'Ipso facto, Rathborne and Sons must be the intersection from where my work fell into, as you put it, the wrong hands.'
'Just so,' said Sparks.
He crossed to and rifled through the drawers of the massive executive desk that anchored the spare furnishings of the sober, oak-paneled office.
'And if I interpret your observations correctly,' said Doyle, 'your feeling is that Rathborne and Sons is in its primary purpose not a publishing company at all, but a front for some far more sinister concern.'
'Sinister. Or Left-Handed,' said Sparks, producing a correspondence with masted letterhead from a desk drawer. 'Have a look at this, Doyle.'
The letter itself was of no apparent concern, a routine memorandum regarding contractual dealings with a bookbinder. But the list of company directors on the masthead was something else again:
Rathborne and Sons Publishing, Ltd. Directors
Sir John Chandros
Brigadier General Marcus Drummond Maximilian Graves
Sir Nigel Gull
Lady Caroline Nicholson
The Hon. Bishop Caius Catullus Pillphrock
Professor Arminius Vamberg
'Good heavens,' said Doyle.
'Let us put our minds to work. This room bears ho stamp of personality at all: no pictures, no personal effects. At the very least, executives tend to display their distinguishing
marks of achievement: diplomas, honorary titles. This office is for show, along with everything else we've seen. And as far as we can determine, there has been no Rathborne Senior.'
'Which explains the presence on the board of Lady Nicholson.'
'Unusual enough to find a woman in a position of such responsibility, although times are changing. Without knowing exactly what the nature of that position is, it's safe to assume that she is the true power behind Rathborne and Sons.'
'Or was.'
'I shall have more to say about that very soon.' Sparks directed their attention back to the list. 'What distressed you about these other names?'
'One in particular. Until his recent retirement, Sir Nigel Gull used to be one of two physicians exclusive to the royal family.'
'I believe his primary responsibility was tending to young Prince Albert.'
'That's a full-time job,' said Doyle scornfully. The Queen's grandson was a notorious roue, a reputed simpleton, and a dependable source of minor scandal.
'Most unsettling. And I can tell you this: Gull's orderly retirement—he's a man of about sixty now—was merely public perception. There was a strong scent of impropriety surrounding his final days in sendee, the details of which shall now require my fullest attentions. Who else do you recognize on this list?'
'The name of John Chandros is familiar, but I can't quite place it.'
'Former members of Parliament, from a northern district, Newcastle-on-Tyne. Land developer. Steel plants. Enormously wealthy.'
'Wasn't Chandros involved in the prison-reform movement?'
'And chaired the prison commission for two terms. His name also surfaced in my investigation of the Nicholson-Drummond transaction; he owns a sizable freehold of land adjacent to the property sold by Nicholson to General Drum-mond.'
'No coincidence there, I'd say.'
'There is no such thing as coincidence. We now have a twofold connection from Chandros to Drummond to Rathborne Nicholson. How Gull fits into this mesh we have yet to discover.'
'What of the others?'
'I am acquainted with the name of Bishop Pillphrock. Church of England. His diocese is North York, near the port of Whitby. Vamberg and Graves are unknown to me. What is the common thread?' asked Sparks searchingly. 'Wealthy, powerful, prominent citizens. Four with ties to Yorkshire, where those convicts were allegedly sent. Chandros on the penal commission. All united through a false business front ...'
'Isn't it possible, Jack, that this company is nothing other than what it appears: a small, albeit well- capitalized, firm of modest ambitions, with a board of experts to advise them on various areas in which they wish to publish—Drummond for military works, Gull for medical text, Chandros political perspective, Pillphrock the theological, and so on?'
Sparks nodded thoughtfully. 'With due consideration given to the other variables, I'd say there's a ten percent chance of that. If not, there is every reason to believe that what we have in our possession here is nothing less than a list of the Dark Brotherhood's innermost council. Seven names: Seven is a profane as well as sacred number.'
'Strikes me as a bit of a leap of faith,' said Doyle, as a thin line of white under the blotter on the desk caught his eye. He lifted the blotter and pulled out a creased square of slick paper, unfolding it to reveal a poster advertising a theatrical troupe's appearances in London. The play dates listed were for a run of one week in late October of the previous year.
'The Revenger's Tragedy,' read Doyle. 'I'm not familiar with it.'
'Court melodrama, late Elizabethan, attributed to Cyril Tourneur. Adapted from Seneca. Grim piece of business: plot-heavy, lots of onstage violence. Deservedly obscure. I don't recall this production.'
'Seems they came and went fairly quickly,' said Doyle. 'The Manchester Players.'
'I don't know them, but there are dozens of companies touring around Britain at any one time. More to the point, what was this doing here?'
Doyle refolded the poster and lifted the blotter to slide it back into its hiding place. As he did so, a fountain pen rolled off the blotter and fell to the floor. Sparks pushed the chair away, knelt with the candle to retrieve the pen, and noticed a set of matched diagonal scratches at floor level on either side of the desk.
'Hold this for me, would you, Doyle?'
Doyle took the candle. Sparks inspected the edges of the desk where it rested ponderously on the varnished wood. He took a small vial of liquid from his pocket, uncorked it, and poured its contents out onto the floor. Mercury.
'What is it, Jack?'
'There's a seam here in the flooring where there shouldn't
be one.'
The quicksilver beaded up on the wood, and then, in a single rush, vanished down in between the floorboards. Sparks leaned in and ran his hands around and under the desk.
'What are you looking for?'
'I've found a hook. I'm going to give it a pull. I shouldn't stand just there for the moment, Doyle.'
Doyle stepped away from the desk. Sparks pulled the hook; the flooring at the hidden seam lifted up and slid neatly back under the desk, diagonally scratching its facing on either side and leaving a hole two foot square directly under where the president's chair had been resting.
'Uneasy sits the head that wears the crown,' paraphrased
Sparks.
Leaning over to have a look, Doyle saw a bolted steel ladder descending straight down a masoned shaft too deep by the light of his candle to spy the end of. The air wafting from below was fresh and smelled of water.
'I daresay your garden-variety publishing company would have little use for such an exit as this,' said Sparks excitedly.
'None I can immediately think of.'
Sparks clapped his hands. 'By God, we've found them out! The Brotherhood quartered less than half a mile from my flat. Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight.'
Sparks gave one quiet bird whistle, and moments later Larry appeared in the doorway.
'Tunnel, Larry. Have a look, eh?' asked Sparks.
