2007 - Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders (3 page)

Some minutes later, as our four-wheeler turned from the main thoroughfare of Abingdon Street into the warren of cobbled lanes and alleys leading to Cowley Street, Conan Doyle enquired, “This Cowley Street—is it a reputable address?”

“I do not know,” answered Oscar, with a smile. “It is very near to the Houses of Parliament.”

Conan Doyle, intent on looking out of the cab window, did not seem to register the jest. Oscar, so earnest when he rose from the breakfast table at the Langham Hotel, suddenly appeared not to have a care in the world. It was often like that with him. He was a man of deep emotions, yet frequently he hid his feelings behind a mask of insouciance. He did it deliberately, I believe, the better to be able to observe the reactions of those around him. Now, blithely, he continued, “Abraham Cowley himself came to a disreputable end, as is the way with minor poets. He was found in a field after a drinking bout and died of the fever. He is buried in Westminster Abbey and has this street as his memorial. Do you know his work, Robert? According to the literary critics, his poems are marred by elaborate conceits and artificial brilliancy. I have always found them simple and affecting. He was a child prodigy. He composed an epic romance at the age of ten—the perfect age for epic romance!—and published
Poetic Blossoms
, his first volume of verse, when he was just fifteen. Whoa, cabby, whoa! We are here. And look, gentlemen, there’s a poetic blossom of a sort awaiting our arrival.”

The hansom cab pulled up immediately outside number 23 Cowley Street. Seated on the doorstep, resting wearily against the shiny black front door, was a stout woman of riper years, more overblown fuchsia bush than poetic blossom. Her appearance was both arresting and preposterous: her boots were blue-black, her skirt was brown, her jacket was striped Lincoln green and vermilion. I felt that she would have done credit to a Drury Lane pantomime: her cheeks were excessively rouged, her lips were scarlet, and her extraordinary ensemble was completed by a plum-coloured toque perched precariously on top of a mass of vivid orange curls. At her side was a large carpet-bag; in her lap was a sheaf of papers and a small bundle of keys.

“Is this the lady who admitted you yesterday?” Conan Doyle enquired of Oscar as we clambered out of the cab.

“Nothing like her,” said Oscar, bowing towards the unlikely-looking female who was now struggling to her feet. “I think we can take it that today is this good lady’s first day at number 23.”

“Indeed, sir,” said the woman, dropping a curtsey towards us and revealing a small ostrich feather in her toque as she did so.

“Well done, Oscar,” said Doyle. “Sherlock Holmes would be proud of you.”

“I think, Arthur, that even Dr Watson would have surmised as much. The lady has pages torn from a gazetteer in one hand and in the other a set of keys with which she is obviously unfamiliar. It is the first of the month, 1 September, or, as she thinks of it, the feast of—here Oscar turned towards the lady who immediately mumbled the words ‘St Giles’ before curtseying again—“her first day in her new employment, hence the hat, her best hat. The lady wishes to make a good impression on her first day. Am I not right, Mrs O”—”

“O’Keefe, sir,” said the good lady, bobbing down before us for a third time.

“Do you know this lady?” asked Conan Doyle.

“I know nothing of her,” said Oscar, lightly, “beyond the obvious fact that she is a widow, recently arrived from Dublin, who, having worked in the theatre, as dresser to some of Ireland’s most distinguished leading ladies, is now set to try her fortune in the capital of the empire. She will do well here, do you not think? She is evidently a woman of spirit, though understandably wearied by her long walk from Ludgate Circus this morning.”

Mrs O’Keefe and Arthur Conan Doyle gazed at Oscar Wilde wide-eyed in amazement.

“This is beyond belief, Oscar,” said the doctor. “You must know her, you must.”

Oscar laughed. “Come, Arthur, this is elementary stuff—basic observation and deduction. I am merely following the rules of the master. Please understand: now that I have met you, Holmes is where my heart is!”

I was equally amazed. “How did you do it, Oscar?” I asked. “Tell us.”

“We must not let daylight in on magic, Robert. The conjuror’s trick once explained seems very commonplace.”

“Tell us, Oscar,” I insisted.

“I believe you are a mind-reader, sir,” whispered Mrs O’Keefe, her voice hushed in astonishment.

“No, dear lady,” said Oscar, amiably, “would that I were. However,” he continued, turning towards her, “I come from Dublin also, so I recognised your accent right away. I noticed, too, the small crucifix around your neck, which suggested to me that yours is a good Catholic soul. I surmised, therefore, that you would know your saints’ days and I was certain you would not leave your husband unless he had been taken from you by God himself. Your fine clothes, interestingly juxtaposed, suggested to me theatrical costumes handed down to you by others—the leading ladies for whom you worked as a dresser—and your lively make–up hinted also at a theatrical way of life. You are more accustomed to dressing for night than for day.”

“But how did you know I’d come here from Ludgate Circus?”

“Messrs O’Donovan & Brown of Ludgate Circus are London’s leading suppliers of domestic staff from the emerald isle. They have supplied several maids for us in Tite Street. I guessed that you had collected the keys for this address from them first thing this morning and had then walked here, getting a little lost along the way.”

“Amazing, Oscar, simply amazing,” muttered Conan Doyle, clapping his hands in admiration.

“But, Oscar, how did you know the lady’s name?” I asked.

“I didn’t,” he replied, revealing his uneven yellow teeth in a broad smile. “I made a stab at the initial letter, that’s all. More than half the surnames in Ireland begin with an O. The odds were with me…”

“Are you a mind-reader?” repeated the awe-struck Irishwoman who had now taken up an attitude of semi-genuflection before us.

“No, dear lady,” said Oscar, adding, to our further amazement, “I am a musician and accustomed occasionally to using the first-floor sitting room at this address to rehearse chamber works with colleagues. Dr Doyle and Mr Sherard here are new members of my trio and have come to inspect the premises. We are working on Mozart’s Divertimento in E flat major. Would you be so kind as to admit us?”

As Mrs O’Keefe fumbled with the keys, Conan Doyle said, “Oscar, you astound me. I do not begin to understand you.”

Oscar laughed again, more loudly than before, but his laughter was bleak. “I astound myself,” he said. “I am here on the pavement playing games, indulging in childish charades, when I am about to confront you with unparalleled horror. I do not understand myself at times.”

N
r 23 Cowley Street Street was a two-storeyed, single-fronted, red-brick house built in the 1780
s
as part of a terrace of modest dwellings originally intended for clerks and choristers attached to Westminster Abbey; The exterior of the house had a certain unassuming dignity; the interior, airless and box-like, and seemingly unfurnished, was curiously without character. Mrs O’Keefe, having found which of the keys fitted which of the locks, admitted us to an incommodious entrance hallway, little larger than a sentry box. Immediately ahead of us lay a steep wooden staircase, narrow and uncarpeted.

“Shall we go up?” suggested Conan Doyle.

“If Mrs O’Keefe will allow us,” said Oscar.

“Oh yes, sir,” said the good woman, semi-genuflecting once more and pointing us towards the stairs. “You make yourself at home now. You know the way. I’ll find the gas lamps.”

“No need,” said Oscar, “there’s light enough.”

A gentle beam of sunshine shone through the fanlight above the front door, illuminating the dust that hovered in the air above the stairs.

“Come,” said Conan Doyle, “let’s get the business done.”

We climbed the stairs and quickly reached the landing.

“Is this the room?” asked Doyle.

“It is,” said Oscar.

“Very well,” said Conan Doyle, calmly. “We are prepared. After you…”

Slowly, carefully, Oscar turned the handle and pushed open the door.

We adjusted our eyes to the gloom. The curtains, of heavy velvet, bottle green, were drawn closed against the windows facing us, but a rim of warm sunlight filtered across the floor below them. The floorboards were bare. The walls were bare. Other than the curtains, there were no furnishings of any kind to be seen. No lamps, no candlesticks, nothing; the room was empty, utterly so.

“They’ve taken him,” exclaimed Oscar.

“Was he ever here?” asked Conan Doyle.

“On my word, Arthur—” Oscar started to protest, but Conan Doyle raised a hand to silence him.

From the moment we had left the hotel, half an hour before, Oscar had been in command of the situation. He had led the way, full of energy and enterprise. Now he was at a loss. The energy was gone, the enterprise confounded. Without demur, the metropolitan man of the world let the young provincial doctor take control. As Conan Doyle stepped briskly across the room and drew back the curtains, Oscar, deflated, stood by the doorway in silence, staring at the floorboards.

“Do you smell incense?” Doyle asked.

“No,” I said, sniffing the air. “If anything, beeswax.”

“Yes,” he said, “the floorboards have been newly polished. They gleam.” He paced around the room, as though marking out its size. “No bloodstains on the floor, no signs of guttering candles.”

“There was a carpet, a Persian rug,” murmured Oscar, as if to himself. “His feet were here, his head was there…There was a knife…I recall a blade, a glistening blade…”

Conan Doyle appeared to pay him no heed. He was busy examining the walls, running his fingers slowly across the grimy, green and black, Regency-stripe flocked wallpaper. He stood for a moment by each wall, studying it intently. There were no visible nails or hooks, no sign that pictures had ever been hung on the walls, no marks to indicate where furniture might once have stood. On the back of the door, there was a small brass coat-hook: nothing else. The room was bare and you felt that it had been so for some time.

“Very well,” Conan Doyle announced at last, “we have seen what we came to see. Our work is done. I must catch my train.” He placed a kindly hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Come, my friend, let us be on our way.”

Seemingly in a daze, Oscar allowed himself to be led back down the stairs. Mrs O’Keefe was hovering by the front door, eager to make a further obeisance. “Was everything satisfactory?” she asked. “Will the room suit? I have found the kitchen and a kettle if you gentlemen are wanting refreshment.”

“No, thank you kindly,” said Conan Doyle, producing a sixpenny bit from his coat pocket and handing it to her. “We’re much obliged to you, but we must be going now.”

“Much obliged,” repeated Oscar, vacantly, as if half the world away. Then, recollecting himself, he bowed towards Mrs O’Keefe and extended his hand. She took it and kissed his ring, as though he were a bishop.

“Bless you, sir,” she said, “I’ll pray for you.”

“Pray to St Jude,” murmured Oscar, “the patron saint of lost causes.”

“I’ll pray to St Cecilia, too,” added Mrs O’Keefe, crossing herself as she bustled after us out of the house and into the street. “She takes a special care of musicians, doesn’t she now? She’ll look after you.”

In the cab, as we trundled back along Abingdon Street towards Westminster Bridge, the silence was strained. I said nothing because I could think of nothing to say. Oscar was lost in melancholy thought, gazing unseeingly out of the cab window. Eventually, as we entered Parliament Square, Conan Doyle spoke. “I didn’t realise you were a musician, Oscar,” he said. “What instrument do you play?”

“I’m not. I don’t,” replied Oscar. “My brother, Willie, is the family musician. He plays the piano—”

“And he composes,” I added, in the hope of sustaining the conversation. “Willie Wilde creates the wittiest musical parodies and pastiches.”

“Yes,” said Oscar, still staring out of the window. “Caricature is the tribute that mediocrity pays to genius.”

Conan Doyle laughed. Oscar turned sharply towards him.

“You are right, Arthur. That was unkind of me. When it comes to my elder brother, I am often uncharitable. It is wrong of me, I know—unchristian. It’s just that I’m not entirely sure that Willie’s ‘improved’ endings for Chopin’s Preludes fulfil their promise.”

Conan Doyle smiled. “I learnt to play the tuba once,” he said, evidently determined to keep Oscar from reverting to his sombre reverie.

“Did you?” asked Oscar, suddenly clapping his hands. “Did you really?” The notion of the Southsea doctor with the mournful eyes and the walrus moustache puffing on a tuba lifted Oscar’s spirits instantly. “Tell us more, Arthur. When was this? Why was this?”

“Years ago, at school.”

“At Stonyhurst?” cried Oscar. “The English public school system has something to commend it after all!”

“No, Oscar,” riposted Doyle, laughing genially, “not at Stonyhurst. When I was seventeen, before I began my medical training, I spent a year at school in Austria, with the Jesuits.”

Oscar could barely contain his delight. “Tuba-playing Jesuits,” he exclaimed. “Heaven be praised!” For a moment, he seemed his customary self again and leant towards Doyle, touching him on the knee. “Arthur, I think I know you well enough to tell you this. When I was at Oxford, I once spent an evening in the company of a troupe of Tyrolean yodellers.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially: “The experience changed me for ever.”

Doyle and I laughed out loud, and Oscar sat back, resting his large head against the leather bolster at the back of the cab. We looked at him and smiled. He turned his head to look out of the window again and, as he did so, we saw two small tears trickle down his face.

“What is wrong, Oscar?” asked Doyle, suddenly concerned and not yet accustomed to Oscar’s mercurial changes in mood.

“I am thinking of Billy Wood,” said Oscar, quietly. “I loved the boy.”

There was an awkward pause. “He was not quite a stranger to you then?” said Doyle, narrowing his eyes and raising an eyebrow.