The Dead Assassin

by Vaughn Entwistle

  “The evening began as an indulgence and quickly devolved into a rescue,” Wilde explained as he flung open the carriage door and loaded the children inside. “Quickly, Gibson, fetch a blanket to wrap these babes before they catch their death.”

  “Are we going back to your club, sir?”

  “No,” the Irishman said, hauling himself inside the carriage and collapsing onto the seat cushion. “We must find an orphanage to provide a safe haven for these waifs, and then I want to go home. To Tite Street. I have been a neglectful father of late and wish only to reside in the bosom of my family. After this evening I am done forever with drinking and carousing.”

  The children were bundled under a pile of blankets and promptly fell asleep. Soon the carriage was rattling back up the drive, away from the house. As the Irishman looked out the window, a pack of something with sharp claws and razor teeth gazed back from the darkness with luminous eyes. He suppressed a shudder and slipped a hip flask from his pocket.

  Well, perhaps just the carousing for now, Wilde thought to himself as he quaffed a mouthful of brandy.

  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.

  13/13

  The Revolution is Upon Us.

  Join the struggle for workers’ rights

  Meeting: St. Winifred’s

  Friday, Dusk

  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.”

  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.