“Out of harm’s reach?”
“Hopefully,” Cypher grudgingly conceded.
“I am baffled by your interest in me. Surely you have spies, police officers, people more suited than myself?”
“I sought you out precisely because you are not of the government. Nor the police. Nor the military. Each of these bodies has been compromised and harbors traitors to the crown. I summoned you because your ability to fathom out the plots of your ingenious stories may help us to fathom out this plot… or, at the minimum, provide us with valuable information.”
“I am flattered by your trust in my abilities, but I am not sure what I can—”
“I do not believe in trust,” Cypher interrupted. “Or luck. Or God. I believe in knowledge. I believe in being two steps ahead of my friends and three steps ahead of my foes. I have had you followed for some time, Doctor Doyle. I know your habits. I know your allegiances. I know the barber you frequent for your morning shave. I know which newspapers you read. I even know that you take your tea with milk and three heaping sugars. In short, I do not trust you can be relied upon, I know you may be relied upon.”
For a moment, Conan Doyle could not speak. The revelation that he was being spied upon chilled him to the quick. Finally, he muttered, with obvious reluctance, “And what exactly is it I am to do?”
“I want you to observe the political climate. Watch the newspapers. Sift every scrap of gossip, rumor and tittle-tattle you overhear and eke from it the inklings of treachery. Conspiracies leave fingerprints. As the author of Sherlock Holmes you are the perfect man to play sleuth and deduce who are the enemies amongst us. Of course, you cannot breathe a syllable of what you have seen today to a single living soul.”
“The other night, my friend Oscar Wilde and I were threatened with Newgate by none other than Police Commissioner Burke should we be discovered interfering in any ongoing investigation. You will have to contact him to—”
“Out of the question.” Cypher interrupted. “As I just said, we do not know precisely which parts of the government have been compromised. Even the police force.”
“And what happens if I am arrested?”
“The answer is simple: be sure you are not.”
Conan Doyle met the little man’s feral gaze squarely and said, “I must tell my friend, Oscar.”
Cypher visibly recoiled.
“You most definitely shall not. Oscar Wilde is a man of questionable character—”
“But not questionable bravery — for that I can personally vouch.”
A look of irritation swept Cypher’s face. “The man’s every move is a public spectacle. We cannot afford to risk secrecy—”
“We cannot afford to fail in this mission. If I am to play Sherlock, I need Oscar to be my Watson. Do you wish me to succeed or not?”
If Cypher attempted to conceal his anger, he was unsuccessful. Strawberries bloomed on the little man’s cheeks. In the gloomy carriage, with his deeply lined face and bald pate, he resembled a performance-worn puppet from a Punch and Judy show. “I repeat once again, you can tell no one else of this. Not Oscar Wilde. Not your wife. Not your mistress—”
“I have no mistress, sir!”
Cypher swallowed a vinegar smile, reached into his jacket pocket, drew out a lilac envelope, and dangled it in front of Conan Doyle, who recognized the letter and the handwriting instantly. It was identical to the one he had received this morning.
“Our agent in the post office intercepted the original letter. I’m afraid we did have to open the letter so our forger could duplicate the young lady friend’s handwriting.” He smiled at Conan Doyle’s obvious discomfort and added, “Are you surprised to find that your correspondence is being opened and read? It is, after all, the Royal Mail.”
Conan Doyle’s stomach clenched. Blood drained from his face. The use of the word mistress made the implied threat obvious: Cypher was threatening to publically expose him. Conan Doyle lunged and snatched the letter from his fingers.
“I’ll save you the bother of reading it, Doctor Doyle. The young lady has invited you to meet her at the round pond in Hyde Park at two o’clock.” Cypher lifted his pocket watch and glanced at it. “I want you to keep that assignation.” The carriage shuddered about them as the private train eased into Waterloo station.
“Say I do discover something. How do I get in touch with you?”
“You must never attempt to contact me directly, Doctor Doyle. Assume you are being watched, because you are. I shall contact you.” Cypher drew something from his top pocket: a tiny gray envelope.
He handed the envelope to Conan Doyle. “Only in the direst emergency, open this envelope.”
“What’s in it?”
“A means of escape that will bring you directly to me. Now I suggest you hurry. You have half an hour to reach Hyde Park, and a gentleman does not keep a lady waiting.”
The train drew up at the platform, trembling with impatience to be off again. The bowler-hatted enforcers never twitched as Conan Doyle rose from his seat. He had the carriage door half open when Cypher called him back. “Oh, and you’ll need this.”
Cypher handed him a bulging paper bag. It was very light and contained something that rattled faintly when shaken.
“What is this? Some kind of disguise? Gunpowder? A signal flare?”
Cypher’s face bowled around a smirk. “Bread crusts… for the ducks.”
CHAPTER 8
A MASSIVE ATTACK OF HEART
As the tall gates of Hyde Park hove into view, Conan Doyle knuckled the cab ceiling and called out, “This is close enough.” The trapdoor above his head flung open and he jammed a crown into the grasping hand. The cab drew up at the curb and he leaped out.
Although the day had begun in dense fog, as he hurried through the park gates the wan November sun was gamely burning blue holes in the gray pall. He raced along the paths, dodging dawdling strollers, and at last approached the round pond. It was deserted, apart from the willowy grace of a solitary female figure. The woman was dressed in a long fur coat with a fur cap in the style of a Russian Cossack, both hands plunged into a matching muff. She was intently watching the mute swans whose white wings in the brittle winter light seemed to burn upon the water. They glided toward her, honking and stretching their necks to be fed, while a scrum of ducks quacked and waddled around her feet. For a moment he was half-convinced that it was another of Cypher’s tricks and that the woman would turn around and greet him with the face of a stranger. But at the sound of his approaching footsteps, she turned to look, their eyes met, and Jean Leckie’s exquisite features fountained with delight.
“Miss Leckie,” he panted, doffing his hat. “How lovely to see you again.” He drew off his glove and she offered him a cool clutch of gloved fingers and a beguiling smile.
“So pleasant to see you again, Doctor Doyle.”
Seeing her this close, in the full light of day, all the clever words he had been rehearsing evaporated from his tongue. There was an awkward silence until she bubbled gaily, “Whatever shall we do? Here we are at the duck pond with nothing to feed the birds.”
Suddenly remembering, Conan Doyle scrabbled in his coat pocket and drew out the bag of bread crusts Cypher had given him.
She clapped her hands with delight. “How clever and thoughtful you are!”
He nodded modestly. It was a small lie.
They spent the next half hour tossing bread to the waterfowl. Miss Leckie shrieked with giddy fear and laughter as the greedy swans snatched crusts with their finger-bruising beaks. When the bread ran out, the swans became a little too aggressive, and took to nuzzling at their pockets and pecking the cuffs of their coat sleeves, and so the two decided to retreat from the pond’s edge.