It has always been a theory of mine that many common people fall prey to their baser instinct of acting without thinking through their decisions, which leads to certain destruction. Of course, in my profession, I have seen many calculated crimes, premeditated for days, even months or years, so as to pull off what is known as the perfect crime (which I know to be impossible). However, more often than naught, the common man acts in a fit of passion, in the moment as it were, without considering the repercussions. And that is how one's troubles begin. It is nearly how mine began.
I was furious, of course, to hear Wilde denounce my deepest secret in so blasé a manner. It was not so much surprising that he knew, as I had not taken any pains to hide it from him (although only him), but it was maddening that he would state it so calmly. As if it was a normal topic of conversation. My biggest fear, my only desire, and he wished to discuss it with me over supper.
He must have seen how angry I was. I could feel a burning of emotion that I usually take all pains to conceal. Looking down at my hands, I saw with some surprise that they were shaking. But a temper I knew I did possess, and futile is the man who does not acknowledge his weakness. I was so completely used to my doctor acting as my better-half, keeping my short-coming in check with his equitable demeanour. Meanwhile, Oscar had been blithering non-sensibly, something completely foreign to him. I blamed goal, of course. Although perhaps it was easy enough to blame all his personality changes to that.
"Now, really, Sherlock, you mustn't over-react. Robbie and I thought to act in your best interests only. We have done nothing to jeopardise your Great Wall of discretion. We are not Mongols, after all."
I let him continue on with his explanations and apologies while I considered the matter logically. He knew of my feelings for Watson. I could deny it, lie, probably even effectively as deception was an art in which I would be remembered as a master. But it disturbed me to do so, as I thought of Wilde as the one man with whom I did not have to be dishonest. I found it enjoyable to have a companion, however briefly, with whom I could be my complete self. And so lying was not a prudent choice.
I had known for years that despite my nature and my dark longings, it would only lead to disaster if I acted on them with Watson. He must always remain in the dark. It is true that a common, discretionary man would more than likely be safe from persecution, but I, who was seen as a figure of authority despite my best efforts to separate myself from the Regulars worked too closely with the officials to escape notice. No, silence was the only option. I could not martyr myself. And I could not risk Watson.
"I am sorry if I angered you," said Wilde, truly sounding repentant. "I only wished to help."
"You cannot."
"Is that what you truly think?" There seemed to be a smile playing on his lips.
"I forbid you, Oscar."
"You have the ability to make the Vatican look like our own Cleveland Street1. It is a serious character flaw, this avert Britishness, that I detest in you."
But no matter what he would say, I would not relent. I could not say that my fears were completely justified, as Oscar assured me they were not, but I was not going to risk my freedom. The logical mind detests chance; it prefers facts, always aware of what will happen in the end. Eventually, my companion desisted in his insistent pleas. The topic was changed to more pleasant areas and we enjoyed a fine meal. Oscar was his most charming self, telling me more than I ever cared to know of the culture of Paris. I listened, as I prefer to do in a conversation, letting him flow from Rimbaud's poetry to Gauguin's nudes un-interrupted. He really should have been a Parisian, I thought, but meant it complementary.
After a crème caramel, digestifand cigars, Oscar and I headed again into the Parisian night- now completely devoid of light. The supper put a decent sized dent in my cheque-book, but my companion was so content, smiling and leading me by the arm, so I could feel slightly pleased I had come. Perhaps I had done some little good after all.
We walked without worry or rush, neither of us tired, and both of good-spirit, taking the same route we had from the hotel. Oscar hummed La Marseillaise quietly, gripping my arm tightly, as if a lifeline. I felt a strange generosity, an inner peace that was not typical.
The boys were still there, increased in number as a matter of fact, five of them scattered around the statue of the Emperor Napoleon, clearly together, but trying not to appear so. Standing back a fair distance, I stopped Oscar to watch them. A young Corsican near-sighted physician, wealthy and fortunate, walked up to one of the young men: a robust blond fellow with wide shoulders and a wide, confident grin. His dark eyes were deep-set and mistrusting. He appeared between eighteen and twenty. The two spoke with foreheads nearly touching before an agreement was reached and they walked away in the direction of the Rue de Rivoli. They were more blatant in this country. The part of me that was French and Bohemian seemed in conflict with the part that was British and conventional. It was a crime what they were doing, and I could not even claim an unjustifiable one. Yet I was not an agent to change this. Neither official police, nor member of a religious order, nor even philanthropist.
"If ever a man should understand them, Sherlock. You who can sympathize with all that is illegal." He gave a little jerk toward the rabble. "Except for suffering. You cannot sympathize with that."
There was a fear to them that permeated through the overt bravado. Yet there was also a suitable disgust and dullness to each of their eyes that should not have been in ones so young. They spoke in confidant, arrogant voices, rolling their tongues across lips and teeth. They smiled at us as we moved closer to them.
"C'est une belle soiree, est lui pas, monsieur?"2
"L'amabilite n'est pas limitee au survivre a cherie3," said Wilde. I silenced him instantly before focusing my most masterful gaze upon the renters.
"I have no desire to pick you up and further finance your delinquency. I came over to offer you a chance at a respectable life."
The four remaining boys- Amaury the illiterate, and Marceau the syphilitic among them, glanced at each other nervously. "What is your friend saying, Melmouth?"
I did not allow Oscar to answer. "I am saying, Monsieur Marceau, that in all four of you I see despair. You certainly must know where your lives will end if you continue down this path."
They were fluttering about like nervous, caged canaries. Flight seemed on everyone's mind. One actually began to inch away from the pack.
"If you run, I promise you will regret it," said I calmly. Pulling out one of my cards and a pen, I wrote a name on the reverse and handed it to the flighty fellow. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am known to the French authorities here. Monsieur Francois Le Villiard, the gentleman whose name I have written on my card, is a police inspecteurfor whom I once did a tremendous favour. If you present him with this card, he will be obliged to do one for you."
"What can les flics do for us?"
Amaury laughed aloud. "They pay well to fuck us for one! So we don't blow the whistle!"
Ah, the horrors of French manners! I tried to overlook it, remembering that these were practically children I was dealing with. "Yes, well, if that is how you gentlemen choose to employ yourselves, so be it. However, I am offering you a better life."
The flighty boy, whose eyes were dark and twitchy, cocked his head toward Oscar. "Is he quite serious?"
"Oh, always. He is quite unaware that triviality even exists. It is the curse of his people, of course." Oscar paused, and for once it appeared that he was attempting sobriety himself. "My dears, may I suggest…that you heed his advice. This gentleman is one in whose word you can completely rely." I could feel his eyes burning into me. I forced my bearing slightly more erect. It was not part of my character to feel sorry for people. Only the weakest characters used pity as a means of survival.
I had to keep repeating that maxim in my mind to remember it.
The flighty boy, in his peacock coloured suit jacket, read slowly over the name printed on the card several times, but his blank expression suggested that it did not register with him. I wondered if I was making a mistake in giving these lads something with my name on it. Could it be used against me? But my professional services were known, and I could always say that we had had business dealings. Or that it was stolen. I felt reasonably safe.
"I will send word to Monsieur Le Villiard to expect you. Good night, gentlemen," said I, feeling there was little else to say. I gave a slight jerk of my head to my companion.
"We have not said we would go yet," flighty blue boy called.
"Be quiet, Louis," Amaury said to him.
I could hear them talking amongst themselves. I forced Oscar forward. "Do not linger. I have given them the chance. Now they must decide for themselves. You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink."
"That is true enough, and they are the most virile of stallions. But I am not concerned with whether or not they drink the fruits of your benevolence. I am far more interested in why you did it. For everything I know of you tells me that you are the antithesis of myself, and the last thing you would want to do is to categorize yourself with those- the most dangerous of the inverts."
I could not answer that, and even if I could, I knew that I would not. I had categorized-if I had even done that-with the ones who mattered least and saw no reason to fear possible reprisals from a few uneducated prostitutes. "Perhaps I am merely in a philanthropic mood," said I to Oscar.
"Well, it certainly must be the company you keep, then." I smiled, my gaze turning to the Seine glittering along beside us. For the briefest of seconds, I felt a peace with myself that I knew could never come to total actualization. I could never be like Wilde. Nor could I ever be like Amaury, Marceau, Louis and the rest of them. I was made of different stuff, my autonomy carved in stone by my past. I wondered what was best- to have had it all and lost it, as had happened to my companion, or to never have had anything. To neither have loved nor lost.
After a long pace of silence, where the only sound was of our boots on the pavement, Oscar cleared his throat. "They…well, I see those unfortunate lads and I am ashamed. They remind me of my own boys."
I actually thought for a second that he meant the boys he had loved in the past-Lord Alfred, Robbie Ross, John Grey…but of course, logically he meant his sons. I had nearly forgotten he had children. "Your sons are still children."
"Yes, twelve and eleven, in fact. But in a few short years they will be the same age as those dear renters." His eyes fogged and he paused before continuing. "Might one ask why you helped them?"
I knew, of course, what he meant. And so I told him about my irregulars- the Baker Street Irregulars, my little street Arabs, many of whom were forced to do exactly what Amaury and his friends were doing when they found themselves too old for orphanages or petty thievery, too weak to survive the workhouses, un-educated, un-employable and generally without choice as to where they might end up. I tried to help them, but one man can only do so much. And by the time they had reached an age were my occasional hand-out of food and boots, plus a shilling or two was of little use, they would have disappeared into the cesspool of London's backallies to make their living any way possible.
"I was…reminded of young Jack Wiggins," I found myself telling Oscar. "A clever boy, to be sure. He led my irregulars for several years before he reached young manhood. Then he simply appointed another younger boy in charge and I never saw him again."
"This is the same boy from the doctor's stories? He became a child of the night?"
"So his younger brother confessed to me. In my guilt for his situation, I made young Billy my page. We do not speak of his family, but even I am not immune to guilt."
"Or sympathy, after all." Oscar smiled. "You do know, dear boy, that were it not wrong I could love you forever."
"You have picked an appropriate spot to tell me so." I could not look at him, could not see the change in him, how his face had fallen and his eyes had grown cloudy and afraid. I felt his arm barely holding mine and remembered his brazen beauty the day we had met. I remembered how I had been both horrified and fascinated by his manner. So completely the opposite of mine. And yet, somehow, so completely the opposite of Watson's as well.
We drank champagne back at the Marsoiller and my companion collapsed into the purple overstuffed settee, leaving me the hard wicker. I was glad. Comfort was a luxury I could not afford right then. The drink had ceased to be chilled, and there is nothing worse than warm champagne. But Oscar downed one shaky glass after another, until he was bubbling into his hands and half-asleep with rich food, cheap gutter-rot and too much emotion. "I miss them, Sherlock," he said. "My boys. And Constance, too. I hear that…that she is not well. She hasn't been for some time."
I pulled out my cigarette case. For three years, it had been in the possession of the doctor. A good-bye gift, for my sins, a ridiculous memento so he would not forget my rotting bones at the bottom of Reichenbach Falls. Some weeks after I returned, he pushed it into my hand. This should go back to you, Holmes.The look on his face—gloomy was the best word to describe it. His thumb caressed its length for a single second before dropping it into my hand. You might keep it, Watson,I had said, nonchalantly. I can always obtain another.
No, no…his eyes briefly were overtaken with the same hurt look I had seen when I confessed I had not trusted him enough to tell him I was still alive. I had hurt him more than he realised I knew. But he thought me immune to such human emotions as guilt. I am a machine. As lacking in human sympathy as I am pre-eminent in intelligence, or some such rot. In truth, all I am is deuced good actor. I slammed the accursed reminder of my infidelity onto the side table. "Do you know where they are?"
"Mmm…" His bloated face was pink and wet as he shoved more alcohol into it.
"Wilde!" I snapped my fingers at him. "Do try and remain coherent for another moment. Where are your wife and children?"
He looked as me as if he had briefly forgotten who I was. "Why, Switzerland. Constance had written to me. Once. The poor dears." He broke into a fresh round of sobs that I did my best to ignore.
Some short while later, he was asleep, the alcohol making him sound akin to a freight train. I watched him for some time in the dark, smoking three or four cigarettes. I was not in the least tired, although I should have been. When the blackness closes in on my mind, I wish to do nothing but surrender to it, to let it run its course. Now I did not.
I jumped to my feet and began a systematic search of the room. This was done in the dark, as I did not want to risk waking my friend, but I had long ago learned to perfect the various facets of my occupation under all conditions. I found what I was looking for in the drawer of his vanity. The letter had been folded and unfolded many times. The ink and envelope were of a rather poor quality, non-continental. The paper, however, was fine and thick, buttercream in colour and had apparently been purchased on Tite Street, London. The contents of the letter were of little interest too me, save that it had been started and stopped, then continued no less than three times. A hard correspondence to write, no doubt, to the husband who betrayed you. The letters themselves were soft and overtly feminine, but the occasional word was off-centre, or violently bold as if the writer had suddenly been struck by some pain. That fit with what Oscar had said. Although I feared she was even worse than he might imagine.
I at last examined the envelope's post mark. Sori, near Montrieux. Near the French border and Lake Geneva if my geography served. No return address was given, but none would be needed. I carelessly tossed my friend's only remaining connection back in the drawer, sought out my hat, coat and the remaining bits of costume I had applied and left a hastily scribbled note under remains of the bottle. I added to it most of the money I had on my person—some twenty pounds and about a hundred francs. I disappeared into the night. I had no doubt I would never see Oscar again.
At the Gare, I purchased a ticket on a sleeper bound for Zurich, after which I could easily catch an express to Montrieux. I felt the necessity for a private berth, as I could hardly stand to have some imbecile chatting me up about holiday plans. The cabin was completely sterile—dark and cold. I found it perfectly suited to my mood. I allowed myself the luxury of removing my coat and unfastening my collar and cuffs before I collapsed onto the tiny bed and jerked the curtain so that I was hidden. The train rocked me pleasantly back and forth. My mind was far too keyed-up for sleep, but I did manage a period of lethargy that nearly mirrored it. As I studied the red inside of my eyelids, I was recalled back to two very different first meetings:
He was a pitiful thing, brown as a savage and tense as a feral feline. His wounded arm was held back protectively, but he did not shirk at shaking me strongly with his good arm. Loyalty radiated throughout that patched bullet wound, depleted muscle tone and the remains of a wrecked constitution. Loyalty to one's country typically meant loyalty to one's fellows. He was a doctor—but a man compelled to treat his country's injured rather than seek wealth or esteem through a Harley Street practise. Therefore, benevolent and self-sacrificing. I listed to him the faults I possessed that were safe for public ears. He did not object. Surely Stamford would have told him I was something of an insufferable automaton, and that he still was all for sharing diggings meant that he was pliable, un-conventional. Or at least bohemian enough to not mind my own extreme un-conventionality.
He was exactly what I wanted. What I needed. He would lie upon our settee, absent-mindedly massaging his wound and I would tell him so with my violin. It was as close to a true feeling as I dared possess. I was not the sort of fellow to act on a wicked caprice of nature.
Until I met Oscar.
I had read a review of his Dorian Grey while in Paris and wasted no time in obtaining an English copy. The French, of course, prized it highly as they do any bit of naked beauty, but I could imagine what my own country would print in response. They would cluck their tongues, wag their moustaches and utter various three-syllable designations. And they were right, of course. That he would flaunt such a thing as Dorian Grey in public was quite despicable. I was intrigued. More than intrigued. Fascinated. Avert bravado in a bugger. Somehow I found that the two rarely went hand-in-glove.
But, as it became inevitable that I would return to London, I put the matter quite out of my mind. There was Watson's forgiveness to seek and whatever superficial reason I chose to explain my sudden reappearance. However, I soon found myself quite forced to re-think my position because of one Inspector George Lestrade. Of all the damned regulars.
I had been to see him on behalf of a client. I tried to avoid Scotland Yard whenever possible because my arrival there inevitably brought a plethora of stares, side-lipped comments and either the occasional snort of disapproval or wide-eyed forced handshake. The Yard employed a full spectrum of intelligence: from none at all to enough to recognise superiority.
I recall that day, Lestrade, his rodent-like face screwed into total authority, was leading a little parade of two or three constables ushering a dishevelled group of rabble cuffed together. Five young men, donning garish bottle-green or peacock-blue jackets, were being shoved along in order to be processed in. For what crime was obvious. But I pretended to be completely oblivious as I crossed the room, waited for the Inspector's pompous attitude to deflate, and made my presence known.
"How are you, Mr. Holmes?" He asked, distractingly shaking my hand. "I apologise I was late for our appointment, but as you see, my presence was needed elsewhere." He waved his hand.
"Indeed. Five at once. A credit to your erudition, Lestrade. Some sort of gang, is it?"
He looked at me in disbelief. "Are you quite serious, Mr. Holmes?"
"Why shouldn't I be? They look like pick-pockets to me. Surely you checked their pockets. I'm sure the tall one—second from the end—those are surely not his boots. And the one in the middle is clearly wearing the watch of a gentleman."
I smiled inwardly as Lestrade looked puzzled. "Well, they probably are at that. I mean, the type…but they have not been picked up on a charge of theft."
"What then?"
"Why," he leaned in closer to mutter the word close to my ear. I pretended to look shocked. He nodded, quite seriously.
"There's some sort of corrosive atmosphere going about, Mr. Holmes," the Inspector said, motioning me to follow him toward his miniscule office. "I have been with the Force for nigh on two decades now, and I can tell you I haven't seen anything like it. Like rabbits, they seem to be multiplying. You find 'em everywhere—and not just the East End and down by the docks. The parks, by restaurants and shops. Even by the theatres." He paused, grimaced, and collapsed dramatically into his chair.
"Not as though we don't have enough on our plates with the women whores. Lord knows they're bad enough. Not to mention the thieves, forgers, murderers and general ne'er-do-wells. It's enough for a man to think he can never win."
The laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. "Really, Lestrade! You are positively scintillating today! I thought you may have been re-telling The Republicfor a moment, with your views on morality! You make the most convincing Plato."
"You wouldn't think so if you knew how far this…this sickness has penetrated." He stared at me heavily for a brief second, as if he were considering something unfathomable, and I was nearly shocked. Lestrade had a brain after all? But alas, I should have known he did not, for he continued. "Men of…ourclass, Mr. Holmes. Gentlemen.I admit, you hear the odd rumour now and again. A misfit. A black sheep in the family. But this is more than that. It is spreading."
I snorted. He really was an idiot.
He leaned closer, sallow little eyes squished together in consideration. "I could tell you something, Mr. Holmes. Being that you are something of a help occasionally to me and the Yard. I expect that you will see several names you may have heard of very soon. On the front page of the Times, I expect. Charges of…well, you can imagine what."
I nearly blurted out a question that would have been far too suspicious, even for the likes of a Yarder. But I was able to restrain myself. I was always able to restrain myself. A brain whose body was a mere appendage. His brow furrowed and I knew that I had to immediately change the subject. There was nothing to confirm. I knew whom he meant. Changing my expression to one more masterful, I broached the name of the client on whose behalf I was here. Neither of us ever continued our delightful conversation on London's sudden saturation of buggers. But there remained something I knew I ought to act on.
I sent a note addressed to Mr. Oscar Wilde at the Albermarle Club, where the society pages informed me he frequented. I was careful to purchase a common grade of both ink and paper, disguised my handwriting and mailed it rather than risk delivering, even in disguise. I really had little to worry over. There was almost no chance Lestrade would ever catch wind of my betraying his confidence, but I was unwilling to risk it. The note itself was concise—informing him that he ought to be careful of being followed by a certain Inspector. I gave a detailed description.
Of course, I had no reason to think he would heed any advice of an anonymous stranger. No doubt the idea of blackmail had occurred to him by this point; perhaps he had even quietly arranged for a few of his less-than-discreet letters to be stifled. But Lestrade was nothing if not tenacious, and if anything concrete were ever to fall at his feet, he would not be above making a name for himself.
As it happened, the premiere of his Lady Windemere's Fan was set for the following Monday at St James's. Although I had never cared to use my name to garner favours, I found that a discrete word or two would allow me a brief audience with the author.
"Well, Mr…Vernet, I see it is. Did you enjoy the viewing of my genius to-night?"
Like a peacock strutting its beauty. "I found it more transparent than many I have met, Mr. Wilde."
"Really?" The cigarette he had been poised to light hung from his mouth more obviously phallic than most men. "Have you met many?"
"None of your calibre, sir."
He smiled. The smoke slipped through his lips. My mind was revisiting "Dorian Grey" and noticing his own eyes were such. As were mine. And the dead Moriarty. All that was important in my own life was grey. Save one. He was brown as British beef.
The train jostled then, snapping my mind awake. The whistle howled in my ears as we roared into the dark night. I realised my throat was completely parched. I had no energy to go for water, however. Limp as a rag, I tried to ceasing remembering. It was sapping all my vital fluids. And no cocaine to replace them.
It was easy enough to figure out where the professed "Holland" family were staying, as it is with any small village, and in no time at all I had engaged a room direct from the family's apartment in Sori. Why exactly I was here, I had not decided. But I could hardly bear to return to London as yet. The solitude would do me some good.
For the next week, I saw the family, or rather I should say, the children only once, and that was from the window. They had changed from the photographs I had seen of Oscar's, growing as children tend to do. The elder's curls had been shorn away, and at twelve and one half, he had already begun the transformation of growing into his hands and feet. The lines along the jaw had lost their childish pudginess and the brow and chin jutted into early manhood. He walked obstinately, hands on hips, occasionally stopping to shove his younger brother along.
The younger seemed reluctant to fight back, taking the elder's abuse in good stride. Ah! How well I remembered the strife I had with my own brother, though I was never quite as abiding as Master Vyvyan. He still had his father's dark looks, albeit more delicately put together. At barely eleven, he was still plucked in childhood, all arms and teeth, but both were handsome lads. Surely Oscar would have wept to see them.
I made a routine of rising early, taking café and the occasional bürli4 or croissant at a restaurant across the street. From there, I had a view of the entire main street and came to be quite familiar with the comings and goings of the handful of inhabitants. They were all like isolated icebergs, smiling at me as they floated by but not in the least interested in my occupation of the small table by the window, left center. I was free to observe the nearsighted schoolmistress who was in love with the invert parish priest, the clubfooted young carpenter and his wife, who was really his sister, and my personal favourite, the middle-aged, web-fingered farmer with gout who was rather too much attached to his Franches-Montagne.5I now saw love everywhere. Perverted, superfluous love.
Another week went by before I decided I had to speak to them. I could have been lost in my misery of the randomness of life, but there was no syringe to make me forget. No. Mustn't resort to that. Better to rely on my own actions to dilute the black water pooling into my brain.
There were a dozen or so other children in the village of approximately the same age and status, yet they only went about with each other. They never spoke to anyone, save an elderly French matron who poked at them with a long rosewood walking-stick. They were so completely friendless. Alone. Very much their father's sons.
They went into the woods most afternoons, throwing a rugby ball about or playing at singlestick with tree branches. They barely looked at me as I approached them. I considered speaking to them in French, as it was the language of Montrieux, pretending that I was a native. But I could not lie to them. They had been lied to so much already.
"Good-afternoon, boys."
Cyril jumped to his feet and moved a step in front of his younger brother, protectively. "Who are you?"
Surprised at my English, no doubt. "Tsk. Manners, dear boy. Is that how one speaks to his elder? I am…merely someone who hopes to be a friend to you both."
I was rewarded for this with looks of suspicion. "We don't have any friends," young Vyvyan spoke up.
"Really? And do you know why that is?"
The younger shook his head slowly. A tabula rasa. But Master Cyril's chin jutted out and his expression darkened considerably. He knew. He knew.The corner of my mouth twitched. How could one no pity a child faced with such a knowledge that he could not possibly understand yet had to live with for the rest of his life? I leaned heavily on my stick, considering.
If only I could force understanding from my own brain into his dark eyes. But how does one explain a sympathy that so few men in our age possess? And to a child at that. I was certain it would take a wiser, braver man than even myself to risk it. The best course seemed to be to avoid the truth until I decided just what in the name of Heaven I hoped to accomplish here.
"I had heard there was an English family staying here in Sori," I explained. "And although my knowledge of French is adequate, I longed to speak our Mother Tongue with my countrymen again. Might I impose upon you lads to accompany me to the chocoláterie? I should like to treat you both."
Vyvyan immediately took a step toward me, only to be called back by his more cautious brother. "Mother wouldn't like out going anywhere with a stranger."
"But I want some chocolate."
Cyril smacked his brother's arm, shaking his head.
"Indeed your brother is most correct. You would do well to listen to him. We must stop at your flat and ask your parents' permission first." I intentionally emphasised the word 'parents' to gage the reaction. Master Vyvyan skipped down to the path, bidding me to follow him. Master Cyril flinched as if he had been slapped.
The Holland's flat was a dismal little affair of various portmanteaus and valises strung about, some unpacked and some in disarray. Packing cartons were piled up in the centre room, trying to look unobtrusive. The walls were bare. The furniture—which consisted of a sofa, one armchair, a sidebar and china cabinet—gleamed in the soft lighting with cleanliness, but no flowers, no pictures. No misshapen lumps of artwork by adoring sons. This was a family with no past and whose future hinged on remaining so. For the first time, I felt something for them akin to what I felt for Oscar.
The boys brought me in to their mother, who was sitting on the sofa propped up by several pillows, knitting rapidly. Concern flooded her eyes as they were laid upon me and she immediately set aside her craft. I bade her not to rise.
"Cyril," she said in an uneven voice, reaching for his arm. "What is this?"
The look upon her face clearly made one think that what she really wanted to say was what have you done?"Forgive my intrusion, ma'am. My name is Vernet. I had met your sons in the wood surrounding this place. Well, in truth, I knew that there was an English family staying here, as the mistress of the Sümstang Haus where I am staying made a point in telling me. I am from Cornwall, myself."
"Oh." Her face coloured slightly in relief. "I see. How nice to meet you, Mr. Vernet."
"Indeed. You see, I have been away from Our Home for some time—nearly four years in fact. And it is gratifying to be amongst countrymen once again."
"Four years!" She looked even more placated.
"Yes. My profession requires me to travel a great deal. This past year I have been working as undersecretary to one of our diplomats in Lyón. Fascinating man. And before that, I travelled with Lord Essingham and family as the tutor of their two young lads, before they attended Eton, that is. He was the provincial governor of Assam, in India. And before that"—I purposively stopped and smiled. "Forgive me. How I do seem to be going on. You certainly do not want my entire employment history."
"Oh…oh, no. But…I am sure it is fascinating work. The boys would enjoy hearing about India. You will stay and take tea with us?"
"I would very much like to, ma'am. But I see you are otherwise occupied and have no wish to put you out. Would it be equitable to you if I were to take the lads here out for some chocolate? Then we would all be out of your hair, as it were."
"May we, Mother?" Vyvyan bounced up from the sofa.
She looked them over. Cyril picked at some lint on his jacket and offered no opinion. "Well. You will have them home before too long, Mr. Vernet?"
"My word, ma'am." I offered her a chivalrous smile that on occasion I have allowed Watson to glimpse. He has told me it is quite charming, or at least said something to the fact that I could be with the fair sex when I so desired. The fair sex is your departmentI had snapped at him. But he never read anything into that.
Mrs. Holland did rise as I shook her hand to leave, and she was very awkward getting to her feet. A spinal lesion? Or perhaps a cracked vertebra? Some sort of injury that had never healed correctly. Colossally painful, to be sure. In a moment of whimsy I cursed the fates that she had not had the good sense to marry someone more like my Watson, who would no doubt be here with her this very moment holding her hand, bringing her a warm drink, gently tucking her in at night and never dreaming of taking any sort of husbandly liberties. The sort of everyman needed to complete any pastoral image. But not meant to be.
"Will you tell us about India, Mr. Vernet?" The younger brother asked me as we paraded down the street.
"Certainly, I will. It may interest you to know that I once dined in a tent with the Raj Perjahan, who was an avid hunter and friend of my employer. While we were about our pudding, there came to be a loud rustling outside. And then a sort of hissing growl"—
Master Cyril was looking at me now.
"I managed to usher both the Raj and my master out of the tent before it was ripped to shreds. The Raj, however, immediately sent his servant for his rifle and he fired several shots into where previous we had sat, enjoying a delicious gateau. The whole structure collapsed and there was a most obnoxious noise. Rather like a lady screaming, I should liken it to."
"What was it?"
Master Vyvyan's eyes were like saucers at my story. I never would have thought that I was one to placate children with tales, but apparently all the lonely hours of my own childhood spent amusing myself had some purpose after all. "Oh, a Bengal tiger. A young male, not two years old. Biggest one I ever saw at that age. Teeth as long as a .303 British cartridge." I stretched two fingers to an unfeasible length for teeth.
"Did you have it stuffed?"
"To be sure. Unfortunately, I was nay in a position to keep it. The Raj presented it to Lord Essingham, my employer. A beautiful specimen it was, too. He used it as a rug in his study once he had been home to London."
We arrived at the chocoláterie, run by some ancient maid, ironically substantial in the hips, and a sufferer from gout, who served us with two mugs of steaming chocolate and cream and a café for myself. We settled into a window bench and I watched them, observing. The younger drank with a vigour worthy of my brother, while the elder sipped manfully, his light eyes studying his changing reflection in the glass. His mind was obviously far away.
I snapped it back. "Tell me, lads—where is your father?"
Crude of me, to be sure. Unworthy even. But it is equally unworthy to prolong the pain of a farce when there is an avenue for advancement. And it thought it necessary to explore this new avenue.
Cyril slammed his mug down. Vyvyan looked at him, eyes wide. He inched his spine slightly straighter. No answer followed.
"Oh, dear. I am sorry. I see that I spoke out of turn. Your expressions are clear enough. Is he…is he deceased?"
"Yes," said Master Cyril in a monotone. His brother nodded his accession.
"My apologies. Were I more observant I would have noticed your mother's lack of wedding ring. I sometimes miss trifles such as this. Has it been very long?"
"Four years." Cyril said this the same moment his brother added, "He did a bad thing and was in gaol."
I have never seen such a change come over a boy. His pubescent face reddened and he smacked the younger boy hard enough to cause a flinch in myself. Poor, ignorant Vyvyan cried out, his first instinct seeming to be retaliation as he raised a fist, but I quickly intervened, clasping his arm in my hand, reminding them to behave like gentlemen and not heathens. "Here, here, boys. This will not do in public. Remember that you are Englishmen. Now, now, there must be no hard feelings."
Both boys glared at each other. I bade them to shake hands and they did so, but clearly for my own sake. "We all make mistakes in life. Clearly your father did just that, but I am sure were he here, he would not desire his sons to fight over his honour. I am sure that he loved the both of you and your mother. It matters little that he committed some wrong-doing. You are both fine lads and your mother is a genuine lady. You need feel no shame."
This mollified them and they ceased there hateful glares. The rest of the afternoon was far more pleasant as Oscar's sons drank there way through another mug of chocolate apiece and I delighted them with more imaginary tales of the exploits of Mr. Vernet. Watson himself would have been bemused with my romances—given the many times I had berated him for such a fault in his own writings. There was not so much of a difference as one might think. I was amusing children and he the great, childlike masses.
The sun was beginning its descent when we vacated the shop—illuminating the crust of snow blanketing the glorious Alps with which we were at its very doorstep. The air had taken on a distinct chill. I felt it as I studied the capped head of the eldest Holland boy. His hands were buried deep in his pockets. Every crack and stone in the road held an interest for him. The sagging shoulders, the razor-thin frown. I had a sudden memory. One I had tried to remove permanently, but like a child's half-erased slate, it still held a ghostly impression. A similar boy: bright, alone, forced to deal with issues no child should have a mind for. I allowed a heavy breath. Well. 'If it were done, than 'twere well it were done quickly' as Macbeth said, pondering murder.
"Master Vyvyan? Would you be kind enough to run ahead and make sure your mother is alright? I fear I may have inadvertently kept you away from her longer than I intended."
Not young or naïve enough to believe me, he nevertheless sped away with no less than three glances over a shoulder. I waited until his footfalls could no longer be heard. "Master Cyril," said I. "I am sorry to tell you I have deceived you. You see, I am actually a detective in the employment of your father. He hired me to find you." Ah! A lie replaces a lie. The poor child. But as the words spilled from my lips, I realised how much truth there was in what I was saying. Hardly a lie at all.
He stared at me and said nothing. Such anger. His chin twitched and his hand folded into a fist. I had seen such a look before taking a cross to the face in my boxing days. I grabbed his arm in anticipation of exactly this. "Let go of me, you…you…"
But no expletive followed.
"You can say it if you wish."
"I don't have to! You know what you are!"
I could have nearly smiled if it had not been so inappropriate. I gripped his arm tighter as he continued to fight me. I spoke directly into those dark eyes. Oscar's eyes. "You will hear what I have to say before running."
"I don't have to listen to you!"
"Yet you will hear me out, nonetheless. Cyril, I know that you understand a great many things about what has happened to you. Or rather you think you do. But you are in a situation to see only the pain caused to yourself, your brother and your mother. You know nothing of the pain your father is suffering."
"I hope he is suffering! He betrayed us!"
"He did. But he has been betrayed as well. By those he loved and by a country he has done much for. The price he paid for that betrayal is the loss of love you once had for him. And now, as his health rapidly declines, he feels the pain that only one who has lost everything can feel."
Cyril at last pulled his arm free, took a step and hesitated. The pain of having been forced to remember all the pain bottled-up within his young brain was making him shake. He would have been in tears had he not reached an age the discouraged young men from such emotional outbursts. But his eyes were pink. "Why does he want to know where we are?" he asked, his back still turned from me. "I won't allow him to hurt Mama more than she is. And Vyvyan thinks he is dead."
"I've no doubt he soon will be." My lips pursed. It was a thought I had not dwelled on, but realised. One need not possess much medical knowledge to know that Wilde's health was wrecked from gaol—and his drinking was exacerbating his condition.
I thought he might say "good," run off, and be done with me. Could one blame him? Not I. But he did not. Rather, he stood a few paces in front of me, digging at the ground with one boot toe. I allowed him the moment. To consider. He was like young Wiggins. A lad faced with a decision he should never have had to face, but life had forced upon him. Whether to betray ones morals and instincts in order to survive. And the instinct for survival is the strongest one that a human possesses.
"I won't see him," the boy asserted. "I must protect Mama and Vyv."
"I should think 'seeing' him is something impossible in this life, Cyril."
"What does he want then?"
Forgiveness. No doubt. As do we all for our sins. You have my most sincere apologies, Watson.I looked into his dark eyes as I shed the remains of my bookseller costume and saw relief. Joy. But pain as well.I would have thought I was at least as trustworthy as your brother.A thousand times more so. But you have a kinder heart.His hands shook as he shoved them into his pockets. I had regained his friendship. His partnership. His camaraderie. But not his trust.
Not his forgiveness.
"I doubt he expects forgiveness. But perhaps a chance to say good-bye is called for."
He nodded and mumbled something under his voice I couldn't make out. He then proceeded to burst into tears,despite his, much to my discomfiture. If Watson were there, he would know what to say to comfort the lad. As it were, I could only stand there, resting a hand on his shoulder and wish I had kept a promise made years ago to never form any sort of attachment to another person. At that moment, it seemed best.
The envelope read "Mr. Vernet" in a childish scrawl, one who paid little attention to his writing master. I opened it, transferring the single page to a separate address: Mr. Sebastian Melmouth. Just before arriving back in London, as I switched for Victoria Station, I slipped the note into a mailbox with adequate postage. I was egotistical to hope it would do more good than harm.
Dear Papa
I along with my brother (your son) and our Mother are all well. Though Mama is occasionally down with pain in her back. I and Vyvyan try to be good soldiers for her and take care of her good. We expect to ship off to school in Germany soon and though we will be separated we will do all right. Mister Vernet said you are in France. I should like first rate to see France some day. Have you gone to the Moner Lisa or done the Iffel tower? Vyv says that he should like to spit off it and see how far it goes. But don't worry—I told him he couldn't for fear he may land it on someones head. Mister Vernet also says that you may be dying soon and I am sorry. He says we cannot see you and I guess that is best but sometimes I remember your stories and I wish I could see you. I guess I remember you more than Vyvyan since I am older, but I tell him about all the good stories you told and he likes them. I guess I wish you could write me back but I know you shan't. I hope you remember us sometimes. We will be good and say our prayers and remember our duty to Mama.
Love from your son,
Cyril Holland
1 Sight of a famous (or infamous) sex scandal in 1889 involving telegram boys. Wilde makes reference to it in TPoDG
2 It is a beautiful evening, is it not, mister?
3 The beauty (amiability) is not limited to the weather, my dear
4 Type of small Swiss bread
5 A popular breed of Swiss horse