Free The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Vaughn Entwistle

outrage recovering after the shock of being shanghaied in the middle of Waterloo Station.
    Cypher’s small face attempted to mold itself into something approaching a smile; he flashed a collection of tiny, peg-like teeth, aiming at geniality, but managing instead to convey the menacing look of a playground Napoleon.
    “God and country,” he answered cryptically. “As you shall soon see.”
    The brakes squealed on. The train shuddered as it decelerated and drew up at an Underground station, where it trembled like a whippet straining at its lead, anxious to be released. By the sparkle of electric lamps, Conan Doyle read the name spelled out on the porcelain tiles: O RPHEUS S TREET S TATION .
    The ginger behemoth flung open the door and stepped out, holding the door. Cypher slid from the bench onto his feet. “Come along, Doctor Doyle. And no heroics, please. I do not wish for an unfortunate accident.”
    Conan Doyle had been planning a dozen such scenarios in his head. His hands were balled into fists, and he had already decided he would punch the larger of the two thugs first; but at Cypher’s words, his fists unclenched. They stepped out onto the deserted platform. He casually eyed the steps leading up into the station, wondering whether to run for it, but up close he saw to his surprise that the steps ascended a mere five feet before abutting a wall. The remainder of the staircase was a painting, like cheap scenery from a theatrical production. And then he realized the stunning implication: the entire station was a ruse.
    Cypher caught the bafflement on Conan Doyle’s face and smiled. “Quite right, Doctor Doyle, there is no Orpheus Street in London and no station. A personal joke of mine.” He stepped to the wall and depressed a blank white tile in the middle of the O in Orpheus. It sank beneath his gloved fingers. A sound followed—the clunk of a mechanism releasing—and then a section of wall cracked open and swung inward: a secret door leading to a lighted tunnel. At the end, a staircase.
    Cypher sent the ginger mauler ahead and fixed Conan Doyle with an unequivocal look. “If you would follow, please.”
    At the end of the tunnel they reached a wrought-iron staircase and rang the metal steps with their feet as they climbed two stories to a stout wooden door reinforced with metal straps and heavy iron rivets. It looked like the door to a castle, so Conan Doyle was surprised when it opened and they stepped into a sumptuous room with wallpapered walls, and high ceilings with chandeliers and elaborate plaster cornices.
    Cypher nodded for his hulking minotaurs to take a seat on a fussy floral sofa and eyed Conan Doyle coldly. “Everything you have seen and everything you are about to see or hear is a state secret. You will say nothing of this to a living soul. Do you understand?”
    The fineness of the room and the cryptic warning kicked over the hornet’s nest of speculation in Conan Doyle’s mind and set it abuzz. He was finally beginning to suspect where he was. “Y-yes, of course,” he stammered.
    Cypher flayed him with a final, scorching look. “You would do well to remember that.” He stepped to a second door and Conan Doyle followed. The interior door was painted gleaming white with elaborate gilt door handles. Cypher rapped at it with his tiny knuckles and bewigged servants in royal-blue satin uniforms and knee breeches immediately swept the door open.
    “Leave your coat and hat,” Cypher commanded. A servant stepped behind Conan Doyle and slipped the wool overcoat from his broad shoulders while the other took his hat and gloves.
    “Follow me closely.”
    Conan Doyle shadowed Cypher along a long plush-carpeted corridor. His attention was drawn by the many fine paintings in enormous gilt frames that hung on either side. Most were portraits of English kings and queens stretching back centuries. He longed to stop and study them, but the little man was setting a cracking pace and he hurried to keep