"But it seems clear, doesn't it, that she was a confederate ill along," said Doyle, much as it pained him to think poorly :f the woman.
"A possibility, although we can't know what sort of coercion they brought to bear on her—precisely what the boy would have been good for."
"That seemed to be the case on the night she was killed."
"Consider the scenario that, feigned or genuine, her grief over the child's 'kidnap' was skillfully employed to lure you into their trap. Her usefulness expired, they double-crossed and murdered both the Lady and her hapless brother."
"It fits, although the brother's role is rather ill-defined."
"He's called away from school on urgent business; she's enlisted his help against coconspirators she can no longer trust. Or perhaps he was in concert all along, putting pressure on from another angle. You said he seemed to be berating her while they waited at the door."
"If I didn't know better, Jack, I'd almost think you were defending the woman." But in the dim glow of the lantern, Doyle could see a dark dissatisfaction lining Sparks's face.
"Something's not right," he said.
"On the other hand," said Doyle, remembering the light in her deep blue eyes, "all we have to support the idea she was in league with them are the semicoherent ravings of a deranged and jilted husband."
Sparks didn't reply, eyes withdrawn, lost in some private ratiocination. They rode slowly through the narrow tunnel in silence.
"There's a light up ahead!" Barry announced.
As best as the walls would allow, they peered out into the tunnel ahead where the beam of the headlamp was losing ground to the emerging light of day. Moments later the train broke free of the confines of the earth and spirited them into the open air for the first time since they entered the misfor-tunate house.
"Bravo, Barry!"
The tracks hugged the slope of a sheer ravine, a river running swiftly below. In the distance behind them, up a steep slope and above the trees, peered the machicolations of Topping's highest towers. Thick, quarrelsome pillars of black smoke spewed around them into a threatenmg gray sky. There might be rain, those clouds suggested. But even a deluge would not come in time to spare the venerable life of Topping Manor.
"They've put the torch to it," said Barry in dismay. "All that silver ..."
"Maybe they didn't find the door. Maybe they think we're
trapped inside," said Doyle hopefully. "If they believe we're dead, they'll slacken off the chase."
"He would see me quartered and then watch the body burn before making such an assumption," said Sparks grimly.
Doyle studied Sparks as he looked back at the burning building, sweeping the horizon for any sign of pursuit, his eyes as taut and feral as a predatory bird.
"Who is he, Jack?" Doyle asked quietly. "The man in black. You know him, don't you?"
"He's my brother," said Sparks.
chapter eleven NEMESIS
THE TRACKS RAN TO THE SOUTH AND EAST ALONG THE RAVINE,
parallel to the river for the next few miles, the slope descending gradually down to join the river on the flat seacoastal plain. Through their constant vigilance, the three men aboard the train were given no indication that the enemy had gained awareness of their escape. Not long after reaching level ground, they intersected a sweeping half-moon curve of rail that bowed off to the east. At Sparks's instruction, Barry brought the engine to a halt, leapt from the cab, and threw the switch that would jump them to the tracks leading away from the river. As the engine came back up to speed, Sparks and Doyle stripped to their shirts, shoveled coal from the tender to the scuttle, and shouldered the scuttle to the furnace. Despite their exposure to the frigid winds, the hard labor soon had them soaked in sweat. They banked the fire to maximum blaze, pulling as much power from the roiling steam as the boiler would yield, the throttle wide open, exacting as substantial an advantage on the race back to London as they could from their sturdy iron steed.
Nothing further was offered by Sparks about his brother. He entered another of those spells of remoteness that invited no inquiry, and they had the intensity of what soon became backbreaking work to divert them. Barry spurred the train on ferociously, taking curves at precarious speeds, never slowing for occasional stray livestock, using only the whistle and the sheer power of his will as he screamed at the animals to clear the tracks. More than one rural stationmaster ran out from his office as they roared past his post to stare dumbfounded at Barry, who responded with a wave and a roguish tip of the hat, an unscheduled juggernaut jeopardizing the methodical orderliness of the world of trains. Barry displayed an intimate knowledge of the spidery network of tracks that laced the Kent and Sussex countryside, switching them on every occasion away from primary routes onto seldom-used freight lines. At one point, when they came alongside a parallel set of tracks and began to gain on the passenger train carrying New Year's Eve travelers from Dover to London, Barry whipped his charge like a jockey in the homestretch of the Irish Sweepstakes, whooping and hollering and throwing his hat in the air as they raced past the unnerved rival engineer. Barry was a daredevil, plain and simple.
Well before dark, Barry by necessity slowed their pace when they entered the labyrinthine tangle of switches and turnarounds congesting the arteries of every approach to London, the time their breakneck sprint across the open countryside had gained them forfeited by these final miles. When they finally pulled onto a sidetrack off a private yard in Bat-tersea, owned by some unnamed acquaintance of Sparks, night had firmly fallen. Leaving Barry to secure the engine's harbor, Sparks and Doyle walked to a nearby busy thoroughfare and hailed a hansom cab. Sparks directed the driver to an address across the river, somewhere on the Strand.
"Where do we go, Jack?" asked Doyle. "They seem more than capable of finding me anywhere."
"They've anticipated our movements, which have up until now been necessarily and painfully predictable. It's a new game. A crowd's the best refuge on earth, and London's riddled with more holes than a bloodhound could suss out in a lifetime," said Sparks, fastidiously wiping the coal dust from his face with a handkerchief. "I say, Doyle, you should get a look at yourself; you're as black as the ace of spades."
"From this point on, I would greatly appreciate being consulted about our plans and movements, Jack," said Doyle, trying largely in vain to remove the grime with his sleeve. "I daresay I'll have the occasional thought or opinion that could have some positive effect on our efforts."
Sparks looked at him with affectionate amusement, which he nipped under cover of solemnity before Doyle could take offense. "That has been established beyond dispute. The hardships of these last few days would've reduced most men to runny porridge."
"I do appreciate it. But to put it more bluntly, I should like to know exactly what you know. That is, everything you know."
"You're perilously close already—"
"Close will, I'm afraid, no longer be sufficient to my needs, Jack. I shall honor whatever secrets you impart to the death. 1 trust my actions to date give you no reason whatsoever to doubt the sense of taking me further into your confidence."
"I have no such doubts."
"Good. When should we begin?"
"After a hot bath, over oyster brochette, lobster, and caviar, accompanied by the sound of vintage corks popping," said Sparks. "It is New Year's Eve, after all. What do you say to that?"
"I would have to say," said Doyle, his mouth already watering, "that is a plan I can endorse without the slightest reservation."
The cab deposited them in the center of the Strand, one of London's liveliest avenues, never busier than on this moonlit New Year's Eve, before a not particularly inviting lodging hotel. A dingy awning announced it as the Hotel Melwyn. Two steps up from a doss house, a full flight down from even the threadbare middle-class accommodations to which Doyle was accustomed, it was nonetheless one of the few places in town where two gentlemen—rather, a gentleman and his valet—blackened head to toe by a day's hard labor in a coal car, could draw nothing more from clientele and staff than a passing disinterested glance.