Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (10 page)

‘Most
of all, I like to be charmed,’ said Oscar.

‘Indeed,’
whispered McMuirtree, smiling. ‘That also is one of our specialities.’ As he
spoke, the coil of rope on the table before him appeared to twitch, and
suddenly, inexplicably, apparently unaided, one end of the rope lifted itself
slowly into the air and, like a cobra rising from a snake-charmer’s basket,
rose high above the table. Oscar and I gazed at the spectacle in astonishment.
McMuirtree clapped his hands and the rope fell instantly to the table.
‘Alphonse—refreshments for our guests, if you please!’

Fortified
by brandy and beer, Oscar and I spent two full hours seated in the pantry of
the Cadogan Hotel being—as Oscar put it—’ wholly charmed and vastly amused by
Messrs Byrd and McMuirtree’s box of tricks’. I had understood that Byrd was the
magician and McMuirtree the assistant. However, as they took us through the
programme of ‘drawing-room illusions’ that they proposed presenting in Tite Street
the following Sunday, it became abundantly clear that, even if Byrd was to be
the principal performer, McMuirtree was the driving force within the
partnership.

As the
afternoon wore on, we became aware of various members of the Cadogan’s kitchen
staff passing along the corridor outside the pantry, returning to their duties.
At what turned out to be a little after half past five, there was a sharp knock
on the pantry door and a red-cheeked, freckle-faced young man wearing a chef’s
bonnet, put his face into the room and said, “Scuse me, Mr Byrd, but we’ll be
needing the pantry now.’

‘We’re
nearly done, Hawkins,’ said Byrd.

‘We
are
done!’ Oscar declared, reaching out for me to help him to his feet. He
turned to our hosts and beamed upon them. ‘Thank you for a memorable afternoon,
gentlemen. Your programme meets with my approval in its entirety. You are to
have a rendezvous with my wife tomorrow, you say? I am sure she will be equally
delighted with all that you have to offer. And, if your delivery matches your
description, I believe my sons will be especially enchanted by the “Illusion of
the Vanishing Lion”, particularly as performed on Mrs Ryan’s ginger tom-cat.
We’re in for a treat come Sunday. The readiness is all.’

It was six o’clock but
still light when we reached the street outside the Cadogan Hotel. ‘They know
their business, those two,’ mused Oscar as he peered up and down the roadway in
search of a passing cab.

‘They’re
an odd couple,’ I said, ‘an improbable duo.’

‘Yes,’
said Oscar, reflectively, ‘what is the true hold one has upon the other, I
wonder?’

‘Shall
we walk back to Tite Street?’ I suggested. ‘The air will do us good.’

‘Forgive
me,’ cried my friend, waving to the two-wheeler that was now coming out of Pont
Street and heading towards him. ‘I am meeting up with Bosie. We’re off to the
Lyric, to see
The Mountebanks
Gilbert without Sullivan. I imagine it’ll
be the usual story, but at least the tune will be different. You go to Tite
Street, Robert. Look after Constance for me, there’s a dear. I shall see you at
lunchtime tomorrow—at the Chelsea Arts Club, at one. Don’t forget.’ He
clambered aboard the two-wheeler. ‘I may even see you later tonight, Robert. I
don’t plan to be late. Bosie and I will have a bite at Kettner’s and then I’ll
be home. Tell Constance, would you? She’ll understand. Have a happy evening. I
must go now. Forgive me.
Au revoir, mon ami!
Forgive me! ‘And, with a
wave from the carriage window, and looking suddenly refreshed, my friend was
gone.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘THE OCCASIONAL CAPRICE’

I forgave him. Oscar Wilde
was an easy man to forgive. Constance forgave him, too—time and again.

That
evening she and I had supper together at Tite Street. There was no need for a
chaperone: it was as if Oscar was with us all the while. All evening we talked
only of him. Constance spoke of Oscar as a mother might of an adored child. He
was perfection: he could do no wrong in her eyes. She simply marvelled at his
genius and counted herself ‘so blessed’ that he was there, the father of her
children, the centre of her universe. That he needed time away from home—to
write, to think, to see his friends—was wholly understandable. She had no
complaints. She was simply grateful that ‘a mind so large’ and ‘a spirit so
generous’ should be part of her life at all. She told me, solemnly: ‘Oscar and
I both believe in the concept of a seven-year marriage contract, renewable if,
but only if, both parties wish it. Oscar and I agreed to embark on our second
seven years together last May. As Mr Browning says, “The best is yet to be.”‘

At
eleven o’clock I told her it was time I returned to my room in Gower Street.
As, reluctantly, I rose to take my leave I remarked, ‘Oscar will be home soon,
I expect.’

‘No,’
she answered, smiling. ‘He’ll not be back tonight. He’s with Bosie. He’ll stay
in town, I’m certain. And I’m glad of it. He gets tired. Oscar needs his beauty
sleep. He is very beautiful in his way, is he not?’

‘It is
you who are beautiful, Constance,’ I replied. ‘Goodnight.’ And I kissed her on
the lips.

She
laughed. ‘You are such a romantic, Mr Sherard. No wonder Oscar adores you so!’

In the morning—it was
Tuesday morning, 3 May 1892; the sky from my window was blue, the sun shone
brightly I awoke early and spent two hours scratching away at my novel. As soon
as I had managed to set down three hundred words, I set off again for Chelsea.
I had decided I could not afford a cab and horse-drawn bus journeys in central
London in those days were interminable. To while away the hour it took to
travel from Oxford Street to the King’s Road, I bought the early edition of the
Evening News.
A vivid account of Monday morning’s dramatic fire at 27
Cheyne Walk featured over two columns on the front page. There was a photograph
of the unfortunate heiress, Elizabeth Scott-Rivers, taken at the time of her
eighteenth birthday, and another, taken more recently, of Inspector Archy
Gilmour of Scotland Yard. Gilmour was quoted extensively, lamenting ‘this
tragic accident’ and praising the courage of the London Fire Brigade, whose
prompt attendance at the scene had prevented the conflagration from spreading
and so saved both life and property. There was no reference of any kind to the
Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney.

I did
not reach the Chelsea Arts Club until nearly one-thirty. The club, still in its
infancy, was then located on the ground floor and basement of 181 King’s Road,
an undistinguished, flat-fronted Georgian house immediately adjacent to the
newly built Chelsea Town Hall. I found Oscar with his artist friend, Walter
Sickert, in the club mess room, in the studio at the back of the house. They
were sitting together, alone, at the far end of the communal dining table. They
were drinking Algerian wine, eating Angels on Horseback (oysters wrapped in
bacon served with buttered toast) and discussing Degas.

‘Day-gas?’
expostulated Wat Sickert. ‘Day-gas? His name is not Day-gas, Oscar! You know
full well—because I have told you so, often—Gas is the name of the French town
from which the artist’s ancestors come. The name was originally spelled “de
Gas”. That is how it should be pronounced. Why do you persist with this Day-gas
business, Oscar?’

‘To
annoy you, Wat,’ answered Oscar, raising his glass in a mock-toast to the young
artist.

‘To
insult him, more likely,’ riposted Sickert. ‘He is a great man. He deserves to
be treated with respect.’

‘His
art I respect,’ said Oscar coolly, looking up and seeing me, and beckoning me
to join them at the table.

‘You’ve
not forgiven him his gibe, I know,’ said Sickert, wiping his luxuriant
moustache with the back of his hand.

‘I like
to think it was intended as a jest rather than a gibe,’ said Oscar. He turned to
me as I took the chair next to his and laid my newspaper on the table. ‘The
great Edgar Degas, to whom I had the honour of being introduced by Wat some
years ago, said of me:
“Oscar Wilde? Il a l’air de jouer Lor’ Byron dans un
théâtre de banlieu.”
[‘Oscar Wilde? He gives the impression that he’s
playing Lord Byron in a suburban theatre.] I thought the line amusing. As you
can see, I committed it to memory.’

‘You
thought the line insulting,’ said Sickert, laughing, ‘You’ve not been able to
forget it.’

‘How
was the comic opera?’ I asked Oscar, thinking it diplomatic to change the
subject and prompted perhaps by Wat Sickert’s wonderful appearance. Wat was
undoubtedly handsome, with sea-green eyes and honey-coloured hair, but there
was something slightly ludicrous about his elaborately groomed moustaches. He
was wearing a guardsman’s old scarlet tunic open at the collar, with a bright
green kerchief loosely tied about his neck. He looked like a character from a
music-hall monologue: a love-lorn Bohemian soldier down on his luck.

Oscar
sniffed and took a sip of wine. ‘Gilbert had one joke which I’ve forgotten and
Cellier had no tune which I recall all too vividly. It was not a night to
reckon with …’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘Whereas you and Constance, Robert,
as I understand it, had a most charming
soirée,
a cosy
diner à deux
at
Tite Street.’

I
blushed, foolishly, like a guilty schoolgirl. Wat Sickert growled with pleasure
as he poured me a beaker of the Algerian wine. ‘Ah, so you too are sweet on the
delectable Mrs Wilde.’

‘Yes,’
said Oscar, an impish grin revealing his horrid teeth, ‘Robert is competing
with Edward Heron-Allen for my wife’s affections. I fear it may come to a
duel.’

‘Don’t
be ridiculous, Oscar,’ I protested, ‘I’m a married man.’

‘We’re
all married men,’ cried Sickert, raising his glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to
blessed monogamy— reasonably tempered by the occasional caprice!’ He clinked
his glass against mine and looked up and saw Lord Alfred Douglas making his way
across the room towards us. ‘Talk of the devil!’

Bosie,
looking like a befuddled cherub, was yawning as he approached. ‘Good morning,
gentlemen,’ he drawled, ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

‘Good afternoon,
Bosie,’ said Oscar. ‘We’ve dined, as you can see.’

‘Yes,’
replied Bosie, sweeping his blond fringe back over his forehead and sitting
himself down next to Sickert. He leant forward and tapped my copy of the
Evening
News.
‘And you’ve read the paper?’

‘I
have,’ I said, opening it out and laying it in the middle of the table.

‘I saw
it earlier,’ said Oscar. ‘The report of the fire is graphic if not illuminating.

‘Never
mind the fire,’ said Bosie. ‘Look at the Stop Press.’ He took the newspaper and
flicked it over and pointed to the Stop Press column on the back page. ‘Look,’
he said again.

I read
out the brief news item.

GOVERNMENT
MINISTER DIES

Lord Abergordon
found dead yesterday afternoon in the library of the House of Lords. Prime
Minister issues statement expressing Government’s ‘profound shock and regret’.

‘Who
the deuce is Lord Abergordon?’ asked Wat Sickert, waving an empty wine bottle
above his head in a vain attempt to catch the club steward’s eye.

‘Under-Secretary
of State for War,’ said Bosie casually.

‘And
the second name on our list of murder victims,’ added Oscar.

‘What?’
said Sickert, putting down the empty bottle.

‘He was
a ridiculous old man,’ said Bosie.

‘You
knew him?’ I enquired.

‘Quite
well, as it happens. He was a friend of the family. My father and he were very
hugger-mugger. Had been for years. He was my brother’s godfather. Drumlanrig
despised him. Doubtless that’s why, when we were playing Oscar’s game, he
picked him as his “victim of choice”.’

‘Did
he?’ asked Oscar sharply.

‘I
think so. I don’t know,’ said Bosie, taking Oscar’s glass from him and draining
it. ‘At the time I assumed so. Who else would think of murdering an old
nincompoop like Abergordon?’

Oscar
had drawn the newspaper towards him and was studying the news item intently.
‘Where is your brother now?’ he asked.

‘I am
not my brother’s keeper, Oscar. I’ve no idea. The House of Lords, I imagine.
Drumlanrig loves his politics. He’s quite the coming man, you know: Lord
Rosebery’s little helper.’

‘Do you
think your brother could have murdered this man, Abergordon?’ asked Sickert,
waving the empty bottle about his head once more.

‘Don’t
be absurd, Wat. Francis wouldn’t hurt a fly. I imagine Lord Abergordon was
killed by an excess of luncheon. One Welsh rarebit too many that’ll be what did
for him. He never could resist a savoury. He was a fat old fool—as you’d expect.
He was a mainstay of the government. He’ll have died in a red leather armchair,
sound asleep beneath the open pages of the
Sporting Life.’

‘My
condolences to his godson,’ said Oscar, easing his chair away from the table,
‘and to Lady Abergordon, if there is one.