Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery (27 page)

I
learnt of Atitis-Snake’s return to Reading Gaol from the Reverend M. T. Friend. The chaplain was now all too frequent a visitor to my little cell. Since the day when he had urged me not to let my mind ‘dwell upon the clouds, but on Him who is above the clouds’ and I had bundled him unceremoniously out onto the gantry, I had done my best to show the insistent clergyman some civility. I realised that he was not a bad man, merely a dull one – which, of course, is far worse. He visited me each week, usually on a Wednesday, and invariably brought with him a text that he hoped might form the basis of what he termed ‘a spiritually renewing conversation’. I tried to explain to him that, while I was ready to admire Christ above all other men, it was with Christ’s church that I had a problem. ‘I understand,’ he said earnestly, but I knew that he did not.

On this particular Wednesday – 14 April 1897 – I had steeled myself for his visitation. I expected the priest to be at his most platitudinous: it was the Wednesday before Easter. In the event, the Reverend Friend took me by surprise. When he appeared at my cell door, he looked different: he looked
interesting
. He was a lightly built man of about sixty, with thinning grey hair and a featureless face, smoother than you would expect in a man of his years. Customarily, his skin was pale and putty-like. Today, his face was flushed and animated. He appeared oddly alive – and excited.

‘It is Holy Wednesday,’ he announced as he came into the cell. He carried a small case in one hand and a prayer book in the other.

‘It is Spy Wednesday,’ I replied, ‘the day on which Judas Iscariot betrayed Our Lord for thirty pieces of silver.’

‘Do you know where Our Lord was that Wednesday,’ he asked, ‘at the moment of His betrayal?’ He bustled towards me, holding up his prayer book as he approached.

‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘at Bethany, at the house of Simon the Leper.’ I stood and offered the chaplain my chair. ‘Welcome to my house, padre,’ I said, smiling.

He took the seat, gratefully, and, as he did so, he looked up at me with unexpectedly gleaming eyes. ‘Thank you, C.3.3.,’ he said. ‘You have been meditating on Judas’s cowardly betrayal of Our Lord?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I answered truthfully, ‘and on the death of Trooper Wooldridge.’

‘Ah yes . . . Wooldridge.’ The chaplain sighed and shook his head sorrowfully. He placed his case on the ground beside my table. ‘A hanging in the prison touches every one of us.’ He studied me enquiringly. ‘And why were you thinking of Judas and Wooldridge at one and the same time?’

‘Judas betrayed Jesus, though he loved him. Wooldridge murdered his wife, though he loved her. Each man kills the thing he loves . . . It is curious, is it not, Father?’

‘The coward does it with a kiss,’ said the clergyman.

‘And the soldier with a cut-throat razor.’

The Reverend Friend ran his tongue over his lips to moisten them. ‘You have been expecting me?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I answered.

‘I am glad. I have been looking forward to our time together.’ He began to leaf through the prayer book. ‘I have prepared our reading.’ He found the page he was seeking. ‘I was delayed unexpectedly,’ he added, apologetically.

‘You have your duties, I know,’ I said ingratiatingly.

‘Yes, indeed.’ He nodded. ‘I am interested that you have been reflecting on the hanging of the prisoner Wooldridge. I have just now come from giving communion to another condemned man.’

‘Here?’

‘In the condemned cell. He will be kept in close confinement until his time comes. He cannot attend chapel, of course, so I must go to him.’ He indicated the small case he had placed beside the table. ‘I have a portable communion set for the purpose. It was given me by my parents on the day of my ordination.’

‘This is Sebastian Atitis-Snake?’ I asked. ‘He has returned?’ (It was the first that I had heard of it.)

‘Yes, he arrived last night. The poor man has been sent back to us for his execution. A bitter business.’ The chaplain threw back his head and briefly closed his eyes.

‘You do not approve of hanging?’ I enquired, somewhat surprised.

‘It is barbaric,’ said the clergyman, looking at me sharply. His eyes were bulbous and rimmed with tears. ‘“An eye for an eye” is the philosophy of the Old Testament. Christ died on Good Friday to redeem us from our sins.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you are right, Father.’ I sat on the edge of my bed and looked at him. I was startled to find myself suddenly in sympathy with this pedestrian clergyman with the whining voice. ‘When is the hanging due to take place?’

‘Within the month – unless there is an appeal or a plea for clemency, which I doubt there will be. Atitis-Snake has killed before.’

‘I know,’ I said.

The chaplain looked at me. ‘You know his story?’

‘His first trial took place at the same time as my own,’ I explained. ‘I read about it in the newspapers. “The Napoleon Poisoner”.’

‘His life was spared on that occasion – though the unfortunate wife he sought to kill was entirely blameless.’ The chaplain sighed. ‘On this occasion the judge showed no mercy.’

‘Though Warder Braddle was far from blameless?’

The chaplain gripped the sides of the prayer book. ‘“If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.” Leviticus, Chapter 20, Verse 13.

‘Is that to be our text for today, Father?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘No,’ muttered the hapless cleric, his face turning scarlet. He looked at me in a state of confusion. ‘I was not thinking of you, C.3.3.,’ he stammered.

‘I understand, Father,’ I said. ‘Warder Braddle was a wicked man – and not only in your eyes.’

‘He was an abomination,’ murmured the chaplain. Suddenly, he sat up and took a deep breath, and smiled at me, as if to indicate that he was himself again. He reached into his coat pocket and found a handkerchief. He wiped his brow and blew his nose. ‘Let us not speak ill of the dead,’ he said sonorously. ‘And let us not forget the Sixth Commandment: “Thou shalt do no murder.” Mr Braddle was a prison warder of many years’ standing. Atitis-Snake admitted the unlawful killing and the defence he offered was risible. I fear the sentence the judge passed was inevitable.’

‘You have just come from Atitis-Snake’s cell?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how does he seem in the face of death?’ I asked.

The chaplain breathed deeply. ‘It is a terrible prospect, but he appears resigned. Calm. Almost serene.’

‘Is he remorseful?’ I asked.

‘I believe so,’ answered the chaplain eagerly. ‘He requested the blessed sacrament. I felt his need was urgent. He is seeking absolution.’

I smiled. ‘As are we all, Father,’ I said.

‘Are we?’ demanded the clergyman, his eyes shining, his skin glistening. He turned his head to heaven and gazed up at the ceiling of my cell. It was peppered with drops of condensation.

‘The walls weep in this prison,’ I said.

‘“Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice: let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.” Our redeemer waiteth, C.3.3. Let us pray together now.’

I had not the heart not to indulge him. I sat at his side while, in his plaintive, monotonous voice, he intoned psalms and responses, and offered up loud prayers to the Almighty. When he was done, he appeared utterly exhausted by the experience.

‘I trust you are refreshed, my son,’ he rasped, his voice drained of life. He took a deep breath and closed his prayer book. ‘I must be about my duties. C.3.4. is in the depths of despair, I fear.’

‘Do you have a text ready for him?’ I asked.

‘“Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.”’

‘John Donne,’ I said, smiling. ‘I know it – though how the dwarf will receive it I cannot say. He certainly is singularly miserable for a man who worked in a circus.’

The chaplain, now obviously exhausted, got to his feet slowly. ‘At least C.3.4. will admit me. C.3.2. will not let me beyond his door. He is a Hindu or a Buddhist or somesuch.’

‘Yes, Father, you told me. I remember.’

When the chaplain reached the door of my cell he stood for a moment, gathering his strength and gazing at me with tear-filled eyes. ‘Goodbye, C.3.3.,’ he said, making the sign of the cross.

‘I think you will go over to Rome at the last, padre,’ I said. ‘As I think I may myself. The Catholic Church is for saints and sinners alone. For respectable people the Anglican Church will do.’

‘You are amusing, C.3.3.,’ answered the Reverend Friend, smiling beneficently, ‘and that is a gift of God.’

They were kind parting words and, as it turned out, they were the last words he spoke to me. When he left my cell, I heard him enter the cell next door. I heard him say something to the dwarf as he entered and then – though I stood close to my door listening – for a minute or so I heard nothing, until, suddenly, through the wall came the noise of a fight: bodies tussling violently, the voice of a man calling frantically for assistance, then shrieking in desperation. The cries were accompanied by the dreadful sounds of violence – furniture crashing to the ground followed by the insistent thud of pounding fists and kicking boots.

It lasted only moments, but by the time that Warder Stokes and Warder Martin had reached the dwarf’s cell the chaplain was already dead.

22
Aftermath

I
can only picture what happened next. I did not see it. I only heard it as I stood with my ear pressed to the cold iron of my cell door.

The assault was over by the time the warders reached the dwarf’s cell. I heard Warder Stokes cry, ‘My God, he’s dead,’ and then I heard what sounded like the crack of a whip followed by the screeching and squealing of a stuck pig. I heard a third warder arrive and then a fourth, and perhaps one more. The voices were now subdued, but I caught stray words and phrases, enough to understand that the chaplain’s body was to be moved by stretcher to the morgue – the surgeon would see it there – while the dwarf would be left in his cell.

The whole episode – from the moment when the Reverend Friend left my cell to the moment when his broken body was taken from the cell next to mine and borne by stretcher to the prison morgue – lasted no more than twenty minutes. When it was over, when the hubbub had subsided and I sensed there were no turnkeys left lurking on the gantry, I stood at the left side of my door and called out to the dwarf. ‘C.3.4. . . . C.3.4. – Joseph Smith, are you there?’ But answer came there none.

Two and a half hours later, as the clock beyond the prison walls was striking eight, I was marched along the silent corridors and passageways of Reading Gaol towards the governor’s office. Warder Martin was my guard. ‘Governor wants to see you,’ was all he had said as he unlocked my cell door. I waited until we were away from the cells and beyond the range of other warders before I spoke.

‘Why am I being taken to the governor?’ I whispered from beneath my mask.

‘You’re a witness. You was the last to see the reverend alive.’

‘He’s dead, then?’ I said softly, properly registering the reality of what had occurred for the first time.

‘Oh, yes,’ muttered Martin, with a grim chuckle. ‘There’s no doubt about that. You should ’ave seen the poor old boy. That little man kicked ’im to death. ’E was as lifeless as a rag doll.’

‘Did you beat him?’ I asked, turning my capped head towards the warder. ‘I thought I heard the crack of a whip.’

‘Warder Stokes struck ’im with a towel – across the face. That’s what you’ve got to do with ’ysterics.’

‘Is it? I did not know.’

‘Oh yes.’

Warder Martin seemed strangely unperturbed by the evening’s events. The awful alchemy of prison life transforms sheer horror into something commonplace. ‘And then we put on the ’andcuffs,’ he continued cheerfully. ‘The surgeon’ll put ’im in a jacket later, I don’t doubt – before they sends ’im off to Bedlam. ’E’s a wild thing, that little man.’

‘Where are we going?’ I asked. We had taken an unexpected turning. Instead of going along the corridor towards the stairs leading to the governor’s office and the visiting magistrates’ room, Warder Martin had marched us beneath the stone archway that leads to the prison’s outer courtyard.