Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (5 page)

I saw something else as well. Inside the door, immediately within it, I saw – only for a moment, but clearly, unmistakably – the standing figure of a young woman, her torso naked.

‘Where’s Rex?’ asked Oscar, resting his right hand on my shoulder.

‘He has gone,’ I answered. ‘He was complaining of a headache.’

Marlborough House

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Telegram delivered to Oscar Wilde at 16 Tite Street, Chelsea, on Friday, 14 March 1890 at 8.15 a.m.

A CERTAIN PERSON URGENTLY REQUESTS AND REQUIRES YOUR PRESENCE AT TWELVE NOON TODAY FRIDAY AT SARAH CHURCHILL RESIDENCE. BRING ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE WITH YOU. TELL NO ONE. STRICTEST CONFIDENCE ESSENTIAL. SINCERELY OWL

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Note from Oscar Wilde to Arthur Conan Doyle, delivered by hansom cab to the Langham Hotel at 9.15 a.m.

16 Tite Street

14.iii.90

Good morning, Arthur –

I trust you are still at your porridge and have not left for Southsea. If there is to be an outbreak of measles on the south coast, it must wait until tomorrow.

We have received a royal summons for today. You and I are commanded to attend upon the Prince of Wales at 12 noon. I will collect you at your hotel at 11.30 a.m. I do not know the nature of our business with HRH, but I conjecture – and I have fears. Robert Sherard – though not summoned – will come with us. If it is as terrible as I think it may be, he is a witness. For the time being, we are not to speak of this to anyone.

Ever yours,

Oscar

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From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle

What do I make of Oscar’s friend, Sherard? He is pleasant enough, but there is something about the fellow that isn’t quite right.

He is the son of a clergyman, the grandson of an earl and the great-grandson of William Wordsworth, but shows no sense of family pride. He went to a good school (Queen Elizabeth College, Guernsey) and a better university (Oxford), but failed to take his degree. He has travelled widely and boasts of his acquaintance with the likes of Emile Zola and Guy de Maupassant, but lives in a garret in Gower Street, earning his crust from cheap journalism.

Is he to be trusted? He has a weak face and a poor handshake. Is he a wrong ’un? Or simply one of those men destined never quite to hit his stride? Oscar I trust completely – he is a gentleman to the marrow – and his wife is an enchantment – but there is no denying that some of their circle leave me cold.

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From the diary of Rex LaSalle

I did not sleep last night. I took the air. I needed it. When I left Grosvenor Square, as a black cat – an alpine lynx – why not? – I walked west until dawn. I took my time. The moon was full and my heart was heavy. I crossed the river at Hammersmith and went on, over Barn Elms, to Mortlake. I shall sleep here. I shall sleep alone. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society is one’s own.

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From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

I
slept at Tite Street, on the divan in Oscar’s writing room. Mrs Wilde (who grows ever lovelier in my eyes) served what she termed a ‘boys’ breakfast’ – poached eggs, bacon, grilled lamb chops and fried potatoes. Because her own boys were at the table – Vyvyan is just four and Cyril not yet six – we spoke not a word of the previous night’s proceedings. As we feasted, Oscar, at his most gay, entertained his little ones with outlandish tales of faithless mermaids and dwarfish princes.

At eleven o’clock, a four-wheeler called to collect us from the door and drove us across town, in bright sunshine, to the Langham Hotel by Regent’s Park. The smell of spring and straw were in the air. As we turned into Portland Place, Oscar said, ‘Arthur will be on the pavement waiting for us, scrubbed and polished, eyes gleaming, moustache bristling. He is a good man.’

He was. He is. I like him.

‘What’s all this about?’ asked the doctor eagerly, as he climbed aboard. He perched on the carriage seat facing us. Oscar passed him the telegram he had received. Conan Doyle inspected it carefully.

‘“A certain person” is the Prince of Wales?’

‘I am assuming so,’ said Oscar.

‘And the Sarah Churchill residence?’

‘Marlborough House. Sarah Churchill was the first Duchess of Marlborough. It was built for her.’

‘And who on earth is “Owl”?’

‘“Owl” I take to be Tyrwhitt Wilson, the prince’s equerry.’

Conan Doyle raised an eyebrow.

‘“Tyrwhitt-tyrwhoo”,’ said Oscar, raising an eyebrow of his own. ‘A schoolboy nickname. I am merely guessing. You know these English gentlemen – they never really leave their prep schools.’

Conan Doyle laughed and handed the telegram back to Oscar, who folded it neatly into his pocket book.

‘But why the coded summons?’ asked Doyle. ‘Why the need for secrecy?’

‘His Royal Highness fears a scandal. His mother does not like them.’

‘Will the Duchess of Albemarle’s death provoke a scandal?’

‘It might.’ Oscar turned to me and lightly flicked his lilac gloves across my knuckles. ‘Robert, tell Arthur what you saw last night – after the prince had gone, when you were looking down into the hallway from the gallery.’