Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (22 page)

Oscar was in fine form tonight.

‘Pleasure, gentlemen, is Nature’s test, her sign of approval. When a man is happy he is in harmony with himself and his environment. Let us be happy, my friends. Let us set sail for Utopia. Let us drink the best champagne and agree that no marriage should last more than seven years and no dinner should last less than three hours.’

His putty-like cheeks were flushed; his hooded eyes were rimmed with tears. With a tremulous hand he raised his glass to us: ‘This evening, let us pursue happiness with all the indolence at our command.’

‘We are here to discuss murder, Oscar,’ said Arthur Conan Doyle, sucking on his moustache and tapping his side plate with an impatient forefinger.

‘Don’t be serious, Arthur. Seriousness is the only refuge of the shallow – and you are deep.’

‘And you are drunk, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle, reprovingly.

‘A little intoxicated, perhaps. And tired, certainly. I did not sleep a wink last night. But not “drunk”, Arthur. Never “drunk”. “Drunk” is such an ugly word – and we are called to beauty.’

‘We are called to business, Oscar,’ sighed Doyle, shaking his head wearily. ‘We have a case in hand. Whether you like it or not, there are serious matters to be addressed.’

‘And we shall address them, Arthur, I do assure you.’

‘Good.’

‘–with every other course.’

Oscar sat back and looked around the Palm Court of the Langham Hotel. It was Monday night and the restaurant was not crowded.

‘Man needs variety and contrast in his life – light and shade, prose and poetry, a wife and a mistress … It’s no different with dinner. With each dish we shall have a different wine and a different topic of conversation. Over the soup, Arthur, you will tell us all about your day in Muswell Hill. With the fish, we shall discuss heaven and hell, and the curious fact that nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. When the jugged hare arrives, Robert and I will give you a detailed account of the night we spent with the prince, the priest and the page-boy. You can rest easy, Arthur. Long before the angels on horseback and iced sorbets are set before us, we shall have delved deep into every nook and cranny of this murky affair.’

Oscar sipped at his wine. Conan Doyle seemed somewhat mollified.

‘Perhaps you are not so drunk after all.’

‘I am certainly sober enough to see that you are missing your wife quite desperately today, Arthur. I can tell you, too, that you arrived late for our dinner because you were upstairs in your room engaged in writing – and writing at speed. Probably an account of your adventures in Muswell Hill, followed by two letters – one of them, I imagine, addressed to your darling wife in Southsea, the other to Lord Yarborough.’

Conan Doyle sat open-mouthed in amazement. ‘This is extraordinary, Oscar.’

‘No.’ Oscar grinned. ‘Elementary thus far, my dear Arthur. Let me offer a final thought. This might impress and excite you.’

He ran his finger around the rim of his champagne glass and studied Conan Doyle with a beady eye.

‘I have a feeling, Arthur, that you have recently enjoyed an interesting encounter with Monsieur James Tissot, the artist. I read in the newspaper that he was in London. I imagine that he is staying at this hotel. I have a hunch that you have met him, that he impressed you, and that, as you entered the restaurant tonight and walked towards our table, you were thinking of him. Am I correct?’

‘In every particular,’ answered Conan Doyle. ‘I am utterly flabbergasted. Either you can read a man’s mind, Oscar, or you have been spying on me.’

‘Neither,’ breathed Oscar happily, unfurling his table napkin with a satisfied flourish, ‘but I have been reading the stories of Dr Arthur Conan Doyle and studying the methods of Mr Sherlock Holmes.’

Conan Doyle chuckled. ‘Well then, take me through your reasoning. Where did you start?’

‘With your tie, Arthur. It’s hideous.’

‘It’s a gift from my wife.’

‘Exactly. And you wore it today because you are missing her so dreadfully. Love drove you to wear it. There can be no other explanation. An orange tartan tie worn with a navy-blue business suit is a sartorial abomination, Arthur.’

‘I apologise,’ said Conan Doyle laughing. ‘I should have changed for dinner, but as it’s only Monday night—’

‘You are a gentleman, Arthur. You would have changed for dinner, I know, had you not been so pressed for time. As it is, you arrived in the dining room and sat down at our table, in something of a fluster.’

‘Again, I apologise.’

‘Pray don’t. It was an instructive fluster. As you took your place at table I noticed you hurriedly placing two envelopes in your inside coat pocket. I also observed ink marks on the fingers of your right hand and a red pressure mark on the left side of your right middle finger.’

Conan Doyle held out his right hand and examined it.

‘The ink is still there,’ said Oscar, ‘but the pressure mark has gone. It was the redness of it that made me think you had been writing at length and at speed. I surmised that you would have made notes following your visit to Muswell Hill. You are a man who makes notes, Arthur: yours is a tidy soul – and I could see that you had written two letters because you brought them into the dining room with you.’

Arthur produced the envelopes from his jacket pocket. ‘How did you know to whom they were addressed?’

‘I guessed. You are in love with your wife – you write
to her three times a day. You are a gentleman – you send your thank-you letters promptly.’

Conan Doyle laid the two letters out on the tablecloth before us. They were indeed addressed to Lord Yarborough in Muswell Hill and Mrs Conan Doyle in Southsea.

Oscar turned to me and said, ‘Robert, would you look at these envelopes carefully and tell me what, if anything, strikes you about them.’

I picked up the envelopes and examined them, then looked at Oscar.

‘They appear to be identical – apart from the names and the addresses.’

‘Are they the same weight?’

I took an envelope in each hand. ‘They are.’

‘And are they both stamped?’

I laid the envelopes on the table. ‘They are.’

‘And what do you make of that?’ asked Oscar, with a note of triumph in his voice.

I was bemused. ‘What do I make of it? I make nothing of it, Oscar. What should I make of it? Arthur wrote two letters, sealed them, stamped them and brought them with him into the dining room.’

‘Exactly,’ said Oscar. ‘But
why
?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why did he bring the letters into the dining room – when each already carried a stamp, and to reach the dining room Arthur had to pass through the hotel foyer, directly past the letterbox that stands there at the foot of the main stairs? Arthur had been anxious to send his thanks to Lord Yarborough and his love to Mrs Doyle – he could have posted his letters on the way into dinner,
but he did not do so. Why? I will tell you why … Because Arthur had recently made the acquaintance of Monsieur James Tissot and Monsieur Tissot had told him his story!’

‘I am lost,’ I said.

‘I am dumbfounded, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘I salute your genius. You should have sleepless nights more often.’

‘You will have to explain,’ I said pitifully. ‘I have not the first idea what you are talking about.’

‘It’s very simple,’ said Oscar. ‘Tissot is a fine artist, but limited in his range. He has one style – and one story. The picture he paints is pleasing enough, but it is always the same picture. The story he tells is remarkable – but it is the same story. He is the French equivalent of the club bore. I have met him three times and heard the same story on each occasion.’

‘And what is this story?’ I asked.

‘It is tragic,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘And it concerns two letters,’ explained Oscar.

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘Shall I tell the story, Arthur? Or will you? Or shall we ask the head waiter? He is bound to have heard it if Tissot has stayed here.’

Conan Doyle laughed. ‘Tell the story, Oscar. Our soup is about to be served.’

‘It’s easily told. Once upon a time, Tissot had a mistress. An Irish girl, some years his junior. Kathleen was her name, as I recall. Tissot and the girl were inseparable. She had youth and beauty, energy and high intelligence. Tissot used her as his muse – and as his favourite model. The girl worshipped the ground on which the artist walked and he loved her dearly – for a
time. But nothing lasts, and men are men, and novelty, by definition, has its day. So, as the years passed, and Kathleen’s beauty faded and her health began to fade, Tissot’s love for his mistress waned. What once had charmed him began to irritate. What had once delighted began to pall. And, eventually, the day came when Tissot knew that he must rid himself of this mistress.

‘He wrote to a friend telling him what he planned to do – telling him how he had grown tired of Kathleen, weary of her conversation, bored by her company, depressed by her illness and her fading looks. He admitted to his friend that the woman he had once loved he now despised. On the same evening, at the same table, he wrote a second letter – a kinder, sweeter, softer letter – a letter telling Kathleen he was going to have to go away on business and might be away for some time … And yes, he put each letter into the wrong envelope. He sent the gentle letter intended for Kathleen to his friend – and he sent the letter that told the bitter truth to Kathleen. She read it and she killed herself.’

A waiter stood hovering at Oscar’s side.

‘Ah,’ cried Oscar, ‘the lobster bisque!’

As our soup was served, there was a moment’s silence at the table. To my surprise, I found myself thinking of Constance Wilde. I first met her in Paris, six years ago, on the first day of her honeymoon. She was so happy. She and Oscar were completely in love. Constance loves Oscar still, and with a passion, but his love for her is fading. I see it. She does not. I fear what the future may hold.

Conan Doyle had his glass raised to Oscar. ‘An affecting story beautifully told.’

‘Well,’ said Oscar, waving his soup spoon gaily, ‘I’ve heard it often enough. Tissot is the Ancient Mariner – Kathleen is his albatross. He recounts the story to whoever will listen.’

‘It’s guilt, not grief that engulfs him,’ said Doyle solemnly.

‘And guilt does terrible things to a man. It’s turned Tissot from a painter of charming narratives into an insufferable old bore who paints nothing but scenes from the Bible. When last I saw him he told me that he was depicting the life of Christ in seven hundred canvases! You might think that Our Lord had suffered enough.’

We all laughed and, following Oscar’s injunction, Arthur opened the envelope addressed to Mrs Conan Doyle. It contained the letter intended for her.

‘All’s well,’ he muttered, tugging at his moustache a touch shamefacedly.

‘And all will be well,’ said Oscar, looking at Conan Doyle benevolently. ‘We’ll get you back to Southsea, Arthur, and we’ll solve this case into the bargain. Now, tell us, how was Lord Yarborough?’

As we finished our lobster bisque and embarked on our baked Dover sole, Conan Doyle gave us a full account of his day at Muswell Manor. While the fish was being served, Oscar laid his hand on Arthur’s arm reassuringly.

‘I am postponing our debate on heaven and hell and the significance of sin until we reach the savoury. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. Take all the time you need.’

It took until the arrival of the jugged hare for Dr
Doyle to complete his story. When he had done so, he sat back and looked at each of us in turn, his eyebrows raised as if inviting a verdict.

Oscar prodded his food with his fork. ‘So you now consider Lord Yarborough as suspect as this out-of-season hare, do you, Arthur?’

Conan Doyle said nothing.

‘It doesn’t look good for Yarborough, does it?’ I volunteered.

‘Why do you say that, Robert?’ Oscar responded sharply. ‘Lord Yarborough is a peer of the realm and a Fellow of the Royal Society. He is a model of respectability, a physician of distinction who is devoting himself, and his considerable means, to the alleviation of suffering – and doing so alongside the great Professor Charcot, one of the most regarded scientific figures of our time.’

‘Two of Yarborough’s patients turn out to be sisters,’ I countered, ‘one of whom is found murdered in a darkened room off a hallway in Grosvenor Square, while the other is discovered, naked, hypnotised and as good as imprisoned, in a darkened room in Muswell Hill.’

‘I agree,’ said Oscar, ‘the address of the Charcot Clinic does not inspire confidence, but beyond that I don’t quite see what Lord Yarborough has done to arouse your suspicion, Robert. He is a specialist in hysteria so one would expect his patients to include vulnerable young women of an hysterical disposition.’

‘They were sisters.’

‘What of that? These things run in families – and Lord Yarborough is a family doctor. Just as Arthur is.’

Oscar turned to gaze on Conan Doyle.

‘Arthur has his practice in Southsea. Lord Yarborough
has his in Harley Street. Arthur looks after families fortunate enough to live in the purlieus of Portsmouth, while Lord Yarborough’s patients are cursed with mansions in Mayfair. But both men have patients who may be sisters; both have patients who may be prone to hysteria; both have patients who will occasionally die in unfortunate circumstances. Why should one of these doctors be considered a more suspect character than the other? Aren’t they both simply honest medical men, doing their best for the frail and ailing who pass their way?’

Conan Doyle leant forward and said quietly: ‘There is a difference between us.’

‘Is there?’ asked Oscar, laying down his fork and reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case.

‘There is,’ continued Conan Doyle earnestly. ‘Lord Yarborough is engaged in research and, by his own admission, for that research he needs access to the cadavers of former patients. This morning, when he told me that one of his patients had taken her own life, he said that he was grateful to her for her suicide.’

‘Are you suggesting that he helped her to it?’ asked Oscar, lighting a cigarette.