The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Vaughn Entwistle
Authors: Vaughn Entwistle
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has been overwound, stripping several teeth.”
“I see. Beyond repair. Dash it. Perhaps I can find something to replace it.”
“I cannot repair it,” Jedidiah said, looking craftily over his glasses, “but I can rebuild it. Properly. I’ll just take it to my workshop for a better look. Perhaps you and your pretty wife would care to browse while you wait?”
Both Conan Doyle and Jean Leckie squirmed a moment, embarrassed by the false presumption, but neither said anything to correct the mistake.
“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed. “That would be splendid.”
The shopkeeper nodded. He left the counter and tromped down the steps into the glowing cave of his cellar workshop.
“Isn’t it a dreamland?” Jean Leckie said, wandering the store, fondling toys hanging from the ceiling on cords and crowding the busy shelves. She touched a tinplate monkey in a red fez and it came to life, its arms winding forward and then snapping back as the monkey backflipped. The arms wound up again and the monkey backflipped a second time. “How funny!” she laughed.
Conan Doyle looked around, dazzled by the assortment. The shop displayed a few simple toys, such as stuffed bears, a maniacally smiling rocking horse, a few wooden swords and shields, but most everything was mechanical: windup, clockwork mechanisms of great ingenuity painted in colors to dazzle a child’s eye. “I could never bring Kingsley in here,” he remarked. “I should have to prise his hands off the counter to get him out!”
As Conan Doyle perused the shop, he found that it was much more than a simple toy store. It was also part museum and displayed a variety of wondrous mechanical contrivances. Then he glimpsed something hanging on the back wall that made his heart leap into his throat.
A steam motorcycle.
And a beautiful one at that. He had never seen such an advanced design. The motor was a compact unit streamlined into the fuel tank. Everything was beautifully wrought of painted steel and machined brass, all held together by shiny bolts. The motorcycle was fitted with a giant brass headlamp and two sculpted metal bucket seats, one for the rider and one for a pillion passenger. For a moment Conan Doyle was possessed by visions of swooping along a winding country lane on such a machine, gauntleted hands gripping the handlebars, cap on backward, eyes goggled against the rushing wind. And, of course, Miss Leckie would be seated pillion behind him, arms hugging about his waist, her long tresses tucked beneath a handsome bonnet, a silk scarf fluttering around her neck.
In all his life, he had never lusted so strongly after a material possession. He was at heart a Scotsman, cursed with the Caledonian habit of thrift. But, gripped by a mad impulse, he resolved on the spot to buy it—no matter what the expense. But then he noticed to his crushing disappointment a printed card affixed to the wall beside it: D ISPLAY O NLY. N OT FOR S ALE .
“Blast!” he muttered as the bubble of his fantasy burst.
Meanwhile, Jean had wandered deeper in the shop, and now her musical voice carried from the far back reaches. “Oh, Arthur, you must come and see this!”
Conan Doyle followed her voice to the back of the shop. When he finally found her, she was staring at something that dropped his jaw with surprise.
Sitting behind a low cabinet was a coffee-skinned man in a costume of the exotic east: a plumed turban and a crimson robe trimmed with white rabbit. An inlaid chessboard took pride of place atop the cabinet before him, which had its all of its doors left wide open to display its many brassy cogwheels, pulleys, and mechanisms of diabolical complexity. Atop the chessboard were ivory chess pieces set out, ready for a game. The turbaned man, who on closer inspection, proved to be a simple wooden dummy, held a long-stemmed pipe in one hand. Conan Doyle recognized instantly what he was confronted with.
“Extraordinary! It is a replica of—”
“The Automaton Chess
“I see. Beyond repair. Dash it. Perhaps I can find something to replace it.”
“I cannot repair it,” Jedidiah said, looking craftily over his glasses, “but I can rebuild it. Properly. I’ll just take it to my workshop for a better look. Perhaps you and your pretty wife would care to browse while you wait?”
Both Conan Doyle and Jean Leckie squirmed a moment, embarrassed by the false presumption, but neither said anything to correct the mistake.
“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed. “That would be splendid.”
The shopkeeper nodded. He left the counter and tromped down the steps into the glowing cave of his cellar workshop.
“Isn’t it a dreamland?” Jean Leckie said, wandering the store, fondling toys hanging from the ceiling on cords and crowding the busy shelves. She touched a tinplate monkey in a red fez and it came to life, its arms winding forward and then snapping back as the monkey backflipped. The arms wound up again and the monkey backflipped a second time. “How funny!” she laughed.
Conan Doyle looked around, dazzled by the assortment. The shop displayed a few simple toys, such as stuffed bears, a maniacally smiling rocking horse, a few wooden swords and shields, but most everything was mechanical: windup, clockwork mechanisms of great ingenuity painted in colors to dazzle a child’s eye. “I could never bring Kingsley in here,” he remarked. “I should have to prise his hands off the counter to get him out!”
As Conan Doyle perused the shop, he found that it was much more than a simple toy store. It was also part museum and displayed a variety of wondrous mechanical contrivances. Then he glimpsed something hanging on the back wall that made his heart leap into his throat.
A steam motorcycle.
And a beautiful one at that. He had never seen such an advanced design. The motor was a compact unit streamlined into the fuel tank. Everything was beautifully wrought of painted steel and machined brass, all held together by shiny bolts. The motorcycle was fitted with a giant brass headlamp and two sculpted metal bucket seats, one for the rider and one for a pillion passenger. For a moment Conan Doyle was possessed by visions of swooping along a winding country lane on such a machine, gauntleted hands gripping the handlebars, cap on backward, eyes goggled against the rushing wind. And, of course, Miss Leckie would be seated pillion behind him, arms hugging about his waist, her long tresses tucked beneath a handsome bonnet, a silk scarf fluttering around her neck.
In all his life, he had never lusted so strongly after a material possession. He was at heart a Scotsman, cursed with the Caledonian habit of thrift. But, gripped by a mad impulse, he resolved on the spot to buy it—no matter what the expense. But then he noticed to his crushing disappointment a printed card affixed to the wall beside it: D ISPLAY O NLY. N OT FOR S ALE .
“Blast!” he muttered as the bubble of his fantasy burst.
Meanwhile, Jean had wandered deeper in the shop, and now her musical voice carried from the far back reaches. “Oh, Arthur, you must come and see this!”
Conan Doyle followed her voice to the back of the shop. When he finally found her, she was staring at something that dropped his jaw with surprise.
Sitting behind a low cabinet was a coffee-skinned man in a costume of the exotic east: a plumed turban and a crimson robe trimmed with white rabbit. An inlaid chessboard took pride of place atop the cabinet before him, which had its all of its doors left wide open to display its many brassy cogwheels, pulleys, and mechanisms of diabolical complexity. Atop the chessboard were ivory chess pieces set out, ready for a game. The turbaned man, who on closer inspection, proved to be a simple wooden dummy, held a long-stemmed pipe in one hand. Conan Doyle recognized instantly what he was confronted with.
“Extraordinary! It is a replica of—”
“The Automaton Chess
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