Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (16 page)

‘Whom was she with on the night she died? Do you know?’

‘I do not. I neither know nor care. It does not matter. Whoever he was, he was not responsible for her death.’

‘But he was responsible for the wounds about her person.’

‘She would have welcomed those,’ said the duke. ‘It was the wounds she craved.’

The clock upon the mantelpiece struck one. The duke took a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and inspected it. Oscar rose to his feet.

‘How much of this does the Prince of Wales know?’ he asked.

‘All of it. I called upon His Highness last evening and told him everything.’

‘Did you tell the prince who you thought the man might be?’

‘It might be any man, Mr Wilde – any man at all. At least, any man who was in this house at about half past eleven last Thursday night.’

‘Half past eleven?’ repeated Oscar. ‘But the duchess died just before midnight, did she not?’

‘Helen was seen on her way to the telephone room at half past eleven. She went to receive a call. She passed Parker on the landing. She told him that she had been called to the telephone as a matter of urgency.’

‘By whom?’

‘She did not say.’

‘At half past eleven?’

‘At half past eleven. Parker is sure of that.’

‘Yet she was seen in the drawing room after that,’ said Oscar.

‘I did not know that,’ said the duke.

‘And when did you discover her body, Your Grace? It was not on Friday morning, was it?’

‘No. It was at midnight – just a moment before the prince departed. I expected Helen to join me in the hallway to bid farewell to the royal party, but she was
nowhere to be found. When I asked Parker to search for her, he told me about the telephone call. I looked into the telephone room and there she was – half naked, bloodied, lifeless.’

‘Why did you not raise the alarm at once?’

‘And cause a scandal? I saw at once that she was dead. I knew at once what must have happened. Lord Yarborough had warned me of the possibility.’

‘You should perhaps have called the police,’ I suggested, getting up from the divan and standing alongside Oscar.

The duke looked at me directly. ‘This is not a matter for the police,’ he said. ‘Or the press. This is a private matter.’ He turned to look at Oscar. ‘Make the private public and who knows what the consequences may be.’

‘We will persist with our enquiries,’ said Oscar carefully, ‘unless His Royal Highness requires us to desist.’

‘Nothing will be gained by knowing more, Mr Wilde. Persist if you must. I cannot stop you. Talk to whom you will. I will not stand in your way. But ponder as you persist: what is to be gained by what you are doing? My wife is dead. Her life cannot be recovered. Let her rest in peace.’

The door to the morning room opened. Parker, the butler, stood waiting to escort us from the ducal presence. We shook hands with His Grace, thanked him for his time and courtesy, and made our retreat.

As we returned across the hallway towards the front door, the servant looked up at Oscar enquiringly. ‘And do you wish to speak to me now, sir?’

‘No, thank you, Parker, your master has spoken for you. There will be no need.’

‘I’m glad of that, sir,’ said the butler.

‘But the duchess’s maid,’ said Oscar, gently staying the butler’s hand as it reached for the front door. ‘Might we speak with her?’

‘That won’t be possible, I am afraid.’

‘Why not? Is she gone away?’

‘Oh no, Nellie’s here, sir, but you can’t speak with her.’

‘Why not?’ Oscar persisted.

‘Because she’s deaf and dumb, sir. Has been from a child.’

‘But I saw her quoted in the newspaper, Mr Parker – at length.’

‘So you did, sir. His Grace thought it expedient at the time. Nellie knew nothing of it. She’s deaf and dumb. And she neither reads nor writes. She was one of the laundry maids until not long ago. Her Grace took pity on her and elevated her above her station. Her Grace was very fond of her.’

‘Might we at least
see
her?’ asked Oscar.

‘Not today, sir,’ said the butler, pulling open the front door and stepping aside to allow us to pass. ‘She is in bed. She’s in a bad way. She fell down the stairs.’

Mortlake

36
From the diary of Rex LaSalle

Last night, as we drove west out of London towards the churchyard at Mortlake, Oscar rested his hand on my arm and said, ‘I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices.’ He pulled down the black blinds on the windows of our carriage. ‘I never take any notice of what common people say,’ he continued, ‘and I never interfere with what charming people do.’ He moved closer to me in the darkness. ‘I have a feeling that Bram’s vampires will prove to be charming people and that we will like them very much.’

‘Do you think it’s possible that the Duchess of Albemarle was attacked by a vampire?’ I asked.

‘Jules Verne tells us that one day soon men will fly to the moon. Mrs Langtry is to essay the role of Cleopatra. I shall have lost a stone in weight by Christmas. In this world, Rex, all manner of marvels are possible. The duchess may indeed have been attacked by a vampire – or by a man who
believed
he was a vampire – or by a man
pretending
to be a vampire. Or the wounds in her neck could have been self-inflicted to give the
impression
of a vampiric attack – or they may have nothing to do with vampires at all … Who knows?’

I turned my head towards him. In the darkness I could barely discern his profile, but I felt the warmth of his breath, his face was so close to mine.

‘Oscar,’ I said, ‘do you recall that on the night of the duchess’s death, I asked you whether you had ever tasted blood, fresh blood, human blood, and you said that you had not?’

‘I do recall it, Rex,’ he answered, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘It is not a conversation one is likely to forget.’

‘When I told you that I had tasted blood, and would taste blood again that very night, you asked me whose blood it was that I would taste.’

‘I did. I remember it well.’

‘And, pointing towards our hostess, across the crowded room, I told you that it would be hers.’

‘I have not forgotten.’ I sensed that his face was turned towards mine, but I could not see it in the gloom.

‘May I ask you something, Oscar?’

‘Anything.’

‘Since that night, since the duchess’s death, why have you not questioned me about any of this? You have told me about the enquiries you are making, about your interviews with the Prince of Wales and Lord Yarborough and the duke, but you have not cross-examined me. Why not?’

‘There is no need. You did not taste the duchess’s blood that night.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because, from the moment you spoke of doing so until the moment my friend Sherard caught sight of the duchess’s dead body within the telephone room, you did not leave my side.’

‘That is so.’

‘Besides, as I told you last night, whatever you are, you are not a vampire.’

‘And how can you be so certain of that?’

‘Because a true vampire, as every folklorist knows, has an aversion to roses – and you, my dear Rex, do not.’

I felt his hand reach for my coat and lightly touch the buttonhole he had given me. I felt his mouth as it placed a gentle kiss upon my cheek.

I have him in my grasp.

37
Letter from Bram Stoker to his wife, Florence, delivered by messenger at 9 a.m. on Monday, 17 March 1890

Lyceum Theatre,

Strand,

London

3 a.m.

Florrie –

I am just in from the expedition to Mortlake. I am log-tired, but wide awake! We have rehearsals starting at ten in the morning (sharp – you know what the old man’s like), so I shall kip down here and get what sleep I can.

I will give you a full account of our moonlit picnic among the gravestones when I see you. Suffice to say, Oscar and his young ‘vampire’ friend – a pale-faced Adonis by the name of Rex LaSalle – were in their element, and entered wholeheartedly into the spirit of the occasion, while the other two – Robert Sherard and Arthur Conan Doyle (good man) – were more circumspect.

At the finish, Doyle, I think, was frankly shocked. I had my reservations too. As you know, I go because the notion of the ‘Vampire Club’ amuses me and because there are true scholars there as well as rogues and vagabonds. (And royalty. Our patron was in attendance tonight – memorably so.) I believe that I learn something every time that I attend, but perhaps now I have enough research – the time has come to write the wretched book!

I will send this note to you by messenger at daybreak. The clock on St Clement Danes has just struck three. I trust you are sleeping sweetly, beloved one. May the blessed St Patrick watch over us both.

Bram