Touchstone (Meridian Series) Page 2

  He was beside the shop window of Wm. Hycross, Shirtmaker, displaying his wares on fashionable stuffed torsos. Across Baker Street was Curtis and Co., Chemists. Each appeared to be open for business, although neither appeared to have any traffic at the moment. Nordhausen wondered what Mr. Hycross would think about his style. In his preparations, he had shopped eBay for period clothing, and accessorized at the San Francisco antique shops. Dressed as he was, he suddenly felt naked. He hoped he would not appear too au bas du style. What if Mr. Hycross should see a fashion idea that was not to appear for another 10 years! He was certain that his beautiful woolen overcoat with fur collar and lapels was no earlier than 1906. What year was it? He decided to go across the street to the Chemists.

  The shop took up the corner of Baker and Crawford Street, and he smiled at the surprise when he realized that Paddington had been renamed here. The establishment had large windows on the intersection, displaying a variety of compounds in attractive jars, bottles, boxes, envelopes. The labels held drawings of happy children, attractive young people, hale and hearty elders, with names like Professor M’omber’s Vegetable Hair Grower, Hemsley’s Worm Destroying Spirit, Dr. J. Hedge’s Fever and Ague Annihilator, Heimbold’s Compound Fluid Extract Buchu (for diseases of the bladder and kidney, obstruction of the urine, chronic gonorrhea and gleets); Taylor’s Celebrated Electric Oil.

  Nordhausen’s excitement and curiosity got the better of him. He simply had to go in and have a brief look, so he pushed the heavy door in. It set a bell on a wire to tinkling. He shut the door, and made his way through aisles of display cabinets to the counter in the back of the store. The sudden warmth on his face was comforting, and he caught the distinctive odor of good tobacco in the air. The only light came from a desk lamp, from which the no doubt Mr. Curtis sprang up sprightly to serve him.

  “Well, sir, let me see, let me see, what can I prescribe for you today?”

  “No, I am…”

  “No sir, now don’t tell me. You have come to consult Henry Curtis, the principal prescribing chemist in this part of London, pray allow me to serve you. I see that you are not from these parts, sir?” He peered intently at Nordhausen.

  “Yes, I…”

  “No, no, sir, let me diagnose.”

  Mr. Curtis pursed his lips and looked Nordhausen up and down. He cocked an eyebrow.

  “I observe, sir, that although you exhibit signs of radiant good health, you suffer from an insidious internal weakness in your kidneys. Tell me, do you complain of,” he looked about as if a lurker might be eavesdropping, “sporadic urination?”

  Nordhausen was taken aback. “Sporadic?”

  “Yes, I was certain of it! As well, I observe your color is high. This is a sure sign of an unnatural effusion of blood in the peripheral system. I shall prescribe an anti-apoplectine and a specific for your kidney congestion, perhaps Grover’s Tasteless Elixir.”

  He made a few notes on a small pad, then looked back up.

  “Where might you be from, sir? Let me see. I observe your clothing was not made by a London tailor, so I take it that you have come recently from foreign shores. Am I not correct, sir?”

  “Yes, only just now.”

  “You are plainly an American gentleman, your accent is discernible.”

  “Yes, I am newly arrived from San Francisco.”

  “From San Francisco, indeed! That is a long journey, to be sure. Allow me to recommend Miss Plimsy’s Restorative. Although made for the ladies, between you and me, sir, it has powers for the masculine sex. And I believe it is an American product, containing an invigorating mixture of cocaine tempered with a dash of morphine. Believe me, your first evening in London will be a pleasure!”

  “Thank you, no!” Nordhausen burst in. “No doubt you are dead on in your diagnosis, however, I… I… rely on my own physician for treatment of those very ills! Your acuity is remarkable.”

  “Thank you, sir, thank you,” Mr. Curtis lowered his voice, “I may say certain crowned heads have graced this shop floor for relief, and gone away satisfied.” He resumed a normal speaking tone. “However, allow me to press on you this bottle of Miss Plimsy’s Restorative, a gift, as it were, of friendship across the waters.”

  Nordhausen accepted the gift in the spirit with which it was offered, and shuddered to wonder what other ingredients the bottle might contain.

  “So, sir, if you have not come to shop, how else can I serve you?”

  “Well, Mr. Curtis, as you have discovered, I am here from America, and I find myself lost in your metropolis, unable to find my station, my hotel or my bags.”

  “How did that happen, sir?” Mr. Curtis was concerned.

  Nordhausen’s mind flew, beginning to weave tangled webs.

  “I had loaded my trunks on a cab at South Kensington Station. When I turned away for a moment, the cab took off with all my baggage. I tried to chase it through the streets, got lost, and now I am here.”

  “My dear sir, we must report this to the police, at once!”

  “No!” Nordhausen shouted. “I mean, no. I don’t desire to call the police at this time.”

  “But, sir, all your effects!”

  “No,” Nordhausen said, firmly, “No, sir, I prefer not to. Please respect my wishes in this.”

  Mr. Curtis was taken aback, but when presented to him like that, he had no choice. “Very well, sir, but what shall you do?”

  “Perhaps you can direct me to a hotel in the neighborhood, where I can spend the night, and determine what to do in the morning?”

  Mr. Curtis considered. “I think Halliday’s Private Hotel would serve you well, in Little George Street, which is quite nearby. You will be certain to find good accommodations there, and my cousin is the manager.”

  “You are very kind, Mr. Curtis.”

  “Not at all, sir, it is a duty and pleasure to assist tourists to our fair city. I strongly recommend you reconsider your decision not to inform the police. This is not only an extreme inconvenience to you, but a stain on London, and its corps of honest, hardworking cabbies. No doubt you were recognized as a foreigner by that robber, just as easily as I recognized it!

  “Come, let me direct you, and, if I may say, please consider returning for my own patented rapid hair restorer and scalp calmative, made principally of lead paste with a soupcon of arsenic. Don’t take it orally, of course.”

  Nordhausen believed he was supposed to laugh, so he did. Mr. Curtis smiled as his non-failing punch line worked again.

  Mr. Curtis directed him down several blocks, and in short order, with the golden currency of Mr. Curtis’ referral, Nordhausen was installed in a third floor room, with bow windows overlooking Little George Street. The check-in was remarkable. No one asked him for money, much less a credit card. Only the most general information was needed for the register, and his word was unquestioned. In fifteen minutes he was lying on his back on the rather firm bed, catching his breath, and reviewing everything that had happened.

  It hadn’t taken a clothier to view his ensemble with suspicion, and his clever explanation had almost landed him in the police station. Yet, his chance encounter with Mr. Curtis had gotten him lodging for the night he needed. He might even venture out for the evening.

  In fact, he ought to venture out for the evening! He had only 48 hours, of which he had already spent one. Forty seven to go. He should go where no one would ask him questions. He should visit a low dive; some place where he could be quietly inconspicuous and just take in the wonderful atmosphere, no matter how sordid it might be.

  A cabby should be able to direct him. He had plenty of money. He had brought fifty pounds in notes, and twenty pounds in coin, all from 1869 through 1882. What year was it? That alone would tell him what kind of holiday he could have.

  And again he thought of the bottle of Miss Plimsy’s Restorative in his pocket. Only forty eight hours in Victorian London. A little cocaine? Stay up for two days? If not now, when? If not here, where? A little cocaine wasn’t going to h
urt him. It restored the ladies, no?

  He looked at the label, which told him nothing. It was an attractive silver paper, printed with robin’s egg blue ink. An illustration of a fine figured young lady holding a parasol, ample bosom, generous bustle, with a winsome smile. Miss Plimsy’s Restorative, for Ladies. A Rejuvenating Elixir and Calmative. (For Peculiarly Feminine Complaints.) He unscrewed the tin cap, and looked at the honey brown fluid. He dipped his finger in the cap, and touched it to his tongue. An intense ginger syrup masked the taste of the drugs. It certainly appeared to be cocaine: his tongue was quickly getting numb!

  He took note of a bell pull against the wall by the bed, the pulling of which resulted in the prompt appearance of a tiny Irish chamber maid, who took his order for tea. “Thoroughly boiled? Certainly, sir!” On her return, he ordered hot water, also thoroughly boiled, for his ablutions.

  He poured himself a cup of tea, brewed stiff and black. He spooned in a couple spoons of sugar, and added in a dose of Miss Plimsy’s from the bottle. He stirred the concoction, screwed his courage to the sticking point, and drank.

  As he savored the potion he wondered about his clothing again. Perhaps he should do something a little more adventurous on this once in a lifetime excursion. Why waste his time in a dive when he might take in some high art at the opera? The thought of seeing an original play from this era was suddenly overwhelming. But he couldn’t very well mix in fine company dressed as he was. If the likes of Mr. Curtis had noticed him, then he would stick out like a proverbial sore thumb at the opera. What to do? Could he rent something?

  When the maid returned to see that all was in order he asked about clothiers in the vicinity.

  “Oh, yes, sir. You’ll want Madame Tussaud’s for rental of evening dress. There’s a shop over on King Street where you can hire for the night. The usual prices are five shillings for a decent gentleman’s coat, two for a nice vest, three for trousers, and another five if you’ll be needing an overcoat, which I would certainly recommend on a night like this. Of course, a deposit of the value of the articles has to be left during the hiring.”

  “You are most kind,” said Nordhausen.

  “Pray tell me, sir—will you be off to see H.M.S Pinafore at the Opera Comique? I hear it’s all the rage in town these days.”

  “H.M.S Pinafore?” Nordhausen was absolutely delighted to hear that this original Gilbert and Sullivan hit was actually playing in town.

  “Why, yes sir. And I hear that you might even find Mr. Gilbert or Mr. Sullivan about in the clubs thereafter.” She gave him a wink.

  “Indeed,” said Nordhausen, and the light of discovery was burning fervently in his eyes, fueled by a healthy dose of old Miss Plimsy’s Restorative.

  3

  He swirled the claret in his goblet, enjoying the light play in its ruddy bowl, and watching the legs ooze down the walls of the glass. It smelled heady, very alcoholic, rich and fruity. As he raised it to take a sip, the front doors burst open, and a small crowd poured in, chattering away in the wake of two men who walked together arm in arm. He immediately took notice, thrilled that he had been correct in his choice of club. Adjacent to the Opera hall, this was a most likely spot for revelry after the show, which he had enjoyed immensely. Several cast members has slipped away soon after, and he followed one to this very spot, staking out a small table near the wall where he could enjoy a drink and let the thrill of his evening subside a bit.

  The little group paused for a moment, then headed for a cluster of chairs and sofas with a low serving table that would seat them all.

  The younger man, perhaps 25 years old, was strikingly tall, several inches over six feet, and with thick dark brown hair, parted in the middle, and pouring down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a heavy lavender overcoat, with darker purple Astrakhan fur collar and cuffs. Certainly more outré than anything Nordhausen had seen in London so far. He gesticulated languidly as he spoke, his large hands flapping like thick pale birds, punctuating his speech.

  “Such a success,” he was saying, “I counted three acclamations, fully fifty three hilarities, two thrilling movements, four renewals of applause and two indefinite explosions. The audience was in the palm of your hand! Perhaps I shall write for the theater…”

  The other gentleman was almost as tall, perhaps twenty years older, and seventy pounds heavier, with black hair slicked with macassar oil, and an exuberant mustache blossoming between his nose and lip. He was conventionally dressed for the evening, in black with a white cravat, and a sharp gold headed walking stick. He was listening attentively, with a twinkle in his eye, to the torrent of words flowing from the younger man, as the two made their way to a table in the middle of the club. He held the chair for one his companions, and said, “I have an enthusiastic chef du claque. We almost closed six times during the summer, when the heat was so bad. But more clement weather has revived the aestivating public.” Several hangers-on grabbed seats at their table, the slower ones settling for the surrounding sofas.

  The younger man had shed his overcoat and underneath was dressed for evening as well, although he sported a green chrysanthemum on his jacket. Nordhausen’s recollection flashed, and he realized with a start that this must be the young Oscar Wilde! The flower was his signature accessory, and now everything about the man filled in the details in Nordhausen’s mind—his height, his eyes, the effusive energy. And something else…He squinted through the smoky room, thrilled to see that there was a faint sheen of amber about Wilde, just like the aura that he had seen surrounding Lawrence!

  The telltale glow was a certain giveaway, and now he saw that it suffused the older man as well. He realized that this must be another important figure. But who? The maid’s tip had been right and he was sitting not twenty feet from Prime Movers! He sat straight and strained to hear the exchanges. At that moment the older man slapped his palm on the table, and stood up, looking around the club.

  “Let us settle this democratically, Mr. Wilde,” he boomed. “Let us ask an ordinary man in the club to break our tie vote.”

  His eye lit on Nordhausen, caught staring, and in an instant he called to him.

  “Sir, you are the gentleman nearest our table, you shall settle this dispute between me and my young friend here!”

  Nordhausen was taken aback, “Sir, I… don’t wish to intrude.” His heart began to pound. He was supposed to be invisible. Actually, he wasn’t supposed to be there at all, but he had just opened his mouth and addressed a Prime Mover! Oh God, what have I gotten myself into now, he thought, his neck burning with the heat of embarrassment and his own chiding regret.

  “Nonsense, sir, we must have done with this, I insist you come over and join Mr. Wilde and me!” He signaled a waiter and ordered fresh brandies. Nordhausen did not know what to do! Further hesitation would only cast more suspicion on his presence there. He had to move; he had to pass for the very thing that this man believed him to be—just a simple gentleman out for an evening’s entertainment. His legs were rubber as he stood up, moving timorously to join the group.

  “Welcome, kind sir! I am William Gilbert, and this is Mr. Oscar Wilde, only lately let loose on London from academic shackles in Oxford, and already making old hands like me take notice of him.”

  Gilbert offered his hand, which Nordhausen took by instinct. His mind was a blur now. He had just made physical contact with a Prime, something that was absolutely forbidden under Maeve’s hard charter. What was he doing? If she ever found out about this he would be flayed alive. But the man took hold of his hand with a vigorous shake and radiated so much conviviality that Nordhausen was entirely taken in. Wilde stood up and gracefully put out his own hand, which fully engulfed Nordhausen’s. The warmth of the other man’s palm on his own was electric.

  “I… I am Mr. Robert Nordhausen, of San Francisco. It is… a great pleasure to meet you gentlemen, especially Mr. Wilde, of whom I have heard so much.” Nordhausen stammered a bit, but he was running on pure reflex now, trying to be as civil as he
could to cover his obvious discomfiture.

  Gilbert raised his eyebrows. “Oscar, your fame spans the globe, and you just fresh out of school.”

  “Novelty flies like winged thought,” Wilde drawled. “It needs no submarine cables to girdle the sphere. I am the modern Ariel, although more fleshly.”

  “Well, Mr. Nordhausen, what brings you to London?” Gilbert asked. “Have you been here long?”

  Nordhausen spun out his lie about the stolen luggage, to general expressions of sympathy all round. He told them that he was in London to study at the British Museum.

  “What do you read, Mr. Nordhausen?” Wilde inquired. “I have spent countless hours over the last several years drenched in the dusty miasma of that hall.”

  “I … am a student of ancient Egypt…” Nordhausen proposed.

  “Oh? How ancient, Mr. Nordhausen,” Wilde inquired. “I, myself, spent a term studying the Ptolemaic literature.”

  Nordhausen certainly didn’t want to start up a discussion of Hellenistic Greek with Oscar Wilde! He had to keep his contact to the bare minimum. He had to divert attention away from himself and melt away into the anonymity of the crowd. The very notion that he was standing here with two Prime Movers was setting his heart thumping, and he was already sweating profusely.

  “Uh, no, dynastic Egypt, before the Greek invasion.”

  “Then you are a student of art as well! Gilbert, you have by chance selected the right man for this dispute,” he turned to Nordhausen, “for it is about Art… as what is not?”

  Gilbert sat back and began to trim a cigar, while Wilde pondered for a moment how best to put his case.

  “Gilbert was educated to the law,” he began, “So he disdains to call what he produces Art. As a practical writer, he sees all Art as he sees his own Art, a circumstantial product, created for the occasion.” He turned to face Gilbert, who by now was huffing on his cigar to light it. “That is the solipsistic fallacy, as you well know.” He rounded on Nordhausen. The surrounding group was focused hypnotically on the large young man with the bright, quick gray eyes. His face was alive as he spoke, his expression flashing to a different mood on almost every word.