humble means and undeniably moderate accomplishments. I hold no place in the world to compare remotely with anyone's at this table. What I do share with you is a passionate sympathy for your objectives. I share with you a passionate desire to see your plans come to fruition. And I have nurtured a perhaps reckless aspiration that by creating an opportunity to meet you, face-to-face, I could persuade you to allow me to play some part, however insignificant, in the fulfillment of your plans, in which I so strongly and fervently believe.'
Running through Doyle's head like an urgent telegraph: The longer they let me jabber—and the longer I spin out this web of weightless nonsense—the longer they'll let us live and the more time I'll afford Jack, if he's inside, to make his move.
'So that is why you wrote this ... story?' asked Lady Nicholson, as if she found the word itself distasteful.
'That is precisely why I wrote my story, Madam, and exactly why I sent it to you as I did,' said Doyle, opening his hands as if revealing cards in a poker game. 'There it is. You've found me out.'
More furtive looks exchanged. Doyle could see significant doubts persisting; Drummond, and to a lesser degree Chandros, seemed particularly unconverted.
'In addition to Rathborne and Sons, you submitted your manuscript to a number of other publishers,' said Chandros reasonably.
'I did, Sir John, for one simple reason,' said Doyle, assuming one would occur to him in the next instant. 'One doesn't venture into a lion's den without creating a distraction. My method required subtlety. A straightforward approach to you I quite rightly felt would fall short, and I strongly suspected that you might well greet my efforts with no small disfavor, so I made those additional submissions, should you choose to investigate my intentions before responding, to lend yours an air of legitimacy. As it happened, I nearly lost my life in the bargain regardless, on more than a few occasions.'
The table was silent. Doyle sensed he had a quorum leaning in his direction. He summoned his last reserves of sincerity to the fore.
'Please forgive me, but I must speak plainly; if you honestly thought I had no value to you I don't believe you would have gone to the trouble you did to test me with the seance. If, in your estimation, resolve and sacrifice and persistence count for anything—and I know they must or you would have killed me long before this—then I have faith you will, at the very least, allow me some nominal opportunity to prove myself to you and by so doing join you in whatsoever way you deem fit, to help bring your great plan to completion on this earth.'
'What about my brother?' asked Alexander.
'Your brother?' Doyle had prepared himself for this riposte. 'Your brother, Mr. Sparks, has abducted me against my will, twice, and come close to killing me more times than that. It has come to my understanding he is escaped from Bedlam; if his behavior is any indication, his internment there was not inappropriate.'
'What does he want from you?'
'How does one decipher the ravings of a madman?' said Doyle dismissively. 'One might as well try to solve the riddle of the Sphinx. Frankly, I'm just grateful to be rid of him.'
A measured look passed between Sparks and Lady Nicholson; there's the axis of real power in this nest of snakes, noted Doyle.
'What do you know of ... our plan?' asked Lady Nicholson, with a provisional, but therefore significant, measure of respect.
'My understanding is you are attempting to return this being which Professor Vamberg has spoken of—the being I refer to in my manuscript as the Dweller on the Threshold—to the physical plane.'
And now Doyle chanced his most daring leap of the offensive.
'And you are currently preparing a second attempt because your first effort—involving the birth of your son, Lady Nicholson, the blond child whom I saw depicted at the seance—has sadly and tragically failed.'
That sent a bolt rocketing through the woman and on through the rest in a tumbling ricochet. Eileen's eyes widened
at this revelation. Doyle had gambled and come up aces. Prompted by an imperceptible signal from Sparks, Lady Nicholson extended their confidence in him another step.
'The physical vehicle was not strong enough,' said the woman, without a trace of grief. 'The boy was unable to ... bear the weight.'
The physical vehicle: Good Christ, she's speaking about her own flesh and blood with the regretful sentiment of a poorly played game of darts.
'We impute the father,' added Bishop Pillphrock piously. ''A weak man. A most weak and unserviceable man.'
'It seems certain infirmities were ... passed along,' said Lady Nicholson.
'I have met Lord Nicholson. I would have to say that does not surprise me, not at all,' said Doyle. 'One can only trust that your next standard-bearer proves to be as physically advantageous as is his position in the world.'
'And who would that be?' asked Chandros mildly.
'Why, Prince Eddy, of course,' said Doyle, taking another not altogether wild stab in the dark.
Another look between Nicholson and Alexander. Another nerve struck.
So that was the reason for Nigel Gull's presence in their midst: a short leash around the neck of the Crown Prince. Doyle barely had time to let the shock course through him. They believed they were going to bring this crepuscular phantom—Dark Lord, Dweller on the Threshold, call the Devil what you will—back to the world as presumptive heir to the throne of England.
'We are not immune to the ... persuasiveness and ... ingenuity of your arguments, Doctor,' said Lady Nicholson.
'Just as we are duly impressed with your perseverance,' added Sparks. 'The seance was indeed a test. We needed to determine what you were made of. And what you knew.'
'But given the risks involved, as you yourself have suggested, it is altogether fitting and proper that we look for additional . . . proof of your . . . suitability,' said Lady Nicholson.
Doyle nodded. They've taken the bait, now I'll set the hook. 'Most reasonable indeed, Lady—'
Doyle was distracted by something landing on the table in front of him. Although he hadn't seen the man move, Doyle knew that Sparks had tossed the object toward him.
A straight razor, blade exposed, gleaming in the candlelight.
'We would like to kill Miss Temple,' said Sparks. 'Here. Now.'
Time stopped inside Doyle's mind.
'Kill Miss Temple,' he repeated.
'Please,' said Sparks.
You mustn't hesitate, Doyle. You mustn't blink. If Eileen is to have any chance at all ...
Where was Jack?
Doyle looked around the table. Alexander grinned. Pillphrock tittered nervously. Lady Nicholson's breathing had grown rapid and shallow; the woman was aroused by what she thought she was about to witness.
They wanted him to reenact the killing at the seance; this time there was to be no simulation.
Doyle didn't dare turn to Eileen.
'Yes, all right,' Doyle said calmly.
Doyle picked up the razor, rose from his chair, and grasped its back to move it out of his way. Taking a step toward Eileen, he saw that five stone-eyed servants had moved in behind the table.
Eileen turned to look at him. Doyle let her know with his eyes:
Now.
Doyle pivoted on the ball of his foot and used the momentum of his turn to slash the razor down at Vamberg. Vamberg's eyes lit up behind his spectacles. He let out a cry, raising his left arm to ward off the blow: The razor sliced through the man's jacket and across his arm and hand. Crimson spurted onto the table from a severed vessel, splattering the manuscript.
Reaching into his pocket, with one motion Doyle pulled out the syringes and spun round the other way. The first sight that registered—Chandros leaning over to clamp Eileen's left hand onto the arm of her chair, the Bishop turning in his seat to pin down her right. Eileen stood halfway, slipped the Bishop's grasp, and drove her right fist directly into the face of -Chandros.
