"I have met Lord Nicholson. I would have to say that does not surprise me, not at all," said Doyle. "One can only trust that your next standard-bearer proves to be as physically advantageous as is his position in the world."
"And who would that be?" asked Chandros mildly.
"Why, Prince Eddy, of course," said Doyle, taking another not altogether wild stab in the dark.
Another look between Nicholson and Alexander. Another nerve struck.
So that was the reason for Nigel Gull's presence in their midst: a short leash around the neck of the Crown Prince. Doyle barely had time to let the shock course through him. They believed they were going to bring this crepuscular phantom—Dark Lord, Dweller on the Threshold, call the Devil what you will—back to the world as presumptive heir to the throne of England.
"We are not immune to the ... persuasiveness and ... ingenuity of your arguments, Doctor," said Lady Nicholson.
"Just as we are duly impressed with your perseverance," added Sparks. "The seance was indeed a test. We needed to determine what you were made of. And what you knew."
"But given the risks involved, as you yourself have suggested, it is altogether fitting and proper that we look for additional . . . proof of your . . . suitability," said Lady Nicholson.
Doyle nodded. They've taken the bait, now I'll set the hook. "Most reasonable indeed, Lady—"
Doyle was distracted by something landing on the table in front of him. Although he hadn't seen the man move, Doyle knew that Sparks had tossed the object toward him.
A straight razor, blade exposed, gleaming in the candlelight.
"We would like to kill Miss Temple," said Sparks. "Here. Now."
Time stopped inside Doyle's mind.
"Kill Miss Temple," he repeated.
"Please," said Sparks.
You mustn't hesitate, Doyle. You mustn't blink. If Eileen is to have any chance at all ...
Where was Jack?
Doyle looked around the table. Alexander grinned. Pillphrock tittered nervously. Lady Nicholson's breathing had grown rapid and shallow; the woman was aroused by what she thought she was about to witness.
They wanted him to reenact the killing at the seance; this time there was to be no simulation.
Doyle didn't dare turn to Eileen.
"Yes, all right," Doyle said calmly.
Doyle picked up the razor, rose from his chair, and grasped its back to move it out of his way. Taking a step toward Eileen, he saw that five stone-eyed servants had moved in behind the table.
Eileen turned to look at him. Doyle let her know with his eyes:
Now.
Doyle pivoted on the ball of his foot and used the momentum of his turn to slash the razor down at Vamberg. Vamberg's eyes lit up behind his spectacles. He let out a cry, raising his left arm to ward off the blow: The razor sliced through the man's jacket and across his arm and hand. Crimson spurted onto the table from a severed vessel, splattering the manuscript.
Reaching into his pocket, with one motion Doyle pulled out the syringes and spun round the other way. The first sight that registered—Chandros leaning over to clamp Eileen's left hand onto the arm of her chair, the Bishop turning in his seat to pin down her right. Eileen stood halfway, slipped the Bishop's grasp, and drove her right fist directly into the face of -Chandros.
Bastards!" she yelled.
As her hand made contact with his flesh, the man screamed
violently, explosively, his hands flew to his face—to his right
eye—and as her fist drew back, Doyle saw that Eileen had
edged the four-inch hat pin firmly between her fingers; she had driven it deeply into the man's eye socket. Blood streamed out between Chandros's spasming fingers.
Before the Bishop could grab hold, Doyle secured his grip on the first syringe and thrust it into Pillphrock's fleshy throat, dropped the razor, and pushed down hard with both hands on the plunger, emptying the drug into the man's carotid artery. The Bishop screamed; halfway out his mouth, the sound cut off, strangulated by paralysis. His eyes bulged, his face turned purple and sclerotic, as the drug—a massive overdose of digitalis—raced into his bloodstream, where it would within seconds stop his heart.
"Run!" shouted Doyle.
Stunned by the suddenness of the attack, servants only now moved toward them from both sides of the table. Drummond rose to his feet; Lady Nicholson pushed her chair back from the table.
Alexander Sparks was no longer beside her; Doyle had lost sight of him.
Eileen ran toward the stairs. Chandros's screams stopped, his hands fell from his ravaged eye, and gore slipped out of the cavity in thick red clots; the pin had penetrated into his brain. Although the message had not yet reached his extremities, Sir John Chandros was already dead. Pillphrock sat stock upright, hands at his throat, face turning black, mouth open in a silent, protesting bellow. Death was near at hand.
A moan from Vamberg—in shock, clutching his wounded arm—brought Doyle back to his left. He bent to retrieve the razor; Eileen's skirts moved by him at floor level as she rushed from the table.
As his hand touched the steel, Doyle felt hot liquid pour onto his cheek—blood, not his—then a pincer grip descended onto his neck. With a hoarse screech, Vamberg clawed at him with his wounded arm; nails raked Doyle's skin, drawing blood. Unable to raise his head against the pressure of Vamberg's surprisingly harsh grasp, Doyle fumbled the second syringe into position, jammed it hard into Vamberg's upper left thigh, and hit the plunger; half the hypodermic's contents emptied into the femoral artery before the man jerked violently away, and the needle broke off in his leg. Now the needle's function reversed; voluminous arcs of blood pumped out in the opposite direction.
Doyle pushed off for the stairs. A servant mshed at him; Doyle slashed with the razor, cutting the man and knocking him back.
"Eileen!"
A pack of servants turned a corner in the upstairs hallway and swarmed down the stairs toward her.
"There!" he shouted, pointing to a door off the landing.
Dust pocketed from a point of impact on the marble steps near her feet as a shot rang out; turning, Doyle saw Drum-mond advance toward the stairs, leading a charge of servants, revolver in hand. Doyle hurled the razor at him; Drummond deflected it with an arm.
"Consign you to hell!" shouted Drummond, raising the pistol again.
Falling from high above, a suit of armor crashed down onto the servants nearing Doyle. Drummond's second shot missed wide.
"Arthur!" shouted Eileen.
He turned; a servant stood over him, club, raised to batter. Doyle heard a sharp whistle, and a silver star embedded itself in the man's forehead. The man fell away. Doyle looked up; a dark shape flew over the balustrade and sailed onto the servants advancing down the stairs. Driven into the steps by the impact, the attackers tumbled around Eileen as Doyle reached her on the landing. Dressed in servant garb, the figure who'd ridden them down jumped to his feet and began hurling assailants who hadn't been knocked senseless off the staircase.
"Go on," said Jack Sparks, gesturing to the door on the landing.
Sparks picked up a broadsword from the jumble of armor, and he used it to finish one of the men, swinging it wildly to prevent the others from advancing.
"Now, Doyle!"
Another bullet whistled past their ears. Drummond took aim again, struggling to line a clear shot through the knot of men working their way around the armor.
Eileen tried the door. "Locked!"
Doyle and Jack threw shoulders against the wood; the lock splintered on the second try. Doyle grabbed a torch from a sconce on the inside wall, took Eileen by the hand, and they rushed down a bare, narrow servants' passage. Sparks threw a vial onto the landing that produced a thick, noxious plume of smoke.
"Go, go, as fast as you can."