Bastards!' she yelled.
As her hand made contact with his flesh, the man screamed
violently, explosively, his hands flew to his face—to his right
eye—and as her fist drew back, Doyle saw that Eileen had
edged the four-inch hat pin firmly between her fingers; she had driven it deeply into the man's eye socket. Blood streamed out between Chandros's spasming fingers.
Before the Bishop could grab hold, Doyle secured his grip on the first syringe and thrust it into Pillphrock's fleshy throat, dropped the razor, and pushed down hard with both hands on the plunger, emptying the drug into the man's carotid artery. The Bishop screamed; halfway out his mouth, the sound cut off, strangulated by paralysis. His eyes bulged, his face turned purple and sclerotic, as the drug—a massive overdose of digitalis—raced into his bloodstream, where it would within seconds stop his heart.
'Run!' shouted Doyle.
Stunned by the suddenness of the attack, servants only now moved toward them from both sides of the table. Drummond rose to his feet; Lady Nicholson pushed her chair back from the table.
Alexander Sparks was no longer beside her; Doyle had lost sight of him.
Eileen ran toward the stairs. Chandros's screams stopped, his hands fell from his ravaged eye, and gore slipped out of the cavity in thick red clots; the pin had penetrated into his brain. Although the message had not yet reached his extremities, Sir John Chandros was already dead. Pillphrock sat stock upright, hands at his throat, face turning black, mouth open in a silent, protesting bellow. Death was near at hand.
A moan from Vamberg—in shock, clutching his wounded arm—brought Doyle back to his left. He bent to retrieve the razor; Eileen's skirts moved by him at floor level as she rushed from the table.
As his hand touched the steel, Doyle felt hot liquid pour onto his cheek—blood, not his—then a pincer grip descended onto his neck. With a hoarse screech, Vamberg clawed at him with his wounded arm; nails raked Doyle's skin, drawing blood. Unable to raise his head against the pressure of Vamberg's surprisingly harsh grasp, Doyle fumbled the second syringe into position, jammed it hard into Vamberg's upper left thigh, and hit the plunger; half the hypodermic's contents emptied into the femoral artery before the man jerked violently away, and the needle broke off in his leg. Now the needle's function reversed; voluminous arcs of blood pumped out in the opposite direction.
Doyle pushed off for the stairs. A servant mshed at him; Doyle slashed with the razor, cutting the man and knocking him back.
'Eileen!'
A pack of servants turned a corner in the upstairs hallway and swarmed down the stairs toward her.
'There!' he shouted, pointing to a door off the landing.
Dust pocketed from a point of impact on the marble steps near her feet as a shot rang out; turning, Doyle saw Drum-mond advance toward the stairs, leading a charge of servants, revolver in hand. Doyle hurled the razor at him; Drummond deflected it with an arm.
'Consign you to hell!' shouted Drummond, raising the pistol again.
Falling from high above, a suit of armor crashed down onto the servants nearing Doyle. Drummond's second shot missed wide.
'Arthur!' shouted Eileen.
He turned; a servant stood over him, club, raised to batter. Doyle heard a sharp whistle, and a silver star embedded itself in the man's forehead. The man fell away. Doyle looked up; a dark shape flew over the balustrade and sailed onto the servants advancing down the stairs. Driven into the steps by the impact, the attackers tumbled around Eileen as Doyle reached her on the landing. Dressed in servant garb, the figure who'd ridden them down jumped to his feet and began hurling assailants who hadn't been knocked senseless off the staircase.
'Go on,' said Jack Sparks, gesturing to the door on the landing.
Sparks picked up a broadsword from the jumble of armor, and he used it to finish one of the men, swinging it wildly to prevent the others from advancing.
'Now, Doyle!'
Another bullet whistled past their ears. Drummond took aim again, struggling to line a clear shot through the knot of men working their way around the armor.
Eileen tried the door. 'Locked!'
Doyle and Jack threw shoulders against the wood; the lock splintered on the second try. Doyle grabbed a torch from a sconce on the inside wall, took Eileen by the hand, and they rushed down a bare, narrow servants' passage. Sparks threw a vial onto the landing that produced a thick, noxious plume of smoke.
'Go, go, as fast as you can.'
They ran. Sparks followed. They rounded a turn, hearing shouting and footsteps in the passage behind them as servants braved the smoke, driven on by Drummond's bellicose orders.
'Are you all right?' Doyle asked Eileen.
'I wish we'd killed them all,' she said angrily.
'I saw you come off the wagon—' said Doyle back to Sparks.
'It took an hour to get this far into the house; they must have a hundred men inside.'
'Did you see—'
'Yes: I reached the stairs before you attacked. I needed a distraction—'
'We understand, Jack—where are we?' said Eileen.
Good Christ, she's calmer than I am, thought an astonished Doyle.
They paused at an intersection. One fork of the passage led deeper into the house, the other sloped down and to the left.
'This way,' said Sparks, leading them to the left.
'How do we get out?' asked Doyle.
'We'll find a way.'
The passage walls grew rougher as they moved down, woodwork giving way to masonry and masonry to raw rock. Sounds of pursuit behind them grew encouragingly remote.
'They've killed Barry,' said Doyle.
'Worse than that,' said Eileen.
'I know.'
'They must have Larry as well,' said Doyle.
'No. He's alive.'
'Where?'
'Safe.'
They traveled nearly half a mile down. The temperature rose. Walls sweated moisture. Around another corner a heavy oaken door blocked the passageway. Sparks listened carefully, then reached down and lifted the latch. Open.
Carved out of the earth, the cave they entered stretched ahead indefinitely, as broad as it was long. The ceiling barely cleared their heads. Deep straw covered the floor. A wind draughted in from somewhere, guttering the flame, the torch blackening the rocks above with streaks of carbon. The air felt unusually warm, permeated with an unpleasant pungency, like a field of overripe fruit. Doyle knew he had encountered that smell before, but he couldn't place it.
Stepping forward they discovered shallow water underlying the straw, up to a foot of it in spots. As they sloshed cautiously ahead, the door behind them caught in the breeze and slammed shut, giving them a start.
'Did Larry come in with you?' asked Doyle.
'No. I found him at the train. Barry was taken at the abbey.'
So those had been Barry's cries they'd heard raining down from the heights. Doyle hoped he hadn't suffered long. Who knew if he was suffering still.
They had passed halfway across the long chamber, their progress impeded by the curious combination of straw and water.
'Where did you go last night, Jack?' asked Doyle.
'A company of Royal Marines and two squadron of cavalry are on their way from the Middlesbrough. They'll arrive here before dawn.'
