Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (46 page)

‘She was guilty of the sins of the flesh. Do they matter?’ he asked, moving his hand, his fingers at her right temple. ‘She was mad with desire. Is that a sickness? She was mad for love. Is that a crime?’

As he spoke, Oscar leant farther over the coffin. For one disconcerting moment, I thought that he was about to lower his head to kiss the dead woman on the lips. Instead, he placed his other hand against her left temple and held it there.

‘Take care,’ I whispered. ‘Your hands will leave a mark upon her flesh.’

‘It matters not a jot,’ he said, tightening his grip on the dead woman’s hair. ‘She’s dead. She feels nothing.’

He glanced towards the doorway to the drawing room, then turned his gaze back to the coffin.

‘And that is perhaps fortunate,’ he murmured, his voice suddenly choking. ‘For look – she has been beheaded.’

With both hands, Oscar lifted the duchess’s head clean out of the coffin.

‘My God,’ I gasped.

‘This is monstrous,’ hissed Sherard.

Oscar, with his eyes tightly shut, held out the head towards me. ‘What is the meaning of this, Arthur?’

‘I do not know,’ I said.

I looked down at the serene face of the dead woman and below it at her slender neck. It was
entirely blemish-free. The head and neck had been severed with skill and precision just above the clavicle. The cut was quite clean: the work of a fine butcher’s knife or a surgeon’s saw.

Oscar stood, frozen and blind, gripping the severed head between his hands.

‘Put it back,’ I hissed.

He did not move. Suddenly I sensed a quietening of the hubbub in the room beyond. I had no choice: with both hands I wrested the head from Oscar’s grasp, holding it by the jaw. It was so heavy that I almost let it fall on to the floor.

‘In God’s name—’ cried Sherard as Oscar staggered backwards and I heaved the head back into the coffin.

I placed it accurately, in one fell move – much as, when I was a boy, I would score a try on the rugby field at Stonyhurst.

‘Say nothing yet,’ stammered Oscar, opening his eyes and steadying himself by taking hold of one of the coffin’s brass handles.

Before I could protest, a voice called out from the doorway to the drawing room.

‘Gentlemen, come through.’

It was the Duke of Albemarle. He did not venture into the darkened room, but beckoned us towards the light.

‘We are about to raise our glasses to Helen’s memory. You must join us.’

Oscar, recovering his composure instantly (there is much of the actor about him), led us from the duchess’s coffin towards the duke.

‘We were saying our farewells, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘We are privileged to be here.’

The duke shook Oscar by the hand and ushered him into the drawing room. He nodded to Sherard and to me.

‘I am glad that you were able to come,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Your friend LaSalle is here also. I had not realised that he and Helen were acquainted.’

‘Nor I,’ said Oscar.

We looked around the brightly lit drawing room: the gas lamps were turned high, the candelabra filled with flickering candles. Apart from the butler serving wine, the servants had now all gone.

‘I feel we are intruders,’ said Oscar. ‘I had assumed a larger party.’

‘No,’ said the duke, stopping his butler and assisting Oscar, Sherard and me each to a glass of pale-green wine. ‘This evening is for His Highness’s benefit. Royal protocol dictates that he cannot attend the funeral, but he wished to pay Helen his last respects. He honours her memory. We are honoured by his presence. I am honoured by his friendship.’

‘We are privileged to be here,’ Oscar repeated.

‘I understand your interest in the tragedy,’ said the duke. ‘I appreciate your concern. That is why I invited you.’

He smiled and raised his glass to us.

‘I was also anxious that you should finally see that there is no sinister mystery here. There was sickness – and there is sadness. That is all.’

‘And secrets?’ asked Oscar.

‘Certainly,’ said the duke. ‘And secrets, too, but only matrimonial secrets.’ He rested his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. ‘We all have those, I fear. None of us lives beneath an ever-cloudless sky.’

He turned towards the rest of the room.

‘Charge your glasses, gentlemen. Parker, make sure everyone is well supplied.’ He smiled at Oscar once more. ‘We are drinking German wine, Mr Wilde. It seems more fitting than French somehow.’

Oscar smiled and inclined his head towards the duke, but said nothing.

‘I am going to propose a toast,’ said the duke.

He looked directly at the Prince of Wales and then at Prince Albert Victor, standing with Lord Yarborough at his father’s side.

‘With Your Highness’s permission?’

The Prince of Wales nodded and removed his cigar from his mouth.

The duke raised his glass and said simply and clearly: ‘Let us drink to the memory of Helen, Duchess of Albemarle. May she rest in peace.’

‘May she rest in peace,’ said the Prince of Wales.

We all raised our glasses and echoed the sentiment.

The duke turned towards our group once more and said, a little distractedly, ‘It’s a fine wine, is it not? Helen was partial to a good Gewürztraminer. Parker will bring us further refreshments in a moment. I understand from Yarborough that you gentlemen have a penchant for cheese straws.’

As we laughed, Oscar looked at the duke and enquired earnestly: ‘In the event of a fire, Your Grace, how would one best escape from the house?’

The duke looked quite bewildered. ‘What an extraordinary question, Mr Wilde.’

‘Besides the front door, of course,’ continued Oscar. ‘What are the other means of escape?’

‘None,’ said the duke, bemused, ‘beyond the garden door at the back and the area door from the kitchen. One might be able to escape through the attic to the roof. I don’t know. I have no idea. Why on earth do you ask?’ He laughed. ‘Are you expecting a fire?’

‘No,’ stammered Oscar. ‘No.’ He joined in the laughter. ‘I’m not sure why I asked.’ He looked about him. ‘Perhaps it is all these candles. Forgive me.’

‘And please excuse me, gentlemen,’ said the duke, now looking at Oscar somewhat askance. ‘I must attend upon the princes. They will be leaving shortly.’

As the Duke of Albemarle left us, the main door of the drawing room opened and Rex LaSalle came into the room. He looked about until he saw us and then, his hand half raised in greeting, made his way towards us.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said. He shook our hands and then touched Oscar on the arm. ‘May I have a private word?’

‘I always welcome the prospect of a private word,’ replied Oscar. ‘It holds out so much promise. Robert’s first book of poems was entitled
Whispers,
you know. Come into this corner by the window, Rex, and whisper to me.’

As Oscar and LaSalle stepped aside and began their whispered conference, I turned urgently to Sherard: ‘Whatever Oscar says, however much he protests, we must go to the police – now. We must telephone them at once.’

‘Will the prince not have a police guard waiting for him in the street?’

‘I think not,’ I said. ‘He is here on private business. He came by brougham. Besides Probyn and Wilson, he is unattended. You must go to the telephone room, Robert, and call Scotland Yard. Now. Slip into the hall discreetly. I shall stay here and make sure that no one leaves.’

As Sherard made to depart, Oscar returned and caught him by the arm. ‘Where are you going, Robert?’ he asked.

‘To call the police,’ I whispered. ‘At my behest.’

Oscar raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘At my
insistence,
Oscar. We must. Yarborough must be arrested.’

‘Here? Now? In the presence of the Prince of Wales? In the midst of the wake?’

‘If needs be, yes. The woman’s been beheaded. Albemarle may be implicated. There’s no time to be lost. We must summon the police.’

Oscar released Sherard’s arm and, taking hold of mine, he steered me towards the window.

‘Look into the street, Arthur. What do you see?’

The light was now fading in Grosvenor Square and the street was gloomy and deserted.

I saw nothing but a carriage, leaving the square to the north.

‘Isn’t that your four-wheeler?’ I asked.

Oscar peered into the street. ‘Yes. I told the cabman he was free to go if another fare came his way.’

‘And where is the prince’s carriage?’

‘Not here yet – evidently. You see, Arthur, we have time on our side – and His Grace has already alerted us to the most likely means of escape. So long as no one leaves this room and makes for the garden door or the kitchens or the attic, all will be well.’

‘We need the police,’ I repeated, in growing desperation.

‘Look out of the window, Arthur. Look across the street. Can you not see him, lurking among the bushes in the garden square? Yes, there he is, beside the wrought-iron gate: your friend with the twisted lip. He’s a policeman – you can be sure of that.’

‘I will telephone Scotland Yard,’ I persisted. ‘I will speak with Inspector Andrews. I will.’

Oscar sighed and, quite suddenly, acquiesced.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will accompany you.’

We left Sherard in the drawing room, standing with his back to the doorway that led to the morning room. We made our way around the edge of the room towards the main door that led from the drawing room directly on to the hall.

We went unnoticed: Albemarle was deep in conversation with the royal princes and Lord Yarborough; Sir Dighton Probyn and Tyrwhitt
Wilson were studying the Romney portraits of the duke’s grandparents above the fireplace; Frank Watkins, the prince’s page, was assisting Parker, the butler, recharging glasses and emptying ashtrays.

The hallway was empty. Before we crossed it to reach the telephone room, Oscar paused and looked back at the door to the drawing room that we had just closed behind us.

‘Did you notice there was no key in the lock, Arthur?’ he said. ‘No key on the inside of the lock – and, as you see, no key on the outside.’

‘Does that signify?’ I asked. ‘I suppose the butler holds all the keys.’

‘It simply means that we cannot lock them in. When we return to the room in just a moment – before the police arrive – you will have to stand guard inside this door and Robert will have to stand guard by the door leading to the room where the duchess’s coffin is lying. We don’t want any of them running away—’

‘None of them will escape,’ I said emphatically.

Oscar laughed.

‘I fear they will all escape, Arthur. Every one. Love is an illusion and it’s an unjust world. They will all escape, but let them at least hear the truth before they do.’

‘You know the truth, Oscar?’ I asked.

‘I do,’ he said solemnly. ‘And it is very terrible.’

Quietly we walked together across the hallway to the telephone room. Oscar reached for the doorhandle.

‘This is where the tragedy began. And this is where it ends. Prepare yourself, Arthur. There will be no more horror after this.’

And so saying, he turned the handle and pulled open the door.

The body of Nellie Atkins, the duchess’s maid, tumbled forward and slumped at my feet. The body fell limply, like that of a rag doll, and landed, awkwardly, on its side. The maid’s scarlet face stared up at me like a macabre medieval gargoyle: her eyes bulged, her tongue lolled out of her mouth.

I took her pulse, knowing it was to no purpose. I saw at once that she was dead. She had been strangled and her neck was broken.

The Truth

81
From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle

‘How did you know of this?’ I asked, looking up at Oscar as I knelt at the dead girl’s side. ‘
When
did you know of this?’

‘Moments after it occurred,’ he said. ‘When it was too late.’

‘We must call Scotland Yard,’ I said.

‘There is no need. LaSalle has called them already – at my instruction. Scotland Yard will be here shortly – and in force. We can tell them everything – or, at least, everything they need to know.’

‘Can we?’ I asked. ‘Do we know it all?’

‘I know it all, I think,’ he said. ‘Indeed, I know too much.’