The Arcanum Read Free

Parliamentary elections of 1900.
    “Winston?”
    “There’s news, I’m afraid. Bloody awful news.” The phone lines were quiet save for static. “Konstantin Duvall is dead.”
    A single droplet of ink struck the floor. Doyle ran a hand over his walrus moustache and closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged. He placed the dripping pen back on the table. “When?”
    “Last night, they say. Clipped by a motorcar. In the fog.”
    “My God.” Conan Doyle felt his emotions hiss away into the recesses of his heart, leaving only nausea. But after sixty-plus years, this, he knew, was only a precursor of the tidal rush of grief to come.
    “Did he have any family, Arthur? Of all of us, you knew him best.”
    “Honestly, I . . . I don’t know.”
    “I’ll have the Yard look into it, but I suspect they’ll have no better luck than I will. We may have to put something together. Small, of course.”
    Doyle was reeling. Bits and shards, pictures, words, a rush of thoughts had broken free. He grasped for useful information. “He spoke once . . . of wanting to be cremated. From his days in the Orient.”
    “Eh? That’s something, then. We can accomplish that. It seems unbelievable. Unbelievable . . .” Churchill allowed the silence to loom. He was clearly waiting for information he knew Doyle possessed. The good doctor, however, was lost, for the moment, to the past. Finally, Churchill pressed on. “What on earth was he doing at the British Museum? And at that absurd hour?”
    Doyle hesitated, then lied, “I have no idea.”
    “Bollocks,” Churchill answered. “There’s much you’ve left unsaid of your business together, Arthur. Reams left unsaid. Now, I’ve been straight with you about Duvall, and I would appreciate a portion of the same courtesy in return. Someday quite soon, old boy, I want to know what you chaps were up to.”
    Doyle sighed. “Honestly, Winston, we’ve been over this—”
    But Churchill cut him off. “Duvall was an important man, but only you seem to know how important. At some point, you’ve an obligation to your country, your king, and to me to tell us what you know. In the meantime,” Churchill’s voice softened, “I’m very sorry. I know he was important to you. He lived well. That’s all we can ask in the end. To live well. I’ll ring you later.”
    “Yes, Winston. Thank you for calling.”
    The line went dead. Doyle recradled the receiver, finding it difficult to swallow. It was the secrets, held for thirty years now, surging forth to overtake the present. But he held on to the mantel and fought them off, locking them back where they belonged.
    LADY JEAN DOYLE was trimming the roses, in a white dress with long sleeves and a yellow hat. Her fair skin was susceptible to the sun but she enjoyed gardening—especially when she could watch their young daughter ride her horse along the green bluffs of Sussex Downs. The Doyles’ estate at Windlesham was the picture of tasteful grandeur: a redbrick mansion of thirty-two rooms guarded by a ring of 300-year-old maple trees.
    But moments of beauty like this had grown rarer of late, making Lady Jean doubly thankful for each one. The recent past had tested the Doyles’ mettle with a harrowing string of deaths. Aside from the loss of their adored Kingsley, Doyle’s brother Innes had died of influenza. And Jean’s brother, Malcolm, perished at the Battle of Mons. Recovery—if it was to happen at all—would be painfully slow.
    Worse still, the Doyles’ recent crusade on behalf of the Spiritualist Movement had sent unintended shock waves through the British press, and set off a firestorm of ridicule. Enemies and admirers alike had declared Doyle a rube, as gullible as Sherlock Holmes was skeptical. There seemed no reprieve from the insults and jibes, but Doyle soldiered on, watching his reputation crumble, like a man burdened with secret knowledge.
    As indeed he was.
    Yet, even knowing this, it had still shaken Lady Jean to see her dear