Authors: Mark Frost
"Are you not married?" she asked.
"No. Are you?"
She laughed a little. It reminded him of tinkling crystal goblets at an impossibly glamorous dinner. "No, I'm not married."
Doyle nodded intently, looked down at the shotgun in his hands, and with great concentration rubbed an imaginary smudge off the barrel.
"I've never given you proper thanks," she said more soberly.
"None necessary," he said with a casually dismissing wave.
"Still. I owe you my life. You and Mr. Sparks."
"There's no reason for you to feel indebted in even the slightest way, Miss Temple. Given the chance, I would gladly do the same again and more," he said, feeling emboldened. This time he held her eyes until she looked away.
She needed somewhere to stub out her cigarette. There was no ashtray on the bedstand. Casting around, Doyle came up with the wrapper from the biscuits and held it for her on the table as she tapped out the smoke. Their fingers brushed together lightly with an electric tingle that he didn't believe he was imagining.
"I want to help you," she said in a low and husky voice. "In any way I can. You must convey that to Mr. Sparks. Because, you see, I feel a certain responsibility."
"You acted out of need. Urgent financial need. You couldn't know what would happen. You had no way of knowing."
As she finished with the cigarette, she looked up, and their faces were only inches apart.
"Nevertheless," she said. "Will you convey that to him? Perhaps there is a way. I can be very resourceful."
"Of that I have no doubt whatsoever."
Her tongue flicked a tiny speck of tobacco off her lower lip. Their eyes met, and her look was far from discouraging. Doyle felt a sharp tug in his chest, as if caught in a strong gravitational field. Beauty is the promise of happiness, that phrase leapt in his mind from some long-forgotten source. He found himself leaning in to kiss her when multiple footsteps preceded the opening of the door. With a single sharp rap, Sparks entered the room. Doyle hastily pulled away and disposed of the biscuit wrapper. Larry and Barry took up stations on either side of the door.
"I've had a look at the other inn; we must move ourselves there at once," said Sparks. "It's a far less vulnerable structure. We will be able to protect ourselves for the night more efficiently there."
"I hope that you're not organizing this defense around any presumed incapacity of mine," said Eileen, rising energetically to her feet, "because I'm quite capable of defending myself as well as if not a good deal better than any man could ever do."
"Miss Temple, after the fate that's befallen your colleagues, surely you do comprehend that you are a target of considerable urgency and importance to our enemies," said Sparks, with measured reasonableness.
"What I comprehend is that you, sir, have no comprehension whatsoever of my ability to aid and abet you in this matter," said Eileen, not backing down an inch.
"This is not the time to—"
"And if you expect me to remain locked in a room like so much bait on a hook waiting for trouble to arrive while you men are free to come and go as you please, you, sir, are very much mistaken—"
"Miss Temple, please—"
"I will not be a party to it, nor will I honor your antiquated
notions of what a woman is or is not capable of: I begin to suspect that you would be equally disapproving of giving women the vote—"
"What on God's green earth has that to do with moving to the other inn?" Sparks protested. Doyle could not remember seeing Sparks so beleaguered. Barry and Larry were staring at their shoes, trying hard to keep the smiles off their faces.
"I have been an expert shot since the age of ten: A man-raises his hand against me at his own peril—I've shot a man before; I would not hesitate to do it again—"
"Don't be a fool—"
In a single, swift move, Eileen seized the shotgun from Doyle's hand, drew back the hammers, dexterously swung the gun around to draw a bead on the hat rack in the corner, pulled the trigger, and blew Stoker's bowler hat to kingdom come. Larry and Barry dropped to the floor. Stoker chose that unfortunate moment to appear in the doorway toting two full snifters of brandy; Eileen spotted movement in the corner of her eye and whipped around to train the second barrel on him. Stoker's hands flew up, and the snifters fell to the ground.
"Lord, no!" cried Stoker.
"How emphatically do you wish me to demonstrate my point, Mr. Sparks?" she asked calmly.
"Your point," said Sparks, his face taut with rage, "is made."
Eileen lowered the gun. Other guests, curious about the loud report, appeared in the hallway.
"Everything's all right," said Doyle to them, taking Stoker by the arm and pulling him into the room. "Go on about your business. No trouble here."
"What in great heaven's name is going on?" said Stoker shakily as Doyle closed the door behind them. "Miss Temple, please, these are our friends."
Eileen broke down the barrels, slipped out the remaining live round, and handed the gun back to Doyle. "Mr. Stoker, I owe you a new hat."
Larry and Barry sat up on the floor and tried unsuccessfully to keep from laughing out loud. Doyle was unable to resist joining them.
"I'm sure there's been some terrible misunderstanding.
Can't we discuss this reasonably?" said Stoker, retrieving the shredded corpse of his bowler.
"If a move to the other inn is no longer in order, Mr. Sparks, what is your alternate plan?" asked Eileen.
Sparks glowered at her, but she proudly stood her ground. When Doyle snorted, trying to stifle a laugh, Sparks shot him a venomous look.
"Sorry," said Doyle, turning the laugh into a cough. "Perhaps staying on here is not such a bad idea, Jack."
"You will have your opportunity to contribute, Miss Temple," said Sparks, ignoring Doyle entirely. "Only with the understanding that I entirely absolve myself of further responsibility for your safety."
"Understood," she said, and thrust out a hand. Sparks stared at her hand for a moment as if it were a lobster claw and then shook it, once, hard.
"So what will we do then, Jack?" asked Doyle. "The brothers have during the afternoon each made a most interesting discovery," said Sparks, moving away to the window.
Both men had by now climbed back to their feet, hats in hand. Barry, Doyle noticed, had a good deal of difficulty removing his eyes from Eileen.
"Train pulled into the station, three o'clock sharp," said Barry, turning on the charm. "Webb Compound and one passenger car. Special from Balmoral. Royal seal."
"Was there a royal on board?" asked Doyle, alarmed.
"Just the one: Prince Albert—"
"Young Eddy?" asked Stoker, aghast.
"Himself. He was met by carriage and driven off to the
southeast."
"You'll recall that Sir Nigel Gull, former physician to the prince, is one of the List of Seven," Sparks reminded Stoker.
"What could he be doing here? Do they plan to kill him?"
asked Stoker.
"There's the waste of a perfectly good bullet," said Eileen.
"And are you acquainted with the prince personally, Miss Temple?" asked Sparks.
"As a matter of fact, I am," she said, rolling another cigarette. "I spent an evening in Eddy's company last year after he saw me perform Twelfth Night in Bristol."
"One can't fault him his taste," said Barry gallantly.
"The man's got the mind of a Guernsey," said Eileen. "Put a pint in him, and he sprouts more arms than an octopus—"
"Thank you for that edifying report," said Sparks.
"Not at all," said Eileen, and held up the finished cigarette. Both Barry and Larry rushed forward with lit matches before Doyle could even get one out of his vest.
"Larry, would you care to share with us what you've found out today?" said Sparks, with a disapproving schoolmaster's tone.
"Right, sir," said Larry, blowing out his match as Barry had beaten him to Eileen. "Goresthorpe Abbey is mysteriously deserted, no one about these three days past, as Mr. Stoker has so astutely sussed out. So how do we finds the Right Honorable Bishop Pillphrock and where he's got to? A grocer and his goods; that's the life's blood of any household. I spent the afternoon chatting up the dollies in the local shops—mind you, I'm no Barry, but I get by—and following outward along the lines of supply, I learn the Bishop has repaired to a secluded slice a' heaven down the coast where, judging by the considerable volume of provisions purchased and delivered, he must be, as we speak, playing the country squire to a goodly number of guests."
"The Bishop's own estate?" asked Doyle.
"No, Sir John Chandros's," said Sparks.
"Correct, sir, and as it happens, sharing the grounds of this same estate is a factory that produces—"
"Mother's Own Biscuits," said Doyle.
"You're miles ahead of me, sir," said Larry modestly.
"What is the name of the estate?" asked Doyle.
"They call it Ravenscar," said Larry.
"And it's to the southeast, past the ancient ruins," said Doyle.
"Correct once again," said Larry.
"Where Prince Eddy was likely taken from the train station," added Sparks. "And adjacent to Ravenscar is the tract of land General Drummond purchased from Lord Nicholson."
"We must go there immediately, Jack," said Doyle.
"Tomorrow's business," said Sparks, looking out the window at the falling snow. "Tonight we pay a visit to the ruins of Whitby Abbey."
"You can't be serious—in this weather?" asked Stoker, "Your attendance is not required, Mr. Stoker," said Sparks, picking up the shotgun. "However, I should like to borrow
your gun."
Barry, all this while, had been taking the opportunity to size up Eileen as she smoked her cigarette, towering a good five inches above him.
"I've seen you someplace before, haven't I?" he said with
a confident grin.
Eileen cocked an amused eyebrow at the little man. Perhaps Barry's reputation is not overstated after all, thought Doyle.
Armed with lanterns, a shotgun, one pistol, and five sets of snowshoes procured from the inn, Sparks, Doyle, the brothers, and Eileen—Stoker having elected to exercise the better part of valor—set out in the dark for the ruins of Whitby Abbey. The bulk of the storm had passed, and the wind had expired; snow fell straight down and more gently now, to depths in excess of a foot and a half. Thick clouds obscured the moon. Smoke poured uniformly from the chimneys of the huddled houses they passed; curtains drawn, almost no light escaping to the ill-defined streets. The night was broken by nothing but the soft crunch of snowshoes on fresh powder and the vaporous columns of their breath. Navigation was problematic at best; the travelers felt sealed in a mute, hermetic sphere of white.
Slogging up the hill demanded patience and stamina. Sparks took the point, consulting a compass to maintain their bearings against the sheer cliffs to their left. Barry and Larry kept a rear guard with the other lanterns, while Doyle walked beside Eileen in the middle. She wore pants, boots, and a coat borrowed from Sparks's wardrobe. Her stride was long, steady, and brisk, and the climb seemed dismayingly less arduous to her than to Doyle himself, who welcomed each of Sparks's frequent pauses as an opportunity to reclaim his
wind.
Half an hour passed before they reached the cold, dark contour of Goresthorpe Abbey; no change in its lack of occupancy was evident. A formation of curious rectangular shapes studded the snowfield before them. Doyle realized it was the
heads of the cemetery's gravestones peering out of the drifts. Following the turn of the rectory grounds, they moved through a stand of trees and were soon confronted by the craggy black outline of the ancient ruins looming on the crown of the hill above. As devoid of life as its sister building below, the old sepulcher emanated a visceral menace considerably more threatening than life's mere absence.
"Nasty-looking piece of business," said Doyle quietly.
"All the better to strike fear in the hearts of poor, ignorant parishioners with, my dear," answered Eileen in kind.
Sparks waved them forward, and they attacked the final leg of the ascent. The slope was steeper here, and it more than once required the collective efforts of the group to pull each other up and over the sharpest inclines. With the last of these banks surmounted, they found themselves on a flat plane level with the ruins. Their lamps bled a pallid light on the crumbling walls, which were black and harrowed with age. Its doors and windows had long since been ravaged by time, and in many areas even the roof had fallen victim, but the overall impression imparted by what remained of the abbey was one of tremendous sturdiness and power. A slow circum-ambulation of the structure revealed both its impressive scope and its builders' fantastic indulgence of detail. Every ledge, cornice, and lintel was adorned with nightmarish Gothic statuary, embodying every imaginable species of night-dweller: kobold, incubus, basilisk, and hydra, lich, ogre, hippogriff, gremlin, and gargoyle. This fearsome menagerie had suffered far fewer insults from the passing centuries than the walls they swarmed over, each now patiently collecting a mantle of snow that did nothing to diminish their dread presence. Placed here to ward off demons, not to welcome them, remembered Doyle from his history books. Or so one hoped. He couldn't keep from regularly glancing over his shoulder to see if any of the creatures' dead eyes were tracking them.
Sparks brought them back around the ruins to their starting roint, completing the loop of their footprints in the snow, railing away in either direction into darkness.
"Shall we have a look inside?" asked Sparks.
No answer came, but when Sparks walked through the pen doorway, no one lingered behind. Because of the regaining irregular ribs of roofing, snow had not gathered to the same depths inside. They removed their snowshoes, leaning them against a wall. Sparks led them into the next room, a grand, vaulted rectangular space with uniform rows of broken stone running across the floor. A raised deck at the far end of the nave identified the room's original function.