“Whatever do you mean?”
“I followed his carriage. He went straight from Newgate to Holyfield Street, where he stopped in at a bookshop.”
“So he is an avid reader. What of it?”
“A bookshop on Holyfield Street.”
Conan Doyle shook his head blankly.
Wilde sighed. “How may I put this delicately? I am referring to a gentleman’s bookshop.”
Realization sparked in Conan Doyle’s eyes. “Good lord! You mean a pornographic bookshop.” He had spoken a little too loudly, attracting disapproving glares from the matrons chatterboxing on the next table. He lowered his voice and continued: “You didn’t go inside… did you?”
Wilde made a pained face. “No, I went home and breakfasted on goose pâté and toast points and therefore have nothing to report — of course I went inside, Arthur! That is what following means!”
Wilde then relayed in detail the story of his bookshop encounter. At first Conan Doyle shifted uncomfortably at the description of the pornography, but then his eyes widened at the description of Wilde’s discovery of the secret bookshop-within-a-bookshop.
“Your Holmesian observation of the marquess’s pentacle necklace was astute. He claims to be an acolyte of all things occult. In fact, we made an exchange.”
Conan Doyle’s frown drooped his moustaches comically. “An exchange? What kind of exchange?”
“I signed his copy of Dorian Gray. In exchange he gave me a copy of his own book.”
Wilde reached across the cake trays to hand his friend a small leather volume.
“Necromancy: The Art of Raising the Dead?” Conan Doyle read aloud. “You mean he claims he can—”
“Raise the dead, Arthur. Yes, I thought the title rather gave it away.”
“You cannot believe he truly possesses such abilities?”
“If not the marquess, then apparently someone in London does. How else do you explain the restless noctivigations of Charlie Higginbotham, who maintains a very busy social calendar for a dead man?”
“You honestly believe this young man can raise the dead?”
“I honestly believe he believes so.”
Conan Doyle flipped open the small volume and scanned a few lines. It seemed pretentious gobbledygook. “Have you read it?”
“I read the first sentence. It contained a semicolon. I could read no further. The semicolon is unquestionably the ugliest piece of punctuation in the English language. It is neither full stop nor comma, and as such a mongrel construction. Furthermore, no one from Jonson forward can agree upon its use. I ceased reading. Such an early appearance of a semicolon did not portend for a pleasant read.”
Conan Doyle snapped the book shut and traced a finger across the gold pentagram embossed upon its cover. “I would like to share this with my new acquaintance.”
“Your lady friend, the medium?”
“We are having dinner tonight. She is conversant in matters of spiritualism, the occult, witchcraft, necromancy.”
“What well-educated lady in English society is not?”
“I suppose you could join us.”
Wilde shook his head. “I, too, have a dinner invitation. I am to journey to Hampstead, to the ancestral seat of the DeVaynes. What the evening holds for me I cannot guess at.”
CHAPTER 23
A DINNER DATE TO REMEMBER
They drew the usual stares, but Conan Doyle no longer cared. He sat across the dinner table from Miss Jean Leckie, whose lovely head floated buoyantly on the exquisite curve of her long neck. They had returned to the scene of their first assignation, the Tivoli restaurant, and in the welcoming glow of the Palm Room’s electric lights, the young woman’s hazel-green eyes sparkled with delectation. After a dinner of watercress salad, oysters, and champagne, they had desserted on truffles drizzled with chocolate. Now he watched the tip of her pink tongue lick the chocolate from her spoon. She noticed his stare and stifled a guilty smile beneath her napkin.
“I must apologize, Doctor Doyle. Most unladylike. I assure you, my mother brought me up to have better manners.”
“Arthur,” he scolded gently. “You must call me Arthur.”
She rested the hand gripping her spoon upon on the table. Quite unconsciously, he reached out and placed his hand atop hers. “It gives me great joy to make you happy, Jean.”
He gazed into her eyes, a little too deeply. She looked down and drew her hand away.
He knew his behavior was appalling. Ridiculous even. He was a public figure. A well-known author. People were staring. Damn them, he thought. Let them stare.
“I do have a question for you, Jean.”
She looked up, her eyes brimming with hope. “Yes?”
Conan Doyle drew the small leather volume from his inside pocket. “I thought I might make use of your encyclopedic knowledge of the occult.”
Her expression faltered, but he failed to notice. She smiled gamely and said, “I would hardly compare myself to an encyclopedia, but perhaps I may be able to help.”
Conan Doyle handed the book across the table to her. She opened to the title page. Her eyes swept the gothic type and she looked up in surprise.
“Necromancy! How very dark!”
“You are familiar with the term?”
“My father had a comprehensive library. As a young girl I was expressly forbidden from reading certain books.” She flashed a wicked smile. “Of course, those were the books I read first.”
She dropped her eyes to the page and began reading. Conan Doyle contented himself to watch as she read the first page and then the second. At the third page, her eyes flickered as she scanned a line over and over. She closed the book and looked up at him, her expression unreadable.
“What do you make of it?”
“Is this something you are reading for research? A new book you are planning?”
“Ah, yes,” Conan Doyle fibbed. He could not endanger her by going into the details of his current adventure.
“Very heady stuff.”
“The book purports to have knowledge of a ritual to raise the dead.”
“Yes,” Jean replied. “It requires the sacrifice of a virgin.”
“Ah!” Conan Doyle replied, suddenly embarrassed.
The young woman reached across the table and placed her hand on his. “Fortunately, I have a brave, strong man to protect my virtue.”
Conan Doyle was struck speechless. From the sparkle in her eyes, it seemed clear she was offering him a gift.
It was fully dark by the time Wilde’s carriage rolled up to the gatehouse of the walled grounds encompassing the DeVayne estate. The gatekeeper who emerged from the tiny cottage proved to be a feral-looking man dressed in antique garb complete with knee britches and a leather tricorn hat. Wilde dropped the carriage window to speak to him and was alarmed to see a huge blunderbuss balanced in the crook of his arm.
“Good evening. My name is Oscar Wilde.”
“Arrrr,” the gateman replied as he scratched a bushy sideburn with long, horny fingernails.
“You have, no doubt, heard of me.”
“Arrrr,” the gatekeeper replied, by which Wilde could not tell if he meant yes or no.
“I am here at the personal invitation of the marquess.”
“Arrrr.”
“Might I inquire… why the weapon? Are you expecting armed raiders?”
“Arrrr. Ye know about the marquess’s menagerie?” the man asked in an accent so rustic it was practically sprouting stalks of corn.
“Menagerie?”
“Animals. He collects ’em. Running loose on the grounds.” The gatekeeper patted the blunderbuss fondly. “That’s why oi got this.”