'But is Constance understanding? Is she not just docile and rather ignorant?'

Well, dear readers, the Blog is lingering in the 1890s because this week we've had another anniversary: Oscar Wilde's birthday, 16th October. He's famous for his witty plays and stories, his Aesthetic lifestyle, and (of course) has become a gay icon and martyr. Sometimes people forget he had a wife and two sons. 

                                    

His spouse, Constance has often been sidelined by Wilde's biographers as a dull 'mumsy' figure to be pitied or disdained. Our own Rohase Piercy's The Coward Does It With A Kiss challenges this view with a fascinating, insightful fictional 'autobiography'. We discover not only that Mrs Wilde was far more than a dutiful wife and mother but also, perhaps, what she really knew about her husband.

It's 1891. Let us join Constance as she passes by the drawing room in the Wildes' exquisite House Beautiful and accidentally eavesdrops on Oscar and his friends.

                                                        _________________________________

And now let me test your memory, Oscar. Let me see whether I cannot conjure up your past for you better than you can yourself. Voices in the drawing room – Lionel Johnson’s, Robbie’s, John Gray’s, and yours; June sunlight in the passageway outside; tinkling glasses, laughter, and the smell of Alexandrian tobacco.

‘Oh! No, Oscar, this is too much. How, after Dorian – it will be going from the sublime to the ridiculous. Besides, you cannot base a whole play upon the unrequited lust of an Israelite princess, not in this day and age.’

‘Why ever not? The West End Theatre, my dear Lionel, thrives on unrequited lust. Look at any play you care to mention, and you will find that lust is the very pivot upon which the action turns!’

‘Yes, but a Biblical theme …’

‘Oh, lust is a very Biblical theme! And anyway, I intend to make her Persian rather than Israelite. Poetic licence, my dear, the prerogative of Genius. The Israelites had no appreciation of sin.’

‘No, they quite disapproved of it, I’m told -‘

‘Whereas the Persians toasted the delights of the flesh in sugared wine, offered in chalices of jade and silver by sloe-eyed boys with dusky skin and rose-leaf lips …’

‘Robbie, what utter drivel. What do you know of Persia?’

‘As much as you, I dare say, Dorian. I was merely offering a humble tribute to the exquisite style and taste

of our host here.’

‘A very poor imitation then. And please don’t call me Dorian.’

‘Mr Gray then, if we must be formal …’

‘Oh Oscar really, can’t you stop him?’

‘Stop him? But why? He is so charming with vine leaves in his hair. At least he had the foresight to arrive suitably arrayed in leafy clusters, whereas you and Lionel are both constrained to borrow from me.’

‘At half past eleven in the morning?’

‘It is gone noon, I assure you. Let us toast the glorious noon with some more of this golden nectar. Lionel?’

‘Oscar, how can I refuse you?’

‘Never try. John?’

‘It is just gone half past eleven. I looked at my watch not five minutes ago.’

‘I will not have to do with guests who consult their watches in my presence. But if you insist, let us look

at mine – there, you see – the bawdy hand of the dial is e’en now upon the prick of noon.’

‘Oh, really!’

‘The Immortal Bard’s words, not mine! And am I not right? You see how time flies when you are listening

to me? And now, are you going to drink some more of my sherry?

‘Oh, very well …’

‘There’s no need to be so ungracious about it dear, just because I was right and you were wrong. Petulance does sometimes become you, but not today. Today, let all be sweetness and light! Robbie, my sweet goblin, what have you been doing this morning? How came you thus to anticipate us? Robert, it is too tiresome when you giggle like that instead of replying to my questions. How can I discuss with you the delicious wantonness of Salome when you sit there gurgling like an overflowing waste pipe? I shall be forced to conclude that you need the services of a plumber … oh really, what a vulgar sense of humour. Do try and pull yourself together dear, and let us converse about serious matters. What were we just discussing?’

‘Lust, Oscar.’

‘Oh, surely not!’

‘Persia. The West End Theatre.’

‘The sins of both are the same …’

‘Hic sunt poma Sodomorum – your words, I believe Lionel – ah, the Cities of the Plain! Yes, it was just such a cradle that rocked Salome …’

‘I really don’t see why. Dorian, perhaps, but a Persian princess?’

‘There is a little of the Persian princess in most of us, don’t you think?’

‘Oh Oscar, how perceptive of you! I’ve been trying to keep it a secret!’

‘Not in you, Robbie. A Persian princess would have more dignity. She certainly would not sit huddled at one end of a divan smirking tipsily to herself at half past – whatever it is in the morning. And you have never answered my question. Where have you been?’

‘Nowhere! I arose from my downy couch and came straight here to you. Last night, however -‘

‘Ah, no, I don’t want to hear it. Never refer to the night before! That should be a golden rule amongst all who take pleasure seriously.’

Laughter. The chink of glasses as more sherry is poured. You are determined to keep centre stage, as always.

‘So now seriously, Oscar. You have delighted us all with your subtlety in two wonderful stories which no-one else would have had the audacity to write, let alone publish – I mean The Portait of Mr W. H. and Dorian, of course – and now you announce that you will fling aside the mask of double entrendre to reveal – what? A wanton girl and a reluctant prophet? Don’t you realise how you will have disappointed us all?'

‘I have no doubt that my Salome will be a great disappointment to the shallow-minded, to those concerned only with the particular and not with the delicious conglomeration of the universal.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning the sins of the flesh, dear boy! A veritable feast! The apples of Sodom and the apples of Eden, served at the same banquet! There is the rest of the human race to consider, after all.’

‘As to that, I really neither know nor care. That is an opinion on which we must part company, I think.’

‘So soon? My poor John, you have your whole life ahead of you, and you will find the world a hard, inhospitable place when they expel you from Eden.’

‘You think I am going to change? Or compromise my nature? Because I can assure you, Oscar – ‘

‘No, no, I am merely saying that an artist must take his material from the whole of human experience. Especially if he is to produce West End plays.’

‘Ah, there you have it. You compromise, in order to please the vulgar masses.’

‘Certainly I wish my talents to have universal acknowledgement. Genius cannot thrive in a backwater.’

‘A backwater! You disappoint me, Oscar.’

‘What! Because I am reluctant to leave my house, my family, my Art, and elope with you to some seedy little lair in Bayswater?’

‘There’s no need to refer to that. I take back any such proposal. I am disappointed because you mean to have your cake and eat it too.’

‘I most certainly do! I would consider it foolish and unimaginative not to!’

‘Oh! So you consider us all to be foolish, and unimaginative?’

‘Of course he does not, John, stop trying to provoke him. You are determined to create a deliberate misunderstanding …’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, and don’t adopt that peevish tone with me. Life is a rich tapestry, and Oscar is the richer for bring blessed with children, and an understanding wife.’

‘Thank you Robbie. Your vine leaves become you. I do consider myself blessed.’

‘But is Constance understanding? Is she not just docile, and rather ignorant?’

‘Constance, docile? You would not say that if you knew her!’

There is a edge to your laughter; and I meanwhile am trembling with rage. Beneath that golden exterior, John Gray is every bit as ugly as his namesake’s hidden portrait. Docile and ignorant! And he so fawning and flattering to my face!

‘Oh, so she knows, does she, where you spend the nocturnal hours?’

‘I would consider it demeaning both to my wife and to myself to discuss such matters. We have an excellent understanding. She pursues her interests, and I pursue mine.’

‘Oh come on, Oscar. You mean that she consoles herself with good works in Whitechapel, and plays at Liberal politics with eccentric old women!’

‘John.’

‘It is all right, Robbie dear. It takes more than a little petulance to upset me. I am not Basil Hallward, and he is not Dorian, as he so rightly says. Now let us forget these petty quarrels and speak of Salome. I can promise you, you will not be disappointed, whatever you may think of the subject matter. It is to be written in French …’

‘In French! Ah, so this is the outcome of your sojourn in Paris!’

‘But of course! No artist can visit that delightful city without bathing in the spring of inspiration that bubbles up from its very foundations … ah, it is the cradle of Decadence. Salome was conceived in Paris, and I shall return thither to attend her birth.’

‘I thought you said she was rocked on the Cities of the Plain!’

‘And so she shall be, Lionel my dear. One generally rocks the baby after it is born .. at least, that is my experience. But as for the Cities of the Plain, surely Paris is one of them? Yes, I shall go back in the autumn.’

This is news to me. I had hoped your long absences were over for this year. The whole of February and March, and most of May – and you did not write very often.

And yes, I already harbour suspicions as to where you spend the ‘nocturnal hours’. They are not the suspicions I once harboured, and I have allowed myself to feel grateful for that; to feel fortunate, even, in comparison with other neglected wives … 

Docile, and ignorant! Only Robbie has any true respect for me … why can you not find another friend like him?

I have not been to Paris since our honeymoon.

I tread carefully on the stairs, past the half-open door, on my way to the sanctuary of my room. The sunlight has moved; a shadow steals across the upper landing. Just before I retreat from earshot, Lionel Johnson is saying –

‘Oh by the way Oscar, there is a young cousin of mine who would very much like to meet you. He’s just up at Oxford from Winchester, and he claims to have read Dorian nine times running! He’ll be in London for part of the Summer vacation …’

Dr Watson meets Aleister Crowley

Well, it's October, so we can quite reasonably start to feature a bit of spookiness on the blog. And also, it's 'Crowleymass', as some people call it. Aleister Crowley, the celebrated enfant terrible of Twentieth Century Occultism, was born on 12th October 1875. To coincide with this date, we have an extract from The Compact, Charlie Raven's complex and creepy mystery novel, in which a lonely Dr Watson gets involved with Crowley as he attempts to clear an innocent man of murder.

In 1898, the 23 year old Crowley (above) was right at the beginning of his career. Brilliant, wealthy and flamboyant, he was already mastering the teachings of the Esoteric Order of the Golden Dawn. Secretly he was also in the midst of a passionate, short-lived love affair with the extraordinary Jerome Pollitt. Pollitt - the inspiration for a novel by E.F.Benson - was a rich patron of Aubrey Beardsley, a president of the Footlights Club in Cambridge, and celebrated as a remarkable female impersonator.  In the section below, our Dr Watson visits Crowley's apartment for the first time. We have been assured that all the details of Crowley's decor and practices at this time are historically correct. H'mm. As Weird Sisters, we are not of nervous dispositions as a rule, but we're not sure that we would have felt entirely comfortable with the skeleton in the corner ...

We hope you enjoy this extract and, well, happy Crowleymass!🕷

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The afternoon had brightened with a whisper of early spring as Dr Watson stood on the doorstep of 67 Chancery Lane. He was not entirely sure what he was going to say to Crowley or even if he wanted to make the strange fellow’s acquaintance again. 

In his published works, Watson often played up the fact that Holmes was wont to amuse himself at the expense of his friend’s slower intellect. It made for a lighter element in the stories, but the jibes were unjust - after all, very few minds could keep up with the intellect of Sherlock Holmes. But in truth, Dr Watson had the advantage not only of intelligence but also of sympathetic insight. 

Consequently, he had already assessed Aleister Crowley in the following way: 

(a) impulsive; (b) a show-off; (c) intent on épatant les bourgeois; (d) probably ingesting certain substances, affecting mood, energy, judgement; (e) unusual, brilliant, cocksure. 

Having lived for so long with his detective friend, who happened to share most of these characteristics (including an occasionally substantial cocaine habit), Watson was quite prepared to deal with all of them.

Crowley seemed to be expecting him - or at least was not at all surprised to see him. He was wearing a black silk dressing gown draped over his clothes and had clearly been engaged in writing: there was a thick sheaf of yellow foolscap on the desk in front of the window and a silver fountain pen lying on the blotter. A pile of books lay beside it, their spines turned towards the room as if on display. Watson managed to read a couple of names discreetly: The Cloud upon the Sanctuary and The Book of Black Magic and of Pacts. Someone had also been burning incense and possibly something else, as the air was thick with a heavy fragrance. Watson’s quick glance round the room registered an ornate sheesha-pipe or hookah on a low table in the corner. The rest of the room boasted as extraordinary a collection of bizarrerie as Holmes himself could have displayed. 

‘This is my London place,’ said Crowley, removing a newspaper and several periodicals from an armchair so that Watson could sit down. ‘I’m sorry Pollitt isn’t here to greet you. He thinks he needs a rest in the country and he took himself off this morning. Anyway, bit of peace and quiet, gives me a chance to get on with my work. I’m thinking of moving in here permanently, after I finish at Trinity. If I finish at Trinity.’

‘A medical student, are you?’ asked Watson, eyeing the human skeleton arranged in the corner.

‘Oh, no. Moral Science. But you refer to our friend over there? No, that is entirely part of an on-going experiment in ritual necromancy. My friend Bennett and I feed him songbirds and little cups of blood.’

Watson knew that Crowley was watching his reaction closely so he just smiled politely.

‘Do sit down!’ Crowley said. ‘Would you care for champagne, doctor? Absinthe? Cocaine?’

‘For a man who ingests so much poison, sir, you show no sign of muscle-wastage. I would hazard a guess that you enjoy a sport. Perhaps mountaineering?’

‘Clever guess,’ said Crowley cheerfully, settling onto a velvet couch. ‘No doubt you noticed the magazines I just stuffed into the rack?’

‘I will not deny it, Mr Crowley. Not to mention, if I may add, the equipment listed on the scrap of paper projecting from beneath your magic book. I notice the ink is smudged – perhaps it was not quite dry when you thrust it away? You need not be ashamed of good health and vigour,’ Watson smiled. ‘But let us work together honestly. Let you not try to shock and terrify me quite so much and I will not force middle-aged medical opinion upon you. Does that sound reasonable?’ 

Crowley looked at Watson with an amused air. ‘I predicted that you would come to me, Dr Watson. It is therefore reasonable to assume that you have information regarding George Arden.’

‘Indeed. A prediction – or a suggestion – which proves true. I know that Holmes would clear this matter up in a trice. But he is engaged in an investigation of the utmost secrecy, the ramifications of which may reach even to the Tsar in Russia. I cannot contact him now or divulge any clue as to his whereabouts.’

‘I imagine he’s in Russia, then? I was there last summer, learning the language. A beautiful city, St Petersburg. I’m thinking of becoming a spy, you know. Is he doing a little spying at the moment?’

‘No,’ said Watson. ‘I have no further information myself at present. Anyway, it’s beside the point. The desperate appeal of a friend of Mr Arden’s moved me to take a closer look at the case. Since you’ve made it clear that you have a keen interest in it yourself, it seemed logical to speak to you. But before we proceed, may I ask why the interest?’

 ‘Why should you ask why?’

‘Because it is important that both of us are as impartial and committed to uncovering the truth as a detective should be. What if, for example, we come across evidence that Arden is indeed guilty of this or worse crimes? We must then turn over our evidence to the police. Do you see?’

‘Of course I see. And I understand your line of reasoning. I agree we must be impartial, although we aren’t. We know George is innocent and that’s our starting point. I do see what you mean though.’ Crowley propped himself on an elbow and added thoughtfully, ‘But, doctor, what if you and I do not agree on what constitutes a crime? We may not agree on what constitutes evidence either.’

‘I think we need not argue about that,’ said Watson indulgently. ‘After all, there’s no need to get into the ethics of it all. The law of the land sorts out for us what is defined as a crime. We just observe the facts and the prosecution takes care of presenting the evidence in court.’ 

‘I understand that. Your methods are purely scientific – yes, I have researched you, doctor, and have been most amused by your stories. I liked them very much – but there are gaping holes in your methodology. It troubled me all the way through reading your accounts because they are so very materialist. My studies have confirmed to me again and again that only spiritual affairs count for anything, even in the grossest concerns of life. That’s why I have to point out, respectfully of course, that your methods are limited.’

Watson bridled at this but decided not to pursue it: it seemed to be a twist on Holmes’s own criticisms of the more old-fashioned police procedures. He said calmly, ‘Holmes’s methods are based not on presumptions or circumstance, nor on false inductive reasoning. They are tethered to the observable facts.’

Crowley leaned forward. ‘But just what are observable facts for you? And can you even begin to imagine that they might differ from observable facts for me – or for a George Arden? Don’t mistake me, doctor, I’m really not being rude, but it strikes me that we end up with limited results when we have limited information. We confirm our own bias, don’t we?

‘Well, that is precisely why Holmes’s methods are so useful. They are impartial,’ said Watson. ‘He observes and he deduces. He doesn’t go in with a presupposition already in place. He lets the facts lead to a conclusion.’

‘Yes, yes. But what if you can’t see the evidence in the first place? Let me give you an example. You walked into this room and perceived the observable facts of a skeleton in the corner, my notes under the book and so on and made your deductions from observations of my physique.’ He paused and waved towards the skeleton, ‘But, doctor, all the time you failed to sense the presence of various Qlippoth of the demonic order A’areb Tzereq over there in that same corner.’

Involuntarily, Watson looked towards the corner. Of course he could see nothing unusual.

Crowley continued, ‘They are particularly clustered over there, like blowflies, round our thin friend. Can you see them now? Or can you perhaps hear them speaking to each other? And to you now, because they will, you know: now that you’ve started to think about them? They have started to become aware of you. It seems to me like a creaking, buzzing sound just on the edge of hearing. Listen!’

Watson was sure he could not hear anything he wouldn’t expect to hear in a room of this size and situation; nevertheless something seemed to cast a shade across the afternoon light.

‘Now the reason for that,’ Crowley went on softly, as if he didn’t want the skeleton to hear, ‘is that there is a problem in the experiment being conducted. Don’t worry, the flaw is deliberate because it amuses me to observe the behaviour of these entities. Demons interest me and I have no desire to banish them for now.’ He laughed. ‘Did you ever have a chemistry set, doctor? I once nearly blew up my entire school. This is science, you see, like monitoring a petrie dish full of strange growths. An unguarded person who stayed for too long in this room would eventually become subject to destructive impulses, because of those demons. It even affects Pollitt and me.’

‘But the presence of the so-called demons could not be proved in a court of law, Crowley!’ exclaimed Watson. ‘This isn’t the Dark Ages when unfortunate old women were accused of hexing the milk. Thank heavens!’

 Crowley ignored him. ‘I may try it soon. What do you say? Should I leave some ordinary, innocent people locked in here to see what they did? I wouldn’t tell them why, or what to expect. Interesting, isn’t it? Would they kill each other, do you think? I am inclined to think that the most scientific and reliable way of experimenting on people’s unconscious mind would be to watch their reactions to a well-thought-out series of unforeseen circumstances. And whatever happened, the police, coming in later, would never, never know why.’ He chuckled as if amused at the thought. ‘A curse is the perfect weapon, you know. I killed my headmaster when I was a boy like that.’ 

‘These things are debatable, Mr Crowley, and quite unprovable,’ said Watson. He was beginning to regret his decision to further involve Crowley in the Arden case. Part of him was wondering what kind of a schoolboy Crowley had been and another part was outraged that Crowley would think it acceptable to lock up innocent people with a skeleton and demons, however imaginary.

‘Oh I think they’re very provable. Science hasn’t developed the instruments to measure them yet, that’s all. Do you know, when several people who have developed what I hate to call "the psychic senses" are attuned, they can verify each others’ findings? They can communicate without words. We do it all the time. These are the unseen muscles that I choose to develop. And that brings me in a very roundabout way to the answer to your question: why am I interested in George? Because his vision, his senses, are as superior to mine as your Mr Holmes’s powers are superior to yours. That, Dr Watson, is what it’s all about. I wish him to assist us in our experiments.’

‘Us?’

‘My society. They would be most interested in Arden’s abilities.’  

‘I see. And your associates are?’

Crowley shrugged. ‘I belong to several organisations, doctor. My associates study the works of Hermes Trismegistus and the three branches of subtle knowledge.’

Watson said shortly, ‘I believe that alchemy, magic and the conjuring of spirits will not be required in these investigations, Mr Crowley.’

‘Let’s see, shall we? Let’s keep an open mind. All I ask is that you let me at least tell you if I notice the kind of evidence I was talking about. The kind that wouldn’t be admissible in a court of law.’

Dr Watson saw that there would be no advantage in arguing with an opponent who claimed to be the sole possessor of unverifiable facts. ‘I feel sure that we can contribute in our own particular ways,’ he said diplomatically, ‘as long as we try for impartiality.’

A small, fat dog and a number of cherries

A Case of Domestic Pilfering by Rohase Piercy and Charlie Raven is a lighthearted tale of two friends who find themselves caught up in an adventure involving blackmail, theft, mistaken identity and 'the love that dare not speak its name' - an adventure in which, for once, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson find themselves repeatedly and hilariously wrong-footed.

It's the summer of 1890 and Max, a passionate reader of detective stories, is staying in London with his spoilt but charming friend, Guy. They've recently made the acquaintance of a certain Dr Watson - and glimpsed the legendary Sherlock Holmes. In this extract, we find them dutifully taking tea with Guy's mother - and Guy, as ever, has no concept of discretion.

Lady Esher absently poured tea for her guests. A shaft of morning sunlight caught her hand,

modelled its plains and dimples and came to rest flatly on the white cloth. The fine china rang as she handed a cup to Max with a smile. So typical of Guy, she thought, to turn up on her morning ‘At Home’ instead of the Tuesday hour she reserved for him; but at least it varied the company.

Lady Lillingford and her daughter Alicia were quite animated for once. The conversation had

achieved new heights. Alicia had twice opened her mouth to speak, and on the second occasion some actual words had been emitted. What the import of these might have been, had not her mother at that moment fired a descriptive broadside of Mrs Carnforth’s weekend party, Lady Esher pondered with mild interest.

Max, the dear boy, was being attentive; he was charming Lady Lillingford simply by watching her face with his deep brown eyes as she spoke. Whatever one said, if Max listened, one felt that he was giving it a flattering degree of attention.

Guy, on the other hand, was picking cherries out of the madeira cake and feeding them to Candace, her pug. Candace would shortly be sick, probably in the hall by the hat stand. Really, that boy was impossible…

Lady Esher smiled dutifully at Guy, at Candace, at the teapot and then at Max and Lady Lillingford. Alicia, she decided, needed an extra squeeze of a smile, for she looked equally fascinated and dismayed by the presence of so many young men – her eyes signified that they might number several hundred in their mild grey alarm.

‘Come over here, my dear,’ she said kindly. Max looked up surprised, but immediately perceived his mistake and returned his gaze to Lady Lillingford’s doughy face with a hint of resignation. Alicia rose, dropped her parasol, blushed scarlet, and dutifully navigated her way around the tea table to sit beside her hostess.

‘Now tell me,’ Max heard Lady Esher say with an air of delicious confidentiality, ‘Tell me about all your conquests at the party!’ Alicia’s response was inaudible. Max felt very sorry for her.

‘And then, my dear, who do you think was announced?’ breathed Lady Lillingford, and he patiently returned to his contemplations. Composed and serious as his face was, his mind was quite elsewhere; not one word of her long account had registered in his understanding. As he watched the loose, pale lips forming and ejecting their words, his mind moved in realms of gold and pearl, reviewing and re-inspecting the austere, possessed figure emerging from the dim hallway of 221B Baker Street. In his heart was ineffable bliss, exquisite pain. He sighed unconsciously as Lady Lillingford concluded her description of the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball gown.

This young man has taste, she noted with approval; taste, good manners, and obvious breeding. But does he have prospects? If so, Alicia could do worse … she changed the subject abruptly, barely pausing for breath as she set about the task of exploring Max’s background with the all subtlety of an Amazonian explorer wielding a machete.

Guy had discovered that there was a limit to the number of cherries a small, fat dog could consume. This limit had just been reached, and Candace did the decent thing and exited the room. Guy watched her go. What should he do next? His eye lighted upon Max, bravely holding his station whilst buffeted by the sou’wester of la Lillingford’s interrogation. I shall rescue him, thought Guy lovingly.

‘Oh, Mother!’ he cried, suddenly and loudly, causing all heads to turn towards him – not because more than one person in the room was under the impression that she was his mother, but because he had hitherto spoken only four words: ‘Hello,’ ‘Charmed,’ and ‘How tedious‘.

Guy simpered, pleased with himself. ‘We met the most fascinating gentleman yesterday. Actually we met two fascinating gentlemen. The first one – he is so sweet – I’d already made his acquaintance at the races over champagne, and we were sitting yesterday in the bar at -‘

‘Guy, dear, please pick up that cherry before you grind it beneath your boot heel!’

Lady Esher’s voice carried a warning note. Alicia’s eyes had become very round; mention of ‘champagne’ and ‘races’ had quickened her breath. Lady Esher was all too aware that her son’s friends – always excepting Max – were inclined to be somewhat disreputable.

‘… smoking and chatting,’ continued Guy, tossing the cherry onto the table, ‘When there he was. And do you know what? He turned out to be a close friend – indeed, the close and intimate friend, of -‘

‘I do hope, Guy, that you have not issued these gentlemen with one of your invitations to dine here,’ interrupted Lady Esher again, hoping to stave off the name of the intimate friend. Could it be that Beardy, or Beardsley, or whatever he called himself? Surely not that awful Wilde man …

Lady Lillingford, on the other hand, was listening attentively. Beardies and Wildies were

beyond her ken; a more illustrious Beard was in her mind, a Beard definitely associated with horseflesh and champagne …

‘Of course not, mother! He never dines out, you know. He is so fascinating! So different. And we had tea in his rooms afterwards, but he couldn’t join us himself as he’d just been summoned to Scotland Yard.’

There was a small flurry as Lady Esher pressed several different kind of cake upon Alicia.

‘Scotland Yard?’ repeated Lady Lillingford, with a dawning realisation that the P. of W. was not, after all, the protagonist of this adventure.

‘Yes, Lady Lillingford!’ emphasised Guy gaily, aware that he was making an impression. ‘He is

professionally associated with Scotland Yard – you must know that.’

‘Who is, dear?’ Lady Esher felt she could begin to relax. Sir Edward Carson, could it be?

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, of course! I told you!’

‘No dear, you never mentioned the name.’

‘Only because you kept interrupting me, going on about cherries and dinners and suchlike.’

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ repeated Lady Lillingford slowly; ‘Ah, yes! My dear, it’s that wonderful detective man – you know, he cleared up the matter of Lord St Simon’s little problem so discreetly. You remember, dear! Mrs Tattershall told us about it a while ago. Shocking business.’

Lady Esher metaphorically unstopped Alicia’s ears by withdrawing the tray of cakes, and seemed remarkably to have unstopped her mouth in the process.

‘But I have read all about him, Mr Clements! He is remarkable, as you say. It must have been wonderful to meet him in the flesh.’

Her small, clear voice turned all heads in her direction, and Max nodded vigorously, his heart swelling with affection for Alicia. Guy had more than appropriated his hero in the last few minutes, and he was determined to retrieve the honour.

‘We didn’t really have time to introduce ourselves, Miss Lillingford; he passed us on the doorstep.’ Max blushed deeply. ‘But we had tea with Dr Watson in his rooms.’

‘And what rooms!’ crowed Guy; ‘Utterly Bohemian, Miss Lillingford! So thrillingly unconventional!’

‘Bohemian?’ Alicia leaned forward, fascinated; Lady Esher thought she detected an

unhealthy gleam in her eye.

‘Yes, yes! Oh, how can one describe them? Filled with chaos, but such artistic chaos! Chemistry, tobacco, Persian slippers. Revolver practice. You see, he eschews all the petty concerns of daily life and lives in splendid isolation, either driven by the white heat of his genius, or – or -‘

Max chose not to leap into the breach and save his friend; really, this was too much. Guy

knew nothing whatsoever about Mr Holmes.

‘Well, well,’ said Lady Esher mildly into the the pause that followed, ‘Obviously a remarkable man. Perhaps we could invite him to dine one evening – with Mr Percy, Sir Edward’s solicitor, and other people of that sort.’ She smiled wearily at Lady Lillingford. ‘One does well to entertain one’s professional men from time to time, don’t you find? They do give of their best when favoured with good wine and conversation.’

Lady Lillingford nodded. ‘Oh, quite – Sir Charles’ physician is a charming man, quite convivial company in the right circumstances.’

Max could not bear it. ‘He would not come, Lady Esher, I think,’ he said in stilted tones,

straining the boundaries of politeness. ‘As Guy has already mentioned, he does not dine in company.’

Both ladies looked taken aback, and his hostess raised a well-bred eyebrow. There was an

awkward hiatus before the conversation picked up harmlessly again, and Guy sulkily began to pick walnuts out of the walnut cake. A shaft of sunlight pressed itself into the nap of the carpet, and slept at its twisted roots.

The breakfast table at 221B Baker Street was also bathed in warm yellow. The blind was up, the windows were open and the noise of mid-morning traffic chattered behind the ticking of

a clock and the occasional crackle as Sherlock Holmes turned the pages of his newspaper. Dr Watson was relaxing in the warm sun, smoke curling from his cigarette.

‘Watson.’

‘H’mmm?’

‘Who were those two young men you entertained for tea in my rooms yesterday?’ Holmes spoke from behind his newspaper.

‘Oh – just an acquaintance, and the friend of an acquaintance. I met them when I went out

for a walk.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Admirers of yours, as it happens.’ Watson pushed a crust of toast around his plate and smiled at the shimmer of sun on the silver coffee pot.

‘I would have thought admirers of yours would be a more apt description. Your little

stories are gaining you a reputation you know, however inaccurate they may be, and however inappropriate a form in which to embody my professional achievements.’

‘You never read them, Holmes, so I don’t see how you can judge.’ Watson smiled again, and

poured the remains of the coffee into his friend’s cup.

‘I’ve glanced at one or two,’ sighed Holmes, laying aside the paper and taking up his pipe. ‘It seems to me that you take some quite unjustifiable liberties, not only with the material but also with my character.’

‘So you keep saying, my dear. You haven’t finished your coffee.’

Holmes picked up the cup absently, and sipped.

‘You look better today,’ ventured his friend; ‘Might I enquire about the investigation on which you’re currently engaged?’

‘You might, my dear fellow, but I’m not yet able to give you much information. It’s a

Government matter.’ Holmes passed a thin hand over his hair. ‘Brother Mycroft is responsible for involving me. Some War Offices documents have gone missing; of no great moment in themselves I understand, but related to the nation’s security nonetheless.’

‘You were away all night?’ asked Watson carefully.

‘Indeed. But so far I have little to go on. Perhaps you’d care to join me today in a number of enquiries I’m planning? That is, if you’ve nothing planned yourself – meeting your young drinking companions again, for instance?’

Watson ignored the sarcasm and met the grey eyes innocently. He was delighted to see a

return there of the usual sparkle.

‘I was not planning anything of the kind today; I may stroll over tomorrow and return their call,’ he said lightly.

Holmes rose from the table and wandered towards the mantelpiece. The cord of his silk dressing gown was knotted carelessly at the waist, but his appearance was otherwise as fastidious as ever. Watson marvelled anew that one so untidy, indeed so wilfully destructive, in his personal habits should be so neat, so correct in his dress.

‘You’re invited too, by the way,’ he added.

‘Oh?’ Holmes was inspecting his violin, plucking gently at the strings and listening minutely to their resonance. After a moment, he murmured, ‘I never call on anyone. You know that, Watson.’

‘Only if it’s after midnight,’ said Watson sotto voce. ‘You should, you know,’ he added in a louder voice. ‘It would do you good.’

‘If I call on you after midnight, Watson, it is because I am in need of your help. And I do not require good to be done to me. Thank you.’

He drew the bow across the instrument, paused to make an adjustment, and began to play; an eerie, wandering improvisation, ill-adapted to the sunny day outside.

A Murder Mystery with Magickal undertones

'I wrote The Compact intending to depict a sort of autumnal romance between two older women of the 1890s, whose early love had been cut off by marriage. Of course, the process of writing a story throws up all sorts of characters, and I soon found that my ladies were dealing with a bit of an uncontrollable psycho in the form of Minerva Atwell - who turned up out of the blue. Then a very young Aleister Crowley came along; and my background research uncovered his intense affaire de coeur with Jerome Pollitt, a splendidly eccentric amateur female impersonator, who was also a patron of Aubrey Beardsley. The next thing I knew was that Dr Watson (temporarily separated from Sherlock Holmes) involved himself in the plot -  and the whole thing became a murder mystery with Magickal undertones. It was a lot of fun to write, so I do hope you enjoy this short extract. The story opens as Alexandra Roberts, an artist with a somewhat bohemian household, has fallen under the influence of the powerful, charming Minerva Atwell. Harriet Day, her friend, a quiet piano teacher, has meanwhile become fond of Alex’s newest lodger, the forgetful, mediumistic young actor George, protégé of Valentine Cabot, a theatrical manager. Valentine’s search for financial backers brings him into contact with the young Aleister Crowley, his lover the Aesthete Jerome Pollitt – and a lonely Dr Watson, taking on a little investigation of his own in the absence of Sherlock Holmes. Things quickly take a grim turn as an unexpected death, a rabidly homophobic enemy and the unhealthy influence of Minerva Atwell whirl all the characters into a darkening spiral.'

Charlie Raven

 

A few days later, George Arden had a free morning and decided to call on his friend Harriet Day. He found her sorting out letters and photographs. A drawer from her desk had been removed and the contents had been divided up and piled on the floor. She seemed pleased to see him and stopped her work immediately.  

“You see, Mr Arden, I am taking your advice a step further. Not just the spare bedroom but all the nooks and crannies of the house. I’m going to go through each one and discard any old sad unnecessary remnants. It’s all going. I’ve sent Peter’s old clothes to the poor and his toys to the hospital. I have to confess I rid myself of my husband’s clothes long ago. And I shall have more plants and flowers growing absolutely everywhere, as long as I can remember to water them. A jungle of them!” 

“How interesting,” said George. “I would never have thought of doing that.” 

“But this is a direct result of your intervention,” said Harriet with a quizzical look at him. 

“Ah, good,” George nodded. “This is so nice, though isn’t it? Sitting here like this. I like your house now. It’s a lot more peaceful.” He looked round the room as they talked. The pale-blue papered walls were hung with a variety of pictures, large and small. In quite a few he thought he recognised the fluid, confident brushwork of Harriet’s friend. “Surely some of these are by Mrs Roberts?” he asked, peering intently at a little picture not far from where he sat. 

It was of a young lady in a bonnet and white dress, looking back over her shoulder. She was standing at the end of a jetty; and there was an opal sea-light behind her. Wind was tugging at a deep-blue ribbon and the painter had made the shine on the silk the same  colour as the young lady’s eyes. 

“And this is you yourself, isn’t it?” he said, glancing across at Harriet to check her eyes. 

“Yes, it is,” said Harriet shortly. “By the sea at Ramsgate. Mrs Roberts was a keen artist, then as now. Not Roberts then, of course. She was a Silver.” 

George stood up to look more closely at the picture. Then he reached out a finger and, touching the silver of the frame, said, “Your life is full of secret signs. Clever of you,” 

Harriet made no comment and turned the conversation to how his work was going. 

“It’s going well, thank you,” he answered slowly, pushing the dark hair back from his forehead. “Quite hard, currently. I am helping almost every day from twelve o’clock at the Parnassus, moving things and running to and fro; and then performing, afternoon and evening and getting home at one or two in the morning. Valentine says this is a good thing for us. The moving things behind the scenes is dusty and cobwebby.” He sighed. “But today I’m free, no work at all. Valentine has something planned. He keeps saying there is a great opportunity coming for us, a play which will be famous in the West End. We’re having a meeting tonight at Dame Fortune’s with some rich gentlemen.” 

“That is simply wonderful!” exclaimed Harriet with enthusiasm. “What is the play?” 

“He’s very secretive about it,” said George. “Between you and me, Mrs Day, I think he hasn’t really written it yet. He’s got his shoebox of scripts out and he’s shuffling the papers to and fro and combining them in different sequences, but mostly he just goes out lunching and dining. He says this is because there is a particular set of people who will pay good money to help us put on a play and he has to make them interested. It costs a lot of money to make them invest, so that’s what has to happen.” 

“Oh, I see. So, the idea is still only an idea? Well, mighty oaks, you know, Mr Arden!” 

“Oaks?” 

“From little acorns grow. Big things come from small beginnings.” 

“Yes, yes, I see.” George nodded seriously again. “And you are well, and Mrs Skipton?” 

“Mrs Skipton is very well indeed. She speaks of you often, as a matter of fact. You must have been especially kind to her because she seems to think you are rather a paragon of Christian virtue. As for myself, well, as you see, keeping busy. I have my students.” 

“I rather hoped I would see you at Mrs Roberts’s one day,” said George. 

“Oh, yes, I’ll be coming over soon, you’ll see. Mrs Roberts is a busy person, a busy woman of business.” 

“I’m sorry,” said George. 

“Why sorry, Mr Arden?All is well, all is as it should be. Rather like your Valentine Cabot, she too has to pursue her patrons. Commissions don’t fall from trees.” 

“Not even oak trees,” added George. There was along silence and he continued to regard her sympathetically. 

“Well, there’s no point preetending to you, I can see that,” said Harriet. “I think you and I are friends, aren’t we? Even though you’re so young and I’m so old, and you’re male and I’m female, you’re a foreigner and I’m an Englishwoman. And I don’t know, there are so many other reasons why we should not be allowed to be friends, in the normal course of events.” 

“I can’t think of any reasons,” said George. “And you’re not old and I’m not young.” 

“Very well,” went on Harriet, “I’m going to tell you something which I hope you will keep to yourself. Can you do that?” 

“Like the Sphinx,” said George. 

Harriet, looking at his face with its pale olive skin and luminous dark eyes, said, “The Sphinx, yes, perfect. As silent as the Sphinx then. Well, then, Mrs Roberts seems to be very much taken up with a certain patroness of hers, a certain very rich, very beautiful, but rather young woman. And it is making me feel – not happy. I’m worried about her, truth be told. I can’t say a word about it, of course, any more than you can object to your Valentine’s pursuing all his rich patrons.” 

“He’s not my Valentine,” put in George very calmly. “He’s tiring. It’s tiring being with him. But point taken.” 

Harriet paused at these words, but being in full flow on the subject of Alexandra, she continued, “And she has changed remarkably over these past two weeks. I think she gets anxious about what this woman will think of her, or say to her, or suggest next. The first warning sign was a sudden illness which made her cancel an engagement between us – not Mrs Roberts being ill, you understand, Mr Arden, but a fake illness the woman had concocted to steal Alexandra’s day from her. Alex told me of it when we met afterwards and the thing which struck me as odd, and very unlike herself, was that she thought it was funny. An endearing, funny little trick like a kitten tangling one’s wool. And then she seems to have engrossed her attention every day, day after day. 

“Then there was an afternoon last week when she, Mrs Roberts, turned up here out of the blue and was in distress because the woman had taken something she said amiss. It turned into a most terrible argument, apparently, and the woman had stormed off and threatened to – well, this really has to be a secret, Mr Arden – she threatened to harm herself in some unspecified way. Of course, she did no such thing. But the upshot was that Alexandra Roberts, an independent, dignified and experienced woman, was hammering at this other woman’s door in a panic. 

“Well, that is such girlish nonsense for one thing, and for another, it is most upsetting. And then there was some kind of exchange of expensive gifts to make up for all the boiling panic. I don’t know! How can she have the money to spend on expensive gifts? I know she has not! And I’m sure I don’t know the half of it because when I made some slight disapproving noises – really the very slightest and most discreet – Alex flew into a rage with me. We haven’t spoken since. And I do know this: some people are accustomed to causing chaos and drama wherever they go and it’s a way of controlling everybody around them. Best avoided, best avoided if possible!” 

George listened silently to this uncharacteristically vehement speech, nodding from time to time. “And what will you do?” he asked when she had fallen silent. 

“What can I do? If I say something to criticise this woman, it will simply harden Alexandra’s resolve to stick with her. She has got it into her head that she has a tragic history and this is why she is so lonely and desperate, and she needs a mentor. But I think this is how Alex makes herself feel equal to her, because the lady is wealthy and so on and so forth, as I have said. It’s a tiresome muddle. And they’ll travel together and see mountains and deserts and treasures and I don’t know what else. And it will look as if I’m jealous and unkind if I say a word of criticism. Do you see?” 

“It’s very painful,” said George. 

“Yes, it is. That is exactly the word. And I told you before all about our long, long friendship. I would have thought that counted for something, but it seems not.”

They both sat staring into the fire. Finally George said questioningly, “I think it might be the lady with knife?” 

“Lady with the knife? No, no. It’s a lady with face cream and powder puffs, that’s all. It’s very good, the powder puff. I know because Mrs Roberts was so very kind as to bestow a Beauty Balm Compact upon me, gratis. Very thoughtful of her. Wasn’t it.” 

George regarded her with his head tilted very slightly to one side and she immediately added, “Yes, I know. Bitter. I won’t be bitter, not for long. I’ll throw it all out. That’s what I was doing. All her letters. I’m putting them in the kitchen fire.” Harriet felt her eyes prickle with tears. She stood up hastily. “And so I must get on, dear Mr Arden. I have a student coming in – oh – twenty minutes, it seems. Come and see me again soon, won’t you? And good luck with your meeting tonight. I hope your rich gentlemen help you and Valentine.” 

George looked thoughtfully at her for a moment and said, “I think the next time I see you – it will be very dark.” 

“How very mysterious,” Harriet said with a smile. Silly thing, she thought fondly as she watched him through the window, wallking away down the street.