“No…” Conan Doyle shakily admitted, “… not empty. But that is not the body of the man I saw hanged this day at Newgate.”
CHAPTER 20
AN ENCOUNTER IN A PORNOGRAPHIC BOOKSHOP
Wilde followed the marquess’s carriage across London until it turned onto the ironically named Holyfield Street. Given its many bookshops, those ignorant of the street’s reputation might mistake it for a place of learning. However, the readers who ventured inside these premises were mostly enthusiasts in search of a very different kind of literature. Wilde instructed his driver to follow the marquess’s carriage from a greater distance, so as to avoid detection.
Drawn by four African zebras, the yellow landau drew openmouthed stares from Londoners prowling the narrow pavement. It slowed to a halt at the curb, pausing only long enough to discharge the marquess, who ducked into the nearest bookshop before the landau rattled away.
Wilde rapped on the ceiling of his carriage and called up, “Here, Gibson.”
The carriage drew up. Wilde studied the shop sign: COOPER’S BOOKS. An unremarkable name, but enough to stir the vapors of recollection somewhere in the far back reaches; Wilde felt sure he’d visited before. He stepped down from his carriage, instructed Gibson to return in half an hour, and followed the marquess into the shop. As he stepped through the door, he suddenly recalled a previous visit and remembered precisely which type of books were for sale here.
Pornography.
The small shop was neatly arranged with low tables displaying volumes varying from the vaguely naughty to the cheerfully saucy to the throbbingly visceral. He could not restrain his eyes from wandering the covers. (Some illustrated books had even been propped open to display the quality and filthiness of their engravings.) A study of titles revealed tomes to suit the gamut of erotic tastes and sexual peccadilloes, including an inordinate number (such as Lady Bumtickler’s Revels) dedicated to the peculiarly English vice of flagellation. Wilde pried his eyes from the books with some difficulty and scanned the small space. Several well-dressed men browsed the tables, all studiously avoiding eye contact with one another. Mysteriously — although Wilde had watched him walk into the shop — the marquess was nowhere to be seen. He quickly surmised there must be another room where even stronger, perhaps illegal, reading matter was secreted.
Defending the shop counter was a muscular man with a regulation moustache and a martial bearing that suggested a former occupation in the military. Conspicuously positioned on the countertop close to his elbow was a stout wooden bat, presumably to discourage patrons who might mistake the business for a lending library. He noticed Wilde eyeing the other clientele and cleared his throat in a warning growl, scorching him with a hostile glare.
The Irishman instantly dropped his gaze and affected to be browsing. He snatched up a volume at random and flipped it open. Inside he found photographs of sun-bronzed youths striking poses in classical settings with Greek columns, their slender torsos loosely draped with togas that, despite yards of flowing material, somehow failed to conceal their virile nakedness. Heat flashed through Wilde’s veins. Suppressing a thrill, he set the book back on the table and wandered casually to the counter — as casually as one can wander to the counter in a pornographic bookstore — and instantly had the clerk’s full attention.
“Might I help you, sir?”
“A friend of mine recommended your shop.”
“Did he now, sir?”
“A young gentleman with the most exquisite mane of red hair. Perhaps you might recognize him?”
“I’m certain I wouldn’t. I don’t recognize none of the customers. It’s my job not to.”
“My friend said I might find something special here?”
“Did he indeed, sir?”
“Yes. You see I’m looking for something, how would one put it, out of the ordinary.”
“Not sure I follow you, sir.”
“My friend said this was the place.”
“Did he now, sir?”
“Yes. He said you specialize in unusual tastes.”
Wilde left the insinuation hanging in the air. The clerk met the Irishman’s gaze levelly, his face sphinxlike and inscrutable. For a fearful moment, Wilde suspected he was about to receive the unhappy end of a club in the face. But after a lengthy pause, the brusque clerk cleared his throat and answered enigmatically: “You might try that booth against the wall, sir.”
“Indeed? The booth? Thank you.”
Wilde sauntered over to the solitary wooden booth, swept aside a black curtain, and stepped inside. The booth was small and featureless: a cubbyhole containing nothing. He stepped to the back of the cubicle and drew aside a second curtain to discover a door.
Of course.
His hand grasped a brass knob tarnished from the grip of many sweaty palms. It turned without effort and the door sprang open.
He stepped through it into quite another realm.
He found himself in a dark and shadowy space of indeterminate size, sketchily lit by quivering gas jets turned down low: a bookshop-within-a-bookshop. Heady incense uncoiled in the air. Vaguely human shadows browsed the low tables. He picked up a book at random: Black Magic, Forbidden Knowledge. He set it down and gazed at other titles. Necromancy: The Art of Raising the Dead. As he reached for it, another hand also grasped the book and he found himself in a minor tug of war. Surprised, he looked up into the face of a depraved saint.
“And so is it true, Mister Wilde, you can resist everything except temptation?”
Rufus DeVayne stood before him. His face was long and thin with an aquiline nose and wicked cheekbones. Most notable was the hair, which affected the long, flowing ringlets of a civil war Cavalier. Although he was of slighter build, the two men were equal in height so that Wilde gazed directly into the marquess’s jade-green eyes, which were belladonically dilated.
Wilde’s stomach danced. His knees quivered.
“Could this be magic?” the marquess said in a high, breathy voice. “For years I have wished to meet the famous Oscar Wilde. And now you have materialized before me… in the flesh.”
Knocked momentarily off kilter, the world’s most famous wit quickly recovered his balance. “I have the honor of addressing the Marquess of Gravistock, do I not? My apologies for failing to greet you personally the other night. I’m afraid I was rather out of sorts.” He offered his hand. “Charmed.”
“I sincerely hope you shall be,” the younger man replied, taking it.
The marquess’s handshake was weightless and insubstantial, like clutching a handful of mist.
“You are clearly on a quest, Mister Wilde. Did you come to this bookstore seeking knowledge… or did you come here seeking me?”
Wilde turned up the mantle of his languorous charm. “Oscar Wilde is always seeking beauty. Therefore, I must count our meeting here as a fortunate accident.”
“An accident? Truthfully? Your carriage is very handsome, Mister Wilde. In fact, I could not help but notice it following mine all the way from Newgate Prison.”
Wilde suddenly found himself lost for words — a rare occurrence.
“Do I make you uncomfortable, Mister Wilde?”
“It’s a trifle claustrophobic in here. In such confined quarters, there is scarcely room for two personalities as large as ours.”
DeVayne’s fiery curls bounced as he tossed back his head and unleashed a shiver of girlish laughter.
“If you led me, Marquess, it was to a place I already wished to go. I have a great interest in the occult. I drew upon it whilst writing The Picture of Dorian Gray.”