“Well then,” he said, “about the crucial plot twist. Is it at all possible that having our hero, Franklin Blake, perform the robbery of the diamond under the influence both of laudanum—however surreptitiously administered—and the mesmeric control of the Hindoo jugglers, too much of a coincidence? What I mean is, the Hindoos he encountered on the lawn could not have known that our Mr… what was his name?”

“Who?” I asked. I had taken out my pencil and was hurrying to make notes on the back of my manuscript page.

“The medic who died with a scrambled memory.”

“Mr Candy,” I said.

“Of course!” said Dickens. “Well, my only point is that the Hindoos encountered randomly on the estate’s grounds that night could hardly have known that Mr Candy would have put opium in Franklin Blake’s wine as a sort of prank. Could they?”

“No…” I said. “I suppose not. No, they could not have.”

“So, in truth, the dual revelations of secretly administered laudanum and the mesmeric magnetism of the Hindoo mystics on the lawn may be redundant, no?”

“Redundant?”

“I mean, my dear Wilkie, it would only take the coincidence of one or the other to allow Franklin Blake to carry out his somnambulistic thievery, isn’t that so?”

“I think… yes… it is,” I said, making a few notes.

“And how richer it is for the reader’s imagination that poor Mr Franklin Blake steals the diamond from his beloved’s bureau drawer in an attempt to protect it, not under the evil influence of the Hindoos, don’t you think?”

“Hmmm,” I said. This reduced my Huge Surprise to a sort of odd coincidence. But it might work.

Before I could comment, Dickens had gone on. “And the odd, lame servant—I apologise; what was her name?”

“Rosanna Spearman.”

“Yes, lovely name for that odd and disturbed character— Rosanna Spearman. You say, early on, that she is a product of— that is, that Lady Verinder had hired her from, I believe—a Reformatory?”

“Precisely,” I said. “I rather imagined that Rosanna had come from some institution very similar to your Urania Cottage.”

“Ahh, which I set up some twenty years ago with Miss Burdett-Coutts’s help,” said Dickens, still smiling and pacing. “So I thought, my dear Wilkie. But I’ve taken you to Urania Cottage. You’re quite aware that all of the women there are Fallen Women, being given another chance.”

“As was Rosanna Spearman,” I said.

“Indeed. But it’s simply unthinkable that Lady Verinder or anyone of her obvious calibre would hire Rosanna if the lady knew that she had been a… a woman of the streets.”

“Hmmm,” I said. Having Rosanna being a reformed woman of the streets had been, precisely, my goal. It explained both her doomed infatuation with Mr Franklin Blake and the erotic subtext to that infatuation. But it was difficult to argue that anyone so refined as my fictional—and equally as doomed as Rosanna Spearman—Lady Verinder would have hired a prostitute, however reformed. I made a note on my page.

“A thief,” Dickens said with that ring of certainty that was so common to him. “You can make the poor Rosanna a former thief—then Sergeant Cuff shall still be able to recognise her, but as someone who came through his jail rather than a woman on the street.”

“Is thievery so much less evil than being a woman of the street?” I asked.

“It is, Wilkie, it is indeed. Make her a woman of the streets, no matter how well reformed, and Lady Verinder’s home has been contaminated. Make her a former thief, and the reader shall see the magnanimity of Lady Verinder’s spirit in her attempt to help her through honest employment.”

“A point,” I said. “A palpable point. I shall make a note to review Rosanna’s background.”

“And then there is the problem of Reverend Godfrey Ablewhite,” went on Dickens.

“I wasn’t aware that there was a problem with Reverend Ablewhite, Charles. During the reading you laughed and interjected that you loved the exposure of such a hypocrite.”

“And so I do, Wilkie! So I do! And so shall your readers. The problem is not with the character—whom you have admirably drawn as the hypocrite, social climber, and would-be pilferer of a lady’s fortune—but with his title.”

“Reverend?”

“Precisely. I am pleased that you see the problem, my dear Wilkie.”

“I am not sure that I do, Charles. Certainly the accusations of hypocrite and liar are all the more meaningful if it’s a man of the cloth who…”

“Of course you are right!” said Dickens. “We have all known such sanctimonious men of the clergy—men who wish all to see them as doing good, even while they are secretly striving mightily to be doing well—but the charge is no less effective if we soften the indictment to a Mr Godfrey Ablewhite.”

I started jotting the note but then stopped and rubbed my head. “It seems so… lessened, diluted, pared down. How is it that Reverend Godfrey is the chairman of so many Ladies Charities if he is not clergy? And what would such a change do to the wonderful line I had already set in my outline—‘He was a clergyman by profession; a ladies’ man by temperament; and a good Samaritan by choice.’ You yourself laughed aloud when I recited that to you not an hour ago.”

“So I did, Wilkie. But it shall work just as well if you substitute… say… ‘barrister’ for clergyman. And we shall have saved the sensibilities of many, perhaps many thousands, of our readers from offence when none need be given in service of your admirable plot.”

“I am not sure…” I began.

“Make a note, Wilkie. And merely promise me that you will consider this change during the composition. It is, of course, the kind of thing that any diligent editor of any general magazine such as ours would be remiss not to bring up with the author. Indeed, if you were editing another’s manuscript, I am sure you would have raised the issue of demoting Reverend Godfrey Ablewhite to Mr Godfrey Ablewhite.…”

“I am not sure…” I began again.

“And finally, my dear Wilkie, there is the matter of the title.…” continued Dickens.

“Ahh,” I said, with some eagerness this time. “Which do you prefer, Charles? The Eye of the Serpent or The Serpent’s Eye?”

“Neither, actually,” said Dickens. “I have been giving the titles some thought, my dear friend, and I confess that I find both a bit diabolical and perhaps a trifle wanting from the commercial point of view.”

“Diabolical?”

“Well, the eye of the serpent. It does have Biblical connotations, Wilkie.”

“It has heathen Hindoo connotations as well, my dear Dickens. I have done a tremendous amount of research into various cults in India.…”

“And do any of them worship a serpent?”

“Not that I have discovered to date, but Hindoos worship… everything. They have monkey gods, rat gods, cow gods.…”

“And undoubtedly serpent gods as well, I agree,” Dickens said soothingly. “But the title still hints of the Garden and the serpent therein… that is to say, the Devil. And the obvious connection with the Koh-i-noor diamond makes any such connection absolutely unacceptable.”

I was totally at a loss. I had no idea what Dickens was talking about. Rather than splutter, however, I carefully poured myself more water, sipped it, and eventually said, “Unacceptable in what way, my dear Dickens?”

“Your gem, diamond, whatever you end up calling it, is so very obviously connected with the Koh-i-noor.…”

“Yes?” I said. “Perhaps. So?”

“You remember certainly, my dear Wilkie, or I am certain that your research has reminded you, that the original Koh-i-noor came from the region of India called, I believe, the Mountains of Light, and there was a persistent rumour, even before the diamond arrived on these shores, that the Mountains of Light had bad luck attached to every artefact from that area.”