Chapter 6 – The Unspeakable and Uneatable
The English gentlemen galloping in pursuit after a fox-
the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable.
~ Oscar Wilde
It should shame me to say that I left him there, in his lunacy, with his idol of paint and cloth, but in honesty, I did not feel I was deserting Edmund at all. The man I saw that night bore no resemblance to the Edmund I had known and was, instead, a hollow creature, drained of his soul by this self-created lamia. Besides, what did I know of madness or fevers of the mind?
I did not, however, desert him entirely. He had no family to speak of and I contacted my personal physician, an exceptionally discreet man by the name of Dr. Reginald Burton. He visited Edmund later that week and found him in much the same state. It was clear Edmund was not fit to be by himself and Dr. Burton recommended a private sanitarium near St. Luke's. There he would be cared for and, it was hoped, be returned to lucidity – for a price. My name and connections, whispered in the right ears, were enough to secure him a place but the funds would be expected to follow shortly. I gave all my time and energy during that first month to suitably arranging Edmund's finances, a daunting task considering how sparse they were. Proper investments would yield enough to cover the bills but one first had to have something with which to speculate.
The flat was mine, which expedited the sale of its contents, but even that did not bring in enough. As January drew to a close, I played my last card and hosted a grand feast at one of my better clubs, having accumulated a wide range of memberships over the years. I invited the leading members of the London art scene and wooed them to my purpose. The maneuver looked to pay off handsomely and a date was set towards the end of March for an exhibition of Edmund's works – an exhibition that I hoped would result in the quick sale of most of his pieces. Madness among artists had come into to vogue with the Romantics and had, thankfully, yet to go out of fashion. My guests were more intrigued by the sad tale of Edmund's delusion than his paintings – no matter, since their wagging tongues and gruesome fascination with anyone 'touched by the fire of the gods' would draw more sales than the most fervent praise of his skill.
It was this night, taking a turn around London, after tedious hours of plying the pretentious twits with equal amounts of wine and flattery, that I saw her, Edmund's pitiless muse. I have never found a balm equal to the peaceful solitude of the dim interior of a carriage, where one can repose undisturbed by the flurry of the city. I had signaled my driver to stop across from boisterous public house and was watching the denizens of the area come and go, their mindless revelry a comfort to me. I have often said that the ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play (1). I was, momentarily, put out to be neither ugly nor stupid, as it seemed a less demanding path.
My reverie ended suddenly, for there she was, out for a late night stroll. Then, as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone. Finding the alley empty, I climbed back into my coach and simply watched for a bit. She never reappeared but as I waited my mind had been working furiously. If she was real, she had a name, a residence, and, one assumed, an entire life of some sort. She had at least one 'beau', if one could call Lord Godalming that; perhaps she had others. I would find out everything there was to know of this mysterious woman and, somewhere in that torrent of knowledge, I would find the key; and with it, I would destroy her. While it was not entirely clear how she was involved with Edmund and his mental decline, she had clearly deprived me of an amusing camaraderie to which I had become accustomed.
I am never more content than when challenged somehow; the more difficult the endeavor, the greater diversion yielded. Unraveling this little mystery – the mysterious muse turned lamia – would, I hoped, pass the time until the season began (2). Over the years, I had learned well the vital importance of friends not only in high places but most especially those in lower places. I called upon the services of some men adept at unearthing information, no matter how confidential or obscure. Besides their skill, I also had the distinct advantage of dozens upon dozens of depictions of my quarry, though it was rather unlikely she was stealthily creeping about London costumed as a Medieval lady. Choosing a few miniatures and simpler sketches, I set them on her trail, like hounds after a fox.
The initial reports were so rapid and detailed, I feared my entertainment would be ended before it had properly begun. 'Thalia' turned up at public houses and taverns all over the East End – often dressed as a domestic and rarely alone. While this seemed a rather odd way for a Lord's fancy to pass an evening, it paled in the light of later revelations. Edmund's little muse seemed in search of some inspiration herself – flitting in and out of well known 'parlors' providing a sampling of some more unusual vapors to their clientele, mostly men of moderate station, who, my trackers reported, seemed all too familiar with the auburn-tressed beauty in their midst. One of my trackers brought back a tidbit so outlandish I accused him of drunkenness, unwilling, indeed, unable to accept his report. It was not until a few weeks later, when a second man came with the same tale, that I cursed my good fortune. Was this woman really deserving of the diligent and focused attention of someone as skilled at social ruin as myself? Why dirty one's hands with the whole affair if she was going to meekly place her own head in the guillotine? But there she was, profoundly reckless, brazenly imprudent, not once but twice, spotted in the Chapel, done up as a common chickster (3)! Yet even in her flaunting she was enigmatic. She was everywhere but still nameless, without a family, home or even a true profession. I remembering thinking perhaps there was still some pleasure to be had in watching the fox display her wiles and skill, knowing that in the end all was futility, for the hounds would inevitably bring her down and devour her.
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(1) A direct quote from Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray.
(2) – i.e. the London Social season, staring, with a trickle of events, as early as April and in full swing by May.
(3) Or, in modern American English, in the Whitechapel district, prostituting herself.