The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by Vaughn Entwistle Page A
Authors: Vaughn Entwistle
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Player,” Jean Leckie interjected before he could finish.
He looked at her, mouth agape. “You know of it?”
“Yes, Arthur. Although I am a mere woman I have a keen mind and am an active member of three lending libraries.” She gave him a cutting look that softened into a playful smirk. “As I told you in the park, I have made a study of all things occult since I was a young girl. It is a replica of Wolfgang von Kempelen’s mechanical chess player, one of the most famous automatons of all time. The original was built in 1789 to impress the Austrian court. Although many declared it a fake, no one could prove it so. The automaton defeated some of the greatest chess players of the day. It even defeated Napoleon. The original wound up in America where it was destroyed in a fire.”
Conan Doyle bowed, hand on heart. “I apologize and happily stand corrected. Miss Leckie, your knowledge of the arcane is positively encyclopedic.”
“Go on, Arthur,” she said, nudging him with an encouraging look. “Try it. Let’s see if the mind behind Sherlock Holmes can defeat a mere mechanical apparatus.”
Conan Doyle vacillated, suddenly reluctant. “But I don’t even know if it functions. Or how to turn it on. I don’t see a switch anywhere.”
“Try moving a piece and see what happens.”
Conan Doyle cleared his throat, feeling slightly ridiculous, and also a little nervous should the device actually work and he be defeated in front of the lady. But he stepped forward gamely, studied the chessboard for a moment and then began with his usual opening, pushing his queen’s pawn to queen 4. He drew his hand away and waited. Nothing happened. He turned to Miss Leckie. “I don’t think it’s work—”
He was interrupted by the ascending whine of mechanical gears. The figure of the Turk drew itself erect, the turbaned head lifted, and the eyes sprang open, glowing with an eerie inner light. The Turk’s arm lifted the long pipe to his carved wooden lips, as if to take a puff, and then blew out a slender jet of steam. The left arm jerked, swept across the chessboard, hooked the black queen’s pawn with its wooden fingers and pushed it forward, exactly matching Conan Doyle’s opening gambit.
“Amazing!” Conan Doyle laughed. “It’s powered by steam. I must have Oscar take a crack at this.” He smiled and looked around for Miss Leckie, but she had vanished. Conan Doyle returned his attention to the automaton. He reasoned it must be a simple mechanical device—a series of gears mathematically determined to play one or possibly two game variations. Conan Doyle had been a bit of a chess prodigy while at Stonyhurst College. He had little doubt he could make short work of a clockwork cabinet full of gears and pulleys, a mechanism little more than an elaborate cuckoo clock. He stooped forward, placed his large index finger atop his rook’s pawn, and pushed it forward to rook four. Jean would have a few minutes to explore the shop on her own.
This would not take long.
Miss Leckie had been drawn away by an object of great beauty and even greater notoriety. The Mutoscope resembled a metal snail set atop a trapezoidal stand. Painted in a gleaming cream and red paint scheme resplendent with whorls and flourishes, it was more than a beautiful object—it embodied the allure of the forbidden. Even though she was a well-bred young lady, Jean had heard of such devices and knew of their salacious reputation. Mutoscopes could be found in the arcades of every seaside pier in England, but she had never had chance to personally experience one.
The temptation proved irresistible.
She glanced about. Conan Doyle was busy battling the chess player. The toy maker was tinkering in his workshop. She had no audience. The elaborate gold script painted above the coin slot pleaded for only 1d . She rummaged a penny from her purse and dropped it in. The Mutoscope swallowed the coin with a clunk . Instantly, a light bulb glimmered to life.
He looked at her, mouth agape. “You know of it?”
“Yes, Arthur. Although I am a mere woman I have a keen mind and am an active member of three lending libraries.” She gave him a cutting look that softened into a playful smirk. “As I told you in the park, I have made a study of all things occult since I was a young girl. It is a replica of Wolfgang von Kempelen’s mechanical chess player, one of the most famous automatons of all time. The original was built in 1789 to impress the Austrian court. Although many declared it a fake, no one could prove it so. The automaton defeated some of the greatest chess players of the day. It even defeated Napoleon. The original wound up in America where it was destroyed in a fire.”
Conan Doyle bowed, hand on heart. “I apologize and happily stand corrected. Miss Leckie, your knowledge of the arcane is positively encyclopedic.”
“Go on, Arthur,” she said, nudging him with an encouraging look. “Try it. Let’s see if the mind behind Sherlock Holmes can defeat a mere mechanical apparatus.”
Conan Doyle vacillated, suddenly reluctant. “But I don’t even know if it functions. Or how to turn it on. I don’t see a switch anywhere.”
“Try moving a piece and see what happens.”
Conan Doyle cleared his throat, feeling slightly ridiculous, and also a little nervous should the device actually work and he be defeated in front of the lady. But he stepped forward gamely, studied the chessboard for a moment and then began with his usual opening, pushing his queen’s pawn to queen 4. He drew his hand away and waited. Nothing happened. He turned to Miss Leckie. “I don’t think it’s work—”
He was interrupted by the ascending whine of mechanical gears. The figure of the Turk drew itself erect, the turbaned head lifted, and the eyes sprang open, glowing with an eerie inner light. The Turk’s arm lifted the long pipe to his carved wooden lips, as if to take a puff, and then blew out a slender jet of steam. The left arm jerked, swept across the chessboard, hooked the black queen’s pawn with its wooden fingers and pushed it forward, exactly matching Conan Doyle’s opening gambit.
“Amazing!” Conan Doyle laughed. “It’s powered by steam. I must have Oscar take a crack at this.” He smiled and looked around for Miss Leckie, but she had vanished. Conan Doyle returned his attention to the automaton. He reasoned it must be a simple mechanical device—a series of gears mathematically determined to play one or possibly two game variations. Conan Doyle had been a bit of a chess prodigy while at Stonyhurst College. He had little doubt he could make short work of a clockwork cabinet full of gears and pulleys, a mechanism little more than an elaborate cuckoo clock. He stooped forward, placed his large index finger atop his rook’s pawn, and pushed it forward to rook four. Jean would have a few minutes to explore the shop on her own.
This would not take long.
Miss Leckie had been drawn away by an object of great beauty and even greater notoriety. The Mutoscope resembled a metal snail set atop a trapezoidal stand. Painted in a gleaming cream and red paint scheme resplendent with whorls and flourishes, it was more than a beautiful object—it embodied the allure of the forbidden. Even though she was a well-bred young lady, Jean had heard of such devices and knew of their salacious reputation. Mutoscopes could be found in the arcades of every seaside pier in England, but she had never had chance to personally experience one.
The temptation proved irresistible.
She glanced about. Conan Doyle was busy battling the chess player. The toy maker was tinkering in his workshop. She had no audience. The elaborate gold script painted above the coin slot pleaded for only 1d . She rummaged a penny from her purse and dropped it in. The Mutoscope swallowed the coin with a clunk . Instantly, a light bulb glimmered to life.
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