2007 - Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders (21 page)

“The work of the same builder, I suppose,” said Oscar, looking up at the house as we crossed the road. The curtains at the first-floor window were drawn shut. The window on the ground floor was shuttered from within. The house appeared deserted. The street itself was empty, too. Suddenly, simultaneously, we both noticed how loud our voices seemed.

“Do you have the key?” I asked.

“I have Bellotti’s key,” said Oscar, “but we shall knock. We are visitors on this occasion.” As he drummed a rat-tat on the door, he said, “See the knocker, Robert, how it gleams. We shall find a good woman in attendance here.”

We waited a moment in silence and then Oscar knocked again. “There is no one here,” I said.

“There is,” said Oscar. “She is coming down the stairs, holding a candle. Look.” He directed my gaze to the flecks of light dancing on the coloured glass above the front door. “And I think we know her…”

The door was opened by a stout lady of riper years dressed in a full-length dress of black crepe and taffeta. Around her waist was a white starched apron and on her head a curiously beribboned white linen mob cap that revealed a fringe of orange curls. I did not immediately recognise her, but Oscar did at once.

“Mrs O’Keefe,” he said, extending his hand towards her, as she bobbed down to genuflect before him, almost setting alight the ribbons of her mob cap in the process. “The pleasure was hoped for, but not expected. How are you?”

“I am well, sir, bless the Lord,” she said, getting to her feet again, “and you look well, too.” She held her candle up towards Oscar’s face. “I have been praying for you, as I promised.”

“To St Jude, I trust.”

“Not only him, but to St Cecilia too—come in, come in.” She stood back and beckoned us into the tiny darkened hallway. “And, of course, to our blessed St Helen of the Holy Cross. I’ve always found her most dependable.” She had shut the door to the street behind us and we were standing in a tight circle, huddled around the candle. She looked up at Oscar with loving eyes. “Tis good to see you, sir.”

A voice called from upstairs. “Are they here? Are they here? Bring them up, Mrs O!”

“That’s the canon, bless him. You’re expected. He’s not a Catholic, poor soul, but St Helen and I are working on that.” She turned to climb the stairs, plunging us—such was her bulk!—into virtual darkness. “Follow me, gentlemen. You’re in for a treat.” Over her shoulder she called to Oscar, “It is so good to see you again, sir. So good.”

When we reached the top of the stairs, whoever had called for us from the landing was no longer there. The door that faced us was shut. “You have to knock,” explained Mrs O’Keefe. “Club rules.” She looked at Oscar with shining eyes. “You’re a member, of course, I know that, but they tell me you haven’t been to any of the lunches for a while. Busy with your Mozart and your mind-reading, I imagine.”

Oscar gave her his most beatific smile and, with his cane, beat sharply on the door three times. After a moment’s pause, the door swung open and before us, with arms outstretched, stood a diminutive clergyman, aged about sixty, bald, with a face like a monkey, wreathed in smiles. “Hallelujah!” he cried, in a high-pitched, piping, happy voice. “The prodigal is returned!”

If Mrs O’Keefe, on first encounter, several months before, had put me in mind of the dame from a Drury Lane pantomime, the tiny cleric who now took Oscar in his arms was no more and no less than the ecclesiastical equivalent of the Lane’s mightiest comedian, the immortal Dan Leno—sometime clog-dancing champion of the world, celebrated (and rightly so) as ‘the funniest man on earth’. The clergyman was as small and spry as Leno and as delightful. His face was so amusing; his movements were so dainty; and his warmth so true that I would defy you to resist it.

When he had released Oscar from his embrace, he turned to me and with both hands—and the softest fingers—reached up and lightly pinched my cheeks. “Welcome!” he cried. “Welcome, young man, thrice welcome!”

“This is Robert Sherard,” said Oscar, presenting me.

“Sutton Courteney,” said the clergyman, shaking my right hand with both of his. “Canon Courteney—call me Canon, call me Sutton, call me anything you like. The boys all call me Can-Can—because I do!” Still holding my hand in both of his, gently he pulled me farther into the room. “Meet the boys!” He glanced towards the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs O’Keefe.” Beaming and bowing, with a final simper in Oscar’s direction, the good lady backed her way out onto the landing, closing the door as she went.

I looked about the room. It was an extraordinary sight, like a tableau at the waxworks of Madame Tussaud. There were seven figures, all seated or lounging on the floor, each with a lighted candle at his side, and each with, before him or in his hand, a plate of food and a silver wine-cup. They were having a picnic. Only one of the seven was seated on a chair: it was Bellotti, who sat apart, at a small table, in a corner by the window. The rest—four benevolent-looking men (one in his early thirties, the others much older), and two good-looking boys, aged fifteen or sixteen—were lying on rugs and coats spread out on the bare floorboards, resting on their elbows or leaning against one another, back to back. The men were dressed in everyday apparel, suitable to the time of year. The boys, incredibly, were dressed in bathing suits.

“Welcome to our
Déjeuner sur l’herbe
!” cried Canon Courteney. The members of the party looked up towards us and offered assorted greetings. The canon produced two wine-cups for us and filled them with champagne. “Now, whom do you know?” he asked. “Mr Bellotti, of course.” He nodded towards Bellotti in the corner, who waved a lobster’s claw in our direction. “And Aston Upthorpe is an old friend of yours, Oscar, is he not?” Mr Upthorpe, apparently the oldest member of the group, began to struggle to his feet.

“Pray, don’t move,” said Oscar. “We will join you. You can see he is a fine artist, Robert. He wears a fine beret.” Upthorpe, his mouth full of ham and mustard, rumbled genially and offered me his hand. Oscar put down his cane, removed his gloves and took off his coat, laying it on the floor, adjacent to the wall. Taking one arm each, the canon and I helped lower him gingerly to the ground, where he sat, resting against the wall, like a beached porpoise leaning against a rock, “Dear Lord,” he wheezed, “such exertion. I’ll be playing a round of golf with Conan Doyle next.”

“Aston, of course, knew poor Billy Wood best,” continued the canon. “Billy worked for him. He was his special friend. Of course, Billy was special to us all.”

Oscar had recovered his breath. “Was everyone who is here today also here at that last lunch—Billy’s last lunch, I mean?”

“Yes, indeed, Oscar,” said the canon solicitously. “Mr Bellotti told me that was what you wanted.”

“Mrs O’Keefe was not your housekeeper on that occasion?”

“Alas, no,” said the canon. “We had no housekeeper that day. O’Donovan & Brown let us down. Most unlike them. We had to fend for ourselves. Mrs O’Keefe only joined us in September. We like her. She has proved completely reliable.”

“And Mr Bellotti’s dwarf?” said Oscar. “Was he not in attendance that day?”

“Mr Bellotti’s dwarf?” repeated the canon, bemused.

Gerard Bellotti looked up from his table in the corner. “He is my son, Mr Wilde.”

“I am sorry,” said Oscar, confused. “I did not know.”

“Why should you?” answered Bellotti. “He’s an ugly wretch, with an evil temper. But he was not with me that day. He is never with me on a Tuesday. It is the day when he goes to Rochester. To the asylum. To visit his mother. She is feeble-minded. She dotes on him.”

An awkward silence fell. “I did not know,” Oscar said again.

“It matters not,” said Bellotti, sucking a shrimp from its shell.

Canon Courteney cleared his throat by way of helping to clear the air. “Let me complete the introductions, Oscar,” he said, “and then the stage is yours.” Oscar nodded to him, gratefully. “The lads you remember, of course—Harry and Fred. Don’t ask me which is which. I do know, but I pretend not to.” The two boys in bathing suits waved in Oscar’s direction. The canon continued: “The other gentlemen are all newcomers since your time, I think. They joined us when we moved from Cowley Street. Mr Stoke Talmage, Mr Berrick Prior, Mr Aston Tirrold.” The three men raised their glasses first to Oscar, then to me.

“Yes, another Aston,” said Mr Tirrold, the youngest of the group, the only one with a moustache. “It can cause confusion, but I believe Can-Can likes a bit of that.” The canon tiptoed past Tirrold, on his way to the picnic hamper, ruffling the young man’s thick fair hair as he went.

“What wonderful names you all have,” said Oscar, quietly. “Names fascinate me terribly.”

The canon was piling a plate high with good things for Oscar. “You don’t do so badly yourself, Mr Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde.”

“Are those really your names?” asked one of the boys in a bathing suit.

“Indeed,” said Oscar.

“I like Oscar best,” said the other boy.

“I do, too,” answered Oscar, raising his wine-cup to the lad.

The canon was tiptoeing back towards Oscar with his lunch. “Mr Wilde is Irish,” he explained to the boys as he went, “and Oscar was the favourite son of Ossian, the fabled Irish warrior-bard. Oscar was killed at the battle of Gabhra in single combat with King Cairbre. It was a terrible day, even by third-century standards. Our Oscar, needless to say, follows in the bardic rather than the battling Irish tradition.”

The canon presented Oscar with a wide dish piled high with oysters and dressed crab, smoked fish and cold cuts, scoops of savoury jellies, slices of game pie, pickles, mayonnaise, mustard, bread and cheese. Oscar smiled up at him and then, under the canon’s outstretched arm, in a stage whisper told the boys, “In fact I’m named for the late King Oscar of Sweden. He was my godfather. My own father was an eye-surgeon and performed an operation on King Oscar for the treatment of his cataract.”

“That’s what I need,” muttered Bellotti in his corner. “When you want the father, you get the son. Isn’t that just life?”

“It’s such a pity Drayton isn’t here,” said one of the other older men. Mr Talmage had a genial, drinker’s face, ruddy and worn by life, with rheumy eyes and unnaturally black lank hair. “Drayton is fascinated by surgery,” he added, by way of explanation. “You could have described the operation to him. He would have liked that.”

“Who is Drayton?” asked Oscar. “Is it Drayton St Leonard or Drayton Parslow, by any chance?”

“Drayton St Leonard,” answered the canon, now back at the hamper preparing a luncheon plate for me. “Do you know him, Oscar?”

“I know the name, that’s all.”

“We haven’t seen him for a while. He wasn’t with us in August, that last day with Billy, or I’d have made sure he was here today. It must be six months since we’ve seen him. You must meet him, Oscar. You’d like him. He’s young—and very handsome.”

“We’re all young and very handsome,” said the elderly gentleman with the drinker’s face. “That’s one of the club rules.”

When we had laughed at Mr Talmage’s joke (and one or two more that he had to offer in similar vein); and when the canon had given me my food and prepared a plate for himself; and after he had ordered the boys to make sure that everyone’s wine-cup was properly charged and that those who wished for second helpings had been satisfied; and once the company had settled once more, he clapped his hands and said, “Gentlemen, boys, Mr Bellotti, may I have your attention, please.” He had closed the hamper and perched himself on the top of it. In the flickering candlelight he looked like a holy hobgoblin seated on a toadstool at the centre of a fairy ring.

“We are gathered here together on a special day, the feast day of the blessed soldier saints, Juventinus and Maximinus, martyred together at Antioch under Julian the Apostate. As we shall recall later, during our service, neither was baptised until he came to manhood—but what a manhood it proved to be!”

The canon paused and in the silence that followed one of the boys in bathing suits suppressed a snigger.

“Hush, Harry!” said the Canon.

“It wasn’t me, Can-Can,” said the boy. “It was Fred.”

“Hush, both of you,” hissed the canon. He looked at the boys reprovingly. “Before we turn our attention to this afternoon’s service,” he said, “we have business to attend to. Mr Wilde and his friend are with us today for a purpose. They are investigating the tragic death of young Billy Wood, whom we all remember with such affection.”

A susurration of sympathy floated round the room. Aston Upthorpe said out loud, “Billy was wonderful.”

“They believe he was murdered on the afternoon of 31 August last,” continued the canon, “at 23 Cowley Street, not a stone’s throw from where we are all gathered today. They believe that we—we few, the eight of us in this room now—were perhaps the last people to see poor Billy alive, and they want us to tell them whatever we can remember of that fateful day.” He paused and looked about the room. “Have I got that right, Oscar?”

“You have, Sutton, thank you. Thank you very much. With your permission, my friend Mr Sherard will take notes. Perhaps each could say a word or two in turn?”

Aston Upthorpe spoke first—most eloquently and at greatest length—and what he had to say was echoed by all who spoke after him. Billy Wood was a dear boy, intelligent, honest, capable, devoted to his mother, determined to better himself and, in so doing, in due course, to be in a position to improve her lot as well as his own. He had plenty of friends and no known enemies. On the day that he met his death, he had been as he always was: cheerful. Had he been more cheerful than usual? asked Oscar. One or two of those present thought that possibly he had. He was undoubtedly in great good humour that day—cracking jokes and being playful—and when he announced that he was off to see his uncle he did so, apparently, with a certain swagger.

“He seemed quite pleased with himself,” said Aston Tirrold, “the little bugger.” He said it not unkindly. “He told us that he had shaved especially. We laughed at that.”

“He was wearing his Sunday best,” said young Fred.

“And he had your cigarette case with him, Mr Wilde,” said Harry. “Will you give me a cigarette case too?”