Sparks’s morning had been highly productive, he informed Doyle and Larry. Breakfast in the company of a former theatrical colleague—now a leading producer-manager of the London stage—had yielded the current whereabouts of the Manchester Players, the troupe advertised in the poster they’d found on the president’s desk at Rathbome and Sons.
“On tour in the northeast of England; Scarborough tonight, finishing up a three-day stint,” he said, “then north for an engagement in Whitby.”
Whitby. York again. Wasn’t that the parish where the Hon. Bishop Pillphrock, one of the names on the List, tended his flock? Doyle inquired.
Not only that, Sparks told them, but through an acquaintance at the mercantile exchange he had discovered Whitby was also the winter residence of Sir John Chandros, one of Pillphrock’s prominent companions on the List of Seven. Doyle was beginning to take Sparks’s admonition about the nonexistence of coincidence to heart.
For his final revelation, Sparks handed Doyle a slender, cloth-bound volume he had unearthed at Hatchard’s Bookshop: My Life Among the Himalayan Masters by Professor Arminius Vamberg.
Vamberg. Yet another name from the List!
“Look at the publisher,” said Sparks.
Doyle opened to the frontispiece: Rathborne and Sons, Limited. He quickly scanned the enclosed author’s biography wherein Vamberg was described as a native Austrian who had collected an alphabet’s worth of advanced degrees from the elite among Europe’s ivory towers before a ferocious wanderlust carried him from the islands of the Caribbean to the Tibetan Highlands, with stopovers on the Dark Continent and the Australian outback.
“No picture of him,” said Doyle.
“I’ll wager he has a beard,” said Sparks cryptically.
“A beard?”
“The man who obtained Bodger Nuggins’s release from Newgate was described to you as having a beard.”
“What makes you think that man was Vamberg?”
Sparks smiled. “Simply a hunch. One can’t know everything with absolute certainty.”
“Does the book give us any clues to the man?”
“Although the title would give the reader to believe he’s about to embark on a highly personal journey of discovery, there’s almost nothing to be gleaned from it regarding the author’s personality. The tone is benign, academic, and investigatory. He makes no attempt to proselytize, persuade, or otherwise make insupportable claims for the powers of the spirit world.”
“But he don’t make a nickel from that piece a’ dreadful,” said Larry.
“How do you mean?” asked Doyle.
“No ghosts and goblins, no hairy mountain-dwelling fiend swoopin’ down on its victim like a night wind? Hardly sell two copies in the open market; folks want a little blood with their gruel, don’t they?”
“It seems Professor Arminius Vamberg is precisely what he presents himself to be,” said Sparks. “A sober, serious scientist laboring in the academically unsanctioned field of the metaphysical.”
“No wonder we’ve never heard of him,” said Doyle.
“Study it at your leisure, Doctor. We’ve a long train ride ahead of us.”
“To Whitby, I assume.”
“But of course,” said Sparks.
As they snaked through the crowded noontime streets, Doyle was jolted by the memory of his promise to Leboux, the promise he’d made—was it only yesterday? It felt like months ago—not to take leave of London again without leaving word. Sparks’s putative ability to throw his weight around within the confines of government aside, Doyle’s sense of obligation to his old friend was strong and binding. He asked Sparks if they might quickly stop by St. Bartholomew’s Hospital on the way; he wished to secure some of the few personal effects he kept there and, since they were heading into the possibility of more and greater danger, replenish his stock of medical supplies as well. Returning Sparks’s subtly questioning gaze with impassive stolidity, Doyle felt reasonably confident he hadn’t betrayed his true intention. Sparks’s response gave him no reason to believe otherwise.
“St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, Larry,” Sparks instructed.
“Might we afterward drive by the Royal Mews to look for that book Spivey Quince described?” asked Doyle.
“I had already planned on doing so,” said Sparks. His look was closed and inaccessible again.
Maybe he’s seen through my request, thought Doyle, growing flustered. Maybe he doesn’t trust me. Such a hard man to decipher! Well, in truth, what business is it of his if I want to let Leboux know where I am? Am I to rely on John Sparks to inform my family and sort out my loose ends should anything happen to me? The police are good for something: dependable in their plodding, predictable sort of way, if nothing else.
The remainder of the trip passed in an uncomfortable silence. Reaching the hospital, Sparks joined Doyle as he left the carriage and entered along with him. Can’t very well ask him not to come, thought Doyle, how would that look? He said nothing. Sparks sat on a bench outside the physician’s quarters to wait while he requisitioned the supplies he needed and checked his locker. There were in fact precious few things of any use inside, but at this point, he realized with an odd mixture of regret and elation, they constituted the sum of his worldly possessions: a silver brush and comb set, a razor and shaving mug, and a crucifix his father had given him on the occasion of his confirmation. He put the brush, comb, and razor into his bag. He considered putting the crucifix round his neck but settled for dropping it in a vest pocket.
After receiving the additional medical supplies from the disbursement office, Doyle walked back to the door and peered out the porthole window. Sparks was no longer on the bench. Doyle quickly walked to the reception desk, grabbed a pen, and was about to hastily scribble a note to Leboux when the nurse on duty noticed him.
“Oh, Dr. Doyle, I’ve a message here for you,” she said, moving to the pigeonholed wall behind her.
“A message?”
“Came this morning. Policeman delivered it.” She handed him an envelope.
“Thank you,” said Doyle. He opened it.
ARTHUR,
Mr. John Sparks is an escaped lunatic from the asylum at Bedlam. Violent and extremely dangerous. Contact me immediately.
LEBOUX
“Billet doux from some secret paramour?” said Sparks.
“What?” Doyle looked up, startled. Sparks was beside him, leaning on the desk.
“The letter, old boy—is it from a lover?”
“An old acquaintance wants me for a game of racquets,” said Doyle, folding it and returning it to the nurse as casually as nature would allow. “Please let the gentleman know I shall be unavailable to play for the next week or so, but will be back in touch immediately at that time.”
“Very good, Doctor,” said the nurse, carrying the note safely out of harm’s way.
“Shall we go, then?” Doyle said.
He picked up his bag and started out. Sparks fell into step beside him.
“Find everything you needed?” asked Sparks.
“Yes.”
Good God. Good God. I can’t run, thought Doyle, and I can’t seem to hide anything from him, not even my thoughts. I’ve seen only too well what he’s capable of; he’s the last man on earth I’d want opposing me—is it all lies, everything he’s told me? Could any one man be as pernicious and cunning as that? Yes, if he’s mad, who better? But wait, Doyle, what if it’s not true? What if Leboux’s got it wrong? After all you’ve been through together—he’s saved your life how many times now?—shouldn’t you give him at least the benefit of that small doubt?
“You all right, Doyle?” asked Sparks evenly.
“Hmm. Couldn’t say there’s not a lot on my mind, could I?”
“Certainly not.”
“Guess I’ve as much right to my own brooding silences from time to time as anyone else.”
“I shan’t dispute you.”
“I mean, I’m the one who’s had his life fairly well taken
apart—”
A cry from the door of the ward they were passing interrupted, an extended scream, high-pitched and agonized. A child’s voice. Doyle turned and looked inside.
The beds had been pushed to one side, and a mechanical carousel, children in hospital smocks seated on its six wooden horses, filled one side of the spacious L-shaped room. Three stocky tumblers in red Russian blouses were coming down off one another’s shoulders. A shambling red-nosed clown had just left off playing a hurdy-gurdy organ and was crowding in behind a quartet of nurses attempting to calm the child whose ululating outburst had stilled the room: a small boy, dressed in a bright satin Harlequin outfit of many vibrant colors, predominantly violets and blues. About ten years old. His head was as pale and bald as a hen’s egg; the skin edging the back of his neck was warped and strangely puckered.
Spivey’s vision! Men in red, horses, a boy in bright blue—a bone-chilling wallop jumped Doyle’s spine, his skin tingled with goose bumps. Sparks brushed past him into the room, then Doyle quickly advanced around him to close in on the child.
“Blaglawd!” Doyle thought he heard the boy wail. The child’s eyes had rolled back into his head. His arms thrashed about as his entire body jerked in fitful spasms.
“What’s happened?” asked Doyle of the senior nurse.
“We’re having a show for the children—” she said sturdily, trying along with the others to grab hold of the boy’s flailing limbs. “He came with them; he’s one of the performers.”
The white-faced clown pushed forward. “What’s wrong wid ’im?” asked the clown, with more irritation than concern.
“Blaglawd! Blag lawd!” shouted the child.
“What’s a matt’r wid ’im then?” asked the man in a flat Midlands accent. Doyle could smell rum and peppermint on his breath.
“Stand clear, please,” the nurse instructed him.
As the nurses struggled to hold the boy steady, Doyle checked his pulse and looked into his eyes; his heart was racing, his pupils widely dilated. A thin, clear froth bubbled freely from the corners of his mouth.
“Black Lord! Black Lord!” His words were becoming clearer.
“Wot’s ’e talkin’ ’bout then?” the clown crowded in again to ask.
“What’s the boy’s name?” Doyle asked of the man.
“Joey—”
“Is he your son?”
“’E’s my apprentice,” the clown replied defensively. “I’m Big Roger; ’e’s Litt’l Roger.”
Beneath the clown white, the man’s face was oily and cratered with vivid pocks. Viewed closely, the wide red artificial smile painted over his mouth only accentuated a tight-lipped sneer that was clearly his customary mien.
“Has he ever gone off like this before?” asked Doyle.
“No, never—ow!” the man cried painfully.
Sparks had clamped a pincer grip on the back of the clown’s neck.
“You’d best answer the doctor truthfully,” said Sparks.
“Once! Once ’bout six weeks ago. We was down Battersea, outside the train station durin’ a matinee: Right in the mid’le, ’e goes like this ’ere—”
“Black Lord! Black Lord!” the little boy cried.
“Hold him steady,” Doyle said to the nurses.
With a culminating yell, the boy pulled his hands free from the nurses and clawed wildly at his head; his fingers dug into the skin and ripped it clear away from the bone. The other children who’d been gathered in a fearful knot around them screamed and ran about, hysteria spreading like a transmittable airborne germ.
“Stop him!”
There was hair beneath the boy’s faltering skin, a full head of sandy hair. The boy was wearing a bald pate, Doyle realized as the shock wore off, a guise identical to his elder partner’s. As the uncomprehending nurses fell back in horror, Sparks stepped forward, took firm hold on the boy, and carried him away from the crowd and behind a stand of bedside screens.
“Quickly, Doyle,” said Sparks, sitting the boy on a bed.
Doyle kneeled down and moved closer to the child. “Joey, listen to me, listen to my voice: Can you hear me?”
The boy’s face remained blank and inexpressive, but he spoke not another word; Doyle’s voice seemed to penetrate the thick haze surrounding him. He allowed Doyle to take his hands without resistance.
“Can you hear me, Joey?”
Sparks pulled the screens around the bed to shield them and stood guard behind Doyle and the boy, but in the caterwauling din that had resulted, the source of its instigation had almost been forgotten.
“Joey, you can hear me, can’t you?” said Doyle.
Joey’s eyes flickered shallowly behind their half-closed lids, only the whites visible. The boy slowly nodded.
“Tell me what you see, Joey.”
The boy licked his cracked, parched lips; blood seeped from serrated, self-inflicted wounds. “Black Lord…”
“Yes, Joey. Tell me.”
His small, round face assumed a quiet dignity. The boy’s voice was high and bell-like, but it now possessed a mellifluous maturity that belied its innocent frame. “Black Lord…looks for passage. Passage to this side.”
Passage. Spivey Quince in his trance said something about passage.
“To which side, Joey?”
“Physical.”
“Where is he now?”
Joey paused, his eyes darting around, seeing. Then he slowly shook his head. “Not here.”
“Passage how, Joey?”
“Rebirth.”
“Rebirth into physical life,” said Doyle.
Joey nodded weakly. Doyle caught Sparks’s eye, glancing back at them over his shoulder; he was listening.
“They try to help It,” said Joey.
“Who does?”
“The Seven.”
The Seven. Good Christ. “Who are the Seven?”
“They serve…have served It before.”
“What do they want?”
“To prepare the way. They are on this side.”
“Who are they, Joey? Who are the Seven?”
There was a pause before Joey shook his head again.
“What does It want?”
“It seeks the throne. It will be King… King a thousand years.”
Quince went on about crowns or thrones as well, when he took hold of the medium’s picture.
“What is It, Joey? What is this thing?” asked Doyle, trying to will more energy into the boy, feeling him going limp in his arms.
Joey’s face grew paler. He seemed to reach down to a deeper level of responsiveness. Froth foamed from his lips, a bright salmon shade of pink. His chest heaved with effort; his voice lowered considerably.
“It has many names. It has always been. It waits outside. Souls nourish It… It feeds on their destruction. But It will not ever be satisfied…not even the Great War will satisfy Its…”
The boy inhaled, and his eyes opened, clear and conscious. He looked up at Doyle, fully wake for the first time, with a pitiable awareness of his own frailty.
“Joey?”
Joey shook his head with a beatific air of acceptance; then, looking past Doyle, he feebly raised a hand and pointed directly at Sparks.
“He is an arhanta,” said Joey.
Sparks was watching the boy raptly, a dark edge of dread shading his lowered eyes. There was a sharp barking sound, and Doyle turned back to Joey. He’d heard an explosive cough as the boy’s insides fatally hemorrhaged; a flood of hot pink fluid was cascading down from his chin and onto the satin blouse. The boy’s weight increased suddenly, settling and collapsing down into Doyle’s hands; he could feel that life had entirely fled from Joey’s small body. Doyle gently lowered him to rest on the bed.
“Is he dead?” asked Sparks.
Doyle nodded.
“We must go. Quickly,” said Sparks. “There’ll be too many questions.”
Sparks took Doyle by the arm, his fingers digging deep, directing him back into and through the
chaotic scene around them toward the door. Nurses, doctors, and guards were still trying to mollify the children. Two bobbies appeared at the door through which Doyle and Sparks had entered. Doyle felt the grip on his arm tighten as Sparks steered Doyle away, and they headed for a door at the far end of the ward. Behind them, the acrobats were moving toward the screens where Joey’s body was lying. Sparks and Doyle were about to clear the edge of the crowd when Big Roger the clown stepped directly into their path.
“Wot’s ’appened wit’ me boy, then, Mister? Got a right to know, ’aven’t I? It’s me wot paid for ’im, quite the investment that boy is—”
A cry of alarm sounded from behind the screen.
“He’s dead! Joey’s dead!”
Big Roger grabbed hold of Doyle. “’Ere, what’d you do with ’im, then?”
The bobbies moved through the crowd toward the acrobats, who had emerged and were looking around the ward.
“You killed ’im!” The clown’s face twisted with sclerotic rage. “Wot about my readies! You killed my—”
Sparks reached out, and Big Roger was on the ground making muted, strangulated sounds while clutching at his neck, the blow struck with such blinding speed Doyle could not remember seeing it applied.
“Keep walking; don’t run,” said Sparks.
Doyle pulled up short and shook off Sparks’s grip; they looked hard at each other. Doyle’s ambivalence shot through his studied mask of passivity, and Sparks did not misinterpret it.
“There! Over there!”
The acrobats had spotted them and were pointing frantically through the crowd. The bobbies headed in their direction.
“Doyle, this is no time—”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t allow you to stay here—”
“You’re telling me I have no choice?”
“It’s a longer conversation—”