The Dead Assassin

CHAPTER 24 USELESS FRIENDS AND DANGEROUS DRUGS

As the maid conducted him into the parlor of number 16 Tite Street, Conan Doyle caught Constance Wilde standing compromisingly close to Robert Sheridan — much closer than two casual friends should stand, and one a married lady at that. They sprang apart upon hearing him clear his throat. Sheridan moved to the window and stood gazing out, clearly embarrassed. Constance, in full blush, rushed over to greet the author.

“My dear, Arthur. It is so good to see you,” she said, gripping his hand solicitously. “With Oscar forever at his club, we have become strangers of late.”

Conan Doyle was still recovering from the shock of catching her in a moment of indiscretion and had not yet composed his face.

“How is Louise?” she asked. “Her struggle for health continues?”

He nodded gravely. “She abides.”

“You must be so very lonely. Still, I understand you have a new friend? Several of my acquaintances have seen you dining with a most attractive young lady.”

The thinly veiled threat was not lost upon Conan Doyle. Apparently all of them, Arthur, Oscar, and Constance were engaged in some degree of infidelity. Still, Conan Doyle was distressed to hear that he was already the subject of gossip.

“I have many friends amongst the Society. Miss Leckie has been assisting me with my research on the occult… for a book I am writing.”

Constance Wilde was a striking woman with an intellect to match. “Research? Is that what it is called now?” She smiled. “I wish you both much success with your… research.”

Conan Doyle brushed his walrus moustache with agitation. “Is Oscar at home? I stopped in at his club, but he did not spend the night.”

“Yes, my husband did grace us with his presence last night. He arrived home in the early hours, rather the worse for wear. I cannot imagine what he’d been up to, but he was in quite a mania. He insisted upon waking the children and lavishing them with hugs and kisses. He promised that he would never stray and that his children were the dearest thing in the world to him.” Constance smiled ironically. “Of course, Oscar promises many things when he is feeling… poetic… as you no doubt know.”

Conan Doyle felt himself being drawn into a confidence about the Wildes’ marriage he did not wish to share. His own personal life was tangled enough.

“Is Oscar awake?”

Something in Constance’s eyes drew back, realizing she had crossed a line. “He is in his study with the boys. I’m afraid he is still somewhat discomposed.”

When Conan Doyle entered the study, his Irish friend was slumped in a chair, an ice bag balanced on his head, a lavender mask blindfolding his eyes. The boys, Vyvyan and Cyril, were marching about the room like soldiers, Vyvyan blasting on a tin trumpet while Cyril banged a toy drum with the kind of hateable fervor only a child can manifest.

Wilde moaned beneath the lavender mask and called out, “Is that you, Arthur?”

“Yes!” Conan Doyle shouted to be heard above the racket. He dropped into the armchair opposite Wilde’s.

The Irish wit paused to remove the eyeshade and display eyes that resembled bloody marbles. “As you can see, I had quite the evening.” He turned to the end table and sifted a spoonful of white powder from a paper packet into a glass of water and agitated it with a spoon. He glugged down the glassful and shivered with disgust.

“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.

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.”