A bright flash that cut through the fog suddenly drew all eyes. Above the rooftops, a splash of light lit up the sides of tall buildings. Even from this distance, they watched the upward arc of flying masonry followed several seconds later by a rumbling detonation that struck like a fist to the chest, setting diaphragms aflutter.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!
The light flared and faded, and the darkness resounded to a brittle symphony of shattering glass followed, moments later, by the mournful shriek of police whistles, calling out the alarm.
“That looked like Whitehall to me,” Wilde observed.
“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed. “And something a little larger than a whiz-bang.”
At their glib comments, Commissioner Burke inflated with rage. He choked and spluttered but when he spoke again his voice thundered out in a nasal snarclass="underline" “I warn you two now, say nothing of tonight’s happenings to anyone. Not to the press. Not even your wives and loved ones…”
“You may count upon our discretion, Commissioner,” Conan Doyle assured, attempting to deflect his ire.
“Discretion, be damned! If I hear about either of you two scribblers playing consulting detective or in any way interfering in a police investigation, you will find yourselves in the deepest, darkest, dankest cell in Newgate. And with no official record of your arrest. Do I make myself clear?”
Distress rippled across Wilde’s face. Conan Doyle pressed his lips tight together, bridling at the naked threat, but neither man spoke. It was clear that their assent was not required.
CHAPTER 4
THE FOG COMMITTEE
It was the wrong side of 3:00 A.M. when Conan Doyle shuffled after Wilde into the smoking room of Wilde’s club, the Albemarle, both men drooping with fatigue. The space was furnished with enormous winged armchairs upholstered in buttoned oxblood leather, and now they flopped into adjoining seats and groaned in weary unison.
“Dear Lord,” Conan Doyle said. “What a night!”
A waiter bearing a silver salver glided into the room, bowed, and asked, “Would you gentlemen be requiring anything?”
“Ah, Cranford,” Wilde said. “We’ve had a beastly night and the trains do not run due to the fog. Would you have a guest room made up for Doctor Doyle?”
Cranford’s mournful expression telegraphed the news before he spoke it. “With regrets, sir, all our rooms are taken — what with the fog and all.”
“That’s all right,” Conan Doyle said. “A large brandy and I could sleep at the top of Nelson’s column. This chair will seem luxurious by comparison.”
“Bother,” Wilde said. “Oh, and I suppose the kitchens are closed at this hour?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
Wilde fished in a pocket, tugged out a half-sovereign and tossed it onto the salver. “Fortunately I possess the skeleton key that opens all doors.”
Cranford stole a glimpse at the coin. “Yes, sir, I believe I can rouse the chef. Anything in particular you fancy?”
“Oh, nothing much: a dozen oysters, some pâté and toast, fresh figs, a good brie and crackers, olives — green, not black — and, oh yes, a bottle of champagne.”
“Very good, sir. Vintage?”
Wilde answered with an insouciant wave. “You choose. I’m not fussy,” and quickly added, “But nothing that isn’t French. Nothing newer than an ’86. And nothing cheaper than five pounds a bottle.”
“I’ll check the cellar.” Cranford shifted his gaze to Conan Doyle. “And for Mister Wilde’s guest?”
“Your best brandy. Triple snit.”
“Ice or water?”
“Ice. Large chunk. Big enough to sink a ship.”
“As you wish, sir.” Cranford flourished his most obsequious bow and slid noiselessly from the room as if gliding on greased runners.
For several minutes, the two friends sat umbrellaed beneath an enervated silence as they awaited their drinks. Then a thought occurred to both men at the same instant.
“We left the body alone for scant minutes—” Conan Doyle began.
“And he was a big fellow—”
“So it would require two men, perhaps more, to lift him—”
“Even then, they could not carry such a weight very far.”
“And yet we heard no carriage come or go.”
“Perhaps the commissioner was right. Perhaps he did get up and walk away.”
Conan Doyle shifted in his chair and pondered. “How does one move a dead body without attracting attention?”
As he spoke the words, Cranford entered the room, balancing a tray with Conan Doyle’s brandy and Wilde’s champagne. Although he had undoubtedly overheard the remark, like all good British servants his demeanor betrayed nothing.
“What do you think, Cranford?” Wilde asked directly. “How would you move a dead body about London without attracting attention?”
The waiter paused to set the brandy down on Conan Doyle’s end table. “In a hearse, sir,” he said mildly. “That’s what they’re for, is it not?”
Wilde and Conan Doyle shared a look of surprised delight.
“Quite so,” Wilde laughed. “And we did see a hearse at the scene of the crime.”
“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed, “but that hearse had come to take away the body of Lord Howell.”
“Who is to say how many bodies it took away?”
Conan Doyle sat up in his chair, his fatigue suddenly forgotten. “You have a point. And looking back on it now, from the moment he entered the fray, Commissioner Burke seemed in great haste to wrap things up and cinch tight the bow on a murder investigation!”
Cranford popped the cork on the champagne, charged Wilde’s flute with effervescence, and returned the bottle to its ice bucket. “Your food will be forthcoming shortly, sir.”
Conan Doyle waited until the waiter had gone before saying, “While you were alone with the body, did you see a carriage of any kind?”
Wilde shook his head as he swished a mouthful of Perrier-Jouët.
“Hear anything?”
The Irishman allowed champagne to trickle down his throat before adding, “I did hear something. A very odd sound.”
“Oh, really?”
“It was faint, but sounded something like: hissssss-ka-chung… hissssss-ka-chung…”
“A steamer? No, it couldn’t have been, we were too far from the Thames… and no steamers would be running in such a fog.”
They were about to continue when Cranford sailed back in with a knife, fork, and napkin, arranging them silently on Wilde’s table before nodding a bow and dissolving into the fine walnut paneling.
“The man’s a ghost,” Conan Doyle muttered as he hefted his brandy.
“Yes,” Wilde agreed. “Cranford does not exit a room as much as disparate from it.”
Conan Doyle grew serious. “Speaking of servants, you don’t believe for a moment—”
“The Italian valet was somehow involved?” Wilde paused to sip his champagne. “No. I believe the young man is entirely innocent.”
“What about those pamphlets? Awfully incriminating.”
“And awfully convenient. In the space of a few minutes the police commissioner’s man has time to locate the valet’s room, search it, and return with a handful of damning evidence.”
Conan Doyle thoughtfully swirled his brandy. “Careful, Oscar. What you are suggesting smacks of conspiracy.”
“And does that not describe most assassinations? I watched Vicente’s face as those pamphlets were produced. I am convinced he had never seen them before.”