Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery (29 page)

‘Except my sons,’ I said. ‘Thus far I have lost everything – except my boys.’

‘You are fortunate to have sons. You will see them soon, I am sure.’

I looked down at my hands. My fingers were fat, swollen and rough. My nails were torn and grubby from my labours in the prison yard. The doctor’s fingers, holding his cigarette, were long and slender. His fingernails gleamed. ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Perhaps not.’ I smiled. ‘I have lost my reputation, Doctor. Any lie can be told about me now and it will be believed. That is the price I must pay for my folly.’

‘You can rebuild your reputation.’

‘No. When I leave here, there is nothing for me but the life of a pariah, a life of disgrace and penury and contempt. I know that. I say it not out of self-pity only, but as a matter of fact.’

‘You still have your way with words. You are Oscar Wilde. You can write. You can build your reputation anew.’

‘I wrote when I did not know life, Doctor. Now that I do know the meaning of life, I have no more to write. Life cannot be written; life can only be lived.’

Major Nelson broke the elegiac moment as he bustled back into the room. He was humming ‘The Band Played On’. He had lit a fresh cigar. He held it between his teeth because in his hands he carried a laden tray. He glanced around the room and then, with a sharp intake of breath, crouched down and placed the tray on the floor in front of the grate. ‘You may have a cheese sandwich, and some water. Help yourself.’ He rose to his feet holding a pair of crystal tumblers. He handed one to Dr Maurice. The liquid it contained was pale gold.

‘Might I have a cigarette, sir?’ I asked.

The governor clicked his tongue. ‘No,’ he said emphatically, ‘absolutely not. You forget yourself.’ He sipped his whisky and looked at me, raising an eyebrow. ‘You were sentenced at the Old Bailey to two years’ hard labour, C.3.3. I don’t need to remind you. According to the prison regulations “hard labour” means “hard labour, hard fare and a hard bed”. You have more than a month of your sentence still to serve. I am only allowing you the sandwich because the Cheddar is peculiarly hard.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t push your luck . . . And explain yourself.’ He took a second sip of whisky and sucked on his moustache. ‘You can take your time. I have spoken with Mr Palmer. His custard creams have afforded him the luxury of a telephone also. He knows I will be late. He asks to be remembered to you.’

I stood with my head bowed, concentrating on the shaming black arrows on my trouser legs. ‘That is most gracious of him.’

‘He is a decent man,’ said the major. He stood before the fireplace, his arms loosely held out before him, his glass in one hand, his cigar in the other. ‘Look at me, C.3.3.,’ he instructed. ‘A prison is a necessary evil. I want to run this one as well as I can. When I arrived here, I smelt something rotten in the air, but the source of the stench I could not find. And others here – out of loyalty to the past, no doubt – gave me no clues.’ He threw a look towards Dr Maurice and half raised his glass to him. He looked back at me and suddenly his eyes blazed. ‘I am exhilarated, C.3.3., because I sense that at last, tonight, here, in this room, with you, of all people, I am going to get to the root of the matter.’ He nodded towards the tray on the floor at my feet. ‘Now, take a bite of your sandwich, man, and explain yourself.’

‘I am not hungry, sir,’ I lied. Pride is a curious thing. ‘But thank you.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Very well. To business.’ He glanced once more towards Dr Maurice. ‘Whatever is said in this room tonight need go no farther – so long as the law is not broken and justice is done.’ The prison doctor had moved to the far side of the parlour, away from the flickering gas jets. He stood in the shadows, erect, his long arms behind his back, his tumbler of whisky held from view. The prison governor turned back to me. Major Nelson’s appearance brought Conan Doyle to mind, but his avuncular, gently chiding manner reminded me more of my defending counsel at the Old Bailey. ‘So,’ he began, ‘you say that the chaplain’s murderer “will hang – we can be certain of that.” . . . You mean, I take it, that . . .’

‘Yes, sir. I mean that Sebastian Atitis-Snake is the chaplain’s murderer.’

‘Is it
possible
?’

‘Quite possible, sir.’

‘But
how
? The wretched man is locked in the condemned cell. He is guarded night and day. And
why
?’

‘“Why?”’ I repeated the governor’s question because I was not certain that I knew the answer – or all of it. ‘I am not entirely sure why, sir, but I think it could be that Atitis-Snake murdered poor Mr Friend simply to show that he could. He rose to the challenge!’

The major rose onto his toes. ‘The challenge? Whose challenge?’

‘The judge’s challenge,’ I said.

The prison governor sank back onto his heels. ‘No riddles now. A man lies dead in the morgue tonight – a good man. This is not a game we’re playing.’

‘Were you in court, sir, at the recent trial of Sebastian Atitis-Snake?’ I asked.

‘No, but I read the reports, of course.’

‘Then you will recall that in passing sentence Mr Justice Crawford – who had tried Atitis-Snake once before – stated that he saw it as his “responsibility” to ensure that the guilty man would never commit murder again. I understand that Atitis-Snake listened to the judgement and smiled. I imagine that it was at that very moment that the condemned man conceived the notion of proving his lordship wrong . . .’

‘You mean he stood in the dock contemplating another murder?’

‘Exactly. And given the frequency with which Mr Justice Crawford invoked the name of the Almighty as he passed sentence, I reckon that Atitis-Snake decided that the Reverend Friend, God’s man in Reading Gaol, was as apt a victim for a final murder as any.’

‘Extraordinary,’ murmured Major Nelson. He looked at me with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. ‘And how do you happen to know what the judge said in the court?’

‘I read it in the
Daily Chronicle
, sir.’

‘And how did you come to be reading the
Daily Chronicle
, C.3.3.?’

‘I do not recollect, Major Nelson.’

The prison governor chewed on his whiskers. ‘Very well,’ he grumbled. He held his head back and exhaled a slate-coloured cloud of cigar smoke. ‘So . . . Atitis-Snake murders the chaplain to prove to the judge that he
can
.’

‘I think, sir,’ I interrupted, ‘to prove to
himself
that he can.’

‘That’s a nice distinction.’

‘But an important one. These murderers in my experience are all disciples of Narcissus. It is all about how they see themselves . . . It is all about them, never about anyone else.’

‘So Atitis-Snake murders Mr Friend to prove to himself that he can.’

‘Yes.’

‘But
how
?’

‘Very simply. He poisons him.’

The governor laughed. ‘What? He
poisons
him?’

‘This is “Atitis-Snake, the poisoner”. This is his
modus operandi
. This is what he does.’

The governor looked unconvinced. ‘So how does he carry through this poisoning? He slips a few belladonna leaves into the chaplain’s cheese sandwich, does he?’

I smiled. ‘More or less. In fact, I believe it was a powder of cantharides slipped into the chaplain’s communion wine.’

‘A single grain of cantharides can kill a man,’ said the doctor from the shadows.

The governor drew slowly on his cigar and regarded me closely. ‘What precisely do you think happened?’

‘Well, sir . . .’ I began. It was strange for me to find myself speaking at length after so many months of silence. It was testing for me to be speaking at all without a cigarette in hand. ‘According to the prison regulations, any prisoner at any time can ask to see the prison governor or the prison chaplain and cannot be refused.’

‘Correct.’

‘On his return to Reading Gaol, the prisoner Atitis-Snake asked to see the prison chaplain. Mr Friend found the condemned man full of remorse, desirous of absolution, and in need – in urgent need, so the chaplain told me – of the comfort of Holy Communion. The Reverend Friend celebrated mass with Atitis-Snake in the condemned man’s cell. For the purpose, he took with him his portable communion set – a small leather case containing a pyx and paten for the host and a glass cruet and silver chalice for the wine. In the course of the ritual the chaplain served the condemned man the blessed sacraments of bread and wine – in the usual way. But when Atitis-Snake took the wine, he did not drink it. He held the chalice to his mouth, he let the wine touch his lips and as it did so he spewed the powder of cantharides from his mouth, where it was hidden between his lower teeth and his gum, into the wine. The unfortunate priest, having served communion, did as priests are required to do – he consumed the remainder of the consecrated wine himself before cleaning the chalice.’

‘How do you know this?’ asked Major Nelson. ‘This was not reported in the
Daily Chronicle
.’

‘No, but it was as good as told to me by the Reverend Friend. He came to my cell just after quitting Atitis-Snake. He told me how he had given Atitis-Snake communion and even as he told the story – with pride and hope – I could see the first symptoms of the poisoning appearing on his face. Atitis-Snake poisoned the Reverend Friend in the same way that he poisoned Warder Braddle.’

Major Nelson held up a hand, fingers splayed, palm outward, as a road-sweeper might to hold up the traffic. ‘Atitis-Snake threw Braddle over the gantry balustrade. That much we know. Atitis-Snake admitted it in court – boasted of it, in fact, with his tomfool story of Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty struggling to the death at the Reichenbach Falls.’

‘Yes, Atitis-Snake threw Braddle to his death, but first he poisoned him – to weaken him, I suppose. Braddle was a heavy man.’

‘I examined Braddle’s body,’ said the surgeon. ‘I recognised the symptoms – blistered skin, swollen membranes, bulging eyes. Cantharadin is an irritant – it irritates as it takes its hold on a body.’

‘It is a stimulant, too, in its way,’ I added, smiling.

‘How do you know so much about this “cantharides”, C.3.3.?’ enquired the governor.

‘My father was a physician, sir. He prescribed it for certain patients – in moderation. It causes the blood vessels to widen.’

‘It must be used with great care,’ said Dr Maurice. ‘It’s all in the measure of the dose.’

‘My father used it on occasion himself, I believe,’ I continued, amused at the recollection, ‘to enhance his prowess.’

Major Nelson widened his eyes and pursed his lips.

‘To sustain his performance,’ I explained. ‘To give vigour to his member—’

The governor raised his road-sweeper’s hand to silence me. ‘I follow you entirely, C.3.3. I served in the British Army, remember.’

I stood reproached.

‘Where on earth did he get the powder?’ asked the governor.

‘It is not hard to come by,’ answered the doctor.

‘Do you have any?’ demanded Major Nelson, turning abruptly towards the prison surgeon.

‘No, sir,’ said Dr Maurice quickly. He stepped forward into the light. ‘It is a quack remedy in the main, used to stimulate the senses.’ He smiled grimly. ‘And to counter baldness, I believe. I would not touch it.’

‘But others do?’ reflected Major Nelson, sucking on his cigar.

‘Oh, yes. You can get it almost anywhere that’s disreputable. It is frequently used by abortionists, alas – with deadly results.’ The governor raised an eyebrow. ‘It helps propel the foetus from the womb,’ explained the doctor, ‘and all too frequently kills the mother as well as the child.’

Major Nelson tugged solemnly on his moustache.

I filled the silence. ‘A little goes a long way,’ I said. ‘And because it is a powder, it is easily hidden.’

‘And simply administered?’ asked Major Nelson.

‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘I imagine that Atitis-Snake gave it to Warder Braddle in a cup of Braddle’s illicit grog. Braddle was a drinker.’

The governor of Reading Gaol lifted himself onto his toes. ‘That I knew. That much I’d heard. He had his “favourites” and favoured them with nips from his hip flask, I suppose.’

‘Atitis-Snake was one such favourite,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ retorted the governor. ‘So I’ve been told. Atitis-Snake was a “favourite” of Warder Braddle. So why did Atitis-Snake murder Warder Braddle? Why? Was it another whim? Was he rising to another challenge?’

‘He might have been, sir,’ I answered. ‘The narcissist as murderer will often kill simply to feed his own vanity.’

‘Is that so?’ said the governor without conviction.

‘But in this instance,’ I went on, ‘I think we will find a traditional motive for the murder – betrayal. Sebastian Atitis-Snake murdered Warder Braddle because Warder Braddle betrayed him. I believe, sir, that you will find that Warder Braddle is the source of your stench.’

‘I did not know this Warder Braddle,’ said Major Nelson, falling back on his heels and gently rolling the remains of his whisky around in his glass, ‘but I have read his record. It is virtually blemish-free. When I arrived I heard the stories of his drinking and his “favourites”, but they did not seem to add up to much. On paper, at least, it would appear that Warder Braddle served the prison faithfully – and well – for many years.’

‘He was a monster,’ said the surgeon quietly.

‘A monster?’ The governor looked at the doctor with narrowed eyes. The doctor held his gaze, but said nothing further. Major Nelson turned to me. ‘A monster?’ he repeated.

‘He drank,’ I said. ‘On duty. I wondered why. Was it to drown his sorrows – or his shame? He vilified me – more than most and not so casually. There was anger in his spite. He despised me with such zeal that I began to wonder: did he protest too much? Was there something in me that he recognised in himself – something that he feared, something in his own nature that he despised?’

‘You are speaking in riddles,’ said the governor reprovingly.

‘Warder Braddle had a secret,’ I said.

The governor laughed bleakly. ‘That’s clear. What was it?’

‘He was perverse,’ said Dr Maurice. ‘He was an invert.’