"Yes, shocking examples of human brutality at its worst," said Conan Doyle, "hut nevertheless, brutality practiced by living humans, not dead ones. This sort of vampirism, Grayson. is a grotesque aberration, an insanity which I suspect may have its roots in a twisted sexual depravity. However, it is a disease of the living. not the dead. As for this poor girl, there is no question but that she was bitten in the neck by another human. A human with sharp teeth, however, quite possibly filed, in the manner of the cannibal tribesmen of New Guinea. As to the massive loss of blood, there could be any number of explanations. Possibly, she was a bleeder. a hemophiliac, or perhaps she was profoundly anemic. She may have lost a great deal of blood in some other manner upon which I would not care to speculate given so little evidence, but I would venture to suggest, if I may, a careful investigation of her co-workers and associates. There is a strong possibility that practices of perversion may have been involved here. In such a case, it will be difficult to ferret out the truth, as such secrets are darkly kept. But in any case I would not recommend that you trade in your truncheon for a string of garlic bulbs."
You have missed your calling, Dr. Doyle," said Grayson. You would have made a brilliant detective. "Nonsense," said Doyle. I am merely well informed on a wide variety of peculiar subjects, of little use to the average man, but of some value to one who writes romances. Besides, I have not the temperament for police work.
"Well, the literary world's gain is Scotland Yard's loss," said Grayson. "And I will conduct a thorough investigation of Miss Crewe's fellow actors and her friends, as well. I am most grateful for your assistance. Speaking of which-"
"Ah. yes, of course." said Conan Doyle, "The hair samples." He frowned. "Most unusual. They are extremely like a wolf's, but then again, they do not quite compare. You may be seeking a man with unusually coarse hair of a steel gray or silver color. In such a case I would expect this coarseness to extend to his features, as well. He would be very hirsute. a primitive looking sort of individual, possibly of Mediterranean blood."
"You can tell all this from some samples of his hair?" said Grayson, amazed.
"Simple inference and deduction, Grayson, based upon what we know of physical types. In any case, you would be looking for an unusually powerful man. It would have taken one to bring down a strong man such as Constable Jones. Some savage derelict perhaps, but undoubtedly a madman. As for the nature of the wounds, I have a theory about the weapon which might have been used, but I would like to consider it some more." He looked down at the body of Angeline Crewe and frowned. "It may even be possible that this poor girl's death is connected with the murder of Constable Jones. Savagery is the common factor, Grayson. Savagery and bloodlust."
3
The Cafe Royal, at 68 Regent Street, was not the sort of place Inspector William Grayson frequented. It was a hit too rich for his blood and he had never cared much for French food. He preferred a public house and the congenial company of the working classes. The Cafe Royal was more a gathering place for writers and artists, not really his sort at all, in spite of what Ian Holcombe might think. On the ground floor of the Royal was a cafe, a grill room and a luncheon bar. The basement held a wine cellar and a billiard room and the upper floors were private rooms.
The manager conducted Grayson to the Domino Room. The decor was fashionably elegant. Grayson thought it was a hit much. The seats were all upholstered in red velvet and the tables topped with marble. The corners of Grayson's mouth turned down slightly as he saw the people at the table they were heading for. They were all poufs. Their postures and affected gestures were unmistakable. But then, he had expected this. He had, after all, come to the court of the so-called "Apostle of the Utterly Utter."
Oscar Wilde was at the height of his success. The leader of the Aesthete movement, Wilde's belief was that art had no real use and existed only for its own sake. As such, claimed Wilde. art knew no morality. "A book," he said, "is either written well or badly, it is not mural or immoral." Grayson did not consider himself particularly competent to judge whether or not Wilde's books and plays were written well or not, he was content to leave that to the reviewers, but he had read Wilde's controversial novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and while he did not quite agree with the reports in the press that called it "filthy." it certainly addressed the question of morality. The character portrayed in it was completely immoral.
Grayson had no difficulty recognizing Oscar Wilde in the group. The man had been caricatured extensively in the press. He was the oldest one among the young men at the table. Grayson guessed his age at about forty. The author, poet, dramatist and lecturer was a large man, on the plump side, though Grayson thought he was a good deal slimmer than the newspapers portrayed him. He was not a bad- looking man, though his manner and the softness of his features were decidedly effeminate. Grayson knew he had a wife and two children. but his preferences seemed to lie in a less family- oriented direction. His manner of dress was elegant. He wore a dark, well-tailored coat and striped trousers, his silk cravat was tied perfectly, his hair was neatly combed and parted in the middle and he wore a fresh buttonhole. He looked every inch the gentleman, albeit an elaborately flamboyant one.
"Mr. Wilde." Grayson said.
Wilde held up Grayson's card, which the manager of the cafe had given him, and glanced at it insouciantly. "Inspector Grayson," he said in an appealing, almost musical voice. "It is not often that I receive a calling card from Scotland Yard. So tell me. Inspector, am Ito be inspected?"
The young man at his side tittered, setting off a small chorus of birdlike noises from the others. Grayson recognized Lord Alfred Douglas, the twenty-four year old son of the Marques of Queensberry. The son was not much like his sporting father. He was a pretty, spoiled-looking boy; in fact, he could easily have been Dorian Gray himself.
"I would like to ask you a few questions. Mr. Wilde, if Imay." said Grayson.
"Goodness, a police interrogation." Wilde said. " I trust that I am not about to be arrested'?"
"Why. Mr. Wilde,” Grayson said, affecting an innocent tone, "have you done anything to be arrested for?"
The playwright smiled. "I suppose that would depend upon what one considers criminal," he said. "I can think of any number of reviewers who believe that I should be arrested for my work and others who feel that I should be arrested for my manner. Tell me. Inspector, in which class would you fall?"
"The working class. Mr. Wilde." said Grayson.
"Oh, well done, Inspector!" Wilde said. "I hardly expected to find wit in Scotland Yard."
"It takes wit to do what we do, Mr. Wilde.” Grayson said. "Perhaps not your sort of wit, but wit nonetheless.”
"I see. I take it you do not approve of me, Inspector Grayson," Wilde said.
“I do not know enough about you personally to approve or disapprove.” said Grayson. "I could conjecture, but then the law does not deal with conjecture. The law is concerned with proof,
which may be very fortunate for you. On the other hand. if you were speaking of my disapproval as concerns your work. I am afraid that I must disappoint you. I quite enjoyed your play. Lady Windermere's Fan, and 1 found Dorian Gray quite interesting."
"Indeed?" said Wilde. "Interesting is a rather ambiguous word. You did not find it 'filthy' or 'immoral.' a 'dangerous novel,' as the newspapers called it?"
Grayson saw that Wilde's young cohorts were hanging on his every word, expecting to see him poignant the policeman with his wit. Perversely, Grayson decided to play out the game, if for no other reason than to deny them the pleasure of seeing him flustered.
"Didn't you yourself say that art was neither moral nor immoral?" Grayson said.
"I did, indeed," said Wilde, a slight smile on his face, "but then I was asking your opinion."
"My opinion, since you ask," said Grayson, "is that with Dorian Gray, you seem to have contradicted yourself."
"The well bred contradict other people." Wilde said. "The wise contradict themselves. But what an unusual reaction! Tell me, Inspector, just how did I manage to contradict myself?"