The Arcanum Read Free Page B

never paid for a meal, Doyle remembered with a smile, and could be an oppressive braggart. But no one had any concept of the scope of his knowledge, or the depths of his experience.
    And then there was that memorable accent, impossible to decipher. Russian? French? And that crisp laugh, like a rifle report.
    The memories clogged Doyle’s throat and fogged his sight. How distant it all felt. And yet . . . where grief had once barricaded the doors to the past, now the past wanted out.
    For Montalvo Konstantin Duvall had chosen Doyle, and that one simple fact had been Doyle’s seminal secret for the last thirty years. Duvall had brought them all together. It was his vision from the start. The Arcanum was the one thing Duvall called his own. But who took charge now?
    Doyle watched the dust puff and scatter from the urn. Most of it hit the stream beneath their feet, but some swung back, peppering overcoats and bowler hats. Doyle released Lady Jean’s hand and swept a bit of ash from his sleeve before realizing what Duvall had become. Just a smudge. Dismissed.
    It was wrong. All of it was wrong. The act of brushing Konstantin Duvall off his sleeve confirmed it.
    A rusted lever turned over in Doyle’s mind. For a moment, he was more awake than he had been in four years. And he knew something was wrong about this. Very wrong.
    To Doyle’s left stood Churchill, his bulbous red nose protuberant beneath his bowler. Doyle took his elbow and spoke softly. “The Yard looked into this?”
    Churchill whispered back, “Young actors drove the car. Actors in a play. They told the authorities that Duvall rushed at them out of the fog.”
    Doyle stared at Churchill, who tilted his head up, annoyed. “What?”
    “You are not answering the obvious question, Winston.
Why
did Duvall rush at them out of the fog?”
    “How am I supposed to know?” Churchill’s voice rose, and he was shushed by someone down the line of black-clad mourners. “There’s plenty about that man I never understood,” he added in a whisper.
    Doyle released Churchill’s elbow and gazed over the bridge at the last of the dust melting into the streambed.
    Churchill shot him a wary look, and lowered his voice even further. “What are you thinking, old boy?”
    “Nothing of consequence.”
    “Call off the dogs, Arthur; it was an accident. That’s all. No point mucking round in it.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    “Let the boys at the Yard do their job. Splendid to see you still have the old fire, though.” Churchill patted him on the back.
    Doyle softly repeated the words. “ ‘The old fire,’ yes.” He smiled at Churchill. He knew better than anyone that nothing in Duvall’s life had ever been an “accident.” And now Doyle sensed the same would hold true in death.
    LADY JEAN TURNED to her husband in the back of the Bentley limousine. She was not a psychic, but she could read her husband’s mind better than most wives. She knew the meaning of every line, blanch, and color of his sturdy, handsome face. He ignored her gaze by studying a fly buzzing against the car window. She would have none of it. “What were you and Winston discussing?” she asked.
    Doyle pretended to be lost in thought. “Yes, dear?”
    But Lady Jean was not fooled. “There’s a saying, isn’t there, Arthur?” she said. “About sleeping dogs and where they lie?”
    Her husband did not respond.
    “It was a terrible accident.”
    Doyle turned, his eyes containing a certain steeliness that made her flinch. “Then there’s no reason for concern, is there?” he answered.

4
    THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Doyle took a carriage into the heart of Whitechapel on the east end of London. There was heavy foot traffic on the narrow streets, for motorcars were still rare in this part of town, and Doyle was jostled as vendors hawked cold cups of jellied eels and children played cricket using lampposts as wickets. A tribe of barefoot orphans latched on to his pant legs until he sprinkled them