Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (13 page)

‘His
body was not found?’ I asked.

‘No,’
said Arthur. ‘His older brother, the Marquess of Queensberry, came out from
England to help lead the search. The unfortunate man’s gloves, his belt and one
of his boots were found— but that was all.’

‘When
was this?’ I asked.

‘Twenty-five
years ago,’ said Oscar, ‘perhaps more.’

‘The
point is,’ said Conan Doyle, reaching for the teapot, ‘Sherlock Holmes’s fate
is sealed. When the time is ripe, I shall be taking my hero to Switzerland and
tipping him headlong into an Alpine ravine. Holmes will take his final bow and
then vanish without trace.’

‘What
about his gloves and belt and boots?’ I asked.

Conan
Doyle crunched on his toast. ‘I’ll have to think about those.’

Oscar
was lighting another cigarette and signalling to the waiter for fresh supplies
of tea and coffee. ‘And Arthur, you still maintain it was not you who named
“Sherlock Holmes” as one of our victims on Sunday night?’

‘It was
not me, I assure you, Oscar.’

‘Then
who was it?’ I asked.

‘If you
must know,’ said Conan Doyle quietly, ‘it was my guest—my young friend, Willie
Hornung.’

‘What?’
cried Oscar, with a splutter of disbelief. ‘Sweet-natured Willie Hornung? Are
you sure, Arthur?’

‘He
told me so himself. He confessed it, turning crimson as he did so. He
apologised profusely. He says that he is wildly envious of my creation.’

‘Envy
is the ulcer of the soul,’ said Oscar, watching the plume of his cigarette
smoke rise into the palm leaves above him. ‘Socrates teaches us that.’

‘Never
mind Socrates,’ said Arthur, chuckling. ‘I told our Willie that, since he
aspires to be a writer himself, all he has to do to wreak his vengeance on
Sherlock Holmes is create a villainous character of his own to outwit the great
detective. Bless the boy—I think he’s going to rise to the bait.’

‘“Rise
to the bait …”‘ Oscar repeated the phrase reflectively. ‘Is that why the
parrot was murdered, I wonder?‘

A tray
of fresh coffee and tea appeared. The débris of breakfast was cleared away.
Oscar’s ashtray was discreetly emptied. Clean cups were set before us. Oscar
spread out the list of ‘victims’ on the table and from inside his silver
cigarette case produced a small card-scorer’s pencil. ‘So,’ he said, marking
the list as he spoke, ‘we know that the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney named
Elizabeth Scott-Rivers as his intended victim—Daubeney confessed it at the
time. We also know that it was Bosie who pronounced death upon the unfortunate
Captain Flint. Bosie, like Daubeney, spilled the beans there and then. We know
too, again from Bosie, that it was his brother, Francis, who named Lord
Abergordon as his victim of choice—though we have yet to hear it from
Drumlanrig’s own lips. And now, Arthur, you tell us that it is Willie Hornung
who is responsible for naming “Sherlock Holmes”.‘

Oscar
had marked a small cross by each of the first four names on the list. ‘What we
really need to discover,’ said Conan Doyle, picking up the piece of paper and
considering it closely, ‘is who named David McMuirtree. Four people in that
room chose McMuirtree as the man to murder.
Four!’

My
throat was dry, but I spoke nonetheless. ‘I was one of the four,’ I confessed.
As I said it, I sensed I was turning as crimson as Willie Hornung must have
done.

‘You?’
queried Conan Doyle, putting down his cup abruptly.

‘Why,
Robert?’ asked Oscar, looking at me wide-eyed in astonishment. ‘You told me
you’d only met the man once before in your life. Why on earth should you choose
David McMuirtree as a potential victim for murder?’

‘It was
only a game, Oscar,’ I pleaded. ‘You said so yourself.’

‘Indeed,’
answered Oscar, ‘but why McMuirtree— even in sport?’

‘I had
my reasons,’ I said.

‘Well?’
demanded Oscar, leaning towards me and extinguishing his latest cigarette with
undisguised asperity. ‘What were they?’

‘I
don’t wish to say, Oscar,’ I protested. ‘I really don’t.’

‘Come
now, man,’ said Conan Doyle, ‘spit it out.’

‘Please
excuse me,’ I said.

‘We
won’t excuse you,’ said Oscar. He looked me directly in the eye and, suddenly, the
anger in his brow evaporated and he smiled at me benignly.

‘You’re
with friends, Robert. You can trust us. Indeed, you must.’

‘Very
well,’ I said. And still I hesitated. ‘Very well … I chose McMuirtree as my
murder victim because … because of something he said.’

‘“Something
he said”?’ Oscar expostulated. ‘“
Something he said”!
When? Where? To
whom?’

‘He
said it to me when I met him briefly at Tite Street. He and Byrd had come to
the house to meet Constance, to see the room in which they are to present their
magic show. I happened to be there. That’s when he said it.’

‘What
did he say?’

‘Something
personal—and outrageous. It was unforgivable.’

‘He
insulted you?’ asked Conan Doyle.

‘No, it
was not about me.’

‘Was it
about me?’ Oscar asked. ‘Was my reputation traduced yet again?’

‘No,
Oscar, it was not about you.’ Again, I hesitated. They looked at me
expectantly. Eventually, I said: ‘It was about Constance—or, rather, it was
about her father.’

‘Ah,’
said Oscar, carefully folding his napkin, ‘the late Horace Lloyd QC.’

‘I’m
afraid you’re talking in riddles, Robert,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘I’m lost. Please,
simply explain what happened. Tell us what was said—precisely.’

‘Do as
the doctor bids you, Robert,’ said Oscar, his eyes now focused on his napkin.

‘It was
as they were preparing to depart. Byrd was downstairs in the hallway with
Constance. I was still with McMuirtree in the drawing room. I said something
about showing him out and he answered with a pleasantry of some kind. He said
how delightful it was to meet Mrs Wilde and I nodded in agreement. Then he
asked me how well I knew the Wildes. I said, “Well enough, thank you.” He said,
“Mr Wilde is a remarkable man.” I answered, “Yes,” quite curtly, and tried to
move him towards the door. I was finding his familiarity irksome. But he
wouldn’t go. He stood his ground and, looking at me with a horrid smile upon
his face, he said, “And Mrs Wilde seems very natural, given the circumstances.”
I was outraged. I said, “What do you mean, sir?” He said, “Given what we know
of her father.” I said, “Mrs Wilde’s father was a highly respected member of
the bar.” “So I’ve heard,” said McMuirtree. “He was also notorious for exposing
himself to young women in Temple Gardens. Didn’t you know?”‘

Conan
Doyle shook his head in disbelief.

‘I
wanted to horsewhip the blackguard there and then,’ I said. ‘Instead, I told
him to get out of the house—and when I saw him again on Sunday night and we
played that ludicrous game of yours, Oscar, I had no hesitation in choosing him
as my murder victim. He’s a slanderer.’

‘McMuirtree’s
many things, no doubt,’ said Oscar quietly, ‘but, in this instance, he’s no
slanderer. Everything he told you is true.’

‘I
don’t believe you,’ I protested.

‘Nevertheless
…’ said Oscar, smiling. He picked up his list of ‘victims ‘, folded it
carefully and returned it to his pocket. ‘Poor Horace Lloyd,’ he said. ‘We all
have our secrets.’

CHAPTER NINE

ANOTHER MYSTERY

Conan Doyle glanced about
the dining room of the Cadogan Hotel. ‘Does Constance know?’ he asked.

‘No,’
said Oscar, through a cloud of cigarette smoke, ‘I don’t believe she does. She
was just a child at the time. She knows that her parents’ marriage was not
especially happy, but, to date, she has been spared the details of her father’s
peculiar peccadillo.’ He smiled at us wanly and took a sip of coffee.

‘I
suppose,’ I asked, ‘there can be no doubt about the matter?’

‘I fear
not,’ said Oscar, putting down his cup and reaching for the ashtray. ‘The
scandal was the talk of the Inns of Court for several years. Horace Lloyd QC
had chambers at Number One Brick Court— disrespectful young briefs had a lot of
fun with that address. What was so remarkable about Lloyd’s behaviour was its
brazenness. By all accounts, in broad daylight he would parade around Temple
Gardens with his breeches unbuttoned and his aroused member on full display.’

‘Extraordinary,’
muttered Doyle.

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar, revealing his jagged teeth. ‘He was said to be magnificently
endowed.’

Arthur
was not amused. ‘I’m surprised he was not arrested,’ he said curtly.

‘He
would have been,’ said Oscar. ‘He was about to be when a kindly colleague, a
High Court judge, took him in hand—so to speak—and warned him off … Poor
Horace Lloyd. He died shortly after.’

‘Of
shame?’ asked Conan Doyle, not unkindly.

Oscar
smiled. ‘Possibly, Arthur. Who knows? The death certificate spoke only of
pulmonary problems. He was forty-six years of age—too young to die.’

Conan
Doyle sighed and pushed away his tea cup. ‘What in heaven’s name would make a
sane man behave in such a way?’ he asked. ‘He was a married man. He was a
Queen’s Counsel. Think of the risks!’

‘Apparently,
he told his friend the judge that the danger was half the excitement.’

A
silence fell among us. It was broken by the arrival at Oscar’s side of a tall,
lean figure in a frock coat, holding an envelope. ‘Ah,’ said Oscar, ‘my bill. I
have no ready money, waiter. Would you put this to my account?’

‘Can’t
do that, sir.’

‘Why
not?’ protested Oscar.

‘Let me
pay,’ volunteered Conan Doyle, reaching for his wallet.

‘No,
Arthur, no!’ cried Oscar. ‘You are my guest. My credit is good here, I’m
certain. Waiter, why can’t you put this to my account?’

‘Because,
sir, this isn’t your bill and I’m not your waiter.’

‘What?’
snapped Oscar. He looked up sharply. ‘Wat!’ he exclaimed. For the first time, we
all looked at the figure in the frock coat. It was Walter Sickert.

‘Nobody
notices the waiter,’ said Wat, smiling down on us. ‘I know: I’ve been one. It’s
the fate of the serving classes. No one looks the poor bloody staff in the eye.
It’s the oldest rule in the book. That’s why you’ll find it’s usually the
butler “what done it”—none of the witnesses can recollect what he looked like.’

‘What
on earth are you doing here, Wat?’ asked Oscar, looking about him for a real
waiter. The restaurant was now deserted. ‘Let’s get you a chair. What time is
it? I think we might treat ourselves to a mid-morning bracer.’

Sickert
pulled up a chair from an adjacent table and sat astride it like a mounted
hussar. (His absurd moustachios did give him the look of a comic-opera hero.)
‘I’ll stay a minute, but I mustn’t linger. I’m on my way to Eastbourne.‘

‘To
Eastbourne?’ exclaimed Oscar. ‘Eastbourne-on-Sea? You’ll certainly need a
drink.’

A young
waiter was now at our table. Oscar inspected the lad. ‘What is your name, young
man?’

‘Dino,’
said the waiter.

‘Dino,’
said Oscar solemnly, ‘my friend has just told us that he is on his way to Eastbourne-on-Sea.
This calls, I think, for something a little special. A bottle of your 1884
Scharzhofberger, perhaps?’

‘Right
away, sir,’ said the boy. ‘And four hock glasses?’ Oscar nodded approvingly.
The waiter smiled and turned smartly on his heels.

Conan
Doyle cleared his throat and tugged at his waistcoat. ‘I can’t linger, I’m
afraid,’ he said.

‘Stay a
moment,’ said Oscar. ‘Stay at least until we’ve discovered
why
Wat is on
his way to Eastbourne.’

‘This
is why,’ said Sickert, leaning forward over the back of his chair and waving in
the air the envelope that a moment ago Oscar had taken for his bill. ‘This is
why I’m here. This letter reached me this morning—from Eastbourne. I felt I
should share it with you. I went to Tite Street and Constance told me that you
were here, so here I am.’

‘Go
on,’ said Oscar. ‘What is it?’

Walter
Sickert opened the small envelope and produced from it a single sheet of
notepaper covered, on both sides, in an unruly scrawl. ‘It’s a note from
Bradford Pearse—the actor. You recall: my guest on Sunday night.’

‘We
recall,’ said Conan Doyle, eyeing Sickert carefully.

‘His
was the fifth name on the list of murder victims,’ I added.

‘Thank
you for reminding us, Robert,’ said Oscar, archly.

‘I
liked him,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘Everyone
does,’ said Sickert. ‘He’s the best of fellows.’

‘Well,’
said Oscar, ‘what does he say?’

‘It’s a
“thank you” letter,’ explained Sickert, holding the note out in front of him,
‘But there’s something about it that perturbs me.’