“I am Rufus DeVayne, Marquess of Gravistock. I come before you—”
The rest of his words were drowned in a deafening roar of howls, boos, and catcalls that rattled the stone vaulted ceiling.
Conan Doyle shared an astonished look with Wilde. “Is he mad, coming here?”
Wilde shook his long face and agreed. “Surely this mob will tear him apart.”
DeVayne stood patiently waiting, his face fixed in a serene smile. Each time he tried to speak, howls of derision drowned out his words. Finally, he leaned back from the railing and let the crowd roar on. Then a man stepped to the base of the pulpit and hawked a wad of spittle at DeVayne. A quivering silver oyster arced high into the air and splattered across his cheek.
The crowd boomed with laughter and the drum of stamping feet grew deafening.
For long seconds, the young aristocrat did not flinch, did not move. Then he carefully wiped the gleaming oyster from his cheek. He stood for a moment, looking at the contents of his palm, and then slowly, deliberately, and with apparent relish, licked the wad of spittle from his palm.
It was an act that shocked even the hardest man, and the church fell into stunned silence. The moment turned upon a pivot and now DeVayne commanded the mob’s attention. He gripped the pulpit railing and leaned far over it, his eyes blazing as he addressed the crowd in his high, ethereal voice, a stiletto blade probing for the gap between ribs.
“A normal man might be cowed by jeers and boos. A normal man might flinch at being spat upon.”
His pale face cracked a wicked smile.
“But I am no ordinary man.” He swept the crowd with an imperial gaze. “Why? Because I choose not to be. And I suspect you — all of you — are men who would be extraordinary. Sheep need to be led. To be shorn of their wool. To be used as beasts of the field until the day their throats are offered up to the razor.”
He paused to allow the echoes of his voice to subside.
“But I see no sheep in this place. I see only extraordinary men. Men who are ready to rise up from slavery. To shake off servitude and take what is rightfully theirs. My name is Rufus DeVayne. I am a cousin of the Prince of Wales. Fifth in line to the throne. To you, I am a toff. An aristocrat. But know that I am vilified as a traitor to my class. And with good reason.”
He leaned far over the pulpit railing, the shifting torchlight twisting and contorting his features. And then he dropped his voice to a barely audible rumble that all ears strained to hear. “Because they fear me. They fear my beliefs. And I would make them fear you.”
He had found his rhythm and now he leaned back. At ease. The crowd in his thrall. The mob murmured. No one stirred. DeVayne looked down upon a multitude of upturned faces. The sallow-cheeked faces of the working poor. People touched by the words of an exotic figure that looked like a man-child and spoke like a demigod. A figure that held all spellbound.
Conan Doyle threw a quick glance at Wilde, who also watched, mesmerized.
DeVayne continued, “I have a title. I am a marquess. I live in a fine house and eat from golden plates. Why? Because I am superior to the common man? Because of some divine right?” He sneered. “No. Because hundreds of years ago my ancestor killed another man and stole what was rightfully his. Likewise, the monarchy is nothing but a system of theft made legitimate by masquerade party dress and the trumpery of law. But I have no love for title or privilege. I would have all my brothers and sisters sit at the table and break bread with me. No man higher. No man lower. No man made to bow and scrape to another.”
The crowd rippled with nodding heads.
“France had its revolution one hundred years ago. England’s revolution is long overdue. But I warn you, my brothers and sisters, freedom can only be purchased with blood… with courage… with sacrifice… and loss. So, I ask you tonight, are you extraordinary men and women? Or are you sheep?”
Someone whispered in the back on the vestry and the whispers grew to murmurs that rolled across the pews in a wave of sound that finally broke at the foot of the pulpit Rufus DeVayne towered from.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
“On the thirteenth of this month, I will be there at the gates of Buckingham Palace. Ready to face the rifles and bayonets of the queen’s army. Ready to scale the railings and pull them down. On that day, at one o’clock, Big Ben will chime thirteen times. That is our signal to rise up. Together we will storm the palace. Together we will take back the birthright of the common people that was stolen long ago. My brothers and sisters. My equals. My comrades in arms. Will you be there with me? Will you rise up? Will you strike a blow for freedom?”
DeVayne hurled the challenge into the room like a stick of dynamite with the fuse lit and fizzing. Then he stood back, relaxed, and waited, a strange smile upon his lips.
For a moment the walls of the church seemed to suck inward in one collectively drawn breath, the premonitory silence before the thunderclap, and then the air split with a thunderous roar of voices loosing a cry of “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!”
Clenched fists pumped the air. Iron-shod clogs stomped the flagstones and made them ring.
DeVayne acknowledged their cries like an emperor being showered with rose petals.
Conan Doyle jabbed an elbow in his friend’s ribs and shouted above the roar, “This is a very dangerous man.”
Wilde tore his eyes away with difficulty. “Yes, dangerous… and magnificent.”
With applause crashing about him, DeVayne quit the pulpit, skipped down the steps, and joined Dr. Lamb waiting below. Barely acknowledging the cheering crowd, the two men strode up the aisle and out of the church. The audience surged to follow, and Conan Doyle and Wilde were swept up in the crush and carried from the building. Once outside, they ducked clear of the hurrying mob to pause a moment and confer.
“It appears there is even more to worry about from DeVayne that I at first thought,” Wilde said, pausing to spark up one of his Turkish cigarettes.
“But he is clearly mad. A revolution will never take hold. He’s just going to get a lot of people killed.”
“Cadge a fag, mate?” a rough voice asked from Wilde’s elbow.
“By all means,” Wilde assented, and reflexively held out his silver cigarette case. Conan Doyle noticed it was the ferret-faced man in the crumpled topper who had lavished Wilde with a suspicious glare. He tried to warn his friend with a look, but it was too late.
The man took a cigarette from the case and rolled it beneath his gin-blossomed nose. “Thanks mate. What sort of fag’s this? Smells a bit queer.”
“They’re Turkish. I buy them from a special shop on the Old Kent Road. I highly recommend them if you’re in the city.”
Conan Doyle nearly swallowed his own tongue.
“I thought as much,” the man said, flinging the cigarette to the ground. “We got us a coupla toffs here!” he bellowed. “A coupla spies, I reckon!”
Heads turned to stop and stare.
Conan Doyle leaned into Wilde and muttered in a low voice. “We’ve been rumbled, Oscar. When I give the word, run for your life.”
“Spies,” the man shouted aloud, pointing. “We gotta coupla bleedin’ spies in our midst.”
All the shouting was grabbing attention. People stopped to look. They began to draw a crowd. Fearful of being encircled, Conan Doyle grabbed Wilde’s sleeve and began to usher him away. But now a group of ten or more followed behind, dogging their steps.
“Barstards!”
“Kill the toffs!”
A rock whizzed past Conan Doyle’s ear and then he snarled with pain as a second, much larger rock, bounced off his shoulder with bruising force. Instinctively, he knew that more, and much worse was about to follow.