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it,’ said the young woman, smiling. ‘Very much.’
    Oscar
lifted my portmanteau onto the luggage rack above us and intoned:
     
    ‘Then out spake brave Horatius,
    The Captain of the Gate:
    “To every man upon this earth
    Death cometh soon or late.
    And how can man die better
    Than facing fearful odds,
    For the ashes of his fathers,
    And the temples of his Gods.”’
     
    He
looked down and extended his hand to our fellow traveller. ‘Oscar Fingal
O’Flahertie Wills Wilde,’ he said. ‘I’m Dr Conan Doyle’s gentleman.’
    ‘No,
he’s not,’ I burst out, embarrassed. ‘He’s—’
    ‘I know
who you both are,’ interposed Catherine English, laughing. ‘You’re celebrated.
Mr Doyle is the creator of Sherlock Holmes, and Mr Wilde is a poet and a better
poet even than Lord Macaulay, in my estimation.’ She gently tapped her copy of The Lays of Ancient Rome and tucked the book under the straw hat on the
seat next to her.
    ‘Man is
the only creature who blushes — or needs to,’ said Oscar, bowing towards the
lady.
    The man
seated opposite her lowered his newspaper and nodded briefly to each of us in
turn. ‘Martin English,’ he said, curtly, and uttered nothing more.
    He was
taller, leaner, darker than the lady. His eyes were large and brown like hers,
his hair was curly. On second glance, he was not as old as I had first reckoned.
He was thirty-seven, perhaps, but his features had a weary, malcontent quality
to them that added to his years. Apart from a cream-coloured shirt and brown
shoes, he was dressed all in black.
    ‘Martin
is shy,’ said the young lady. ‘He doesn’t mean to be boorish. It’s just his
way.
    The man
grimaced, grunted and disappeared once more behind his newspaper.
    ‘I
understand entirely,’ said Oscar. ‘In this I am with Mr English completely.’ My
friend seated himself in the corner of the compartment, by the door, and
indicated that I should take my place opposite him. ‘Let us be seated, Arthur,
and let us be quiet.’ He looked from me to the young lady. ‘You two have books
to read and I have a sonnet to compose. Hush now. Not a word before Bologna.’
He closed his eyes and rested his head against the antimacassar.
    ‘Are we
going via Bologna?’ I asked, seating myself with a small sigh. The train was
moving now and the sun streamed into our compartment; I felt that a congenial
conversation with Catherine English was something that would make the final leg
of our long journey most agreeable.
    ‘Hush,
Arthur. Not a word before Florence then. Not a word.’
    ‘Nonsense,
gentlemen. Pay no attention to Martin. He’s an old curmudgeon. Of course we
must talk. I am so excited to meet you both. I want to learn all about you.
What brings you to Italy? Why are you here? Where are you going?’ She turned
towards me and stretched out her hand, across her hat and book and the bags and
parcels on the seat next to her. ‘What are you writing now, Mr Doyle? Are you
here undertaking research? I am sure you are. Do tell.’
    ‘Well …’
I hesitated. ‘Yes and no.’
    ‘It’s Dr Conan Doyle,’ said Oscar, opening one eye and turning his head towards the
lady. ‘Customarily, he’s quite particular about it. He’s a medical man, a
physician, as well as an author.’
    ‘Oh,’
said Catherine English, blushing prettily. ‘I hadn’t realised.’ She looked at
me with wide-open eyes. ‘You’ll think me very foolish, Dr Doyle, but somehow I
thought you were a detective.’
    It was my
turn to grunt. ‘People do think that,’ I said. ‘It’s an occupational hazard, I
suppose.’ I brushed imaginary crumbs from my trouser legs. ‘Sherlock Holmes is
the detective. But he’s a fictitious character, of course.’
    ‘He’s
so real I supposed you had to be a detective also.’
    ‘No,
it’s all imagination.’ I looked over towards Oscar, hoping that he might come
to my rescue. ‘My friend Wilde here is more of a detective than I am.’
    ‘Am I?’
he said