It hadn’t taken a clothier to view his ensemble with suspicion, and his clever explanation had almost landed him in the police station. Yet, his chance encounter with Mr. Curtis had gotten him lodging for the night he needed. He might even venture out for the evening.
In fact, he ought to venture out for the evening! He had only 48 hours, of which he had already spent one. Forty seven to go. He should go where no one would ask him questions. He should visit a low dive; some place where he could be quietly inconspicuous and just take in the wonderful atmosphere, no matter how sordid it might be.
A cabby should be able to direct him. He had plenty of money. He had brought fifty pounds in notes, and twenty pounds in coin, all from 1869 through 1882. What year was it? That alone would tell him what kind of holiday he could have.
And again he thought of the bottle of Miss Plimsy’s Restorative in his pocket. Only forty eight hours in Victorian London. A little cocaine? Stay up for two days? If not now, when? If not here, where? A little cocaine wasn’t going to hurt him. It restored the ladies, no?
He looked at the label, which told him nothing. It was an attractive silver paper, printed with robin’s egg blue ink. An illustration of a fine figured young lady holding a parasol, ample bosom, generous bustle, with a winsome smile. Miss Plimsy’s Restorative, for Ladies. A Rejuvenating Elixir and Calmative. (For Peculiarly Feminine Complaints.) He unscrewed the tin cap, and looked at the honey brown fluid. He dipped his finger in the cap, and touched it to his tongue. An intense ginger syrup masked the taste of the drugs. It certainly appeared to be cocaine: his tongue was quickly getting numb!
He took note of a bell pull against the wall by the bed, the pulling of which resulted in the prompt appearance of a tiny Irish chamber maid, who took his order for tea. “Thoroughly boiled? Certainly, sir!” On her return, he ordered hot water, also thoroughly boiled, for his ablutions.
He poured himself a cup of tea, brewed stiff and black. He spooned in a couple spoons of sugar, and added in a dose of Miss Plimsy’s from the bottle. He stirred the concoction, screwed his courage to the sticking point, and drank.
As he savored the potion he wondered about his clothing again. Perhaps he should do something a little more adventurous on this once in a lifetime excursion. Why waste his time in a dive when he might take in some high art at the opera? The thought of seeing an original play from this era was suddenly overwhelming. But he couldn’t very well mix in fine company dressed as he was. If the likes of Mr. Curtis had noticed him, then he would stick out like a proverbial sore thumb at the opera. What to do? Could he rent something?
When the maid returned to see that all was in order he asked about clothiers in the vicinity.
“Oh, yes, sir. You’ll want Madame Tussaud’s for rental of evening dress. There’s a shop over on King Street where you can hire for the night. The usual prices are five shillings for a decent gentleman’s coat, two for a nice vest, three for trousers, and another five if you’ll be needing an overcoat, which I would certainly recommend on a night like this. Of course, a deposit of the value of the articles has to be left during the hiring.”
“You are most kind,” said Nordhausen.
“Pray tell me, sir—will you be off to see H.M.S Pinafore at the Opera Comique? I hear it’s all the rage in town these days.”
“H.M.S Pinafore?” Nordhausen was absolutely delighted to hear that this original Gilbert and Sullivan hit was actually playing in town.
“Why, yes sir. And I hear that you might even find Mr. Gilbert or Mr. Sullivan about in the clubs thereafter.” She gave him a wink.
“Indeed,” said Nordhausen, and the light of discovery was burning fervently in his eyes, fueled by a healthy dose of old Miss Plimsy’s Restorative.
3
He swirled the claret in his goblet, enjoying the light play in its ruddy bowl, and watching the legs ooze down the walls of the glass. It smelled heady, very alcoholic, rich and fruity. As he raised it to take a sip, the front doors burst open, and a small crowd poured in, chattering away in the wake of two men who walked together arm in arm. He immediately took notice, thrilled that he had been correct in his choice of club. Adjacent to the Opera hall, this was a most likely spot for revelry after the show, which he had enjoyed immensely. Several cast members has slipped away soon after, and he followed one to this very spot, staking out a small table near the wall where he could enjoy a drink and let the thrill of his evening subside a bit.
The little group paused for a moment, then headed for a cluster of chairs and sofas with a low serving table that would seat them all.
The younger man, perhaps 25 years old, was strikingly tall, several inches over six feet, and with thick dark brown hair, parted in the middle, and pouring down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a heavy lavender overcoat, with darker purple Astrakhan fur collar and cuffs. Certainly more outré than anything Nordhausen had seen in London so far. He gesticulated languidly as he spoke, his large hands flapping like thick pale birds, punctuating his speech.
“Such a success,” he was saying, “I counted three acclamations, fully fifty three hilarities, two thrilling movements, four renewals of applause and two indefinite explosions. The audience was in the palm of your hand! Perhaps I shall write for the theater…”
The other gentleman was almost as tall, perhaps twenty years older, and seventy pounds heavier, with black hair slicked with macassar oil, and an exuberant mustache blossoming between his nose and lip. He was conventionally dressed for the evening, in black with a white cravat, and a sharp gold headed walking stick. He was listening attentively, with a twinkle in his eye, to the torrent of words flowing from the younger man, as the two made their way to a table in the middle of the club. He held the chair for one his companions, and said, “I have an enthusiastic chef du claque. We almost closed six times during the summer, when the heat was so bad. But more clement weather has revived the aestivating public.” Several hangers-on grabbed seats at their table, the slower ones settling for the surrounding sofas.
The younger man had shed his overcoat and underneath was dressed for evening as well, although he sported a green chrysanthemum on his jacket. Nordhausen’s recollection flashed, and he realized with a start that this must be the young Oscar Wilde! The flower was his signature accessory, and now everything about the man filled in the details in Nordhausen’s mind—his height, his eyes, the effusive energy. And something else… He squinted through the smoky room, thrilled to see that there was a faint sheen of amber about Wilde, just like the aura that he had seen surrounding Lawrence!
The telltale glow was a certain giveaway, and now he saw that it suffused the older man as well. He realized that this must be another important figure. But who? The maid’s tip had been right and he was sitting not twenty feet from Prime Movers! He sat straight and strained to hear the exchanges. At that moment the older man slapped his palm on the table, and stood up, looking around the club.
“Let us settle this democratically, Mr. Wilde,” he boomed. “Let us ask an ordinary man in the club to break our tie vote.”
His eye lit on Nordhausen, caught staring, and in an instant he called to him.
“Sir, you are the gentleman nearest our table, you shall settle this dispute between me and my young friend here!”
Nordhausen was taken aback, “Sir, I… don’t wish to intrude.” His heart began to pound. He was supposed to be invisible. Actually, he wasn’t supposed to be there at all, but he had just opened his mouth and addressed a Prime Mover! Oh God, what have I gotten myself into now, he thought, his neck burning with the heat of embarrassment and his own chiding regret.