2007 - Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders (31 page)

“Oscar,” I protested, “are you trying to tell me that we have just been witnessing Aidan Fraser engaged in an act of ‘purification’? You go too far!”

“I am telling you that what we have witnessed is Aidan Fraser—on the eve of one of his feast days—proving his mortality by succumbing to the temptation of forbidden fruit. That is all. The circumstances may be a little unusual, a trifle baroque perhaps, but the story itself is as old as the Garden of Eden—and they wore no clothes there either, Robert! Indeed, as I understand it, it was years before sailor suits were introduced to paradise.”

“Why do you make light of this, Oscar? Why do you defend their conduct?
Why?
”

I spoke fiercely—and too loudly. For a moment, an uneasy silence fell between us. We looked out of our separate windows, listening to the harsh rumble of the cab’s wheels and the steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves. We were passing along Whitehall. Sunday strollers—old soldiers, young men in boaters, women pushing perambulators, a boy with a wooden hoop—were moving to and fro, taking advantage of the unseasonable sunshine.

Oscar turned back to me and touched me on the knee. “I do not defend their conduct, Robert,” he said quietly, “I explain it.” He looked me steadily in the eye and smiled. “It is important to understand others if one is to understand oneself.”

I looked at my friend and marvelled at him. “You are a phenomenon, Oscar,” I said, “but sometimes I believe you are too understanding, too generous, too kind.”

“Too kind?” he repeated. “One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing.”

“Do you care nothing for John Gray and Aidan Fraser, then?”

“I care for John Gray. He is my friend. I care for him deeply. I care nothing for Aidan Fraser. Nothing at all. He is a murderer.”

“Whoa!” The cab came to an abrupt halt.

“Oscar! Oscar! What are you saying?” Shocked and astonished at his words, I leant forward urgently, but he held up his hand to silence me.

We had reached the forecourt of Charing Cross Station. Oscar opened the cab door. “I am alighting here,” he said, smiling. “I have cigarettes to buy and two trains to meet.”

I tried to hold him back. “But if Fraser—”

“No questions now, Robert,” he said, closing the cab door. “I had thought it would all be obvious to you, but if it is not, so much the better. You have work to do.”

He was standing on the pavement looking in at me through the open window of the two-wheeler. My mind was all awry; he appeared at his most self-possessed. “You are to go to Bedford Square,” he instructed, “the cab is paid for. You are to collect Miss Sutherland for her birthday party, exactly as planned. Tell her nothing of what has transpired today. Tell her nothing of last night. Nothing, nothing at all. Do you understand me? Talk of Millais, talk of Pasteur, talk of anything—but do not speak of murder. Be with her as you always are. Look into her beautiful eyes and murmur those sweet nothings you murmur so well. Tell her one of your friend Maupassant’s short stories: that should keep you both occupied for an hour or two! Go, my friend—and thank you.” He put his arm through the carriage window and shook me warmly by the hand. “The part you have played in all this has been more valuable than you know. Justice will be done tonight. Go now. Go. Do not let Miss Sutherland out of your sight, Robert—and bring her to Lower Sloane Street at six-fifteen. At six-fifteen, mark, not a minute before. Farewell.”

He stepped back and waved. Then he turned at once and disappeared towards the station concourse as the cabman cracked his whip and the brougham once more set on its way.

I was utterly confused. I was disturbed. I was perplexed. But I did as I was told. Oscar had a natural authority, throughout his life. As a schoolboy, he held sway over his peers; even at the end, after his imprisonment, in his exile (when unkind strangers in false reports spoke of him as ‘a crushed spirit’ and ‘a broken man’) those of us who knew him felt the power of his presence barely dimmed. That afternoon, I obeyed him to the letter.

Well, in truth, not quite to the letter…Veronica and I did not speak of Millais or of Maupassant that afternoon; we talked of love and of the poetry of love. I spoke of Baudelaire and Byron. She spoke of Wordsworth (to flatter me), of John Keats, and of Mrs Browning. And when we kissed, and kissed again, and kissed once more, she said, as she had said to me once before on that memorable moonlit night beneath the Albert Memorial, “Thank you, Robert, thank you. It is a dreary thing to sit at home with unkissed lips.”

“I love you,” I told her. “You are extraordinary!”

It was the strangest afternoon. Our behaviour, under the circumstances, was singularly inappropriate. It was like a flirtation at a funeral: unreal (unseemly, in fact), unexpected, and the more thrilling because of it! For me it was an afternoon of enchantment: intoxicating and unforgettable. In all its detail, in all its glory, and in spite of everything, I remember it still, half a century on! I was more daring with Veronica that afternoon than I had ever been before. I yielded to temptation, with Oscar’s words running pell-mell about my mind. Perhaps—though this I only half acknowledged to myself at the time—I felt that what I had seen that day in Cowley Street, and what Oscar had said as we parted at Charing Cross, meant that Veronica would soon be free of Aidan Fraser altogether and I was emboldened as a consequence. I knew as I held her in my arms that ours was still an illicit love, that there was something
wrong
in what we were doing, and yet I could not help myself. I was entranced by Veronica Sutherland, and the act of love between us—let me admit it—gave to my spirit a sense of freedom, a sense of release, that was quite wonderful. “The body sins once and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification…”

We did not leave Bedford Square until six o’clock. It was a Sunday evening at the end of January; darkness had fallen and the streets were quiet. Nevertheless, despite the best endeavours of our patient cabman and his faithful horse, it took us nearly forty minutes to reach Chelsea. I was anxious because of Oscar’s admonition that I should bring Veronica to the house at six-fifteen exactly; I was less troubled than I might have been, however, because each additional minute alone in Veronica’s company was a joy to me. She was so beautiful.

We neither of us paid any heed to the route that our brougham was taking and, even as we turned out of Sloane Square into Lower Sloane Street, we scarcely glanced out of the cab window. It was only as I alighted from the carriage and helped Veronica down onto the pavement that, suddenly, forcibly, I was reawakened to reality and realised, in the instant, that what Oscar had called ‘the end-game’ was indeed upon us.

The scene that greeted us in Lower Sloane Street was wholly unexpected. Three other vehicles were drawn up in line with ours. Just ahead of where our cab had stopped, immediately outside 75 Lower Sloane Street, was another hackney carriage, a two-wheeler, with its blinds drawn closed. In front of it was a second, larger carriage, a four-wheeler—a police growler, with two uniformed police constables standing at its side. At the front of the line was the largest vehicle, enclosed and window-less, with a single door at its rear. It was the police wagon for prisoners known as the Black Maria.

“What is the meaning of this, Robert?”

“I have no idea,” I said—and said it truthfully.

The door to number 75 was open wide and standing on the doorstep, side by side, looking towards us—as if awaiting our arrival—were two men. One was a police sergeant, a thickset fellow of indeterminate age and blank expression. The other was John Gray, in a sober suit, but with a playful smile upon his face.

“Welcome,” he said as we approached. “We meet again.” I said nothing, but shook his outstretched hand. Veronica swept past him into the hallway. Another policeman, a young constable, was standing at the foot of the stairs.

“What is going on?” she cried. “Will someone tell me?”

“Oscar will explain,” said John Gray, amiably. “He is expecting you. He is in the drawing room. May I take your coat?”

“No, thank you.” She spoke coldly, with anger in her eyes.

“This will not be easy for you, I know,” said John Gray and he pushed open the drawing-room door. To our astonishment, the room was full, brightly lit (the gasoliers were turned up high; there were also lighted candles on the mantelpiece), and crowded with people, talking, laughing, chattering—or so it seemed. Mrs O’Keefe, in her black crepe and taffeta dress, carrying a tray of drinks, was bustling to and fro. Oscar was centre stage, standing by the fireplace, with several others grouped around him. As we entered the room, the hubbub faltered and all eyes turned upon us.

“Ah,” said Oscar, glancing at me reprovingly, “you are here.” He came towards us and took Veronica solicitously by the hand. “Miss Sutherland,” he said, bowing to her.

“Is this my birthday party?” she enquired, looking at him with unhappy eyes.

“Alas, no,” he said. “Your birthday, I fear, Miss Sutherland, has been overshadowed by the death of Billy Wood—as was Mrs Wilde’s birthday, you will recall, only a few weeks ago. You remember my wife, don’t you?” He turned and indicated Constance who was seated alone by the fireplace, gazing into the empty grate. (Constance was not dressed for a party; she was wearing a workaday hat and coat, as though she had been disturbed on her way to the post office. On her lap she was nursing a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string.)

“Those who joined us that night in Tite Street,” Oscar continued, “that night when we received poor Billy’s severed head: they are all gathered here again this evening.” He looked about the room. “John Gray you’ve met already. Dr Doyle, of course, you know.” Conan Doyle stood near the mantelpiece with his back to us. I caught his eye in the looking-glass. He looked tired but, beyond that, his expression betrayed nothing. “Arthur has forsaken the measles sufferers of Southsea to be with us,” said Oscar. “I am grateful.”

“And Mrs Doyle?” I asked.

“Touie?” said Oscar. “Yes, she is with us also—and doing good work, as ever. She is outside, in the street, in the two-wheeler parked by the front door—with Susannah Wood, Billy’s mother. I collected Mrs Wood from Charing Cross Station this afternoon and brought her here myself, but she needed a woman’s consolation. She is suffering greatly, as perhaps you can imagine. Touie is giving Mrs Wood what comfort she can. They may join us later.”

“Why have you brought Mrs Wood here?” I asked.

“To fulfil a promise I made to her,” he said.

Veronica looked into Oscar’s eyes and hissed at him: “What are you doing, Mr Wilde? What cruel game is this?”

“Oh,” he exclaimed, “this is not a game, Miss Sutherland! Were it a game, I doubt the police would be here in such numbers.” He took my beautiful mistress by the hand and led her towards an empty chair beneath the window. “You know your fiancé’s colleague, Inspector Gilmour, don’t you? The young man with the perfect profile is his assistant, Sergeant Atkins. He comes from Broadstairs also—as chance would have it.” He pressed her to be seated. She acquiesced. I stood behind the chair, perplexed, my hand resting on her shoulder. She glanced up at me and I saw terror in her eyes.

“Whom don’t you know?” Oscar went on, blithely. “Ah, yes…”

Stooping over Mrs O’Keefe’s tray, returning an empty glass with one hand while, with the other, carefully picking up a full one, was an elderly gentleman who appeared to have wandered into the room from the pages of a book of eccentric fairy tales. He was Dore’s painting of Rumpelstiltskin combined with Tenniel’s drawing of the White Knight in
Through the Looking-Glass
. White-haired and bent, he was dressed in a shabby velvet suit of midnight blue, with knee breeches, silver stockings, buckled shoes and, on his head, an absurd, oversized artist’s beret. He trembled as he walked.

“His name is Aston Upthorpe,” said Oscar. “He loved Billy Wood—not wisely, but too well.”

Mrs O’Keefe was bobbing across the room towards us with her tray. “Would you care for some refreshment, Miss Sutherland?” Oscar asked.

“No,” she answered, “thank you. What I would care for, Mr Wilde, is an explanation…What is happening here? What is going on?”

“I will tell you,” he said, quietly. “I will tell you now. It will not take long.” Oscar smiled at her, but it was a cold smile. He glanced at me and at my hand upon her shoulder. “Do you have your notebook, Robert? There may be details that are new to you.” He stepped away from us and returned to his position before the fireplace—centre stage. “Ladies, gentlemen,” he announced, “if I might have your attention for a moment…”

The room fell silent. For the next several minutes, no one moved. Inspector Gilmour and Sergeant Atkins stood sentinel together by the drawing-room door. Mrs O’Keefe cowered in a corner. John Gray and Aston Upthorpe sat, uncomfortably upright, on a French settee. Conan Doyle stood behind Constance Wilde, with his hand resting on her shoulder as mine rested on that of Veronica Sutherland. Oscar held us in his thrall.

“Thank you,” he began, “thank you all for being here this evening. I imagine you have guessed the purpose of our gathering…In her dealings with man, Destiny never quite closes her accounts, but we have reached the final act of this particular drama—the tragedy of Billy Wood—and since each of us in this room has played a part in its unfolding, I felt it only right and proper that we should all be here, together, to witness the curtain fall.”

“But we are not all here,” said Veronica, looking about the room in a sudden state of agitation. “Aidan is not here. Where is he? Where is Aidan? Where is my fiancé?” She made to move, but I restrained her.

“He is not joining us, Miss Sutherland,” said Oscar, looking not at her but at the room as he spoke. “Aidan Fraser will not be with us this evening. He is a ruthless murderer—as you know.”

The End-Game

T
he room was still. Veronica Sutherland gazed at Oscar with unflinching eyes. I pressed my fingers into her shoulder. She put her hand onto mine. It was as cold as ice.

“Last night,” Oscar continued, “not yet twenty-four hours ago, Aidan Fraser murdered Edward O’Donnell—murdered him in a police cell in Bow Street—during the second act of
Bluebeard
, as fate would have it. It was easily done. To kill a man takes only a moment, if you have the courage.”