Sparks nodded. They drank.
'The story the old fisherman told Stoker, when he saw them come ashore from the schooner,' said Sparks.
'They brought a coffin. Your father's remains.'
'He said they brought two coffins. What was in the second?'
'We never found it.'
'If this being they spoke of had in fact lived previously, presume for the moment they had some means of discovering the person it had been. Is it inconceivable Alexander and the Seven believed they required those remains in order to return it to life?'
'I suppose not.'
'The reason for Alexander's sojourns in the East becomes the discovery of this person's identity and the acquisition of its body.'
'That follows.'
Sparks nodded his agreement. 'Then that second coffin becomes the key to their entire enterprise. I imagine that whereever he might be, Alexander even now has it in his possession.'
Doyle saw the silver insignia in Sparks's hand; he was
turning it over, studying it, as if the riddle of his brother lived within like a scarab in amber.
'But what did they mean to do? Practically. How could such a plan have worked?' asked Doyle.
'To reason it out, it helps if one is able to simulate the thoughts of a madman,' said Sparks, with a slight smile.
Doyle felt a blush of shame redden his cheek.
'A child was to be born to the Duke of Clarence, on the assumption they first found a woman to marry him who satisfied the royal prerequisites.'
'No small task.'
'No, but assuming so. A child, a son, who as a result of whatever ritual the Seven invoke, is no more than an empty vessel bearing the incarnate soul of this slouching beast. What follows logically?'
'Remove the obstacles remaining in the line of succession,' said Doyle.
'Precisely. Since the boy requires some years to grow into his majority, they would be in no particular hurry that would arouse undue suspicion. The Queen's been on the throne nearly fifty years—they know she won't live forever.'
'The Prince of Wales then.'
'The boy's grandfather and next in line. But it's likely they leave him be for the time being; why remove the apparent heir from the scene and throw the regency into chaos? No, they can afford patience; Victoria passes on eventually— perhaps by the time our fair-haired boy reaches his adolescence—and Eddy, already a man of late middle age, takes the throne. Now who stands between the boy and the crown?'
'Only his father.'
'And no one in their right mind will ever allow that misbegotten sot to assume the globe and scepter. Prince Eddy has to go, and not long after his son is born, I'd guess. His death given the appearance of natural causes. Wouldn't be difficult to arrange. Not with his medical profile.'
Doyle agreed.
'Leaving his son the Crown Prince, half-orphaned, adored by all, to take his place in succession behind his grandfather the King. Then it's a fairly simple matter; shuffle King Bertie and any inconvenient heirs off their mortal coil and it's Bonny Prince So-and-so in the coronation coach on his way to Windsor.'
'But it could take twenty years.'
'Raising the child from infancy takes that long regardless. Meanwhile, our friends in the Seven consolidate their positions as peddlers of influence to the royal family. Before the accession, the young King is made carefully aware of the lineage of his left-handed path to power—initiated into the fold—and so begins his thousand-year reign at the head of the most powerful nation on earth.'
Sparks sat back. Doyle was astonished at how the scenario could sound so practical and at the same time utterly insane.
'Why would they do it, Jack?'
'A king can wage war. They're in the business of building weapons. There's a pragmatic reason. Perhaps the only sort with which we should concern ourselves for the moment.'
Doyle nodded, the coolness of this rationality as refreshing as spring water. 'And the land. The convicts. Vamberg's drug.'
'Man as rough clay. Playing at god,' said Sparks with a shrug.
'There must be a more practical use.'
Sparks paused. 'Building a private militia.'
'For their defense?'
'Or some more belligerent purpose.'
'But the treatment didn't work. Not with any reliability,' said Doyle, thinking of the ruined men being force- marched to their deaths.
'Man's a very difficult creature to enslave finally. Try as we might.'
Doyle finished the brandy. He paused, treading lightly now.
'Jack. When we were last in London ... the police told me you'd escaped from Bedlam.'
'You gave them my name?'
Doyle nodded. 'They said you were mad.'
Sparks cocked his head at an angle and looked at him askew. Was there a trace of a smile?
'What did you tell them, Doyle?'
'Nothing more. I must admit there've been moments when it didn't seem altogether out of the question.'
Sparks nodded calmly and poured himself another brandy.
'I was confined to Bedlam. For a period of weeks six months ago.'
Doyle felt his eyes grow to the size of teacups.
'Against my will. So ordered by a prominent physician, a man I was investigating. Dr. Nigel Gull. In the course of my investigation, I posed as a patient of the doctor's. We became friendly. I was invited to the man's home one evening for dinner; I accepted as an opportunity to gather what I could about him from his place of residence. A lapse in concentration. A dozen men—police among them—waited for me as I stepped inside. I was subdued, strapped into a straitjacket, and taken to Bedlam Hospital.'
'Good Christ.'
'It's not difficult from our current vantage, is it, Doyle, to imagine who might have been directing the Doctor's actions?'
'No.'
'I was kept alone in a cell, in pitch-darkness, the strait-jacket never removed. I frequently felt someone observing me. Someone I knew. I realized then that Alexander was the man I had been hunting all along.'
There was one additional burden Doyle longed to lay aside. 'Jack, you'll forgive me. The night we traveled to Whitby. In this train car. I saw you self-administer an injection.'
Sparks didn't move, but the words scalded him with shame. His cheeks drew in, rendering his long face more gaunt and wearied.
'That first night in Bedlam a hood was placed over my head. The jacket shackled to a wall. And the injections began. They continued around the clock, each applied before the previous one wore off.'
'Vamberg's drug?'
Sparks shook his head. 'Cocaine hydrochloride. Within a week, they had created in me a ... physical dependence.'
'How did you escape?'
'Before long I lost all sense of time—an entire month passed before there was any change in my routine: My captors assumed by then I had similarly lost the power of cognition and muscular strength as well. They were mistaken. I had conditioned myself to resist the effects of the drug to a greater degree than my behavior led them to believe. On this particular day, the morning injection administered, I was taken from my cell and driven away. As
