The Dead Assassin

CHAPTER 22 CAKES AND CORPSES

When the whirling carousel of Oscar Wilde’s mind finally groaned to a shuddering standstill, he found himself sitting at a small table in the window of the Corner House teashop on the Strand. Evidently he had been there for some time, for crowding the table in front of him were no fewer than four towering sandwich stands with each of the three tiers crammed with battalions of tea sandwiches and every description of confectionary, both sweet and savory: deviled eggs, fairy cake, potted shrimp, sticky buns, mince pies, chocolate truffles, sponge cake, lemon bars, macaroons, gâteaux, malt bread, Viennese whirls, and of course, that most English of artery-clogging indulgences: Devonshire clotted crème and scones. He balanced a hot cup of tea upon a saucer. On the table before him stood two teapots, one he had already emptied and another one waiting, fully brewed and ready.

Wilde looked dozily about, fighting the peculiar sensation that his mind had gone out for a wander without him and had only just returned. The surrounding tables were fully occupied, mostly by elderly ladies taking tea. The chatter of hot gossip and the clatter of teacup against china saucer were positively clamorous. Just then, a very weary Conan Doyle trudged up to the table and collapsed in the chair opposite.

“Been looking for you all over. Fortunately, a large Irishman in the window of a teashop is quite conspicuous. I thought perhaps they were trying to raffle you off.”

Wilde spoke around the cucumber sandwich he was munching. “You look beastly.”

“I am exhausted,” Conan Doyle admitted. “I have had quite the day.”

Wilde raised his extravagant eyebrows and paused to dab butter from his lips on his napkin and wash down his mouthful with a sip of Lapsang souchong.

“I have the most extraordinary news to share.”

“Although you thought I was idling at my club, I too have news to share,” Wilde mumbled around the mouthful of sandwich he was chewing feverishly. His actions seemed manic, sped-up. Conan Doyle detected a lack of focus about his friend’s eyes and, for the first time, noticed the huge spread of food on the table.

“Good Lord, Oscar! Are you catering for a church fête?”

“I cannot stop eating the cucumber sandwiches. They must put something in them.”

Conan Doyle ogled the celebration of sandwiches and confectionaries. He was a large man whose muscular frame required regular fueling, and the aroma of whipped cream and pastry sugar set him to salivating. Wilde noticed his friend eyeing the feast and said, “By all means, Arthur, feel free to indulge. Even from here I can hear the Doylean stomach growl like a ravening beast.”

“Most kind,” Conan Doyle said. He snatched up a cucumber sandwich and inhaled it. Then followed suit with a chicken curry, and then another cucumber.

A waiter approached. “Pot of tea for you, sir?”

“Earl Grey, please, and a pot of hot water.”

The waiter whisked himself away. Conan Doyle fixed his friend with a stern gaze, leaning over the table as he spoke in a low voice. “I have some shocking news to relate to you concerning our friend Doctor Lamb.”

Wilde waved a hand. “Please can we not mention that ghastly business whilst we are dining.”

Conan Doyle snatched another sandwich and crammed it in his mouth. “Theeere wurf no bobby in the coffee.”

Wilde responded in kind: “I’m furry, whash did chewsay?”

Conan Doyle swallowed his mouthful and said. “There was a body in the coffin, but not the right one. Vicente’s corpse had been substituted with that of an older man. Judging by the man’s wasted appearance, I’d wager another denizen of Newgate.”

Wilde paused mid-chew, his long face a parody of itself. He swallowed noisily, wiped his mouth on a napkin, and said, “Oh dear. That is a very disturbing turn of events.”

“And your news?”

“After you abandoned me at Newgate, I followed the marquess.” Wilde saw the question framed in Conan Doyle’s eyes and added, “I suspected it was no coincidence he attended the execution this morning.”

“And what happened?”

“I did as your Sherlock Holmes chappie would do. I followed him,” Wilde announced theatrically.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I followed his carriage. He went straight from Newgate to Holyfield Street, where he stopped in at a bookshop.”

“So he is an avid reader. What of it?”

“A bookshop on Holyfield Street.”

Conan Doyle shook his head blankly.

Wilde sighed. “How may I put this delicately? I am referring to a gentleman’s bookshop.”

Realization sparked in Conan Doyle’s eyes. “Good lord! You mean a pornographic bookshop.” He had spoken a little too loudly, attracting disapproving glares from the matrons chatterboxing on the next table. He lowered his voice and continued: “You didn’t go inside… did you?”

Wilde made a pained face. “No, I went home and breakfasted on goose pâté and toast points and therefore have nothing to report — of course I went inside, Arthur! That is what following means!”

Wilde then relayed in detail the story of his bookshop encounter. At first Conan Doyle shifted uncomfortably at the description of the pornography, but then his eyes widened at the description of Wilde’s discovery of the secret bookshop-within-a-bookshop.

“Your Holmesian observation of the marquess’s pentacle necklace was astute. He claims to be an acolyte of all things occult. In fact, we made an exchange.”

Conan Doyle’s frown drooped his moustaches comically. “An exchange? What kind of exchange?”

“I signed his copy of Dorian Gray. In exchange he gave me a copy of his own book.”

Wilde reached across the cake trays to hand his friend a small leather volume.

“Necromancy: The Art of Raising the Dead?” Conan Doyle read aloud. “You mean he claims he can—”

“Raise the dead, Arthur. Yes, I thought the title rather gave it away.”

“You cannot believe he truly possesses such abilities?”

“If not the marquess, then apparently someone in London does. How else do you explain the restless noctivigations of Charlie Higginbotham, who maintains a very busy social calendar for a dead man?”

“You honestly believe this young man can raise the dead?”

“I honestly believe he believes so.”

Conan Doyle flipped open the small volume and scanned a few lines. It seemed pretentious gobbledygook. “Have you read it?”

“I read the first sentence. It contained a semicolon. I could read no further. The semicolon is unquestionably the ugliest piece of punctuation in the English language. It is neither full stop nor comma, and as such a mongrel construction. Furthermore, no one from Jonson forward can agree upon its use. I ceased reading. Such an early appearance of a semicolon did not portend for a pleasant read.”

Conan Doyle snapped the book shut and traced a finger across the gold pentagram embossed upon its cover. “I would like to share this with my new acquaintance.”

“Your lady friend, the medium?”

“We are having dinner tonight. She is conversant in matters of spiritualism, the occult, witchcraft, necromancy.”

“What well-educated lady in English society is not?”

“I suppose you could join us.”

Wilde shook his head. “I, too, have a dinner invitation. I am to journey to Hampstead, to the ancestral seat of the DeVaynes. What the evening holds for me I cannot guess at.”