Oscar Wilde and a Game Called Murder
A Mystery
1The Fortune-Teller
It was Sunday, 1 May 1892, a cold day, though the sun was bright. I recall in particular the way in which a brilliant shaft of afternoon sunlight filtered through the first-floor front window of No. 16 Tite Street, Chelsea -- the London home of Oscar and Constance Wilde -- and perfectly illuminated two figures sitting close together at a small table, apparently holding hands.
I stood alone, by the window, watching them. One was a woman, a widow, in her early forties, with a pleasing figure, well-held, and a narrow, kindly face -- a little lined, but not care-worn -- and large, knowing eyes. She was dressed all in black silk, and on her head, which she held high, she wore a turban of black velvet featuring a single, startling, silver-and-turquoise peacock's feather. The colour of the feather matched the colour of her hair.
The other figure seated at the table was quite as striking. He was a large man, aged thirty-seven, tall, over-fleshed, with a fine head of thick deep-chestnut hair, large, slightly drooping eyes, and full lips that opened to reveal a ... read full excerpt from Oscar Wilde and a Game Called Murder: A Mystery ebook
