"But the march of progress—and you know it moves independently of our measly concerns; there's mystery for you— the march of progress demands that those in power change right along with the times. We're at the big table now, boys, playing with a whole new deck of cards: heavy industry, mass production, international economies, weaponry like you never dreamed of. Pious homilies and weak cheese pulpit-pleading to the customer's spiritual virtue just don't cut the mustard anymore. The Christians, as they are fond of saying in Kentucky, are just about shit out of luck. Excuse my French."
As the sun sank below the horizon, its dying rays lit Chandros and the sandstone wall behind him with a fiery orange luster.
'"Look down there, Doctor," said Chandros, pointing toward an enclosure near the outer walls. "What do you see?"
A number of men in identical gray-striped pants and jackets of rough, nubbed material were filing into the compound through a gate leading toward the biscuit factory. The hair on their heads was cropped close to the skull. Armed guards supervised their movement, barking instructions, as the men fell into formation, their voices responding with cadenced chants that faintly reached the balcony.
"Workers. Factory workers," said Doyle.
Chandros shook his head, leaned in, and tapped Doyle on the chest for emphasis. "The answer," he said. 'The men you are looking at were until recently the lowest, most degraded form of human filth imaginable. Convicts: mean, vicious, blockheaded incorrigibles. Recruited for those very qualities, the worst of the lot from the lowest prisons and penal colonies of the nation and the world. Brought here—and believe me the prisons are only too glad to be rid of them—-to take part in a program that will prove our deliverance from blind enslavement to man's essential nature. Look at them."
The group's movements in the yard were well drilled, disciplined but unenthusiastic, if not sluggish, although none seemed to be performing under any sort of duress.
"Not so long ago those men could barely share common living space with other human beings for an hour without committing senseless acts of violence. The problem of crime. The problem of intolerance. The problem of brutality. Do you see? They all spring from the same fountainhead. Here and now, for the first time, they are completely rehabilitated, well provided for, and willing to give an honest day's work."
And so Bodger Nuggins was released from Newgate, thought Doyle. The intention seemed admirable enough—not all that different in conception, if not in scale, from what Jack Sparks tried to accomplish with men in the London underworld. But what was their method?
"How?" asked Doyle. "How is it done?"
"Direct intervention," said Chandros.
"What does that mean?"
"One of our colleagues has been studying this problem for many years. He has come to the conclusion that the fundamental aspects of personality begin in the brain. The brain is a physical organ, like the lungs or the liver, and it can be refashioned in ways we are only beginning to understand. You're a doctor. We believe that this low level of humanity— should we call it that? Why not?—is nothing more than a medical problem, a disease, like cholera or meningitis. It is a purely physical defect, and should be treated accordingly."
"Treated in what way?"
"I'm not familiar with the precise medical terms; the Professor will be happy to give you the particulars—"
"Treated surgically?"
"I am interested in results, Doctor. You see before you the more than encouraging results we have begun to realize with
this program, and not just with those factory workers: The entire household staff at Ravenscar is comprised of our suc-cessful efforts—our graduates, if you will. Let me assure you of this: Give a man a second chance at life, and he will be as grateful as a hound at your feet."
A second chance at life. Doyle felt his head spinning. The fray hoods. The ghouls at the museum. Automatons deprived of a will of their own. Doyle nodded agreeably to Chandros, turned away, and gripped the rail, trying not to betray his profound revulsion.
That's what they wanted the land for, Doyle realized— isolation to do this ungodly work. Bodger Nuggins caught wind of what lay in store and escaped, and they tracked him down and killed him. Something told Doyle he might have been one of the lucky ones. Whatever horrors had been committed on those sorry men below, the real monsters were here beside him on the balcony.
The last of the sunlight faded swiftly. The convicts in the enclosure were being marched off to another part of the compound. Doyle looked down at the central courtyard, his eye caught by a single wagon pulling in to what looked like a service entrance. As the driver dismounted and two servants moved forward to unload the delivery, a body clinging to the undercarriage rolled out from beneath the wagon and slipped into the shadows. None of the sentries or servants noticed the intruder made his move. Doyle couldn't make out the face from this distance, but something unmistakably familiar registered about the way the figure moved.
Jack.
A deep bell rang somewhere inside the house.
"Ah. Dinner will be served shortly," said Chandros. "Why don't you see if that charming companion of yours is ready to join us, Doctor?"
"Yes. Good," said Doyle.
"We'll see you at table then."
Doyle nodded. He heard the door open behind him; Chandros and Drummond moved inside. Doyle scanned the courtyard for another glimpse of the intruder but saw no trace of him. He waited a few moments, then followed the others inside. Doyle stepped quickly to his room, where the formidable servant was once again stationed at the door. As he entered, Doyle caught the blank, reflectionless plane of the man's eyes. They were as cold and lifeless as those of a fish on a platter. The door closed silently behind him.
chapter eighteen DINNER IS SERVED
SEATED BEFORE A VANITY, ElLEEN USED THE MIRROR TO APPLY
the lightest blush to her lips. She wore her hair in an elaborate chignon. A choker studded with what appeared to be diamonds encircled her neck. The form-hugging, off-the-shoulder black velvet dress their hosts had provided elevated her innate glamour to a classical level.
"Fitting they give me a dress in the bargain," she said, "seeing as how they ruined mine. Fasten me in the back, would you, Arthur?"
Doyle bent to attend to the disjointed hook and eye. She wore a subtle, entrancing perfume. He kissed her shoulder once, softly.
"They left makeup and jewelry as well." She touched the diamond earrings she was wearing. "These are not paste. What on earth are they up to?"
"Why don't we go find out?" said Doyle, moving to the davenport and, out of her sight, retrieving the syringes. He slipped them into his breast pocket, making certain they didn't create a giveaway bulge in the line.
"Who else is going to be there?"
"More than they bargained for," said Doyle, lowering his voice. "Jack's somewhere inside."
She looked at him. "Good. We won't give up without a fight."
"I'll try and keep you as far from harm's way—"
"Arthur, the bastards killed eighteen of my friends—"
"I won't let them hurt you—"
"Among them my fiance. He was sitting beside me at the seance that night, playing my brother."
Doyle collected himself. "Dennis."
"Yes. Dennis."
"I had no idea. I'm so terribly sorry."
Eileen nodded and turned away. Moments later she picked up a small black purse and presented herself. "Do I look all right? Lie if you must."
"Stunning. God's truth."
She smiled brightly, illuminating the room. He offered his arm, she took it, and they exited to the hall. The sen-ant stood aside as they made for the stairs. Music from below was accompanied by the buzz of conversation.
"I've a four-inch hat pin in my hair." she whispered. 'Tell me when, and I won't hesitate to use it."