Mortal Love (13 page)

“So she said.”

“She spends a good deal of time among her countrywomen, noting their stories and superstitions. I find her research extremely useful for my own work. There is another history told in those old tales. Ah, Esperanza—”

A few feet away, Lady Wilde had gone aground beside another table. “I was just telling Mr. Comstock of your work,” said Learmont.

Lady Wilde looked at Radborne. “Are you a writer?”

“No—an artist. A painter.”

“An artist?” Her eyes narrowed. “You have a muse, then?”

“A muse?” Radborne glanced at his host for assistance, but Dr. Learmont was busily inspecting a stack of pamphlets on the table. “Do you mean an artist's model?”

“I do not. I refer to your genius. If you do not have one, Mr. Comstock, you will fail. If you do find one, it will devour you. It will
destroy
you, but in that case we will have your paintings to remind us of you. In the event we want to be reminded.”

She seemed to consider this extremely unlikely. Radborne stared at her, speechless. Finally, “Thank you very much,” he said, and walked past her to the table.

There were no refreshments here, only back issues of the Folk-Lore Society's journal, along with assorted monographs, pamphlets, and cheaply bound books with titles like
English Antiquities: A Popular Guide
and
The Jappy System of Cork-Grip Exercises.
There was also a thicker, heavier volume, some sort of textbook. He picked it up and glanced inside.

PSYCHOMANCY

Further Inquiries into Some Elemental Conflicts,

with Suggestions for Their Resolution

by B. Strout Warnick,

D.C.L. Oxford, LL.D, Glasgow, Ph.D. Univ. of the Archangels and

St. John the Divine

Radborne feigned interest in the book, but it was difficult: he could feel Lady Wilde's gaze boring into him like a drill into a bad tooth. He cleared his throat, replaced the text, and hurried to the end of the table.

“Oh, look,” he said hopefully. “Postal cards!”

But peculiar ones. Apart from a few images of Uffington and Stonehenge, the cards depicted burial mounds containing human remains, mostly the skeletons of infants. Radborne stared at a picture of two skeletons lying side by side, the little bones of their arms and hands entwined.

“The Green Children.” Radborne jumped as Lady Wilde's voice boomed in his ear. “I can arrange for you to examine them, if you wish,” she went on, tapping the card with a grimy fingernail. “The curator of the Raiding Museum is a dear friend of mine.”

“Thank you—I mean, no thank you.” Radborne hastily replaced the card. “I think . . . well—this one is more suitable as a souvenir.”

He held up an image of Stonehenge. Lady Wilde glanced at it with disdain. “Shallow. The mystery of Stonehenge is shallow. But theirs”—she gestured at the card with the Green Children—“theirs is
deep.
”

She turned and strode to where a man stood guard over a cash box. Radborne waited until she was a safe distance away, then picked up the card with the skeletons on it.

“Have you survived your siege by Lady Wilde?”

Radborne looked up. “Dr. Learmont! Yes—at least I think I have. She seems . . . possessed of her own opinions.”

“Indeed she is. A very knowledgeable woman, our Speranza. A great believer in genius.”

“Which she does not feel that I possess,” said Radborne.

“Her argument would be that
it
must possess
you,”
said Learmont. “But don't make the mistake of thinking her a mere bluestocking, Mr. Comstock. When I organized this society several years ago, I had hoped to entice many minds like Lady Wilde's, but our members, alas, are mostly dilettantes. She alone has helped me find some of the information I seek, and she has as well introduced me to some interesting and useful informants.”

Dr. Learmont glanced at the postcard in Radborne's hand and smiled. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must congratulate Mr. Trefoil on his lecture. But if you are not busy afterward, Mr. Comstock, could I interest you in joining me for dinner at Bartolini's? I have several hours before my train departs for Padwithiel, and I would very much enjoy your company.”

With a slight bow, he went off in search of Mr. Trefoil. Radborne paid for his postcards, made a final circuit of the room, and went to meet Dr. Learmont in the foyer. A large figure in a canary-yellow opera cape blocked his way.

“Mr. Comstock. I will leave you with one bit of advice.”

Radborne smiled weakly. “Lady Wilde.”

“This is the eve of St. Luke's Day. Do you know St. Luke?”

“Well, no, not—”

“The patron of artists. And physicians. And madmen.” Lady Wilde adjusted the folds of her cape. “I do not adhere to the Church of Rome, of course. But her believers say that this is a lucky time, if you would seek one who would guide you through uncertain ways. And so I will give you a bit of advice. . . .”

She leaned toward him, exuding an oily musk of tuberose and camphor. “Anoint your stomach, breast, and lips with a powder of dried marigolds and wormwood, simmered in virgin honey and claret.” She poked him, hard, in the navel and chest, then pressed her hand against his mouth. “Then repeat three times: ‘St. Luke, St. Luke, be kind to me, In dreams let me my genius see.'”

Radborne tried not to gag at the reek of tuberose as Lady Wilde stared at him through kohl-rimmed eyes.

“Do you know, you may have it yet,” she said. Without warning, she drew her mouth close to his and, before he could turn away, kissed him full on the lips.

“‘Sweets so sweet they burn,'” she whispered.

Her mouth was gone, her hand. There was the feathery sound of her cape sliding across the doorsill, and Lady Wilde disappeared into the alley.

“Mr. Comstock? Are you unwell?”

Radborne pressed his palm against his forehead. He did indeed feel ill, but when Dr. Learmont's face loomed beside him, he only shook his head.

“No, thank you, I . . . I'm fine. And I'll be glad to join you. Lady Wilde was just sharing some bit of superstition with me.”

“Ah, yes. Esperanza is a repository of such things. A
vast
repository.” Dr. Learmont smiled. “Come now, Mr. Comstock. It's not far, but I've hired a cab. Leicester Square can be terribly congested. . . .”

The approach to Leicester Square proved Learmont correct, though Radborne noted that most of the congestion was caused by others like themselves, in hire cabs that crowded the streets and sidewalks. They passed Cavour and the Corner House, restaurants where Radborne would never have dreamed of dining—far too dear—and at last came to Bartolini's. Radborne dug into his pocket resignedly, seeing what little remained of his funds dispatched for this evening's pleasure. Dr. Learmont gestured at him with impatience.

“Please. You are my guest, Comstock. And we perhaps may come to an understanding before the night is through. This way!”

It was late enough that the restaurant was filled with noisy theater-goers recently released from
The Bells
and
The Cup
and
The Silver King.
Learmont, despite his odd attire, had managed to secure a table; indeed, he seemed to be recognized by the staff and several diners, who stood to grasp his hand eagerly as he bustled past them.

“Your Folk-Lore Society must have a great many members,” said Radborne as they entered a small side room.

“Oh, they know little or nothing of that,” said Learmont, laughing. “That is my avocation, not my profession—Oh, but see, here is dear Algernon! You've managed to escape and join us?”

Inside the private dining room stood a single table, and here sat a short, slight middle-aged man, staring gloomily at a glass of beer.

“Hello, Learmont,” he said, but did not bother to stand. His childlike voice was so high-pitched that Radborne began to laugh, thinking this must be some shared joke. At the little man's disgusted expression, he stopped and looked down, abashed. This gave him an excellent view of the man's shoes, which were tiny and made of walnut-colored kid with pearl buttons.

“But it's
your
fault—I told him I wished to see you, and old Watts-Dunton thinks you're safe as houses, so . . .”

He lifted a hand delicate as a doll's and flapped it in front of his face. Wisps of long ginger-gray hair blew across his eyes. “Here I am. Do sit, Thomas. You give me a headache standing there.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Learmont sank into a chair and motioned Radborne to join them. “Algernon, may I introduce Radborne Comstock. He is a young artist visiting us from Manhattan. I hope to offer him some employment.”

Radborne glanced at the doctor in surprise, but Learmont was busy summoning a waiter.

“Manhattan?” Algernon's watery green eyes brightened somewhat. “Do you know
The Beautiful Flagellants of New York
?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.” Algernon picked up his glass of beer, looked into it mournfully, and set it down again. “Do you know, there was the most adorable little babbie in the street as I came in—her ickle nursie had her out at this hour, can you imagine! The only shining star in all this firmament of fuckery and shit.”

Radborne was unsure how to answer this. “A . . . baby?”

“A precious child. Nursie looked away to admire a young brute, and I boxed her ugly ears for it.” He leaned across the table, poking Radborne with an elfin finger. “They steal babbies, you know.”

“But not in Bartolini's,” said Learmont as a decanter of claret was set before them. He filled two glasses, handed one to Radborne, then turned. “Your good health, Algernon.”

“I only ever had bad health,” said Algernon bitterly. “Once they stole that, there was nothing left.”

“But you're looking so much better,” said Learmont. “Admit it, Algernon!”

Algernon took his glass of beer and sipped from it. He shot Radborne a keen look. “Do not let him cure you, whatever the matter is. Do you know, I used to sit at this very table with Burton and Bradlaugh and Bendyshe, and we would devour
human flesh.”

“Don't be absurd, Algernon,” said Learmont.

“Human flesh!” Algernon's fluting voice grew shrill. “Oh, Mr. Cuntstick, I was a far happier madman and cannibal—”

“Algernon—”

“Happy, and merry, and
bad!
‘And I would have given my soul for this, To burn for ever in burning hell.'”

Radborne watched in alarm as the little man got to his feet, raising his glass. “‘Preserve us from our enemies,'” he recited,

He took another sip of beer, grimaced, and sat down. “I despise beer,” he said. “Watts-Dunton told me it made Tennyson great. I do believe it is what killed him.”

“I didn't know Tennyson was dead,” said Radborne. Algernon glared at him.

“Mr. Comstock,” broke in Learmont. He lifted his glass. “May I welcome you to London!”

Radborne turned to him gratefully. “Thank you. To your health.”

Learmont downed his glass, indicating that Radborne should do the same, then refilled both. He made no move to offer any to Algernon, who continued to stare unhappily at his beer. “‘Give a scholar wine,'” said Learmont, “‘going to his book, or being about to invent, it sets a new point on his wit, it glazeth it, it scowres it, it gives him acumen.'”

He nodded as a waiter arrived with plates. “Now, Mr. Comstock, we have
appointed
ourselves. But you must tell me—did you enjoy the lecture?”

“It was very interesting.” Radborne smiled. He was relieved to see that the platters clearly held cold boiled beef and sprouts. “Though I was sorry not to hear you speak.”

“Ah! But that is why I brought you here. I don't often have the opportunity to meet visitors from America. Do you know the West Country, Mr. Comstock? Padwithiel—where the train takes me—is on the northern Cornish coast. There is very little there at all, save my hospital.”

“Your hospital?”

“Yes. My pursuits with the Folk-Lore Society are for my own amusement and enlightenment. Not my occupation. I am Physician in Charge of the Sarsinmoor Benevolent Asylum.”

“An asylum? You mean a convalescent hospital?”

“I do not. My hospital serves those whose derangements have made it impossible for them to live elsewhere. I make few claims to effect any cure.”

Algernon gave a shriek of disdain, which Learmont ignored.

“But . . . this is extraordinary!” Radborne shook his head. “My last position back in the States was in an asylum—Garrison, in New York State.”

“Was it indeed?”said Learmont.

“Yes, my very situation. It was a hospital for the insane. I had studied medicine, you see, but I was not very happy with it—”

“Who would be?” cried Algernon.

“—because what I've always wanted to do, really, is paint.”

Dr. Learmont nodded. “How long were you employed, then?”

“Thirteen months. My father was an assistant physician. Not at Garrison, but in Elmira. That's in New York State, where I grew up. I attended university near there as well. After I graduated, my father arranged for me to take a position at Garrison, as staff editor of the patient magazine.
The Prism,
it's called.”

“An admirable effort,” said Learmont. “But you were not happy studying medicine?”

Radborne stared into his glass. “No. I'm a painter. My studies included medical procedures and anatomical illustration, but I made my intent clear to my father many years ago.”

“That you would paint.”