'One of our colleagues has been studying this problem for many years. He has come to the conclusion that the fundamental aspects of personality begin in the brain. The brain is a physical organ, like the lungs or the liver, and it can be refashioned in ways we are only beginning to understand. You're a doctor. We believe that this low level of humanity— should we call it that? Why not?—is nothing more than a medical problem, a disease, like cholera or meningitis. It is a purely physical defect, and should be treated accordingly.'
'Treated in what way?'
'I'm not familiar with the precise medical terms; the Professor will be happy to give you the particulars —'
'Treated surgically?'
'I am interested in results, Doctor. You see before you the more than encouraging results we have begun to realize with
this program, and not just with those factory workers: The entire household staff at Ravenscar is comprised of our suc-cessful efforts—our graduates, if you will. Let me assure you of this: Give a man a second chance at life, and he will be as grateful as a hound at your feet.'
A second chance at life. Doyle felt his head spinning. The fray hoods. The ghouls at the museum. Automatons deprived of a will of their own. Doyle nodded agreeably to Chandros, turned away, and gripped the rail, trying not to betray his profound revulsion.
That's what they wanted the land for, Doyle realized— isolation to do this ungodly work. Bodger Nuggins caught wind of what lay in store and escaped, and they tracked him down and killed him. Something told Doyle he might have been one of the lucky ones. Whatever horrors had been committed on those sorry men below, the real monsters were here beside him on the balcony.
The last of the sunlight faded swiftly. The convicts in the enclosure were being marched off to another part of the compound. Doyle looked down at the central courtyard, his eye caught by a single wagon pulling in to what looked like a service entrance. As the driver dismounted and two servants moved forward to unload the delivery, a body clinging to the undercarriage rolled out from beneath the wagon and slipped into the shadows. None of the sentries or servants noticed the intruder made his move. Doyle couldn't make out the face from this distance, but something unmistakably familiar registered about the way the figure moved.
Jack.
A deep bell rang somewhere inside the house.
'Ah. Dinner will be served shortly,' said Chandros. 'Why don't you see if that charming companion of yours is ready to join us, Doctor?'
'Yes. Good,' said Doyle.
'We'll see you at table then.'
Doyle nodded. He heard the door open behind him; Chandros and Drummond moved inside. Doyle scanned the courtyard for another glimpse of the intruder but saw no trace of him. He waited a few moments, then followed the others inside. Doyle stepped quickly to his room, where the formidable servant was once again stationed at the door. As he entered, Doyle caught the blank, reflectionless plane of the man's eyes. They were as cold and lifeless as those of a fish on a platter. The door closed silently behind him.
SEATED BEFORE A VANITY, ElLEEN USED THE MIRROR TO APPLY
the lightest blush to her lips. She wore her hair in an elaborate chignon. A choker studded with what appeared to be diamonds encircled her neck. The form-hugging, off-the-shoulder black velvet dress their hosts had provided elevated her innate glamour to a classical level.
'Fitting they give me a dress in the bargain,' she said, 'seeing as how they ruined mine. Fasten me in the back, would you, Arthur?'
Doyle bent to attend to the disjointed hook and eye. She wore a subtle, entrancing perfume. He kissed her shoulder once, softly.
'They left makeup and jewelry as well.' She touched the diamond earrings she was wearing. 'These are not paste. What on earth are they up to?'
'Why don't we go find out?' said Doyle, moving to the davenport and, out of her sight, retrieving the syringes. He slipped them into his breast pocket, making certain they didn't create a giveaway bulge in the line.
'Who else is going to be there?'
'More than they bargained for,' said Doyle, lowering his voice. 'Jack's somewhere inside.'
She looked at him. 'Good. We won't give up without a fight.'
'I'll try and keep you as far from harm's way—'
'Arthur, the bastards killed eighteen of my friends—'
'I won't let them hurt you—'
'Among them my fiance. He was sitting beside me at the seance that night, playing my brother.'
Doyle collected himself. 'Dennis.'
'Yes. Dennis.'
'I had no idea. I'm so terribly sorry.'
Eileen nodded and turned away. Moments later she picked up a small black purse and presented herself. 'Do I look all right? Lie if you must.'
'Stunning. God's truth.'
She smiled brightly, illuminating the room. He offered his arm, she took it, and they exited to the hall. The sen-ant stood aside as they made for the stairs. Music from below was accompanied by the buzz of conversation.
'I've a four-inch hat pin in my hair.' she whispered. 'Tell me when, and I won't hesitate to use it.'
'Don't be shy about applying it where it does the most
damage.'
'Have I ever struck you as shy, Arthur?'
'No, dear,' he said.
Eileen wrapped her arm securely around Doyle's, and they started down the grand staircase. The sight below was rare and sumptuous; lit by enormous candelabras, the table was set with fine silver and crystal. A string quartet played in the corner. Eight chairs occupied, guests dressed as if for a royal occasion. Sir John Chandros sat at the head of the table, the seat of honor empty to his right. As he spied Doyle and Eileen descending, conversation died, and attention shifted toward the stairs.
'Smile, darling,' whispered Doyle. ' 'Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of Death rode the six hundred....' ' murmured Eileen under her breath. 'Oh, my Lord ...' 'What is it?'
'Look what the cat dragged in,' she said, smiling and nodding toward the end of the table opposite to Chandros.
At the prompting of the silver-haired gent to his right, a man in his early twenties rose to greet them; of medium height, portly and pale, pinched features distorted by a dissolute bloat. A wispy mustache laden with wax and a goatish goatee intended a rakish flair that failed to convince, suggesting instead overreaching immaturity. Bedecked with ribbons, medals, and a sash, a constellation of new stains blotted his immaculately starched white dickey. As Doyle and Eileen reached the bottom of the stairs, Bishop Pillphrock, in High
Anglican surplice, steered them straight toward the young man, who waited as patiently as a well-trained ape.
'May I present His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor Edward, the Duke of Clarence,' said the Bishop, with extreme unction. 'Dr. -Arthur Conan Doyle.'
'How7 do you do?' said the Duke blankly. Nothing registered in his eyes, set near together with the oafish glaze of a guinea pig.
'Your Highness,' said Doyle.
'Miss Eileen Temple,' said the Bishop.
'How do you do?' He displayed no spark of recognition. The man must be ill, thought Doyle; Eileen was not easily forgotten, even at a glance, and the Duke had once spent an entire evening in vigorous pursuit of her.
'Your Highness,' said Eileen.
'The weather today has been unseasonably mild,' said the Duke, with the spontaneous animation of a
