Cypher turned to Conan Doyle and Wilde with a self-satisfied smile on his small face. “Now, gentlemen, you truly are relieved. You may go home to your families, safe in the knowledge that the British monarchy will endure for another thousand years.”
But as the two friends settled themselves back in the landau, Conan Doyle muttered to Wilde in a low voice, “I am no longer certain that is a good thing.”
CHAPTER 33
A SUMMONS TO THE PALACE
Three days later, the weather trough that had been stalled over England gathered its skirts and swept out into the Atlantic. Gusting winds from the Continent snapped the flags atop Marble Arch and scoured the last tendrils of fog from London’s alleyways and thoroughfares. It was on a blustery, blue-sky day that Conan Doyle debouched from the echoic vault of Waterloo Station to find Wilde’s private four-wheeler drawn up at the curb waiting to collect him.
He clambered aboard to find Wilde in a characteristic pose: legs crossed, an elbow cupped in one hand, the smoke from a Turkish cigarette curling up about his face.
“Oscar.” Conan Doyle nodded in greeting and dropped onto the seat cushion. He drew off his top hat and settled it next to him. Both men were dressed in their finest. Conan Doyle noticed Wilde’s own top hat on the seat beside him, although it was a choice of headgear he rarely favored.
“Did your family not accompany you?” Wilde asked. “The pulchritudinous Miss Jean Leckie?”
“They are coming up from Surrey on the next train.”
“Ah.”
“Are you still residing at your club these days, Oscar?”
Wilde exhaled a drowsy lungful of smoke and gave an insouciant wave. “You will be gratified to know that I spent the entire week in the domestic idylls of Tite Street indulging in the comforts of hearth, home, and family.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Wilde rapped the carriage ceiling with his walking stick and the carriage set off. Conan Doyle noticed the fine envelope on the seat beside his friend.
“I see you have been perusing your invitation.”
“I have read it six times since breakfast,” Wilde replied, picking at a fleck of tobacco on his tongue. “It seems to promise much, but says little.”
“It is vexingly vague as to what we are summoned for. You don’t think…”
“Think what?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Is that a new suit, Arthur?”
“Yes. And I note you have your topper with you. A touch formal for you?”
“I thought it appropriate. We are going to the palace, after all.”
“Yes, of course. I am sure it is just an interview, to hear, once again, the details of our side of the story.”
“I am less certain. Everything Mister Cypher does is sub rosa, I doubt he would send out a secret missive using the official stationery of Buckingham Palace. It even has the royal seal upon it.”
“So you think it possible—?”
“I definitely think it possible.”
“That we might be recognized—”
“Rewarded… for our contribution.”
“We did play a vital role in thwarting an assassination plot.”
“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed. “But, still, it is highly unlikely.”
They rode on in disingenuous silence, each pretending to take an interest in the sights of London rolling past the carriage window. Conan Doyle took out a journal from his leather satchel, flipped it open, and began to scribble.
“One of your Casebooks?” Wilde inquired.
“Yes. And I believe I am about to write the final chapter.” Conan Doyle set to scribbling, his pen filling the blank pages with his neat handwriting in blue ink.
But after several minutes, Wilde could not hold his peace and said, in a musing voice, “Sir Oscar Wilde. It has a certain ring to it, does it not?”
“It does, Oscar, it does. Likewise, I had rather thought that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would look splendid on the spine of a book.”
Both men luxuriated in the daydream of knighthood for a moment longer and then the Scotsman shook himself back into the real world and returned to his Casebook. “Best not to speculate.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
“It is unlikely.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“Yes.”
“Impossible.”
“Oh,” Wilde objected, “I would never say impossible!”
At the palace, the two colleagues were conducted into a plush antechamber close to the throne room. Cypher was waiting, sans his companion brutes. Conan Doyle was gratified to see that Detective Blenkinsop was already there. Upon receiving his invitation he had written to Cypher insisting that the young detective be recognized for his contribution.
“Tom!” Conan Doyle said, warmly shaking the man’s hand.
“Just wish the wife and nipper coulda been here,” Blenkinsop said, beaming with pride. “But, I know it has to be kept hushed up and all.” The young detective wore his mop of hair parted in the middle and slicked down with hair oil. He was kitted out in his very finest suit; his shoes, although worn at the heels, were polished to a luster.
Cypher smiled superiorly. “At your request, Doctor Doyle, I had the detective reinstated in the police… and he is to be promoted.”
“Marvelous!” Conan Doyle beamed. “Simply marvelous.” His demeanor suddenly waxed cautious. “And, ah, where is the Prince of Wales? I assume he will be attending.”
Cypher shook his head, looking like an unhappy puppet. “He will not, although it pains me to admit that his exact whereabouts are unknown. The prince somehow managed to evade the men I had following him. I believe he has absconded to Paris. Miss Bernhardt is performing there, and he has evidently rekindled his fondness for her.”
Conan Doyle ruffled his moustaches in an irritated fashion and shared a worried look with Wilde.
Cypher consulted his watch with a frown, and then turned to the men. “The time has come. Are we all ready, gentlemen?”
The men nodded, even while making frantic, last-second adjustments to their dress, cinching ties, combing moustaches.
“Your audience will be brief. I must warn you not to approach Her Majesty. Also, do not speak unless the queen speaks to you. When the audience is at an end, you will bow and take several steps backward, head lowered, before turning and leaving the royal presence. Do you understand?”
They all nodded and mumbled yeses.
Cypher led the way, and the rest of the party followed close behind.
Conan Doyle leaned toward Wilde and muttered sotto voce, “Be prepared, Oscar. Her Majesty is greatly ailing. You may find her appearance quite shocking.”
They crossed the hallway and entered the gilded fantasy of the throne room. Victoria Regina, as ever dressed in mourning black, waited upon her throne. Cypher led them to a spot a cautious distance from the monarch, where they stood in a line and bowed from the waist, although, once again, Conan Doyle had to fight the urge to drop to one knee.
From this distance, Victoria resembled a crumpled doll a child had clumsily arranged in a grown-up’s chair. Her glassy eyes fixed them with a spaniel’s gaze as she regarded them over her many chins. Her chest rose and fell fitfully. The head moved stiffly as Victoria swept her gaze across them and then raised a palsied hand in acknowledgment. When she spoke, her faltering voice could have been coming from a hundred miles away.
“Gentlemen,” she said in a breathless, asthmatic wheeze. “We are informed of the great service you have done for your queen and your nation.”