The Revenant of Thraxton Hall

CHAPTER 22 THE LIBRARY

With Oscar Wilde embarked upon a voyage toward inebriation, Conan Doyle decided to seek company with the other guests.

The parlor was empty when he reached it, but he followed the sound of voices along the hallway and into a high-ceilinged room that proved to be a capacious library with floor-to-ceiling bookcases complete with ladders to ascend to the highest shelves. As he stepped inside, the aroma of must and that slightly vanilla scent that lingers in used bookstores washed over him.

The members of the SPR were all gathered in a seating area in the middle of the expansive space, reclining upon a collection of enormous wing-backed armchairs and sofas arranged on a threadbare Persian rug. Conan Doyle scanned the group. The Sidgwicks were seated side by side on the long sofa. Sir William Crookes sprawled in one of four large armchairs, his waistcoat misbuttoned. Podmore lurked nearby, pretending to be perusing the tall shelves, but no doubt eavesdropping with his ears pricked like a greyhound’s. To the author’s dismay, Lady Thraxton was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, Doctor Doyle,” Henry Sidgwick’s voice called out. “We are so glad you chose to join us.”

Trapped.

Conan Doyle really did not wish to join them if Lady Thraxton was absent, but it was too late. To leave now would seem boorish. He plastered on a fake smile and wandered over to join the others. The library floor was warped, buckling, and off-kilter by several degrees. Conan Doyle crossed the groaning floorboards with the rolling gait of a sailor traipsing the deck of a four-master.

“I really should check in on her Ladyship,” he announced brightly, already plotting his escape.

“No need, Mister Doyle,” said a smarmy voice. Lord Webb’s pince-nez’d face appeared around the wing of one of the voluminous armchairs. “I visited her a moment ago. She has quite recovered and is resting comfortably. Best not to disturb her, old man.”

Conan Doyle bit the inside of his cheek. He did not appreciate being ordered about by the likes of Lord Webb.

“But where is Mister Wilde?” Eleanor Sidgwick asked.

“I’m afraid he is… indisposed…” Conan Doyle said, and then added, beneath his breath, “… if not already paralytic.”

“Lord Webb has very cleverly discovered the wine cellar,” Sir William chortled. “He managed to wrangle a key from old Greavesie.”

“Fully stocked and hasn’t been touched in years,” Webb added. “Seems a waste to let it turn to vinegar.”

“You must sample this most delicious port,” Sir William Crookes said, lofting a freshly dusted bottle. He paused to refill his empty glass. “It is a ’63 and quite unequalled.”

“Come along, Doctor Doyle, join us,” Henry Sidgwick urged. “Do take a seat.”

Conan Doyle relented with a nod — the only alternative was to return to his gloomy bedchamber. When he dropped onto the sofa next to Eleanor Sidgwick, he noticed for the first time that the Count sat ensconced in the tall wingback chair next to Lord Webb. The masked foreigner made eye contact briefly, but Conan Doyle quickly looked away.

“To your health,” Sir William said, handing him a glass goblet filled nearly to the brim with port.

Conan Doyle took a sip and savored the port’s comforting glow as it trickled down his throat like hot silk, warming his belly — perhaps not everything at Thraxton Hall was beyond redemption. He licked his lips and said, “I wanted to bring up the matter of what transpired at the séance today. It was a very near thing. I really think we ought to cancel tomorrow’s séance.”

“I could have told you of the dangers, had I been consulted.”

All looked up at the sound of an American accent. Daniel Dunglas Hume stood a few feet away. Somehow he had managed to walk the length of the library without causing a single floorboard to squeak. Conan Doyle eyed him critically. Once again, Hume looked hale and hearty: no trace remained of the consumptive wreck he had attended to earlier.

“There are dangers involved in contacting the recently deceased,” Hume continued. “Especially when death comes sudden and unexpected.”

“She said she was murdered by a ghost!” Sidgwick said. “Strangled!” He looked around at the others. “Is that possible? Could something as immaterial as a spirit wreak physical harm upon a living person?” He looked up at the Yankee psychic. “What do you think, Mister Hume?”

“I have heard of physical attacks by malevolent entities. But strangulation by wrapping a leash around the victim’s throat seems more likely the work of a living nemesis who bore ill will toward the old lady.” Hume made a point of glaring at Frank Podmore as he said it.

Although he was facing away, ostensibly perusing the books, Podmore’s back visibly stiffened at the implied accusation.

Lord Webb took a sip of his port and casually remarked, “I rather think the evil monkey theory advanced by Mister Doyle is far more credible.” In his pompous, plumby accent, Webb managed to make the theory and, by inference, its author, seem laughably ridiculous.

Conan Doyle bristled and was about to retaliate when Mister Greaves limped into the room clutching an armful of bottles and looking like the Ghost of Christmas Past, his black butler livery streaked with dust, rags of gray cobwebs snagged in his hair and trailing from his ears and shoulders like ectoplasm. He tottered to the table and thumped down a collection of bottles silky with decades of dust. It was obvious he had spent hours rooting around in the wine cellar.

“I managed to find a ’56, a ’57, and a very nice amontillado,” Greaves said.

Conan Doyle was intrigued and asked, “How on earth did you manage to find a specific vintage, Mister Greaves, when you cannot read the labels?”

Greaves set down the last bottle and turned to face Conan Doyle. “I managed the cellar for the third Lord Edmund. I placed every bottle in its rack, arranged by vineyard, year, and expense. Even though that was thirty years ago, I have an excellent memory, sir.”

At that moment, Eleanor Sidgwick let out a stifled cry and touched her fingers to her forehead, wincing with pain.

Henry Sidgwick lunged forward and grasped his wife’s hand. “Are you quite well, my dear?”

She squinted at him. “Just one of my migraines coming on.” She rose to her feet and the men rose, too. “Please, excuse me, I think I shall retire.”

“Take your medication, dear,” Sidgwick nagged. “I’ll be up in an hour or so.”

“I doubt that.” Lord Webb laughed, hefting one of the new bottles that Greaves had just fetched. “I rather think we shall be making a night of it!”

Mrs. Sidgwick said her good nights and turned to leave. As she passed Hume, the backs of their hands brushed and their eyes met in a look heavy with meaning. Conan Doyle happened to catch the exchange and was shocked. In an instant, he was forced to reconsider just whose room Hume was likely visiting the previous night.

Mrs. Sidgwick accompanied the ancient butler as they crossed the creaking floor to the door.

“Will you not join us in a drink, Mister Hume?” Sir William asked.

The Yankee shook his handsome head. “I thank ya for the kind offer, but I am a teetotaler.”

“Then you have something in common with Frank,” Lord Webb said, throwing a sardonic look at Frank Podmore, who was still pretending to browse the bookshelves. Podmore answered with nothing more than a furious look and then marched out of the library.

“I have a book to read,” Hume said. “Which is why I came here in the first place. I was looking for Doctor Doyle.”

Conan Doyle looked up, surprised.

“It is a book of your Sherlock Holmes stories, sir. I would be most gratified if you would sign it for me.”

Hume held out the small leather-bound volume. Conan Doyle eyed the book warily — as if it were a loaded bear trap. It seemed impossible to escape Holmes, who was able to materialize in one form or another. “By all means,” he said with forced good humor, taking the book from the American’s hand. He searched the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and took out his fountain pen, flipped to the title page, and scrawled, Best wishes to my American cousin, and signed, Arthur Conan Doyle.

Hume thanked Conan Doyle and bowed to the assembled group. “Ya’ll must excuse me now, I plan to read a few of Doctor Doyle’s most edifying stories before retiring.”

He raised the slim volume of Sherlock Holmes stories in salute. “Thank you, once again, Doctor Doyle.” He bowed his head and headed for the door. Conan Doyle watched him go and was struck by the fact that, as the Yankee psychic crossed the library, not a single floorboard creaked, almost as if Daniel Dunglas Hume were a being conjured from nothing more than light and shadow.

It seemed as good a time as any to make an escape. Conan Doyle rose from the sofa, announcing that he, too, was retiring for the night. He bowed to the group, then turned and left. Although he trod carefully, the floorboards squealed and groaned with every step.

He left the library and climbed the rickety grand staircase to the second floor. As he passed a dark alcove, a hand shot out from the shadows and seized his arm. By reflex, his free hand balled into a fist and he was about to throw a punch, when a face advanced into the light.

Frank Podmore.

“The deuce! I very nearly dropped you with a roundhouse right!”

Podmore’s terrier eyes took in the large fist, cocked and trembling, which Conan Doyle relaxed and dropped.

“If this is about the shoelace prank—”

Podmore sniffed. “Forget that. I am used to being an object of ridicule. I wanted to warn you—”

At first Conan Doyle assumed that Podmore was threatening him. “Warn me of what?”

“The high and mighty Lord Webb.”

The look of concern on Podmore’s face told Conan Doyle that the young man was in deadly earnest. “You fear he intends to harm Lady Thraxton?”

“I fear he has designs on her Ladyship.” Podmore’s face tightened. “I believe he is trying to inveigle himself into a position of favor — the man is precisely the type of cad who would exploit a vulnerable young woman.”

“To what end?”

Podmore snorted and glared at Conan Doyle as if he were stupid. “Lady Thraxton inherited the title, but she is only twenty years old. Once she reaches her majority she will own the house. More importantly, the Thraxton family fortune, which has been held in trust since the death of Lord Edmund Thraxton… will be hers.”

“But Lord Thraxton did not die — officially. I understood that he vanished… simply disappeared into thin air.”

“It is the same thing,” Podmore remarked in a tone of pedantic impatience. “He has been declared legally dead by a court of inquest.”

“If the Thraxton family fortune is being held in trust, then who is Hope’s legal guardian?”

“The head housekeeper, Mrs. Kragan,” the younger man answered, apparently amused at the stunned look on Conan Doyle’s face. “You may well look surprised, Doctor Doyle, but I assure you it’s true.”

While Podmore had dropped his guard, Conan Doyle sought to press forward his advantage. “One final question: did you come to Thraxton Hall with a firearm? A small pistol easy to conceal on your person?”

Podmore’s eyes widened. But after his initial surprise, he regained himself. “I believe I’ve answered enough of your questions, Doctor Doyle.” And with that, the younger man turned and stalked off into the darkness.

The whole night Conan Doyle tossed restlessly, clinging to a narrow ledge of sleep. The events of the previous days repeated themselves in a revolving carousel. At one point, as his mind floated up from sleep, he heard a child weeping and was awakened by the ear-ringing crash of a door being slammed shut.

His eyes snapped open. He was awake, yet the reverberations of the slamming door seemed to carry on and on and on until they died down to a repetitive tap-tap… tap-tap… tap-tap…

A familiar hawk-nosed figure sat in the armchair facing the bed. He had rolled up his shirtsleeve and was tapping a forefinger on the barrel of a syringe, the needle of which was plunged into a bulging blue vein in his forearm.

Sherlock Holmes.

“You really are lost, aren’t you, Arthur?” Holmes mumbled around the leather tourniquet clenched between his teeth.

“What? You again?”

Holmes spat out the tourniquet. “Yes, me again. Your creation,” Holmes said sneeringly, the tortoise eyes levered up to meet Conan Doyle’s. “You’ll pardon me if I take a moment to indulge in the only human vice you permitted me. But then I suppose you had your reasons. I would scarcely have been able to solve every impossible murder in England had I spent my time mooning around after young girls as you do.”

Conan Doyle sputtered with rage at the insult. “M-mooning about? I’m here to save a woman’s life!”

As the hypodermic’s plunger began its slow descent, opiate clouds billowed behind Holmes’ heavy-lidded gaze. He withdrew the syringe and set it down on the writing desk, then unraveled the leather tourniquet lashed tight around his bicep, massaging a veiny forearm tracked with needle scars. “So what progress have you made thus far?” He mocked Conan Doyle with a tight smile. “The final séance is tomorrow night — the final séance, at which Hope Thraxton will be murdered — shot twice in the chest.”

“How do you know it will be the final séance?” Conan Doyle asked.

“Because murderers possess a keen sense of theater and always save the best for last.” The narrow face pursed its lips in disapproval. “Have you determined who will be the trigger man… or woman? What made me such a formidable detective?”

Conan Doyle flustered. “A keen mind? Solving problems through logic and deduction—”

“Great powers of observation,” Holmes interrupted. “Recall how I was able to astonish my good friend John Watson on our first encounter by deducing that he was a doctor. He had been a military man in Afghanistan, where he was wounded in the right, or was it the left leg? (You were a little slipshod on that detail.) All through the powers of observation.”

“Is there a point to all this? If so, cut to it, and spare me the drama.”

“You have been to the Thraxton crypt. You very nearly kissed Lady Thraxton in her coffin, but your coward heart failed you. Something was quite peculiar about one of those coffins. Something you should have noticed — had you been aware… had you been paying attention to anything other than the downy curve of her cheek with its crescent moon birthmark poised, so tantalizingly, at the corner of her mouth.”

Conan Doyle blustered. “Peculiar? What do you mean, peculiar? Peculiar in what way?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to find that out for yourself.” Holmes unleashed a vulpine smile. “After all, I am merely the puppet. You are the puppet master.”

Having his own words flung back in his face silenced Conan Doyle.

Holmes drew a languid breath in through his hawkish nose, his nostrils flaring as he exhaled. “I have a joke for you, Arthur.” He fixed his creator with a dreamy gaze as the 7-percent solution worked its alchemy. “When is a door not a door?” He arched a questioning eyebrow. “When it’s ajar.” A clumsy laugh bubbled from Holmes’ lips. “Sorry. A dreadful pun, I know. You gave me a mind like an adding machine but forgot to include a sense of humor.” He slumped back in the armchair. His eyelids fluttered and closed. His head lolled. The image of Holmes grew blurry at the edges, its color drained into monochrome, and then became shiveringly translucent, until nothing remained but a tenuous outline that burst like a soap bubble and vanished.

Conan Doyle’s eyes opened a second time, springing his mind from the dream-within-a-dream. He lurched up in bed, his heart flailing, the words of his fictional creation resounding in his head. “A door that is not a door…” He heaved aside the heavy woolen bedclothes and flung himself from the bed. He dressed quickly and slipped from his room, mindful that the rest of the house would not stir for another hour.

The room Madame Zhozhovsky died in was unlocked. A trunk containing her clothes sat on the bed. The aroma that so offended Wilde’s sensibilities still hovered. Her body had been placed in one of the empty coffins in the Thraxton family crypt, preparatory to being shipped back to her family (in Barnsley, Yorkshire, as coincidence had it) as soon as the ford became passable.

Conan Doyle wandered the gloomy room, probing. The wardrobe had a sticky door that required a firm yank to open. It was empty, apart from cobwebs clinging in the corners and a dead spider twirling at the end of its silken thread. He shouldered the wardrobe door shut and looked around the room. As he had found in many years as a physician, the residue of death still lingered — a palpable presence.

And then he heard it: the sound of claws scratching against stone and an inhuman gibbering that raised gooseflesh. He tilted his head and strained to listen. The sound of something scrabbling in the walls began again. He followed its progress until it passed behind the wardrobe. Silence followed and then the insistent scratching started again. He wrenched open the wardrobe door and peered into its shadows. Nothing. But then he heard the scrabbling again.

It was coming from behind the wall.

When is a door not a door? The words of the apparition of Sherlock Holmes rose to the surface of his mind.

Conan Doyle struck a lucifer and lit the bedside lamp. He returned to the wardrobe and lofted it high, washing the inside with light. The wardrobe seemed solid enough, but as his fingers felt along the top of the lintel, there was a loud click as something spring-loaded depressed beneath his touch. The back of the wardrobe popped inward with an audible gasp, revealing an inky black void: a secret passage hidden in the walls smelling of dust and dead air.

Slowly, cautiously, he raised the lamp and peered in.

A demonic face lunged from the darkness, blood-red eyes burning with hatred, fangs bared. Conan Doyle shouted in surprise as a small and furry devil latched onto his face, nails clawing his scalp as it clambered over his head and leaped off, scampering out the open door, shrieking.

The monkey.

It had been trapped inside the walls all this time. Conan Doyle dabbed at his scalp with a white handkerchief; it came away flecked with crimson. The monkey’s claws had drawn blood. And yet, ever the pragmatist, he considered the pain a minor price to pay for having discovered the means by which Madame Zhozhovsky’s murderer had accessed her room.

He paused for several moments, staring into the black opening. I should go back to fetch Oscar, he thought. Going it alone would be foolish. But he felt the thrill of an Egyptologist to whom a hidden chamber in the Great Pyramid has just opened. The pull was irresistible. Perhaps I’ll just explore a little way to ensure that this really does lead somewhere. Ignoring his own good advice, he plunged inside and crept along a stony passageway so narrow that his shoulders brushed the walls.

The passageway was longer than he expected. Forty feet on, it intersected another passageway running at ninety degrees. Which way to go? He lofted the lamp and scanned the floor. The passage to his left, which led toward the western wing, was furred with dust, but the passageway to his right was tracked with blurred footprints. He turned right and followed another twenty feet until he came upon a set of stone steps that plunged downward. At the stair’s end, a short passageway zigged hard right, and zagged left. And then he stepped out into a dark, echoing space he recognized.

The crypt of the Thraxtons.

He had descended to the first level of the crypt. He could see that a number of skylights were set into the vaulted stone ceiling and the morning sunlight, filtered through layers of moss and scum, created a sickly greenish, underwater twilight. And then he noticed the sharp glimmer of a candle in the distance. Conan Doyle crept toward it as quietly as he could. As he passed the first rank of coffins, he saw where the light came from: a fat tallow candle burning atop a coffin lid. He set down his lamp, picked up the candle in its heavy silver candleholder, and lifted the coffin lid. A quick glimpse confirmed that its occupant was Madame Zhozhovsky, whose eyes he himself had closed, and around whose head he had wrapped a gauze bandage to hold her mouth shut. He lowered the lid and advanced to the next coffin.

Most of the coffins were recent, their shiny black lacquer gleaming in the lamplight. However, this one was of an antique design, weathered and rotted from years spent buried in the ground. When he lifted the lid he found nothing but the stench of corrupted flesh and a complete skeleton, still clad here and there in tattered rags of leathery gray flesh. A closer look at the pelvic structure confirmed his initial suspicions about gender — a woman’s skeleton. The coffin was otherwise empty, apart from a few scattered trinkets. He picked them up and scrutinized them by the lamplight — two ancient copper bands. And then he noticed that the skeleton’s ankle and wrist bones had been drilled with corresponding holes. Conan Doyle knew enough about folklore and ancient customs to recognize what he was dealing with: the copper bands had been used to bind the limbs of the corpse together; it was a custom commonly practiced with suicides and witches to prevent them from rising from the grave.

This was a witch’s corpse, he thought.

As he dropped the copper bands back into the coffin, his hand brushed fabric. What he had at first taken to be a piece of the disintegrating coffin lining proved to be a black fabric bag. He held the candle closer and saw the flaked and faded remains of hierophantic symbols. He reached inside the bag and drew out a cold, smooth, round object. At first he thought it was a polished disk of onyx and then recognized it for what it really was: a scrying mirror. He now had no doubt as to whose skeletal remains these were:

Mariah Thraxton.

His mind vaulted back to the dark, rainy evening of Lord Webb’s arrival, when he had watched a coffin being unloaded from the hearse.

His eyes were drawn up to the candle flame as it faltered in a sudden draft where no draft should have been. The skin at the back of his neck prickled. He had only a moment to realize the draft could only come from someone looming up behind him. In the same instant, he was struck a stunning blow across the back of the head. A flash of light burst behind both eyes. His knees went slack, and his forehead smacked the cold stones as he crumpled to the ground. Somewhere, a man was moaning most horribly, and then he realized it was his own voice. He distantly felt the sensation of being lifted and then falling into blackness. As he slipped from consciousness, he realized he had been dumped inside the coffin. He tried to cry out, but could not find his voice. He tried to raise his arms but he was a puppet with its strings cut. He heard the cackle of a cruel laugh, and then his ears resounded with the boom of a coffin lid being slammed shut.

Darkness pooled in his mind, and he slipped silently beneath its surface.

“I’m afraid these scones will be the death of me,” Oscar Wilde said as he sank his mossy incisors into his third scone — or was it his fourth? He was sharing a breakfast table with the Count who, improbably, was dressed in full military regalia for toast and tea. The choice of breakfast partner had been forced upon Wilde, as Conan Doyle was tardier than usual.

“I do not zink zat you vill die from eating a scone,” the Count said. “But eeze likely you vill get fat.”

Clotted cream and gooseberry jam squirted from the corner of Wilde’s mouth as he bit down, his eyes rolling back into his head as he chewed in an ecstasy of sugar and double cream. He wiped his full lips on a napkin and mumbled around a mouthful of scone, “Diplomatic of you to say so, Count, but I am already fat. However, if I continue eating like this I run the risk of becoming positively porcine.”

Mrs. Kragan and the maids scuttled the tables, clearing away the breakfast things. Wilde picked up the tiny silver bell and tinkled it to gain her attention. “I say,” he called. “Might I have a fresh pot of tea, Mrs. Kragan?”

The Irish housekeeper flung a scowl his way without interrupting her ministrations. “Breakfast is long over, Mister Wilde. Kitchen’s busy making lunch.”

“Ah,” Wilde said in a despairing tone, setting the silver bell down. “Shall I take that as a no?”

Mrs. Kragan did not even bother to answer. But as she bustled past carrying a tray laden with breakfast dishes, Wilde arrested her by grasping her elbow. “I say, you haven’t seen Doctor Doyle this morning, have you?”

The dour face glared down at him. “I’m sure I have little knowledge of the wanderings of all our houseguests. Have you checked the doctor’s room?”

“Yes, I have. He obviously rose early. I could see by the basin that he hadn’t washed or shaved.”

“Well then, you know more than me, sir.” And with that, she clattered away with her tray full of breakfast dishes.

“How very odd,” Wilde mused.

“Vat is zat?” the Count asked.

“My friend Arthur does not miss much, and he rarely misses a meal.”

“Perhaps he went for his morning, how do you English say it, confrontational?”

Wilde allowed himself a smile and a chuckle. “Constitutional, Count. The word is constitutional, but you’re very close, and ‘confrontational’ is probably quite accurate in Arthur’s case.” He rose from the table and tossed his napkin down. “Please excuse me, I must seek out my friend.”

The Count also stood, clicked his heels, and snapped a low bow to Wilde. “I am a trained military commander. Might I assist in zis search?”

“No, that’s quite unnecessary. I’m sure Arthur’s safely ensconced in some little nook.”

Conan Doyle awoke from a hideous sleep, images torn from a nightmare still uncoiling in his mind.

Bewildered, he tried to stretch out a hand in the darkness, only to collide with an unseen surface. Blind, frantic gropings soon proved his worst fears as he realized, with soaring dread, where he was.

A coffin.

Fear surged through him, throbbing like a raw nerve torn loose of the flesh. His breathing quickened to gasps and then erupted into deafening screams. The sound, resonating in the cramped space, fed upon itself, cascading his terror ever higher. Barely able to lift his arms, he pounded his fists against the unyielding darkness, flailing blindly, nails raking the inside of the coffin lid. His anguished howls rose to a piercing shriek before his voice cracked and his arms fell slack and leaden.

Lying in the darkness. Panting. Heart banging. His body rilled with sweat. His situation seemed impossible. Regain yourself, Arthur, Conan Doyle told himself. You must control your fear, or you are a dead man. He forced himself to take a number of slow, deep breaths, but the air in the coffin seemed used up and spent. He felt another surge of terror and only choked it down by sheer force of will.

Matches, he thought. In my jacket pocket. With difficulty, and only after shifting and twisting in the narrow coffin, was he able to snake a hand into his pocket and retrieve his box of lucifers. Given the dread nature of his situation, it was a small triumph. One-handed, he managed to draw a single match from the box and strike it against the rough wood of the coffin lid.

The match sputtered and flared, filling the coffin with light and a choking whiff of sulfur. He was lying on the bones of Mariah Thraxton, the teeth of her skull pressed into his cheek in an obscene kiss. However, seeing the tight confines of his prison was even more terrifying than the darkness. The light quickly dimmed as the match burned low. Conan Doyle inched his fingers to the very end of the matchstick, until the flame burned his thick fingers. He dropped the match with a pained howl, and the darkness fell upon him.

He closed his eyes, unwilling to fill his mind with the utter blackness of the coffin. Instead, he conjured the image of his beloved Touie, and of a pleasant summer’s day idling together in their garden, watching the children play croquet. But then the image slipped away, and instead he saw the black lake slowly creeping toward him, surging up the crypt’s stony throat, and drowning the side galleries, sweeping the coffins before it like buoyant boats. Something about the black lake held a terror beyond death. He realized what it truly was: nothingness passing forever from existence, and that he occupied just one of a fleet of coffins sailing through eternal night on a dark voyage toward a final destination:

Oblivion.

When Oscar Wilde reached the parlor, the door had been left open. The morning lectures had begun, and Henry Sidgwick was on his feet, addressing the Society in his soporific drone. Wilde scanned the surprisingly attentive faces long enough to assert that only the Count and Conan Doyle were not present, and then quietly withdrew before he could be seen and inveigled to stay. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, where he caught a thief in the act of stealing: a small, furry shape skittered up the stairs, an apple clutched in its hands.

The monkey aptly named Mephistopheles.

Wilde thundered up the stairs after it. The monkey scampered along the second floor landing and dodged through an open bedroom door. It was a room he recognized: Madame Zhozhovsky’s. Wilde quickly guessed that Conan Doyle had returned to study the crime scene a second time. Before he entered, he took the precaution of covering his nose and mouth with a lavender-scented handkerchief.

“Arthur, are you in here?” he called, stepping inside. A quick glance disappointed him. But then he noticed that the monkey was also nowhere to be seen. The wardrobe door was slightly cracked. It swung open to his push and his jaw dropped when he saw the obsidian rectangle of the secret passage. There was no question now of where Arthur had gone. Wilde couldn’t see far into the passage, but he knew that secret passageways were seldom dusted. He was wearing a black velvet jacket and black trousers — the worst possible choice. And then he looked down at his feet. He was wearing his two-guinea shoes. Exploring the passage was out of the question — he was simply not dressed for it. But then he reviewed the wardrobe he had fetched, and realized he was in a bit of a pickle. Wilde had picked out a selection of outfits based on style, color, and texture — he had not packed for the possibility of crawling through secret passages. Arthur, he reasoned, was a strong and resourceful man, excellently equipped for self-preservation. But still he dithered at the threshold, torn between fashion and friend-preservation. Yes, Conan Doyle was perhaps his best friend. But Wilde was wearing perhaps his best jacket.

He faced a vexing dilemma.

And so he stood, peering into the darkness, unmoving, his mind reefed in an inextricable knot. Finally, he shook himself, liberated a lamp from the hallway table, and plunged into the secret passage. He reasoned that, should Conan Doyle perish because he dallied, he would never feel comfortable wearing the clothes again.

Thus it was a moot point.

He paused when the secret passageway reached a junction, with one shaft leading off to his left and one to his right. With a lifelong preference for the sinister, he turned left. Within twenty feet he stumbled upon a flight of stone steps ascending steeply upward. At this point he contemplated turning back. He was a big man in a narrow space and claustrophobia was tightening a knot at the base of his skull. Nevertheless, he steeled himself, muttered, “ad astra,” and began the long climb.

He was puffing hard, his thighs burning by the time he reached the top step, coughing on the dust his feet were raising. “This jacket and trousers will never come clean,” he mourned aloud.

But then he saw that the way ahead was barred not by stone, but by a wooden door. Set in the top was a brass spy-hole cover. It was stuck fast, glued in place with the dust of decades, but cracked loose when he put his weight behind it. A cone of daylight streamed out, splashing across Wilde’s face.

He contemplated a moment. Who could stand before a spy hole and not peer through? Certainly not Oscar Wilde. He pressed his face close to the spy hole and gazed into a dimly lit space filled with mirrors. As his hand pressed against the door, it rested upon a handle mechanism, which unlatched with a metallic ka-chunk. The secret panel broke loose with a crack and swung inward, stone dust grating beneath its sill.

Feeling rather like Lewis Carroll’s Alice, Oscar Wilde stepped from the darkness into the mirror maze.