Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery (4 page)

‘I have been here in Dieppe since the beginning of the week. I arrived on the day of your children’s party.’

‘My little
fête
in honour of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee? Fifteen children came, you know. I had only invited twelve – the garden at my lodgings is so small. And I hate crowds.’

‘It seemed a very jolly party.’

‘It was the happiest party of my life. We had strawberries and cream, apricots, chocolates, cakes and
sirop de grenadine
. I promised every child a present and they all wanted musical instruments – tin trumpets and accordions. We sang songs and played games – and they danced for me.’

‘I know. I was watching from the roadway.’

‘It was you, was it?’ said the large man, emptying his glass. ‘I saw you. I thought it was a policeman in plain clothes. I am glad it was only you.’

‘It was a happy gathering.’

‘It was perfect. At seven o’clock, as the children departed, I gave each one a little basket with
bonbons
in it and a little cake, frosted pink and specially inscribed: “
Jubilé de la Reine Victoria
”. As they went on their way, they all cried out: “
Vive la Reine d’Angleterre! Vive Monsieur Melmoth
!”’

‘I know,’ said Dr Quilp. ‘That’s how I learnt your new name.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said the large man, ‘my name.’ He sat forward and felt in his coat pocket. ‘I have a card also. It is very like yours. Almost identical, in fact.’ After a moment’s rummaging, he produced his calling card and handed it across the table. He inclined his head. ‘Sebastian Melmoth, at your service.’

Dr Quilp smiled. ‘It is a fine name.’

‘Inspired by a fine novel –
Melmoth the Wanderer.
The novel was written by my great-uncle by marriage on my mother’s side, so it’s a family name in a way. I know Melmoth’s a mouthful, but it feels appropriate – don’t you agree?’

‘I meant that Sebastian is a fine name.’

‘Sebastian is a
beautiful
name. It is my favourite Christian name – for saints and sinners.’

The boy from the café had arrived at the table bearing an ice-bucket and a fresh bottle of champagne. Dr Quilp refilled their glasses. ‘I collect Sebastians,’ continued Monsieur Melmoth, ‘– of all kinds. I knew a murderer called Sebastian once.’

‘Tell me about him,’ said Dr Quilp, raising his glass to his companion. ‘I love tales of murder.’

‘Don’t we all?’ replied Melmoth, raising his glass also. ‘There’s the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it . . . according to my friend, Conan Doyle.’

‘Tell me about this murderer named Sebastian,’ insisted Dr Quilp.

‘He was but one of the murderers I’ve known. I have been in prison for the past two years. I take it that you knew that, Dr Quilp?’

‘Yes,’ replied Quilp, lowering his eyes. ‘I did know that.’

‘In politics one meets charlatans. In prison one meets murderers. I met several. Sebastian Atitis-Snake was one. I liked his name – every element of it. Charles Wooldridge was another. I am writing a poem about Wooldridge.’

‘About the murder he committed?’

‘About the day he died. He was hanged in Reading Gaol – a year ago, when I was there.’

‘Tell me your story, Mr Melmoth.’

‘You appear to know my story, Dr Quilp.’

‘I know what I have read.’

‘And what you have researched? I sense you have been assiduous in your researches.’

‘I want to know about your time in prison. The
world
wants to know about your time in prison.’

‘The world’s a huge thing.’

‘Yes, and would pay handsomely to read your story, Mr Melmoth.’

‘The world can read my poem.’

‘I think you’ll find that prose is better paid.’

‘Ah, so it’s about money?’ The large man sat back and laughed. He lit a cigarette and gestured with it towards the champagne bottles. ‘This is all about money. Finding me, tracking me down, plying me with Perrier-Jouët . . .’

‘It’s about telling your story, Mr Melmoth – in your own words, in your own way.’

‘And sharing the proceeds with you, Dr Quilp?’

‘I’ll be your scribe, if you’ll allow me.’

‘I can put pen to paper myself, you know.’

‘But will you?’

Melmoth drew slowly on his cigarette and smiled. ‘You are right, Dr Quilp. Left to my own devices, I might not. I never put off until tomorrow what I can put off until the day after.’

‘And if you do, you’ll do it in the form of a “prose poem” or a verse drama or—’

‘Some such overwritten nonsense.’ Melmoth completed Quilp’s sentence, laughing. ‘You appear familiar with my work, dear Doctor. Did you not enjoy
The Duchess of Padua
?’

‘If we’re to reach the widest audience, Mr Melmoth, we need something that the widest audience can readily comprehend. We need a human story simply told. That is where I hope to be able to assist you.’

‘A human story!’ The large man quivered with amusement. He reached for the second bottle of champagne and replenished his glass. ‘So, Dr Quilp, it turns out that you are not so much an apothecary as a journalist.’

‘I am a writer, Mr Melmoth. If you will tell it to me, I will record your story in plain English – that is all.’

‘I am an artist, Dr Quilp. Art should always remain mysterious. Artists, like gods, must never leave their pedestals.’

‘Two years ago, Mr Melmoth, you fell from yours.’

A lone seagull screeched in the sky. Melmoth, smiling, contemplated his glass and, suddenly, his eyes were filled with tears. ‘Yes, passing strange, was it not? How did I let that happen?’ He turned away from the table and looked towards the archway where the mongrel was still playing among the old newspapers and cabbage leaves. ‘The gods had given me almost everything, Dr Quilp – as I think you know. I had genius, a distinguished name, high social position, brilliancy, intellectual daring. I made art a philosophy, and philosophy an art. I altered the minds of men and the colour of things. There was nothing I said or did that did not make people wonder. I awoke the imagination of my country so that it created myth and legend around me. I summed up all systems in a phrase and all existence in an epigram.’

‘And then you were brought to the Old Bailey,’ replied Quilp. ‘And put on trial. And found guilty of gross indecency. And imprisoned. We don’t need high-flown phrases for any of that, Mr Melmoth.’

‘Is that what you are after?’ asked Melmoth, turning back sharply. ‘The story of my foul crimes and misdemeanours – the lurid details of my lewd offences recounted in language that’s anything but high-flown?’

Quilp laughed awkwardly. ‘No. The details of your offences would be far too scandalous. No publisher – beyond the backstreets of Paris – would be able to print any of that.’

‘But you want the story of my downfall, don’t you? The story of the downfall of Oscar Wilde. You must have Oscar Wilde in the title!’

Dr Quilp widened his eyes, but said nothing.

‘There,’ continued the large man, drawing slowly on his cigarette, ‘I have dared to speak the name . . . I am allowed to do so. It was once mine. No longer. I am Sebastian Melmoth now.’

Quilp felt inside his jacket pocket. He produced a pen and a chequebook. Carefully, he laid them on the table, one upon the other. ‘Mr Melmoth, I want the story of your time in prison – nothing more and nothing less. I want the story of what it was like, of those you met there. I want it told chronologically, simply, unadorned.’

Melmoth gazed upon the pen and chequebook and smiled. ‘An unvarnished tale – in the tradition of Bunyan and Defoe?’

‘If we’re to make a proper fortune from it,’ said Dr Quilp, ‘more in the tradition of Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Allan Poe. Readers look for a touch of murder nowadays.’

Melmoth extinguished his cigarette. ‘I’m no murderer, Dr Quilp.’ He looked carefully at his interlocutor. ‘At least, not yet.’

‘But you’ve considered murder, I imagine?’

‘Who has not?’

‘And you have known murderers – men like Sebastian Atitis-Snake. Men who have killed – and hanged for it. Atitis-Snake was found guilty on the same day that you were, I believe.’

‘So he told me.’

‘He was the man who claimed to be the Emperor Napoleon?’

‘He was.’

‘Tell us his story, as well as your own.’ Quilp poured out more wine. ‘
Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol –
by Sebastian Melmoth. There’s a book we can sell around the world. Readers want murder.’

Melmoth put out his hand and with his forefinger lightly touched Quilp’s pen. ‘And I want money. I admit it. I
need
money. I have none of my own – none at all. I am dependent on the generosity of friends – and the kindness of strangers. And on a small allowance from my dear wife – which she threatens to withdraw if she does not approve of the company I keep. I am in urgent need of funds. And I take it, Dr Quilp, that you are, too. The suit that you are wearing is new, I notice – and from an excellent tailor. The fragrance that you are wearing is a particular favourite of mine – and costly.’

‘Tell me your story – tell me of the murderers you have known – and we shall be as rich as Croesus.’

‘I only wish to be as rich as Conan Doyle.’

‘He is paid a pound a word – and his murderers are creatures of fancy. Yours are real. Tell me your story, Mr Melmoth. Begin at the beginning. Tell it all – spare me no detail – and we shall have Perrier-Jouët night after night.’

What follows is the story that he told.

1
25–7 May 1895
Newgate

E
verything about my tragedy has been hideous, mean, repellent, lacking in style.

If I begin at the beginning, the very moment that I stepped from the dock at the Old Bailey was both grotesque and absurd. As I was jostled down the stairwell from the vast and echoing courtroom to the warren of half-lit corridors and soulless cells that lies beneath, I stumbled on the worn stone steps and lost my footing. I lurched forward and reached out to catch hold of the warder who led the way. But my grasp failed me. Arms flailing, knees buckling, like a marionette whose strings have suddenly been cut, I tumbled downwards to land in a crumpled and humiliated heap at the stairs’ foot.