She was small, with blonde hair and blue eyes and dressed in a smart little blue dress that even Nick could tell wasn’t the same fashion as the other clothes surrounding him. She looked up at Nick and Alf with sweet eyes and didn’t even blink at Alf’s tuxedo. ‘Hello,’ she said in a startling American accent.

‘Nick, Alf, I’d like you to meet Miss Virginia Otis,’ the Doctor said in a rather peculiar tone of voice. ‘Miss Otis, these are my friends.’

‘Perhaps you can help me?’ The friendly smile on her lips never reached her eyes, leaving her oddly cold and distant. ‘I’ve lost my family somewhere around here. We were supposed to be dining at this café, I thought. Perhaps you know if there’s another one with a similar name?’ Her words were stilted and unnatural, as if she’d never spoken before.

Alf had a set look to her face and refused to answer; Nick knew that meant she didn’t trust this girl. He himself felt strangely unsettled by her presence - it was as if there was something vital missing about her. Like a personality. Or a heartbeat. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We’re kinda lost ourselves.’

The Doctor was still scrutinising the girl. ‘I’m sure your family will arrive soon,’ he said. ‘But we really must be leaving.’

‘Doctor, shouldn’t we stick with her?’ Nick felt constrained to ask. He knew it could be disorienting to be alone in a strange city. ‘Just till her mum or dad shows up?’

‘You’ll be fine, won’t you?’ The Doctor spoke directly to Virginia.

‘Oh, sir, I wouldn’t like to be left alone,’ she replied plaintively. ‘I don’t speak any French at all! Oh wait…’ she was looking around the Doctor’s bulk with the appearance of alertness, even though there was still that deadened look to her eyes. She met the Doctor’s eye again with her unconvincing smile. ‘I see my father. Please excuse me.’ She gracefully slipped away from them, disappearing into the crowds.

Nick, Alf, and the Doctor stared at each other for a moment. ‘Doctor?’ Nick asked. ‘What the hell was that all about?’

‘Miss Virginia Otis,’ replied the Doctor, ‘is the name of a character from one of Oscar Wilde’s short stories. “The Canterville Ghost”.’

‘Are you sure?’ Alf replied sharply. She was still holding herself stiffly; something about the meeting appeared to have deeply freaked her out, though Nick wasn’t sure what. ‘Maybe Virginia Otis is a common American name.’

‘Somehow I doubt it,’ the Doctor replied. ‘Don’t you? Come along; this meeting only proves we must speak with the author himself. Almost there.’

Nick and Alf sighed, almost running to catch up with the Doctor as he again strode off without waiting for them.




‘Hello,’ the Doctor beamed at the concierge of the Hotel d’Alsace. ‘May we see Sebastian Melmoth please?’ He handed the other man a small card. The concierge ducked away and the Doctor turned back to his companions.

‘Sebastian Melmoth?’ Nick asked.

‘Oscar’s pseudonym,’ the Doctor explained. ‘His own name is too notorious by now; this is after he’s been released from gaol, remember. Sebastian was a martyred saint in the third century AD; he became a soldier in order to alleviate the suffering of captured Christians. Melmoth is the name of a character created by one of Oscar’s ancestors, Charles Maturin, in the novel “Melmoth the Wanderer” - about a man cursed to walk the world alone and friendless. Oscar’s choice of nom de guerre says a lot about his self-image. Ahh…’ the Doctor turned his grin on again as the proprietor of the hotel came back down the stairs. ‘Is Mr Melmoth in?’

‘He will see you sir,’ the Frenchman ducked his head once in reply before leading them up the shabby staircase to Wilde’s room.

Nick found himself a tad nervous. It wasn’t often one met great historical figures (even if one has never actually regarded them as great historical figures), and he really had enjoyed the play… last night, he supposed he could still technically say. He waited in the hall, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell, as the concierge knocked on the door.

‘Monsieur Melmoth, the Doctor and - friends.’ The Parisian opened the door for them and waited by it patiently until all three were inside before slipping it shut behind them. Nick took the moment’s pause to look around the room.

It was small, and cramped, and held that same musty smell as the rest of the hotel. He noted the wallpaper particularly, which was horrendous. And then he took his first good look at Oscar Wilde.

The man was sitting stiffly on a chaise longue, watching them unblinkingly through pale eyes. ‘How do you do,’ he said, standing up slowly and holding out his hand. He was so tall he almost seemed to tower over even the Doctor. ‘I suppose there is a particular reason you called upon me, sir?’

‘I would naturally not bother you, Mr Wilde, unless it was a matter of the utmost urgency,’ the Doctor replied gravely, shaking the writer’s proffered hand. ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me why one of your own characters is writing libellous material about you, and why another is wandering the streets of this city in search of her family?’

Oscar blinked, a shaken look crossing his face, and he turned away to a table of drinks, a hand going involuntarily to his ear. Nick saw something brown and crusted dried there, and his sympathy increased for this man, who definitely held the air of a fallen giant. ‘You are certainly straight to the point, Doctor,’ Oscar said, pouring himself a glass of champagne. He offered some to the others, but only Nick accepted. ‘Really, conversation has become so tedious these days. There was a time when one could talk for hours without ever saying anything useful.’