“Whatever for?”
“To keep the wind out of your eyes.”
The Irishman chuckled ironically. “Oscar Wilde, ride upon such a contrivance? Surely you jest. Oscar Wilde does not ride bicycles or motorcycles. A hansom cab is the only two-wheeled vehicle I deign to ride inside.”
“How did you imagine we were going to get there?”
“I imagined you would ride, whilst I perambulate alongside.”
“Think of Vyvyan; we have no time.”
“But how will we see? The fog is so thick one can barely walk in it.”
Conan Doyle sparked a lighter and the steam cycle’s huge carbide headlamp flared to life, hurling a dazzling beam before it.
“Good lord, you have awakened a cyclopean beast!”
“Hop on,” Conan shouted above the clattering racket. “This way, we’ll be there inside half an hour.”
With great awkwardness, even for him, Wilde cocked a leg and straddled the bike, settling his backside into the bucket-like pillion saddle with the exaggerated caution of a hemorrhoid sufferer.
“Are you aboard?” Conan Doyle shouted over his shoulder.
“Only my most vulnerable appendages.”
“Right, then. Here we go. Hang on tight.”
Gears ground as Conan Doyle yanked levers, squeezed calipers, rotated handgrips, searching for a clutch. He gripped a small lever on the handlebars, pulled it back, and the motor revolutions climbed to a roar, the machine vibrating dangerously beneath them. A relief valve popped, jetting steam with a shriek. He threw more levers and then finally got lucky and found the clutch by slipping a toe beneath a foot pedal and lifting upward. Gears engaged with a graunch and the machine leaped forward. The cobblestones were greasy with fog and the back tire broke loose and spun madly. Conan Doyle snatched the handlebars left and right, fighting to stay upright. They veered across the road, mounted the sidewalk, careened off a wall and back onto the street. A lamppost loomed. Wilde shrieked and closed his eyes, hunkering behind Conan Doyle. Somehow they managed to swerve around it, although it clipped the Scotsman’s elbow painfully.
Suddenly the bike was flying along Winchester Street at a meteoric ten miles an hour, a speed which seemed much faster because of the fog and the necessity to dodge and weave around abandoned carriages blocking the roadway. Like men straddling a spluttering comet, they streaked through the streets of London and soon began the long, slow climb to Hampstead, where the fog finally began to thin. During the first five minutes of riding Conan Doyle attempted to slow for a corner only to discover that the machine had yet to be fitted with brakes. He decided not to broach the matter with Wilde who, lapsed Catholic though he was, was frantically reciting the rosary at the top of his voice.
As for stopping, Conan Doyle reasoned that wouldn’t be necessary until they reached the DeVayne family seat, at which point he would just have to improvise.
CHAPTER 31
A TOAST TO DEATH
The Fog Committee sat convened around the long table in the great hall of DeVayne’s ancestral seat for what they all hoped would be the final time.
DeVayne rose from his chair at the head of the long feasting table and addressed the assemblage of dour-faced members. “Gentlemen, we are mere hours away from writing our names in the history books.” He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The masked servants, who had been standing silently around the edges of the room, moved forward, bearing trays with crystal goblets and sparkling decanters filled with the green liquor. DeVayne seized a glass and bade the other members to follow suit. “Such a momentous occasion calls for a toast.”
“A toast to what?” the judge asked.
“A toast to death,” DeVayne answered, and added, “the death of the old regime and the birth of a new British republic.”
“What is this concoction?” asked the old admiral, eyeing the deep jade drink with obvious doubt.
“The libation of the gods,” DeVayne answered. “A drink for those who dare ascend the steps of Olympus. Come, join me in a toast to our great enterprise.”
The others took up their glasses, but no one drank.
DeVayne noticed their reluctance and sighed in exasperation. “Honestly, gentlemen, do you think I would poison you at this juncture? When we stand upon the threshold of victory?” To demonstrate, he quaffed his drink in one long gulp and thrust the goblet at the servant who quickly refilled it. “A toast, gentlemen. In just a few hours, the world will change for us all.” He smiled. “A toast to the new republic.”
All the members of the Fog Committee rose and reached across the table, to chink glasses.
“To the new republic!”
CHAPTER 32
A WAGNERIAN DEATH
The steam cycle whooshed through the open gates of DeVayne’s mansion, its scorching carbide lamp lighting up the eyes of a pack of jackals and scattering them. Conan Doyle shouted to his pillion passenger, “I thought those were dogs, but they look like jackals.”
“Part of the marquess’s menagerie,” Wilde yelled back. “The beasts wander loose on the grounds. But don’t worry about the jackals, I’m sure the lions will keep them at bay.”
“Lions!”
As the steam cycle effortlessly sped up the steep drive, Conan Doyle eased back on the throttle lever, slowing the engine’s revolutions and using the uphill slope for braking. They coasted to a standstill at the crest of the hill, and he put his feet down to steady the machine. Below them, the brightly lit pile stood waiting. Although the circular drive was empty of carriages, it was currently occupied by a pride of lions that sauntered lazily and drowsed together in tawny heaps.
“Good Lord!” Conan Doyle remarked. “I had thought you were joking and was about to suggest we abandon the motorcycle here and proceed on foot.”
“Unless you can run faster than a gazelle, I highly recommend against that. The inside of the house is safe. There may be a few sheep wandering about, but the only carnivore roaming the halls is the marquess.”
Conan Doyle eased on the throttle until the engine revolutions climbed to a roar, and then shifted into gear and released the clutch. The steam cycle sprang forward and they plummeted down the hill at breakneck speed and careened into the circular drive, spraying gravel. The intention had been to stampede the lions, but the pride seemed drowsily unimpressed by the hissing steam cycle. They orbited once and then a second time.
“You are merely succeeding in annoying the beasts,” Wilde shouted, “and we are losing the advantage of surprise.”
Conan Doyle ground his teeth with frustration. If the lions wouldn’t move willingly, he’d force the issue. He let go of the throttle momentarily and fumbled the revolver from his overcoat pocket, pointing it in the air and pulling the trigger. BANG! The report of the gunshot slapped the limestone façade like a thunderclap and rebounded, rousing the lions into flight.
“Aha!” Conan Doyle triumphed. He fumbled to regain his hold on the handlebar while still clutching the revolver and inadvertently slammed the throttle lever hard against its stop. As the power surged full on, the steam cycle careened out of control. Suddenly they were pointing straight at the front steps. Conan Doyle barely had time to shout “Hang on!” as they rocketed up the marble staircase in a bone-shaking ascent and crashed through the great oaken doors. As the steam cycle shot across the marble entrance hall, the rear tire lost grip and the machine slewed from beneath them, spilling its riders. Carried by inertia, the riderless machine crashed into a heavy pedestal holding the bust of William Archibald DeVayne and toppled it, setting up a domino effect where one column slumped against its neighbor in a series of resounding crashes that ended with hundreds of years of DeVayne heritage scattered across the entrance hall in fragments.