Rolf harrumphed and said no more, but Kate winked at me.
We parted in the hallway, when Babette headed toward Irene Wilson’s studio. I moved slowly as I approached Magdalen’s apartment, unable to shake a feeling of impending doom. Keats and Poe stayed close to my side, faithful sentries and protectors.
Magdalen answered the doorbell immediately, looking pert and quite exuberant. Her smile never wavered as she scanned the hallway for any other visitors. “Welcome, Persephone,” she said, “and of course my doggy dears as well. I have tea ready.”
I quickly explained that Pruett would be joining us once he disengaged from his claque of groupies. Magdalen chuckled and whisked me into her parlor. “I’m not surprised. Elaine and her reading group somehow got wind of Mr. Pruett’s visit. They’re terrible flirts, but I can’t really blame them. We don’t often see handsome men here. Actually, men of any type are fairly scarce.”
I envisioned Babette in thirty years still scoping out presentable male visitors regardless of age. No judgments. It made sense. We chatted about inconsequential things, awaiting the arrival of the guest of honor. I was curious about her assessment of Dr. Jethro Tully and his role at the Falls.
Initially, she hesitated. “I want to be fair. He’s very professional. Impersonal but not unfriendly. Apparently knows his stuff too. I looked him up on the Internet. Googled him.”
I sensed a mile-wide caveat. Magdalen’s generation was raised to revere physicians and speak no evil or anything even mildly critical. She bit her lip and finally stammered a reply.
“It’s nothing concrete. He’s always been perfectly civil, but I just don’t trust him. My mother had two terms for a man like Dr. Tully: smarmy and oleaginous.” Magdalen chuckled. “They mean much the same thing, but I love the expressions. Unfortunately, people today tend to use so few of the words in our vast language. He just acts so entitled. So much swagger. I guess that’s it. Insists on special bottled water from Italy and imported espresso. You know the type, Perri. Underneath the charm I sense something else. He patronizes the residents.” Magdalen curled her lip. “We may be old, but most of us still have our wits about us.”
I wanted to probe for specifics, but at that moment, Pruett knocked on her door and was ushered into the room with great ceremony. Magdalen took his hands, looked him up and down, and nodded her approval. “Well, Mr. Pruett. I see that for once the press buildup was totally justified.”
This was nothing new for Wing Pruett, but to my surprise, he flushed. “You’ve been on my mind, Ms. Melmoth, ever since Perri told me about you. I’m fascinated by your story.”
Magdalen motioned us toward the dining table, poured tea, and shared a plate of sandwiches and lemon tarts. “Eat, please. I know that men need sustenance, and a hearty appetite is a compliment to the hostess. As for my heritage, you must think I’m senile, Mr. Pruett. The doctor called it ‘fanciful,’ as if the meaning was all that different.” She stared at both of us, eyes blazing. “He’s wrong. It happens to be true. All of it. I am the granddaughter of Oscar Wilde and I can prove it.”
Chapter 5
No one spoke for a moment. As tension built, the silence was deafening. It took the soothing presence of Keats and Poe to break the logjam and restore order. Poe sidled up to Magdalen and placed his paw on her knee. That freed her to bend down and hug him. As she stroked his shiny coat, Magdalen Melmoth told her story.
“My parents never said much about our heritage. Father died during the Second World War, like so many other fine young men. My mother was hesitant to tell me much about his family. I grew up surrounded by a large, boisterous Irish group, my mother’s family, the Kingsburys. It was a comfortable life, filled with fun, horses, and every type of pet.” She paused, as if recalling those halcyon days. “Why, I did all the things a farm child enjoys—even operated machinery and bailed hay. I was quite a tomboy in those days.”
That gave Pruett the opening he sought. “No one mentioned Oscar Wilde or hinted at your connections?”
She shook her head. “Only on her deathbed did my mother speak of Sebastian Melmoth, my grandfather. That was the name she used. Never the other one. It simply wasn’t done in those days, you see, particularly when something scandalous was involved.”
Pruett leaned forward, his shoulders tense as he surreptitiously took notes. He knew that by letting Magdalen tell her story her way, he would ultimately get the information he needed. Patience was a virtue he often lacked, except in pursuit of his professional goals. “Perhaps your first name was a clue. If I’m not mistaken, a beautiful poem called ‘Magdalen Walks’ was one of Wilde’s big successes.”
Her cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink. “How perceptive of you, Mr. Pruett. Of course, that poem was about Magdalen College, Oxford, but still…”
“What was your father’s name?” I asked, praying that this family saga wouldn’t go on forever.
“Fingal. A common family name in Ireland, I understand, although not here. We immigrated to America when my mother remarried. Mama always caught the eye of the men around her, you see. Declan Farraday was a good man, quite a prosperous builder in his day. He offered to adopt me, but Mother refused. She said it would be tantamount to renouncing my father.” Magdalen shook her head. “We simply couldn’t do that.”
Pruett was growing restless. I knew his moods and could read him perfectly. To his credit, he gritted his teeth, turned up the charm machine, and stayed the course. “What did your mother tell you? Did she offer any proof or documents?”
Magdalen’s gentle smile reproved him. “Of course not. Mother said that my grandfather was a noted literary genius whose reputation had been tarnished in England.” Magdalen’s cheeks colored again. “Naturally she never specified what caused his downfall. In her day it simply wasn’t done. ‘The love that dare not speak its name’—that was the closest she came. Of course, later as I read more about him, I understood.”
Pruett furrowed his brow. “What about your father? Any diaries or letters about his parents?”
Once again Magdalen chuckled. “None that I know of. Just oral tradition. My father was a brilliant man. He took two firsts at Oxford. I recall Mother said that he followed in his father’s footsteps. Sebastian Fingal Melmoth was his full name.”
I tried not to sigh. Memories were therapeutic, but essentially unhelpful. They got us no closer to Oscar Wilde and the manuscript.
Pruett’s manner was gentle but firm. He held Magdalen’s hand and looked directly into her eyes. “Tell us about the manuscript. It’s important, Magdalen.”
There was something refreshingly girlish in her manner, a throwback from another more modest age. A photo on her mantel showed teenaged Magdalen clad in jodhpurs and formal riding regalia holding a palomino’s bridle. Wow! She was quite a stunner in her youth. Made me wonder why Magdalen had remained single.
“I’ve never actually seen it,” Magdalen admitted, “not the entire manuscript at least. But I’ve read fragments. and Mother said it was the best thing my grandpa ever wrote.”
Pruett gritted his teeth. His frustration was understandable because he was a gung ho, carpe diem kind of gonzo journalist. I decided that strategic intervention was in order to save the day.
“Oscar
