Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (42 page)

‘Not so, Mr Wilde. Her weak heart is responsible for that.’

The storm-cloud had burst. The tension of a moment earlier was gone. Lord Yarborough and Conan Doyle no longer confronted one another as raging bull and defiant matador.

Oscar glanced over his shoulder to the four-wheeler that stood waiting for us at the far side of the courtyard and checked his watch. I checked mine. It was coming towards eleven o’clock.

Oscar turned back to Lord Yarborough. ‘The duchess’s heart gave way, but her throat was also cut. How can you be so certain that her heart gave way
before
her throat was cut?’

‘Quite easily: because of the limited quantity of blood on her body and in the telephone room. There was much less than you would have expected to find, say, at the scene of a violent knife attack. If the jugular vein is cut during
exertion,
when the veins are engorged and blood is racing through the body, pumping wildly, then blood spurts and gushes everywhere. That was not the case in the telephone room at Grosvenor Square. It was the contained amount of blood there that led me to believe that the duchess had died at the outset of her sybaritic tryst, at the start, before the frenzy, before her blood
pressure was raised. The heart attack killed her almost as she met her lover. She died in his arms, but at first he did not know it. In the darkness, and in his excitement, he was unaware of what had occurred. Merely sensing that he was not getting the response from his
inamorata
that he might have expected, he sought to intensify the pleasure by intensifying the pain. He cut into her more deeply. He slashed her breasts and he cut her throat until he reached her jugular vein – and only then, as the blood poured out of her, did he realise what he had done.’

‘And he fled the scene,’ said Oscar, with a heavy sigh.

‘We can take him for a coward,’ said Lord Yarborough, ‘but not a murderer.’

‘Why do you not wish to know who he is?’ I asked. ‘Are you not curious?’

‘I am curious, of course,’ he answered easily. ‘But I have thought the matter through and come to the conclusion that no useful purpose would be served by unmasking the man in question. Quite the reverse, in fact. If his secret is discovered, so is hers. How would that help the common good? If the truth were known about the private life of the Duchess of Albemarle, her reputation would be ruined. The duke would be humiliated. And the Prince of Wales would have been associated with yet another unsavoury affair.’

‘But the man may do it all again, may he not?’

‘Only if he encounters another woman anxious to play so dangerous a game with him – and I think that unlikely, don’t you? Whoever he is, he is not a threat to the public at large.’

‘But he killed again last Tuesday,’ said Oscar.

‘Did he, Mr Wilde?’

‘He did – at the Empire Theatre of Varieties in Leicester Square. You were there.’

‘I was there and I saw the body of the poor dead girl.’ Lord Yarborough looked around the group. ‘We all did.’

‘And her wounds were the same wounds as those inflicted on Helen Albemarle,’ said Oscar.

‘They were similar.’

‘They were the same,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘That does not mean that they were perpetrated by the same person. The second death could have been caused by someone who wanted it to appear exactly like the first.’

‘But only four people saw the duchess’s body after her death: you and I, Lord Yarborough, the Duke of Albemarle and, possibly, his butler. One of us is not the girl’s murderer, surely?’

Lord Yarborough looked at Conan Doyle with gimlet eyes. ‘A point well made, Doctor. But it could still be mere coincidence. The two women had little in common, after all.’

‘They had an association with the Prince of Wales in common,’ said Oscar casually, checking his timepiece once more.

‘And a history of hysteria,’ added Conan Doyle. ‘One was your patient, Lord Yarborough. The other might have been.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you know Louisa Lavallois?’ asked Oscar. ‘Or “Lulu”, as the prince called her?’

‘No. I had neither seen nor heard of the young lady before Tuesday night.’

‘Did you know that she had been a patient at the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital in Paris – a “psychiatric” patient?’

‘No.’

‘Louisa Lavallois had been a patient of the great Professor Charcot – one of his favourites, in fact – one of those poor mad girls who was a star attraction at
les leçons du mardi,
exhibiting her hysteria under hypnosis for the edification and entertainment of all who cared to come and watch. Except she wasn’t under hypnosis, of course. She was one of those who connived with the professor, who played the game, who acted her part and received her reward – until she rebelled and fell from favour and was thrown out.’

‘I know nothing of this woman – and nothing of this story.’

Lord Yarborough tapped the edge of the white envelope he was holding against his chin and gazed steadily at Conan Doyle.

‘Be careful what you say, Dr Doyle. Your excess of zeal could be the ruin of you. Remember the laws of slander. Jean-Martin Charcot is one of the great men of European medicine. His name will be remembered long after yours has been forgotten. He has his faults, I am sure, but he has one exceptional quality – genius. He is a giant. He is not a charlatan.’

‘Is he a murderer?’ asked Oscar, lightly.

Lord Yarborough’s small frame rocked with self-conscious merriment. ‘Very droll, Mr Wilde. Have you taken leave of your senses? Are you suggesting Jean-Martin Charcot murdered this girl to silence her?’

‘To safeguard his reputation, perhaps,’ said Oscar, smiling, his head tilted to one side.

‘You
have
taken leave of your senses,’ exclaimed Lord Yarborough. ‘Professor Charcot was not at the Empire Theatre on Tuesday night.’

‘No, Lord Yarborough, but you were. And Professor Charcot was at Grosvenor Square on the night that the Duchess of Albemarle died.’

‘Good God, man, are you quite mad? Why should Charcot murder Helen Albemarle?’

‘He doesn’t murder her. He makes love to her – and in so doing provokes the heart attack that kills her. You have told him of her emotional frailty – of her “nym-pholepsis”, is that the word? – and of her vulnerability to cardiac arrest. He takes advantage of both – to your advantage. Charcot triggers the death of the Duchess of Albemarle and, in doing so, Lord Yarborough, helps furnish you with the cadaver of a known hysteric – one of your own patients; a cadaver you need – to dissect, to study, to assist you in your all-important clinical researches. Charcot helps kill the duchess for your benefit and you repay the favour by killing the Lavallois girl for his.’

Lord Yarborough threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘The notion is risible, Mr Wilde.’

Oscar grinned. ‘Far-fetched, I grant you – not risible.’

‘Risible,’ repeated Lord Yarborough. ‘It’s the stuff of one of Dr Doyle’s detective stories.’

‘Now who’s talking slander?’ asked Oscar, chuckling. ‘I believe Dr Doyle doesn’t find the notion even far-fetched. I believe he thinks it’s what may have happened.’

Conan Doyle said nothing.

‘I am of a different opinion – for what it’s worth. I do
not believe that Professor Charcot is implicated in the death of the Duchess of Albemarle in any way whatsoever. Why should he be? He was in her house on the night she died, but so were a hundred others. So were you, Lord Yarborough. Could you have murdered her? In your research work, you cut up cadavers. You have a surgeon’s knife, I presume. You know how to use it, I am sure.’

Oscar folded his arms across his chest as he contemplated Lord Yarborough.

Lord Yarborough looked steadily at Oscar and appeared amused. ‘Do I look like a man with a capacity for murder?’ he asked.

‘In your head, yes,’ said Oscar. ‘In your heart, also.’

‘You flatter me.’

‘I intend to. Ruthlessness is essential in a man who seeks high achievement. You have the capacity for murder, my lord, but – forgive me – do you have the physique?’

Lord Yarborough bridled slightly, but said nothing.

‘Helen Albemarle, despite the weakness of her heart, was a tall woman – and she was young. You have neither stature nor bulk nor youth at your command. If you had attacked her, she could have resisted you. Would you have been able to drag her into the telephone room at Grosvenor Square against her will? I doubt it. And would she have gone with you voluntarily in anticipation of a romantic encounter? I doubt that, also. You have confessed to us that you are not a ladies’ man. Helen Albemarle would have known that without you needing to tell her. Women have an instinct about these things.’

Oscar unfolded his arms and smiled.

‘No,
pace
Dr Doyle, I do not think that you murdered the Duchess of Albemarle, Lord Yarborough.’

‘I am relieved to hear it, Mr Wilde,’ said Lord Yarborough, bowing his head towards Oscar.

Turning to the pony-trap, he opened the door to a container beneath the box seat, placed the white envelope inside the container and removed a pair of black driving gloves, which he began to pull on.

‘But you might have murdered Lulu Lavallois,’ said Oscar, still smiling. ‘She was quite
petite
and you had the means and the opportunity …’

‘But did I have the motive?’ asked Lord Yarborough, examining his gloved hands with apparent satisfaction.

‘I don’t think you did,’ said Oscar. ‘I don’t believe Mademoiselle Lavallois represented a threat to Professor Charcot. He is the Napoleon of neuroses after all, and she was nobody – an itinerant dancer, with a history of mental instability.’

‘But “charming titties”,’ added Lord Yarborough, reaching into the trap to retrieve the horsewhip.

‘There are worse epitaphs,’ said Oscar.

‘Personally,’ said Lord Yarborough, climbing up on to the box seat, ‘I think Dvorak did it. I was standing next to him in the circle. The man was sweating like a pig. His hands were trembling. His whole demeanour exuded guilt.’

‘You think he murdered the girl to create a diversion? To prevent Professor Onofroff from reading his mind and revealing his dark secret?’

‘Well, it’s a possibility, you must admit.’ Lord Yarborough looked down from the trap at Conan
Doyle. ‘You are the writer of detective fiction, Dr Doyle. What do you think?’

‘I shall keep my thoughts to myself for the moment,’ replied Conan Doyle stiffly. ‘I believe I have displayed enough “excess of zeal” for one morning.’

‘That’s all one now,’ said Lord Yarborough pleasantly. Tugging at the pony’s reins, he released the brake on the trap. ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I must be about my business – if that is all?’

‘One last thing,’ said Oscar, looking back at the house, as in the distance the clock of St James’s, Muswell Hill, began to strike the hour. ‘I noticed that the letter that the lady pressed upon you just now is addressed to the Prince of Wales.’

Lord Yarborough laughed.

‘You are very observant, Mr Wilde. Yes, it is a petition to the Prince of Wales. The lady knew him once. Harriet Mordaunt is her name. It’s a sad story. Her husband wanted to divorce her on the grounds of her adultery. He tried to implicate the Prince of Wales.’

‘I recall the story,’ said Oscar. ‘And the scandal. Why is Lady Mordaunt here?’

‘To avoid the case coming to court – and to spare the Prince of Wales – Harriet’s father declared his daughter mad. He had her put away – incarcerated. He had several other daughters. He needed to find them husbands. He felt he had no choice.’

‘Is she mad?’ asked Conan Doyle.

‘She wasn’t when she first came to the asylum. She feigned her madness then – to prove to the court officers that she was not fit to stand trial. She played the lunatic – throwing tantrums, breaking crockery, eating coal,
crawling about on all fours, howling like a werewolf. It was pitiful to see her. But she was not mad then. That was twenty years ago. She is mad now, I fear. She has been locked away so long.’

‘And she petitions the Prince of Wales to intercede on her behalf? To secure her release?’

‘She believes the prince loves her still. She hopes that he will welcome her to Marlborough House and make an honest woman of her at last. It cannot be, of course. This is where she lives now. And this is where she will die.’

‘We are on our way to see His Royal Highness,’ said Oscar. ‘We have an appointment at noon. Shall we deliver the poor woman’s petition for you?’

‘There’s no need for that,’ said Lord Yarborough. ‘I’ll destroy it later – as I have destroyed the others. The Prince of Wales has enough to worry him. I don’t think we need trouble him with this.’

A Nest of Vipers