‘… And it’s been trading at this location since 1818, prior to which this was a fairground. You know, there really is nothing to compare to the food markets of Paris,’ said the Doctor, striding comfortably through the multitude of shoppers at the Marché St-Germain.

Trailing along in his wake, Alf resented the night they’d spent in a strange hotel when Nick and Wilde had failed to return before midnight. ‘What are we doing here, Doctor?’ she called at the ample back in front of her.

‘Eh? Why, breakfast of course! I thought oeufs en cocotte à l’estragon, a brioche or two and a pot of coffee.’

Alf grabbed the Doctor’s arm, halting him and spinning him around to face her. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it! We don’t know what’s happened to Nick, and we aren’t following up on the address for that painter. We should be doing something, not adding to your already ample waistline!’

‘My dear Alf, I understand your wish to proceed with this matter but there are a number of social niceties that must be complied with if we are to receive the co-operation of others. It is too early to visit Basil Hallward, as we are complete strangers to him. As for Nick - well, Oscar Wilde’s life is quite well documented, even in this period. He is, shall we say, not a morning person. The proprietor of the Hotel d’Alsace took rather an interest in his health, and I doubt if we would be admitted this side of noon. And Nick, as he has shown, can look after himself.’ He straightened his jacket, and looked serious as the young woman replied.

‘And what if Wilde is behind this? Nick could be in danger! We only have your assumptions as to what is happening, and they’re based on how things happened in a whole different universe!’

‘Alf, you put forward that view last night. I know you had a difficult time in London, and I assume that’s been colouring your perceptions. All right, let’s say you are right. Let’s say that Oscar Wilde is behind his own characters coming to life. Then what? The man isn’t a megalomaniac bent on world domination. If he is behind this, all we have are the last desperate efforts of a dying man to add some colour to his life.’

Seeing Alf’s puzzled expression, he explained: ‘Oscar Wilde dies later this year of complications arising from an ear infection acquired during his stint in gaol. And if he is behind it, do you think Nick is in any danger? American schoolgirls and sycophantic painters aren’t much of a threat to him!’

Alf looked the Doctor in the face thoughtfully, and then nodded. ‘I suppose so,’ she allowed.

‘But if I’m right, and we don’t follow up on what’s happening, it may be that whatever force is blurring the boundaries between fact and fiction can proceed with its plan unhindered. The results of that could be disastrous. What would happen if it wasn’t just Oscar’s fictions coming to life? Imagine a world where the dreams of the insane or the fantasies of fanatics come true!

‘Hallward is the last line of inquiry we have, and it is too early for complete strangers to come calling.’ The Doctor raised himself to his full height and smiled. ‘And you haven’t eaten in over twelve hours, which is not good for you in case we do run into anything that needs a physical response. So, shall we?’




Oscar Wilde was asleep, turning over and muttering quietly. Given the pauses between the mutters, an observer might be excused for thinking he was listening then replying to something in his dreams.

After a few minutes, he went quiet and opened his eyes. He sat up and looked over at Nick, asleep on the chaise longue. ‘Nick?’ he called quietly and, receiving no response, murmured to himself; ‘Perhaps he talks in his sleep, otherwise I must have dreamt that voice. Again.’

Glancing around the room, Oscar was briefly startled by a tall man standing over Nick’s sleeping form - and then realised it was the portrait of himself. The impression went immediately from threatening to comfortable.

Satisfied, the writer pulled one of the pillows over his head to block out the daylight and returned to sleep.




‘Look Alf, there’s the Tour Eiffel.’ The Doctor pointed to the slender metal structure that was visible in the distance. ‘Did you know it was erected eleven years ago as a temporary measure, part of the Universal Exhibition in 1889?’

‘Doctor, I don’t need to know the history of the Eiffel Tower,’ his companion replied through gritted teeth. ‘Could we please just get to this painter’s place and then get back to Nick?’

The bearded man frowned. ‘I’m just making conversation. And who knows, one day you might need to know what I’m telling you. In any case, that’s the direction we need to head to get to Hallward’s address.’

They trudged on together silently, Alf’s gaze fixed directly ahead while the Doctor’s eyes flitted around, alighting on first one item of interest and then another.

Eventually the Doctor called a halt, and led Alf down a side street. ‘We’ll soon be there. Could I please ask you try to be a little more polite than last night? That woman could have prevented us from seeing Chasuble, you know.’

‘For all the good seeing him did us. We didn’t learn anything from him.’

‘Sometimes what is missing tells us as much as what is present,’ replied the Doctor. ‘Chasuble appeared to be incapable of operating outside certain parameters, such as his inability to answer unanticipated questions. This means that someone or something provided him with that knowledge. So Chasuble was placed into the world by something.’

‘We knew that already.’

‘No, we only suspected that. Chasuble was the proof of the theory. We are on the right path. And speaking of which,’ he said suddenly stopping, ‘we’re here.’




An hour later, Alf was close to exploding. The woman who ran this particular boardinghouse had seemed very helpful at first. She’d confirmed that an English painter named Basil Hallward was one of her tenants, and showed them up to his room. And that was when things started going wrong.

First, no one had responded to their knocking on the door. The proprietress was sure that Hallward hadn’t left the building, but a quick check of the place failed to reveal him in any of the shared areas.

When the Doctor had pretended that it was an urgent matter, and that he was a specialist doctor called over from London to assist with a rare ailment that placed the painter’s life at risk, the landlady had produced a key ring and selected the appropriate key to open the door.

The room was empty. In fact, it looked like no one had been living there for months. No knick-knacks, no clothes left strewn about, none of the common detritus that came with someone’s life. The owner had claimed that the painter had used the place as a studio as well as living there, but there was no paint, no canvas, no brushes. In fact, if Hallward had ever been there, he must have been the tidiest artist in the world. There was no sign of any spilled paint on the floor or walls.