“Ah, I see—”
“But do not worry. When Jedidiah has repaired your boy’s soldier with new gears, he will never break again. Your son will hand down the toy to his son.”
“Topping! When might I pick it up?”
“The day after tomorrow?”
Conan Doyle pulled a calling card from an inside pocket and handed it to the toy maker. “Please send the bill to my home address. I should be able to pop in to pick it up sometime this week.”
Jedidiah accepted the card and bowed slightly. A violent tremor shook his head, but his smile remained fixed.
A touch of palsy, Conan Doyle quickly diagnosed.
“Very good sir. A pleasant day to you and your lady and thank you for stopping in.” Jedidiah escorted them to the door and held it open as they left amid smiles and nods.
In the street outside, although it was barely four-thirty, the sky was a dark swirl of fog. Perched atop his ladder, a lamplighter was kindling a nearby streetlamp to life. Conan Doyle looked doubtfully at the sky and checked his pocket watch.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
“It’s practically dark already.”
Jean Leckie’s face fell. “And so our wonderful day together is nearly over?”
Conan Doyle thought a moment and said, “No, I was about to say we are late for afternoon tea.” He smiled. “But perfectly on time for supper at The Savoy.”
“Really? Supper at The Savoy? How wonderful!”
Conan Doyle reached in his top pocket and drew out the tickets Wilde had given him. “And then I have two tickets for Oscar’s latest play — unless you wish me to convey you home after supper?”
She clapped her hands together and trilled with delight, “Oh, I should love to visit the theater!”
“Yes, I believe they are rather good tickets. Next to the royal box. One of the perks of knowing the playwright.” He added in a low mutter, “I suppose there had to be some advantage. Wait here, I’ll just sort out a cab.”
Conan Doyle wandered off to look for a hansom, leaving Jean Leckie to loiter in the circle of light beneath the gas lamp. The lamplighter, having finished, closed the glass shade, slid down his ladder, then tucked it over his arm and moved on to light the next.
Inside the Emporium, Jedidiah turned over the sign in the shop door from OPEN to CLOSED and stood watching Jean Leckie through the glass. From behind came a whish of gears as the Turkish Automaton stirred to life. The glowing eyes sprang open, the turbaned head swiveled. It breathed a jet of steam and then the arm swung over and tapped three times on the chessboard with the tip of his pipe. Jedidiah ignored it and drew the two calling cards from his apron pocket. He scanned the addresses on each, first Conan Doyle’s home in Surrey, and then Miss Leckie’s in Blackheath. He smiled to himself.
Outside, in the street, Jean Leckie stood alone, marooned within a halo of amber light. A drunken swell staggered past, white silk scarf fluttering loose, top hat askew. He must have said something to her, something disrespectful, because she dropped her head and looked away. Now, she was visibly nervous, as any young gentlewoman would be, abandoned on her own in the gathering gloom. The street dimmed perceptibly as dusk mixed with yellow fog and turned the light a murky green. The daily fogs drove most Londoners indoors early, and cabbies without fares quit for their homes. It was not surprising that Conan Doyle was having difficulty locating a hansom.
Jedidiah remained at the window, watching Jean Leckie with growing interest. “You are as lovely as any doll I have ever created,” he breathed aloud. His head tremored violently.
Outside, Conan Doyle had returned with a hansom and was helping Miss Leckie step aboard.
The automaton hissed again, releasing a coiling tendril of steam into the air. The wooden hand lifted and tapped the pipe three times.
“Be patient, Otto,” the shopkeeper called over his shoulder. “I shall feed you in a moment.”
CHAPTER 10
A WILDE NIGHT AT THE THEATER
Conan Doyle and Miss Leckie left The Savoy shortly after six, filled with caviar, champagne, and bonhomie. Conan Doyle ordered a four-wheeler — expense be-damned — to whisk them to the Haymarket Theatre where Wilde’s An Ideal Husband, was in its third week.
London traffic was unusually light, the fog having driven indoors all those who were not of the leisure class to cough and wheeze in the privacy of their own parlors. When the two acquaintances alighted from the carriage in front of the theater, they found a cadre of doormen and ushers who had been positioned bearing lighted torches and lanterns to guide theatergoers and burn off the fog swirling about the marquee.
It was the Scottish doctor’s fondest ambition to impress his guest, and the tickets Wilde had supplied him with succeeded winningly. From the moment he flashed the box tickets to the second they were escorted to their seats, his companion chattered excitedly about the gleaming marble columns, the glittering gilt cherubs, the plush red velvet seats, and the salubrious ambience of luxury and genteel prosperity.
As they took their seats next to the royal box, a drumroll sounded and an offstage voice announced: “Please be upstanding for his Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”
A hubbub of anticipation rippled through the audience as a door at the back of the royal box opened and three figures stepped through. First came the Prince of Wales, at fifty-six prematurely old and balding, the once-dashing figure grown corpulent, larded with decades of indulgence. On his arm, like a gaudy decoration, was Daisy Greville, Countess of Warwick, a lady similar in age to Miss Leckie. Tonight, she was dressed in a stunning gown of champagne-colored silk; her waspish, tight-corseted waist pushing up a pneumatic bosom that preceded her into the box like twin spinnakers ballooned by a gale. She wore her long chestnut curls swept up and pinned into place by a tiara sparkling with rubies and emeralds — undoubtedly a token from her royal escort.
The Prince of Wales, elegant in a black evening suit with a red sash slashing from shoulder to hip, stepped to the railing of his box and swept the audience below with a regal look, removing the fat cigar lodged in the corner of his mouth just long enough to acknowledge their applause with an imperious wave. It was then that the prince noticed his neighbors in the adjoining box. His eyes registered Conan Doyle with obvious recognition, and then lavished Miss Leckie with a lascivious gaze, up and down, brazenly assessing her attributes — and this despite the fact that he already had a companion for the evening. To Conan Doyle’s mortification, the prince flashed him a jaunty wink and a “boy’s club” smile, as if to say well, done, old fellow!
The Scottish author blanched, imagining that everyone in the theater must be thinking the same thing. Teeth clenched, he acknowledged the royal presence with a cursory bow while Jean Leckie curtsied deeply.
The third guest in the Royal Box, whom Conan Doyle had at first taken to be a tall young woman, was in fact a slender young man with a pallid complexion, narrow shoulders, and an outrageous mane of red hair that spilled down upon his shoulders in a cascade of fiery copper curls. He was dressed operatically in a long black cape and fiery red cravat. A medallion dangled around his neck on a leather cord. With an unsettling sense of déjà vu, Conan Doyle noticed that the medal was embossed with a pentagram. The youth met and held Conan Doyle’s gaze with a mocking smirk.
Following protocol, the prince took his seat first, the countess second and then the youth took the seat on the prince’s right hand, flinging his long tresses behind his shoulders with a toss of the head.