Alexander's smile seemed frozen in place now. 'We were ... remote. I spent the better part of his childhood away at school.'
'Did he have any contact with you during that time? Any visits? Correspondence?'
Alexander shifted ever so slightly in his seat.
'Nothing out of the ordinary.'
'So you did write to him?'
'On occasion.'
'And of course you saw him whenever you returned home.'
Alexander hesitated. 'Of course.'
He's uncomfortable speaking about any of it, realized Doyle, but he doesn't want to evidence alarm that might raise my suspicion. He doesn't know what I know. The thought hit Doyle hard: He's underestimated me.
'Were there any difficulties in your relationship with Jonathan?'
'Difficulties of what sort?'
'Rivalries.'
Alexander smiled. 'Goodness no.'
'Young boys ofttimes band together against figures of au-thority; were there any incidents of that sort your parents night have objected to?'
'Why do you ask?'
'I'm attempting to determine if Jonathan had formed any .nresolved hostilities to your parents,' said Doyle, manufacturing as fast as he could speak. 'In other words, are there any reasons to suspect that this fatal fire might have been something more than an accident?'
The suggestion seemed to pacify his resistance. 'How interesting. To be honest with you, Doctor, I have often wondered the very same thing.'
'Hmm. Yes. Can you recall if Jonathan had any totems or small items of particular importance to him?' said Doyle, now consciously adopting the inflated airs and labored deductions of a pompous academician. 'These commonplace objects—sometimes called fetishes—often provide clues to the underlying causes of derangement—' 'What sort of items?'
'They could be almost anything: rocks, baubles, trinkets, or necklaces. Even locks of hair.'
A flash of uncertainty passed behind Alexander's eyes. Had he seen through the bluff? Doyle waited him out, innocently, the concerned physician, offering only a fussily furrowed brow of cooperative exploration.
'I can recall no such items,' said Alexander. He parted the curtains to glance outside.
Doyle nodded contemplatively. 'Did he ever exhibit any tendencies of violence toward other, particularly younger,
children?'
'No,' said Alexander, turning back to him, a tinge of annoyance creeping into his voice.
'Any violence toward women in general, particularly as he grew into adolescence?'
'None that I am aware of.'
'When do you feel Jonathan's hostility became directed at
you?'
'I've said nothing about any hostility toward me.'
'I see; you deny that there was any—'
'I didn't say—'
'So there was hostility between you—'
'He was a very disturbed child—'
'Perhaps he was jealous of your relationship with your
mother—'
'Perhaps so—'
'Perhaps he coveted his mother's affections solely for
himself—'
'Oh, yes, I know that he did—'
'And perhaps he was jealous of your father's relations with her as well—'
'Of course he was—' Alexander's voice whelmed with conviction.
'So much so that he felt compelled to eliminate all his rivals for her attention—'
'That's right—'
'And there was finally only one way to accomplish that, wasn't there?'
'Yes—'
'That's why you set the fire—'
'Yes!'
Doyle stopped. Alexander caught himself almost before the word had left his mouth. A reptilian coldness instantly sculpted his face into a mask of brutal contempt.
'So you do believe that Jonathan killed your parents,' said Doyle, boldly attempting to maintain the guilelessness of his inquisition.
'Yes,' said Alexander flatly. His upper lip curled in an involuntary sneer, his nostrils flared, and the lids of his eyes drooped ominously low. He appeared bestial. This is what he looks like, thought Doyle; this is his real face.
'I see,' said Doyle, nodding again. 'This is all so very interesting, Mr. Sparks. I shall be sure to give your analysis the most serious consideration.'
'Will you now?' Alexander's voice was harsh and raspy, that ominous underlying tone moving closer to the surface.
'Indeed,' said Doyle, swallowing his fear. 'If what you say is true, and I have little reason to doubt that it is, your brother may be more than a danger to just himself. In all honesty, I must tell you I believe he almost certainly poses just as great a danger to you.'
Doyle gave a self-satisfied smile, leaned back in the seat, and pretended to ponder the intangibles. Please God let him think me a harmless pedant, thought Doyle. He dared not look at Alexander again, but he could feel the heat of the man's eyes boring in on him. Had he gone too far? Too early to determine. The man had not leapt for his throat, although Doyle had given him adequate provocation. The fact remained that Alexander had for the moment been outwitted; if anything was more likely to prod him into a murderous rage, it would be difficult to name. And if his thickheaded performance had held up under scrutiny, Doyle had not even given the man the satisfaction of knowing he'd been consciously outwitted, in which case Alexander's wrath would more likely be directed inward, toward himself. Pride. That was Lucifer's failing, too. Every man has a weakness, simply human nature, but even if he had succeeded in stumbling onto that of Alexander Sparks, Doyle now had no doubt he was in the company of a man every bit as dangerous as Jack had described. He and Eileen were still alive only because of their enemy's uncertainty in how much Jack had told them and whomever else they might have told in turn.
Granted, there were untold questions to be answered on the subject of Jack Sparks, but at the least Alexander's inadvertent confession to the deaths of their parents exonerated Jack in those unnatural crimes once and for all. The anguished music he had heard Jack making was born of sorrow, not guilt. And if Alexander was responsible, as Jack had asserted, the rest of his account became that much easier to credit.
Doyle parted the curtains. The road they traversed ran high on a bluff, paralleling the treeless, windswept shore. The eastern sky lightened over the distant sea. Dawn was only minutes away.
Eileen moved again; her respiration deepened. The drug was wearing off. Was there any way to remove her from harm? Doyle was forced to admit that whatever could be done now he would in all likelihood have to do alone: The brothers' fate was in grave doubt; for all he knew, Jack may have been lost as well. But mourning was an unaffordable indulgence. The weight of responsibility for the life in his arms provided a surge of stamina and resolution. Doyle glanced at Alexander and felt the pressure of the syringes in his boot. Not yet, he thought. Not with Eileen so close.
The carriage slowed to a walk as the wheels encountered paved stone. Moments later they clattered through a horseshoed arch, flanked by twin granite statues of immense birds of prey.
'Ravenscar,' said Alexander. His face had once again assumed its mask of polite formality.
Doyle nodded. He heard the gates shut behind them as the carriage came to a stop. The change in motion
