Death at Bishop's Keep (18 page)

“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 the 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 the 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.”

Kate regarded him with interest. “But why can you not write both serious literature and detective stories?” she asked. “Surely the two are not exclusive.”

Doyle spoke as if he were speaking to a child. “My dear young lady, you clearly do not understand the labors of authorship. The difficulty is that each short story needs as clear-cut and original a plot as a longish book would do.” He frowned. “At any rate, Holmes is dead. Even if I wanted to bring the fellow back to life, I could not. He lies at the bottom of a vast precipice.”

“But Sherlock Holmes can hardly remain dead,” Kate objected pertly. “Your readers will not allow it. And I think it would not be difficult to call him from the vasty deep, sir.”

Wilde's full lips curved slightly upward. “Ah, but will he come when you do call for him?
That,
dear Doyle, is the question.”

“He will come,” Kate said, “if you call in the right way. He should reappear in some interesting disguise, I think, so that the manner of his reappearance distracts attention from the fact of it. He should then explain to Dr. Watson that he sent Professor Moriarty into the dreadful chasm in his stead, perhaps with some sleight of hand, such as baritsu.”

“Baritsu?” Doyle asked doubtfully.

“A form of Japanese wrestling,” Kate said.

Mr. Yeats smiled. “The lady is ingenious, Doyle.”

Doyle pulled his brows together. “You are forgetting the tracks,” he said. “In ‘The Final Problem' Dr. Watson observed that
two
persons went down the path and none returned.”

Kate raised her brows. “I imagine that a man of Mr. Holmes's resourcefulness could scale a cliff or two. I also imagine that he might go into hiding to escape the Professor's confederates, while entrusting to his brother Mycroft the maintenance of his Baker Street lodgings. That would explain his absence from London and his failure to communicate with Dr. Watson.”

Wilde's puffy-lidded eyes were amused. “As Holmes would say, my dear Doyle, ‘The impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytic reasoner.' ” He pursed his lips. “There you have it, dear sir. The plot, trotted out
in toto—or is it en tutu?”
Ignoring Willie Yeats's groan, he added, “What do you say, Doyle, to Miss Ardleigh's spirited resurrection of Sherlock Holmes?”

Doyle shook his head, stubbornly beetle-browed. “Fellow's dead and dead he stays. I shan't have him bullying me for the rest of my days.”

Wilde leaned toward Kate and lowered his voice confidentially. “I perceive, Miss Ardleigh, that we have hit upon our friend's sore spot. Like Frankenstein, he has created in Holmes a being with eternal life. Like Frankenstein, he cannot be rid of the monster. Such a fate is truly something to fear.”

“Don't see what you're getting at,” Doyle said. He looked around, scowling. “When's the séance?”

“Ah, yes,” Wilde said. He turned to Mrs. Farnsworth, who had just come up. “I told him there was bound to be table rapping, Florence. When do we begin?”

“I am sorry, gentlemen,” Mrs. Farnsworth said, “but there is to be no seance this afternoon.”

“No séance!” Doyle protested.

Mrs. Farnsworth smiled. “If I had known that's what you wanted, Mr. Doyle, we could have arranged something.” Her smile became playful. “But spirits certainly abound here. They may communicate with you if you make your willingness known. Do be on the lookout.”

“Oh, I shall,” Doyle said with enormous seriousness. “I shall indeed. No spirit shall get by me!”

Kate was suddenly seized with the urge to laugh.

Errors, like feathers, on the surface flow;
She who would find the truth must dive below.

—AFTER CHARLES DRYDEN, All for Love

 

 

 

W
ith a murmured excuse to Aunt Sabrina and the others, Kate left the group and looked around, wondering suddenly why everyone had come. If Beryl Bardwell had expected to witness magical rites or meet unconventional people, she was disappointed, for the men and women crowding the rooms, with the exception of Mrs. Farnsworth and the effete Oscar Wilde, were quite ordinary in their dress and demeanor. The only interesting thing about them, she realized suddenly, was that most of the men wore a cluster of blue feathers in their buttonholes, while the women wore some item of exotic feather jewelry—feathery earrings, a brooch, a pendant.

She looked around her, trying not to stare. What was the significance of all these feathers? Was the feather she had discovered in the seat of the chaise connected to the feathers in this room? Or was it all simply some vast coincidence?

Kate ventured into the dining room, where an elaborate tea was laid out on the sideboard. She put a cucumber sandwich on a china plate, allowed a maid to draw a cup of tea from a large silver urn, and went to stand behind a leafy thicket of potted bamboo, where she could watch and form an opinion without being observed. Over the next few minutes, she counted no fewer than nine men arrive at the table wearing blue feather boutonnieres in their lapels.

She was distracted from her observations by Mrs. Farns-worth, who appeared at the table with a well-fed gentleman with neatly trimmed gray side-whiskers. Above the whiskers, his cheeks were a mottled red, and his gray brows were drawn together in a scowl. The two of them stood together on the other side of the bamboo, talking intently, so deeply engrossed in what they were saying that they paid little attention to their surroundings. Kate, feeling as invisible as one of the servants, moved a step closer.

“Damned charlatan,” the gentleman exploded furiously. “How can he behave with such unfraternal ingratitude?” He hunched his shoulders inside his frock coat, and his mouth twisted. “I have been completely misled.”

The cords of Mrs. Farnsworth's neck tightened, but when she spoke her voice was soft, her touch on the gentleman's arm delicate. “My dear Wynn, I do understand your dismay. But you must not allow Mathers's churlish behavior to distress you. I am sure that his accusations—”

“Are utterly unfounded!” the man exclaimed. “Reckless, baseless, unsubstantiated! And I shall prove it.” His voice rose and his side-whiskers trembled with passion. “I shall prove it, in open court, if need be! I have documents attesting to the antiquity of the manuscripts. A letter from Woodford, an affidavit from the German translator—”

Mrs. Farnsworth made a small mouth. “But if you so openly answer the man's effrontery, do you not also open our Order to public challenge? That, I fear,” she added with light reproach, “would be a disaster.”

Mrs. Farnsworth's reproof was casual and the toss of her head perfectly artless. But Kate heard the artful modulations in her tone, and saw that her glance spoke even more subtly. The woman was a skilled actress. And there was a great deal of passion concealed by her art.

The gentleman pulled himself up. “But it will be a disaster if he makes this challenge public and I do not answer him!”

“Then we must do all in our power to keep the wretched man from making the challenge public,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. Her tone was silken, but there was a barely definable edge. “If the confidence of the members is shaken, or the reputation of the Order tarnished in the eyes of others, we could all be ruined. There will be
no
public display.” Kate had not the least idea what she meant, but the man appeared to understand and, reluctantly, to agree.

“Ah, very well,” he said disgustedly. His face was flushed with anger and his neck bulged over his stiff wing collar. “I will agree to say nothing—at this time.” He raised his voice slightly. “But I cannot promise for the future, Florence. I have my honor to consider, and my good name. If that miscreant Mathers continues to make unprincipled charges against me—”

“My dear,
dear
Wynn,” Mrs. Farnsworth said with easy affection, “that is all I ask. A few weeks' reprieve, while I shepherd our fledgling group here in Colchester through its delicate formative phase. Our new temple will be consecrated shortly, and
then
you may have it out with Mathers and end his absurd challenge to Fräulein Sprengle's warrant and your authority.” She stopped and looked up at the man. Her voice held a brittleness so slight it was almost indiscernible. “I believe you understand me.”