“Yes. She is a very special doll. I do hope she is destined for a little girl who will treasure her very much. Beautiful things must be treasured for always.”
“I am certain she will be the pride of her collection.” Jean handed him the doll and the mechanical monkey. She followed him to the shop counter where he found a sturdy box and nestled the toys inside. She drew out her calling card and handed it to him.
“Could you please have them delivered to this address in Blackheath, along with the bill?”
“Certainly, Madam,” the toy man chuckled. He eased the card from between her slender fingers and tucked it in the breast pocket of his apron. Returning to his task, he tore off a sheet of brown paper from a roll, but then paused in his wrapping as if remembering something.
“But where has your gentleman got to after all this time?”
They found Conan Doyle transfixed before the Turkish Automaton. Most of his white pieces had been swept from the board and he was desperately juggling the position of his queen and king, dodging in and out of check.
The Turk patiently puffed at his long pipe, exhaled a wisp of steam and then slid his queen forward, pinning Conan Doyle’s king inescapably.
“Checkmate, I think, sir,” Jedidiah observed.
The author’s shoulders slumped. He brushed at his moustache in agitation, then reached forward and solemnly toppled his king in surrender. “Beaten by a clockwork mechanism,” he moaned in an exhausted voice and cast a sheepish look at Jean. “Of course, I haven’t played in years.”
“Of course not,” she cooed, laying a reassuring hand on his arm.
“And playing against oneself hardly counts as practice.”
“Hardly at all.”
Conan Doyle caught her mocking tone and had to laugh at himself. He noticed Jedidiah hovering. “Well? Can you fix my boy’s soldier?”
“Of course,” Jedidiah reassured. “The spring is repairable but some of the gears are broken and I shall have to make new ones.”
“Ah, I see—”
“But do not worry. When Jedidiah has repaired your boy’s soldier with new gears, he will never break again. Your son will hand down the toy to his son.”
“Topping! When might I pick it up?”
“The day after tomorrow?”
Conan Doyle pulled a calling card from an inside pocket and handed it to the toy maker. “Please send the bill to my home address. I should be able to pop in to pick it up sometime this week.”
Jedidiah accepted the card and bowed slightly. A violent tremor shook his head, but his smile remained fixed.
A touch of palsy, Conan Doyle quickly diagnosed.
“Very good sir. A pleasant day to you and your lady and thank you for stopping in.” Jedidiah escorted them to the door and held it open as they left amid smiles and nods.
In the street outside, although it was barely four-thirty, the sky was a dark swirl of fog. Perched atop his ladder, a lamplighter was kindling a nearby streetlamp to life. Conan Doyle looked doubtfully at the sky and checked his pocket watch.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
“It’s practically dark already.”
Jean Leckie’s face fell. “And so our wonderful day together is nearly over?”
Conan Doyle thought a moment and said, “No, I was about to say we are late for afternoon tea.” He smiled. “But perfectly on time for supper at The Savoy.”
“Really? Supper at The Savoy? How wonderful!”
Conan Doyle reached in his top pocket and drew out the tickets Wilde had given him. “And then I have two tickets for Oscar’s latest play—unless you wish me to convey you home after supper?”
She clapped her hands together and trilled with delight, “Oh, I should love to visit the theater!”
“Yes, I believe they are rather good tickets. Next to the royal box. One of the perks of knowing the playwright.” He added in a low mutter, “I suppose there had to be some advantage. Wait here, I’ll just sort out a cab.”
Conan Doyle wandered off to look for a hansom, leaving Jean Leckie to loiter in the circle of light beneath the gas lamp. The lamplighter, having finished, closed the glass shade, slid down his ladder, then tucked it over his arm and moved on to light the next.
Inside the Emporium, Jedidiah turned over the sign in the shop door from OPEN to CLOSED and stood watching Jean Leckie through the glass. From behind came a whish of gears as the Turkish Automaton stirred to life. The glowing eyes sprang open, the turbaned head swiveled. It breathed a jet of steam and then the arm swung over and tapped three times on the chessboard with the tip of his pipe. Jedidiah ignored it and drew the two calling cards from his apron pocket. He scanned the addresses on each, first Conan Doyle’s home in Surrey, and then Miss Leckie’s in Blackheath. He smiled to himself.
Outside, in the street, Jean Leckie stood alone, marooned within a halo of amber light. A drunken swell staggered past, white silk scarf fluttering loose, top hat askew. He must have said something to her, something disrespectful, because she dropped her head and looked away. Now, she was visibly nervous, as any young gentlewoman would be, abandoned on her own in the gathering gloom. The street dimmed perceptibly as dusk mixed with yellow fog and turned the light a murky green. The daily fogs drove most Londoners indoors early, and cabbies without fares quit for their homes. It was not surprising that Conan Doyle was having difficulty locating a hansom.
Jedidiah remained at the window, watching Jean Leckie with growing interest. “You are as lovely as any doll I have ever created,” he breathed aloud. His head tremored violently.
Outside, Conan Doyle had returned with a hansom and was helping Miss Leckie step aboard.
The automaton hissed again, releasing a coiling tendril of steam into the air. The wooden hand lifted and tapped the pipe three times.
“Be patient, Otto,” the shopkeeper called over his shoulder. “I shall feed you in a moment.”
CHAPTER 10
A WILDE NIGHT AT THE THEATER
Conan Doyle and Miss Leckie left The Savoy shortly after six, filled with caviar, champagne, and bonhomie. Conan Doyle ordered a four-wheeler—expense be-damned—to whisk them to the Haymarket Theatre where Wilde’s An Ideal Husband, was in its third week.
London traffic was unusually light, the fog having driven indoors all those who were not of the leisure class to cough and wheeze in the privacy of their own parlors. When the two acquaintances alighted from the carriage in front of the theater, they found a cadre of doormen and ushers who had been positioned bearing lighted torches and lanterns to guide theatergoers and burn off the fog swirling about the marquee.
It was the Scottish doctor’s fondest ambition to impress his guest, and the tickets Wilde had supplied him with succeeded winningly. From the moment he flashed the box tickets to the second they were escorted to their seats, his companion chattered excitedly about the gleaming marble columns, the glittering gilt cherubs, the plush red velvet seats, and the salubrious ambience of luxury and genteel prosperity.
As they took their seats next to the royal box, a drumroll sounded and an offstage voice announced: “Please be upstanding for his Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”
A hubbub of anticipation rippled through the audience as a door at the back of the royal box opened and three figures stepped through. First came the Prince of Wales, at fifty-six prematurely old and balding, the once-dashing figure grown corpulent, larded with decades of indulgence. On his arm, like a gaudy decoration, was Daisy Greville, Countess of Warwick, a lady similar in age to Miss Leckie. Tonight, she was dressed in a stunning gown of champagne-colored silk; her waspish, tight-corseted waist pushing up a pneumatic bosom that preceded her into the box like twin spinnakers ballooned by a gale. She wore her long chestnut curls swept up and pinned into place by a tiara sparkling with rubies and emeralds—undoubtedly a token from her royal escort.
The Prince of Wales, elegant in a black evening suit with a red sash slashing from shoulder to hip, stepped
to the railing of his box and swept the audience below with a regal look, removing the fat cigar lodged in the corner of his mouth just long enough to acknowledge their applause with an imperious wave. It was then that the prince noticed his neighbors in the adjoining box. His eyes registered Conan Doyle with obvious recognition, and then lavished Miss Leckie with a lascivious gaze, up and down, brazenly assessing her attributes—and this despite the fact that he already had a companion for the evening. To Conan Doyle’s mortification, the prince flashed him a jaunty wink and a “boy’s club” smile, as if to say well, done, old fellow!
The Scottish author blanched, imagining that everyone in the theater must be thinking the same thing. Teeth clenched, he acknowledged the royal presence with a cursory bow while Jean Leckie curtsied deeply.
The third guest in the Royal Box, whom Conan Doyle had at first taken to be a tall young woman, was in fact a slender young man with a pallid complexion, narrow shoulders, and an outrageous mane of red hair that spilled down upon his shoulders in a cascade of fiery copper curls. He was dressed operatically in a long black cape and fiery red cravat. A medallion dangled around his neck on a leather cord. With an unsettling sense of déjà vu, Conan Doyle noticed that the medal was embossed with a pentagram. The youth met and held Conan Doyle’s gaze with a mocking smirk.
Following protocol, the prince took his seat first, the countess second and then the youth took the seat on the prince’s right hand, flinging his long tresses behind his shoulders with a toss of the head.
“My goodness!” Miss Leckie gushed in a whisper. “The Prince of Wales, so close I could reach out and touch him. I am quite giddy!”
Conan Doyle indulged her with a smile, but said nothing, unwilling to allow his low opinion of the Heir Apparent to stifle his companion’s excitement.
The audience resumed their seats. After a brief delay, the curtains at one end of the stage flirted open and Oscar Wilde stepped out. He was immaculately dressed in a black evening suit and white cotton gloves, a green carnation pinned to his lapel. Conan Doyle was dismayed to see that Wilde was smoking one of his aromatic cigarettes (which would seem rude on a normal occasion and positively impudent in the presence of royalty). He sauntered to center stage, his lone footsteps echoing in the anticipatory silence. Here he paused, drew deeply from his cigarette, exhaled languidly, and finally addressed the crowd.
“Unaccustomed as I am to being outshone, tonight our performance is graced by the presence of royalty.” He turned and bowed deeply to the royal box. “And so I find the meager spark of my wit eclipsed by the full sun of majesty.” He began to clap his gloved hands together and the audience joined in, surging to their feet and shouting “Huzzahs!”
The prince rode the surf of applause a moment longer before standing and settling the audience with a gesture, and then spoke in his fruity voice, “Thank you Mister Wilde for your kind comments, but we have all come to be dazzled by your wit and wisdom. On this foul and foggy night, we shall require your genius to burn its brightest, so that it may light our way home.”
The audience roared with laughter at the prince matching wits with Oscar Wilde, who knew when to let a weaker opponent win and merely bowed and joined in the applause.
“Well played, Oscar,” Conan Doyle muttered to himself.
The playwright quit the stage. The play began and soon the theater shook with laughter. But throughout the performance, Conan Doyle noticed that his companion was paying more attention to the prince than to Wilde’s witty dialogue, and suffered the pangs of jealously.
But by the end of the first act, it was becoming clear that the fog was creeping into the playhouse through every crack and crevice. In the open space before the proscenium arch, a misty haze congealed and thickened, dimming the chandeliers and causing theatergoers to look about themselves nervously. Conan Doyle knew it was only fog, but at any moment expected to hear panicked cries of “fire.” By degrees the fog thickened from distraction to nuisance and murmurs began to rumble when the drifting grayness became so opaque as to render the actors onstage as little more than shadow puppets.
The Prince of Wales suddenly stood up and left his box, followed by the countess and his youthful companion. A rising hubbub from worried theatergoers soon drowned out the actors’ voices, and with the tie between audience and actors severed, the illusion of theater collapsed. Theatergoers became aware they were just a herd of people crowded into a large and very foggy room. People began leaving—first in ones and twos, and then whole aisles emptied and scurried for the doors.
The curtains whished shut in the middle of the action. The remaining audience members began to rise from their seats. Some of the ladies uttered tones of alarm. Just as the moment teetered upon the precipice of panic, a lone figure in a black evening suit strode out into the footlights and stood at center stage.
Oscar Wilde.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, raising his arms for attention. “It appears the fog has succeeded where my worst critics have failed: they have silenced the voice of Oscar Wilde.”
A welcome titter of laughter rippled through the audience, and many began to retake their seats.
“As a man of the theater, it gives me great joy to fill the seats of a playhouse. Likewise, it causes me great pain to see them emptied. However, even I must admit defeat in the face of nature’s intrusion, and so I am sad to announce that tonight’s performance must end prematurely. Should you wish a refund, return your tickets to the ticketing booth. However, if you wish to see true genius, retain your ticket stubs and they will be honored at a future, hopefully, less inclement date. I thank you all.”
Wilde bowed and strolled offstage to broken applause. But Conan Doyle noticed the stifled rage in his stiff posture.
“How unfortunate,” Miss Leckie said, disappointment dragging down the edges of her words. “I was so enjoying myself.”
“Fear not,” Conan Doyle said, “there will be other performances. Many, I hope.”
She wrung his heart with an adorable pout. “I am sure there will, but I did not want our wonderful evening to end.”
“But it need not end. There will be a reception for the Prince of Wales. The stage will be cleared and a buffet table laid out. Champagne. Canapés. Many delicacies. I could introduce you to my friend, Oscar. Perhaps even the prince.”
At his words she gasped and gripped his hand warmly.
* * *
When Conan Doyle and Jean Leckie wandered backstage looking for Wilde, a sumptuous table groaning with a celebratory feast had been laid out on the stage. The actors and stagehands stood in a receiving line, bowing and curtseying as the theater manager presented each in turn to the prince and countess. (The prince’s young shadow hung back and did not shake any hands.)
However, Conan Doyle was perturbed to find that the playwright himself was inexplicably absent.
The introductions over, the theater manager conducted the royals to the buffet table, where he poured each a glass of champagne. The Prince of Wales had just taken his first sip when he spotted the pair loitering in the wings. He gave the slightest nod of his head, which Conan Doyle took as a command to come forward. Reluctantly, he led Miss Leckie onto the stage to meet the heir to the throne.
“Doctor Doyle,” the prince said. “So good to meet you again.”
“Your Highness,” Conan Doyle said, bowing and shaking the prince’s hand, clammy even through his cotton gloves.
“I have not read one of your Sherlock Holmes tales of late,” the prince continued. “When can we expect the next installment?”
Conan Doyle squirmed, momentarily at a loss. Apparently the prince did not know that the Scottish author had killed off his consulting detective in “The Adventure of the Final Problem,” a move that sent shockwaves through the nation and enraged legions of Holmes fans.
“Ah … soon, Your Highness,” he lied, “quite soon.”
“And who is this ravishing beauty?” the Prince of Wales asked, molesting Jean Leckie
with his gaze.
“May I introduce Miss Jean Leckie, a fellow member of the Society for Psychical Research.”
“Ah, yes. Séances? Spooks? Goings on in the dark, eh?” The prince turned and addressed his young companion. “See, Rufie, you’re not the only one to dabble in the dark side.”
Wishing to derail this line of conversation, Conan Doyle quickly interjected, “I had understood that you were traveling abroad, sir?”
“Did you, indeed?” The look of surprise on the prince’s face told Conan Doyle that he had just blundered out a state secret. “And how the devil did you come by that notion?”
Conan Doyle groped for a safe rejoinder. “I believe I read it in The Times.”
Prince Edward shook his head bad temperedly. “There are those in the palace who urge me to journey abroad, what with the damned nihilists setting off bombs everywhere. I, however, prefer to stay in London amongst my friends.”
The prince noticed Miss Leckie eyeing his youthful companion. He turned and slipped a thick arm around the younger man’s narrow shoulders, drawing him forward. “This is my cousin, Rufus DeVayne, the Marquess of Gravistock. He suffers from a nervous disposition, so his doctors packed him off to the countryside to rest. We had to go down and rescue him. Isn’t that right, Rufie?”
The marquess tossed his red curls in a bashful nod and gave the meagerest hint of a smile.
The prince went on: “But now we’re off to a party at the Gravistock family seat to celebrate his freedom.” A thought struck the prince. “Doctor Doyle, would you and your young lady friend care to join us?” He winked suggestively. “I promise an evening to remember.”
Miss Leckie gave Conan Doyle’s bicep an importuning squeeze, but he demurred, saying, “Thank you, but I must humbly decline. I need to ensure that the young lady returns home safely to her parents before the fog maroons us all.”
“Ah, I see. Pity.” The prince suddenly seemed to notice an absence and said, “But where is your friend, Mister Wilde? I wanted to congratulate him on the play. Funny stuff—what we saw of it. Where has the fellow got to?”
The Dead Assassin Page 9