Read The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for Free Online

snarled, cutting him off. Burke cleared his throat with a sound like tumbrel wheels grinding across cobblestones. When he spoke again, his tone made it clear he believed that the young detective’s word was no longer to be trusted.
    “Detective Blenkinsop, you are clearly suffering from mental distress that is causing your judgment to be skewed. I am, therefore, suspending you from active duty—without pay, naturally—until your mind clears and you are better able to serve the force.”
    “But, sir. I know what I saw and it was definitely—”
    “Enough!” Burke barked with fury. He simmered a moment before speaking again. “With such a fog as this, it is impossible for anyone to make an accurate identification of a body. It is clear that you are emotionally overwrought. I suggest you return to the other officers. You will ride back to Scotland Yard in the Mariah.”
    “But, sir!”
    “That is quite enough, Detective! Unless you wish your suspension to be indefinite!”
    Blenkinsop dropped his head in resignation and quietly muttered, “Yes, sir,” and then turned and trudged away into the fog.
    “That is a brave young man,” Conan Doyle remarked in a voice taut with anger.
    “No one doubts his bravery,” Burke responded. “It is his judgment I question. His promotion to detective at such an unseasoned age was, I fear, a mistake.”
    “We witnessed the same thing,” Wilde put in. “Both Arthur and I.”
    “About what you saw or imagined you saw, we shall speak of in the comfort and privacy of my carriage. The Yard is thankful for your, ah, assistance gentlemen, but now the case is in the hands of professionals . It is a foul night and I do not wish to keep you from the bosom of your family. Come along, let us conclude before anything else vanishes mysteriously.”
    When they returned to Lord Howell’s house, the Italian valet, shackled hand and foot, was being manhandled into the back of the Black Mariah despite his howls and screams of pain. Conan Doyle would have preferred to ride with the prisoner in order to further question him, but Commissioner Burke was adamant that he and Wilde share his carriage.
    They stood in the street, watching the Black Mariah pull away and vanish into the fog, and then the commissioner turned his corrosive gaze upon the two friends and said, “Of course, as this matter touches upon the safety of the realm, and as gentlemen, I expect you to say nothing of this matter to the newspapers. Especially, given the current air of unrest.”
    “There have been threats?” Conan Doyle asked.
    Burke barked a laugh. “Scotland Yard is awash in threats. Most are the impotent ramblings of lunatics and the feebleminded. Very few are of any real consequence.”
    “Threats from whom?” Wilde inquired.
    “Bolsheviks. Anarchists. And, of course…” he eyed the Irishman coldly and spoke the final word with such emphasis that spittle flew from his lips, “… Fenians .”
    Conan Doyle saw the way the conversation was turning, and hurriedly put in, “I am certain the resources of Scotland Yard must be stretched right now, trying to defeat this anarchist threat.”
    But his words had the reverse effect on Burke, who visibly bristled. “Hear me now, Mister Doyle, there is no anarchist threat . These people are a disorganized rabble of illiterate thugs. Compared to the sweeping powers of Scotland Yard and the Metropolitan Police Force, they represent a minor irritation. The dynamitards may set off their little whiz-bang’s here and there, but they do little real damage—apart from blowing themselves up occasionally.” He punctuated the remark with a sardonic laugh.
    A bright flash that cut through the fog suddenly drew all eyes. Above the rooftops, a splash of light lit up the sides of tall buildings. Even from this distance, they watched the upward arc of flying masonry followed several seconds later by a rumbling detonation that struck like a fist to the chest, setting diaphragms