"Why was your brother confined to Bedlam?" asked Doyle
neutrally.
"Assault on a police officer. He was attempting a forced entry to Buckingham Palace. One of John's more persistent delusions involves an imagined relationship to Queen Victoria."
"What sort of relationship?"
"He often claims to be working under the direct and secret orders of Her Majesty, investigating an assortment of conspiracies involving threats to the continuity of accession to the throne, most of which he is convinced I am responsible for. Consequently, he follows after me wherever I go, trying to interfere with my day-to-day affairs. This has been going on for years. More often than not, it plays out harmlessly. On this occasion, that was regrettably not the case." "Why would he do these things?"
"As you know, with any mental aberration it is difficult to say with certainty. An acquaintance of mine, an alienist in Vienna whom I have consulted on the matter, speculates that Jonathan is driven by a compulsion to relive the devastating loss of our parents—wherein the Queen becomes a surrogate for his mother, you see—and that by 'saving' the Queen's life from imagined danger, he will somehow resurrect her."
"I see."
"What has he said to you about this matter, Doctor?" Alexander asked blandly.
He wants to know what I know, realized Doyle. That's what this charade is about. He wants to know how far the damage has spread.
"Jonathan was very close to your mother, wasn't he?"
asked Doyle.
"A very deep attachment, yes," said Alexander.
Doyle was careful to betray nothing with his eyes. "And were you close to her as well?"
Alexander smiled, showing the milky-white line of his perfect teeth. "Every boy is close to his mother."
The carriage slowed as it started up a long and gradual grade. Eileen shifted slightly in Doyle's arms.
"And your father, Mr. Sparks?"
"What of him?" Alexander was still smiling.
"What was your relationship to him?"
"I believe it is John's relationships we are scrutinizing here." The smile remained, but Doyle detected an almost imperceptible strain to keep it in place.
"I don't disagree," said Doyle, subtly maintaining the offensive. "And as familiar as you seem to be with the rudiments of psychology, you must know that one of its principal areas of investigation is relationships within the family." Alexander did not visibly react. "For instance, how would you characterize Jonathan's relationship to you?"
Alexander's smile seemed frozen in place now. "We were ... remote. I spent the better part of his childhood away at school."
"Did he have any contact with you during that time? Any visits? Correspondence?"
Alexander shifted ever so slightly in his seat.
"Nothing out of the ordinary."
"So you did write to him?"
"On occasion."
"And of course you saw him whenever you returned home."
Alexander hesitated. "Of course."
He's uncomfortable speaking about any of it, realized Doyle, but he doesn't want to evidence alarm that might raise my suspicion. He doesn't know what I know. The thought hit Doyle hard: He's underestimated me.
"Were there any difficulties in your relationship with Jonathan?"
"Difficulties of what sort?"
"Rivalries."
Alexander smiled. "Goodness no."
"Young boys ofttimes band together against figures of au-thority; were there any incidents of that sort your parents night have objected to?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I'm attempting to determine if Jonathan had formed any .nresolved hostilities to your parents," said Doyle, manufacturing as fast as he could speak. "In other words, are there any reasons to suspect that this fatal fire might have been something more than an accident?"
The suggestion seemed to pacify his resistance. "How interesting. To be honest with you, Doctor, I have often wondered the very same thing."
"Hmm. Yes. Can you recall if Jonathan had any totems or small items of particular importance to him?" said Doyle, now consciously adopting the inflated airs and labored deductions of a pompous academician. "These commonplace objects—sometimes called fetishes—often provide clues to the underlying causes of derangement—" "What sort of items?"
"They could be almost anything: rocks, baubles, trinkets, or necklaces. Even locks of hair."
A flash of uncertainty passed behind Alexander's eyes. Had he seen through the bluff? Doyle waited him out, innocently, the concerned physician, offering only a fussily furrowed brow of cooperative exploration.
"I can recall no such items," said Alexander. He parted the curtains to glance outside.
Doyle nodded contemplatively. "Did he ever exhibit any tendencies of violence toward other, particularly younger,
children?"
"No," said Alexander, turning back to him, a tinge of annoyance creeping into his voice.
"Any violence toward women in general, particularly as he grew into adolescence?"
"None that I am aware of."
"When do you feel Jonathan's hostility became directed at
you?"
"I've said nothing about any hostility toward me."
"I see; you deny that there was any—"
"I didn't say—"
"So there was hostility between you—"
"He was a very disturbed child—"
"Perhaps he was jealous of your relationship with your
mother—"
"Perhaps so—"
"Perhaps he coveted his mother's affections solely for
himself—"
"Oh, yes, I know that he did—"
"And perhaps he was jealous of your father's relations with her as well—"
"Of course he was—" Alexander's voice whelmed with conviction.
"So much so that he felt compelled to eliminate all his rivals for her attention—"
"That's right—"
"And there was finally only one way to accomplish that, wasn't there?"
"Yes—"
"That's why you set the fire—"
"Yes!"
Doyle stopped. Alexander caught himself almost before the word had left his mouth. A reptilian coldness instantly sculpted his face into a mask of brutal contempt.
"So you do believe that Jonathan killed your parents," said Doyle, boldly attempting to maintain the guilelessness of his inquisition.
"Yes," said Alexander flatly. His upper lip curled in an involuntary sneer, his nostrils flared, and the lids of his eyes drooped ominously low. He appeared bestial. This is what he looks like, thought Doyle; this is his real face.
"I see," said Doyle, nodding again. "This is all so very interesting, Mr. Sparks. I shall be sure to give your analysis the most serious consideration."
"Will you now?" Alexander's voice was harsh and raspy, that ominous underlying tone moving closer to the surface.
"Indeed," said Doyle, swallowing his fear. "If what you say is true, and I have little reason to doubt that it is, your brother may be more than a danger to just himself. In all honesty, I must tell you I believe he almost certainly poses just as great a danger to you."
Doyle gave a self-satisfied smile, leaned back in the seat, and pretended to ponder the intangibles. Please God let him think me a harmless pedant, thought Doyle. He dared not look at Alexander again, but he could feel the heat of the man's eyes boring in on him. Had he gone too far? Too early to determine. The man had not leapt for his throat, although Doyle had given him adequate provocation. The fact remained that Alexander had for the moment been outwitted; if anything was more likely to prod him into a murderous rage, it would be difficult to name. And if his thickheaded performance had held up under scrutiny, Doyle had not even given the man the satisfaction of knowing he'd been consciously outwitted, in which case Alexander's wrath would more likely be directed inward, toward himself. Pride. That was Lucifer's failing, too. Every man has a weakness, simply human nature, but even if he had succeeded in stumbling onto that of Alexander Sparks, Doyle now had no doubt he was in the company of a man every bit as dangerous as Jack had described. He and Eileen were still alive only because of their enemy's uncertainty in how much Jack had told them and whomever else they might have told in turn.