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Authors: Carole Nelson Douglas
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Persian slipper filled with pipe shag and his most recent correspondence transfixed with a jackknife.
“That is a fine photograph of her,” Stoker said warmly. “Quite the most beautiful woman I ever met, with apologies to Ellen Terry, my own wife Florence, whom you also admired, Oscar, and your own Constance.”
“Beautiful, yes,” I began, about to explain that she was also very dead, when the door from the stairway opened and there stood Holmes in his usual London garb of top hat and cutaway coat.
He doffed the hat at once and welcomed the assemblage with one of his swift, tight smiles. “Watson! How clever of you to arrive in such a timely fashion to greet my guests.”
I had the opposite impression, and stood. “I could see if Mrs. Hudson can offer us some refreshment.”
“Capital idea, Watson. I just arrived on the boat train from Paris this morning and would welcome sustenance. Gentlemen?”
Both men shook their heads with a smile. “No,” Stoker said. “We both are needed at the theater, and only stopped by to see you beforehand.”
“Then Watson and I shall make a picnic of it, eh, old fellow! Do see what Mrs. Hudson can tempt us with. She is a jewel at sudden meals, which my work demands. There’s a good chap.”
I very much had the impression of a child being sent to bed while the adults begin to discuss the most interesting matters. But off I went, hoping that Holmes would let me know the reason for this astounding visit later.
Mrs. Hudson was the sort of landlady, and cook, who reveled in rising to occasions. I left her happily planning a tasty if impromptu repast, which somewhat made up for my speedy dismissal by Holmes.
Once again I climbed the stairs and wondered at my welcome.
The two men were standing, as though taking their leave.
“We were just saying,” Wilde noted, “before Dr. Watson went to see to supper, what a splendid likeness of Irene Adler that is. I should have composed an ode to her years ago. She is the female equivalent of a Stradivarius, is she not, Holmes?”
“Watson is the expert on the fair sex,” Holmes answered hastily. “I must keep my mind unclouded by such aspects as beauty. I do, in fact, find women as a whole to be clever but unreliable.”
“Unreliability is their most charming attribute, my dear Holmes,” Wilde said. “The reliable is vastly overrated, far too unpredictable to count upon. Would you ask the wind to blow in four-four time? So, Dr. Watson.” Wilde turned to me with a slight smile. “Do you bow with every man of sensibility to the divine beauty of the lovely diva?”
“A fine figure of a woman, no doubt, but—” I said, about to point out that she was dead.
“No ‘buts,’ Watson!” Holmes interrupted me. “Wilde is the day’s supreme connoisseur of beauty. Be flattered that he approves of your taste. A pity you cannot stay,” Holmes told our visitors.“I have a rather good claret, but . . . a theater curtain waits for no man. It is interesting that you are beginning to write fiction, Stoker. My friend Watson has had some success in that direction.”
“Really?” Wilde sounded so astounded I felt an immediate need to defend my efforts.
“Not pure fiction,” I said hastily. “I am minded to write up some of Holmes’s most interesting cases, with the actual names and places disguised, of course.”
“Of course not! ” Wilde responded enthusiastically. “My dear doctor, actual names and places are what make for fictional success. So what have you written, or, more to the point, had published?”
“ Beeton’s Christmas Annual featured ‘A Study in Scarlet,’ which was released last year as a novel.”
“The title has an artistic implication I adore, and ‘scarlet’ is such a divinely lurid word. Was there murder in it?”
“Indeed, and much misbehavior by the Mormons in the American West, which led to a transatlantic quest for vengeance that devoured many years before the villains of the case were
“That is a fine photograph of her,” Stoker said warmly. “Quite the most beautiful woman I ever met, with apologies to Ellen Terry, my own wife Florence, whom you also admired, Oscar, and your own Constance.”
“Beautiful, yes,” I began, about to explain that she was also very dead, when the door from the stairway opened and there stood Holmes in his usual London garb of top hat and cutaway coat.
He doffed the hat at once and welcomed the assemblage with one of his swift, tight smiles. “Watson! How clever of you to arrive in such a timely fashion to greet my guests.”
I had the opposite impression, and stood. “I could see if Mrs. Hudson can offer us some refreshment.”
“Capital idea, Watson. I just arrived on the boat train from Paris this morning and would welcome sustenance. Gentlemen?”
Both men shook their heads with a smile. “No,” Stoker said. “We both are needed at the theater, and only stopped by to see you beforehand.”
“Then Watson and I shall make a picnic of it, eh, old fellow! Do see what Mrs. Hudson can tempt us with. She is a jewel at sudden meals, which my work demands. There’s a good chap.”
I very much had the impression of a child being sent to bed while the adults begin to discuss the most interesting matters. But off I went, hoping that Holmes would let me know the reason for this astounding visit later.
Mrs. Hudson was the sort of landlady, and cook, who reveled in rising to occasions. I left her happily planning a tasty if impromptu repast, which somewhat made up for my speedy dismissal by Holmes.
Once again I climbed the stairs and wondered at my welcome.
The two men were standing, as though taking their leave.
“We were just saying,” Wilde noted, “before Dr. Watson went to see to supper, what a splendid likeness of Irene Adler that is. I should have composed an ode to her years ago. She is the female equivalent of a Stradivarius, is she not, Holmes?”
“Watson is the expert on the fair sex,” Holmes answered hastily. “I must keep my mind unclouded by such aspects as beauty. I do, in fact, find women as a whole to be clever but unreliable.”
“Unreliability is their most charming attribute, my dear Holmes,” Wilde said. “The reliable is vastly overrated, far too unpredictable to count upon. Would you ask the wind to blow in four-four time? So, Dr. Watson.” Wilde turned to me with a slight smile. “Do you bow with every man of sensibility to the divine beauty of the lovely diva?”
“A fine figure of a woman, no doubt, but—” I said, about to point out that she was dead.
“No ‘buts,’ Watson!” Holmes interrupted me. “Wilde is the day’s supreme connoisseur of beauty. Be flattered that he approves of your taste. A pity you cannot stay,” Holmes told our visitors.“I have a rather good claret, but . . . a theater curtain waits for no man. It is interesting that you are beginning to write fiction, Stoker. My friend Watson has had some success in that direction.”
“Really?” Wilde sounded so astounded I felt an immediate need to defend my efforts.
“Not pure fiction,” I said hastily. “I am minded to write up some of Holmes’s most interesting cases, with the actual names and places disguised, of course.”
“Of course not! ” Wilde responded enthusiastically. “My dear doctor, actual names and places are what make for fictional success. So what have you written, or, more to the point, had published?”
“ Beeton’s Christmas Annual featured ‘A Study in Scarlet,’ which was released last year as a novel.”
“The title has an artistic implication I adore, and ‘scarlet’ is such a divinely lurid word. Was there murder in it?”
“Indeed, and much misbehavior by the Mormons in the American West, which led to a transatlantic quest for vengeance that devoured many years before the villains of the case were
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