"Am I?"
"Oh, I'd say so, yes."
"How, exactly?"
"Mm. Long story, that," the man said, more warning than excuse.
"Have we time for it?"
"Believe we're well clear for the moment," he said, parting the curtains for a brief look outside.
"I'll ask some questions, then."
"Better you didn't, really—"
"No, better I do," said Doyle, pulling the pistol from his pocket and resting it on his knee.
Sacker's smile broadened. "Right. Fire away."
"Who are you?"
"Professor. Cambridge. Antiquities."
"Could I see some form of identification to that effect?"
Sacker produced a calling card verifying the assertion. Looks authentic, thought Doyle. Not that that counted for much.
"I'll keep this," said Doyle, pocketing the card.
"Not at all."
"Is this your carriage, Professor Sacker?"
"It is."
"Where are we going?"
"Where would you like to go?"
"Someplace safe."
"Difficult."
"Because you don't know, or because you don't wish to tell me?"
"Because, as of this moment, there aren't all that many places you can truly consider safe: Doyle ... safe. Not much overlap there, I'm sorry to say." He smiled again.
"You find that amusing."
"To the contrary. Your situation is obviously quite grave."
"My situation?"
"Rather than worry, however, in the face of adversity it's
always my inclination to take action. That's what one should do in any event. General principle. Take action."
"Is that what we're doing now, Professor?"
"Oh my, yes." Sacker grinned again.
"I yield the floor," said Doyle darkly, his frustration with this cheerful enigma mitigated only by the man having twice within the hour saved his life.
"Another drink first?" he asked, offering the flask again. Doyle shook his head. "I really would recommend it."
Doyle took another drink. "Let's have it, then."
"You've attempted to publish a work of fiction recently."
"What's that got to do with any of this?"
"I'm endeavoring to tell you." He smiled again.
"The answer is yes."
"Hmm. Rough business, the publishing game. Fairly discouraging, I imagine, but then you don't strike me as the easily discouraged sort. Perseverance, that's the ticket."
Doyle bit his tongue and waited while Sacker took another nip.
"You recently circulated a manuscript of yours for publication entitled—have I got this right?—The Dark Brotherhood'?"
"Correct."
"Without any notable success, I'm afraid—"
"You don't need to rub salt in the wound."
"Establishing the facts, old boy. Haven't read it myself. I'm given to understand your story deals at some length, as fiction, with what one might characterize as a ... thaumatur-gical conspiracy."
"In part." How could he know that? thought Doyle.
"A sort of sorcerers' cabal."
"You're not far off—the villains of the piece, anyway."
"A coven of evil masterminds colluding with some, shall we say, delinquent spirits."
"It's an adventure story, isn't it?" said Doyle defensively.
"With a supernatural bent."
"Fair enough."
"Good versus evil, that sort of thing."
"The eternal struggle."
"In other words, a potboiler."
"I'd hoped my sights were set a bit higher," Doyle complained.
"Don't listen to me, friend, I'm no critic. Are you published anywhere?"
"A few stories," Doyle replied, with only modest exaggeration. "I'm a frequent contributor to a monthly periodical."
"What would that be?"
"It's for children, I'm sure you wouldn't know it."
"Come on, what's it called?"
"The Boy's Own Paper," said Doyle.
"Right, never heard of it. Tell you what I think, though; nothing wrong with a bit of entertainment, is there? That's what people want in the end, after all, a little diversion, a ripping good tale, leave behind their troubles and woe."
"Stimulate a little thought while you're at it," Doyle offered sheepishly.
"And why not? Noble aspirations yield greater achievements."
"I appreciate the fine sensibilities—now would you please tell me what my book's got to do with what's happened tonight?"
The man paused, then leaned forward confidentially. "The manuscript was circulated."
"By whom?"
"Someone with connections."
"Circulated where?"
"Into the wrong sorts of hands."
Doyle paused and leaned in to meet Sacker halfway. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be a bit more specific," Doyle said.
Sacker held Doyle's eyes mesmerically and lowered his voice.
"Picture if you will a group of extraordinary individuals. Ruthless, intelligent, even brilliant persons. Well placed, enormously rewarded by the world for their skills and achievements. All distinctly lacking what you and I would call... basic morality. United by one common pursuit: acquisition of power without limits. Hungering for more. Obsessively secret—exactly who they are is impossible to say. Rest assured they are real. Does this sound at all familiar to you?"
Doyle could barely speak. "My book."
"Yes, Doyle. Your book. You've written a manuscript of fiction, but by some elusive process you have drawn down into your work an uncanny approximation of the depraved plottings of a malignant sect of black magicians, seeking an end not at all unlike that pursued by your characters. Which was to—"
"To elicit the help of evil spirits in annihilating the membrane that separates the physical and etheric plane."
"In order to—"
"Gain dominion over the material world and those who inhabit it."
"Right. And if tonight's seance was any indication, my friend, they have breached the battlements and set foot across the threshold."
"It's not possible."
"Do you believe what your eyes saw in that room?"
Doyle found he was unwilling to hear his answer.
"It is possible," Sacker maintained.
Doyle felt a jolt of dislocation, as if he were in a dream. His mind struggled to stay above the flood tide of shock and dismay. The fact was, he had borrowed not only the title of his book but his villains' motives from the woolliest works of Madame Blavatsky. Who would have thought his petty larceny would come so hideously home to roost?
"If my book has fallen into their hands ..."
"Put yourself in their shoes: What purpose does life hold for these diseased monsters without the threatening presence—real or imagined—of formidable enemies, whose very existence serves only to heighten their demented self-aggrandizement?"
"They think I've somehow stumbled onto their plan...."
"If they mean to kill you outright they probably wouldn't have gone to all this trouble, which leads me to believe they want you alive, if that's any comfort to you."
"But surely they must know ... I mean, they can't think ... for God's sake, it's only a book."
"Yes. Pity, that."
Doyle stared at him. "What's all this got to do with you?"
"Oh, I've been onto these rogues a good sight longer than you have."
"But I haven't been onto them at all; until this moment I never even knew they existed."
"Yes, well, I wouldn't care to try telling them that, would you?"
Doyle was speechless.
"Fortunately, my tracking them put me close at hand this evening. Unfortunately, I'm something of a marked man now as well."
Sacker rapped sharply on the roof. The carriage came to a sudden halt.
"Rest assured: We've put a real spoke in their wheel tonight. Keep your wits about you, and don't waste a moment's time. And I wouldn't bother going to the police with all this, because they will think you mad, and word will only filter up to someone who could do you even greater harm."