'Precisely,' said Sparks. 'While I was in my teens absorbing the principles of geometry and the conjugation of intransitive French verbs, Alexander was scaling the Himalayas, penetrating the legendary yogic schools of northern India and Kathmandu.'
'I've read of these places. Surely, if they exist and their morality is as advanced as are their reported powers of mind, they would have refused a man like Alexander entrance.'
'No doubt some of them did. No doubt there are others directed toward those who wish to tread the—what was Blavatsky's term for it?'
'The Left-Handed Path.'
'The word sinister derives from the Latin for left-handed, did you know that?'
'It must have slipped my mind.'
'For all we know, Alexander may have been carried by a legion of chattering, cloven-hoofed demons across the threshold of the Dark Brotherhood's Advanced Conservatory of Thirty-third-Degree Mayhem. As painstakingly as I've attempted to trace his itinerary, the full extent of his matriculations during these years remains at best elusive.'
'During your travels to the Far East,' Doyle said, stitching another part of Sparks's patchwork quilt past into place.
'The very reason I left university before graduation, having absorbed the better part of what they had to offer. Following in Alexander's admittedly sketchy footsteps has endowed me with a fuller scholarship in the ... practical workings of the world.'
Doyle decided to leave that assertion where it lay. 'When did Alexander return to Britain?'
'Difficult to say. His trail died in Nepal. I came home and for many years believed he'd vanished into the mysteries that consumed him. My best estimate: Alexander returned to England twelve years ago, not long after I actively began my career.'
'How did you know he'd returned?'
Sparks formed a spire with his fingers, pressed them to his chin, and stared intently into the fire. 'I had for many years been aware of—call it a directing intelligence behind the acvities of London's criminal community. This web of connec-tive tendrils suggested a shadowy hand manipulating pieces on a game board, a lurking presence felt more than seen. But the faint signals I have been able to verify point consistently to a conspiracy of purpose behind the random and brutal practices that comprise the majority of the underworld's labors.'
'Have you no idea what that purpose might be?'
'None whatsoever. As you know, I have recruited a number of these denizens—rehabilitating them in the process,
one hopes. Many can speak to rumors of an overlord sitting at the hub of the city's wheel of vice—gambling, slavery, smuggling, prostitution—the fruits of these crimes flowing always toward the center.'
'You believe that this overlord is Alexander.'
Sparks paused. 'I'm not completely certain such a figure even exists. No single one of my acquaintances can confirm anyone has ever had direct experience of such an individual. But if so, no other man on this earth would be more capable of it than my brother. And in the doing, no other man would be more dangerous.'
'Then surely that's been the status quo in London for some time—predating Alexander's tenure, certainly. Crime has always been a regrettably consistent element of the human experience.'
'I cannot dispute that: What is your point?'
'Something more than the routine conducting of illicit enterprise is at work here, Jack. Something beyond the scope of their ordinary reach.'
'You're referring to the Dark Brotherhood,' said Sparks.
'Presumably an organization separate from this criminal organization, with its own distinct and self- interested objectives.'
'Indeed.'
'And you're quite certain Alexander has sworn his allegiance to the Brotherhood?'
'Alexander's only allegiance is to himself,' said Sparks. 'If he's aligned himself with them, it is solely for the purpose of furthering his own ambitions. The moment their paths diverge, he will not hesitate in severing the bond.'
'But even so, a partnership between two such groups, no matter how provisional—'
'Represents a greater threat to the general well-being of our country than any war or pestilence imaginable. No point in sheltering ourselves from that unpleasant truth.'
Doyle let that sink in for a moment. 'When was the last time you saw your brother, Jack?'
'Outside the window at Topping.'
'No, I mean face-to-face.'
'Not since that last Easter, at school. Twenty-five years ago.'
Doyle leaned in. 'And when did you first realize Alexander was this mastermind you've described?'
'Yesterday. When I saw that great house burning.'
They looked at each other.
'So at last you understand the game we are playing,' said Sparks.
Doyle nodded. Now it was his turn to stare deeply into the fire and wonder if the New Year die crowds outside had ushered in would be his last.
Larry stood sentinel outside their doors as Doyle sought some small renewal in sleep. He woke from a fitful dream that fled before him to find their luggage packed by the door, and Sparks at the table in the sitting room, poring over a map of London. It was half past five, dawn hardly a rumor in the sky outside. It took Doyle, wiping the grit from his eyes, the entire pot of coffee and tray of cakes Larry brought in to strip the rust from his muscles and brain. Both cried out for a day of rest, but as Doyle suspected, there would be no such luxury for some time to come.
'There are a dozen publishers on Russell Street within hailing distance of the museum,' said Sparks energetically. ''Did you by any chance submit your manuscript to the firm of Rathborne and Sons?'
'Rathborne? Lady Nicholson's maiden name—yes, yes I believe I did,' said Doyle. 'By God, do you suppose —'
Doyle was distracted by a small, boxy contraption he had never seen the like of before weighing down a corner of the map. As he idly reached to examine it, Sparks snatched the box away, dropped it into his pocket, and began vigorously rolling up the map.
'Then that's where we will begin,' said Sparks. 'In the meantime, Larry will move us to other lodgings. I'm afraid you may not find our subsequent housing as congenial as the Melwyn, but it's prudent we spend no more than one night in a single place.'
'I could do with a shave first,' he said ruefully, watching Larry carry their bags out of the room.
'Plenty of time for that later. Come along, Doyle, the race is to the swift,' said Sparks, and he was out the door as well.
Doyle grabbed the last cake from the platter and hurried after him.
Halfway down the backstairs, they encountered Barry running up to meet them—at least Doyle's blistered eyes thought it was Barry: Yes, there was the scar.
'Found a bloke you should have a bash at,' said Barry, with uncharacteristic urgency.
'Be more specific,' said Sparks, continuing down.
'Aussie bloke. Boxer. Claims he had the acquaintance of Mr. Lansdown Dilks. After he was hanged.'
'Excellent,' said Sparks as they exited the hotel. 'Doyle, go with Barry. Turn the screws: Find out if the man can enlighten us regarding the estimable Mr. Dilks. We'll meet at noon, Hatchard's Bookshop, Picadilly. Good luck to you!' Sparks jumped aboard a small hansom with Larry at the reins, gave a single sharp wave, a salute really, and they pulled away.
This wasn't how the game was supposed to be played, grumbled Doyle, left to his own devices at six in the morning before a proper breakfast. Doyle looked at Barry, who seemed entirely unfazed by Sparks's sudden departure.
'This way,' said Barry, with a tip of the hat, and he started walking.
Doyle stuffed the rest of the cake in his mouth and set off after him. The first light of day peeked over the eastern horizon.