Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery (16 page)

‘And yet, faithless as you say you are, you tell us you were on your knees at prayer?’

‘Everything to be true must become a religion. And agnosticism should have its ritual no less than faith. It has sown its martyrs, it should reap its saints, and praise God daily for having hidden Himself from man.’

Colonel Isaacson clicked his tongue and turned to look up at the prison surgeon. ‘I do not think, Doctor, that we are going to find this prisoner as helpful as you thought.’

‘Mr Wilde,’ said Dr Maurice, pleasantly, ‘I told the governor of your friendship with Dr Conan Doyle and of the various mysteries you and Conan Doyle have solved together in your time . . .’

‘In younger and happier days,’ I murmured.

‘Not so long ago.’

I shook my head. ‘My mind now, alas . . .’

The doctor raised his hand to silence me. ‘You are a man of high intelligence, Mr Wilde,’ he said. ‘Your intellect has not been put to use since your incarceration. Perhaps it can be tested now – to your advantage and our benefit.’

I was confused. It was many months since any man of standing had addressed me in so civilised – and flattering – a fashion. I hesitated. ‘With Conan Doyle I merely played at Sherlock Holmes . . .’ I said, suddenly craving a cigarette. ‘It was a game . . .’

‘But you achieved results. According to Conan Doyle.’

I closed my eyes. For the briefest moment, I saw myself once more in the Palm Court at the Langham Hotel mulling over a three-pipe problem with my goodhearted Scottish friend. I drew on my Turkish cigarette and watched the bubbles dance in my glass of iced champagne.

Then I heard Colonel Isaacson’s knuckles crack and the fantasy passed. I opened my eyes and looked about the governor’s dull office. I saw his window covered by bars. ‘Is this not a matter for the police?’ I asked.

‘This is a preliminary inquiry,’ said Colonel Isaacson, irritably. ‘If it turns out to be an accident there will be no need to involve the police.’ He looked up towards the doctor once more. ‘This is my domain. This is my jurisdiction. I am the governor here.’

‘An accident seems most unlikely,’ I said, hesitantly, ‘given the height of the gantry’s wrought-iron balustrade.’

Colonel Isaacson looked at me and raised an eyebrow. ‘Explain.’

‘I take it Warder Braddle fell over the balustrade?’ I said.

‘He did,’ said Dr Maurice.

‘He did not fall down the stairs?’

‘He was ten yards from the stairwell,’ replied the doctor, removing his spectacles and polishing the little lenses with his handkerchief. He smiled at me with kindly, blinking eyes. ‘Warder Braddle fell over the balustrade immediately outside your cell, Mr Wilde – that is certain.’

‘One could not fall over the balustrade by accident,’ I repeated. ‘That is certain.’

Colonel Isaacson studied my face for a moment before turning to Dr Maurice. ‘Had Braddle been drinking?’ he asked.

‘It’s possible,’ said Maurice. ‘There was a noxious smell on his breath.’

‘The balustrade is between four and five foot high,’ I said. ‘Drunk or sober, a man couldn’t simply stumble and topple over it. He’d have to climb onto it to get over it.’

‘Could he have done that?’ asked Isaacson. ‘Clambered onto the balustrade and then jumped?’

Dr Maurice pushed his spectacles up his nose. ‘To his own death? This was suicide?’

‘It is a possibility?’ enquired Colonel Isaacson.

‘I do not think so, sir,’ I said, ‘given what Dr Maurice has told us.’

‘What has he told us?’

‘That Warder Braddle’s eyes were open. When a man jumps to his own death, as a rule he closes his eyes as he makes his fatal leap towards eternity. And he falls as he jumps – forwards, not backwards.’

‘And this means . . .’ The governor sighed and began to drum his fat fingers on his desk.

‘That Warder Braddle did not topple over the balustrade by accident, nor did he fall unaided. He was pushed. He was thrown to his death.’

Colonel Isaacson pushed back his chair and pulled noisily on his knuckles. ‘Very well. If Braddle was thrown to his death, by whom was he thrown?’

‘We are spoilt for choice,’ I murmured.

‘I think not,’ said the governor, sharply. ‘Watch what you say, C.3.3. You are a prisoner, a convicted felon – remember that. You are here to assist our inquiry, not to bandy words with us. We are not “spoilt for choice”, as you put it. Far from it. The field, in fact, is a remarkably narrow one.’ He turned to the prison surgeon. ‘How many cells on C Ward were unlocked at the time of the incident?’

‘Just five,’ said Dr Maurice. ‘The five that Warder Stokes opened up for me when I arrived at that section of the gantry at around three o’clock.’

‘C.3.5. to C.3.1.?’

‘Yes.’

‘They remained unlocked while you saw each prisoner in turn?’

‘Yes. And the chaplain followed soon after me. He was also on his rounds.’

Colonel Isaacson opened the drawer of his desk and took out a foolscap sheet of paper. He took up a pencil and began to draw a sketch of the gantry. He marked out each cell in turn. ‘C.3.5. is Atitis-Snake,’ he said. ‘The man has committed one murder. He might commit another . . .’

‘Why would he murder Braddle?’ I asked. ‘He was one of Braddle’s favourites.’

Colonel Isaacson looked up at me coldly. ‘Be very careful what you say. There are no “favourites” in Reading Gaol.’

I bowed my head. The governor returned his attention to his diagram. ‘I interviewed C.3.5. this morning,’ he continued. ‘The news of his wife’s passing has disturbed him. He told me that he was mad. He said that he was certain of it. I told him that he was not. Perhaps this is proof of his insanity – or intended as such.’

‘Atitis-Snake is not mad,’ said Dr Maurice.

‘And he killed his wife with poison,’ I said. ‘I recall Dr Conan Doyle telling me that in his experience murderers rarely, if ever, vary their
modus operandi
.’

Colonel Isaacson studied his sheet of paper. ‘C.3.4. is Joseph Smith. I know him well.’

‘Is he violent?’ asked Dr Maurice.

‘He’s a petty thief. He’s been in and out of gaol all his life. He’s not notably violent, but he’s insubordinate. A stubborn little fellow, as these malformed creatures often are. He was given the lash not long ago.’

‘And Warder Braddle beat him last night,’ I said.

Colonel Isaacson slammed his pencil onto the desk. ‘Silence!’ He turned again to the prison surgeon. ‘This was a mistake, Doctor. Why are we allowing this prisoner this licence?’

‘Because Mr Wilde is one of the cleverest men in England, sir.’

‘One of the cleverest men in England? How comes it that he is serving two years with hard labour in one of Her Majesty’s gaols if he is so clever?’

‘We can benefit from his experience.’

‘He has played at being Sherlock Holmes with Arthur Conan Doyle – that appears to be the level of his experience. This is ill advised, Doctor. You will regret it. I already do.’

‘Bear with me, sir.’ Dr Maurice looked towards me earnestly. ‘Mr Wilde, do you have proof that Warder Braddle assaulted C.3.4. last night?’ he asked.

‘I heard cries coming from the dwarf’s cell, sir. That is all.’

‘That is all?’

‘That is all.’

Colonel Isaacson looked up at me. ‘Curb your tongue and stick to what you know to be true. Dr Maurice is showing extraordinary trust in you, for reasons I cannot quite fathom. Repay that trust. Think before you speak. Speak to the point. And do not speak unless you are invited to do so. Is that clear?’

‘It is, sir,’ I said. I stood to attention. ‘Shall I return to my cell now?’

‘When we are ready. We have not finished with you yet.’ The governor took a deep breath and considered his piece of paper once more. ‘Are you suggesting, C.3.3., that C.3.4. may have thrown Warder Braddle to his death in revenge for the warder’s alleged assault on him?’

‘That might have been a motive, sir – yes,’ I said. ‘But, of course, the dwarf could not have killed Warder Braddle . . .’

‘No?’

‘The dwarf is three foot tall.’

Colonel Isaacson bared his teeth in a devilish grin. ‘Perhaps the little fellow had an accomplice? Your cell is next door to his. Your cell was unlocked. It’s well known that you had an antipathy towards Warder Braddle. You fell foul of his brother at Wandsworth, didn’t you? You and the Braddles have a history. Could you have murdered Warder Braddle? I wonder. From what I have seen of you, I doubt that you have the courage, or the strength, to kill a man – single handed. But in harness with C.3.4. . . . the dwarf and the sodomite?’

I said nothing, but looked down at the governor’s desk as he inscribed my number and my name on his diagram. ‘C.3.3.,’ he said slowly. ‘Wilde.’ He studied his sheet of foolscap and then looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. ‘When you play “Hunt the Murderer” with your friend Conan Doyle, how many suspects do you like to have on your list?’

I hesitated – and then, even as I gave the answer, I knew that it could only infuriate. ‘More than the muses,’ I said, ‘and fewer than the gods.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Colonel Isaacson tapped his paper with his pencil. ‘Since Dr Maurice has persuaded me to play this game, give me a number. How many suspects?’

‘Ten,’ I said.

‘Very well. Let us continue.’ With a black tongue he licked the tip of the pencil. ‘C.3.2.,’ he wrote next. ‘Luck.’ He looked up at me contemptuously. ‘He’s another of your kind, C.3.3. – more woman than man and a dozen words when one will do.’ I held his gaze.

‘Does he have a history of violence?’ enquired Dr Maurice.

‘Luck? No, not at all. Prostitution and blackmail are his stock-in-trade. He’s Indian and inclined to grovel in the presence of authority. In many ways, he is a model prisoner.’ The governor was looking directly at me. ‘And let me say it before C.3.3. is tempted to do so. Luck, too, has the reputation of being one of Warder Braddle’s so-called “favourites”.’

My eyes moved back to Colonel Isaacson’s sheet of paper. ‘Which leaves us with C.3.1.,’ he continued, writing out the name and number. ‘Ryder.’

‘He’s sixty-eight years of age,’ said Dr Maurice, ‘and not long for this world, I fear. He has emphysema. He can barely breathe. He can barely stand. It won’t be him.’

The governor looked up at the doctor. ‘Besides, you were with him in his cell at the moment of Braddle’s fall.’

‘I was,’ said Dr Maurice. ‘I am his alibi.’

‘And he is yours,’ said Colonel Isaacson, with a small laugh.

‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘I suppose he is.’

A silence fell. ‘May I ask a question?’ I said.

Colonel Isaacson nodded, put down his pencil and sat back to crack his knuckles.

‘Where was the chaplain when Warder Braddle died?’ I asked.

‘He was in C.3.1.’s cell,’ said the governor, ‘with the doctor.’

‘No,’ said Dr Maurice, quickly. ‘He left a moment before – at four o’clock. We heard the clock strike and he said he had to go. He left the cell and almost at once I heard him cry for help.’

‘Is that what he cried? “Help!”?’

‘Yes, I think so. “Help! There’s been an accident.” He was the first to see what had occurred. As he came out onto the gantry he heard a sound below – the sound of Braddle’s body hitting the ground. He looked over the balustrade and there, fifty feet below, was Braddle stretched out on the stone floor, with the boy at his side.’

‘The boy?’ I said.

‘E.1.1.,’ said the governor. ‘He’d been on cleaning duty, scrubbing the stairs.’

‘He saw the fall?’

‘He says he saw nothing. They all say they saw nothing.’

‘He must have seen something.’

‘He says that he was at the foot of the stairs, on his hands and knees, with his back to the gantry. He says that he heard the sound of Braddle’s body crashing to the ground and then turned and ran towards it.’

‘According to Dr Conan Doyle,’ I said, quietly, ‘the one found closest to the body is very often the one who is closest to the crime.’

‘The boy is not likely to be a murderer, is he?’ Colonel Isaacson smiled grimly as he asked the question. ‘He could hardly have thrown Braddle over the balustrade. He is even smaller than the dwarf.’

‘And he could not have run down two whole flights of stairs in the time it took Braddle’s body to fall,’ said Dr Maurice. ‘It’s an impossibility – even were he fully fit. And he is not.’

‘And what would his motive have been?’ added the governor, still smiling. ‘Isn’t he another of Warder Braddle’s alleged “favourites”?’

‘I think you should at least mark him down, sir, as being there at the scene of the crime.’

‘At the scene of the accident,’ the governor corrected me. ‘By all means.’ He added the boy’s name and number to his drawing. ‘And while I am about it, I shall place the doctor in cell C.3.1. and the chaplain on the gantry.’

‘Was no one else present?’ I asked. ‘Or near by? No other warders?’

‘On C Ward Braddle and Stokes were the two on duty,’ said the governor.

‘Who was in the inspection hall?’

‘I was,’ said Colonel Isaacson, ‘and I saw nothing. And heard nothing – until I heard the chaplain’s cry for help.’

‘Were you alone in the inspection hall, sir?’

‘No, of course not. The inspection hall is always fully manned, but there are four wards to be observed and it was four o’clock – when the shifts change. Two warders were coming on duty and another two were going off.’

‘And you were giving them your full attention?’

‘No doubt I was, C.3.3.’ Colonel Isaacson gazed at me steadily.

‘Where was Warder Stokes at four o’clock?’ I asked.

‘On C Ward,’ said Dr Maurice.

‘On the gantry?’

‘Yes – in the latrine, relieving himself,’ said the doctor. ‘He returned a moment after the fall. As I came out of Ryder’s cell I saw him at the far end of the gantry.’

‘So there we have it,’ said Colonel Isaacson, laying down his pencil. ‘One victim and
nine
potential suspects. One short of Conan Doyle’s requirement. I am sorry about that.’ Colonel Isaacson handed his sheet of foolscap to the prison surgeon. ‘What do you think, Doctor? Did the chaplain do it? He appears to be the one closest to the point from which Warder Braddle fell.’ He smiled. ‘He is older than Braddle, but just about strong enough, I suppose.’