I gave him a peck on the cheek and sat down next to him. Clutching his hand, I asked, “How is my famous friend?”
“Not very famous yet, but I am working on notorious,” he laughed.
I squeezed his hand. “You will be famous, Oscar. As a poet or a writer or both.”
He smiled. “Or a dramatist. I am going to write a play in which Sarah Bernhardt shall be the star.”
“The actress who sleeps in a coffin?”
“The same. She is wonderful. I’ve met her, you know.”
“Really? Where?”
“I was there when she stepped ashore. I threw lilies to her feet.”
“As only you could do. You’ve ingratiated yourself to her already then?”
“I believe I have. And I’ve just seen her at the Comédie Française. They performed the fifth act of Othello. Monsieur Mounet-Sully was Othello and she was Desdemona. It was... inspiring. I do fear, however, that idiotic censorship may destroy the play I am working on, or at the very least spoil it,” he added.
He took my hand in his again. “It’s good to see you.”
“You as well. So what were you reading? You looked intensely interested. Was it about a new play or something?”
“A murder actually. One that occurred far too close to home. Your home, in a manner of speaking.”
“Pardon?”
“The account in the newspaper recounted a death, possibly - no, probably a murder - near the British Museum, just around the corner from your office.”
“Really? I have heard nothing about it.”
“Nor had I. But a reporter from The Times happened to be on his way into the museum to cover some new exhibit when the police arrived. A crime had been reported. They found the corpse of a young man behind the museum and the circumstances of his death seem quite suspicious. A small Buddha statue and a dead bird were left at the scene. I understand it is not the first time.”
I shuddered. I’d forgotten to read the article as Sherlock requested, but instinct told me it was the same one of which Oscar spoke and that it was, perhaps, related to the reason he’d asked me to come to Bart’s after witnessing the hanging.
“Do you remember the essay I wrote for the Irish Monthly last year?” Oscar asked. “The one about the tomb of Keats? Do you remember the rhyme contained within the article?”
I nodded.
Oscar put the paper aside and closed his eyes. “Rid of the world’s injustice and its pain, He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue; Taken from life while life and love were new.” He sighed. “Perhaps it is not such a tragedy to leave this world of pain and sorrow behind.”
“You also said that Keats died before his time, Oscar,” I reminded him. “As did, I am sure, the young man who was murdered.”
“And as did my dear cousin Effie,” he said. He froze for a moment, as if he had just heard a voice from the past. Though his silence filled the air like the crisp stillness of a winter night, a film of perspiration glazed his forehead. His eyes became hard, like agates. The expression on his face reminded me of an animal pinned against a wall in fear, terrified of some invidious predator.
Then he slapped his palm on the table with a great thump and twisted his lips into a smile. He drank some water and said, “I like to think of our Effie in Tir-nãn-Og, where age and death shall never find her. But I have been thinking about spirits lately, of ghosts and saints who live in a state intermediary between this world and the next. I think something holds them here. Some earthly longing or affection, a duty unfulfilled, or anger against the living. Perhaps they gather all around us in hurt silence, and it is that which casts off the sudden chill in a room that people say they feel when a ghostly presence is nigh.
“I think some shades take the form of insects,” he added. “Butterflies. I can see our beloved Effie as a butterfly, can’t you?”
I felt a tear stinging at my eye. “Yes. The most beautiful of butterflies.”
“Yes. And she would be unique.”
“Like a Swallowtail.”
“A what?” he asked.
“Swallowtail. It’s a kind of butterfly found in the wetlands near my parents’ home in the Norfolk Broads. They have large creamy yellow wings with black stripes near the edges. The hindwings have two long black extensions, which look similar to the tail of a swallow’s, and they also have two large red dots which are known as ‘false red eyes.’”
He laughed. “Perfect. Effie would definitely be a Swallowtail. Certainly she had those false eyes... another set of them at least... the ones that saw into the future. I have never known anyone like her who could make predictions with such accuracy.”
I looked down. I missed her so much and her death had shattered my brother.
“And how is her darling little boy, Poppy? I have not seen him in months.”
“Alexander is wonderful. He looks more like Effie every day.”
We sipped wine and finally ordered a meal. We were quiet a long time.
“I’ve been making new friends here in London, Poppy. I’ve even cultivated a friendship with Lillie Langtry.”
Like Miss Bernhardt, Lillie was the toast of the stage.
“I do have some competition, though,” Oscar said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Surely you have heard. Lillie is involved with Bertie.”
I stared at him, puzzled.
“The Prince of Wales? Albert Edward.”
I had certainly heard
