically pumping his hand.
'Welcome aboard, sir,' added Larry, beaming.
Doyle thanked them, smiling wanly, secretly yearning for even the smallest confidence in the wisdom of his choice. The question of his enlistment settled, they busied themselves with trimming of lines and sails to fit the changing conditions of the sea. As the sun reached its ascendant, land appeared on the southern horizon.
'The Isle of Sheppey,' Sparks said, pointing south. 'If the wind holds, we should make land at Faversham by sundown. It's a full night's ride from there to Topping. If you don't mind, I think it advisable we push straight on through.'
Doyle said he didn't mind.
'The late Lady Nicholson's husband is a man by the name of Charles Stewart Nicholson, son of Richard Sidney Nicholson, the earl of Oswald, who over the years has quietly become one of the wealthiest men in England,' said Sparks, with a note of contempt. 'I'm most eager to meet Charles Stewart Nicholson. Would you like to know why?'
'Yes,' answered Doyle neutrally, content now to let Sparks dictate his own rate of revelation.
'Lord Nicholson, the younger, came to my attention last year when he sold a large tract of family land in Yorkshire to a blind trust. Surrounding this seemingly commonplace transaction was a legal miasma that proved tremendously difficult to penetrate: Someone had gone to considerable lengths to conceal the identity of the buyer from the public view.'
Sparks paused, watching Doyle's confusion with amused interest.
'Would it surprise you to learn that the man who purchased Nicholson's land was Brigadier General Marcus McCauley Drummond?'
'Yes, Jack. Yes, it would.'
'Yes. It did me, too.'
THEY DID INDEED REACH FAVERSHAM BY NIGHTFALL. NeGOTI-
ating the outer reaches of the Isle of Sheppey, they sailed up the generous arm of the sea known locally as the Swale, took a narrowing channel upstream, and put in at the edge of the oyster beds in shallow waters outlying the old town.
Larry leapt off the bow, pulled them ashore, grabbed their bags, and scampered up an embankment, disappearing from view. Doyle and Sparks gathered the remainder of their possessions and followed his path up the hill. Waiting for them on the ridge above was a brougham with a brace of fresh horses, and helping Larry load in was none other than brother Barry. Doyle found it nigh onto impossible to discern one from the other until he moved close enough to spy Barry's disfigurement. Larry took evident pleasure in properly rein-troducing Barry to his valued friend, the esteemed Dr. Doyle. Barry was not nearly so talkative as his brother, quite the contrary, but between the two of them Larry's generous endowment of gab amounted to an equitable disbursement of verbal capital. Doyle found his chilly opinion of the twins beginning to thaw with prolonged exposure to Larry's homely warmth. The only dissonance he experienced came while attempting to reconcile Barry's sour mien and retiring disposition with Larry's characterization of him as a rampant, indefatigable womanizer.
Once the carriage was packed and travel-ready, Larry bid Doyle a friendly farewell—he was leaving on some undisclosed assignment—and walked blithely off into the night. Barry assumed the driver's seat, Doyle joined Sparks in the enclosed cab, and they drove away.
'Where's Larry off to?' Doyle asked, looking back
through the curtains at Larry's receding figure, already missing him a little.
'Cover our tracks and make his way to London. There's work to do,' said Sparks. A dark mood had crept over him with the night. He was remote and avoided eye contact, mulling over something tough and disagreeable. With no invitation to engage, Doyle did not press for conversation and eventually drifted off to sleep.
He awoke to weight shifting overhead. The carriage was still moving. Sparks was no longer in his seat. Doyle fumbled for his watch: half past midnight.
The door opened, and a small steamer trunk appeared in the opening.
'Don't sit there, Doyle, give us a hand,' he heard Sparks say.
Doyle helped wrestle the trunk onto the seat opposite as Sparks pushed it through, reentered, and shut the door behind him. His color was high again, his spirits burnished to their former brightness.
'How is your weekend etiquette?' asked Sparks.
'My what?'
'Houseguest skills, billiards, table talk, all that rubbish.'
'What's that got to do with—'
'We're visiting a gentleman's country house for New Year's Eve weekend, Doyle. I'm trying to ascertain your aptitude for the upper crust.'
'I know which fork to use, if that's what you mean,' said Doyle, his ears burning with pride.
'Don't take offense, old boy, I need to determine which part you're going to play. The less suspicion we arouse among Lord Nicholson and his posh crowd, the better.'
'What are my choices?'
'Master or manservant,' said Sparks, throwing open the trunk to reveal its two halves packed with wardrobe appropriate to either role.
'Why don't we just tell them I'm a doctor?' Doyle asked, hoping he wouldn't have to shed his comfortable middle-class skin for a vertical move in either direction.
'That's boxing clever. There's every reason to suspect your enemies may be waiting for us there. Why don't you have cards printed and solicit for patients while we're at it?'
