The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Vaughn Entwistle Read Free Book Online

to time. But after several moments he lowered the paper and glowered at his friend. “Arthur, that is undoubtedly the noisiest silence I have ever not heard. Could you possibly think a little more quietly?”
    Conan Doyle shifted in his chair and apologized. “Sorry. Still … bad business.”
    “ Very bad for business,” Wilde agreed. “This fog is caning my box office receipts.”
    “I meant the murder of Lord Howell.”
    “Yes, that, too.” The paper rattled violently and Wilde emitted a strangled sound. “Listen to this review of An Ideal Husband: ‘Whilst Mister Wilde’s words were filled with light and illumination, the same could sadly not be said of the theater, which at one point was so obscured by fog and the footlights so dimmed that the play took on the aspect of a rather witty s é ance.’”
    Wilde crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor. “This blasted fog is ruining me!”
    The paper landed against Conan Doyle’s shins. When he leant forward to pick it up, a large photograph and its accompanying headline caught his eye: “Fog Committee Sees No Solution.”
    He glanced at it a moment, and then folded the paper back upon itself and held up the article for his friend to see.
    “It seems as though the government has already taken your advice, Oscar. They have appointed a ‘Fog Committee’ to look into the problem.”
    Wilde squinted doubtfully at the newspaper. “‘A Fog Committee’?” he echoed, and choked on an ironic laugh. “Forming a committee is always the best possible way to achieve the minimum in the maximum time. Even the spelling is redundant: two m’s, two t’s, and two e’s. Why not save labor and spell it c-o-m-i-t-e? It would save precious ink and be equally ineffectual. Really, what would the world have gained if the English had not had such a spendthrift attitude to consonants?”
    Conan Doyle chuckled as his eyes skimmed the text. The committee had concluded that the unusually dense fogs of recent months were purely a function of the vagaries of the English climate and that the much-bruited theory that the burning of coal in any way contributed to the fog was precisely that, a fantastical theory. The article went on to cite the historical record, with bad London fogs being reported as early as the time of King Stephen.
    Wilde dredged the champagne bottle from its bucket, recharged his glass, and waved the bottle at Conan Doyle who, by way of declining, rattled the ice in his brandy. Wilde took a long sip, and wryly observed, “The government invariably forms committees to look into problems they have no intention of doing anything about. It is a classic stalling tactic employed in the hopes that either the problem will resolve itself or the government will eventually be voted out of power, at which point they can use the issue to cudgel the incoming administration.”
    “Good Lord!” Conan Doyle said, reacting to something he had seen in the paper. “Look at this!” He held the paper up for Wilde to see. Accompanying the article was a photograph of the “Fog Committee.” It was a prime example of the kind of formally posed portrait indulged in by minor dignitaries to boost their sense of self-importance. The Fog Committee comprised of a group of well-dressed gents puffing away at pipes or cigars (apparently with no sense of irony) so that a nimbus of smoke curled about them. The majority were well-fed men in expensive suits with double chins strangling beneath starched collars and cinched-tight ties. There were eight in all—sporting an imposing assortment of beards, muttonchops, and mustachios, most veined with gray whiskers. They looked out of the photograph with the humorless glares of busy-men-who-have-better-things-to-do-than-to-interrupt-overburdened-schedules-with-activities-as-trivial-as-posing-for-a-portrait. One could practically hear the exasperated voice of the photographer trying to corral such men in perpetual motion to hold still long enough