away.
'Good Christ!'
A hatch pattern of symmetrical scars crisscrossed the stark white face. The man's eyes and lips had been crudely knitted up with a coarse, waxy blue thread.
Holding on from the roof, Doyle's companion reopened the door, and the body swung out with it: Suspended outside the rapidly moving cab, the corpse exhibited violent spastic movements as the coach bounced and jolted along. With a strong pull, the man drew the long knife back through the door, releasing the body from its attachment, and it fell away into obscurity.
In one deft move, the man pivoted into the cab, pulled the door shut behind him, and took a seat across from the stunned Doyle. He took two deep breaths and then ...
'Care for a drink?'
'What's that?'
'Cognac. Medicinal purposes,' said the man, offering a silver flask.
Doyle accepted it and drank—it was cognac; exceedingly good cognac—as the man watched. Doyle saw him clearly for the first time in the pale amber light of the cabin lantern—his face was narrow; streaks of color painted his sharp cheeks; long, jet-black hair curled behind his ears. High forehead. Aquiline nose. Strong jaw. The eyes were remarkable, light and sharp, colored by a habitual amusement that Doyle felt, to say the least, was currently inappropriate.
'We could have that little chat now,' the man said.
'Right. Have a go.'
'Where to begin?'
'You knew my name.'
'Doyle, isn't it?'
'And you're ...'
'Sacker. Armond Sacker. Pleasure.'
'The pleasure I should say, Mr. Sacker, is distinctly mine.'
'Have another.'
'Cheers.' Doyle drank again and passed back the flask.
The man unfastened his cloak. He wore black, head to toe. Lifting a leg of his trousers, he exposed the bloodied bite on his calf given by the feral boy.
'Nasty, that,' said Doyle. 'Shall I have a look?'
'No bother.' The man took a handkerchief from his pocket and soaked it with cognac. 'The puncture itself's not the worry, it's the damn tearing action when they prattle their heads about.'
'Know a bit about medicine, then.'
Sacker smiled and without flinching compressed the handkerchief tightly to the wound. Closing his eyes was the only concession to what Doyle knew must be extraordinary pain; when they reopened, no trace of it remained.
'Right. So, Doyle, tell me how you came to be in that house tonight.'
Doyle recounted the arrival of the letter and his decision to attend.
'Right,' said Sacker. 'Not that you necessarily need me to tell you this, but you're in a bit of a fix.'
'Am I?'
'Oh, I'd say so, yes.'
'How, exactly?'
'Mm. Long story, that,' the man said, more warning than excuse.
'Have we time for it?'
'Believe we're well clear for the moment,' he said, parting the curtains for a brief look outside.
'I'll ask some questions, then.'
'Better you didn't, really—'
'No, better I do,' said Doyle, pulling the pistol from his pocket and resting it on his knee.
Sacker's smile broadened. 'Right. Fire away.'
'Who are you?'
'Professor. Cambridge. Antiquities.'
'Could I see some form of identification to that effect?'
Sacker produced a calling card verifying the assertion. Looks authentic, thought Doyle. Not that that counted for much.
'I'll keep this,' said Doyle, pocketing the card.
'Not at all.'
'Is this your carriage, Professor Sacker?'
'It is.'
'Where are we going?'
'Where would you like to go?'
'Someplace safe.'
'Difficult.'
'Because you don't know, or because you don't wish to tell me?'
'Because, as of this moment, there aren't all that many places you can truly consider safe: Doyle ... safe. Not much overlap there, I'm sorry to say.' He smiled again.
'You find that amusing.'
'To the contrary. Your situation is obviously quite grave.'
'My situation?'
'Rather than worry, however, in the face of adversity it's
always my inclination to take action. That's what one should do in any event. General principle. Take action.'
'Is that what we're doing now, Professor?'
'Oh my, yes.' Sacker grinned again.
'I yield the floor,' said Doyle darkly, his frustration with this cheerful enigma mitigated only by the man having twice within the hour saved his life.
'Another drink first?' he asked, offering the flask again. Doyle shook his head. 'I really would recommend it.'
Doyle took another drink. 'Let's have it, then.'
'You've attempted to publish a work of fiction recently.'
'What's that got to do with any of this?'
'I'm endeavoring to tell you.' He smiled again.
'The answer is yes.'
'Hmm. Rough business, the publishing game. Fairly discouraging, I imagine, but then you don't strike me as the easily discouraged sort. Perseverance, that's the ticket.'
Doyle bit his tongue and waited while Sacker took another nip.
'You recently circulated a manuscript of yours for publication entitled—have I got this right?—The Dark Brotherhood'?'
'Correct.'
'Without any notable success, I'm afraid—'
'You don't need to rub salt in the wound.'
'Establishing the facts, old boy. Haven't read it myself. I'm given to understand your story deals at some length, as fiction, with what one might characterize as a ... thaumatur-gical conspiracy.'
'In part.' How could he know that? thought Doyle.
'A sort of sorcerers' cabal.'
'You're not far off—the villains of the piece, anyway.'
'A coven of evil masterminds colluding with some, shall we say, delinquent spirits.'
'It's an adventure story, isn't it?' said Doyle defensively.
'With a supernatural bent.'
