The Dead Assassin

CHAPTER 25 DESCENT INTO THE UNDERWORLD

“You’re not wearing that?”

“I was about to say the same thing about your attire, Arthur, only I was too polite.”

Wilde had just tripped down the front steps of number 16 Tite Street to join Conan Doyle, who stood waiting at the curb with a cab. Earlier, they had both decided that Wilde’s fine new carriage was too conspicuous, and so Conan Doyle had hired the services of Iron Jim and his hansom for the night. The Scottish author was dressed in an outfit he wore when exploring the rougher parts of London doing research for his Sherlock Holmes stories: a heavy wool pea coat and a shabby peaked cap of the type worn by stevedores on the docks, tough canvas trousers, and iron-shod clogs. To his horror, Wilde was kitted out in a bottle-green coat and black velvet knickers, silk stockings, and buckled shoes.

“Oscar, we are slipping into the lion’s den. I thought we agreed that we must blend in? Dress down? Counterfeit the attire of a working man?”

“You said ‘dress down,’ Arthur, and these are my oldest and shabbiest clothes. If you notice, the cuff of this sleeve is visibly worn and the shirt has a stain upon the collar. Possibly caviar. Possibly red wine. What’s more, my face has not enjoyed the kiss of a razor since this morning. I feel positively slovenly.”

Conan Doyle released a sigh and threw a suffering look up at the cabman seated on his perch atop the hansom. They had not even set off, but the Scotsman was considering abandoning the entire venture. However, there was no choice, they had to be at the meeting.

“Where to, Guv’nor?”

“St. Giles, Jim. And take your time. We wish to arrive after dusk.”

A look of fear flashed across the cabby’s face. “St. Giles? After dark? Are you quite sure? It’s dodgy enough in the daylight.”

The cabbie had a valid point. Slums such as St. Giles were lawless enclaves ruled by criminal gangs. Even the police were reluctant to enter such places unless armed and in great numbers. Two gentlemen going it alone at dusk smacked of suicide.

Conan Doyle had been fingering a crown coin in his pocket. He let it loose and probed deeper, finding a coin of higher denomination. “Here you go, Jim.” He handed up a golden sovereign. “There’s another for you on the return journey.”

The cabbie eyed the proffered coin dubiously, his weather-beaten face a mask of reluctance. But finally, he reached down and snatched the sovereign. “Right you are, Gov. I’ll get ya there and back, safe as houses.”

Wilde peered up at ominous skies. “Scarcely half past three and the fog is already rising.”

“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed, “but let us hope it is a pea-souper. We may need to slip away under its cover.”

Both men were quiet and thoughtful during the cab ride. Both knew the danger of what they were about to undertake. Wilde chain-smoked as usual, and when he reached into a breast pocket, Conan Doyle thought he was searching for a fresh box of lucifers, but instead he drew out a tightly folded piece of paper.

“What is that?”

“The photograph and letter entrusted to me by the late Vicente. I finally had a chance to read it. The young woman in the photograph is Vicente’s sister, his only surviving relative. The letter was from her, describing the death of their mother. When this madness is over, I shall mail the letter and photograph back to her and include a note informing her of her brother’s sad demise.”

The trapdoor in the ceiling opened and Iron Jim’s rugged face appeared framed in it. “We’re here, gents. Best be on your guard. It don’t look none too friendly.”

Conan Doyle had naïvely imagined they would simply cab up to the front doors of the abandoned church of St. Winifred’s and be dropped off. But as the hansom approached the lawless slum of St. Giles, they found the streets blocked by heaped-up barricades of paving slabs, broken furniture, and scavenged debris. Manning them were gangs of club-wielding toughs who stood idly about, puffing clay pipes, swigging from bottles, and warming themselves on open trash fires. And everywhere the ominous black flyers:

The hansom stopped a hundred feet shy. “I reckon that’s it,” Iron Jim called down. “I daren’t go no further.”

“Well, there you have it, Arthur. We tried. I suggest we go for supper at the Ritz—”

“No, Oscar. We didn’t come this far to turn back at the first obstacle.” Conan Doyle ruffled his moustache, thinking. “We shall just have to dismount and walk in.”

“Walk in? Those chaps look less than friendly. What happens if there’s trouble?”

“Then we shall just have to walk back out… hurriedly.”

“Dear me,” Wilde pouted. “This has all the hallmarks of an extremely poor idea.”

The two friends alighted from the hansom and set off walking. The two toughs manning the barricade watched them approach.

“And who are you two?” asked a man whose face had been zigzagged by the jagged end of a broken bottle.

“Me and him are lads from downriver,” Conan Doyle said, affecting a Cockney drawl.

The other tough was holding a shillelagh and spoke with an Irish accent so thick as to be barely intelligible. “We’re here lookin’ for police spoiz. You boiz wudna be plainclothes coppers, wudcha?” He smacked the club into his open palm menacingly. “Only we’d be lookin’ to kill yuz if ye wur.” He chuckled darkly and his friend joined in.

“Me name’s Jim,” Conan Doyle improvised. “I works on the docks.”

“Oh you work the docks, do ya?” The scarred man nodded to the orange glow of the trash fire. “Step into the light then, and let’s see yer hands.”

Conan Doyle quailed at the demand. He had the smooth, immaculate hands of a writer. In an attempt to disguise their condition he had blackened his fingers with a lump of coal from the fireside scuttle, and then pulled on a pair of fingerless woolen gloves. But they were devoid of the cuts, welts, nicks, and calluses that a real stevedore would have. As soon as the toughs saw their immaculate condition, the lie would be revealed. The game was up before it had even begun.

Apparently Wilde guessed the same thing, because he stepped forward and addressed the Irishman in Gaelic. The man listened to Wilde’s banter, sharing a laugh, and then the Irish tough clapped a hand on his comrade’s shoulder and said, “Deese lads is all roit. Lettem true.”

With a nod and a friendly wave, the two friends passed unmolested through the barricade and entered St. Giles proper: a slumland warren of semi-derelict houses, grimy courtyards, open sewers, and stinking alleyways glued together by poverty and filth. When they were safely out of earshot, Conan Doyle glanced at Wilde and asked in a tight whisper: “I thought our goose was cooked back there. What on earth did you say to him?”

“I told him I was a senior commander in the Fenian Brotherhood and that you were my Scots bomb maker.”

“Good Lord,” Conan Doyle said. “What are we mixed up in?”

The higgledy streets were rapidly filling as shadowy figures drifted out of every alleyway and side road, joining the hordes marching toward the church. The meeting was attracting followers in the hundreds — rough men, and slatternly women — who cursed and spat worse than the men — some bouncing babies on their hips or dragging behind ragged and complaining children. As their numbers grew, the narrow streets resounded to the tromp of clogs on cobblestones, spiked with snatches of laughter and brayed curses.

By the time they reached the church, the two friends were part of a huge cohort. Although St. Winifred’s was little more than a gutted shell, shafts of light shot from its glassless windows and the hubbub of voices from within testified that hundreds were already in attendance, with more arriving by the second. They filed inside in a shuffling lockstep. Unevenly lit by a scatter of lanterns and burning torches, the once-sacred building had long since been stripped of its pews and any religious artifacts. A battered pulpit still commanded the center of the nave, but now its sides were plastered with 13/13 flyers.

Conan Doyle guided Wilde toward a spot in the far recesses, where he had vainly hoped they would have the space mostly to themselves; however, the church was rapidly filling to capacity. Rough working types: navvies, dockers, mudlarks, ratters, and casual laborers — the working poor of London — filed in from either side. The two writers soon found themselves crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, hopelessly hemmed in. A ferret-faced man in a crumpled top hat and a grimy topcoat, reeking of gin, stumbled into Conan Doyle with bruising force but did not apologize. He shot the author a quick up-and-down glance and then moved his penetrating gaze to Wilde, whose choice of attire sprang a suspicious frown to the drunkard’s greasy lips.

Conan Doyle’s heart clenched with fear. If the drunken brute kicked up an uproar, he and Wilde would be lucky to get out of the church alive.

The drone of conversation drained away as a well-dressed figure crossed the aisle and sprang up the steps of the pulpit. As he stepped to the railing, torchlight swept aside the shadows, revealing a familiar face — Dr. John Lamb, the stylishly dressed doctor from Newgate Prison.

Conan Doyle and Wilde shared a look of disbelief.

“Friends! Friends! Friends!” Dr. Lamb began, raising his hands for attention and tamping down the last dregs of babble. “Many of you already know me, for I use my skills as a physician to assuage the suffering of the poor, of the lame, of the sick. I do so without concern for my own purse, for I believe in the commonwealth of man. We are here tonight to speak of revolution. Every revolution needs a general. A Wat Tyler. A great man who will lead that cause. That man is here tonight. That man is ready for the struggle. That man will stand by you to the death. Please greet the leader of our brave revolution.”

The doctor tripped down the stairs as another man vaulted up. He wore a long cape with a hood that hid his features. As he stepped into the pulpit, he drew back the hood and shrugged the cape from his shoulders. The vision of an effete young man with fiery red curls spilling to his shoulders shocked the space into an echoing silence.

“I am Rufus DeVayne, Marquess of Gravistock. I come before you—”

The rest of his words were drowned in a deafening roar of howls, boos, and catcalls that rattled the stone vaulted ceiling.

Conan Doyle shared an astonished look with Wilde. “Is he mad, coming here?”

Wilde shook his long face and agreed. “Surely this mob will tear him apart.”

DeVayne stood patiently waiting, his face fixed in a serene smile. Each time he tried to speak, howls of derision drowned out his words. Finally, he leaned back from the railing and let the crowd roar on. Then a man stepped to the base of the pulpit and hawked a wad of spittle at DeVayne. A quivering silver oyster arced high into the air and splattered across his cheek.

The crowd boomed with laughter and the drum of stamping feet grew deafening.

For long seconds, the young aristocrat did not flinch, did not move. Then he carefully wiped the gleaming oyster from his cheek. He stood for a moment, looking at the contents of his palm, and then slowly, deliberately, and with apparent relish, licked the wad of spittle from his palm.

It was an act that shocked even the hardest man, and the church fell into stunned silence. The moment turned upon a pivot and now DeVayne commanded the mob’s attention. He gripped the pulpit railing and leaned far over it, his eyes blazing as he addressed the crowd in his high, ethereal voice, a stiletto blade probing for the gap between ribs.

“A normal man might be cowed by jeers and boos. A normal man might flinch at being spat upon.”

His pale face cracked a wicked smile.

“But I am no ordinary man.” He swept the crowd with an imperial gaze. “Why? Because I choose not to be. And I suspect you — all of you — are men who would be extraordinary. Sheep need to be led. To be shorn of their wool. To be used as beasts of the field until the day their throats are offered up to the razor.”

He paused to allow the echoes of his voice to subside.

“But I see no sheep in this place. I see only extraordinary men. Men who are ready to rise up from slavery. To shake off servitude and take what is rightfully theirs. My name is Rufus DeVayne. I am a cousin of the Prince of Wales. Fifth in line to the throne. To you, I am a toff. An aristocrat. But know that I am vilified as a traitor to my class. And with good reason.”

He leaned far over the pulpit railing, the shifting torchlight twisting and contorting his features. And then he dropped his voice to a barely audible rumble that all ears strained to hear. “Because they fear me. They fear my beliefs. And I would make them fear you.”

He had found his rhythm and now he leaned back. At ease. The crowd in his thrall. The mob murmured. No one stirred. DeVayne looked down upon a multitude of upturned faces. The sallow-cheeked faces of the working poor. People touched by the words of an exotic figure that looked like a man-child and spoke like a demigod. A figure that held all spellbound.

Conan Doyle threw a quick glance at Wilde, who also watched, mesmerized.

DeVayne continued, “I have a title. I am a marquess. I live in a fine house and eat from golden plates. Why? Because I am superior to the common man? Because of some divine right?” He sneered. “No. Because hundreds of years ago my ancestor killed another man and stole what was rightfully his. Likewise, the monarchy is nothing but a system of theft made legitimate by masquerade party dress and the trumpery of law. But I have no love for title or privilege. I would have all my brothers and sisters sit at the table and break bread with me. No man higher. No man lower. No man made to bow and scrape to another.”

The crowd rippled with nodding heads.

“France had its revolution one hundred years ago. England’s revolution is long overdue. But I warn you, my brothers and sisters, freedom can only be purchased with blood… with courage… with sacrifice… and loss. So, I ask you tonight, are you extraordinary men and women? Or are you sheep?”

Someone whispered in the back on the vestry and the whispers grew to murmurs that rolled across the pews in a wave of sound that finally broke at the foot of the pulpit Rufus DeVayne towered from.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

“On the thirteenth of this month, I will be there at the gates of Buckingham Palace. Ready to face the rifles and bayonets of the queen’s army. Ready to scale the railings and pull them down. On that day, at one o’clock, Big Ben will chime thirteen times. That is our signal to rise up. Together we will storm the palace. Together we will take back the birthright of the common people that was stolen long ago. My brothers and sisters. My equals. My comrades in arms. Will you be there with me? Will you rise up? Will you strike a blow for freedom?”

DeVayne hurled the challenge into the room like a stick of dynamite with the fuse lit and fizzing. Then he stood back, relaxed, and waited, a strange smile upon his lips.

For a moment the walls of the church seemed to suck inward in one collectively drawn breath, the premonitory silence before the thunderclap, and then the air split with a thunderous roar of voices loosing a cry of “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!”

Clenched fists pumped the air. Iron-shod clogs stomped the flagstones and made them ring.

DeVayne acknowledged their cries like an emperor being showered with rose petals.

Conan Doyle jabbed an elbow in his friend’s ribs and shouted above the roar, “This is a very dangerous man.”

Wilde tore his eyes away with difficulty. “Yes, dangerous… and magnificent.”

With applause crashing about him, DeVayne quit the pulpit, skipped down the steps, and joined Dr. Lamb waiting below. Barely acknowledging the cheering crowd, the two men strode up the aisle and out of the church. The audience surged to follow, and Conan Doyle and Wilde were swept up in the crush and carried from the building. Once outside, they ducked clear of the hurrying mob to pause a moment and confer.

“It appears there is even more to worry about from DeVayne that I at first thought,” Wilde said, pausing to spark up one of his Turkish cigarettes.

“But he is clearly mad. A revolution will never take hold. He’s just going to get a lot of people killed.”

“Cadge a fag, mate?” a rough voice asked from Wilde’s elbow.

“By all means,” Wilde assented, and reflexively held out his silver cigarette case. Conan Doyle noticed it was the ferret-faced man in the crumpled topper who had lavished Wilde with a suspicious glare. He tried to warn his friend with a look, but it was too late.

The man took a cigarette from the case and rolled it beneath his gin-blossomed nose. “Thanks mate. What sort of fag’s this? Smells a bit queer.”

“They’re Turkish. I buy them from a special shop on the Old Kent Road. I highly recommend them if you’re in the city.”

Conan Doyle nearly swallowed his own tongue.

“I thought as much,” the man said, flinging the cigarette to the ground. “We got us a coupla toffs here!” he bellowed. “A coupla spies, I reckon!”

Heads turned to stop and stare.

Conan Doyle leaned into Wilde and muttered in a low voice. “We’ve been rumbled, Oscar. When I give the word, run for your life.”

“Spies,” the man shouted aloud, pointing. “We gotta coupla bleedin’ spies in our midst.”

All the shouting was grabbing attention. People stopped to look. They began to draw a crowd. Fearful of being encircled, Conan Doyle grabbed Wilde’s sleeve and began to usher him away. But now a group of ten or more followed behind, dogging their steps.

“Barstards!”

“Kill the toffs!”

A rock whizzed past Conan Doyle’s ear and then he snarled with pain as a second, much larger rock, bounced off his shoulder with bruising force. Instinctively, he knew that more, and much worse was about to follow.

“Now, Oscar, run!” The two men took to their heels, surprise momentarily stealing them a few yards, but then the mob took off in pursuit.

Up ahead, all the shouting had alerted the toughs guarding the barricade and they stepped forward to block any escape, cudgels at the ready. Conan Doyle noticed the dark opening of a ginnel to their right: a tight passage between buildings too narrow to be considered an alleyway. He pointed and veered toward it. “Quickly, Oscar. Perhaps we can lose them in there.”

They ducked into a passage so narrow their shoulders scraped along the bricks on either side as they ran. The ginnel wound downward and emptied out on the lower street. They ran along the terrace and then ducked down a side alley and pressed themselves against the wall where they paused, sucking wind, straining to listen.

“I think we’re safe,” Conan Doyle panted.

“S-s-safe?” Wild gasped. “If they don’t murder us first, you’re going to kill us with all this running. You know my views on exercise and the dangers of healthy living.”

“I told you we were going to a dodgy area, Oscar. Perhaps you could have dressed a bit more aggressively.”

Wilde stiffened his posture. “What do you mean, aggressively? Silk stockings, a bottle-green coat and velvet knickers — if this is not an outfit that rings the shop bell, bangs its fist upon the counter, and demands in a brusque voice ‘look at me.’ I don’t know what aggressive means.”

“Shush!” Conan Doyle gestured for silence. From a nearby street came the scuffle of running feet, but it soon fell from hearing. “Quietly, then, let’s go.”

The two men crept farther down the alleyway, and had only gone fifty feet when a half-dozen bone-bruisers marched from a side alley and tromped toward them with a swaggering walk freighted with menace.

Conan Doyle looked about. The brick alley walls were ten feet high and topped with rusty nails and daggers of broken glass to discourage climbing.

“Much as I hate to criticize, Arthur, your escape plan leaves much to be desired.”

“Is that all of you?” Conan Doyle called out to the looming figures. “Hardly seems a fair fight. If you like, we’ll wait while you fetch more help.”

A cackle of laughter. They turned to see four more figures advancing from behind.

Trapped.

“Now there’s ten of us,” one leered. “Is them odds more to yer likin’?”

“What now?” Wilde asked. “There’s far too many to fight.”

“I’m afraid we have no choice in the matter. My father always told me: if a gang confronts you, pick out the biggest and loudest. Knock him down first and the rest will scatter and run.”

“My father’s advice on such situations was to retain the services of a good doctor.”

Conan Doyle shrugged the coat from his shoulders, dropping it to the alley, freeing his arms to fight. “I suggest you shed your coat, Oscar.”

“Surely you jest. The alley is filthy. I shall take my beating with my coat on.”

“You there,” Conan Doyle said, nodding to the tallest figure. “Step forward and let’s see what you’re made of.”

But the man who stepped forward wasn’t just the tallest, he was also the widest. He barked a laugh and peeled off his overcoat to reveal the physique of a circus strongman. Although going to fat, the man possessed a barrel chest and arms bigger than most men’s legs. Atop the hulking shoulders sat a head like a battle-scarred cannonball with cauliflowered ears and a nose that had been broken and rebroken to a twisted snaggle of cartilage.

“Oh dear,” Wilde said quietly. “It appears you have challenged Hercules himself to a bare knuckle fight.”

Conan Doyle stepped forward and dropped into a boxing stance, fists up and ready. It was clear the strongman could weather a blow to the face, so the Scottish author let him throw the first punch — a wild full-out haymaker easily dodged by jerking his head back at the last moment. Even so, the giant fist came so close he felt the breeze. In response, he feinted a left jab, and as the man’s hands instinctively came up to protect his face, Conan Doyle danced forward and swung a right hook into his solar plexus that sank to the elbow. It proved a crippling blow. The strongman buckled in two around the punch, expelling air with a grunt, and sagged to his knees. He teetered for a moment, arms hugging his belly, and then the light went out of his eyes and he toppled face-first to the cobbles.

Out cold.

Stunned by the loss of their champion, the gang took a collective step backward.

Wilde threw his friend an inquiring glance. “Arthur, at the risk of being pedantic, shouldn’t they be running away just about now?”

“Um, it doesn’t always work.”

The ferret-faced man in the broken top hat had been hanging back in the shadows and now he hollered: “Get ’em, lads! Scrag ’em!”

Howling like beasts, the pack fell upon the two friends and a wild, fist-flailing melee ensued. Conan Doyle fought off three and four attackers at a time, sometimes taking two blows to deliver one of his own. A number of the thugs set upon Wilde, thinking his prissy attire made him the easier target. They soon found out, however, that although his hands were soft, his knuckles were hard and the six-foot-one Irishman’s height, weight, and superior reach allowed him knock senseless anyone foolish enough to come within range of his long arms.

Suddenly the gang found many of their toughest fighters sprawled unconscious on the ground as the apparently helpless toffs proved to be skilled fighters. Conan Doyle dropped another man with a one-two uppercut and advanced upon the rest, fists windmilling, eyes blazing with fight. Like jackals confronted by lions, the pack broke and took to their heels at a flat-out run, no man wanting to be the last one out of the alleyway.

Conan Doyle and Wilde suddenly found themselves alone, with five burly men knocked flat and groaning on the cobblestones. Though battered and bruised, both friends had emerged from the battle triumphant, and were charged with adrenaline and euphoria.

“Extraordinary!” Wilde said, indicating the fallen prizefighter. “How did you drop that behemoth with one punch?”

“I learned how to box at boarding school and was quite good. As a doctor, I learned about anatomy. The solar plexus is a point at which a great number of blood vessels come together. A hard, swift blow placed at a precise location causes the vessels to spasm, depriving the brain of blood. As you saw, unconsciousness quickly follows. But what about you, Oscar? I knew you had boxed some at Oxford, but you handled yourself exceptionally well. That last uppercut was brilliantly executed. Nearly took the blighter’s head off!”

Wilde smiled modestly. “I was a passing fair boxer, but soon decided my face was far too large and pretty to be used as a punching bag. Thereafter I concentrated my martial efforts on the debating club, preferring repartee to fisticuffs.”

Conan Doyle paused in pulling on his coat to give his snout an experimental tweak to ascertain that it was merely sore, and not broken. “Those louts were seasoned toughs. We are lucky to have escaped with a few cuts and bruises.” He examined his friend. “Stand still, Oscar, while I look at you.” Wilde’s chestnut curls were severely tousled. Someone’s knuckles had left a red scrape across his cheekbone.

Wilde saw his look of concern and said, “Tell me the truth. I’m horribly disfigured, aren’t I? It’s not me I worry about, it’s the loss to the world.”

“Just a slight abrasion on one cheek. A bit of rubbing alcohol and you’ll be fine.”

The Irishman fixed him with an abject look. “You may rub your alcohol so where you like, Arthur. I intend to drink mine.”

Conan Doyle laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “You’re a Viking, Oscar! An absolute Viking.”

“Thank you, my friend.” Wilde conceded, preening a little. “I think we acquitted ourselves quite well.”

“Damned well!”

“There’s no need to swear, Arthur.”

“Quite right. I apologize.”

“Now what?”

“We must find our way out of this wretched place. Hopefully, Iron Jim will still be waiting with the hansom.”

They emerged from the alley within sight of a corner business bursting with light and activity despite the fog. Just then the front door banged open, releasing a squawk of inebriation and a man staggered out, coat half on, half off. He weaved along the pavement, struggling to pull his arms into the sleeves of his coat, but then tripped and face-plowed to the pavement, where he vomited before rolling into the gutter.

“A gin shop,” Conan Doyle said. “Let’s stop in and see if we can find out where we are.”

As the two friends pushed in through the door, the paint-stripping whiff of cheap booze scoured their sinuses. The place was a raucous mulligan of slack-faced men and cackling women singing, cursing, guzzling gin and then banging their empty glasses down on the tabletops for more.

The discordant duo of stevedore and aesthete garnered quizzical stares as the two writers shouldered a path to the bar. The barman was a small man hiding behind an enormous black moustache. “What’s yer poison?” he growled impatiently — other customers were already hammering their empty glasses on the bar to be served.

“Two mother’s ruin,” Conan Doyle said. “Best you got.”

The barman set two grimy glasses on the counter and sloshed into each a clear liquid with the turbidity and bouquet of turpentine. “Tanner a piece,” he grunted.

Conan Doyle slapped down a shilling and the barman disappeared to answer the braying voices of his importuning customers. The author clinked glasses with his friend and said, “Here’s to us, Oscar, poets and warriors both.”

“Sláinte agus táinte!” Wilde replied with a traditional Irish toast.

Both men took a sip and choked. When Wilde could draw breath again, he wheezed, “I am certain the dray horse that produced this elixir is far from well. Let us repair to my club. Another sip of this juniper poison and I shall be struck blind.”

“It may not be drinkable, but it should prevent infection.” Conan Doyle tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in his gin glass, and pressed it to Wilde’s skinned and swollen knuckles, causing him to wince and cry out.

“Enough!” he gasped. “It will only kill the germs by first killing me!”

Conan Doyle took a moment to assess his own injuries. The knuckles of both hands were badly bruised and beginning to swell. His throbbing ear felt as if it had swollen to the size of a dinner plate.

“Oi! You bastards!” a voice bellowed and the room fell silent.

The ferret-faced man stood in the open doorway; crowded behind were a gang of twenty or more. The louts had regrouped and fetched reinforcements with them, most armed with clubs and staves.

“Oh, dear!” Wilde said. “How do we escape this?”

“I am quite done running for one evening.” Conan Doyle reached into a pocket and drew out a fistful of banknotes. “I shall buy our way out.” He flourished the bills for all to see. Then he shouted, “Drinks on me!” and flung the money into the air.

Pandemonium ensued as drinkers fought to scrabble up the money and their pursuers were pinned in the crush. Wilde ducked under the serving hatch while Conan Doyle vaulted onto the bar and over. The two friends ducked through a doorway. They passed through a room stacked with crates of gin bottles and through another door that opened onto a cobblestone yard secured by a bolted wooden gate. Flinging open the gate, they stumbled into a gloomy alleyway.

But they were not alone. A carriage pulled by African zebras had drawn up and two figures stood waiting.