Mrs. Farnsworth's theatrical dress was no doubt explained by the fact that she was a retired actress. Quite recently retired, it seemed, from the collection of colorful playbills Kate had remarked in the hallway. Two of George Bernard Shaw's were prominently featured, Widowers' Houses and Arms and the Man, and Shakespeare's As You Like It, which had apparently enjoyed a long run at the St. James. Mrs. Farnsworth had recently changed her name, it seemed: on the playbills, she appeared as Florence Faber. Kate couldn't help but think she must have made a fetching Rosalind.
Like the lady, Mrs. Farnsworth's parlor was dramatically decorated. The plum-colored walls were hung with Oriental-style draperies and ivory fans; sculptures of Egyptian deities stood on painted columns in the corners; and hieroglyphic paintings-copied in the British Museum, Aunt Sabrina confided in a whisper, by Mrs. Farnsworth herself-occupied prominent places in the dimly lighted room. The Oriental carpets that overspread the floor were of rich blues and purples, although they were worn, as were the furnishings. It was the room of someone who had a more exotic taste than ready money.
But the room was quite small, and its decor was hardly visible in the crush of people. Aunt Sabrina made her way through the crowd, murmuring greetings here and there, Kate a step behind. They paused on the outskirts of a group gathered in front of the fireplace. Dominating the group was Oscar Wilde, a tall man, several inches over six feet and portly. His dark brown hair fell nearly to his shoulders and his lips were full and finely chiseled in a face that spoke of dissipation. He was elegantly dressed in a lavender tailed coat, flowered waistcoat, and white silk cravat, loosely tied. Listening, Kate thought that his sentences, although they were clearly extemporaneous, seemed as perfectly composed as if he had constructed them in writing and delivered them from memory.
The conversation was not about some mystical topic, but on the subject of America. "Of course," Mr. Wilde said, drawling out the words with wry humor, "if one had enough money to go to America, one would not go." With languid grace, he tapped his cigarette into the fireplace behind him.
"I fear you are right, Wilde," said the tweedy, heavyset gentleman beside him. He adjusted his polka-dot tie with one massive, beringed hand. "I will be launching an American tour in a few days, but I must say I am still smarting over what happened with my Study in Scarlet. Virtually purloined by Lippincott."
Kate looked at the man, surprised. He must be Conan Doyle! How odd. In her imagination, the author had resembled his character-lean and gaunt, with piercing eyes and a hawklike beak of a nose. But Mr. Doyle was clearly fond of his table. He was stout and hearty, with the thick hands and the wide, flat nose of a boxer. He had the appearance of a man who had never read a book in his life and had not noticed the absence.
"Ah, yes," Wilde said lazily, leaning one elbow against the green marble mantel and pulling at his jowl with his fingers. "Until quite recently, American publishers took what
they liked without the annoyance of parting with their money." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Americans. Always in hot pursuit of the next moment, as if they were catching a train. It is a state of affairs not favorable to poetry."
"Perhaps," Kate said quietly, "Americans do not require poetry to accompany their affairs."
All eyes shifted to her. The corner of Doyle's mouth quirked. Another man-intense and dark-haired, with fine-cut intellectual features under heavy brows-smothered a laugh and ended by breaking into a violent cough that shook his double pince-nez from his nose.
Wilde cocked one eyebrow, scantily amused. "Quite good, quite, quite good, my dear lady," he drawled. He paused, letting die silence lengthen while Kate felt her cheeks redden. "An American, I presume." He turned to the dark-haired young man. "One can always distinguish American women by their exquisitely incoherent speech, Willie. Like exploding crackers. One is reminded of Sheridan, in The Rivals. They are as 'headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile.' "
The young man with die pince-nez spoke up. "I hardly think the lady's remark was incoherent, Oscar. In fact, I rather imagine she bested you." His voice held more than a hint of the Irish. His soft gray tie was inexpertly and crookedly tied, and he wore a small cluster of feathers in his lapel. Kate's eyes widened slightly when she saw them-blue feathers, bright blue, iridescent blue-and she realized that they were very like the feather she had found in the carriage. The young man smiled at Kate. "Well done, Miss…"
"Gentlemen," Aunt Sabrina said, "may I present my niece, Miss Kathryn Ardleigh. Mr. Wilde, Mr. Doyle, and Mr. Yeats. As you have guessed, gentlemen, Miss Ardleigh is an American by birth-"
"But Irish by nature, I perceive, as well as by name and appearance," Wilde interrupted elegantly. He took Kate's hand and bowed over it with an extravagant flourish. "My friend Willie Yeats is quite right, Miss Ardleigh. You have bested me. But I confess it willingly, for besting Oscar Wilde is allowed only to that exquisite divinity who boggles him with her beauty."
"Then I fear you are easily boggled, Mr. Wilde," Kate said, retrieving her hand. Her eyes fastened on Willie Yeats's blue feathers. "And therefore easily bested."
Wilde's eyebrows went up. Yeats chuckled dryly, and Kate realized that he must be the man for whom she was copying the cipher transcript. She would somehow have to pursue the matter of Yeats's feathers. But she was momentarily sidetracked by Conan Doyle's remark about A Study in Scarlet.
' 'Is it true about the copyright of your work, Mr. Doyle?'' she asked, turning to him. "It was stolen?"
"Yes," Doyle allowed, "it was. Though to be fair, the theft was rather made up by what Lippincott paid me to write The Sign of Four." He coughed. "Don't know that the offer would've been quite so handsome if American readers hadn't already gotten onto Scarlet."
"You certainly have many American readers," Kate said, thinking to turn the conversation toward the question she wanted to ask. "They have banded into Let's Keep Holmes Alive clubs to protest the unfortunate demise of your famous detective."
Doyle thrust his hands in his pockets. "Chap's dead," he said. "Let him rest."
"But why?" Kate persisted. "If one of my characters were to win such a fervent following, I do not believe I would dare to-"
Doyle's half smile was patronizing. "My dear young lady, I doubt you can understand the situation, not being an author."
"But I-" Kate checked herself on the brink of betraying Beryl Bardwell. "Perhaps you are right."
"The truth is that I am no longer interested in detective stories," Doyle remarked with a self-important air. "My aim is to write serious books. Micah Clarke is one such effort. Have you read it?"
"I must confess that I have not," Kate said.
"An admirable work, my dear Doyle," Wilde put in lazily, "if somewhat wearying. Still, one rather does enjoy robust adventure-when someone else does the adventuring."
"Holmes gets in the way of my other writing, y'see,"
Doyle said to Kate, ignoring Wilde. "And my psychic research, which is most interesting to me." He looked around. "Which of course is why I am here."
"Ghost-hunting," Yeats said with some scorn.
"My dear man," Doyle replied, raising his chin, "that is not an attribute one applies to the Society for Psychical Research."