What Rough Beast by H. R. Knight

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Unlikely partners Harry Houdini and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle must track down a horrific demon that has been unleashed upon London.

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What Rough Beast

Dorchester Publishing

All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-8439-5456-6

Chapter One

I shall never forget the time I first laid eyes on Harry
Houdini. I had no way of knowing this meeting was to change
the course of my life. It was in the Autumn of 1903. The Great
War and my great losses in it were still over a decade away. I
had spent the better part of the season in constant attendance
on my wife Louise during the final stages of her illness. We
had a nurse, but for reasons of my own I insisted upon taking
responsibility for her care.

The slow, inexorable advance of the consumption that wasted
her body had been excruciating to watch. Her life was not
ending with dignity. Rather, it dragged on in whimpers of pain
and the humiliations of the sick room. I could only hope that
the clergy were right and a better world awaited those who
were forced to suffer so in this one. Some days I would have
given much for proof it was true. Unfortunately, I had given
up all hopes that such proof would ever appear.

With nothing to do but await the inevitable end, I felt like a
trapped animal in my own house. I snapped at Nurse and was
brusque even with my son Kingsley. He was eleven and already a
forthright, manly lad. Now, however, I could scarcely brook
the silent misery in his eyes.

I had not set foot outside of thehouse for many weeks when I
received a letter from my publisher. He needed to meet with me
in London to finalize the details of an American lecture tour
scheduled for the following year. The joy I felt at finding a
reason to escape soon faded. It was replaced by guilt over my
eagerness to abandon my dear invalid. I had drafted a refusal
when my wife, in one of her rare lucid moments, insisted I go.

"The change will do you good." She smiled weakly. "One of us
needs to remain strong."

Reluctantly, I agreed to a short trip and determined to take
Kingsley along. He too needed a respite from the pall that
hung over our home.

London was a tonic for both of us. We had reached an unspoken
agreement for one day to put aside the grief that had worn us
down so. After finishing my business, I gave us both a treat.
Houdini was performing in London. I had long been fascinated
by the idea of a man who could escape anything. So I took my
son to see him at the Palace Theatre. Once an opera house, of
late the Palace had been given over to variety entertainments.
As we left our hotel, we spied one of the brand-new motor
taxis.

"Oh, may we hire it, father? May we?" Kingsley jumped up and
down in his excitement.

I motioned the driver over and we climbed aboard. Once we were
settled on the leather bench seat, the driver pulled into the
stream of horse-drawn carriages, wagons, and cabs. I was
surprised at how high off the ground we sat. We rode like a
rajah on his elephant and surveyed the rush of traffic below
us. Despite the vehicle's constant vibration, its
instantaneous acceleration and quicksilver maneuverability
fascinated me. Our driver dexterously wended his way between
the less agile conveyances around us. Horses shied at our
approach or showed their suspicion by pinning their ears back
against their heads.

"Get off the road with that thing," one driver called angrily
to us.

Pedestrians looked up in alarm or curiosity as we passed them.
From our vantage point the crowd on either side of the roadway
seemed like a swirling flock of raucous fowl. Stiff corsets
forced the ladies' figures into swanlike S-curves.
Broad-brimmed hats, mounded with feathers, enhanced the
resemblance. The sober blacks of their escorts' dinner jackets
and stiff shirt fronts rendered the women even more flamboyant
by contrast. The chatter and laughter mingled with the clop of
horses' hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels.

"It's rather wonderful isn't it, father?" Kingsley confided.

I nodded to him and resolved to own one of these machines
soon.

As we continued, our vehicle's gentle shuddering relaxed me.
My mind began to drift. For the first time in many weeks, my
thoughts wandered back to the days before my wife's illness.
My youthful adventures as a young doctor aboard ships sailing
to far-flung corners of the Empire seemed far behind me. I now
devoted myself to my historical novels. I played cricket with
James Barrie's team of writers, boxed, and golfed when time
permitted. Still, something was missing from my life.

It had been ten years since I'd published the Final Problem in
the dear old Strand Magazine. The outrage and mourning
following this "death" of my creation Sherlock Holmes had
shocked me-and, I confess, given some gratification. Angry
letters had flooded my publisher. Crowds of people wore black
armbands for weeks. Only the death of Queen Victoria seven
years later equaled the tumult. Now, save for the occasional
appeal from Greenhough Smith, editor at the Strand, I thought
that was all history. I was about to find out just how wrong I
was.

When we arrived at Cambridge Circus, its dozens electric
street lights, newly installed, dazzled us. Blinking, we
picked our way through the crowds that surged around us.

"Keep hold of my hand," I warned Kingsley. He seemed happy to
do as I bid.

On the ground there was an absolute crush of couples in their
finery. We pushed on through scents of lavender and tea rose.
I felt a pang at the thought of enjoying myself whilst my poor
Louise endured her final agonies. But the joy on Kingsley's
face convinced me I was doing right.

His eyes went wide at his first glimpse of the theatre. It was
a magnificent structure in the Spanish style with rows of
tall, arched windows and a spire at each domed corner.

The more desirable seats were all sold out so we had to
content ourselves with sixpence seats towards the rear. To
compensate, I rented us each a pair of opera glasses for a
close-up view of the show. As we started down the lushly
carpeted stairway, I felt an elbow in the ribs. I turned to
see a labourer in his coarse wools push past me with a grunt.
He swaggered to his seat with his sweetheart in a shawl and
clogs. A whiff of unwashed bodies and cheap perfume trailed in
their wake.

I hastened Kingsley past the copper-coloured marble pillars to
our seats. From this vantage point I observed the people
around us. Houdini evidently attracted an eclectic following.
Well-to-do young wives in their pastel silks and satins
jostled and were jostled by their poorer sisters in dark
chintzes or lustrings. Gentlemen in silk hats threaded through
knots of working men in cloth caps and open shirt-fronts.

Once the show began, we endured the juggler, the strong man,
the singers, and the tableau vivant while we awaited the main
attraction. At last the great magician strode onto the stage
in full evening dress. The applause rolled in waves across the
vast auditorium. I examined him through my opera glasses. His
face was broad, with a high forehead and a thatch of dark,
unruly hair. A humorous mouth softened his expression
somewhat, but the strong jaw, firm lips, and furrowed brow all
bespoke determination.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he announced, as he took his place in
front of the red velvet curtain, "tonight you will see things
that defy explanation."

He was as good as his word. He plunged into tricks with cards
and coins. At one point he swallowed six needles and a length
of thread. When he spat them back up, all six were threaded on
the strand. He looked as delighted as a child after each
successful sleight-of-hand. His enthusiasm was contagious. The
crowd chuckled and enjoyed themselves fully.

He began the second part of his act by stepping to the front
of the stage and lifting his arms for quiet. Only when the
crowd were absolutely silent, did he speak. "I will prove to
you that nothing made by man can ever hold me."

He proceeded to astonish us all with a series of escapes. In
full view of the audience he struggled from the coils of a
length of rope, using only his fingers, teeth and incredible
flexibility. A representative of Scotland Yard locked him in a
pair of handcuffs-the same ones that had restrained the
bludgeoner Edgar Edwards on his way to the gallows. In moments
they clattered to the floor. Houdini triumphantly flung up his
bare wrists for all to see.

Next, he was bound hand and foot, tied in a bag and deposited
in a chained trunk. His assistant, a short woman in tan
tights, stepped behind a curtain on stage. In the blink of an
eye she vanished and Houdini stood in her stead. The trunk was
unchained. When Houdini cut open the bag, his assistant's head
of curly brown hair popped up through the slit.

At last came the part I had awaited eagerly. Whilst his
assistant rolled a curtained cabinet on from the wings,
Houdini strutted to centre stage. He announced, "I will pay
ten pounds to anyone who can shackle me so that I can not
escape."

The crowd waited in expectant silence. This challenge was his
trademark. He offered it at every show.

"Come on," the magician exhorted. "Anybody think he's up to
it?"

A burly man stood up in front of us. A pair of manacles
dangled from each hand.

"You won't get out o' these," he shouted.

Houdini invited him up on stage with an enthusiastic gesture.
Here is a confederate, planted in the audience, I thought. As
the man made his way to the stage, I revised my opinion. He
was an uncouth sort, obviously the worse for drink. I caught a
glimpse of the manacles as he staggered down the aisle. They
hung heavily in his hands and clanked ominously with each
step. I speculated on where he might have got them. His
peculiar, rolling gait was suggestive. With this fellow,
Houdini might well have met his match.

The man climbed onto the stage. "C'mere," he bellowed.

The fellow grabbed one of the magician's hands roughly.
Houdini, however, shook his head and said to the audience, "I
will examine the apparatus first."

The man growled something, but Houdini insisted. First he
looked the manacles over. Then he shook each one in turn,
listening carefully.

"The locks have been fudged," he announced. "But with a little
extra time I can do it."

"Ain't nothing wrong with those locks," the surly giant beside
him insisted.

Houdini lifted one of the irons head-high and spoke quietly
for several seconds. None of us could hear what he said, but
the man's face grew red.

Finally the magician closed his eyes, took a breath and
proclaimed, "Houdini is ready."

The man spun Houdini around, yanked his arms behind him and
drove him to his knees. We all heard them thud loudly on
boards of the stage. Several in the audience groaned in
sympathy.

"This is not a challenge to break my bones," the magician
protested.

I saw the ruffian grin as he manacled Houdini's hands behind
him. He padlocked the magician's ankles together. Finally he
scooped off the floor the handcuffs Houdini had recently
escaped from, and bound the magician's wrists to his ankles.
Thus effectively hog-tied with bonds of steel, Houdini could
barely kneel upright. His assistant opened the door of the
curtained cabinet and rolled it up to surround the bound man.
Before she could close the door, the ruffian on stage pushed
his way inside the cabinet. We heard a loud thud and one side
of the enclosure bulged. The challenger stumbled out of the
door and the cabinet rolled backwards.

Houdini lay on his side, still fettered by the manacles. I
examined him through my glasses. His face had grown flushed.
The angle at which he had fallen and the constriction of his
bonds evidently hampered his respiration. Obviously the
hooligan beside him had knocked him over. Kingsley looked up,
concerned.

"Shouldn't someone help, him father?" he asked.

"It's all part of the act," I reassured him, but privately I
didn't like how shallow Houdini's breathing had become.

The magician's assistant rushed over to help, but the
challenger forestalled her. "This is a test, not a Banyan
Party," he laughed. "Get on with it." He then placed himself
between the magician and his assistant, who seemed little more
than a girl. She flung up her arms as she expostulated with
the lout on stage. When he merely laughed at her, she hurried
into the wings. I sat forward on my seat. Would no one help
the man?

Mutterings of disapproval began to roll across the auditorium.
I examined Houdini through my glasses once more. He gasped and
perspired-the man was in real distress. But he struggled
valiantly to right himself. Eventually he got himself up on
one elbow when the challenger stepped in front of him. The
ruffian bent down and whispered something to Houdini. The
magician looked up, surprised. Then the cad once more kicked
Houdini's arms out from under him. He hit the boards with a
groan. Cries of "Foul!" and "Play fair!" vied with raucous
laughs of approval from the lower sort in attendance.

I could stand it no longer. I rose from my seat, dashed up the
aisle and leaped upon the stage. I made for Houdini. The brute
forestalled me, fists clenched. I had no desire to engage in a
public brawl, but Houdini needed help, and quickly. Then a
strategy presented itself. I turned towards the audience.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," I began, "My name is Arthur Conan
Doyle." The room fell silent. Houdini's assistant stood on the
sidelines. She wore a worried look.

"Prove it!" one man challenged.

"Hush, let him speak," a woman called.

I ignored these sallies and continued. "Since we are lucky
enough to live in a free society, let's put this to a vote. Do
we allow a ruffian to mistreat a guest in our country?"

A rumble of discussion rolled across the audience. The first
man bellowed again, "Why should we listen to you?"

In the heat of the moment some people, I regret to say, echoed
his sentiments with their jeers. Many in the audience looked
uncertain. How could I verify my identity? I glanced down at
Houdini. Perspiration dotted his face as he struggled to right
himself.

The large man on the stage approached until he loomed over me.
"This here's none o' your bloody business."

He swung a haymaker at my jaw, but I tucked my chin. His blow
slipped off my hunched shoulder. I spun and used his own
momentum to push him off balance. He staggered halfway across
the stage. A gasp ran through the spectators. When the man
regained his balance he shook his head, and stalked back over
to me, murder in his eye.

I had a burst of inspiration. I spoke loudly, so that everyone
could hear. "Behave yourself, Mr. Wilcox. You're in enough
trouble with the authorities."

He stopped up short and his jaw dropped. "The Jaunty don't
scare me none." He turned to the audience. "He's talking
crazy."

People shifted in their seats. Their mutterings sounded like
low thunder. I saw more than one hostile glance directed
towards me.

"You have the walk of a seaman," I said loudly. "The anchor
tattoo on your arm and your use of naval slang confirm my
diagnosis. My nose tells me you have been to a public house
for several drinks, but not to a hotel for a bath. You are
recently off a ship or you would have freshened up and lost
your shipboard-waddle. You have enough money to attend a show
at the Palace and to buy a brand-new suit, but not the level
of diction one usually associates with these acquisitions.
Your accent betrays you as having been born in the Portsmouth
area.

"This morning," I addressed the audience, "the Times ran an
appeal from the police for information of the whereabouts of a
Robert Wilcox, from Portsmouth. He had been manacled in the
brig of his ship, the Saxon Warrior, for stealing money from
his mates' lockers. He somehow escaped and jumped ship. The SW
stamped upon the manacles you used confirms my theory."

"It ain't true," the lout beside me insisted.

Chuckles and shouts of derision issued from the crowd. "It's
bleeding Sherlock Holmes!" a large man down front ejaculated.
I gave an inward sigh of relief. Fortunately, I could play at
being Holmes when necessary. Still, there was an unruly
element to contend with.

"Conan Doyle," one person called, "When are you bringing
Holmes back?"

Calls of "What'd you kill him for?" and "Bring him back,"
drifted up through the lime lights. These scattered outbursts
soon resolved themselves into one unified chant. "We want
Holmes," they called over and over again. The sound rolled
across the auditorium and echoed back at me from the walls.
Many of the faces looked decidedly unhappy with me. Peering
into the audience, I could barely make out Kingsley's small
form, squirming uneasily in his seat. Some of the crowd left
their seats and advanced on the stage. They looked angry.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from What Rough Beast
by H. R. Knight
Copyright © 2005 by H. R. Knight .
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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