"He wanted us to arrive in character, in case his friend happened to see any of us on the street. We met him a few blocks away; Dennis and I were picked up by carriage and delivered to the house by another man, who played the part of Tim, our driver."
"What was his name?"
"We didn't know him; he didn't speak to us. But just after we boarded the carriage, and the Professor, as you refer to him, was leaving for the seance, I overheard him call the driver Alexander."
Good Lord, that was him, thought Doyle, the driver he had spoken to outside 13 Cheshire, that was Alexander Sparks; he'd been as close to the man then as he was now to his brother. A shiver ratcheted through him. The man's immersion in his role had been consummate, undetectable.
"Miss Temple, the things we saw in the seance," Doyle asked, "did they demonstrate any of those tricks to you beforehand?"
Eileen nodded. "They had one of those devices—what do you call them?—a magic lantern, hidden behind the curtains. It projected an image into the air—"
"The picture of the little boy," said Doyle.
"With all the smoke, it appeared to be moving, and it was
difficult to tell where it came from—and there were wires suspended from the ceiling, holding the trumpets and the head of that hideous beast-—"
"You saw that before the seance?"
"No, but of course I just assumed," she said, looking for reassurance.
Unsure that he could provide any, Doyle only nodded.
"What specific directions were given to you regarding how to behave toward Dr. Doyle? Did they give you his name?" asked Sparks.
"No. I was told he was a doctor that my character had sent for, requesting help; my son had been kidnapped, I had turned reluctantly to this medium for guidance, but unsure about her intentions had written to the doctor asking him to meet us there." She looked at Doyle again. "But when he arrived, I don't know why, but I sensed immediately that something was terribly wrong, that the stories I'd been told were untrue—I could see it in your face. The others kept playing along—I don't know that they even noticed. I wanted to say something to you, to give you some sign, but once the thing began, it became so completely overwhelming ..."
"Did you believe what you were seeing was real?" asked Doyle.
"I had no way to judge: that is, I know what we're capable of onstage, but ..." She shuddered involuntarily and crossed her arms around herself. "There was something so vile in the touch of that woman's hand. Something ... unclean. And when that creature appeared in the mirror and began to speak in that dreadful voice ... I felt as if I were losing my mind."
"So did I," said Doyle.
"And then came the attack," said Sparks.
"An attack was to be part of the entertainment; we had rehearsed it. We would fall at the hands of these intruders, you would have your reaction, then everyone would bounce to their feet, and have a good laugh at your expense. But when those men came into the room ... they weren't the ones we'd seen before. I heard the blow that struck Dennis down, I saw the look in his eyes as he fell and ..."
Her voice caught. She put a hand to her forehead, lowered her gaze, and with an immense show of will righted the keel of her emotions.
"... and I knew that he was dead and that they meant to kill you, Dr. Doyle; that had been their intention all along. In that moment, I found voice in my mind to pray; if they would take my life for the part that I had played in this, my life for yours. Then I felt the knife at my throat and the blood running down, and I had no reason to believe it wasn't mine, that they hadn't murdered me as well. I fell, I suppose I fainted, the next moments are unclear...."
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath; it hitched raggedly as she exhaled, fighting off tears again. She had told them the truth, thought Doyle; the greatest genius of the stage the world over could not have dissembled so effectively.
"I came around as Sammy and his wife were carrying me from the house—they hadn't been hurt, but we heard screams and moans behind us. Gunshots. Chaos. Such a terrible shock to realize I was still alive and everything I remembered had actually happened, that Dennis had been killed."
"The driver of the carriage, did you see him outside?"
asked Sparks.
She shook her head. "The carriage was gone. We ran. We began to encounter people in the streets. Emma was screaming, Sammy tried desperately to quiet her, but she wouldn't be stilled, he couldn't comfort her; he insisted it would be safer for me if we parted, so we went our separate ways. He gave me his handkerchief to wipe the blood off my throat. I didn't see them again. Mr. Stoker told me what happened to them.... I tried to make myself presentable. I didn't dare return to the small hotel where we'd been staying. I walked until morning, then took a room somewhere in Chelsea. I had the money we'd been given with me. I considered going to the police, but my part in it seemed impossible to explain, too deserving of blame; what could I have told them?"
Doyle shook his head, trying to grant her absolution. She took no solace from it, shaking her head self-reproachingly and looking away.
"All I could think of was getting back to the company. Get back and tell them what had happened, because I thought they would know what to do. I tried to remember where they were playing—I knew it was in the north, but I was so confused—then I remembered Whitby. I remembered Whitby because we'd played here once before, in the height of sum-
mer, and the sea and the sailing ships in the harbor had been so very beautiful, and I wanted to sit on a bench by the seawall and look out at the ships as I had that summer and not move and to think for the longest time, and maybe then I would begin to forget what had happened, maybe I could heal what had been done to my mind...."
Tears were flowing down her cheeks, but she made no move to brush them away. Her voice remained even and strong. "The next day I took the train here. I had no other clothes to wear, but my cloak was full enough to cover the bloodstains on my dress. I spoke to no one. I completed the journey undisturbed, although I'm sure many remarks were made about the strange woman in the fancy evening dress, traveling without luggage or companion. I took a room here, like some haunted, heartbroken lover. I bought these poor clothes and sent my dress out to be cleaned. The blood had spoiled the satin, but I couldn't bear to part with it; it was my best dress, the only time I'd worn it before was New Year's Eve a year ago—I was so absurdly happy the night I wore that dress, I thought my life was just beginning and ..." She paused again, before pulling back and saying, simply: "... and so I took a room here and slept and waited for the company to arrive."
She looked back at Stoker, indicating the next chapter of the story was his arrival, which brought the tale to its current pass. Even Sparks's rectitude seemed mollified by the plain harshness of her ordeal. Doyle offered her his handkerchief, which she accepted without a word.
Stoker was the first to gently advance the conversation. "Miss Temple, you should tell them what happened here the night before I found you."
She nodded and lowered the handkerchief. "I was awakened in the middle of the night. Gently. I don't know why, I didn't move, I just opened my eyes. I wasn't sure, I'm not sure now, if I wasn't dreaming. A shape was standing in the shadows in the corner of my room. I looked at it for the longest time before I could be sure what I was seeing. A man. He didn't move. He looked ... unnatural."
"Describe him for me," said Sparks.
"A pale face. Long. All in black. His eyes—it's hard to describe—his eyes burned. They absorbed light. They never blinked. I was so terrified I couldn't move. I could hardly breathe. I felt as if I were being watched by ... something less than human. There was a hunger. Like an insect."
"He never touched you."