“One question, Solomon,” Conan Doyle called out. “What do you hope to gain by all this death and destruction? Will killing the queen somehow bring your family back?”
The gray-haired man in the black stovepipe regarded Conan Doyle a moment and sneered with derision. “The queen, sir? Shall I tell about our beloved monarch? I created a war-winning weapon: a guided torpedo that could destroy a warship from a mile away. The nose of the torpedo was fitted with a glass window. Inside was a pigeon trained to recognize the silhouette of a warship and steer toward it by pecking at metal paddles. But on the day of the demonstration, some fool released a flock of doves to welcome the queen. The pigeon saw the shadow of the doves on the surface of the water. Instinct took over from training and the pigeon turned to follow the flock. Dozens were killed. I saw my wife and beloved child go down before my eyes.” Solomon Arkwright’s chin quivered; his eyes filled with hot tears that melted before a glare of burning hatred. “But you know what the irony is?” He shook his head bitterly. “The accident fnished us as weapon makers. But not because of the people killed. Not because of the death of my wife and child. But because of the pigeon. The great animal lover Victoria was horrified that a weapon designed to save countless lives of British seamen required the sacrifice of a single bird. And so we were stricken from the list of weapons suppliers.”
Conan Doyle briefly wondered what was happening in the entrance hall and whether the servants had all fled the house. He decided to play for time. “Solomon,” he called out. “We have met your brother. We know what happened those many years ago. You suffered a terrible loss. But is what you are doing true to the memory of your loved ones?”
The engineer looked at Conan Doyle as if he were stupid. “Everything I do is for my family. I will revive their bodies… not just their memory.” Solomon’s head shook with a violent tremor.
Conan Doyle suddenly remembered the photograph of the Fog Committee. He had surmised that the figure in the stovepipe hat had deliberately turned his head to blur his own image. Now he understood the truth: it was the nervous tic the man had no doubt been left with after that tragic day when he saw his wife and child die before his eyes. Solomon Arkwright was a deeply traumatized man, but he might yet be reasoned with. “We have seen the bodies of your wife and son. They have deteriorated too far be revivified, no matter how clever your heart pump is.”
“The marquess’s magic will take up where our science leaves off.” Solomon’s words were raveled with desperation. “He has given me his solemn oath that we shall walk together again in this life.”
“Walk together? What, like that thing?” Wilde said, pointing to the dead man in the chair. “You will revive them as shambling monsters?”
“Shut up!” Solomon bellowed. “Shut up!”
The engineer spread open the monster’s shirt, revealing the brassy metal box. His fingers found and depressed the recessed plunger, which scratched a inner striker plate and ignited the carbide fuel. Soon they could hear the ascending hiss of water coming to a boil.
DeVayne and his two cronies stepped back behind the restraining chair, out of the monster’s field of view. The heart pump’s telltale sound filled the halclass="underline" wisssshthump… wisssssshthump… wissssssshthump…
Within minutes, the corpse began to quiver as hot blood pumped through cold flesh, dormant nerve endings fired, and limbs twitched. Then the creature stirred. It drew in a ragged breath and released a plume of steam.
DeVayne smiled as he watched. “Solomon has increased the steam engine’s output, raising the blood pressure to six times that of a normal human, bestowing the creature with unstoppable power.”
As the tissues engorged with blood, the thing in the chair seemed to inflate. Huge veins plumped on the face and neck and the skin darkened to the color of a sanguine bruise. Then, with a blood-chilling scream, the grizzled head rose up and the yellow eyes startled open.
The marquess leaned close to the gruesome head and purred into its ear: “The men you see before you are the cause of your suffering. They murdered your sister. Your soul will never know peace while they live. You must destroy Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle. Tear off their arms. Smash them. Peel the flesh from their bones. Crush and rend them utterly. Only then will you know peace. Only then will you be released from this prison of corrupt and stinking flesh you now inhabit.”
The monster began to writhe violently in the chair, an engine fueled by hatred. One iron band restraining an arm broke with a loud snap, and then another. The chair creaked and groaned as the monster rose to its feet, snapping the heavy timbers as if they were matchsticks. The monster stood erect, pausing a moment as if gathering momentum, the yellow eyes fixing upon the two friends, and then took a lunging step forward.
“Kill them!” DeVayne urged. “Kill! Kill! Ki—”
KAA-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
His words were drowned by a thunderous explosion that blew in the doors and snuffed out the gaslights. Suits of armor toppled and crashed. A pall of dust fell from the rafters and mixed with the smoke and steam swirling in through the doorway to form a blinding fog. When the pall of dust and smoke finally cleared, Conan Doyle and Wilde had vanished.
So had the monster.
Dr. Lamb looked terror-struck. “What was that explosion?”
A masked servant ran by the doorway.
“Wait!” DeVayne shouted, but the servant had already vanished.
“What do we do now?” Solomon asked. “The two meddlers have escaped and the house is on fire.”
DeVayne thought a moment and said, “We must proceed with our plan. Wilde and his friend are as good as dead. The monster will track them unerringly.” He turned to Solomon. “You must find the creature and bring him back.” He handed over Conan Doyle’s revolver. “In the unlikely event he hasn’t already killed them, use this and make sure they’re dead. The doctor and I will be waiting in my landau. We cannot delay. We must be inside the gates of Buckingham Palace before Big Ben strikes thirteen.”
Meanwhile Conan Doyle and Wilde were running pell-mell through the hallways. “I told you to shut that steam thing down, Arthur.”
“Yes. It worked rather better than I’d hoped.” But in the next instant he was struck by a dread realization. “We must find the dungeon where Miss Leckie and Vyvyan are being held, before the fire becomes a conflagration!”
They paused at the foot of the grand staircase.
“Only stairs going up,” Conan Doyle said. “None going down.”
“This is a mock Tudor manor. It only has two floors.”
“Then where would the dungeon be?”
Wilde thought a moment and said, “When we were in his rooms, DeVayne said his dungeon was nearby.”
“Where are his rooms?”
“Somewhere on the upper floor. I’m not sure exactly.”
From down the smoky corridor came a dreadfully familiar sound: wisssssshthump… wisssssshthump.… Through the swirling smoke, they glimpsed the monster, stumping toward them.”
“Quickly, Arthur, up the stairs!”
The two friends vaulted up the staircase with Wilde leading the way. They turned right and hurried along the corridor.
“Which room?”
“Alas, I cannot recall.”
“So many rooms. So many doors. How shall we ever find them?”
“Perhaps they are somewhere near. Close enough to hear us if we shout.”
Both men began to shout aloud: “JEAN! VYVYAN. JEAN! VYVYAN!”
Conan Doyle paused to look behind. Smoke was chimneying up the staircase and spreading along the upper landing. The smoke swirled and the monster stepped out of it and slouched after them.