"Clumsy fool," muttered General Drummond.
A jolt ran through Doyle; the back of the man's neck had been recently and roughly shaved, and a vivid, suppurating triangular scar ran across its length. Crude blue thread stitched the flaps of the wound loosely together. Another servant went to the damaged man, straightening the poor wretch to his feet.
Doyle's heart sank.
It was Barry.
His eyes were dead, light and life entirely gone from them.
"Here, here," said Alexander. "What's your name, clumsy boy?"
Barry shuffled slowly around and stared at him uncompre-hendingly, a thin line of drool forming in the corner of his mouth.
Alexander sprang to his feet and cuffed Barry harshly across the ear. He accepted the blow as passively as an exhausted pack animal. Doyle gripped the arms of his chair to keep from leaping up at Sparks.
"Speak when you're spoken to, boy."
Some dim whisper of cognition surfaced in the well of his broken mind. Barry nodded. The weak noise that emerged from his mouth could hardly be understood for a word.
"Since you've demonstrated you're no use doing your job, perhaps you can entertain us, you stupid cow," said Alexander. "Dance for us now, give us a jig, come on then."
Alexander clapped his hands, encouraging the others at the table to join in, establishing a steady rhythm. The quartet at Alexander's prompting began to fiddle an Irish jig. Alexander slapped Barry again, spinning him around, then prodded him with the end of a cane.
"Dance, boy. Do as you're told."
Doyle could see the music seeping through to what was left of Barry. He tried to shuffle his feet, but the result was pathetic, the slightest movement costly and excruciatingly painful. His arms swung limply at his sides. A spreading stain appeared in the crotch of his pants.
The company of seven and their royal guest found the exhibition endlessly entertaining. Prince Eddy seemed on the verge of jumping to his feet and joining in. The Bishop laughed so hard he held his sides and doubled over in his chair, face red with exertion.
Doyle looked to his left. Eileen was pale, fighting her emotions; there were tears in her eyes. He gestured to her: Show them nothing.
Unable to sustain the effort, Barry slumped to his knees against a chair, gasping for breath, a dry rattle in his chest. A thin line of milky red fluid ran from his wound and around his neck. Alexander threw his head back and laughed, then
waved dismissively. The music stopped. Two servants lifted Barry by the arms and guided him gently but firmly out of the room, as one would a doddering, incontinent pensioner.
"Delightful!" said the Bishop.
They put him here so we'd see, thought Doyle furiously. We'd see how they've decimated his mind and robbed him of his soul. This wasn't only Vamberg's drug at work; they had cut Barry, cut crudely into the back of his head and obliterated something essential to his humanity.
Doyle wanted to kill them for it.
Across the table, Alexander grinned viciously as he reclaimed his seat, looking slowly back and forth at Doyle and Eileen, showing his teeth. It was the most naked expression of feeling Doyle had seen the man display.
He likes to see fear, realized Doyle. He feeds off it.
"You were saying, Professor," said Alexander.
"Yes. Having made this providential association, my new friend and I continued our peregrinations around the world, but with renewed purpose," Vamberg went on, leaning close enough to Doyle that the first words gave him a start.
"Purpose."
"We pursued the acquaintance of elemental forces in other countries, other continents. To our amazement, we discovered they were more than willing to disclose their secrets to us— and among them, Doctor, are wonders to behold: life itself!—in trade for a service which only we, in turn, could provide for them."
Doyle nodded, not willing to speak, unable to trust he could keep from betraying his growing terror. Desecrating Barry in this grisly way, it was likely they had done the same to his brother. The inference that the same fate awaited himself and Eileen was unmistakable.
"These elementals of the earth had once been united under the governance of a unifying spirit," continued Vamberg. "A powerful entity, worshiped by primitive people of the world in a variety of guises throughout history. A being tragically, savagely misunderstood by our religiously intolerant Western forebears—I won't mention any names—"
The Bishop chortled agreeably.
"—who have systemically engaged in brutal, senseless persecution of this entity and its legions of worshipers. The ascendancy of Western man, with his paltry, self-centered concerns and small-minded monotheistic obsessions, finally succeeded in driving this being out of the physical plane altogether, into a twilight, purgatorial existence."
"The Devil," said Doyle.
"The Christian conception of him, yes. Here was their proposaclass="underline" In exchange for the continued bestowal of their beneficent genius, the elementals asked our cooperation in returning this great spirit into the world, there to assume its rightful seat among them. This was the service they required of us—it seems only humans could provide such a service. And so, with the help of our assembled colleagues, for the greater glory of man and nature, this we have agreed to do."
The rest of the table grew quiet, watching Doyle carefully for his reaction. Insane, he thought. All of them. Beyond the pale.
"You're speaking of the Dweller on the Threshold," he said.
"Oh, he has many, many names," said the Bishop cheerfully.
Reaching in to grab the decanter of wine, Prince Eddy succeeded in knocking it over, flooding the tablecloth with a shocking stream of black-red claret. The Prince giggled girlishly. A dark look passed between Alexander and Dr. Gull, who responded by rising to his feet.
"His Highness extends his regrets," said Gull roundly, "but it has been a most exhausting day. He will take the remainder of his meal in chambers before retiring."
Prince Eddy gestured and grumbled an objection. Gull whispered in his ear and pulled the thoroughly sodden man to his feet. Balking petulantly at Gull's instructions, the Prince yanked his arm away; his elbow hit his chair, and it crashed to the floor. Gull's face turned beet red.
"Good evening, Your Highness," said Alexander Sparks, His voice cut through the silence like a scalpel. "Rest well."
The Prince's expression turned meek and docile. He nodded meekly to Alexander. Dr. Gull took the Duke firmly by the arm and led him toward the stairs. Gull whispered to him again, the Prince stopped, assembled his tatterdemalion dignity, and addressed the table.
"Thank you all ... and good night," he said.
Similar felicitations were returned. Gull steered the Prince in a wide arc to the stairs. The Prince stumbled once, Gull righted him, and they began to climb, cautiously, one stair at a time. Prince Eddy looked as forlorn and toothless as a decrepit bear in a street circus.
As Doyle watched him go, something heavy dropped onto the table in front of him. His manuscript.
"Perhaps you can imagine my surprise, Dr. Doyle, when your ... manuscript first crossed the transom of Rathborne and Sons." Lady Nicholson spoke now, her voice low and throaty, ripe with voluptuously suggestive pauses.
Perhaps I can, thought Doyle.
"When Professor Vamberg and Mr. Graves—that is, Mr. Sparks—introduced themselves to us—"
"Some eleven years ago now," said the Bishop.
The fussy cleric's elaborations appeared to go over no better with Lady Nicholson than they had with Vamberg.
"Thank you, Your Worship. Sir John, General Drummond, and myself had shared and studied occultic knowledge for many years: We are of like mind. From the moment the Professor and Mr. Sparks came to England, made themselves known to us, and we dedicated ourselves to our ... joint interests ... absolute secrecy has been our foremost consideration. So, yes, imagine our surprise when that ... document . . . arrived on my desk. Written by a young, unknown, and unpublished physician—forgive me, a nobody—who, it seemed by the evidence available on the page, had been eavesdropping ... over our shoulders for these many years."