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

bruisers squeezed tight on either side of the Scottish author. This time the train was rumbling in the reverse direction, toward Waterloo Station.
    “A coup d’ é tat? Yes, I believe so. It is a kind of palace revolution, is it not?”
    Cypher’s face soured, as if the words left a vile taste upon his tongue. “You have no doubt read in the newspapers of the assassination attempts made upon Her Majesty?”
    “Of course.”
    “There have been eight ‘official’ attempts. All were the handiwork of lunatics or disaffected outcasts from society. They were not ruthlessly planned, but rather the slapdash bumblings of delusional cretins discharging pistols at the royal carriage and such—more public nuisance than serious assassination attempt. However, there have been four attempts that you have not read about—because I forbade the newspapers from publishing them.” Cypher’s demeanor grew grim. “And because those four attempts were very nearly successful. By contrast these outrages were masterminded by organized groups: Fenians, anarchists, and in two cases by agents we believe are homegrown.”
    “What do you mean by homegrown ?”
    “Britain is one of the few European countries never to have suffered a revolution. But now I fear there is a threat to the monarchy from within. Of late there have been a number of carefully targeted assassinations. Lord Howell was the fourth victim.” Cypher saw the question poised on Conan Doyle’s lips and preempted it. “Yes, the other three were officially described as accidents . We believe some shadowy group is planning the equivalent of a palace coup. As a smoke screen, they are stirring up agitators—anarchists, Fenians—to commit random acts of terror. Meanwhile key members of the government and aristocracy are being eliminated. I fear these actions will culminate in a palace coup where Victoria will be murdered and a new government will sweep to power, most likely under the pretense of protecting a nation about to descend into chaos.”
    “But what of the Prince of Wales? If the queen were to be murdered, would he not accede to the throne?”
    At mention of the heir presumptive, Cypher’s mouth puckered in a moue of disgust. “There are those who would seek to delay the Prince of Wales’ accession for as long as possible. I am one of them. Albert Edward is a frivolous gallivanter who does not possess the temperament required of a monarch. Still, as you say, he is the rightful heir to the throne. And so, as an insurance policy, I have dispatched him on a diplomatic mission to Europe. He should be in Prague about now.”
    “Out of harm’s reach?”
    “Hopefully,” Cypher grudgingly conceded.
    “I am baffled by your interest in me. Surely you have spies, police officers, people more suited than myself?”
    “I sought you out precisely because you are not of the government. Nor the police. Nor the military. Each of these bodies has been compromised and harbors traitors to the crown. I summoned you because your ability to fathom out the plots of your ingenious stories may help us to fathom out this plot … or, at the minimum, provide us with valuable information.”
    “I am flattered by your trust in my abilities, but I am not sure what I can—”
    “I do not believe in trust, ” Cypher interrupted. “Or luck. Or God. I believe in knowledge. I believe in being two steps ahead of my friends and three steps ahead of my foes. I have had you followed for some time, Doctor Doyle. I know your habits. I know your allegiances. I know the barber you frequent for your morning shave. I know which newspapers you read. I even know that you take your tea with milk and three heaping sugars. In short, I do not trust you can be relied upon, I know you may be relied upon.”
    For a moment, Conan Doyle could not speak. The revelation that he was being spied upon chilled him to the quick. Finally, he muttered, with obvious reluctance, “And what exactly is it I am to