‘It was of course your finest hour,’ the Doctor added with a small smile. Wilde smiled back appreciatively in reply before gesturing them to sit down.

‘I’m almost glad you’ve come, sir,’ the writer said after they’d settled themselves. Nick watched Wilde pace the room with the drink in his hand.

‘You were expecting me?’ the Doctor asked.

‘Oh no. I was merely… hoping someone would be able to help me. Some rather odd things have been happening lately, as you pointed out.’ He laughed slightly, but Nick noticed it wasn’t a very happy laugh. ‘I had not heard about one of my characters writing libellous material about me, however. Which one?’

‘Canon Chasuble.’

Wilde’s face tightened. ‘Oh. Of course it would be a priest. Pity. I always rather liked him.’

‘You’ve noticed unusual events, you said?’ the Doctor asked. ‘Such as?’

‘There is this for one thing.’ Oscar stepped up to the small table between the bookshelf and the chaise longue and gestured to a portrait there of himself, framed in something gilded and extravagant.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ Nick asked. ‘When was this done?’ he added curiously, standing up in order to give the painting a closer look.

‘I’m not entirely sure when it was painted,’ Wilde replied, watching Nick’s frowning scrutiny with a slight smile on his face, and the smile faded away. ‘But it is of me before…’ Something flickered on his face but disappeared quickly. ‘… In 1895. And apparently it was done by Basil Hallward.’

The Doctor’s head shot up at that, and he bounded up to look at the portrait himself. Alf stayed slouching on the chaise longue, a bored look on her face. ‘And you became suspicious when you heard the painter’s name?’ The Doctor divided a searching look between the real Wilde and the Wilde in the picture. He added to his companions, ‘Nick, Alf, as you might have guessed, Basil Hallward is the name of another character created by Mr Wilde - from “The Picture of Dorian Gray”.’

‘I did become a little suspicious,’ Oscar admitted, ‘but I thought that perhaps he was paying me a compliment. I was flattered,’ he added with an ingenuous smile that made Nick grin back in understanding. When he looked at the painting again, though, his grin disappeared - the portrait showed a man in his prime, the man Nick had briefly glimpsed at the play last night, and looking at it made Nick feel sorry anew for Wilde in his present state, much paler and gaunt by comparison. ‘He was an odd sort of chap, I thought, when he came round to present me with it. He seemed to be a particularly horrid actor struggling to remember his lines.’

‘Sounds like the American,’ Alf said from the couch, and Wilde looked over at her.

‘American?’ he inquired.

‘Virginia Otis,’ the Doctor replied, meeting Oscar’s gaze and nodding at the look of comprehension he found there. ‘She’s right; your Basil does sound a lot like our Virginia. Tell me, Oscar, have you seen any more of your characters wandering about?’

Wilde frowned. ‘I thought I spied Lord Goring entering an art gallery once,’ he admitted, ‘but I was sure I was imagining things, that it was simply coincidence. Now, however…’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen representations of other authors’ characters wandering about Paris, have you?’ the Doctor went on.

Wilde looked mildly offended. ‘Why would other authors’ characters be here? And why would I see them? I have simple pleasures, sir. I am satisfied only with the best.’

Nick laughed. ‘And you’re the best?’ he asked the obvious question.

‘Of course,’ Wilde replied without a trace of modesty. ‘No, Doctor, I’ve only come across my own characters.’

‘Good,’ the Doctor said. ‘That at least limits things. Anything else that’s struck you as odd lately?’

Wilde paused, and he seemed about to speak, but then he changed his mind and said carefully instead, ‘No, I think not, Doctor.’

Alf glanced up at that, giving the gentleman a hard stare. ‘Nothing?’ she repeated. ‘You don’t sound so sure of yourself.’

Oscar favoured her with a frown. ‘I am quite sure,’ he replied rather coldly.

‘Maybe you’ll think of something,’ Nick jumped in, noting the bad-tempered scowl brewing on Alf’s face and wanting to deflect it. ‘Y’know, something you hadn’t thought was weird originally but you’ll change your mind when you remember it.’

Wilde gladly switched his focus back to Nick. ‘Perhaps you’re right, Mr… I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name.’

Nick held out his hand. ‘Just call me Nick,’ he said. Oscar smiled back and shook the hand.

‘Well,’ the Doctor said suddenly, startling the other three people in the room. ‘I think it is high time we started our investigation.’

‘Your investigation?’ Wilde said. ‘So you do intend to find out the meaning behind these strange… occurrences?’

‘Yes,’ the Doctor grinned, ‘I think I’m just the man for it. We already have a place to start - the address on the Reverend Chasuble’s pamphlet.’

‘Very good,’ said Wilde with a relieved smile. ‘I was rather afraid I would have to look into this myself. Most men are forced to perform parts for which they have no qualifications; I am sure I would make a terrible investigator.’

Nick found his gaze straying to Alf (as it often did these days); as Oscar spoke, a startled look crossed her face, and she stared up at the Doctor as if realising something. Nick frowned at her, wanting to ask what was wrong, but she didn’t meet his eye.

Oscar held out his hand again. ‘I really must thank you, Doctor.’

‘No trouble,’ the Doctor replied. ‘Nick, Alf, let’s get… no, wait. Nick, why don’t you stay with Oscar? As you say, he might think of something after we’re gone, and I’m sure he could do with the company.’

‘It’s always a very great pleasure to have the company of the young,’ Wilde interceded, turning back to Nick.

‘I don’t mind,’ Nick agreed. ‘I’d like to talk with you anyway, Mr Wilde.’

‘Ah, a compliment,’ Oscar grinned. ‘An acquaintance that begins with a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship.’

‘You don’t have any idea of where to find this “Basil Hallward” by any chance?’ interrupted the Doctor.

‘One moment.’ Oscar crossed the room to a desk and began rummaging around in one of the drawers, finally holding up a small card. ‘The chap left this calling card.’ As he spoke, the writer returned to the Doctor and handed the card to him.