Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (7 page)

CERTIFICATE OF DEATH

Registration district: City of Westminster

Date and place of death: 14 March 1890, 40 Grosvenor Square, London W.

Name and surname: Helen Mary Alice ALBEMARLE

Sex: Female

Maiden surname of woman who has married: LASCELLES

Date and place of birth: 11 October 1859, Welwyn, Hertfordshire

Occupation and principal residence: Duchess, Albermarle House, Eastry, Kent

Cause of death: Heart failure

Signature of certifying doctor: Yarborough MB FRS

Date: 14 March 1890

15
From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

‘
I
had not appreciated that Lord Yarborough is a practising physician.’

Arthur Conan Doyle spoke sternly. He is little more than my age, but his greying temples, bristling moustache, military bearing and fierce, piercing eyes combine to lend him an authority that belies his years.

‘Lord Yarborough is many things,’ replied the Duke of Albemarle.

‘I know him by reputation,’ said Oscar. ‘He is versatile and unusually handsome, I believe.’

‘I know him slightly,’ continued Conan Doyle, ‘as a specialist in nervous disorders. Not as a medical practitioner, but as a mind doctor. He’s one of these modern men who like to call themselves “psychiatrists”.’

‘An ugly word,’ said the duke.

‘With beautiful origins,’ said Oscar. ‘It comes from the ancient Greek,
psyche
– the word for soul and breath and butterfly.’

The duke smiled at Oscar. ‘I did not know. I have little Latin and less Greek.’ He turned his attention back to Conan Doyle. ‘Lord Yarborough is an old friend. He was a guest at last evening’s reception. He stayed the night. We were fortunate that he was here.’

‘Indeed,’ answered Doyle, quietly.

We stood, the four of us, at the foot of the principal staircase in the main hallway at 40 Grosvenor Square, on the very spot where the Duke of Albemarle had stood the previous evening waiting to bid his royal guests farewell. The duke is sixty-five, of medium height, but well built, sturdy and broad-shouldered, with a round, red face, lined by wind rather than worry. His face reveals what the popular papers report: that he is a devotee of the outdoor life, a keen sportsman, one of those Englishmen who is only truly happy when he is riding to hounds.

He had found us by chance at the foot of the stairs. When the butler had admitted us to the hallway, we were advised that His Grace was resting and unable to receive callers. Oscar had pressed the servant to be so kind as to inform his master of our presence. The butler, pocketing the encouragement Oscar proffered, had made his way to the downstairs morning room. As the servant made his exit, the master appeared in the gallery above us. Oscar called up to him and the duke came down to meet us. He looked fatigued and ill-at-ease, dressed in heavy mourning.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Forgive me if I do not entertain you. It is a difficult time. You have heard the news?’

‘We have, Your Grace,’ said Oscar, gravely, ‘and we have come to extend our condolences in person.’

In silence, briefly and without ceremony, as though we were estate workers come to pay our respects, the duke shook hands with each of us in turn. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Thank you kindly. Good day.’ He turned to climb the stairs once more.

I made to depart, but Oscar and Conan Doyle, bolder spirits, stood their ground.

‘We have come from Marlborough House,’ said Oscar. The duke looked over his shoulder, surprised. ‘The Prince of Wales asked us to call upon you to extend his condolences in person.’

The duke’s brow furrowed. He held Oscar’s gaze. ‘But Sir Dighton Probyn has already called, Mr Wilde. He came on the prince’s instructions. He came at noon.’

I caught my breath. Conan Doyle blanched. Oscar did not bat an eyelid. ‘Quite so, Your Grace,’ he continued. ‘Sir Dighton Probyn’s visit was the formal one. Ours is more personal.’

‘Indeed?’ enquired the duke, turning to face Oscar directly.

‘His Royal Highness had hoped to speak to you by telephone,’ continued Oscar, ‘but found he was unable to do so.’

‘The telephone is out of order,’ said the duke.

‘His Royal Highness was anxious to offer you the services of one of the royal physicians.’

‘I’m obliged,’ replied the duke, ‘but there was no need. Lord Yarborough was already here.’

It was the mention of Lord Yarborough’s name that provoked Conan Doyle. The young Scottish doctor began to cross-examine the elderly English duke with a severity bordering on effrontery.

‘What does Lord Yarborough know of heart disease?’ he asked.

‘Lord Yarborough had been attending the duchess for some time. He understood her condition. He had warned me of the possibility of heart failure.’

‘Did you not seek a second opinion?’

‘I did not see the need. I know Lord Yarborough. I trust him. The duchess trusted him.’

‘Do not think me impertinent, Your Grace. I am a doctor – in general practice. Might I be permitted to see the body of the deceased?’

The Duke of Albemarle made no response. He gazed at Conan Doyle impassively. An insect buzzed about our heads. The silence in the hallway was heavy. Outside, in the street, there was the clatter of hooves on cobbles and the noise of a carriage trundling past.

Eventually the duke spoke. ‘Is that what the Prince of Wales would wish?’ he asked.

‘I believe so,’ said Conan Doyle. His tone was gentler now. ‘I understand Her Grace died during the night?’

‘Yes.’

‘At what time, do you know?’

‘I do not know. We keep separate quarters. I did not see her before she went to bed.’

‘She was discovered by her maid this morning?’

‘Yes,’ answered the duke, hesitating as he spoke. ‘Yes, by her maid …’

‘She was discovered by her maid in her bed?’

‘Yes.’ The duke faltered. ‘No. No, she was not.’ He looked directly at Conan Doyle. ‘I discovered her.’

‘In her bedroom?’

‘No. No. I discovered her here – in the telephone room.’

The duke turned and looked in the direction of the corner doorway through which I had glimpsed the naked body of a young woman at midnight the night before.

‘The telephone room,’ repeated Conan Doyle. ‘She died in the telephone room?’ We all stood staring at the room’s closed door. ‘Why was she in the telephone room?’

‘She must have come down during the night – to make a call. Or to receive one.’

‘Where is her body now?’ asked Conan Doyle.

‘It has not been moved,’ answered the duke. ‘Lord Yarborough is returning with the undertakers. They are due at any moment.’

Conan Doyle took a small step towards the duke. ‘Might I see her, Your Grace?’

‘She is unclothed,’ replied the duke, covering his face with his hands. ‘She is dead.’

Conan Doyle pressed his hand on the duke’s shoulder. ‘It is quite in order. I am a medical man.’

16
From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle

The duke remained outside the room, in the hallway with Oscar and Sherard. He unlocked the door, barely opened it to allow me to slip inside and shut it immediately after me. ‘I must keep the door closed,’ he said. ‘Apart from Parker [the butler], the staff know nothing of this.’

The room itself was no more than a large cubicle, lit by a dim and flickering electric light. On the left of the door was a narrow wooden shelf on which stood the telephone apparatus. On the right was a tall wooden stool fixed to the wall. Perched upon the stool, leaning backwards into the corner, sat the half-naked body of the late Duchess of Albemarle.

It was a grotesque and pitiable sight. Beneath her velvet evening gown, the poor woman’s legs dangled down from the stool. I brushed against them as I leant forward to study her face. Her eyes were open wide, staring, petrified. Her skin was pale grey, the colour of paving stones. Mucus had dried around her nostrils. Her white lips were twisted – contorted in pain, as I have sometimes seen on the victims of sudden, violent heart
seizure. Her bodice and chemise had been ripped from her, exposing her full breasts, horribly disfigured with scratch marks. I touched her left arm and her naked belly. Her body was cold as stone but no longer rock hard. Rigor mortis was beginning to ease. She had not died within the past twelve hours.

I did not linger in the airless room. The horror was very great and the smell from the body already noticeable. Before I left, I made to close the dead woman’s bulging, startled eyes. As I pressed my fingers against her eyelids to close them, her head lolled suddenly to the side and I saw some bloody marks upon her neck. They were of two sharp incisions, positioned below her earlobe, beneath her jaw, side by side, no more than an inch apart. The tears in the flesh were not wide – each was no more than an eighth of an inch in diameter – but they were deep. I took a matchstick from my pocket and carefully inserted it into each incision. The rupture was certainly deep enough to reach the jugular vein.

17
Notes written by Oscar Wilde on the back of the supper menu at Solferino’s restaurant in Rupert Street