However, he said, he would call on Solange every once in a while and find out how she was faring and what she was up to. He asked Granny Pheen’s name and the name of the farm where she lived. He wrote her answers down in a small notebook with a silver pencil, told her she’d be hearing from him, kissed her hand, got back into the carriage, and left.
Absurd as all this sounds, Sidney, Granny Pheen did receive letters. Eight long letters over a year—all about Muffin’s life as the French cat Solange. She was, apparently, something of a feline Musketeer. She was no idle cat, lolling about on cushions, lapping up cream—she lived through one wild adventure after another—the only cat ever to be awarded the red rosette of the Legion of Honor.
What a story this man made up for Pheen—lively, witty, full of drama and suspense. I can only tell you the effect it had on me—on all of us. We sat enchanted—even Will was left speechless.
But here, at last, is why I need a sane head and sober counsel. When the program was over (and much applauded), I asked Isola if I could see the letters, and she handed them to me.
Sidney, the writer had signed his letters with a grand flourish:
Sidney, do you suppose? Could it possibly be that Isola has inherited eight letters written by Oscar Wilde? Oh God, I am beside myself.
I believe it because I
In haste and love and please advise at once—I’m having difficulty breathing.
13th August, 1946
Let’s believe it! Billee did some research and discovered that Oscar Wilde visited Jersey for a week in 1893, so it’s possible he went to Guernsey then. The noted graphologist Sir William Otis will arrive on Friday, armed with some borrowed letters of Oscar Wilde’s from his university’s collection. I’ve booked rooms for him at the Royal Hotel. He’s a very dignified sort, and I doubt he’d want Zenobia roosting on his shoulder.
If Will Thisbee finds the Holy Grail in his junkyard, don’t tell me. My heart can’t stand much more.
Love to you and Kit and Isola,
14th August, 1946
Dear Sidney,
Juliet says you’re sending a hand-writing fellow to look at Granny Pheen’s letters and decide if Mr. Oscar Wilde wrote them. I’ll bet he did, and even if he didn’t, I think you will admire Solange’s story. I did, Kit did, and I know Granny Pheen did. She would twirl, happy in her grave, to have so many others know about that nice man and his funny ideas.
Juliet told me if Mr. Wilde did write the letters, many teachers and schools and libraries would want to own them and would offer me sums of money for them. They would be sure and keep them in a safe, dry, properly cooled place.
I say no to that! They are safe and dry and chilly now. Granny kept them in her biscuit tin, and in her biscuit tin they’ll stay. Of course anyone who wants to come see them can visit me here, and I’ll let them have a look. Juliet said lots of scholars would probably come, which would be nice for me and Zenobia—as we like company.
If you’d like the letters for a book, you can have them, though I hope you will let me write what Juliet calls the preface. I’d like to tell about Granny Pheen, and I have a picture of her and Muffin by the pump. Juliet told me about royalties and then I could buy me a motorcycle with a sidecar—there is a red one, second-hand, down at Lenoux’s Garage.
Your friend,
18th August, 1946
Dear Sidney,
Sir William has come and gone. Isola invited me to be present for the inspection, and of course I jumped at the chance.
Promptly at nine, Sir William appeared on the kitchen steps; I panicked at the sight of him in his sober black suit—what if Granny Pheen’s letters were merely the work of some fanciful farmer? What would Sir William do to us—and you—for wasting his time?
He settled grimly among Isola’s sheaves of hemlock and hyssop, dusted his fingers with a snowy handkerchief, fitted a little glass into one eye, and slowly removed the first letter from the biscuit tin.
A long silence followed. Isola and I looked at one another. Sir William took another letter from the biscuit tin. Isola and I held our breath. Sir William sighed. We twitched. “Hmmmm,” he murmured. We nodded at him encouragingly, but it was no good—there was another silence. This one stretched on for several weeks.
Then he looked at us and nodded.
“Yes?” I said, hardly daring to breathe.
“I’m pleased to confirm that you are in possession of eight letters written by Oscar Wilde, madam,” he said to Isola with a little bow.
“GLORY BE!” bellowed Isola, and she reached round the table and clutched Sir William into a hug. He looked somewhat startled at first, but then he smiled and patted her cautiously on the back.
He took one page back with him to get the corroboration of another Wilde scholar, but he told me that was purely for “show.” He was certain he was correct.
He may not tell you that Isola took him for a test drive in Mr. Lenoux’s motorcycle—Isola at the wheel, he in the sidecar, Zenobia on his shoulder. They got a citation for reckless driving, which Sir William assured Isola he would be “privileged to pay.” As Isola says, for a noted graphologist, he’s a good sport.
But he’s no substitute for you. When are you going to come see the letters—and, incidentally, me—for yourself ? Kit will do a tap dance in your honor and I will stand on my head. I still can, you know.
Just to torment you, I won’t tell any news. You’ll have to come and find out for yourself.
Love,
20th August, 1946
DEAR MR. STARK CALLED SUDDENLY TO ROME. ASKED ME TO COME AND COLLECT LETTERS THIS THURSDAY. PLEASE WIRE IF THIS SUITS; LONGING FOR PETITE VACANCE ON DARLING ISLAND. BILLEE BEE JONES
I’D BE DELIGHTED. PLEASE LET ME KNOW ARRIVAL TIME, AND I’LL MEET YOU. JULIET.
22nd August, 1946
Dear Sophie,
Your brother is becoming altogether too august for my taste—he has sent an emissary to retrieve Oscar
