‘Oscar?’ Furniss looked at Tenniel in astonishment. ‘Being wanted by the police?’
‘Someone thinks he may have been the one who struck Mr Basset,’ Dr Doyle explained. ‘We wanted to find him to warn him. If he can provide a suitable alibi, there will be no arrest.’
‘Well, you can find him at …’
‘Here’s his house direction,’ du Maurier burst in, drowning out his rotund colleague. ‘I have written a short note of introduction to Mrs Wilde, explaining who you are and what your errand is. I sincerely hope you find Oscar and keep him out of the hands of the police. He makes very good copy, and it would be a pity to lose him.’
Mr Dodgson stood, bowed to the assemblage, collected the scarf and his gloves and hat, and beckoned Dr Doyle to follow him. Tenniel escorted the two men to the landing.
‘See here, Dodgson,’ he said, ‘I don’t understand why you have to mix yourself up in this matter. Let the police do their work and leave the detecting to them. You have no responsibility to Sam Basset.…’
‘Oh, but I do,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Mr Basset spoke to us as he lay dying. I cannot rest until I have understood what it was he was trying to say.’
‘In that case, do it indoors. If, as Furniss says, it is snowing, you must find yourself a warm spot for the night. Ask your young medical friend if I am not right.’ Tenniel pulled at his moustache, shook Mr Dodgson’s hand, and let the hall porter lead the way to the exit.
Dr Doyle smiled wryly as Mr Dodgson made his way down the stairs. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Tenniel. Your illustrations have given me both pleasure and enlightenment. As for Mr Dodgson’ – he glanced down the stairs, where Mr Dodgson waited for him – ‘you have worked with him yourself, sir. He can be a most determined man.’
Tenniel nodded and returned to the dining-room. He and du Maurier turned on Furniss with ferocity.
‘What were you thinking of, man? Were you actually going to send that sweet old gentleman over to the Café Royal?’ du Maurier asked, aghast.
‘But that’s where Wilde holds court,’ Furniss protested. ‘You’ve sent him off to Chelsea on a wild-goose chase.’
‘Not necessarily,’ du Maurier said. ‘If the snow is as bad as you say and there are rioters out in force, Oscar just might decide to grace his family fireside with his presence. As for the Café Royal, if Dodgson were to go there he might suffer a fatal seizure, and then you’d have the death of a beloved figure on your conscience.’
‘Humph!’ Tenniel snorted. ‘Beloved figure indeed! That cantankerous old don was very nearly the death of me. I have no idea why, after working with him once, I ever was persuaded to do so again. Furniss, if you will take my advice, get out of that contract if you can. The man will drive you mad.’
Harry Furniss smiled. ‘I wanted the fame of having worked with the great Lewis Carroll and survived with both wits and wallet intact,’ he said. ‘Now, Tenniel, what are you going to do about the big cut? With all the doings on the streets, perhaps you should do a take on Dickens…. You know, have a labourer, and a farmer, and a miner holding out their begging bowls, asking the Lord Mayor and Parliament for “more”.’
Tenniel pulled at his moustache. ‘Certainly not,’ he declared. ‘Hyndman and his lot are leading the way to perdition. This week’s cartoon will depict the dangers of such a path: anarchy, death, and the ruination of the British economy.’ He led the way into the dining-room, where a good dinner awaited him.
Outside the snow continued to fall, while the crowd grew louder and Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle pursued their quest for the elusive Mr Wilde.
CHAPTER 7
Once more Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle made their way through the crowd on Fleet Street, pushing their way through the crush of eager reporters, disgruntled labourers, and assorted stray vagabonds who had been drawn to the scene in hopes of finding excitement or warmth or a pocket to pick. The leather aprons and paper hats of the printers had been augmented by knitted jerseys and caps of the rough characters who had straggled up the hill from the piers below London Bridge. Billingsgate fishwives added their shrill voices to the hubbub. A number of highly painted women, underdressed for the intense cold, had also joined the mob in hopes of distracting some of the participants from their avowed purpose of teaching the upper classes a lesson.
A few bobbies watched the crowd warily. So far there seemed to be more words than missiles flying about, but sounds of battle from the direction of the Strand ignited the crowd on Fleet Street. They surged forward, carrying any odd passersby with them, including Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle.
The two struggled to the edges of the crowd, somewhere near the ancient buildings of the Temple. Members of the legal profession and their hangers-on were now added to the throng: attorneys in sack suits, some barristers, still wearing their wigs, and even a judge or two. Most of the men were wrapped in cloaks or greatcoats, and all were loud in their condemnation of the approaching mob.
The meeting of the two groups was not harmonious. The navvies brandished their tools. The clerks took refuge in shrill accusations and defiance. One of the younger, more giddy, clerks went so far as to heave a snowball into the middle of the mob, causing loud yells and a barrage of missiles, some of which were not snowballs.
‘This won’t do,’ Mr Dodgson fussed. ‘I thought we could find a growler, but Furniss was right. Between that mob and the snow, there is not a cab to be had. What shall we do? Mr Wilde lives in Tite Street, in Chelsea, according to the direction given me by Mr du Maurier. I have visited the district in the past. It is quite a distance away, past Sloane Square, as I recall. We must get to him quickly before that policeman can find him!’
‘I should think Mr Wilde might relish being arrested,’ Dr Doyle said with a grin. ‘It would certainly attract notice, if that is what he is after.’
‘Very likely,’ Mr Dodgson replied, ‘but a murder charge is no laughing matter, Dr Doyle, and it is far easier to be arrested for a crime than to be exonerated. Where are we?’ He peered around through the falling snow.
‘Near the Temple, I believe.’ Dr Doyle looked about him. Where the Strand met Fleet Street, the mob milled about, as if looking for a direction in which to proceed. The falling snow nearly obscured the ancient walls of St Mary’s in the Strand, sitting in the middle of the road like an island in the stream of traffic. Omnibuses threw up sprays of muddy slush, drenching the trouser legs of passersby. Horses added their protests to those of the rioters.
Those who preferred to remain aloof from the fray turned towards the river and the newly constructed embankment that was supposed to hold back the floodwaters of the Thames.
‘There’s the Underground,’ Dr Doyle announced, pointing to a flickering light at the end of Arundel Street. ‘Doesn’t the new line go to Sloane Square?’
‘I believe it does, but …’ Mr Dodgson held back, but Dr Doyle was more enthusiastic about the new mode of transportation. He led Mr Dodgson down to the Embankment, eager for a new treat, while the elderly don fumbled in his pockets for coins.
‘I don’t believe I have ever ridden the Underground,’ Mr Dodgson said, allowing himself to be led onward by his energetic young companion.
‘Now is as good a time as any,’ Dr Doyle told him. ‘It’s supposed to be one of the marvels of the age. A steam train, running on a regular schedule, under the streets. And I understand that there is a scheme afoot to electrify the rails so that the smoke and soot are totally eliminated.’
They crossed the road and entered the station, allowing themselves to be carried onward with the rest of the passengers. A stout man pointed to a booth where they purchased tickets, then they continued down into the very bowels of the earth to the platforms.
The two men descended the stairs to find themselves in the crowd of office workers returning to their homes in the far reaches of Chelsea, Kensington, and Bayswater. The uniformed conductor checked their tickets as they joined the throng.
Mr Dodgson seemed to shrink into h
imself as he realized there were no first- or second-class passengers. This was, indeed, mass transport: cheap, reliable, but not particularly clean. The arrival of the train was heralded by a blast of sound and soot.
Along with the rest of the riders, Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle were pressed into the carriage. Dr Doyle managed to find an empty seat, in which he graciously installed his mentor. With a lurch and another blast of sound, the train moved forward, jerking a young woman into Dr Doyle’s arms.
‘Miss Harvey!’ Dr Doyle recognized the young woman. ‘I thought you had already gone home.’
‘Mr Roberts took me to tea,’ Miss Harvey explained. ‘He wished me to sit for him.’
‘Indeed?’ Dr Doyle tried to retain his dignity, which was difficult when being jolted back and forth by the action of the train.
‘I was somewhat surprised,’ Miss Harvey went on. ‘I have never considered myself a beauty or worthy of being painted. However, Mr Roberts said that he thought I have an interesting face, and that he wished to use me as a model.’
‘And what did you tell him?’ Dr Doyle asked.
‘I said I would have to consult my mother,’ Miss Harvey replied, trying to keep her footing as the train jolted its way westward. ‘Mr Roberts is quite intense, even for an artist. He was most insistent that I pose as Queen Mab.’ Another jolt nearly sent her into Mr Dodgson’s lap.
‘Do take my seat.’ Mr Dodgson attempted to rise. Miss Harvey smiled but shook her head.
‘It is only a few stops, and I am really quite capable of standing for a few more minutes.’
The train lurched again. Conversation was impossible as the whistle shrieked, announcing the next stop.
Miss Harvey waited until the train started again before resuming the conversation. ‘I thought I saw some disturbance in the street,’ she said. ‘There are a number of roughs out tonight.’
‘There are indeed,’ Dr Doyle told her. ‘I must say, Miss Harvey, this is no night for a young lady to be abroad. Between the snow and the riot …’
‘Riot? Is it really so bad? Mother will be most distressed.’ Miss Harvey’s face clouded over. ‘She can be quite difficult, you see, and since Father died, she has been quite dependent on me for support. He left very little. That is why I placed the advertisement in the newspapers to offer to type manuscripts. It was very kind of Mr Levin to allow me to do my work at home instead of at his office.’
‘Mr Basset may have had something to say about that,’ Dr Doyle said. ‘I wish you well in your endeavours, Miss Harvey. Here is our stop.’
‘And mine,’ she said, as she followed them on to the platform and presented her ticket to be punched. ‘Mother and I have lodgings off the King’s Road.’
‘Then you know this area?’ Mr Dodgson asked.
‘We have lived here since I was a child,’ Miss Harvey said with a sad smile. ‘My father was once much in demand as an art critic and consultant in the design of buildings. Mr Wilde once said …’
‘Was your father an architect?’ Mr Dodgson asked sharply, trying to place Miss Harvey in the social scheme of things.
‘He was consulted,’ Miss Harvey corrected him. ‘Unfortunately, my poor father was not in good health in recent years, and when he died, his friends were not as forthcoming as they might have been. I do not like taking charity, gentlemen, and typewriting is as good a way as any to provide a few small comforts for my mother.’
By now they had left the Sloane Square station and were proceeding westward along the King’s Road, a well-paved, well-lit thoroughfare, lined with shops and eating places. The shutters had already been put up, closing off the glass windows of the shops from thieves, but the pubs and taverns were full of eager diners and gesticulating debaters.
Miss Harvey led them along the byways of Chelsea. The snow was settling on the railings of the houses, making little caps on the fire-plugs that interspersed the streets. There was no echo in this corner of London of the mobs that were gathering in Trafalgar Square. Here were tidy little streets, with neat rows of houses, tucked behind the shops of King’s Road or across from the bulk of the Chelsea Hospital.
Mr Dodgson frowned as he tried to understand Miss Harvey’s social status. ‘Are you acquainted with Mr Oscar Wilde?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ Miss Harvey demurred. ‘But my mother has left cards with Mrs Wilde, and Mrs Wilde kindly came to call on her. Of course, Mrs Wilde is presently’ – Miss Harvey paused, trying to find the right words – ‘Mrs Wilde is not in a condition to receive visitors at the present time.’
‘Eh? Is the woman ill?’ Mr Dodgson asked. ‘I would not like to bother her if she is …’
Dr Doyle smothered a laugh under his moustache, as he recognized the current euphemism. ‘Not ill, sir, but expectant.’
‘Of what?’ The older man was still befuddled.
‘Of a new arrival,’ Dr Doyle said. ‘Which explains why Mr Wilde is so eager for a position. If he is to be a father, he must be able to provide for his growing family.’
‘I see,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Dear me. That would make it even more imperative that we clear his name.’
‘Mr Wilde? What has he done?’ Miss Harvey asked.
‘He may have assaulted Mr Samuel Basset,’ Mr Dodgson told her.
‘Oh no!’ Miss Harvey gasped. ‘I cannot believe that! Why, he is such a charming man and so very gallant towards his wife!’
‘I only hope he is gallant enough to come home in a snowstorm,’ Dr Doyle said. ‘Miss Harvey, you have been very kind, but you should be returning to your own lodgings. Your mother will be expecting you….’
‘I will accompany you to Tite Street,’ Miss Harvey insisted. ‘You will never find it otherwise. And then I will go home to Mother.’ The thought did not seem to cheer her.
Miss Harvey led the way around Burton’s Court, down Smith Street, around Tedworth Square, and into Tite Street, a prosaic street with a row of small brick houses, each with its railing, each with its covered set of steps leading up to the front door. It was at one of these modest dwellings that she knocked, while Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle waited impatiently on the stairs.
The door was opened by a young woman dressed in the so-called ‘Aesthetic’ style of high-waisted, long-sleeved dress, without the tight-boned waist or bustle demanded by fashion.
‘Good evening, Mrs Wilde,’ Miss Harvey greeted her
‘Miss Harvey?’ Mrs Wilde looked through the snow towards the King’s Road. ‘Has Oscar come with you? He told me he was going to the city …’ Her voice trailed off as she saw the two men standing on the front steps.
‘My card, madam.’ Mr Dodgson passed it to her.
‘These gentlemen were looking for Mr Wilde, and I thought I had better come along to introduce them,’ Miss Harvey said.
‘Do come in then,’ Mrs Wilde said, peering at the card, as the two men and Miss Harvey stepped out of the snow and into the front hall.
‘We do not wish to inconvenience you,’ Mr Dodgson said diffidently, as Dr Doyle removed his plaid greatcoat and deerstalker hat.
‘Do come to the fire, gentlemen; you must be quite cold,’ Mrs Wilde said, leading the way into the sitting room. I am always at home to my neighbours, Miss Harvey, but I do not understand why you two gentlemen are here on such a dreadful night.’
‘Perhaps this note will explain.’ Mr Dodgson scrabbled in his pockets and produced the note from George du Maurier. He looked about the room, trying to gather his thoughts, while his hostess scanned the brief message. The sitting room had been painted white and decorated with examples of Mr Morris’s furniture. The ceiling had been embellished with white peacock feathers, which held Mr Dodgson’s interest for so long that Dr Doyle was almost ready to jump into the conversation.
‘As you see, madam, it is your husband we are seeking,’ Mr Dodgson said, as Mrs Wilde folded the note again and looked up with a puzzled expression.
‘Oscar?’ Mrs Wilde frowned. ‘He is not at home, although I expect him shortly. He o
ften is late to dinner, and if the snow outside is very deep, he may be very late.’
‘In that case, madam, have you any idea where he may be found? Is he at a particular club, for instance?’ Mr Dodgson persisted.
‘Please sit down, sir, and warm yourself.’ Mrs Wilde drew her unexpected guests closer to the fire, where a small table had been set with teapot, teacups, and a plate of bread and butter.
Dr Doyle’s stomach reminded him once again that he had had nothing to eat since the sandwich he had consumed on the train from Portsmouth. That had been nearly six hours ago. His mouth watered at the sight of the humble slabs.
Mrs Wilde seemed instinctively to recognize hunger. ‘Do sit down, gentlemen,’ she said, indicating the wooden chairs drawn up to the fireplace in a semicircle.
‘This is Dr Doyle,’ Mr Dodgson introduced his companion, who was trying hard not to ogle the platter with its slices of bread and butter.
‘Is Oscar ill?’ Mrs Wilde passed the platter to Dr Doyle, who restrained himself from grabbing the lot and merely took one slice.
‘I have no idea. I must find him before the police do.’ Mr Dodgson ignored the offering of bread and butter.
‘The police?’ Mrs Wilde was thoroughly alarmed. ‘It is not the bailiffs, is it? Because everyone will be paid as soon as Oscar finds employment. He went to Fleet Street this very day…’
‘Yes, ma’am, we know,’ Dr Doyle soothed her. ‘But Mr Samuel Basset did not employ your husband, and he was heard to threaten Mr Basset. Then, when Mr Basset was attacked …’
‘Mr Basset attacked!’ Mrs Wilde gasped.
‘In the street, outside the offices,’ Mr Dodgson told her. ‘And a large man, very like your husband, Mrs Wilde, was seen on the scene of the crime. He dropped this scarf.’
Mr Dodgson had picked up a slice of bread and butter and was absently munching on it. Now he pulled the woollen scarf from around his neck and passed it to their hostess.
She looked at the homely object carefully, passing it through her fingers and tracing the design.
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