2007 - Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders (20 page)

Oscar said nothing, but uttered a little murmur, suggesting that he found my answer less than convincing. After a moment of reflection he added, “All I’ll say is that both Fraser-the-fiance and Fraser-of-the-Yard seem oddly uninquisitive. He doesn’t ask you about your intentions towards his bride-to-be. He doesn’t ask me about the ring I removed from the body of the murder victim—”

“He keeps his own counsel,” I said.

“Yes,” said Oscar, “I suppose that’s admirable in its own way.” The thought seemed to amuse him. He threw the remains of yet another cigarette onto the smoking-room fire. “Does Miss Sutherland, at least, make the occasional enquiry about the progress of the case?” he asked.

“She does,” I replied, “but have no fears. I am circumspect.”

“There is no need to be, Robert. Feel free to tell Miss Sutherland everything—especially if it helps you secure another kiss. I’m pleased to hear of her interest. ‘Our case’, as you call it, has become the unicorn in the corner of the drawing room: all are aware of it, but no one mentions it.” He began patting his coat pockets as if feeling for something. “I had a ten-page letter from Arthur Conan Doyle today—ten pages! in a neat Edinburgh hand—and not one reference to the case.” He found the letter and brandished it before me. “Arthur makes extensive enquiries about my ‘spies’, but says not a word about Billy Wood! Two weeks ago, in my house, in his own hands he held the severed head of the murdered boy—yet today he writes to tell me about his plans for a new Sherlock Holmes story and to report,
in extenso
, that the weather in Southsea is surprisingly clement for the time of year! Come, come, Robert, something’s up.”

I laughed. “Are you suggesting a conspiracy of silence, Oscar?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Read the letter for yourself.” He passed it to me. “It’s mostly about the weather, as you’ll see, but he mentions you, sends you his kind regards—and hopes that, if you read
The Sign of Four
, you’ll notice the quotation from La Rochefoucauld. Entirely your doing, apparently. I am responsible, it seems, for the references to Goethe and Thomas Carlyle, and for Holmes’s addiction to cocaine.”

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Since, as you know, Robert, cocaine has never been one of my enthusiasms, I find this a trifle bizarre, but I have no doubt that it is intended as a compliment. Arthur is, essentially, a good man.”

I was glancing through the letter. Conan Doyle’s hand was most precise. “Much of this seems to be about your father, Oscar,” I said.

“Yes. Sir William Wilde was a distinguished eye and ear man in his day—a pioneer, in fact. Arthur, it seems, wishes to follow in his footsteps. He proposes to specialise in ophthalmology. Some people will do anything to get out of Southsea.”

As Oscar was speaking, my eye had moved on and I was reading the passage of the letter that referred to
The Sign of Four
and Sherlock Holmes’s addiction to cocaine. “I don’t see where he says that you are responsible for Holmes’s addiction, Oscar,” I said.

“He does not say so explicitly, I grant you.”

“He does not say so at all, Oscar. This is not about you. It’s all about Holmes. Arthur simply says that he is anxious that the general reader will not take against Holmes because of the great detective’s weakness for cocaine.”

“Read the next paragraph.”

“‘It was to guard against this that I put a rebuke of my own into the mouth of Dr Watson.’”

“And what does he have Watson say to Holmes? Read, Robert, read!”

“‘Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed?’”

“Do you not see, Robert? Wearing the mask of Dr Watson, Dr Conan Doyle is sending me his own rebuke. A mask tells us so much more than a face…”

I scanned the page again. “I do not see it, Oscar.”

“Arthur does not like the company I keep. I do not mean you, Robert…I mean others. He is fearful for me. He thinks, for ‘mere passing pleasure’ I am putting at risk the ‘great powers’ with which I’ve been endowed. It is well meant, I’m sure.”

“I think you are being over-sensitive, Oscar,” I said.

“Look at the postscript,” he replied.

I turned to the final page of the letter.

“In a letter,” Oscar continued, with the sly smile that he employed when he was about to say something that he hoped you would find amusing, “what you cannot read between the lines, you will usually find in the postscript. It is like a codicil to a will. It is where you discover the meat of the matter.”

Beneath Conan Doyle’s signature, I read his postscript: “PS. For how long have you known Mr John Gray?”

I folded the letter and returned it to Oscar. “What do you make of that?” I asked.

“That Arthur did not care for John Gray when they met, which is tedious, for they are both charming, in their different ways. I should have liked them to get on.” Oscar replaced the letter in his coat pocket, tapping it gently as he did so. “It is an interesting communication nonetheless—as much for what it does not tell us, as for what it does. Why is there no reference to Inspector Fraser? Why is there no allusion to Billy Wood?”

“Have you replied?” I asked.

“I have,” said Oscar, smiling his sly smile once more. “I have sent the good doctor a detailed report of the weather conditions in the vicinities of Sloane Square, Albemarle Street and the Strand—together with a line from
The Picture of Dorian Gray
by way of a postscript.”

“And the line is?”

“‘Nobody ever commits a crime without doing something stupid.’”

“Do you believe it?”

“I do. I know it to be true.”

“And you have sent the line to Arthur for what reason?”

“By way of a gentle rebuke of my own. I want him to know that I am still on the case. That is all. He may choose to ignore the unicorn in the corner. I choose not to. I am going to solve this mystery, Robert.
We
are going to solve this mystery, Robert!”

“We are indeed, Oscar,” I said, raising my, glass to him. His enthusiasm was infectious—and endearing.

“And I think you will find our next set of interviews especially rewarding,” he continued. “I am hopeful that one of Mr Bellotti’s luncheon guests will supply us with the final clue.”

“‘The final clue’?” I expostulated. “I’m not sure that I yet have the first clue, Oscar!”

“Come, Robert. We are nearly there. Surely you see that? Re-read your notes, consult your journal. And meet me next Tuesday at noon. Shall we rendezvous at Westminster Bridge, on the north side? I am off to Oxford for five days. John Gray is coming with me. I am to give a lecture on ‘Poetry and Suffering’. The truth is that a poet can survive anything but a misprint—but is Oxford the place for the truth? I don’t know. All I know is that I shall attempt to inflame the undergraduates with my words and John Gray will then attempt to pacify them with locks of my hair. We shall have fun. Take care while I am gone, Robert.”

Oscar told me—quite clearly—that he was going to Oxford for five days. But four days later—quite clearly—I saw him in a two-wheeler travelling along the Strand.

In fact, it was Veronica Sutherland who saw him first. We had been lunching at the Savoy Hotel—an absurd extravagance on my part, but it was a cold and gloomy day and Veronica had told me that she had a craving for the warmth and excitement of the Savoy’s electric lights—and thus it was that we stepped into the Strand at a little after half past three. We stood together on the pavement, arm in arm. I was gazing down the street, pretending to be looking for an empty cab, but hoping not to find one (the train journey from Charing Cross to Sloane Square was both quick and inexpensive), when Veronica suddenly cried, “Look! Across the road. It’s Mr Wilde—with a beautiful young lady. Do you think she is an actress?”

I turned to look in the direction in which Veronica was pointing and, indeed, there in a cab that was turning off the Strand into the small side-street that leads to the back of the Lyceum Theatre was Oscar. It was certainly he. He was extravagantly dressed, in a bottle-green winter coat with an astrakhan collar, and his head was thrown back in laughter. He looked as happy as I have ever seen him. Oscar was certainly Oscar, but the young lady was by no means beautiful. Though I could not see her features distinctly—there was a hood to her cape—I could see enough to know that she was the young woman from Soho Square, the young woman with the disfigured face.

“Do you think she is an actress?” repeated Veronica.

“I have no idea,” I said, “but I would not call her beautiful.”

“Would you not?” said Veronica. “Men have such odd ideas about women’s beauty. I would say she is very lovely indeed. Mr Wilde has a passion for beauty, has he not?”

“And a horror of ugliness,” I said. “I have known him cross streets to avoid the sight of someone he considered ill favoured. He regards ugliness as a form of malady—which is why I find it strange to see him in the company of that particular young lady.” The cab had now disappeared from view in the gathering gloom of dusk.

“She is not ill favoured, Robert. If you think she is, you are the one who is strange.”

“Perhaps all women seem plain to me in comparison with you,” I said.

“You are very gallant, Mr Sherard,” she said, squeezing my arm with hers and turning me in the direction of Trafalgar Square. “I should enjoy a promenade with such a gallant gentleman. Would you walk me to Charing Cross? We can then catch the twopenny tube.”

I leant towards her and kissed her on the forehead.

“Tell me,” she said, as we proceeded along the street, “I have been meaning to ask: for how long has Mr Wilde known Mr John Gray?”

25 January 1890

W
hen I met up with Oscar, as arranged, at twelve noon on 25 January 1890—the last Tuesday in the month—he was looking well. His large face was as pale and pasty as it ever was, but his eyes had an unaccustomed sparkle to them and, even before he was aware of my approach, I saw that he was smiling. His smile, when it flashed at you, could be disconcerting—his teeth were discoloured and slightly protuberant—but, on this occasion, there was nothing forced or fleeting or uncomfortable about it. It was the easy smile of a man in a contented frame of mind. Sometimes, I thought, a face tells us more than a mask.

“You are looking well, Oscar,” I said, shaking him warmly by the hand. He was wearing canary-yellow kid gloves and sporting the green coat with the astrakhan collar that I had seen him wearing in the cab in the Strand two days before. Tied around his neck, he had a yellow jabot fixed with a diamond tie-pin. Tucked under his arm was a slim black cane, like a swagger-stick.

“Is the cane new?” I asked.

“It is,” he said, with satisfaction, giving it a flourish. “It is a present to myself. I have mislaid your precious sword-stick, Robert. Constance is most displeased. It will turn up in due course, I’m sure. Meanwhile, I have acquired this black malacca cane to keep ruffians and vagabonds at bay.”

“It’ll certainly do that,” I said. He preened himself; he was in peacock mode. As I sensed that a further compliment was expected, I added: “You look quite the young buck about town.”

“I am pleased to hear it, Robert,” he said, tilting his head in acknowledgement of my bouquet, “and I agree, wholeheartedly! Thank you, my friend. I
am
well. I have rarely been better. I feel fully alive today. To
live
is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. What a waste! I was just telling Old Father Thames here how blessed he is to be a river. Oceans and seas—they come and go. Lakes and ponds—they stagnate. But a river flows, a river makes progress, a river is always on the move.”

As Big Ben struck the last of the hour, we turned from Westminster Bridge and began to walk past the Houses of Parliament towards Westminster Green. Oscar was leading the way. “How was Oxford?” I asked.

“Exquisite!” he replied, “Made the more so by the fact that my visit was cut short. John Gray is still there, distributing locks of my hair among the faithful. I returned to town on Sunday.”

“Business or pleasure?” I enquired, as casually as I could.

“Both,” he said. “I was summoned to see Henry Irving at the Lyceum. He is producing a new play based on
The Bride of Lammermoor
, Sir Walter Scott at his noblest…and most lugubrious.”

“And Irving wants your assistance?”

Oscar beamed at me. “I have made a contribution that I trust will lift the gloom of the proceedings a little. We shall go together to the opening night, Robert. Mr Irving is a great man and a good man, too.”

Irving—the great actor-manager of the Victorian age, the first of his profession to be honoured with a knighthood—was only sixteen years older than Oscar, but Oscar venerated him, almost as a father. I observed them together on several occasions (chiefly in the studio of Sir John Millais; Millais and Irving were old friends) and it was intriguing, because it was so unusual, to see Oscar-the-prince transformed into Oscar-the-courtier. As a rule, Oscar treated all men as his equal, regardless of age or distinction. With Irving it was different. Oscar was in awe of Irving. Irving was his hero. And I sensed that, as a consequence, Irving was a little uncomfortable in Oscar’s company.

We crossed Westminster Green and turned into Great College Street, “Perhaps I should have been an actor, Robert,” said Oscar, still smiling. “I should have liked to be a member of Irving’s company.”

“You
are
an actor, Oscar,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied, suddenly swirling his cane above his head, “but fated forever to play the same part. I envy Irving. One day he is Romeo, the next Mephistopheles. I am always Oscar Wilde.”

“Romeo touched with Mephistopheles,” I said. He roared with laughter, clearly liking my joke. I had rarely known him quite so merry.

We had reached Little College Street. “Where is number 22?” he asked. “I’m already feeling peckish. Bellotti lays on a good spread, as I recall.”

“There is number 22,” I said, indicating the narrow redbrick house immediately facing us. “It looks identical to 23 Cowley Street.”