treasures, the looters had apparently blown themselves up along with their targeted plunder, a rare collection of Third Empire mummies. Just why the mummies themselves had been lifted by the thieves—and likewise destroyed in the explosion, one of the bodies having been quite incredibly hurtled up a flight of stairs and through a door by the blast—and not their priceless gold-leafed coffins, was the sort of minor journalistic inconsistency to a sensational headline-grabber that didn't seem to tax the tabloids' credulity in the slightest. Along with breathlessly overstated descriptions of the carnage inflicted on museum property, there were the predictable cries of outrage from members of Parliament and other oft-quoted pillars of culture, deploring the desecration of such a conspicuously public institution, with blame obliquely laid at the feet of a far-too-liberal immigration policy, followed by the usual stern nostrums for correcting the social faults that were so clearly at the root of such hooliganism: no respect for God, country, and Queen, et cetera, et cetera. The facts suffered their habitual neglect. No word of the connecting Roman viaduct or a statue of Tuamutef in evidence, nor a whisper regarding a vertical tunnel leading directly to the office of the president of the publishing firm of Rathborne and Sons, Limited.
But long before those papers even hit the streets, while the streets were still awash with police inspectors and hand-wringing Egyptologists and a host of rubbernecking civilians, before Doyle had roused himself from his deathlike slumber, John Sparks had been out the door since dawn and returned from his morning's work to rouse the others and set them on their way. Bidding the noble Zeus farewell, the three men slipped down the back staircase before noon, climbed aboard their hansom, and slipped through a gaping hole in the investigative net that had been so hastily thrown over the blocks circumferencing the British Museum.
Sparks's morning had been highly productive, he informed Doyle and Larry. Breakfast in the company of a former theatrical colleague—now a leading producer-manager of the London stage—had yielded the current whereabouts of the Manchester Players, the troupe advertised in the poster they'd found on the president's desk at Rathborne and Sons.
'On tour in the northeast of England; Scarborough tonight, finishing up a three-day stint,' he said, 'then north for an engagement in Whitby.'
Whitby. York again. Wasn't that the parish where the Hon. Bishop Pillphrock, one of the names on the List, tended his flock? Doyle inquired.
Not only that, Sparks told them, but through an acquaintance at the mercantile exchange he had discovered Whitby was also the winter residence of Sir John Chandros, one of Pillphrock's prominent companions on the List of Seven. Doyle was beginning to take Sparks's admonition about the nonexistence of coincidence to heart.
For his final revelation, Sparks handed Doyle a slender, cloth-bound volume he had unearthed at Hatchard's Bookshop: My Life Among the Himalayan Masters by Professor Arminius Vamberg.
Vamberg. Yet another name from the List!
'Look at the publisher,' said Sparks.
Doyle opened to the frontispiece: Rathborne and Sons, Limited. He quickly scanned the enclosed author's biography wherein Vamberg was described as a native Austrian who had collected an alphabet's worth of advanced degrees from the elite among Europe's ivory towers before a ferocious wanderlust carried him from the islands of the Caribbean to the Tibetan Highlands, with stopovers on the Dark Continent and the Australian outback.
'No picture of him,' said Doyle.
'I'll wager he has a beard,' said Sparks cryptically.
'A beard?'
'The man who obtained Bodger Nuggins's release from Newgate was described to you as having a beard.'
'What makes you think that man was Vamberg?'
Sparks smiled. 'Simply a hunch. One can't know everything with absolute certainty.'
'Does the book give us any clues to the man?'
'Although the title would give the reader to believe he's about to embark on a highly personal journey of discovery, there's almost nothing to be gleaned from it regarding the author's personality. The tone is benign, academic, and investigatory. He makes no attempt to proselytize, persuade, or otherwise make insupportable claims for the powers of the spirit world.'
'But he don't make a nickel from that piece a' dreadful,' said Larry.
'How do you mean?' asked Doyle.
'No ghosts and goblins, no hairy mountain-dwelling fiend swoopin' down on its victim like a night wind? Hardly sell two copies in the open market; folks want a little blood with their gruel, don't they?'
'It seems Professor Arminius Vamberg is precisely what he presents himself to be,' said Sparks. 'A sober, serious scientist laboring in the academically unsanctioned field of the metaphysical.'
'No wonder we've never heard of him,' said Doyle.
'Study it at your leisure, Doctor. We've a long train ride ahead of us.'
'To Whitby, I assume.'
'But of course,' said Sparks.
As they snaked through the crowded noontime streets, Doyle was jolted by the memory of his promise to Leboux, the promise he'd made—was it only yesterday? It felt like months ago—not to take leave of London again without leaving word. Sparks's putative ability to throw his weight around within the confines of government aside, Doyle's sense of obligation to his old friend was strong and binding. He asked Sparks if they might quickly stop by St. Bartholomew's Hospital on the way; he wished to secure some of the few personal effects he kept there and, since they were heading into the possibility of more and greater danger, replenish his stock of medical supplies as well. Returning Sparks's subtly questioning gaze with impassive stolidity, Doyle felt reasonably confident he hadn't betrayed his true intention. Sparks's response gave him no reason to believe otherwise.
'St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Larry,' Sparks instructed.
'Might we afterward drive by the Royal Mews to look for that book Spivey Quince described?' asked Doyle.
'I had already planned on doing so,' said Sparks. His look was closed and inaccessible again.
Maybe he's seen through my request, thought Doyle, growing flustered. Maybe he doesn't trust me. Such a hard man to decipher! Well, in truth, what business is it of his if I want to let Leboux know where I am? Am I to rely on John Sparks to inform my family and sort out my loose ends should anything happen to me? The police are good for something: dependable in their plodding, predictable sort of way, if nothing else.
The remainder of the trip passed in an uncomfortable silence. Reaching the hospital, Sparks joined Doyle as he left the carriage and entered along with him. Can't very well ask him not to come, thought Doyle, how would that look? He said nothing. Sparks sat on a bench outside the physician's quarters to wait while he requisitioned the supplies he needed and checked his locker. There were in fact precious few things of any use inside, but at this point, he realized with an odd mixture of regret and elation, they constituted the sum of his worldly possessions: a silver brush and comb set, a razor and shaving mug, and a crucifix his father had given him on the occasion of his confirmation. He put the brush, comb, and razor into his bag. He considered putting the crucifix round his neck but settled for dropping it in a vest pocket.
After receiving the additional medical supplies from the disbursement office, Doyle walked back to the door and peered out the porthole window. Sparks was no longer on the bench. Doyle quickly walked to the reception desk, grabbed a pen, and was about to hastily scribble a note to Leboux when the nurse on duty noticed him.
'Oh, Dr. Doyle, I've a message here for you,' she said, moving to the pigeonholed wall behind her.
'A message?'
'Came this morning. Policeman delivered it.' She handed him an envelope.
'Thank you,' said Doyle. He opened it.
Arthur,
Mr. John Sparks is an escaped lunatic from the asylum at Bedlam. Violent and extremely dangerous. Contact me immediately.
Leboux
'Billet doux from some secret paramour?' said Sparks.
'What?' Doyle looked up, startled. Sparks was beside him, leaning on the desk.
'The letter, old boy—is it from a lover?'
'An old acquaintance wants me for a game of racquets,' said Doyle, folding it and returning it to the nurse as casually as nature would allow. 'Please let the gentleman know I shall be unavailable to play for the next week or
