I nearly choked on my absinthe when my visitor pulled off his frizzy red wig and long, unkempt beard and removed his dark glasses, revealing a famous face I had seen dozens of times in newspaper photographs.
“I hope you’ll forgive this subterfuge, Lady Eldelaide,” he said, “but under the circumstances I felt it best to conceal my true identity as long as possible.”
I had received a note from a man named Sebastian Melmoth, seeking an appointment on a matter of great urgency. Little did I realize then that “Sebastian Melmoth” was a pseudonym assumed by one of the most beloved – and reviled – authors of our time.
I struggled to calm myself. Another sip of absinthe helped. This time it went down properly.
“I understand completely, Mr. Wilde,” I managed to say.
“But I thought you fled to Paris after your conviction. Why have you returned to England?”
“I had no choice. My friend, Lord Alfred Douglas, has gotten himself into a spot of trouble.”
“Again? Hasn’t he caused you enough grief?”
He took a swallow of his Courvoisier cognac and chuckled. “Lord Alfred is quite generous. He possesses a plethora of predicaments and is always happy to share them. He never stints his friends.”
“So what has he done this time?”
Mr. Wilde reached into an inner breast pocket of his coat and took out a lavender envelope. He handed it to me. The name and address were written in purple ink: “Mr. Sebastian Melmoth, Hôtel d'Alsace, 13 Rue des Beaux Arts, Paris.”
I removed the letter – also lavender – and read it aloud.
*Kings converse and resurrect / a son who’s shunned for his defects
He said our friendship had grown stale / so I placed him in my private gaol
My poems, too, he cast aside / His mockery I could not abide / But THIS poem cannot be ignored / His life depends on every word
Where to find him? Here are the clues / I hope they elucidate as well as amuse
A colorful character can also be gray / His name on a street brings you my way
No sacred cows here, just part of a brush / Then you’ll know the town where you’ll find your crush
What you did with your genius in NYC / is what you’ll find when you drop the D
Spread some chestnuts and you’ll name the shop / and that is where this quest will stop
Be not a buyer, go the other way / then unlock the door to save the day
The combination is a famous date / Solve it or you seal his fate
It sounds like “hawks” only much, much louder / and goes together with “bun” and “chowder”
Figure out this last little rhyme / and you’ll open the lock in the nick of time.
Yours truly,
an “atrocious poet”*
“Can you make any sense out of that twaddle?” Mr. Wilde said.
“Yes, I think I can.”
----
**Can *you?* Who is the first line referring to?**
[[Jesus. Let us pray for inspiration]]
[[Need a hint?]]That’s not the lord we’re looking for.
[[Need a hint?]] “Converse” is the key to deciphering the first line. In this context, “converse” means...
[[to speak]]
[[the opposite]]
[[a brand of athletic shoe]]
[[poems written by felons]]
No
[[try again]]yes
[[proceed]]You’re off on the wrong foot, gumshoe
[[try again]]Roses are red, violets are blue, I hate to say this, but you don’t have a clue
[[try again]][[poems written by felons]]
[[a brand of athletic shoe]]
[[the opposite]] “The converse – that is to say, the opposite -- of ‘kings’ is ‘queens.’ And the converse of ‘resurrect’ – or one converse, at any rate -- is ‘bury.’ Therefore, the first line alludes to a son of Lord Queensberry.”
“Brilliant, Lady Eldelaide. And since I don’t know the other sons, that narrows it down to Lord Alfred. And that deduction is supported by other facts. You see, Lord Alfred was supposed to join me in Paris and never arrived nor sent a message explaining his absence, and he hasn’t been seen in any of his usual haunts.”
I took another look at the letter. “There’s no mention of any ransom. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“Quite. The author must have other motives.”
“Is it possible the marquess himself is behind his son’s disappearance? This might be an elaborate ruse to lure you into a trap of some sort.”
Mr. Wilde sniffed contemptuously. “Lord Queensberry’s literary style tends toward the brutally brief and painfully plain, whereas the author of this riddle possesses far more complex mental faculties. He believes in my maxim, ‘The commonest thing is delightful if only one hides it,’ so he doesn’t deliver his message forthrightly, but conceals it within this intriguing riddle.”
“Has the marquess also received a letter from the kidnapper?”
“Lord Queensberry and I are not on speaking terms, but I have no reason to think he has.”
“So if he isn’t responsible for this abduction, do you have any idea who is?”
Mr. Wilde shrugged. “Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity. And there is nothing mediocre about Lord Alfred – or myself. Thus we have enemies in abundance.”
“The author says he’s a friend who was cast aside, and a writer of poetry.”
“I’m afraid Lord Alfred has many acquaintances that might fit that description.”
He took another sip of cognac. “But whoever he is, I’m looking forward to meeting him. The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. They live the poetry that they cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”
“That’s an interesting way to look at it. So tell me, did Lord Alfred ever give you any jewelry?”
“What an odd question. He has given me many literary gems and pearls of wisdom, but no jewelry. Why do you ask?”
“It might help my scrying if I had a gem he had touched or worn, even briefly. But I can make do without it.”
I clasped the silver chain at my throat and tugged the teardrop-shaped witchstone amulet out of my cleavage, cradling it in the palm of my left hand as I gazed into its translucent blue-gray depths, casting my mind into the currents of the astral stream.
I had seen photographs of Lord Alfred Douglas in the newspaper, so I easily conjured up his gorgeous countenance in my mind’s eye, murmuring his name over and over.
Gauzy, half-formed images and whispery notions flitted through my mind. They solidified, clarified, rose to the surface.
I saw Lord Alfred lying on a cot in a room with a dirt floor, presumably a cellar, his head resting on an embroidered pillow of fine linen. He was holding a composition notebook with a marbled cover, illuminated by the light of an oil lamp sitting on a small wooden crate next to the cot. As his eyes darted across the notebook’s pages, the expression on his face changed from smirk to grimace and back again.
He interrupted his reading to reach for a half-full bottle of wine, also sitting on the box. He poured some of its contents into a stemmed glass with a chipped lip, then took a swig, set down the glass, turned the page and resumed reading, heaving a deep sigh.
I tried to shift the vantage point of my vision to the outside of the building so I could determine its location, but just as the roof came into view a one-eyed black cat leapt in front of the scene, slashing with its claws, tearing the image to ribbons as if it were a photograph. The cat yowled and lunged forward, slashing again – this time at me.
[[Shout “Begone, Lucifurr!”]]
[[Cry for help]]
[[throw away <-Throw away your amulet to break your connection with the demonic cat!]]“Begone, Lucifurr!” I commanded, and moved my fingers in a complex pattern to conjure up a magical ward of great power.
The cat arched its back, its fur rising as it let out a loud hiss and backed away, its eye glowing with malignant red light. Then the creature disappeared in a puff of black smoke.
I blinked and raised my head, my mind returning to the drawing room.
Mr. Wilde was staring at me, his face pale. “Oh dear. You must have seem something dreadful!”
“Don’t worry. Lord Alfred is fine. He’s lying on a cot in a cellar and appears to be none the worse for wear. My vision was cut short by a psychic attack, but I don’t believe it has anything to do with Lord Alfred or his kidnapper.”
“A psychic attack?”
“Yes. There’s an old witch named Bexafaraya who often launches such attacks against me through her feline familiar when she detects my presence on the astral plane. I’m strong enough to fend off these attacks, but she can still muddy the waters. Scrying is a difficult art at the best of times, and I fear I won’t learn any more from my amulet today. To solve this case I’ll have to rely on my wits.”
He smiled. “Then our success is assured.”
“Your confidence in me is most humbling, Mr. Wilde. I shall do my best.”
I picked up the letter, which I had dropped into my lap, and read the next clue.
“ ‘A colorful character can also be gray.’ I assume that’s a reference to _____.”
[[“The Portrait of Dorian Gray”]]
[[“The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit’’]]
[[“All Cats Are Gray”]]
[[“Gray Lensman’’]]
[[“Fifty Shades of Gray’’]]
[[“The Picture of Dorian Gray”]]
|links>[\
(link: "The Portrait of Dorian Gray")[(replace: ?links)[The Portrait of Dorian Gray]]
(link: "The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit")[(replace: ?links)[The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit]]
(link: "All Cats Are Gray")[(replace: ?links)[All Cats Are Gray]]
(link: "Fifty Shades of Gray")[(replace: ?links)[Fifty Shades of Gray]]
(link: "Gray Lensman")[(replace: ?links)[Gray Lensman]]
(link: "The Picture of Dorian Gray")[(replace: ?links)[The Picture of Dorian Gray]]\
]Mr. Wilde leapt up from his chair and rushed to my side. Gremmings burst in the door a moment later. But neither gentleman could help me now, for the battle was taking place on the astral plane, not in the physical world.
The cat’s claws extended till they resembled the tines of a hand rake, digging into my mind, shredding my thoughts...
When my corpse was examined by the doctors they were baffled to find no marks on my body and no sign of internal injuries or disease. They finally concluded that I’d died of a catatonic seizure.
At least the “cat” part was correct.
[[Shout “Begone, Lucifurr!”]]
[[throw away <-Throw away your amulet to break your connection with the demonic cat!]]My hand moved of its own volition, yanking off my amulet and hurling it across the room -- the worst thing I could have done, but the cat was in control, not me. It moved in quickly to finish me off, its claws digging into my mind, shredding my thoughts...
When my corpse was examined by the doctors they were baffled to find no marks on my body and no sign of internal injuries or disease. They finally concluded that I’d died of a catatonic seizure.
At least the “cat” part was correct.
[[Shout “Begone, Lucifurr!”]]
[[Cry for help]] No.
[[“The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit’’]]
[[“All Cats Are Gray”]]
[[“Gray Lensman’’]]
[[“Fifty Shades of Gray’’]]
[[“The Picture of Dorian Gray”]]
No.
[[“The Portrait of Dorian Gray”]]
[[“All Cats Are Gray”]]
[[“Gray Lensman’’]]
[[“Fifty Shades of Gray’’]]
[[“The Picture of Dorian Gray”]]No.
[[“The Portrait of Dorian Gray”]]
[[“The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit’’]]
[[“Gray Lensman’’]]
[[“Fifty Shades of Gray’’]]
[[“The Picture of Dorian Gray”]]No.
[[“The Portrait of Dorian Gray”]]
[[“The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit’’]]
[[“All Cats Are Gray”]]
[[“Fifty Shades of Gray’’]]
[[“The Picture of Dorian Gray”]]No, no, no.
[[“The Portrait of Dorian Gray”]]
[[“The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit’’]]
[[“All Cats Are Gray”]]
[[“Gray Lensman’’]]
[[“The Picture of Dorian Gray”]]Correct
---
“The author has already given us the word ‘gray’ as part of the clue,” I said, “so the answer must be ‘Dorian.’”
“Dorian Street? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Neither have I.”
I reached for the bell rope and gave it a tug. Gremmings appeared – and did a double-take when he saw the great Oscar Wilde sitting opposite me sipping cognac, instead of the disheveled fellow he had ushered into the drawing room.
“Gremmings, kindly fetch the street atlas,” I said.
Gremmings bowed, stole another astonished glance at Mr. Wilde and left.
The playwright chortled. “Your servant looks like he’s just seen a ghost.” His smile faded. “Perhaps he has at that.”
“He rarely gets flustered -- but then again, he rarely finds himself in the presence of a luminary of such magnitude.”
“I must respectfully disagree, Lady Eldelaide, for he is in your presence daily.”
“You flatter me, sir.”
A minute later Gremmings returned, looking more composed. He handed me the atlas. I thanked him. He bowed to me and to Mr. Wilde – who raised his glass in salute – and then departed once more.
I flipped to the atlas’s index and ran my finger down the page.
“Aha! No Dorian Street anywhere, but there’s a Dorian Road in Hornchurch, and one in Bristol.”
[[Go to Bristol]]
[[Go to Hornchurch]]
Mr. Wilde leaned forward eagerly. “And ‘sacred cows’ might be an allusion to Hornchurch.” He frowned. “Except cows don’t have horns, do they?”
“Actually, most of them do, although they’re usually de-horned when they’re still calves.”
“Indeed? You are a wealth of information, Lady Eldelaide.”
I laughed. “And some of it actually comes in handy at times.”
“So the writer of the riddle is saying ‘no’ to Hornchurch, which means we must go to Bristol.”
“And the next line of the riddle confirms that, since ‘part of a brush’ is a ‘bristle,’ which sounds like ‘Bristol,’ except the ‘t’ is silent.”
“You’re a marvel, Lady Eldelaide. And I assume NYC refers to New York City. That’s where I started my American tour, you know.”
“Yes, I do. And as I recall, when you went through customs you made a quip ...
[[“I’d rather be in Philadelphia”]]
[[“I was very much disappointed in the Atlantic Ocean”]]
[[“I have nothing to declare but my genius”]]
A church is a sacred place and most cows are born with horns, so “no sacred cows” means no Hornchurch. By going there instead of Bristol, you caused a delay and the kidnapper ran out of patience. Lord Alfred is dead. You have failed.
[[Go to Bristol]] No, that was W.C. Fields. (He was once asked what he wanted written on his tombstone and that was his response.)
[[“I was very much disappointed in the Atlantic Ocean”]]
[[“I have nothing to declare but my genius”]] No, Wilde said that to reporters while he was still aboard the S.S. Arizona.
[[“I’d rather be in Philadelphia”]]
[[“I have nothing to declare but my genius”]] Correct.
(Although there’s no evidence he actually said that. According to researchers, the quote first appeared in a biography written thirty years later. But as Lord Henry said in *The Picture of Dorian Gray,* “Nothing is ever quite true.”
[[on to eclairs <-continue]]
"And the only D in that sentence is in the word ‘declare,’” Mr. Wilde said. “And if we drop the D we get ‘éclair.’ Chestnut éclairs, to be precise. Perhaps Bosie is being held in a pastry shop or restaurant that specializes in that delicacy.”
“Actually, ‘spread some chestnuts’ probably refers to Longfellow’s poem.”
“Ah. ‘Under the spreading chestnut tree the village smithy stands.’ So we’re looking for an establishment with ‘Smith’ in the name. Or ‘Smithy’.”
“I would say so.”
He rose to his feet and raised his glass to me. “By George, Lady Eldelaide, I think we’ve solved it!”
[[Chapter Two]]Our carriage rolled to a stop in front of Smythe’s Excellent Éclairs on Dorian Road in Bristol around four o’clock in the afternoon. The shop was flanked by a haberdashery and a milliner and bookended by a fish-and-chips and an Indian cafe.
Mr. Wilde, once more cloaked beneath his wig and beard and dark glasses, strode toward the front door of the shop holding his silver-headed walking stick just beneath the handle. He noted the sign inside the door’s window:
**SORRY WE HAVE NO ÉCLAIRS
THE SHOPPE IS CLOSED FOR SOME REPAIRS**
He sniffed. “We’ve definitely come to the right place.”
He tried the doorknob. Unlocked. We entered. Late-afternoon sun slanted through the windows, highlighting a plate atop the glass counter where several moldering éclairs sat, covered with drizzles of dust. The shelves inside the counter were empty.
“Hello?” I called.
We walked to the back of the shop and opened a door. A staircase led down into darkness. We took out our glowstone pocket lanterns and activated them, then descended to the cellar. On the left, near the back, was a door secured by a large, impressive-looking padlock with a four-digit ring combination.
“Shall I attempt to pick the lock, m’lady?” Gremmings asked.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I replied, and placed my thumb on the first ring. I was confident I had figured out the clue about hawks, bun and chowder.
---
**Have *you* figured it out? What is the combination?**
[[Want a hint?]]
[[I don’t need a hint. I’m brilliant]]‘Bun’ and ‘chowder’ rhyme with what word? ‘Hawks’ rhymes with what name? Figure that out and you get a historic date. Ignore the month and day and use the year for the combination.
[[1066]]
[[1215]]
[[1455]]
[[1605]]
[[1815]]
[[1837]]
[[1066]]
[[1215]]
[[1455]]
[[1605]]
[[1815]]
[[1837]]
Battle of Hastings. No.
[[1215]]
[[1455]]
[[1605]]
[[1815]]
[[1837]]
Magna Carta. No.
[[1066]]
[[1455]]
[[1605]]
[[1815]]
[[1837]]
War of the Roses. No.
[[1066]]
[[1215]]
[[1605]]
[[1815]]
[[1837]]
“ ‘Hawks’ sounds like ‘Fawkes,’ and if you put ‘bun’ and ‘chowder’ together they rhyme with ‘gunpowder.’”
“Ah,” Mr. Wilde said. “Guy Fawkes Day, November 5, the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot. So the combination would be 1-1-5 ... we’re a digit short.”
“Not if we use the year instead,” I said.
I turned the rings to 1-6-0-5 and pulled the padlock open.
“By Jove,” Mr. Wilde said, “you continue to amaze me, Lady Eldelaide!”
I bowed to him, then removed the padlock, swung the latch open and stepped aside. Gremmings assumed my place at the door, hooking his lantern to his belt so he had one hand free. He kept his right hand inside his pocket, grasping his Webley revolver, as his other hand pulled the door open.
[[Chapter Three]]
Battle of Waterloo. No.
[[1066]]
[[1215]]
[[1455]]
[[1605]]
[[1837]]
Victoria becomes queen. No.
[[1066]]
[[1215]]
[[1455]]
[[1605]]
[[1815]]
The man lying on the cot was not Lord Alfred Douglas. And he was not holding a composition notebook in his hand, but a pepperbox pistol. A copy of a magazine, *The Chameleon,* lay open on his chest. The man was in his twenties, handsome in a halfhearted way, with a mop of blonde hair above royal blue eyes that shone a bit too brightly. I suspected some opiate as the cause.
The lamp on the small crate next to the cot provided adequate light, so we extinguished our lanterns.
“Hello there,” the young man said. His eyes flitted over our faces. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me. I was expecting someone else. I assume you’ve been sent here to rescue Bosie? No one else ever comes to this shop; the éclairs are horrid.”
“I cannot judge the éclairs, sir,” Mr. Wilde said, “but your assumption is correct.”
He doffed his disguise and the man sat up as the *Chameleon* slid off his chest and landed on the floor.
“Oscar! I should’ve known it was you beneath that hirsute facade. How delightful of you to come!”
“Do I know you, sir?” Mr. Wilde said stiffly. “You address me as if we were acquaintances, but your face is not familiar.”
The man gave him a bitter smile. “Oh, I am so terribly sorry, *Mister* Wilde. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. After reading your oeuvre, I feel that I know you, but a lowly commoner such as myself should never forget his proper place.”
His mocking tone brought a scowl to Mr. Wilde’s face, but before he could retort the man turned his gaze toward me. “And who might you be?”
“I am Lady Eldelaide Crawson-Barrett.”
His mouth fell open. “Lady Eldelaide? Oh my! This is indeed an honor! I’ve read a lot about you.” He smirked at Mr. Wilde. “I might’ve known Oscar couldn’t figure out my riddle on his own.”
“You are impertinent, sir,” Mr. Wilde said.
“You state the obvious, Mr. Wilde.” The man looked at Gremmings. “And who might you be?”
“He is my assistant,” I said. “His name is Gremmings.”
“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Gremmings. Now if you’d be so kind as to take your right hand out of your pocket, along with whatever it is you’re holding – a pistol, I presume?”
Gremmings glanced at me. I nodded. He complied.
“My, what a formidable looking firearm,” the man said. “Kindly drop it on the floor.”
Gremmings crouched and set down the Webley...
[[attack the kidnapper]]
[[Don’t try any tricks]]
But he did not let go of it. Instead, he grabbed a handful of dirt with his free hand, tossed it at the man’s face and raised the revolver.
*BANG!*
The man fired blindly. Gremmings clutched his chest and toppled over onto his side, mortally wounded.
“No!” I screamed.
The man frantically wiped the dirt from his eyes, then gaped at Gremmings. “I ... I didn’t intend to fire,” he muttered. “He startled me.”
After a few moments the man slowly lifted his head and gazed at me with a dazed expression on his face, then looked at Mr. Wilde, who stood rooted to the spot.
“Oh dear,” the man muttered. “This didn’t go at all as I planned. I’ve really made a bloody mess of things. Nothing left to do now but tidy things up. Yes, I must tidy up.”
-----
Three days later, two constables broke into the éclair shop, alerted by complaints from the neighboring shopkeepers about a foul odor emanating from the premises.
They found the remains of Mr. Wilde, Gremmings and myself down in the cellar, and the kidnapper up in the attic, also dead, draped across the body of Lord Alfred Douglas, who lay on the floor near an overturned Windsor chair, his gorgeous face frozen in an expression halfway between smirk and grimace.
[[Don’t try any tricks<-go back and don't try any tricks]] “Where is Lord Alfred?” Mr. Wilde said.
The young man regarded him with a pained expression. “Patience, *Mister* Wilde. Patience! I haven’t even introduced myself yet! We must observe the formalities, mustn’t we?”
“Under the circumstances I doubt you’d give me your true name, so why bother?”
“You think I dare not speak my name? Heh. Perhaps that in itself is an identity. But for this occasion I’ve chosen to call myself Mr. Tame.” He crossed one lanky leg over the other. “I’m afraid Bosie isn’t here at the moment. He stepped out to get some fresh airs.” He chuckled.
“A clever line and perhaps apt,” Mr. Wilde snapped. “Where did you get it?”
“I thought it up myself.”
“Indeed? I didn’t think you had it in you. Now tell me what you’ve done to Bosie.”
Mr. Tame scowled. “Don’t you want to know what he did to *me*? I am the captive, not he. He binds not with locks but a look, my bondage secured by kisses, not keys. He dropped me in a letter, the easy way out, delivered by his scout. His scout!”
[[scout?]]
[[continue]] At Oxford, in Victorian times, each student had a “scout,” a personal servant who ran errands and performed other duties. Scouts still exist at Oxford, but nowadays they are housekeepers, not servants.
[[continue]]
“One crime at a time, sir,” Mr. Wilde said. “Kindly cease your felonious assault on the bardic arts until after you’ve released Bosie.”
Mr. Tame’s face hardened. “At least you spurn me to my face, Mr. Wilde. I’ll give you credit for that. But you’re not getting off the hook that easily.”
He reached under the embroidered pillow and took out the notebook I had seen in my vision.
“I can just imagine your darling Bosie sitting at his desk in the *Spirit Lamp* office at dear old Oxford with his trusty wastebasket at the ready. I hear the sound of my cherished babes dropping atop the crumpled corpses of their brethren, an army of unworthy words shuffled off to their ignominious deaths by the high and mighty, self-appointed prince of poets -- like fallen leaves, desiccated by despair, swishing beneath his passing patent-leather boots as he scurries off to yet another elegant soiree. A soft, sad sound, unnoticed, unmourned. It is the sound of dreams dying!”
He jumped off the bed, holding the notebook in one hand, the pistol in the other, both of them aimed at Mr. Wilde.
“Read it!” Mr. Tame growled. “Every single page! Read it out loud! And put some feeling into it!”
“Poetry at pistol-point. A novel method of presentation, I must say.” He reached for the notebook.
As Mr. Tame placed it in his hand, Mr. Wilde flipped up the tip of his cane, striking the pepperbox and knocking it to the side, then whacked him in the face with the notebook. Gremmings sprang forward and seized Mr. Tame’s wrist, wresting the pistol from his grasp.
The young man made no effort to resist, just stood there gazing dejectedly at the playwright.
“I regret the need for violence,” Mr. Wilde said, “but drastic situations call for drastic measures. However, I detected a modicum of unhoned talent in your lugubrious recitation, so I shall read your poems as you requested.”
Mr. Tame’s face brightened. “You will? Oh Mr. Wilde, I can’t tell you how much...”
“But first things first. Where is Bosie?”
Mr. Tame thrust a thumb at the ceiling. “In the attic. That wasn’t part of my original plan, but when I saw you three alighting from your carriage I just couldn’t bring myself to end the game so soon, so I thought I’d delay it a little longer and throw one last twist into the plot. Besides, the attic is the perfect place for Bosie. That’s where all of us put the things we should rid ourselves of, but can’t bear to part with.”
“Well put.” Mr. Wilde gestured at the door. “Kindly lead the way.”
We proceeded to the attic and found Lord Alfred sitting in a Windsor chair next to a small window, reading a copy of *The Spirit Lamp,* his feet propped up on the top of a steamer trunk.
He looked up as we entered and treated us to a dazzling smile. “Oscar! So good of you to come. And you’ve brought guests. How delightful!”
He got up, setting the magazine on the seat of the chair, and came toward us.
“It’s good to see you again, Bosie,” Mr. Wilde said. “Are you well?”
“Never better. But tell me, who are your friends? Mr. Tame I already know, of course, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the other two.”
Mr. Wilde gestured at me. “Lord Alfred Douglas, I have the honor of introducing Lady Eldelaide Crawson-Barrett, an investigatrix of great renown.”
Lord Alfred beamed at me and took my hand, brushing his rose-leaf lips across my knuckles as my heart fluttered and my cheeks flushed.
“Enchanted,” he said, then turned an inquiring gaze toward Gremmings.
“And this is Lady Eldelaide’s assistant, Mr. Gremmings,” the playwright said.
Lord Alfred proffered his hand and Gremmings shook it.
“You look like a most capable fellow,” his lordship said, his eyes twinkling.
“Thank you, sir,” Gremmings replied. Was it my imagination, or did his cheeks color just a little?
Lord Alfred gave him a saucy grin, squeezed his hand a little tighter, then reluctantly released it and looked at Mr. Wilde and myself.
“Let’s celebrate my liberation at *The Blue Elephant,*” he said, referring to the Indian restaurant a couple of doors down. “They have marvelous curry.”
“A most excellent suggestion, Bosie,” Mr. Wilde said.
“Sounds delightful,” I said.
Lord Alfred turned to Mr. Tame. “You’ll join us, of course.”
I interjected: “I’m afraid Mr. Tame has a previous engagement with the local constabulary.”
“Oh?” Lord Alfred said. “What for?”
“Why ... for kidnapping you, of course!”
His lordship waived a hand dismissively. “Oh posh! I’ve been subjected to far worse captivities – cornered at tedious soirees by crashing bores, or forced to endure my horrid father’s interminable lectures over the dinner table. Here at least there was novelty, and a delicious frisson of danger. Oh, I’ve enjoyed this experience immensely and I wouldn’t think of pressing charges against my host.”
Mr. Tame bowed. “That is most kind of you, Lord Alfred.”
“Think nothing of it, my good man.”
We left the éclair shop and went to the eatery he had selected, where we enjoyed a memorable repast before going our separate ways.
THE END