The Dead Assassin: The Paranormal Casebooks of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (25 page)

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.
”

“Indeed, it is my very favorite novel.”

Like a magician performing a trick, the marquess reached into the tails of his cloak and conjured up a small leather-bound copy of the book. Wilde blinked with surprise.

“I carry it with me at all times,” DeVayne explained. “It is my touchstone. Indeed, it has been the model for my existence. In a way, it created me, so I should be honored to have it signed by its creator.”

The younger man held out the novel, and Wilde received it with trembling hands. He set it down upon the nearest table, drew a fountain pen from his breast pocket, and stooped to sign the title page. His hand shook as he scribbled his signature, so that
Oscar Wilde
read as if it had been signed during a minor earthquake. As he handed the volume back, DeVayne was standing much closer than social norms obliged English gentlemen to do. His liquid eyes shone lambent. His breath smelled of flesh—a carnivore that had dined recently.

DeVayne caressed his beardless chin with the spine of the novel. “Now I have your name. Written in your own book. Written in your own hand. It is as if I possess a spark of you. Therefore, I think a fair exchange is required.” DeVayne handed Wilde the copy of
Necromancy: The Art of Raising the Dead
. Wilde’s eyes skimmed the title and for the first time he noticed the author’s name.

“
You
wrote this book?”

The marquess replied with a smile and a hand-on-heart bow.

Wilde paused a moment, before commenting as mildly as possible, “And are you practiced in the art of raising the dead?”

DeVayne stifled his smile with difficulty and the room dimmed as though a candle had been snuffed. “Quite easily the most extraordinary question I have been asked this day. But then you are a most extraordinary man, Mister Wilde. But I thought your attentions had turned to drawing room comedies of late. Are you penning a new occult novel? Or is Doctor Doyle also involved? I noticed he companioned you in the crowd at Newgate.”

Wilde swallowed. He and Arthur had been standing at the back of the crowd, far behind DeVayne. He could not guess how the young man could have noticed their presence.

“Arthur and I were recently summoned to a murder scene. Somewhat unusually, it appeared that the murderer was a dead man. Usually, death proves a major inconvenience in the commission of such crimes. I was wondering if you could shed some light.”

“I’m afraid I am only in the habit of shedding darkness,” the marquess japed. “Although, if it is illumination you seek…” He drew a glass phial from the folds of his cape, “this ampoule contains all the light you will ever need.”

“What is it?”

“A mental stimulant. The blood of the Inca gods rendered into crystalline form.”

“Cocaine?”

“Yes. It is quite the rage now. Oh, but do not worry. Unlike heroin it is not at all addictive.” The marquess tugged free the stopper with his brilliant teeth and sifted white powder onto the back of his glove. He brought his face close and snuffed the powder, pinching his nose. When he looked up at Wilde, DeVayne’s eyes were all pupil.

“Would you care to try? I promise it will blow the cobwebs from the darkest corners of your mind.”

Swayed by the beauty of the young man and his closeness, Wilde found himself incapable of refusing. “I should love to indulge.”

The marquess sifted another line of cocaine onto his glove. Wilde stooped and held the young man’s hand as he snuffled up the white powder, a curiously intimate gesture. Immediately, a blizzard swept Wilde’s mind. Suddenly, everything seemed clearer. Sharper. Better.

“Why did you attend the execution this morning?” Wilde asked.

“I had hoped to touch the dead body, to snip an eyebrow, perhaps.”

“My dear boy, why ever for? As a ghoulish memento?”

“As a talisman. Such artifacts are used in many powerful spells.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. Plus there are many aspects of executions that entice me. Have you heard of
angel lust
?”

“I’m quite certain I have not.”

“Did you know that hanging produces an instant erection and a powerful ejaculation?”

“Really? How … interesting.”

“I have an erotic print in my rooms: a hanged man in a chamber of the Inquisition. He has a huge erection and a powerful arc of fetch is spurting forth from it.”

Wilde’s smile buckled at the edges. The conversation was taking a strange turn. “I prefer my erotica sans execution.”

“Oh, but it is the most erotic combination conceivable. The seed of life gushes forth even at the moment of death.”

“Not to my taste, I’m afraid. I worship youth and beauty.”

The marquess smiled coyly at the implied compliment. He produced a calling card and handed it to Wilde.

“I should very much like to become friends with you, Mister Wilde.”

“Oscar,
please
. If we are to be friends, you
must
call me Oscar. Only creditors and bank bailiffs call me
Mister Wilde
.”

“Oscar it is, then. Here is my card. I am having an event this very evening.”

“A dinner party?”

“Of sorts. A bacchanal. A feast for all the carnal appetites. I should love it if you came. I could show you so much.”

“You may count upon my attendance.”

“Eight o’clock, Oscar,” the marquess said, turning to leave. “I do hope to see you. Until then I hope my book makes for fascinating reading.”

“Alas, I fear it could never be as fascinating at its author.”

The marquess smiled craftily, and snapped a curt bow before leaving by the same hidden door he had entered. Dizzied by more than just narcotics, Wilde stood for some time, clutching the book, his mind awhirl. He did not remember leaving the shop. He did not remember walking miles through the crowded streets of London. He did not remember the instructions he had given to his driver, Gibson, who returned to the bookstore with the carriage and found him long gone.

Oscar Wilde was besotted.

CHAPTER   21

BEFORE RIGOR SETS IN

Once again, the story plays out in a dreamy riffle of black-and-white images: the vaporous mist tendriling up from the loch’s glassy surface. The young woman with her hair of white fire strolling toward the camera, her bare feet paddling the shallows. A lock of hair falling loose across her lovely face. Her coy smile, as if she feels the greedy eyes pressed up against the glass of the Mutoscope. She looks back at the golden child in the sailor suit. The tinplate boat with its windup propeller churns circles about the chubby legs.…

Somewhere, ten years into a future they will never know, a shop bell jangles.

The hand continues cranking. The images cascade. Then the hand slows. Stops. Turns the crank backward. Time reverses in a way that life cannot. The toy warship churns in retrograde circles about the boy’s legs and then leaps back into his arms.

Ring … ring … ring …
Someone is yanking at the bellpull with such vigor the jangling bell threatens to rip loose from the wall.

Jedidiah draws his face away from the Mutoscope, glances up to notice that it is not the shop door. Someone is at the cellar door behind the premises.

The Mutoscope swallows his coin and the cyclopean eye dims into blindness. He abandons the machine, strides across the shop, and tugs at the rope dangling from the ceiling. The trapdoor in the floor flings open. Ducking his head, he tromps down the wooden steps into a workshop lit by hissing gas jets.

Maddeningly, the bell jangles and jangles.

“Yes, yes,” he shouts. “I’m coming, damn you!”

Jedidiah moves swiftly across the workshop to the far wall. He pauses at a bench strewn with half-made toys. The wall above is lined with tools hanging on hooks. One hook, however, is conspicuously empty. He reaches up and pulls on it. At his tug, the hook pivots downward. Somewhere within the wall, a hidden catch releases with a dull
thunk
. A section of the wall splits open and swings wide, taking half the workbench with it.

He steps through the dark opening into another space, a workshop for a decidedly darker form of work. A restraining chair dominates the central part of the space. Behind it, a smoked glass screen. Directly in front of the restraining chair a white sheet has been hung on the wall—an improvised screen to catch a magic lantern’s projected image.

The bell jangles frantically.

He steps behind the smoked glass screen and tugs at a large handle. At the far end of the room, a tall metal door springs open.

“Why make us wait?” an impatient voice calls as its owner, the handsome Dr. Lamb bustles in, Gladstone bag gripped in one hand. Four funeral attendants dressed in black crepe stagger in behind him, lugging a cheap-deal coffin.

“How long?” Jedidiah asks.

“Less than an hour has elapsed,” Lamb answers. “Still, we must hurry … before rigor sets in.”