“Last night?” Conan Doyle repeated, realizing with a jolt why the young woman’s face had seemed strangely familiar. “You mean, your companion, George? It was a young woman … dressed as a man!”
Wilde’s large frame shook with laughter as he drew a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and selected an opium-soaked cigarette, lighting it from the one already burning. “My friend goes by two names: George when he is a man. Georgina when she is a woman.” He paused to lower the carriage window and toss away his unwanted cigarette. “Surely as a medical man you must have come across such cases.”
Wilde said it with a coy smile upon his generous lips, and Conan Doyle could not tell if he was having his leg pulled. But after several moments, he could hold his silence no longer and asked, “So you mean George, or Georgina is … is…” He could hardly bring himself to say it. “… an hermaphrodite?”
“The best of both worlds, don’t you think?” Oscar Wilde replied, tendrils of silver smoke wreathing about his brow like a Roman Emperor’s laurel crown. He drew deeply and exhaled a nimbus of smoke out both nostrils. “Imagine the possibilities: male and female in one body. The mind boggles, does it not?”
Gears jammed in Conan Doyle’s brain. He liked to think of himself as a man of the world. As a young buck he had mixed with some rough sorts: sailors, thieves, ivory smugglers, but Oscar Wilde still managed to shock his middle-class sensibilities to their quivering core.
“So,” Wilde drawled, “what is this mysterious assignation in Mayfair that drags Arthur Conan Doyle from the domestic idylls of South Norwood into the ‘cesspit of the Empire’ at this hour?”
Conan Doyle related his meeting of the previous morning. Through it all, Oscar Wilde listened with such rapt attention he neglected to puff even once on his cigarette. “And all this happened in total darkness?” he asked when the tale had been told.
Conan Doyle nodded.
“And you never glimpsed the young lady’s face?”
“Profound darkness—I could not see a hand in front of my face.”
The Irishman’s eyes flickered as he pondered deeply on Conan Doyle’s tale. “Good Lord,” he said, finally drawing deeply on the stub of his cigarette. “I am envious of you, Arthur, deeply envious. First your literary imagination runs rings around mine—”
“Oh, I hardly think that’s true—”
“And now this. You have real adventures to tell. The greatest exploits of my day usually happen at the breakfast table and concern toast and the challenge of which flavor jam to choose. You must allow me to accompany you. I must meet this medium of some renown, if only to hear her voice in a darkened room.”
For some reason, Conan Doyle did not want to share the experience with Wilde, but he could think of no reasonable excuse to deny him. So in the end he simply muttered, “As you wish, Oscar.”
* * *
The carriage circulated number 42 ______ Crescent three times. After the third orbit, Wilde glowered at Conan Doyle and said with exasperation: “Arthur, there is only one number 42 ______ Crescent and we have passed it thricely.”
“But that’s not it,” Conan Doyle insisted. “It doesn’t look right.”
“Looks right or not, I insist we stop.” Wilde rapped on the carriage ceiling with the head of his walking stick. The carriage pulled up in front of the residence with the bright red door and the two men clambered out. As they walked up the front path, something struck Conan Doyle as wrong. And then, as his fingers grasped for the brass knocker, he realized what it was.
“It’s gone!” he said.
Oscar Wilde pointed to the gold numbers above the door lintel with his walking stick. “Number 42, you said, and there we are.”
“No, there was a door knocker—a brass phoenix. But look—”
Conan Doyle ran his gloved fingers over ugly scars where screws had been hastily wrenched from the wood. He scanned the door, puzzled. “No knocker,” he pointed out, “and no door pull. How shall we knock?”
“Loudly,” Oscar Wilde replied, and banged three times on the door with the base of his walking stick. He looked at his friend and stifled a snicker. “I feel rather like Black Rod opening Parliament.”
Both men waited as the echoes of Wilde’s blows reverberated through the house and died away.
Nothing.
The two exchanged glances. Conan Doyle nodded, and Wilde raised his walking stick and once more drove it hard into the door …
… which swung open and stood agape.
“Not latched properly,” Conan Doyle observed. He looked at Wilde. “Should we be polite and leave?”
Wilde chuckled. “An open door is always an invitation. It would be impolite to ignore it.”
The two men stepped into the gloomy entrance hall. All was marble and stillness. Conan Doyle shouted several “Halloos,” but nothing stirred. “How very strange,” he remarked. “No servants. No lights. No one at home and even the door knocker has been removed.”
“An empty house,” Wilde said, soaking in the palpable absence, “is like a body from which the soul has fled. It is a thing quite dead, is it not?”
The two shared a look and then Conan Doyle walked to the double doors and crashed through them. “This is where I waited.”
The room was empty and unlit. Dust covers had been thrown over the furniture.
“Apparently the lady has left for her estate in the country,” Wilde speculated.
“And taken the door knocker?”
“A valid observation,” Wilde agreed. “That does seem like excessive overpacking.”
“And who the devil are you two?”
Conan Doyle and Wilde started at the loud voice behind them. A well-dressed couple—man and woman—stood at the open door. On the front walk behind them, a parade of servants waited, visibly sagging beneath armfuls of luggage.
Caught, well and truly. There was no point trying to lie.
“I am Arthur Conan Doyle.”
The man’s anger dissolved into disbelief. “Conan Doyle … of the Sherlock Holmes stories?”
Conan Doyle nodded. “Yes, sir, I have that honor.”
The man gave a skeptical grunt and shifted his disbelieving glare to Wilde. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you are Oscar Wilde?”
“Bravo!” Wilde bowed his head modestly. “I congratulate you on your perspicacity.”
The man nearly choked on the impudence of Wilde’s reply, but then his wife leaned over his shoulder and said, “I—I do believe they are who they say they are, dear. I have seen both gentlemen’s photographs in the newspapers.”
The man’s mouth dropped open. “This cannot be,” he said, suddenly unsure.
“And yet I remain convinced of it,” Wilde responded. “My wife calls me Oscar and she has an unimpeachable memory.” His face took on an interrogatory look. “But tell me, have you seen Lady Windermere’s Fan?”
“Uh, yu-yes. Tu-twice,” the man stammered.
“Wonderful!” Wilde said, smiling. “You display excellent taste.” He drew out his silver cigarette case, took out a cigarette, and placed it between his full lips. “Might I trouble you for a light?”
The man hesitated and then reached into his coat and drew out a box of matches. He struck one and kindled Wilde’s cigarette. The tall Irishman puffed several times, then threw the man a penetrating gaze and asked, “And who might you be, sir?”
The man looked a little baffled as he stammered, “I—I am the owner of this house. I live here.”
“Ah yes, of course you do,” Wilde said pleasantly, shaking the man’s hand. “Arthur here was just saying how much he’s been looking forward to meeting you.” Wilde threw his friend an arch look. “Isn’t that right, Arthur? Please explain to the gentleman why we are here.”
Conan Doyle made a face as if he had just swallowed his own tongue. He threw Wilde a cutting look and pulled his features into a smile. “Why are we here? Well—” His mouth opened. His vocal chords st
rained. No sound came out.
There was a kerfuffle at the front door as a short and portly man shouldered his way past the waiting servants. He had protruding eyes and they rolled, showing the whites, as he entered in a great state of agitation, jowls quivering.
His eyes first affixed themselves upon the man and woman who claimed to be the owners of the house. “Mr. and Mrs. Jennings, I do most humbly apologize for my tardiness—impenetrable traffic on Hungerford Bridge and then I could not locate a cab.”
“Yes, quite,” said Mr. Jennings, with obvious irritation. He nodded in the direction of Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde. “Perhaps you would be so good as to explain to these two, ahem, theatrical gentlemen as to who is the legal owner of this property?”
The bulbous eyes rolled onto the two friends, first taking in Wilde’s broad frame and then settling upon Conan Doyle.
“I must apologize. I am Alfred Cheetham, Realtor. I handled the rental of this property.”
“Rental?” Conan Doyle pounced. “And who was the former tenant?”
The man’s face contorted in a sickly smile. “Sorry, sir, but I am not at liberty to divulge that information. Suffice it to say, it was a person of rank from a noble family that rented the property while Mr. and Mrs. Jennings were wintering in Tuscany.”
Conan Doyle was dumbstruck. “But I was just here yesterday and they were still in residence.”
“I, er, yes, the previous tenant earnestly communicated the need for a rapid removal—a family emergency of some kind.”
“Rapid enough to require prying the knocker from the front door?”
The Realtor nodded, jowls quivering. “I woulda said they was doing a bunk, except everything was paid for up front and proper.”
“Well, there you have it, Arthur,” Wilde said. “We may never know the truth.”
“Ah!” the estate agent said, reaching into an inner pocket. “Are you Doctor Doyle? Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle?”
The Scottish author affirmed that he was.
“The party in question, the former tenant of the house, believed you might stop by. I was instructed to personally deliver this letter into your hands.”
Conan Doyle plucked the handsome bond envelope from the estate agent’s sweaty grip. It was addressed simply: DOCTOR DOYLE. He opened it by tearing off one end of the envelope and shook the letter out.
All parties watched silently as Conan Doyle’s eyes skimmed the blue swirl of handwriting. His expression seemed to change at one point. From the flicker of his eyes it was apparent that he was rereading one particular line several times. Then he refolded the letter, returned it to its envelope, and secured it in an inner pocket of his overcoat. He looked up at Wilde and smiled. “Well, Oscar,” he said with forced good humor. “I believe we have been sent on a wild goose chase.”
He reached forward and shook the hands of the returning homeowners. “It’s all clear now. A simple miscommunication. You have been very gracious. Oscar and I are so sorry to have bothered you.”
* * *
“What did the letter say, Arthur?” Wilde asked as they were walking down the front path to the waiting carriage. “Was it from our mysterious medium?”
Conan Doyle gave a careless shrug and muttered, “No, it was nothing, Oscar. I am afraid it’s all been a misunderstanding. I’m sorry to have involved you.”
They climbed back into the carriage and set off across London. Oscar Wilde bided his time and then asked again as the carriage was crossing Piccadilly Circus, “Arthur, are you going to tell me what was in that letter? I watched your face as you read it. You have a positive genius for storytelling, but I’m afraid you could never make a living in the theater. What you read in that letter disturbed you greatly.”
“It is nothing, Oscar. I think I’ve been the butt of an enormous practical joke.”
“Really? How droll. I like a good joke, Arthur. Please share the hilarity.” Wilde furrowed his brow in reprimand. “Read me the letter.”
“No, my friend, it’s really nothing—”
Oscar Wilde rapped three times on the carriage roof with his walking stick. “Stop here, Gibson,” he shouted. The carriage ground to an immediate halt.
Conan Doyle snatched a look out the window. They had stopped right in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. “What? Why have we stopped?”
“Read the letter, Arthur.”
Conan Doyle cast a glance out the window. Their carriage was blocking traffic. Cab drivers began to hoot and whistle. Two rough-looking laborers seated on a brewery wagon laden with barrels shook their meaty fists and began to curse at them in the vilest Billingsgate.
“Oscar!”
Wilde leaned back in his seat, drew a silver hip flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a nip. Conan Doyle scented the smoky aroma of single malt. Wilde savored the mouthful, smacking his lips before saying, “I’m sorry, Arthur, but this carriage shall not move until you have read me that letter.”
The roar of screams and imprecations from outside grew louder as the knot of traffic with Wilde’s carriage at its center tightened around them.
“But Oscar—!” Conan Doyle pleaded, beginning to sweat.
“I have all the time in the world, Arthur.” Wilde took another nip from his flask and leisurely screwed the cap back on. “From the brouhaha around us, it seems the rest of London does not.”
Something thudded against the side of the carriage with a shattering crash—a hurled bottle.
“Very well, Oscar! Very well!”
Oscar Wilde suppressed a smirk and rapped on the ceiling with the head of his walking stick. “Drive on, Gibson!”
The carriage lurched forward. Wilde looked at his friend expectantly.
Conan Doyle swallowed his frown and unfolded the letter on his lap. “It’s just nonsense, Oscar—”
“Read it!”
Conan Doyle cleared his throat and began:
Dear Doctor Doyle,
I have had cause to reconsider my request to you. Please burn this and all letters you have thus far received from me. It is not myself I fear for—I believe in Fate and that nothing can change what has been foreordained. However, the other night I had a peculiarly vivid dream. I saw you in a coffin, your hands folded upon your chest. Your face was ghastly pale. Your chest did not rise and fall. You were dead. Quite dead—of that I am sure, for I sensed, even within the dream, that your soul had departed your body. I believe this is a vision of the near future and that further contact between us will cause you to suffer great harm. This is the reason I have quit my London home on such short notice. Thank you for your concern. Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers.
It was signed as before, with nothing more than a flourish of blue ink.
Conan Doyle fell silent after reading the letter. He folded the letter, slid it back into its envelope, and returned it to his inside jacket pocket, hands visibly shaking. The carriage trundled along streets thronged with traffic: omnibuses; ostler’s wagons; barrows piled high with wilted flowers, stinking fish, blackening turnips.
All of London going about its daily business.
Neither man spoke for some time, and then Oscar Wilde said, “Of course, anyone who sends a letter and then begs the recipient to burn it means quite the opposite.” He pondered a moment, tapping steepled fingers against his full lips, and then asked: “The letter had the same phoenix watermark? The Thraxton family crest?”
Conan Doyle nodded, with grim emphasis.
“Of course, you are still going to Thraxton Hall, aren’t you, Arthur?”
Conan Doyle nodded again, and said, “Of course.” He stared blindly out the window at a pair of working men brawling in the street outside a gin palace. Both men were staggering drunk and their wild, flailing punches did little real damage as they rolled in the gutter in a tangle of limbs.
“Of course,” Wilde repeated. “And, of course, I shall be going with you.”
CHAPTER 6
THE JOURNEY TO SLATTENMERE
Two weeks later, Doctor Arthur Conan Doyle, accompanied by Oscar Wilde, thundered north in the first-class carriage of a steam train. Conan Doyle shuffled three letters in his lap: the original summons to number 42 ______ Crescent, the invitation from the Society for Psychical Research, and the most recent missive warning him of the psychic’s vision of his death. He lifted the Thraxton letters to the light streaming in through the carriage window so that the watermark, a silver phoenix uncoiling from its nest of flame, floated up from the paper.
He looked up at a sharp snap and riffle of playing cards. In the seat opposite, Wilde absentmindedly shuffled a deck of cards. “Care for a game of cribbage?” he asked.
“We don’t have a cribbage board.”
By way of answer, Wilde reached over to one of his open bags and drew out a full-size cribbage board.
Conan Doyle’s mouth fell open. He dreaded to think what Wilde did not have in all that luggage. “Not just now Oscar.”
Wilde noticed the pages in Conan Doyle’s lap. “Reading those letters again, Arthur? You’re going to wear them to dust from the abrasion of your gaze.”
“They’re the only pieces to the puzzle we have. I’m perplexed.”
“And I’m homesick,” Wilde said, rising from his seat and tugging down a suitcase from the overhead rack. He opened the case, tossed inside the deck of cards, and then lifted out a fuchsia shirt with lace cuffs, holding it up to his neck and checking his reflection in the carriage window. “You’re a doctor, Arthur. Is homesickness a malady one can die of?”
Conan Doyle harrumphed. “We’re only two hours out of London, Oscar, and no, I don’t believe homesickness has ever claimed a victim.” He lowered the letters in his lap. “Speaking of victims, I am pondering how to save our lady medium. How does one prevent a death foretold?”
Wilde had pulled down a hatbox and was trying on a wide-awake hat with a yellow flower stuck in the brim. He scowled at his reflection in the carriage window and tossed the rejected head gear back into its box. “I would argue that the best way to avoid being shot is to arrange not to be in the same space as the bullet will occupy after the gun has been fired.”
The Revenant of Thraxton Hall: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Page 5
