2007 - Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders (4 page)

“No,” said Oscar, turning to face the doctor. “I misled you there. I apologise. Billy Wood was no stranger.”

“You loved him?”

“I loved him,” said Oscar. “Yes. I loved him—as a brother.”

“As a brother?” repeated Doyle.

“As the younger brother I might have had,” said Oscar. “We were friends—best friends. We were good companions. I had a younger sister once. While she lived, she was my best friend. But I lost her too. She was just ten when she died.”

“I am sorry,” said Doyle, “I did not know.”

“It is a long time ago now,” said Oscar, reaching for his handkerchief and, unselfconsciously, wiping his eyes, “more than twenty years.” He smiled. “‘The good die first,’” he said. “Isola was ten. Billy was barely sixteen. ‘The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust burn to the socket,’” He looked out of the cab window onto the river. We were halfway across Westminster Bridge. “You recognise the line, Robert?”

To my shame, I did not. “Is it Shakespeare?” I asked.

“No,” he said, reprovingly, “it is not. It is your greatgrandfather, Robert.” He turned to Conan Doyle to explain: “Robert is the great-grandson of one of the few poets laureate worthy of the honour: William Wordsworth.” Arthur responded with the grunt of awe that is the inevitable reaction, it seems, to this particular piece of information. Oscar continued: “Robert is reticent about his distinguished forebear because Robert is a poet himself. But given where we are—on Westminster Bridge—and the nature of the morning—“silent, bare”—I hope he will forgive me…”

Before Conan Doyle could embark on the train of questions that I knew—from a lifetime’s experience—would be prompted by the mention of my Wordsworth connection, I intervened to change the subject. “Arthur, do you have children?” I asked.

Conan Doyle was a decent man—quick and sensitive—and he recognised at once that I was not eager to encourage a discussion of the Wordsworth-Sherard family history. “Yes,” he answered readily, “just the one—a daughter, Mary. She is nine months old this very week. She is plump and full of life, with pretty blue eyes and bandy legs. I love her very much.”

“Children are a joy,” said Oscar. “My little boys are three and four, and full of hope. I fear for them dreadfully.”

“I understand,” said Arthur, gently. “Once upon a time, I had a younger sister, too. She also died.”

“I did not know,” said Oscar.

“How could you?” asked Doyle.

“I did not think to ask,” said Oscar. “That was thoughtless. Pray forgive me, dear friend. I can call you my friend, can I not—even though our acquaintance has been so brief?”

“I am honoured to be your friend, Oscar,” replied Conan Doyle, and I sensed, as he spoke, that he was moved. (As I got to know him better, I noticed that whenever he spoke intimately, or of matters that touched him deeply, his Edinburgh accent, usually almost imperceptible, became quite pronounced.)

“Love is all very well in its way,” said Oscar, “but, to me, friendship is much higher. I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler, or more rare, than true friendship. Shall we be true friends, Arthur?”

“I hope so,” said Doyle earnestly and, as if to seal the compact, he turned towards Oscar and shook him vigorously by the hand. If Oscar winced—as he might have done: Doyle’s was a fist of iron—he did so inwardly. The two men beamed at one another, then turned towards me, and the three of us laughed together. The air had cleared.

“‘A timely utterance gave that thought relief,”’ I said, adding, awkwardly, by way of explanation, “my greatgrandfather—”

“I know,” said Conan Doyle. “We learnt the poem by heart at school.”

“In Austria?” cried Oscar.

“No, Oscar! At Stonyhurst. It is my favourite English poem. It contains some of the loveliest lines in the language. “To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.””

“If I were to live again,” said Oscar, “I would like it to be as a flower—no soul, but perfectly beautiful.”

“And what flower would that be, Oscar?” I asked.

“Oh, Robert, for my sins I shall be made a red geranium!”

As we laughed once more, Doyle glanced out of the window and saw the steps of Waterloo Station in the distance. He said, with sudden urgency, “Oscar, may I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“About 23 Cowley Street?”

“Anything.” Oscar was now at ease again.

“Who owns the house?”

“Number 23 Cowley Street? I have no idea.” Oscar answered the question quite casually.

“But you have rented rooms there?” Conan Doyle began his line of questioning gently, as a friendly family doctor might elicit details of his patient’s symptoms, but gradually the comfortable, coaxing bedside manner gave way to something less cosily avuncular and more akin to a courtroom cross-examination.

“Yes,” replied Oscar, “I have rented rooms there—now and again, not often.”

“But you are unaware of who is the owner of the property?”

“Entirely. I was introduced to the house through O’Donovan & Brown of Ludgate Circus.”

“They act as agents?”

“Indeed. They charge four pounds a month for the house as a whole, if I recollect aright— or a guinea a week, or four shillings
per diem
, all found. Are you thinking of opening a London practice, Arthur?”

Conan Doyle ignored Oscar’s joke. His brow furrowed. “All found?” he repeated.

“Yes,” said Oscar. “There is usually a good soul such as Mrs O’Keefe on hand to provide creature comforts.”

“But I don’t understand, Oscar. You have a house full of rooms in Tite Street. Why do you need another in Westminster—especially one at four shillings a day?”

“Half-days are possible, Arthur. O’Donovan & Brown are at pains to be accommodating. I believe there is a doctor who takes the house every Monday morning for half a crown. I have not met him. I am told that those who call upon him are young women in the main. I understand he is not entirely respectable.”

“Oscar,” said Conan Doyle, “you have not answered my question.”

“There is no mystery here, Arthur,” Oscar replied, without rancour. “Now and then, when I have a pupil to teach, or need a room in which to write, I rent Cowley Street for a day or two. It is as simple as that. At Tite Street I have a wife and children and servants—and importunate friends and impertinent tradesmen calling at all hours, whether invited or not. It is only by entire isolation from everything and everyone that one can do any work. Doctors, I know, require their waiting rooms to be full; poets, on the other hand, require theirs to be empty. Poetry, as Robert’s forefather taught us, is emotion recollected in tranquillity. There is no tranquillity in Tite Street.”

The hansom cab had now pulled up at the railway station, but Conan Doyle was not yet done. “Is it writers mainly who take rooms at Cowley Street?” he asked.

“Writers—and musicians. And artists, also. All sorts, in fact. I once encountered a clergyman there, a suffragan bishop. He was working on a series of sermons—on the theme of sorrow and the seven deadly sins, as I recall. Members of Parliament occasionally use the house as well. They come to play cards—with the artists, and their models.”

“And was it at Cowley Street that you first met Billy Wood?”

“Yes,” said Oscar, simply.

“And he was an artist’s model?” suggested Conan Doyle.

“Yes,” said Oscar, surprised. “How did you guess?”

“You said he was beautiful.”

“He had the beauty of youth. And I have a passion for beauty—as Wordsworth had. As Robert has. As I doubt not, Doctor, you have, too. Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. A passion for beauty is merely the intensified desire for life. I knew Billy Wood and I loved him. He had youth and beauty—and such spirit. In his company, I was glad to be alive.”

“You told us he was a street urchin.”

“Indeed,” said Oscar, looking his interrogator directly in the eye. “He was quite uneducated; he could barely read; he could write his name, but not much more. But he had native intelligence—an enquiring mind and a remarkable memory. And an ability to concentrate that I have not come across before in one so young. He was hungry to learn—and I was happy to teach.”

“You taught him?” said Conan Doyle.

“I taught him poetry. I took him to the theatre. I encouraged his talent. He had talent. He was a natural actor. On the stage, he might have gone far.”

“And you say that yesterday you saw this young friend of yours, this Billy Wood, in the upstairs room at Cowley Street, his naked body awash with blood, his throat cut from ear to ear.”

“I do, Arthur. And you do not believe me.”

“Oh, Oscar,” said Conan Doyle, “I believe you. I believe you completely.”

Simpson’s in the Strand

W
aterloo Station on that close september morning was hot and crowded. The station clock had failed; there was chaos on thle concourse.

As Arthur Conan Doyle stepped down from our fourwheeler, I handed him his case, his travelling bag, and the hatbox and bouquet of summer flowers intended for his wife. As he stood there, laden, smiling, bidding us farewell, he had about him an air of trustworthiness and decency that was utterly compelling. In my life, I have known many remarkable men—poets, pioneers, soldiers, statesmen—but I have known few better men, and none more straightforward, than Arthur Conan Doyle.

Oscar, still seated in the cab, was feeling in his pockets for money with which to pay the fare. Arthur called to him, “Let me pay my share, Oscar, but keep the cab. I want you to go directly to Scotland Yard. I can see myself off well enough.”

“To Scotland Yard?” said Oscar.

“Yes,” said Doyle, firmly, moving close to the open cab door and adopting his best bedside manner. “This is a matter for the police, Oscar. That boy was murdered—I have no doubt of that. If he was lying with his head towards the window, as you describe him, and his feet towards the door, then I suspect his throat was cut from right to left in a single, savage slice. The carotid arteries leading to his brain will have been severed instantly. He will have died in a matter of moments. Given his youth, the immediate loss of blood must have been considerable.”

Oscar was silent.

“How do you know this, Arthur?” I asked. “There was no sign of blood in the room.”

“Not on the floor, nor on the skirting,” said Doyle, “but some five feet up the right-hand wall, as you face the window, I noticed the tiniest traces of blood—not smears, but minute splashes. I imagine that when the internal jugular veins burst, for an instant a stream of the boy’s blood spurted high into the air and left its tell-tale mark.”

Suddenly, impulsively, Oscar reached out towards Conan Doyle with both hands. “Stay, Arthur,” he beseeched him, “stay and help me find who has done this terrible thing.”

“No, Oscar, I must get home. Touie is expecting me. It is her birthday, remember.”

“Will you return tomorrow?” Wilde implored.

Conan Doyle shook his head and smiled. His sharp blue eyes were ever mournful, but he had a quick and merry smile. “Oscar,” he laughed, “I am not a consulting detective. I am a country doctor. Sherlock Holmes is a figment of my imagination. I cannot help you and neither can he. You might as well ask the Happy Prince or one of the other heroes of your fairy tales to assist you. Go to the police. Go to Scotland Yard. Go at once.”

“I cannot,” said Oscar.

“You must,” said Doyle. “I have a friend at Scotland Yard—Inspector Aidan Fraser. Mention my name and he will give you every assistance. You can trust him. He is from Edinburgh.”

Oscar wanted to protest—absurdly, he held out supplicating arms!—but Conan Doyle would have none of it. Gently shaking his head, he began to back away from us, disappearing into the throng, calling as he went: “You will like him, Oscar. Tell Fraser everything—and follow his advice. Robert, make sure he does! Go now! Go at once!”

We watched and waved, as our new friend, laden with his bags and bouquet, turned his back on us and vanished amid the confusion of passengers bustling between platforms. “He is golden,” murmured Oscar, “and he has gone.”

As I climbed back into the four-wheeler, I called up to the driver, “Great Scotland Yard, cabby,” but Oscar countermanded me at once.

“No,” he said, coolly. “No. It is after twelve o’clock, Robert, and I have a fancy for oysters and champagne.”

“But—”

“But me no buts, Robert. Simpson’s in the Strand, driver, if you please.” Oscar sat back and looked at me appraisingly. “I need to think. And to think I must have oysters and champagne.”

Oscar got his way. Of course. Oscar always got his way. We were driven to John Simpson’s Grand Divan Tavern in the Strand. But when we arrived at the restaurant and were seated (at the ‘best’ table, on the ground floor, in the far left-hand corner, the one table that commands the room as a whole), to my surprise, Oscar waved away the proffered menu and announced our order. “We shall have potted shrimps and a bottle of your finest Riesling to begin with,” he told our waiter. “And then, from the trolley, I shall take the saddle of mutton and Mr Sherard will have his customary roast beef—pink and cut slantingly to the bone—with your freshest horseradish sauce, your heaviest Yorkshire pudding, and some lightly boiled cabbage, served, if you please, unexpectedly hot. With the roast meat, we will take whatever red Burgundy the sommelier recommends. I am in the mood to live dangerously.”

When the young waiter, smiling, had gone about his business, I said to Oscar, “What happened to your fancy for oysters and champagne?”

“That was a quarter of an hour ago,” he replied, “when we were south of the river. I have changed my mind since then. Consistency, as you know, is the last refuge of the unimaginative. Besides, I have done my thinking. I have decided we should do as Arthur advises. We shall go to meet Inspector Fraser—after lunch.”

“Why did you not go to the police at once—yesterday—as soon as you had discovered the body?”

Oscar, frowning, unfurled his napkin and tucked a corner of it into the top of his waistcoat. “I had my reasons…”

I looked at him expectantly. Carefully, he arranged the napkin across his ample stomach and sat gazing at me in silence. I waited. He said nothing. I tried to coax him. “And?” I said.