Episode 4: The Great Escape Part I

Scene 1 – The World Is Ending Twice

The embers of last night’s fire still glow in the hearth, casting a drowsy amber haze over crumpled newspapers blaring of Jack the Ripper’s latest atrocity.  A pale, mist-laden dawn filters through the narrow window, stealing silvered shadows from the musty books that pile around Oscar Wilde’s reading chair.  The air flavors burnt oak and the faintest whisper of brandy, clinging to the curls of smoke that drift from an upturned glass.  Oscar sits back, one booted foot pressed against the ottoman, as though the weight of London’s terror could be held at bay by nothing more than cultivated leisure.  With a languid flick of his wrist he sweeps aside the pile of unopened letters—each envelope an invitation to flattery or a plea for patronage—and pauses before breaking their seals, bracing himself for the first polite entreaty of morning.  Two letters sit before him.

He breaks the crimson seal and slides out a sheet of heavy cream paper, its surface smooth under his fingertips.  The handwriting—broad loops and tightly coiled capitals—was unmistakably P.T. Barnum’s, yet the usual flamboyant flourish was absent.  Instead, terse lines in black ink spilled across the page.

OSCAR My dear Oscar, I find myself in dire straits and must entreat your counsel at once…

He frowns reading on, each sentence growing more insistent, more urgent, until the last word leapt from the page like a summons.  The letter throbbed with desperation rather than spectacle, and for a moment the crackling fire and the horrors of Whitechapel receded, eclipsed by his friend’s unexpected plea.  The last time Oscar had heard from Barnum was more than a year ago—an invitation as grand and theatrical as the man himself, promising a meeting in London and an introduction to Harry Houdini.  It had arrived with all the ornament one might expect: bold, exuberant, impossible to ignore.  Since then, the world had grown quieter, as if some of its color had faded with Barnum’s absence.  Wilde read the words aloud.

OSCAR Houdini is in trouble.  Budapest has imprisoned him and won’t let him go.  I need you…now.

Wilde sighs barely shifting in his seat but his fingers tap once against the desk in a quiet, thoughtful motion.

OSCAR A magician trapped in a city that doesn’t let people go.  Curious.

He picks up the 2nd letter—this one from Arthur Conan Doyle.  The envelope is crisp, the ink precise.  Doyle, ever the man of reason, has chosen his words with measured intent.  Wilde reads, his sharp eyes scanning for hesitation, for anything unspoken between the lines.  Doyle has accepted his offer to help investigate the Ripper murders.

A slow smile forms. He dips his pen in ink, crafting his reply with effortless amusement.

OSCAR Doyle, my dear fellow—at last, you have come to your senses.  It has taken shadows, bodies, and no doubt a fair amount of stubborn refusal, but nonetheless, I welcome your newfound enthusiasm.  I'm about to depart for Budapest to free a magician from a prison that seems reluctant to part with him.  No doubt you sympathize with his plight.  Try not to dissect the mysteries too eagerly before I return—I would hate for you to reach conclusions before I have a chance to argue against them.  And if you do…be sure to have whisky on hand.

The ink dries as Wilde folds the letter, sealing it without ceremony.

OSCAR The rest of the mail can wait.  I’ve already received two letters this morning—both urgent in their own way.  I can only assume the world is ending twice.  How fascinating.

He finishes his drink, tugs on his coat and sets off for Hungary.

Scene 2 - Budapest Nocturne

Budapest greets Wilde with a heavy, knowing silence.

The city is neither welcoming nor hostile—it simply watches, ancient and unmoved by the affairs of men.  The architecture looms like forgotten monuments to an older era, streets twisting in ways that feel just slightly wrong, as if the city refuses to be navigated easily.

The Danube reflects in dark silver, whispering beneath bridges that seem to stretch farther than they should at night.  The mist rolls thick, clinging to stone facades and curling into alleyways that hold secrets no historian could properly document.

The three-day journey—two trains and a ferry—passed in a blur for Wilde.  He spent most of it dozing in small, velvet-lined compartments, exchanging witticisms at the bar, or scribbling letters with idle elegance.  Time, for him, was never wasted, and boredom was never a problem.  

The station is grand but cold, carved in grey stone, its edges softened by time.  The energy here is different—not the pulsing life of London, nor the extravagance of Paris.  Budapest does not care about spectacle.  It has seen centuries of rulers come and go.  It has watched empires rise, fall, and rebuild.  It remembers and waits without urgency.  Oscar steps onto the platform, adjusting his coat and readies himself for bureaucracy, intrigue, and the usual tangled affairs of politics.

What he does not expect is William Melville, standing perfectly still in the curling mist, watching Wilde as if he’s known his exact arrival time for days.  William waits, half-hidden by darkness, posture too rigid for a man unimpressed by superstition.  Oscar slows mid-stride, tilting his head slightly, measuring Melville’s presence like an unexpected chess piece.

OSCAR Ah, William—either Budapest has an impeccable intelligence network, or you’ve made the troubling habit of knowing my travel plans before I do.

His voice carries amusement, but there’s an edge beneath it—Melville’s presence is no coincidence.  As usual, he doesn’t bother with formal greetings.  His hands rest in his coat pockets, posture precise, tone clipped.
MELVILLE Budapest listens, Oscar. It is not a city that allows visitors to arrive unnoticed.

Then—just enough hesitation to let Wilde suspect there’s more beneath the surface.

MELVILLE You’re here for Houdini, I presume.  You’re wasting your time if you think this is merely about a magician’s stunt gone wrong.

OSCAR I must admit, William, I know nothing of stunts or wrongdoings.  I merely received word that an old friend needs help and like I always say - desperate friends make the best acquaintances.  Tell me—what you know about this mess.

MELVILLE: As you probably know, Harry Houdini made his name with dramatic escapes—water tanks, chains, iron cuffs, the whole spectacle.  What fewer people realize is that he spent just as much time exposing fake spiritists as he has performing on the big stage.  He understands every hidden wire, stooge and trapdoor—he knows all the tricks—and he never hesitates to expose the charlatans who prey on the grieving.

Wilde was vaguely aware of Harry’s flirtations with mysticism.  It was said that he and his wife, Beatrice, hosted some of the most dazzling séances in recent memory—though for Houdini, it was all theatrical flair, a performance like any other.  Still, there were many who treated spiritualism not only as sacred truth, but as serious business—and for some, a highly profitable one.

MELVILLE Houdini had been recently drawn to a séance by whispers of communion with the dead—and midway through the ritual he blacked out.

OSCAR Blacked out? That doesn’t sound like a common parlor trick.

MELVILLE: Precisely.  He came to with the room in shambles: chairs overturned, a crystal globe smashed and two of the guests bruised within an inch of their lives.

OSCAR (smiling thinly): How delightfully uncivilized.  One suspects the spirits were feeling particularly quarrelsome that evening.

MELVILLE: The organizers weren’t mere charlatans.  These were men of rank—lords, magistrates, even a bishop.  They greased the palms of the constables, sealed off the séance room and purged every clue.  All the testimony’s been scrubbed clean and no one is talking.  We know the room was wrecked and two guests left bloodied, but it’s impossible to say whether Houdini was set upon by masked attackers or if he alone bore the fury of those blows.  All that remains certain is that Houdini’s been hauled off to Vármegye Tower and locked away.

OSCAR Ah, nothing quite says credibility like a bishop in a séance circle.  When the clergy and the gentry conspire to silence a scandal, one can be sure the scandal is worth hearing. As for Houdini—if he’s been locked away, I can only assume the locks are trembling in anticipation.  Still, bloodied guests and vanished evidence?  It seems the spirits weren’t the only ones summoned that night.  Perhaps whatever happened during Houdini’s séance didn’t just disrupt the performance—it disturbed something better left alone.

Budapest had settled into its nocturnal rhythm—carriages rattling along Andrássy Avenue, laughter rising from smoky cafés, and the distant chime of St. Stephen’s Basilica echoing across the rooftops.  Inside the Grand Hotel Royal, the city’s bustle gives way to a more deliberate hush.  Wilde and Melville have retired to the lounge after dinner, the weight of travel replaced by the sharper pull of purpose.  Their coats hung nearby, still damp with Danube mist, and the fire crackled with the kind of warmth that invited confidences.  It was here, beneath the soft glow of gaslight and the velvet hush of empire-era elegance, that they begin to speak of the two men who might hold the first threads of the mystery.

OSCAR So… where do we start?

MELVILLE Intelligence has been… thin. I’ve managed to locate only two individuals willing to speak—and even that’s generous.  The first is a socialite, Count László Teleki.  Old family, old money.  He was at the séance, though he insists he was merely a curious observer.  He’s been evasive and scared.  Claims this was no common séance.

OSCAR Aristocrats are like locked drawers—ornate, expensive, and usually hiding something embarrassing.  Still…little information is still a step above none.  And aristocrats do love the sound of their own secrets.

MELVILLE The second is a former guard from Vármegye Tower—the prison where they’re holding Houdini.  His name is János Farkas.  He was dismissed under vague circumstances.  Drinks too much, talks too little, but there’s something in his eyes—like he’s seen more than he can explain.  He won’t be easy, but he’s been inside.  He knows the layout, the routines… and he’s hinted that prisoners have been disappearing.  Quietly and without record.

OSCAR Vanishing acts in a prison.  Houdini would be flattered—if he weren’t the one behind the bars.

The lounge had quieted to a gentle murmur, broken only by the soft clink of glassware and the low exchange of goodbyes as the last guests drifted off to their rooms. Wilde and Melville sat in high-backed chairs near the hearth, where the fire had dwindled to a warm, amber glow—its embers fading like the final blush of sunset.

MELVILLE We’ll need to tread carefully.  The city’s already whispering about the séance, and Houdini’s name carries weight—too much of it, perhaps.

OSCAR Then let us tread with style.  If we’re to be watched, we may as well give them something worth watching.

MELVILLE Tomorrow, we set things in motion.  I’ve arranged for our first audience—with the Count, at his social club.  We’ll find him there, no doubt cloaked in charm and cigars.  The Guard follows in the afternoon.  With luck, he’ll have found his congeniality at the bottom of a bottle by then—and be ready to talk.

OSCAR Splendid. I do enjoy a good mystery with a touch of aristocracy and a hint of gin.

William rises, adjusting his coat.

MELVILLE Get some rest.  We’ll need clear heads in the morning.

OSCAR I shall do my best to disappoint you.

They exchange a nod as Melville exits, his footsteps fading into the corridor.  Oscar lingers a moment longer, gazing into the fire’s dying embers.

OSCAR A city of shadows, secrets and séances.  I believe I’m going to enjoy this.

He finishes his drink, extinguishes the lamp and disappears into the hallway as the night folds in behind him.

Scene 3 – Shadows And Smoke

The city woke slowly, like a baroque painting stirring to life.  Mist curled along the Danube, softening the iron bones of the bridges and blurring the line between Buda’s hills and Pest’s sprawl.  Trams clattered along their tracks with a metallic ring, their yellow paint dulled by the morning haze.  The scent of chimney smoke and fresh pastry mingled in the air, and pigeons scattered from the feet of early risers crossing Szabadság tér.
Oscar Wilde and William Melville walked side by side, their pace unhurried but purposeful. Oscar, wrapped in a velvet overcoat of deep plum, walked with the languid grace of a man who had never rushed a day in his life.  His cane tapped rhythmically against the pavement, more for style than support.  Beside him, Melville moved with the quiet precision of a man trained to notice everything and say very little.  His dark coat was plain, his hat pulled low, but his eyes missed nothing.  They passed beneath the arch of a crumbling tenement where laundry hung like faded flags of surrender.  A violinist played a mournful tune near the entrance of a café, his case open for coins, the melody curling through the morning air like smoke.  Wilde paused to listen, his expression distant, while Melville’s gaze remained fixed on the building ahead — a narrow townhouse with a discreet brass plaque that read simply Társaság — The Society — its windows shuttered and curtains drawn tight against the daylight.

Inside, the private club was dim and hushed, its walls lined with oil portraits of men who had once mattered.  The air smelled of old parchment, burning tallow and something faintly medicinal.  A fire crackled in the hearth, though the morning was warm.

Count László Teleki stood when they entered, though his posture betrayed no welcome.  He was pale, his hands trembling slightly as he gestured them to sit.  His eyes darted to the door, then to the windows, as if expecting someone — or something — to burst through.

LASZLO You shouldn’t have come (he said, voice low and frayed) They’re watching.  They always are.

Wilde sank into a leather chair while Melville remained standing.  He retrieved a small notepad and pen from the inner pocket of his coat.

MELVILLE Tell us what happened.  All of it.

LASZLO [nervous laugh] It was supposed to be an evening of… of spectacle.  A bit of theater.  Nothing more.

The Count hesitated, then poured himself a drink with shaking hands. The glass clinked against the decanter like a warning bell.

OSCAR You invited Houdini.  Surely you expected more than nothing.

LASZLO He was curious.  Skeptical, of course.  He was just as anxious to come as we were to have him.  Said he wanted to see the tricks behind the curtain.  Who knows – maybe he was anxious to learn some new techniques for his own performances.  He was born here in Budapest and knows some of the main players in the spirit game.

MELVILLE And the medium?

LASZLO Madame Virelle.  French, or claims to be.  She brought her own materials—candles, crystals, and… the incense. I didn’t question it.  She said it was traditional. Sacred.  I thought it was part of the act.

MELVILLE Describe it.

LASZLO Green.  Thick.  Not like any incense I’ve smelled before.  It clung to the air.  Sweet at first, then… sharp.  Like mint and rust.

OSCAR [chuckling] Mint and rust.  A curious bouquet for a séance.

LASZLO People started to sway.  Eyes fluttering.  I thought it was working—hypnosis, suggestion, whatever.  But Houdini—he stiffened.  Like he was fighting something.

MELVILLE And then what happened?

LASZLO Then the masked men came in.

MELVILLE The masked men.  You said they entered after the incense was lit.

LASZLO No… no, that’s not quite right.  They didn’t enter.  They were already there.  They came from the back.  Through the service corridor.  I didn’t even see the door open.  One moment we were in the séance, the next… they were just there.

OSCAR And what kinds of masks were they wearing?

LASZLO Scarves.  Green silk, wrapped high over their faces.  Only their eyes visible.  Not like costumes—more like… uniforms.  Coordinated.

MELVILLE Like they belonged to something.

LASZLO Yes.  They moved with purpose.  No hesitation.  They didn’t speak.  Just… began escorting the guests out, one by one.  They moved in unison.  When the guests began to swoon, they rose—calm, silent—and began escorting them out.  No one resisted.  It was like they were under a spell.

OSCAR And no one questioned it?

LASZLO They couldn’t.  The incense—it had them dazed.  Docile.  Like they were sleepwalking.

MELVILLE But Houdini wasn’t.

LASZLO No.  He was fighting it.  I saw him blink, shake his head, like he was trying to stay conscious.  After they escorted us all out of the room one of them approached Mr. Houdini—he had something in his hand.  A small vial.  He uncorked it, and this… green vapor hissed out.

OSCAR The same color as the scarves?

LASZLO Exactly.  Houdini inhaled it—and instead of collapsing, he exploded.  He threw the man across the room.  The other tried to subdue him, but he was like a furious storm.  I only remember parts.  I was not fully awake.  It was dark and I was trying to see through a crack in the door from the back room.

MELVILLE And the others?

LASZLO Gone.  When I came back, the guests were gone.  The medium too.  Just Houdini, panting, blood on his hands, and the room in ruins.  The two men in masks beaten to a pulp, groaning on the floor.

Laszlo is slumped in his chair, drained.  Wilde stands at the window, staring out into the foggy street.  Melville paces slowly, thinking aloud.

MELVILLE They weren’t there for the séance.  They were there for Houdini.

OSCAR (sipping his drink) The incense was a smokescreen—literally.  A way to dull the crowd, clear the room.  Isolate him.

MELVILLE And the green gas… some mind altering hallucinogen maybe.  Probably meant to knock him out.  Quietly.  Cleanly.

OSCAR But they miscalculated.  The mind of Harry Houdini is a fortress.  They tried to sedate him—and woke the beast instead.  How terribly unfortunate for them [laughs].

LASZLO [quietly] Who would do this?  Why?

MELVILLE That’s the question, isn’t it?

OSCAR Men in matching scarves.  Moving like soldiers.  No names.  No voices.  And a medium who vanishes the moment the plan fails.

MELVILLE This wasn’t a séance.  It was a snare.

LASZLO You think it’s… some kind of organization?

OSCAR Oh, I think it’s worse than that.  I think it’s a society.  The kind that doesn’t advertise. The kind that doesn’t fail twice.  Come to think of it, they didn’t even fail once.  Their kidnapping may not have went as planned but the end result is the same.  Harry’s still locked in a cell.

MELVILLE  We should find this Madame Virelle.

LASZLO She’s gone.

OSCAR Gone?

LASZLO Vanished.  No forwarding address.  No carriage.  No trace.  Her room upstairs—empty.  Not a hairpin left behind.

MELVILLE So she was never just a medium.

OSCAR She was the match.  And someone else struck the flame.

A long silence drifts by as the men contemplate.

MELVILLE This wasn’t random.  It was orchestrated.  The incense.  The gas.  
The timing.  The men in scarves.  All of it.  Whoever they are… they’re organized.  They’re patient.  And they’re powerful enough to vanish a woman in the middle of a crowded city without a whisper.  Laszlo, we are not on the record here and as far as I’m aware, no one knows about our meeting today.  Please do protect yourself.  Don’t travel alone.  Be cautious.

They came for Houdini under the guise of shadows and smoke, but what they left behind was louder than any scream—silence.  Laszlo had spilled what little he knew, and now the whole affair had been swept clean.  Madame Virelle was gone—vanished like one of the ghosts she claimed to summon.  Mysteries stacked upon mysteries, and the day was far from finished.  There were still questions in the air and it was time to knock on the next door.

Scene 4 – They Never Stopped

The Szürke Macska wasn’t the kind of place you found—it was the kind of place you ended up.  Tucked between a shuttered tobacconist and a crumbling tenement, it clung to the edge of the city like a bad habit.  Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and the sour tang of cheap pálinka.  A few gas lamps hissed along the walls, casting a jaundiced glow over cracked mirrors and faces that would rather go unnoticed.  In the back, beneath a flickering bulb and a ceiling stained with smoke, a man nursed a drink with both hands like it might run away. His coat was threadbare, his eyes bloodshot.  The uniform was gone, but the weight of it still hung on his shoulders.

FARKAS I wasn’t there when they brought in Houdini.  They’d already pushed me out by then.  Said I was “unfit for duty.”   What they meant was—I saw something I wasn’t supposed to.

He takes a long drink, then sets the glass down with a soft clink.

FARKAS There’s a corridor beneath the east wing.  Not on any map.  Stone older than the rest of the prison—older than the city, maybe.  I followed a cart down there once.  Thought it was laundry.  It wasn’t.

MELVILLE What was it?

Melville is scratching notes in his notebook, listening intently.

FARKAS People.  Strapped to gurneys.  Tubes in their arms.  Some of them unconscious. Some… humming.  Like something inside them was still moving, even when they weren’t.  I think they were taking the prisoners who had no family or ones they thought might not be missed.

He leans in, voice low.

FARKAS They weren’t prisoners.  They were experiments.

OSCAR Ah.  The old “secret underground laboratory” twist.  I was beginning to worry this story might be ordinary.

FARKAS You think I’m lying?

OSCAR No. I think you’re telling the truth.  And that’s precisely what makes it so inconvenient.  My friend is in that place now, and it’s already dangerous enough being my friend without adding secret laboratories and humming corpses to the narrative.

MELVILLE Who was running it?

FARKAS I don’t know for sure.  They didn’t speak.  Just nodded to the guards who let them through.  Like they belonged there more than we did.  Green scarves, uniformed but no flags or insignias.  Definitely not doctors.

MELVILLE And you reported this?

FARKAS To who?  The warden?  He was one of them.  Or working for them.  I don’t know.  All I know is, two days later, I was dismissed.  No pension.  No explanation.  Just a warning for me to forget what I saw.

OSCAR And did you?

FARKAS I tried.  But then I heard about Houdini.  And I knew… they hadn’t stopped.

MELVILLE Did you ever see anyone else?  Someone giving orders?  Someone in charge?

FARKAS Not directly.  They kept to the shadows.  But I heard whispers.  The guards talked when they thought no one was listening.

OSCAR They always do.  It’s their only form of poetry.

FARKAS There was a name that came up more than once.  They called him Rasputin.  We were supposed to pretend as though he never existed.

MELVILLE Who was he?

FARKAS No one knew.  Or if they did, they didn’t say.  He didn’t come often, but when he did… everything changed.  The halls went quiet.  The guards stood straighter.  And we were told—don’t look at him.  No eye contact.  Not even a glance.

OSCAR Figures.  The end of the world comes robed and barefoot.  Nothing says ‘evil doing’ like vows of silence and poor hygiene.

FARKAS I never saw his face.  Just the shape of him.  Tall.  Often hooded.  He moved like he didn’t touch the ground.  Long beard and disheveled.  Spent most of his time with the Warden.

William closes his notebook, voice tight.

MELVILLE We need to get him out.  Tonight, if possible.

FARKAS You won’t make it through the front.  Not unless you’ve got clearance or a death wish.

OSCAR If Harry’s still Harry, the locks and handcuffs won’t be the problem.  He could pick those in his sleep.  It’s the walls, the guards, and whatever’s humming in the dark that worry me.

FARKAS You want to get him out?   Then don’t go in like thieves.   Go in like you belong.

MELVILLE Visitors?

FARKAS Exactly.  They still allow them—under strict supervision.  But it’s your best chance to see him without raising alarms.

OSCAR Well, I’ve always had a knack for charming wardens.  And if Harry’s still breathing, I imagine he’s already halfway out of his cell.

MELVILLE I can’t go in.  Not officially.  If this goes wrong, British intelligence can’t be tied to a prison break.

OSCAR Understood.  You’ll be our man on the outside.

FARKAS You’ll need papers.  Something convincing.  And a reason to be there.

OSCAR  I’ll be a concerned cousin.  Estranged, eccentric, and entirely too curious for my own good.  William here can get me the right documentation.

MELVILLE And if things go sideways?

OSCAR Then I suppose I’ll finally get to see what the inside of a cell looks like.

Oscar and Melville grab their coats and toss a few coins on the table.

FARKAS If you find him… don’t stay long.  That place changes people.  Some don’t come back.  Some come back wrong.

OSCAR Then we’ll make sure he comes back right.  You know, Melville, I always suspected I’d end up in prison one day.  I just assumed it would be for something far more glamorous—like art or scandal.  Not… visiting hours.