“Thank you, my friend.” Wilde conceded, preening a little. “I think we acquitted ourselves quite well.”
“Damned well!”
“There’s no need to swear, Arthur.”
“Quite right. I apologize.”
“Now what?”
“We must find our way out of this wretched place. Hopefully, Iron Jim will still be waiting with the hansom.”
They emerged from the alley within sight of a corner business bursting with light and activity despite the fog. Just then the front door banged open, releasing a squawk of inebriation and a man staggered out, coat half on, half off. He weaved along the pavement, struggling to pull his arms into the sleeves of his coat, but then tripped and face-plowed to the pavement, where he vomited before rolling into the gutter.
“A gin shop,” Conan Doyle said. “Let’s stop in and see if we can find out where we are.”
As the two friends pushed in through the door, the paint-stripping whiff of cheap booze scoured their sinuses. The place was a raucous mulligan of slack-faced men and cackling women singing, cursing, guzzling gin and then banging their empty glasses down on the tabletops for more.
The discordant duo of stevedore and aesthete garnered quizzical stares as the two writers shouldered a path to the bar. The barman was a small man hiding behind an enormous black moustache. “What’s yer poison?” he growled impatiently — other customers were already hammering their empty glasses on the bar to be served.
“Two mother’s ruin,” Conan Doyle said. “Best you got.”
The barman set two grimy glasses on the counter and sloshed into each a clear liquid with the turbidity and bouquet of turpentine. “Tanner a piece,” he grunted.
Conan Doyle slapped down a shilling and the barman disappeared to answer the braying voices of his importuning customers. The author clinked glasses with his friend and said, “Here’s to us, Oscar, poets and warriors both.”
“Sláinte agus táinte!” Wilde replied with a traditional Irish toast.
Both men took a sip and choked. When Wilde could draw breath again, he wheezed, “I am certain the dray horse that produced this elixir is far from well. Let us repair to my club. Another sip of this juniper poison and I shall be struck blind.”
“It may not be drinkable, but it should prevent infection.” Conan Doyle tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in his gin glass, and pressed it to Wilde’s skinned and swollen knuckles, causing him to wince and cry out.
“Enough!” he gasped. “It will only kill the germs by first killing me!”
Conan Doyle took a moment to assess his own injuries. The knuckles of both hands were badly bruised and beginning to swell. His throbbing ear felt as if it had swollen to the size of a dinner plate.
“Oi! You bastards!” a voice bellowed and the room fell silent.
The ferret-faced man stood in the open doorway; crowded behind were a gang of twenty or more. The louts had regrouped and fetched reinforcements with them, most armed with clubs and staves.
“Oh, dear!” Wilde said. “How do we escape this?”
“I am quite done running for one evening.” Conan Doyle reached into a pocket and drew out a fistful of banknotes. “I shall buy our way out.” He flourished the bills for all to see. Then he shouted, “Drinks on me!” and flung the money into the air.
Pandemonium ensued as drinkers fought to scrabble up the money and their pursuers were pinned in the crush. Wilde ducked under the serving hatch while Conan Doyle vaulted onto the bar and over. The two friends ducked through a doorway. They passed through a room stacked with crates of gin bottles and through another door that opened onto a cobblestone yard secured by a bolted wooden gate. Flinging open the gate, they stumbled into a gloomy alleyway.
But they were not alone. A carriage pulled by African zebras had drawn up and two figures stood waiting.
CHAPTER 26
A NICE NIGHT FOR A DROWNING
“You and your companion have a talent for survival, Mister Wilde,” DeVayne said. “However, if our friends find you, it is likely you will both die a very unpleasant death.” The slender aristocrat sauntered up to Wilde and caressed his chin with the back of a leather-clad hand. “And despite our misunderstanding of the previous evening, I should be sad to see anything happen to that long, lovely Irish face.”
The four men stood in a frozen tableau. “You have the advantage of us, Marquess,” Wilde admitted.
Dr. Lamb coughed into his hand discreetly. “The mob will be upon us soon.”
“I can offer you gentlemen safe passage.” DeVayne indicated the carriage with a nod. “My carriage is at your disposal.”
Dr. Lamb held the carriage door open and stood waiting.
Wilde shot a glance at Conan Doyle, who shook his head. Should they step into the yellow landau they would place themselves utterly at DeVayne’s mercy.
Shouts and curses from behind told them that some of the thugs had followed them through the bar and were spilling into the gin shop’s cobbled yard.
Wilde suddenly broke from the spot, stepped to the carriage, and climbed in. Conan Doyle hesitated a moment and followed, his hands balled into fists ready to throw a punch. Fortunately, the carriage was empty and he bounced onto the seat beside Wilde.
Dr. Lamb and the marquess climbed aboard and sat opposite the two friends. The marquess rapped on the carriage roof and shouted, “Away!”
The carriage pulled out of the alleyway and turned left, passing the gin shop where a press of armed men choked the doorway as they tried to squeeze in. The landau passed by without slowing and Conan Doyle and Wilde released a pent-up breath.
The marquess’s expression betrayed his amusement at their predicament. “Did you gentlemen enjoy my speech?”
“I found it greatly surprising,” Wilde said. “I knew you were an acolyte of the occult, but I had no idea you also held political pretensions.”
“I am a deeply complicated man. Many underestimate me. An error of judgment that shall soon cost them dearly.” His face tightened in a feral smile, his eyes aglitter. “England is about to change, gentlemen. The glorious Empire is about to fall. You need to decide which side you stand on: the old, corrupt side, or the new, egalitarian side. When we come to power, those who have ruled for centuries will be swept aside. We shall establish a new order: a republic based on logic and reason, where gentlemen such as yourselves shall be exalted as gods.”
The carriage swept past streets lit by burning barricades and soon left St. Giles behind. Conan Doyle kept darting glances out the window, casting about for a familiar landmark, hoping to catch a glimpse of Iron Jim and his hansom cab. But the fog was thick and he had no sense of where they were nor in which direction they were heading.
The marquess and the doctor leaned, heads together, chuckling over some whispered secret. Abruptly, DeVayne rapped on the ceiling and the carriage drew to a halt. Both men tensed as the marquess drew a small dagger from his sleeve. “I offer you one last chance. Swear a blood oath that you will stand with me. If you decline, I shall drop you here and you must take your chances when the revolution comes.”
“I’m afraid I must decline your blood oath,” Wilde said. “I swoon at so much as a paper cut.”
“I also decline,” added Conan Doyle.
DeVayne sat in silent contemplation, tapping the tip of the dagger against his pursed lips. “Very well, your choice is made. Your fate decided. I urge you to remain uninvolved in the events that are about to unfold. I know a great deal about both of you.” He glared at Wilde. “I know about your two beautiful boys, and your tawdry diversions in the ‘special’ clubs of Soho.” He slid his gaze to Conan Doyle. “I know about your consumptive wife and your ongoing dalliance with the young woman. Oh, and I know about that ludicrous little puppet Cypher. Be assured, gentlemen, none who stand against us shall be spared.” He paused and then added, “Nor shall their families. Now get out.” DeVayne, having said all he wished to say, reclined back into his own personal darkness.