THE SPEAR OF DESTINY
Doyle’s weight shifted, and a chip of glass snapped under his foot. He lifted his shoe and stared at the glass. His eyes followed that piece to another, and another, and another lying at the base of the last pedestal in the hall. With growing apprehension, his eyes moved to the letters penned in Duvall’s immaculate script. The inscription read:
AGE UNKNOWN—ABYSSINIA—THE BOOK OF ENOCH
The globe once protecting it was broken. A velvet pillow lay empty, except for the imprint of a heavy object in its center. Doyle let out a shuddering breath and straightened to his full six feet, his jaw clenched tight.
“So . . . it begins again,” he said.
6
IT IS 1912.
THE CASTLE BELONGS to Wilhelm II, and towers atop a heath
in the dark forests of the Bavarian highlands. Torchlight flickers
on every parapet, and from the muddy roads the fortress resembles
a looming jack-o’-lantern. Moaning winds swirl through the valley, swaying the pine treetops like sea grass.
Forks of lightning stab down as four black stallions muscle a
royal carriage through the icy rain to join others waiting at the
castle walls.
A butler with skin like parchment pulls open the mighty doors
and gives way to Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, who sweeps rain from
his sleeves as he enters, trailed by the mad monk: the black-cloaked and bearded Grigori Rasputin.
The guests gather in the dining hall, a cavernous room dominated by an enormous fireplace where a veritable forest of trees
roar in flames.
Rasputin guides Nicholas to one of the four chairs at the long
dining table. The only others present are Kaiser Wilhelm II of
Germany, England’s King George V, and lingering in the far cor
ner—wrapped in a black cape and wearing huntsman’s leather
boots—Konstantin Duvall.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle removes his glasses and looks up from
his journal. His sits by a tall stained-glass window, far enough
away from the others as to be inconspicuous. Or so he hopes.
The superstitious kaiser grumbles at the presence of Rasputin.
Nicholas snaps a retort.
Tensions are high between these two because of the Balkan situation. The kaiser sees Russia’s formation of the Balkan League
and the declaration of war on Turkey as an attempt to gain a European foothold.
Nicholas wonders aloud as to the exclusion of Prime Minister
Asquith.
King George scoffs.
As the leaders bicker, Duvall strides over to Rasputin and whispers something in his ear. Whatever the contents, it goads a reluctant smile from the monk.
Kaiser Wilhelm curtly demands an answer to his summons.
Duvall offers a few more words to Rasputin, then backs away
toward the fireplace, taking the measure of each leader. “I’ve
asked Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to chronicle this meeting for my
personal archives. I trust there are no objections?”
But Duvall doesn’t wait for answers. Instead, he turns his back
on the leaders. He is framed in fire. It licks around his shoulders,
and casts a halo around his wavy white hair. “Gentlemen. There
has been a discovery in Abyssinia. A discovery of enormous consequence. A discovery that with it brings the potential for great
peace . . . or great war.”
The kaiser leans forward in his chair.
Rasputin whispers in Nicholas’s ear, his lips obscured by his
shaggy beard.
King George sniffs, unimpressed. “You’ve created some marvelous suspense, Konstantin, as is your wont. Perhaps you’d care
to tell us what was found?”
“A book,” he answers.
“A book, you say?” The king’s smile is cold and thin. He recognizes that Wilhelm and Nicholas, despite their associations with
Duvall, consider him England’s responsibility. The king is eager to
avoid that which most terrifies him—embarrassment. Which now
appears inevitable. “You’ve called us here, Konstantin, because
someone in Abyssinia found a book?” George smoothes his moustache with his finger. “Interesting.”
Meaning: You’re moments from being shot.
Duvall speaks to the fire: “It is the legendary scriptures of
Enoch—which, along with the New and Old Testaments, form
the Biblical triad.”
This tidbit is enough to knit frowns upon three brows.
Wilhelm’s squeaky voice asks a question in German.
Duvall answers, “Yes, Kaiser, the Enoch manuscripts were from
the original Bible. Yet their contents were incendiary enough to
be excised by the occult priests of Zoroaster in thirty A.D.” Duvall
hesitates. A spot of pitch in one of the logs snaps, showering the
carpet with sparks. “Excised at the behest of Jesus Christ himself.”
King George sits back on the divan, somewhat relieved. “Most
intriguing, Konstantin. Good show. But rather on the . . . esoteric
side, wouldn’t you say?” George raises his eyebrows to the other
world leaders. “Certainly I have no immediate use for knowledge
better left to the students of the mysteries. What do the Brothers of
the Rosy Cross make of this? Hmm? Rather more in their field, I
should think.”
Rasputin and Duvall share a glance. Nicholas glares at George.
“With due respect, my king,” Duvall says, “the Rosicrucians are
a conflicted association—a group whose leaks I grow weary of
plugging. Once they were entrusted with the secret of the Grail.
That is more than enough, I think.”
“Well, what about Roosevelt and his Masonic friends in America?” the king persists.
The question is left unanswered.
Nicholas asks in English, “What is in the book, Konstantin?”
Duvall turns around, a rare shadow of fear in his gray eyes.
“God’s mistakes, Tsar Nicholas. God’s mistakes.”
7
DOYLE STOOD AT his bedroom window and watched the mid-afternoon rain. That night, seven years earlier, Duvall had miscalculated. He had underestimated the leaders’ personalities, their egos, and their brewing enmities. The result had been a protracted negotiation for possession of the Book, resulting in its robbery and eventual resurfacing in the hands of Archduke Ferdinand of Serbia. Shortly thereafter, Ferdinand had been assassinated and the Great War had begun.
Doyle felt like a truant gardener returning to find ivy growing through the windows of his house—into his wife’s dresses, the cupboards, the sheets, the mouths of his children. The Book of Enoch was missing again. And though he knew nothing of its contents apart from Duvall’s cryptic words, he knew that it was—in part or in full—the cause of the worst conflict in the history of modern civilization.
And the reason for Duvall’s death.
A short butler with the jowls of a mastiff appeared at the study door. “Your luggage is prepared, Master Doyle.”
“Thank you, Phillip.”
The sky had darkened to purple, heavy and pregnant with rain. And stark against the brooding sky was Lady Jean’s reflection in the window. She was standing at the door, as pale as a wraith.
“Wasn’t it enough? Wasn’t losing Kingsley enough?” The words fell between them like shards of glass.
Doyle sighed and spoke to her reflection. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re old, Arthur. You’re an old man.”
“There is no one else.”
Lady Jean frowned. “And what makes you think they will join you? There’s been too much anger . . . too much pain. You’ll fight alone, Arthur.”
“I’m prepared for that.”
Lady Jean sighed deeply. Then, “No,” she said, “you’re not prepared. Not yet.” She lifted a battered and cracked leather satchel, and he smiled ruefully. His Jean had always been the stronger one.
He took the satchel from her hands.
Jean touched his cheek. “Forgetful as always,” she said.
Doyle undid the rusting buckles. “I thought I’d lost it,” he replied.
“No, I hid it.”
Doyle opened the case. The contents were as familiar to him as his own reflection in the mirror: an evidence-collection kit of small paper bags, evidence tags, string, paper coin envelopes, small vials and numerous glass containers, dental casting material and equipment, tweezers, scissors, rubber gloves, pencils, and a tape measure.
Of medical supplies there were forceps, a scalpel set, gauze bandages, a clinical thermometer, a vial of alcohol, hypodermic syringes, and a hand saw—beneath which were hidden a heavy leather sap and brass knuckles.
And, lastly, a crumpled deerstalker cap, frayed and weathered.
8
NEW YORK CITY—TWO WEEKS LATER
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, may I present to you the most sensuous, the most mysterious, and the most controversial talent of the Spiritualist age. Welcome, if you will, the infamous and extraordinary . . .” Barnabus Wilkie Tyson thrust his thick arms into the air, his massive body swelling in his seventy-fivedollar silk suit “. . . Madame Rose!”
Flash powder exploded, and a mob of skeptical reporters craned their necks to get a view of the medium as she ascended the four steps to the makeshift stage and stood beside Tyson, her promoter and manager. Her style was daring. She was wearing a sleeveless, black silk smoking suit and high heels. A long black scarf was tied around her hair, spilling down over her shoulders. A monocle was perched over her right eye, and a cigarette holder was clutched between her lips. That sealed it; she was a walking scandal.
Tyson set his own cigar stub on the table in order to light her cigarette, and breathed reassurances into her ear. But she only shifted away, her face belying the boldness of her dress. She didn’t smile at the photographers. In fact, she seemed quite ill at ease with the attention.
Which was odd, since the rumor mill spun hot and heavy around Madame Rose. She broke the hearts and marriages of the richest men in town, and flaunted it all in the gossip pages. Toss into the mix a reputed talent for conversing with spirits and the only séance in America where ectoplasm was guaranteed, and you had the ingredients for bona fide celebrity.
And Tyson was, if nothing else, a great trend spotter—and the first promoter of his kind to discover the unified field theory of publicity: Sex plus violence plus scandal equals money. Sensing a slight decline in the draw of his vaudeville acts, Tyson had poured his energies into the burgeoning Spiritualist Movement. It was a fertile garden in which to plant his greedy seed. Ruthless, cruel, and ill-mannered to those close to him, Tyson was still capable of dispensing enormous charm. He settled his hand on Madame Rose’s arm and savored the curious buzz that filled the Waldorf Astoria ballroom. Madame Rose was his phenomenon, and this rare press conference was an opportunity to squeeze even more ink out of the reporters.
“Now, let us be courteous in our questions,” he said, “and show Madame Rose some of that old New York charm we’re known for the world over.”
“Why’s she wearin’ pajamas, Barnabus?” a lanky
Times
reporter asked.
“Do you believe in free love, Miss Rose?”
Both Madame Rose and Tyson ignored the question.
“In the back.” Tyson pointed.
“Are you a home-wrecker?” someone shouted.
“That depends who you’re asking,” Madame Rose answered, to the amusement of the assembly. She took a long draw on her cigarette.
“Are the rumors true about you and Ivor Novello, the nightclub owner?” another reporter asked.
“Is he leaving his wife?”
Madame Rose smiled. “I didn’t know that he was married.”
Tyson grinned at the amused gasps and mutters from the crowd.
“What about Valentino?” someone asked testily, sounding as if they’d lost a bet.
“Please,” Madame Rose said scornfully.
“We thought it was Dempsey.”
“Who’s he?”
“The boxer.”
“Ugh, how appalling. Now, Douglas Fairbanks is a different story.” And she vamped to the whistles and catcalls.
“Let’s behave ourselves,” Tyson said, loving every minute.
“Haven’t we any real questions?” Madame Rose purred, warming to the audience.
“Is Mina Crandon a fake?” a
Gazette
writer shouted.
“I think a better question is: Why are we afraid? Why are we so obsessed with disproving this phenomenon?”
“Eileen Garrett says you’re a fraud.”
“Poor darling, she’s just insecure.” Madame Rose tapped ash on the tablecloth. “There have been seers since before ancient Egypt. Prophets and mystics have turned the tide of history at every crucial juncture. The dead speak. And it is our duty to listen, to learn from them.”
Most of the reporters wrote her words down, if only to justify their presence. But in the silence that followed . . .
“Do you worship the Devil?” a voice demanded from the back.
Tyson made a face. “What sort of question is that?”
There was a sudden shift in the energy of the room, a pall of discomfort.
Madame Rose stiffened in her chair, her eyes searching the audience. “Of course not. What an absurd question! This goes to the heart of the ignorance I’m referring to.”
“Perhaps I’ve mistaken you . . . for someone else.” The voice belonged to a man standing near the back, far behind the cameras. His coat collar was pulled up, concealing his features, and the brim of an English cap shadowed a set of bulging eyes.
“Who are you?” Madame Rose demanded.
“A friend,” he answered. “Of the family.” The last word was uttered with bite.
Madame Rose paled.
“What paper are you from?” Tyson snarled.
The doors swung shut. The man was gone.
Hands shot up from the crowd.
“Who was that?” someone yelled.
“What’d he mean?”
“Are you a witch?”
The questions piled up.
Madame Rose whispered “I’m leaving” into Tyson’s ear and stood, inadvertently knocking her chair backwards.
Flashbulbs popped.
“Okay, enough. That’s all!”
Madame Rose swayed on the steps. Tyson took her arm, waving off the photographers.
“I said that’s all, damn it,” he barked.
The reporters surged forward, and Tyson found himself tangled in the curtains as his medium vanished backstage.