“Is that a nerve tonic?”
“So the chemist claimed, although I am certain the man is an amateur poisoner in his free time. I confess it is doing precious little to soothe my nerves, which are frazzled beyond repair. Ugh, my head is bursting. Do you have any laudanum?”
“Certainly not!”
“Are you sure? You are, after all, a doctor.”
“I’m quite sure, Oscar. I do not have my medical bag with me.”
“And you don’t carry any on your person? For emergency purposes? Because, I assure you, my headache constitutes an emergency.”
“I am not in the habit of carrying laudanum about on my person. It is a dangerous drug.”
Wilde released an exasperated sigh. “What is the point of being a doctor if you cannot dispense dangerous drugs to your friends? Always remember, Arthur, the synonym for friend is useful. One has no useless friends. Uselessness is a trait reserved for one’s relatives.”
Vyvyan thrust the bell of his trumpet within an inch of Wilde’s ear and sounded a window-rattling BLAAAAAAATTT!
“Ohhhhhh… Vyvyan!!” Wilde moaned. “Do not sound that horn in Papa’s ear, lest it prove the trump that announces his departure from this mortal coil.”
“Did you not purchase these instruments for the boys?” Conan Doyle asked with barely suppressed glee. “You specifically asked for the noisiest toys in the shop.”
“Hoist by my own petard. Gloat if you must.”
Conan Doyle reached into his pocket, drew out DeVayne’s slim tome on necromancy, and pushed it into Wilde’s large hands.
“I have startling news to share about this book.”
Wilde glanced blearily at the slim volume. He casually leaned forward and tossed it onto the coal fire. The leather cover puckered and shriveled, and then the book crackled into flames and was utterly consumed.
“I have news to share about its author, and your news cannot possibly be as startling as mine. But let us not discuss these matters within hearing of the grande dame.” Wilde tottered up from the chair, wincing, both hands clamped to his head as if holding together the cracked halves of a broken china bowl. “Come children. Cease your musical torture. Let us go into the garden and play cricket, before Papa suffers a paroxysm.”
After the children had been suitably muffled up for the chill day, the two writers stood in the garden, sharing confidences as they supervised the boy’s cricket game. Vyvyan defended a miniature set of stumps with a child’s cricket bat while Conan Doyle bowled to him with a soft rubber ball. Cyril fielded the balls that rolled into the far corners of the yard. Wilde smoked a cigarette, pretending to play wicket keeper, but whinged every time he had to stoop to pick up the ball.
As the boys ran about, Conan Doyle shared his story of Miss Leckie’s revelations about the book. Then Wilde launched into a heavily censored version of his encounter with the marquess. Conan Doyle was scandalized by the description of the orgy, but when Wilde described what happened in the marquess’s bedchamber, the Scotsman dropped the ball he was preparing to bowl and stood in openmouthed horror. “A sacrifice, you say? Two children? You cannot be serious, Oscar. Please assure me you are making all of this up!”
Wilde wearily dragged upon his cigarette and released a pluming breath into the November air. “I am happy to confess that even I lack sufficient imagination to invent such depravity. I once told you that Rufus DeVayne was Dorian Gray.” He shook his head ruefully, his gaze fixed upon something a thousand miles away. “I was mistaken. He is Caligula.”
Conan Doyle was about to question Wilde further when Constance stepped from the house. “Oscar I think it is time the children came inside, before they catch their deaths.”
Wilde placidly assented, watching as his wife scooted the boys back into the house.
When the two friends were at last alone in the garden, they exchanged a grim look.
“Terrible things are happening in this country, Arthur. I have witnessed a level of decadence, wickedness, and depravity — practiced by some of the highest in the land — which I could not even guess at. Perhaps we do need a revolution. Perhaps it is time to sweep away an old order grown corrupt.”
Conan Doyle shook his head. “I for one do not intend to choose sides. I intend to choose my own values. But I believe that we cannot afford to remain ignorant, nor to ignore a palpable evil and hope it will not reach out and touch our own families.” He reached into a pocket and drew out a sheet of tightly wadded paper, unfolded it with care and handed it to Wilde.
13/13
The Revolution is Upon Us.
Join the struggle for workers’ rights
Meeting: St. Winifred’s
Friday, Dusk
Conan Doyle continued, “The meeting is to take place tonight at a derelict church in St. Giles. We must attend that meeting, although it will not be without considerable danger. We will need to dress in disguise. It will require a good deal of bravery. Are you willing to risk everything? Are you willing to try and make a difference?”
“I abhor bravery,” Wilde said, drawing deeply from his cigarette. He exhaled and continued, “Bravery is a desperate act made necessary by a failure of the human imagination. But I am afraid I have no choice.” He dropped the cigarette to the grass and ground it out beneath the sole of his shoe. “You may count upon Oscar Wilde.”
CHAPTER 25
DESCENT INTO THE UNDERWORLD
“You’re not wearing that?”
“I was about to say the same thing about your attire, Arthur, only I was too polite.”
Wilde had just tripped down the front steps of number 16 Tite Street to join Conan Doyle, who stood waiting at the curb with a cab. Earlier, they had both decided that Wilde’s fine new carriage was too conspicuous, and so Conan Doyle had hired the services of Iron Jim and his hansom for the night. The Scottish author was dressed in an outfit he wore when exploring the rougher parts of London doing research for his Sherlock Holmes stories: a heavy wool pea coat and a shabby peaked cap of the type worn by stevedores on the docks, tough canvas trousers, and iron-shod clogs. To his horror, Wilde was kitted out in a bottle-green coat and black velvet knickers, silk stockings, and buckled shoes.
“Oscar, we are slipping into the lion’s den. I thought we agreed that we must blend in? Dress down? Counterfeit the attire of a working man?”
“You said ‘dress down,’ Arthur, and these are my oldest and shabbiest clothes. If you notice, the cuff of this sleeve is visibly worn and the shirt has a stain upon the collar. Possibly caviar. Possibly red wine. What’s more, my face has not enjoyed the kiss of a razor since this morning. I feel positively slovenly.”
Conan Doyle released a sigh and threw a suffering look up at the cabman seated on his perch atop the hansom. They had not even set off, but the Scotsman was considering abandoning the entire venture. However, there was no choice, they had to be at the meeting.
“Where to, Guv’nor?”
“St. Giles, Jim. And take your time. We wish to arrive after dusk.”
A look of fear flashed across the cabby’s face. “St. Giles? After dark? Are you quite sure? It’s dodgy enough in the daylight.”
The cabbie had a valid point. Slums such as St. Giles were lawless enclaves ruled by criminal gangs. Even the police were reluctant to enter such places unless armed and in great numbers. Two gentlemen going it alone at dusk smacked of suicide.
Conan Doyle had been fingering a crown coin in his pocket. He let it loose and probed deeper, finding a coin of higher denomination. “Here you go, Jim.” He handed up a golden sovereign. “There’s another for you on the return journey.”