‘This is not Oscar’s,’ she stated firmly. ‘It is Irish, of that I am quite sure. The women of the Aran Isles knit jerseys and mufflers in these patterns, each one unique to a particular clan or family. This one has been used often. See, here, where the yarn is nearly worn through?’ She pointed to the flaw in the scarf.
‘But it is of Irish manufacture,’ Mr Dodgson repeated.
‘The design certainly is Irish,’ Mrs Wilde reiterated. ‘Whether the wearer is Irish is, of course, another matter. It does not belong to my husband. Of that I am quite, quite sure.’
Mr Dodgson nodded several times. ‘It is a pity that you cannot tell me where you husband is,’ he said. ‘It would help convince the policeman in charge that he had nothing to do with the death of Mr Basset if he could produce a viable alibi.’
‘Death?’ Mrs Wilde gasped. ‘You said Mr Basset was attacked.’
‘He was,’ Dr Doyle explained. ‘But the cause of death was not the blow to the head, but a stab in the back. That would indicate some other person, with a great deal of animus against Mr Basset, thrust a knife into him before this mysterious Irishman hit him on the head. Unfortunately, the police inspector on the case seemed quite determined to bring Mr Oscar Wilde in, and we are just as determined that he should not.’
Mrs Wilde frowned. ‘Oscar sometimes meets Mr Whistler for tea,’ she said slowly. ‘Sometimes at his studio, and sometimes at the Café Royal.’
Mr Dodgson stood up, shook out his coat, and adjusted his hat. ‘The Café Royal,’ he repeated. ‘I shall have to find it.’
‘There is a cab stand near the Royal Hospital at the end of the street,’ Mrs Wilde said helpfully. ‘One of the cabbies will be able to assist you. And if you find Oscar, do send him home,’ she added wistfully.
‘We most assuredly shall remind him of his familial responsibilities,’ Mr Dodgson told her. He turned to Miss Harvey. ‘You, too, must get yourself home, my dear. This is no night for a young woman to be abroad.’
Miss Harvey nodded. ‘I wish you luck in your search, sir.’
Dr Doyle once again donned the plaid greatcoat and adjusted the deerstalker hat, with an inward sigh and a wistful look at the platter of bread and butter.
‘Shall we walk with you, Miss Harvey?’ Mr Dodgson offered.
‘I live only around the corner,’ Miss Harvey demurred. ‘And you must find a cab, and get to Mr Wilde before that dreadful policeman does. Think of poor Constance … Mrs Wilde, that is … if Mr Wilde should be taken into custody.’
‘Nonsense,’ Dr Doyle protested. ‘We can’t possibly allow a lady to walk out unescorted on a night like this, especially with mobs out in force. Miss Harvey, you must allow us to see you safely to your door.’
‘If you insist on it,’ Miss Harvey said. ‘But you must not come in. My mother can be somewhat … tedious,’ she said with a small smile. ‘If she sees me escorted by two gentlemen, she may decide that one or both of you should make me an offer.’
Dr Doyle chuckled. ‘That would be difficult, since I am already married, and Mr Dodgson is not in the running.’
The three of them manoeuvered down the steps and back to the broad expanse of the Royal Hospital Road. A lone cab and horse plodded down the road on its way back to the shelter of a warm stable.
Mr Dodgson hailed the cab and thrust Miss Harvey and Dr Doyle into it before the cabby could protest.
‘We shall go to’ – Mr Dodgson turned to Miss Harvey, who gave the required directions – ‘and from there to the Café Royal.’
Dr Doyle frowned. ‘If that mob in Fleet Street is any indication of what’s afoot,’ he said, ‘MacRae may have other fish to fry tonight. The death of one editor, no matter how evil, may be as nothing if those workmen decide to take matters into their own hands.’
‘In that case,’ Mr Dodgson said, ‘once we have discharged our duty to Mr Wilde, I will treat you to dinner, Dr Doyle. I owe you at least that much for bringing you to London under false pretences.’
CHAPTER 8
The snow was still falling gently as Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle let Miss Harvey out in front of one of the brick row houses that lined Holbein Gardens.
‘Thank you for taking me up,’ Miss Harvey said, eyeing the large front windows, where a form could be seen hovering behind the lace curtains eagerly observing the cab.
‘It was nothing more than common courtesy,’ Mr Dodgson told her. ‘Give my regards to your mother and explain that you were well-protected all evening.’
Miss Harvey scurried up the steps, while the two men turned to more important matters.
Dr Doyle called up to the cabby, ‘Do you know the Café Royal?’
‘In Regent Street? Aye, that I do.’ The cabby seemed to snigger unpleasantly as he clicked his tongue at his horse.
‘Take us there,’ Mr Dodgson ordered.
The cabby made a noise that could have been a cough or a laugh, and Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle settled back into the growler as it bumped and slid along the snow-covered streets.
Mr Dodgson muttered to himself, ‘This makes no sense. No sense at all.’
‘Why do you say that, sir?’ Dr Doyle asked.
‘Why should anyone wish to dispose of Mr Samuel Basset?’ The question was not rhetorical. Mr Dodgson really wanted to know.
‘He wasn’t very pleasant,’ Dr Doyle said.
‘He was not. He was rude to his subordinates; he stole ideas from his staff and published the results under his own name; he sold books that were defective and meant for those who could not afford better copies. None of these defects of character were dire enough to lead someone to kill him.’
‘As to that, Mr Dodgson, we cannot be certain,’ Dr Doyle protested. ‘You and I have seen the extreme measures that have been taken by persons in the grip of some obsession.’
Mr Dodgson nodded. ‘Quite true. Obviously, Mr Basset had offended someone so grievously that the person felt driven to murder. We must discover more about him. We cannot proceed without facts.’
Mr Dodgson huddled himself into his overcoat, while Dr Doyle peered out the window of the cab at the passing scene, or as much of it as he could see between the smears of dirt on the window and the swirling snow in the streets. He wondered if they could get something to eat at the Café Royal. It was well past teatime, and while Mrs Wilde’s bread and butter stayed the pangs of hunger for an hour, he looked forward to something more substantial.
The growler slogged on, as the horse picked its way from King’s Road to Sloane Street, around Hyde Park, and through the exclusive areas of London used by the aristocracy as their particular domain. Here the streets were kept free of snow by crossing sweepers plying their brooms vigorously in hopes of a penny or two doled out by the servants in the elegant establishments that lined the streets of Mayfair and Belgravia.
The cab went on, around Grosvenor Place and on to the broad avenue known as Piccadilly. Here they met with traffic headed in the opposite direction: private carriages and cabs rather than omnibuses and drays. The cab lurched eastward until it reached the great cross-roads marked by the statue of Eros, where the slow march came to a dead halt.
Mr Dodgson stopped muttering to himself and came back to reality. ‘Cabby,’ he called, banging on the roof of the growler, ‘why are we stopping?’
‘Seems to be quite a crowd in the road,’ the cabby reported.
Dr Doyle opened the door of the cab and peered through the snow. Just as the cabby had said, the street was filled with people, somewhat better dressed than those in Fleet Street, but just as angry.
‘Apparently, the evening papers have been distributed,’ Dr Doyle told his mentor. ‘I do not think these people liked what they read.’
From the noise of angry voices raised in protest, that seemed to be an understatement. Shop assistants, waiters from restaurants and taverns, and loungers of various sexes and degrees of gentility were merging with the printers and workers from Fleet Street and the Strand until the whole road was filled with p
eople. Well-dressed ladies and gentlemen found themselves jostled by the mob as they tried to get into their hotels and restaurants. Horses reared and plunged, as daring men and boys grabbed at the reins and banged on the sides of the carriages.
A speaker had mounted another soapbox under the statue of Eros: a brawny individual with a broad Scots accent, who echoed the words of Hyndman as he exhorted the crowd around him. ‘Brothers in labour! It is time to rise up and take what is rightfully ours, earned by the sweat of our brows and the sinews of our arms!’
‘Go to it, John Burns!’ yelled someone in the crowd.
‘Give ’em what for!’
‘This will never do,’ Mr Dodgson fretted, as the cab was rocked by one of the rioters.
‘Where are the police when one needs them?’ Dr Doyle scanned the crowd ahead of them.
‘More importantly, how far are we from the Café Royal?’ Mr Dodgson called up to the cabby.
‘It’s down Regent Street aways, but I can’t speak for your safety if you leave this here cab,’ the cabby warned them.
‘I can’t guarantee that an innocent man will not go to jail if I don’t,’ Mr Dodgson retorted. He handed the cabby his fare and left the haven of the cab, pushing through the crowd to the pavement, while Dr Doyle fended off possible attack from behind.
If anything, the crowd in Piccadilly was more volatile and diverse than the marchers in Fleet Street. Not only were there workingmen and food vendors, but a number of villainous-looking characters had joined the throng, looking for trouble and finding quite a bit of it. Small children whose sex was disguised by dirt and rags were running about in the street, picking up whatever scraps of food had been dropped. Gaudily dressed young women and men sauntered along the edges of the crowd on the theory that any large group of people would generate some business.
The falling snow was soon trampled into a thick mush as the crowd surged around Piccadilly Circus, across the Haymarket and lower Regent Street and into Trafalgar Square, where they joined the mob that had already come through the Strand. John Burns carried his soapbox as he marched along, ready to add his voice to Hyndman’s in their quest for social justice.
Mr Dodgson looked wildly about him as he was pushed this way and that by the crowd. Dr Doyle grabbed the nearest passerby, a young man in ragged trousers and oversized patched jacket, with a packet of newspapers under his arm.
‘Here, laddie!’ Dr Doyle’s Scottish burr became more distinct. ‘Can ye direct us to the Café Royal?’
The newsboy eyed the pair and whistled between his teeth, ‘Never would’ve took yer fer that lot, guv’nor!’
Dr Doyle felt vaguely offended. He was beginning to suspect there was something unsavoury about the Café Royal, something that would make it an unsuitable place for Mr Dodgson to be seen in. The mere mention of the name had caused an unseemly reaction earlier, and the gentlemen at Punch had clearly felt it would not be a good idea to send Mr Dodgson there (for they must have known it was Mr Wilde’s favourite haunt). Dr Doyle followed Mr Dodgson and the newsboy around the corner to Regent Street, where the boy indicated a large and imposing structure, lit up by electric lights.
‘Over there, guv’nor,’ the boy said, pointing across the street and pocketing the coin Dr Doyle offered him.
‘Too much traffic to risk crossing the road?’ Dr Doyle hinted.
The boy shook his head. ‘You don’t catch me in there, guv’nor. I got me reputation to consider!’ He waved cheerfully and dived back into the crowd, bawling out, ‘Getcher Standard! Latest news!’
The Café Royal fairly dominated Regent Street, one of Nash’s more elaborate additions to the London scene during the Napoleonic era. There was no subterfuge about the Café Royal. It stood out, well lit and elaborately decorated, with a muscular door-man on hand to turn the revolving door that welcomed the traveller into the lobby.
Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle were duly swept up by the doorman and deposited in the aforesaid lobby, where Mr Dodgson blinked in the glare of the electric lights, and Dr Doyle took in the full grandeur of the scene. Ladies in elaborate gowns, blazing with jewels, ascended the grand staircase that led to the private rooms, accompanied by escorts in full evening dress or brilliant dress uniforms of the armed services. Young boys in tightly buttoned page boy uniforms trotted up and down the stairs with messages or orders. Only the waiters were missing; their services were rendered almost invisibly, through a network of stairs in the back of the building.
‘Where is Mr Wilde?’ Mr Dodgson asked aloud, regarding the three doors that led to the public rooms on the ground floor. One appeared to lead to the reception room, where a young woman in a modest black dress cared for coats, capes, and other outdoor wraps. One led to a small, dark bar. The third door led to a public dining-room, from which the sounds of laughter seemed to echo and re-echo.
‘May I be of assistance?’ An imposing figure in the full-dress garb of a headwaiter approached them.
‘We are looking for Mr Oscar Wilde,’ Mr Dodgson said. Once more he produced his card. ‘I was told he dines here frequently. Is he here now?’
‘Mr Wilde is one of our noted patrons,’ the maître d’hôtel admitted reluctantly. ‘I will see if he is here at present.’ He left the two men to observe the passing scene, while he removed himself to the inner recesses of the dining-room.
Dr Doyle sniffed the air hungrily. Perhaps, after they finished their business with Wilde, he and Mr Dodgson could sample the cuisine.
A pair of young men in loud checked suits pushed by the two, happily entering the sacred hall without hindrance.
‘Do you think we might just go in?’ Dr Doyle suggested. ‘It is, after all, a public restaurant.’
‘I would not like to give the impression that we were planning to dine here,’ Mr Dodgson objected. ‘And our message to Mr Wilde is of a personal nature.’
‘Dining here might not be so bad an idea,’ Dr Doyle said.
‘I prefer the Holborn,’ Mr Dodgson said firmly. ‘I had not thought to be in London at all tonight. I am supposed to dine in Hall. All this rushing about, looking for Mr Wilde…’
‘Did I hear my name mentioned?’ The ubiquitous Irishman poked his head out from behind the glass partition. ‘Mr Dodgson? It really is you! I thought that card was some sort of prank. Whatever are you doing in London?’
‘I came to introduce my friend Dr Doyle to Mr Samuel Basset,’ Mr Dodgson explained. ‘In fact, we were in the office of Youth’s Companion when you made your dramatic departure.’
‘Dramatic indeed!’ Wilde laughed heartily. ‘Come, Mr Dodgson, you must sit down and have a drink.’
Wilde led the two of them to a table at the furthest end of the room, where several young men were sitting, smoking cigarettes, and drinking various beverages, none of which was tea. Mr Dodgson sat down on the edge of the chair that was offered to him, while Dr Doyle took a better look at his surroundings.
The Café Royal had been designed for luxury. The restaurant was lavishly decorated in burgundy and white, with a painted ceiling that might rival that of the Palace of Versailles. Round tables were placed around the floor, while banquettes against the walls provided some measure of privacy for those parties that had decided to use the public rather than the private rooms. Wilde’s coterie occupied one whole corner of the room and made enough noise to equal the rest.
The clientele of the Café Royal’s public restaurant seemed to be exclusively male, consisting of older men in dress suits and younger ones in dinner jackets or sack suits. Dr Doyle sniffed the air, then frowned. Over the aromas of good food was the odour of patchouli. Could it be, he wondered, that the men in this room were using scent?
His eyes narrowed as he observed the patrons of the Café Royal. The gentleman with the silvery hair was positively stroking the hand of his young companion, who was gazing soulfully into the older man’s eyes. Two younger men in sack suits in a corner banquette were holding hands, while the male couple next to them seemed to be having some
sort of polite argument. The only women he could see were two ladies in severely tailored dark dresses bending over their plates at one of the tables in the middle of the room.
It suddenly came to Dr Doyle what sort of place he and his scholarly friend had stumbled into. He had heard about such things from the sailors on his two sea voyages, but it had never occurred to him to explore them while he was away from the constraints of English society; and as a happily married man, he was not about to start now. What sort of man, Dr Doyle asked himself, would desert a charming young wife to enjoy the dubious charms of these young men, with their side-long glances and twisted smiles? Would he be able to smash a man down with a blow simply because he had been refused a position?
The subject of these ruminations had made a place at the table for Mr Dodgson by jocularly ousting the young man with the dark curls and intense black eyes who had previously held the seat.
‘Ern, be off with you,’ Wilde said, tapping the young man on the shoulder. ‘I’ll have you know this is a true gentleman and a scholar, although what he is doing here I cannot tell you. Waiter, a glass of something for Mr Dodgson. What can I offer you, sir. Champagne?’
‘Considering that you have no employment at the moment, since you did not get the position at Youth’s Companion,’ Mr Dodgson said stiffly, ‘and that your wife is waiting dinner for you and is quite anxious about your whereabouts, I shall not impose upon your time or your resources. I only came to warn you that a policeman is coming with a warrant to arrest you on a charge of assault and battery. Possibly even murder.’
The result of this melodramatic announcement was a thunderous peal of laughter from Wilde and a round of tittering from his companions.
‘Arrest me for what? Who am I supposed to have assaulted and battered?’ Wilde asked when he had recovered from his laughing fit.
Mr Dodgson’s testiness brought out his stammer. ‘Mr Samuel B-Basset was struck d-down in front of his very offices in Fleet Street this afternoon,’ he declared. ‘A man of your description was seen arguing with him and striking him down. The man then ran away down the Strand.’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 8