2007 - Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders (12 page)

I laughed. “Who are these ‘spies’ of yours, Oscar?”

He looked at me. “They are secret agents, Robert. If I told you who they were, that would rather ruin the point of them, would it not? But, believe me, they are good fellows and to be relied upon. While I have been scribbling away in Oxford, they have been roaming the streets of London and Broadstairs—keeping an eye on your prime suspects. You will be disappointed to learn, Robert, that, in our absence, neither Edward O’Donnell nor Gerard Bellotti has behaved in the least bit suspiciously. Were they guilty of murder, you might think that they would have left the country or attempted to do so…In fact, according to the reports I have received, each has gone about his seedy business in his customary fashion.”

“And Mrs Wood?”

“I have corresponded with Mrs Wood,” he said, contemplating the bucket of roses once again and carefully selecting a single stem. “Her sorrow is profound and unfeigned. I do not believe she is our murderer, but neither do I believe that she is yet telling us all that she might.”

I frowned at my friend. “So, six weeks on and we are no farther forward?” I said.

“We are much farther forward, Robert,” said Oscar, threading the rose stem into my buttonhole. “This autumn bloom is named in honour of the Black Prince. Well worth the sixpence, don’t you think? We are
much
farther on,
mon ami
. We have eliminated all sorts of possibilities—and we have secured an audience with Inspector Fraser of the Yard!”

“Goodness,” I exclaimed, “we are going to Scotland Yard?” I was suddenly alarmed at the thought of how Oscar’s funereal appearance might be received by the less imaginative members of the Metropolitan Police.

“No,” said Oscar, moving away from the flower-stall and leading us into the square, “we are going to number 75 Lower Sloane Street—just here on the left. Fraser has summoned us to his home. He said that to meet him there ‘might be wiser’. He even advised me to come incognito—and unaccompanied.”

“Hence,” I said, chuckling, “your sombre apparel…”

“…And your invaluable presence, Robert! We are in this together. I have no secrets from you, my friend.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said with feeling, adding at once, “indeed
proud
to hear it,” for I was proud of our friendship, proud to be the acknowledged true friend of the most brilliant man of his day. I was proud, too, of the unacknowledged trust that I sensed there was between us, though puzzled—I admit—both by the way in which Oscar had offered me no explanation of his nocturnal assignations with the strange girl with the disfigured face and by my own reluctance to cross-question him on the matter. I pondered this as we crossed into Lower Sloane Street—slipping between a dog cart and a chimney sweep on a bicycle—but I said nothing. Oscar—delighted to be crossing the path of a chimney sweep; he was superstitious to a degree—squeezed my shoulder in comradely affection and said, “I think generosity is the essence of friendship, don’t you?”

Number 75 Lower Sloane Street was a handsome house, built of red brick and Portland stone, with a pillared portico and marble steps, not the natural habitat of a detective inspector of police. The house, we later learnt, was part of Fraser’s Fettes inheritance. We climbed the steps and Oscar rang the bell. We waited. We listened. We could hear nothing from within. Oscar rang the bell again and, as he did so, Fraser himself—not a servant—opened the door. He was as I remembered him—tall, slim, angular, clean-shaven, well-favoured, with a haunting face as white as frost—but his manner had changed. At our first encounter, he had been effortlessly engaging. Now he appeared fretful, anxious and preoccupied. He was thrown by Oscar’s appearance and my presence.

Oscar, removing his black top hat, said at once, “Do not be alarmed, Inspector. Mr Sherard’s discretion can be assured—and I am only in mourning for my lost youth.”

Fraser seemed further confused.

“I do not mean poor Billy Wood,” said Oscar, realising the misunderstanding that his turn of phrase might have caused, “though, indeed, I mourn for him—I mean the days before my present decrepitude.”

Fraser said nothing, but hesitantly stepped back, allowing us to enter the hallway.

“To win back my youth,” Oscar continued, unabashed, “there is nothing I would not do—except, of course, take exercise, rise early or give up alcohol.”

Fraser said, starkly, “I think we should talk before we take any refreshment.”

“Indeed,” replied Oscar, hanging his hat on the hallway hatstand and carefully aligning the silk mourning bands. “I am sure you have found, Inspector, that while alcohol, taken in sufficient quantities, produces all the effect of intoxication, the only proper intoxication is conversation. I am looking forward to ours.”

“I hope you will not be disappointed,” said Fraser. “Come into the drawing room, if you will.”

He led us across the hallway and into a large and graciously appointed reception room. There, at the far end of the room, standing in front of an ornate white marble fireplace, dressed in pepper-and-salt country tweeds, with an unlit pipe in his hand, was the reassuring figure of Arthur Conan Doyle.

His demeanour was far from reassuring, however. “Oscar, Robert,” he mumbled awkwardly, by way of greeting, as we entered.

Oscar’s ebullience would not be checked. Oscar, when most anxious, often appeared least so. “You are looking very serious, Arthur,” he said, reprovingly.

“I have serious matters to relate,” Fraser interjected. “I felt it would be best if Arthur were here—since he is a friend to us both.” He gestured towards a quartet of upright armchairs that were arranged either side of the fireplace. “Gentlemen, let me get to the point. Please be seated.”

We did as we were bidden. The armchairs were French and uncomfortable. The atmosphere in the room was uncomfortable too, airless and oddly musty for the time of year. Fraser talked directly to Oscar, occasionally glancing towards Conan Doyle for encouragement. Not once did he look in my direction.

“I have asked you here,” he began, smiling for the first time since our arrival, “precisely because you are a friend of Arthur’s. He is an admirer of yours, Mr Wilde—as am I, of course. The truth is, I have a warning I need to give to you—and a piece of advice.”

Oscar smiled too. “I have found people are very fond of giving to others what they most need themselves,” he said, removing his gloves and laying them neatly on the walnut side table that stood beside his chair. “It is what I call the depths of generosity.”

Conan Doyle leant forward and said to Oscar earnestly, “Listen to Aidan, Oscar. Be guided by him.”

With a raised eyebrow, Oscar inclined his head towards Fraser and said, “I am listening.”

Fraser was calmer now. His nervousness was gone. He smiled again, revealing his extraordinary white teeth, and said, with some of his old charm, “Thank you. And thank you for calling on me here today. And thank you, too, for being patient these past few weeks. I have not been in touch with you before for a reason, and the reason is this…” He paused and with a delicate thumb and forefinger lightly pinched his lips, looking briefly towards Conan Doyle who nodded to him to go on. “Mr Wilde,” he asked, “are you familiar with the address, 19 Cleveland Street?”

“No,” said Oscar.

“It’s between Regent’s Park and Oxford Street—”

“I am aware of the location of the street,” said Oscar. “You asked whether I was familiar with the address. I am not.”

Fraser persisted. “You are familiar with Lord Henry Somerset?” he enquired.

“I know whom you mean,” said Oscar. “He is the son of the Duke of Beaufort. I have read his poetry. I have reviewed it. He has nothing to say and says it.”

“You have met?”

“Possibly. He lives in Florence, does he not?”

“He
fled
to Florence—to avoid a public scandal.”

Oscar sighed and with his right hand lightly brushed his trouser leg. “Scandals used to lend charm, or at least interest, to a man. Now they crush him.”

Fraser continued, “A scandal involving a young man by the name of Harry Smith.”

“That I do not recall,” said Oscar, emphatically.

“Do you know Lord Henry’s younger brother, Lord Arthur Somerset?”

“‘Podge’?” said Oscar. “I know Podge a little. He is an equerry to the Prince of Wales.”

“And an habitue of 19 Cleveland Street.”

“Who?” exclaimed Oscar. “The Prince of Wales?”

“No, Mr Wilde, not the Prince of Wales, though it is possible that his son, Prince Albert Victor, may be.”

Oscar laughed. “Prince Eddy? You surprise me.”

Fraser pounced. “So you do know 19 Cleveland Street and what goes on there!”

“I do not know 19 Cleveland Street,” cried Oscar, slapping his hand on the table. “I have no idea what goes on there. I have no idea what you are talking about. I have no idea what you are driving at. You are talking in riddles, Inspector. I am still listening, but I am confused.”

Conan Doyle shifted in his chair and said, “Go back to the beginning, Aidan.”

Oscar glanced in my direction and murmured,
sotto voce
, “Yes, with a fairy tale, the beginning is always the best place to start.”

“Very well,” said Fraser. “Three months ago, on 15 July to be exact, in the course of a routine investigation into a series of petty thefts alleged to have taken place at the Central Telegraph Office, one of my constables interviewed a fifteen-year-old telegraph boy by the name of Charles Swinscow.”

“I do not know him,” said Oscar, lightly.

“I am glad to hear it. At the time of the interview, this boy was found to have eighteen shillings in his pocket—four times his weekly wage. When accused of stealing the money, Swinscow denied it. He claimed he had ‘earned’ it. When pressed as to how he had earned it, Swinscow said he was paid it for ‘going to bed with a gentleman’. When asked who this ‘gentleman’ was, he said he did not know his name. When asked where the incident had occurred, he said 19 Cleveland Street.”

Oscar leant towards Fraser and enquired, exasperation in his voice, “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because a scandal is about to break, Mr Wilde,” Fraser replied, coolly, “and several of those involved are known to you. Lord Arthur Somerset—”

“I have met him, he is an acquaintance.”

“Lord Euston—”

“I know the name.”

“Prince Eddy—”

Oscar smiled. “I know his father. With the growth of the empire, so many do.”

“There are to be arrests,” said Fraser.

Oscar burst out laughing. “You are arresting the eldest son of the heir apparent?” he jeered.

“No,” said Fraser, solemnly. He paused. “Too big a fish would break the line,” he said, as if in explanation. “But tomorrow,” he continued, “a warrant will be issued for the arrest of Lord Arthur Somerset. Lord Arthur knows it. He will leave the country tonight, by the boat-train. And it is his, escape from justice that will cause the public scandal. Over the past six weeks, we have kept 19 Cleveland Street under constant surveillance. It is a resort for sodomites. It is a male brothel. It is a den of iniquity.”

“It is appalling, I agree,” said Oscar, leaning back in his chair with hands outstretched, “but what has it to do with me? What has it to do with Billy Wood?”

Conan Doyle turned towards him. “Do you not see, Oscar?”

Oscar looked at his friend. “I do not see, Arthur, I do not see at all,” he said. “All I see, all I know, is that a murder took place at 23 Cowley Street—a brutal murder—which for some reason, unknown to me, the police refuse to investigate.”

Inspector Fraser burst out, “Do you not realise why, man?”

“No,” said Oscar, calmly, “I do not. To be candid, Inspector, I am perplexed. There is much here that I do not understand. You told me, for example—in a telegram—that you had sent a policeman to 23 Cowley Street to investigate the scene of the crime, when, self-evidently, you had not. You lied to me, Inspector.”

“I lied, Mr Wilde, to protect you.”

“To protect me? Why?”

“Do you not understand? If I had so much as begun an official investigation, having embarked upon it, I could not have stopped it—wherever it might have led.”

“You do not need to protect me, Inspector. I have nothing to hide.”

“Are you sure, Mr Wilde? Number 23 Cowley Street and 19 Cleveland Street—were they not both, equally, dens of iniquity, houses of corruption? And Billy Wood—whatever has become of him—was he not, like Harry Smith and Charles Swinscow, a lad who sold his body for money, an unfortunate boy caught up in a vicious and degrading trade?”

Oscar got to his feet, gazed for a moment at his own reflection in the looking-glass above the fireplace, liked what he saw, and then—having deliberately run his finger along the mantelpiece as if to inspect it for dust—turned round and, with his back to the fireplace, deliberately addressed Aidan Fraser and Arthur Conan Doyle.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I thank you for your kind intentions, however misplaced. You have meant well, I can see. But let me assure you both of one thing: my conscience is clear. When I called at 23 Cowley Street on 31 August last, I went on business that was entirely honourable. I went, by appointment, to meet a friend, but my friend was detained elsewhere—and instead of finding my friend there, as I had expected, I found, to my astonishment and horror, the body of poor Billy Wood.”

“Your friend?” asked Fraser. “Is this another young man? May we know his name?”

“You are too quick to jump to conclusions, Inspector. As it happens, my friend is a young lady, but you do not need to know her name. She has no bearing on the case. She did not visit 23 Cowley Street that day. Do not concern yourself with her, Inspector. Concern yourself with Billy Wood—”

Conan Doyle interrupted, “But Billy Wood—”

Oscar turned sharply towards him, “Yes, Arthur, I loved Billy Wood. I loved him because he was young and open, carefree and full of joy. I loved him, too, because he had a talent that was rare—a talent that I was proud to nurture. I loved him as I might have loved a younger brother or a son. I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that in my relationship with Billy Wood there was nothing sordid, nothing immoral, nothing corrupt or underhand.” He paused for a moment and then put his hand out towards Conan Doyle. “I trust you will accept my assurance on this matter.”