Authors: Gyles Brandreth
Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders
aka Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance
The first book in the
Lovers of historical mystery will relish this chilling Victorian tale based on real events and cloaked in authenticity. Best of all, it casts British literature’s most fascinating and controversial figure as the lead sleuth.
A young artist’s model has been murdered, and legendary wit Oscar Wilde enlists his friends Arthur Conan Doyle and Robert Sherard to help him investigate. But when they arrive at the scene of the crime they find no sign of the gruesome killing—save one small spatter of blood, high on the wall. Set in London, Paris, Oxford, and Edinburgh at the height of Queen Victoria’s reign, here is a gripping eyewitness account of Wilde’s secret involvement in the curious case of Billy Wood, a young man whose brutal murder served as the inspiration for
The Picture of Dorian Gray
. Told by Wilde’s contemporary—poet Robert Sherard—this novel provides a fascinating and evocative portrait of the great playwright and his own ‘consulting detective,’ Sherlock Holmes creator, Arthur Conan Doyle.
From the previously unpublished memoirs of Robert Sherard
My name is Robert Sherard, and I was a friend of Oscar Wilde. We met in Paris in 1883, when he was twenty-eight and already famous, and I was twenty-one and quite unknown. “You must not call me ‘Wilde’,” he said to me at that first encounter. “If I am your friend, Robert, my name to you is Oscar. If we are only strangers, I am Mr Wilde.” We were not strangers. Nor were we lovers. We were friends. And, after his death, I became his first—and his most faithful—biographer
I knew Oscar Wilde and I loved him. I was not by him in the poor room of the poor inn where he died. I had not the consolation of following to the nameless grave the lonely hearse that bore no flowers on its pall
But, as many hundreds of miles away I read of his solitary death, and heard of the supreme abandonment of him by those to whom also he had always been good, I determined to say all the things that I knew of him, to tell people what he really was, so that my story might help a little to a better understanding of a man of rare heart and rarer genius
I am writing this in the summer of
The date is Thursday
August. War looms, but it means nothing to me. Who wins, who loses: I care not. I am an old man now, and sick, and I have a tale I need to tell before I die
I want to complete the record, ‘finish the portrait’, as best I can. As in a forest of pine-trees in southern France there are great black, burnt-up patches, so too in my memory. There is much that I have forgotten, much that I have tried to forget, but what you will read in the pages that follow I know to be true. In the years of our friendship, I kept a journal of our times together. I promised Oscar that for fifty years I would keep his secret. I have kept my word. And now the time has come when I can break my silence. At last, I can reveal all that I know of Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders. I must do it, for I have the record. I was there. I am the witness
The good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket.
William Wordsworth (1770-1850
31 August 1890
n an afternoon ablaze with sunshine, at the very end of August 1889 a man in his mid-thirties—tall, a little overweight and certainly overdressed—was admitted to a small terraced house in Cowley Street, in the city of Westminster, close by the Houses of Parliament.
The man was in a hurry and he was unaccustomed to hurrying. His face was flushed and his high forehead was beaded with perspiration. As he entered the house—number 23 Cowley Street—he brushed past the woman who opened the door to him, immediately crossed the shallow hallway and climbed the staircase to the first floor. There, facing him, across an uncarpeted landing, was a wooden door.
Momentarily, the man paused—to smile, to catch his breath, to adjust his waistcoat and, with both hands, to sweep back his wavy, chestnut-coloured hair. Then, lightly, almost delicately, he knocked at the door and, without waiting for an answer, let himself into the room. It was dark, heavily curtained, hot as a furnace and fragrant with incense. As the man adjusted his eyes to the gloom, he saw, by the light of half a dozen guttering candles, stretched out on the floor before him, the naked body of a boy of sixteen, his throat cut from ear to ear.
The man was Oscar Wilde, poet and playwright, and literary sensation of his age. The dead boy was Billy Wood, a male prostitute of no importance.
I was not there when Oscar discovered the butchered body of Billy Wood, but I saw him a few hours later and I was the first to whom he gave an account of what he had seen that sultry afternoon in the curtained room in Cowley Street.
That evening my celebrated friend was having dinner with his American publisher and I had arranged to meet up with him afterwards, at 10.30 p.m., at his club, the Albemarle, at 25 Albemarle Street, off Piccadilly. I call it ‘his’ club when, in fact, it was mine as well. In those days, the Albemarle encouraged young members—young ladies over the age of eighteen, indeed!—and gentlemen of twenty-one and more. Oscar put me up for membership and, with the generosity that was typical of him, paid the eight guineas’ joining fee on my behalf and then, year after year, until the very time of his imprisonment in 1895, the five guineas’ annual subscription. Whenever we met at the Albemarle, invariably, the cost of the drinks we drank and the food we ate was charged to his account. He called it ‘our club’. I thought of it as his.
Oscar was late for our rendezvous that night, which was unlike him. He affected a languorous manner, he posed as an idler, but, as a rule, if he made an appointment with you, he kept it. He rarely carried a timepiece, but he seemed always to know the hour. “My friends should not be left wanting,” he said, “or be kept waiting.” As all who knew him will testify, he was a model of consideration, a man of infinite courtesy. Even at moments of greatest stress, his manners remained impeccable.
It was past 11.15 when eventually he arrived. I was in the club smoking room, alone, lounging on the sofa by the fireplace. I had turned the pages of the evening paper at least four times, but not taken in a word. I was preoccupied. (This was the year that my first marriage ended; my wife Marthe had taken an exception to my friend Kaitlyn—and now Kaitlyn had run off to Vienna! As Oscar liked to say, “Life is the nightmare that prevents one from sleeping.”) When he swept into the room, I had almost forgotten that I was expecting him. And when I looked up and saw him gazing down at me, I was taken aback by his appearance. He looked exhausted; there were dark, ochre circles beneath his hooded eyes. Evidently, he had not shaved since morning and, most surprisingly, for one so fastidious, he had not changed for dinner. He was wearing his workaday clothes: a suit of his own design, cut from heavy blue serge, with a matching waistcoat buttoned right up to the large knot in his vermilion-coloured tie. By his standards, it was a comparatively conservative outfit, but it was striking because it was so inappropriate to the time of year.
“This is unpardonable, Robert,” he said, as he collapsed onto the sofa opposite mine. “I am almost an hour late and your glass is empty. Hubbard! Champagne for Mr Sherard, if you please. Indeed, a bottle for us both.” In life there are two types of people: those who catch the waiter’s eye and those who don’t. Whenever I arrived at the Albemarle, the club servants seemed to scatter instantly. Whenever Oscar appeared, they hovered attentively. They honoured him. He tipped as a prince and treated them as allies.
“You have had a busy day,” I said, putting aside my paper and smiling at my friend.
“You are kind not to punish me, Robert,” he said, smiling too, sitting back and lighting a cigarette. He threw the dead match into the empty grate. “I have had a disturbing day,” he went on. “I have known great pleasure today, and great pain.”
“Tell me,” I said. I tried to say it lightly. I knew him well. For a man ultimately brought down by gross indiscretion, he was remarkably discreet. He would share his secrets with you, but only if you did not press him to do so.
“I will tell you about the pleasure first,” he said. “The pain will keep.”
We fell silent as Hubbard brought us our wine. He served it with obsequious ceremony. (God, how he took his time!) When he had gone, and we were once more alone, I expected Oscar to pick up his story, but instead he simply raised his glass in my direction and gazed at me with world-weary, vacant eyes.
“How was dinner?” I asked. “How was your publisher?”
“Dinner,” he said, returning from his reverie, “was at the new Langham Hotel, where the decor and the beef are both overdone. My publisher, Mr Stoddart, is a delight. He is American, so the air around him is full of energy and praise. He is the publisher of
Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine
“And he has given you a new commission?” I conjectured.
“Better still, he has introduced me to a new friend.” I raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Robert, I have made a new friend tonight. You will like him.”
I was accustomed to Oscar’s sudden enthusiasms. “Am I to meet him?” I asked.
“Very shortly, if you can spare the time.”
“Is he coming here?” I glanced at the clock on the fireplace.
“No, we shall be calling on him—at breakfast. I need his advice.”
“He is a doctor. And a Scotsman. From Southsea.”
“No wonder you are disturbed, Oscar,” I said, laughing. He laughed, too. He always laughed at the jokes of others. There was nothing mean about Oscar Wilde. “Why was he at the dinner?” I asked.
“He is an author, too—a novelist. Have you read
? Seventeenth-century Scotland has never been so diverting.”
“I’ve not read it, but I know exactly who you mean. There was a piece about him in
today. He is the coming man: Arthur Doyle.”
Doyle. He is particular about that. He must be your age, I suppose, twenty-nine, thirty perhaps, though he has a gravitas about him that makes him appear older than everybody’s papa. He is clearly brilliant—a scientist who can play with words—and rather handsome, if you can imagine the face beneath the walrus moustache. At first glance, you might think him a big game hunter, newly returned from the Congo, but beyond his handshake, which is intolerable, there is nothing of the brute about him. He is as gentle as St Sebastian and as wise as St Augustine of Hippo.”
I laughed again. “You are smitten, Oscar.”
“And touched by envy,” he replied. “Young Arthur has caused a sensation with his new creation.”
“‘Sherlock Holmes’,” I said, “‘the consulting detective’.
A Study in Scarlet
—that I have read. It is excellent.”
“Stoddart thinks so, too. He wants the sequel. And between the soup and the fish course, Arthur promised him he should have it. Apparently, it is to be called
The Sign of Four
“And what about your story for Mr Stoddart?”
“Mine will be a murder mystery, also. But somewhat different.” His tone changed. “It will be about murder that lies beyond ordinary detection.” The clock struck the quarter. Oscar lit a second cigarette. He paused and stared towards the empty grate. “We talked much of murder tonight,” he said quietly. “Do you recall Marie Aguetant?”
“Of course,” I said.
She was not a lady one was likely to forget. In her way, in her day, she was the most notorious woman in France. I met her with Oscar in Paris in ‘83 at the Eden Music Hall. We had supper together, the three of us—oysters and champagne, followed by
pate de foie gras
and Barsac—and Oscar talked, and talked, and talked as I had never heard him talk before. He spoke in French—in perfect French—and spoke of love and death and poetry, and of the poetry of love-and-death. I marvelled at him, at his genius, and Marie Aguetant sat with her hands in his, transfixed. And then, a little drunk, suddenly, unexpectedly, he asked her to sleep with him.
Ou? Quand? Combien?
” he enquired.
Içi, ce soir, gratuit
,” she answered.
“I think of her often,” he said, “and of that night. What animals we men are! She was a whore, Robert, but she had a heart that was pure. She was murdered, you know.”
“I know,” I said. “We have talked of it before.”
“Arthur talked about the murders of those women in Whitechapel,” he went on, not heeding me. “He talked about them in forensic detail. He is convinced that ‘Jack the Ripper’ is a gentleman—or, at least, a man of education. He was particularly interested in the case of Annie Chapman, the poor creature who was found at the back of Dr Barnardo’s children’s asylum in Hanbury Street. He said Miss Chapman’s womb had been removed from her body—“by an expert’. He was eager to show me a drawing he had of the wretched girl’s eviscerated corpse, but I protested and then, somewhat foolishly, attempted to lighten the mood. I told him—to amuse him—of the forger Wainewright’s response when reproached by a friend for a murder he had admitted to. ‘Yes; it was a dreadful thing to do, but she had very thick ankles.’”