Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (22 page)

Oscar
laughed. ‘And I have one of his brother’s mighty tomes on my bedside table,
too. Who in England now abed needs a sleeping draught while the James brothers
are busy scribbling?’

Obligingly,
McMuirtree croaked a small laugh of his own. From the side pocket of his
dressing gown he produced another cigarette and handed it to Oscar.

‘You
are a remarkable man, Mr McMuirtree,’ said Oscar, nodding his thanks and
immediately lighting the second cigarette from the first. Pugilist, psychologist,
philosopher—but even you are not invulnerable.’

‘You
think I am in danger?’ rasped McMuirtree, evidently amused.

‘I am
concerned for your safety, Mr McMuirtree,’ said Oscar solemnly.

‘Do not
be.’

‘I feel
responsible. Last Sunday you came to our club dinner, as our guest, in good
faith …’

‘And I
left in good heart. And I’m safe and sound as you can see.’

‘But Mr
McMuirtree,’ Oscar persisted, ‘on each successive day since Sunday last
something “unfortunate” has befallen each successive victim.’

‘Is the
bearded actor dead then?’ asked the boxer.

‘Bradford
Pearse has vanished,’ said Oscar.

‘We fear
the worst,’ I added.

‘I’m
sorry to hear that,’ said McMuirtree. ‘I liked the man.’

‘Did
you know him?’ asked Oscar.

‘Our
paths had crossed,’ answered the boxer. ‘I know a lot of people.’

‘The
point is,’ said Oscar, sucking from the first cigarette a final inhalation of
delight before drawing at once upon the second, ‘if this is murder and there’s
a chronology to it, you’re next, Mr McMuirtree. Tomorrow is your turn …’

‘Tomorrow,’
said McMuirtree, smiling, ‘Or Saturday or Sunday or Monday—wouldn’t you say? I
was named four times, after all.’

‘You
were,’ said Oscar. ‘Why do you think that was?’

‘I have
no idea. None at all.’

‘Who
might have chosen you as their victim?’

‘I
cannot tell you, Mr Wilde. I’ve not the least notion.’ He turned and began to
walk towards the gangway. He motioned to us to follow. ‘Mr Charles Brookfield
might have done so, I suppose,’ he suggested, without much conviction.
‘Brookfield’s temper was certainly uneven that night. I don’t think he
appreciated having the club secretary—not quite a gentleman—seated on his
right. I don’t think he enjoyed sitting opposite me. I know he was irritated by
my green carnation.’

‘When
we played the game, Mr McMuirtree,’ asked Oscar, ‘who did you chose as your
particular victim?’

‘Oh, I
played safe. Queensberry Rules. I don’t punch below the belt. I chose Eros, god
of love.’

‘Eros?’
queried Oscar. ‘Eros is a curious choice for a prize-fighter.’

‘Come,
Mr Wilde. It’s not only the disciples of aestheticism who know that love’s a
devil.’

We had
reached the top of the gangway. McMuirtree held open a glass-fronted polished
oak door that led to the amphitheatre’s mirrored entrance hall. ‘If you’ll
excuse me, gentlemen, I must go and change.’ Evidently our audience was at an
end. ‘Thank you for coming by. Thank you for the warning.’

‘Thank
you for the cigarettes,’ said Oscar, smiling. ‘And thank you for the tickets
for Monday night—the gala bout.’

‘You’re
coming?’

‘A
ringside seat for history? How could I refuse? And, by way of reciprocation, Mr
McMuirtree, if you’d be amused to see my play I’m taking a party to the St
James’s Theatre on Saturday night—I’d be honoured if you’d join us.’

McMuirtree
bowed. ‘I’d be delighted, Mr Wilde, thank you.’ With one hand he was holding
open the door for us; with the other he was indicating our way across the
vestibule to the exit to the street.

‘Excellent,’
said Oscar, adjusting his hat, but not yet moving through the doorway. ‘I’ll
leave a ticket in your name at the box office.’

‘Excellent,’
echoed McMuirtree. ‘Forgive me if I go now.

‘Oh,’
said Oscar, putting out his hand and touching the boxer’s arm, ‘One more thing,
if you would. The parrot. The Cadogan Hotel parrot. Who do you think killed the
parrot?’

‘Oh, Mr
Wilde, I’ve really no idea.’

‘I’d
value your opinion. Please.’

‘Well,’
said McMuirtree, with a sigh, ‘they say, don’t they, that those found first at
the scene of the crime are the most likely suspects? So it could be you or Mr
Sherard, I suppose, or me or Alphonse Byrd, or even Mrs Wilde or Mrs Wilde‘s
friend, Mr Heron-Allen … But isn’t it most likely to be a disaffected member
of the hotel staff or an irate guest infuriated by the creature’s constant
squawking and yabbering?’

‘Do you
think Mr Byrd could have killed the parrot?’ asked Oscar.

‘No, it
won’t have been Byrd. He truly loved the wretched creature.’

‘Then
who?’

‘I
don’t know who would want to do such a thing—and in such a brutal fashion.’

‘You’re
interested in psychology, Mr McMuirtree. What would a modern psychologist tell
us?’

‘All
sorts of nonsense. He might tell you that Mr Heron-Allen murdered the parrot
because he is in love with your wife. Heron-Allen is a solicitor. He dares not
murder you, so instead he kills a defenceless creature whose exotic plumage
rivals your own …’

‘That’s
an amusing notion,’ said Oscar. ‘I did not realise that Heron-Allen had made
his feelings so self-evident.‘

‘He
might suggest that Mrs Wilde was guilty of the crime because her
great-grandfather had a collection of eighty stuffed birds and as a child the
oppressive presence of the birds provoked nightmares in the little girl …’

Oscar’s
eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘He
might even suggest that you are the guilty party, Mr Wilde.’

‘Me?’
said Oscar, laughing.

‘At
Magdalen, was not the college organist called Parrot? Was he not a friend of
yours? Did he not come to stay with you in Dublin in ‘74? Did you and he not
have a notorious falling-out?’

‘Good
grief, man! You know everything about me.’

McMuirtree
laughed as he held out his hand once more to point us on our way. ‘Not
everything, Mr Wilde, far from it. Would that I did … But I keep my eyes and
ears open. It’s in the blood. My father was a footman, as you know.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

GILMOUR OF THE YARD

‘What a remarkable
fellow,’ said Oscar, chuckling, as we emerged from the deserted foyer of
Astley‘s amphitheatre onto the Westminster Bridge Road. It was a perfect May
evening: the low, round, orange sun had turned the stonework on the Thames
embankment gold; there was a warming breeze in the air and that special smell
of the London of my youth—the comforting smell of hay and horses.

‘I
don’t like him, Oscar,’ I said. ‘He’s arrogant. He’s impertinent. He’s—’

‘He
confuses you, Robert. You don’t know where you are with him, that’s all. If
Bosie or Drumlanrig spoke as he does, you’d think nothing of it. They’re toffs.
They can do as they please. But McMuirtree … he’s half-a-gentleman. And that
ain’t easy—for you or him. He’s walking a tightrope.’

‘I
don’t like him,’ I persisted. ‘I don’t trust him.’

‘Whereas
you have no such qualms about my little friend Antipholus?’

‘Indeed
not.’

‘Is it
because he’s black and knows his place?’

There
was no time to protest. We had already crossed the street and were standing
face to face with the bright-eyed African boy whose beaming smile I did indeed
trust instinctively.

Antipholus
was not alone. He was leaning against the stone parapet overlooking the river
with, at his side, an enchanting child—a
petite
black girl of perhaps
nine or ten years of age—and, next to her, the Hon. the Reverend George
Daubeney. The trio were scrutinising a stout piece of card the size of a quarto
volume and laughing.

The
moment he registered our presence, Antipholus sprang to attention.

‘Mr
Wilde, Mr Wilde’s friend, may I have the honour to present to you my sister,
Bertha?’

The
little girl, who was dressed in the simplest white smock, curtsied low and
squeezed her eyes tight shut and bit her lip as Oscar bent down to her and
shook her by the hand.

‘You
are very pretty,’ he said to her softly.

‘She is
very beautiful, Oscar,’ declared George Daubeney loudly. ‘She is a princess,
Robert—a fairy-tale princess.’ He leant over to us each in turn and shook us
vigorously by the hand.

‘You’re
in fine form, George,’ said Oscar, cocking his head to one side as he examined
the clergyman. ‘You seem dressed
en prince
yourself.’ Indeed, since we
had seen him last, Daubeney appeared to be a man transformed. His eyes were
still puffy and drawn; his skin was rough and grey; there were trickles of
moisture at the edge of his mouth; but the man’s defeated hang-dog look was
entirely gone. He wore his frayed clerical collar as before, but his black
serge curate’s suit had been replaced by a dandy’s frock coat with shiny silk
reveres.

‘I’m a
happy man,’ he said, giving one of the girl’s little pigtails an affectionate
tug. ‘I’m a free man. A cloud has lifted.’

‘Ah?’
said Oscar. ‘The inquest.’

‘The
coroner’s court met this morning, at eleven clock sharp, in the front parlour
of the Pier Hotel, Cheyne Walk, and the business was done and dusted before the
parlour clock had struck the half-hour. The jury followed the coroner’s lead
and endorsed the verdict of the Metropolitan Police and the London Fire
Brigade: “Miss Elizabeth Scott Rivers—Death by misadventure.”’

‘Congratulations,’
said Oscar.

‘You’d
have been gratified, my friend. In his summing-up, the coroner—a lovely man, a
sort of Mr Pickwick but Irish—made specific reference to the important
pioneering work of the Rational Dress Society.’

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar, pursing his lips and teasing his eyebrows with his index finger.
‘When all this is over, I’ll report the good news to Constance.’

‘Well
done, George,’ I added warmly. ‘Bravo. I think a drink is called for.’

‘I’ve
had several already, large ones,’ Daubeney cried out happily, ‘and I’m
proposing to have several more, larger still!’

‘Is
there news of Miss Scott-Rivers’s Last Will and Testament?’ Oscar enquired.
‘Had she revised it as you feared? Or are useful bags of red and yellow gold
shortly to be put at your disposal?’

‘You
don’t miss a trick, do you, Oscar?’ Daubeney was now holding both of Bertha’s
pretty little pigtails and pulling her head from side to side as he spoke. ‘It
seems that my erstwhile fiancée had advised her solicitor of her intention to
change her will, but had not yet done so … She had made an appointment to
rearrange her affairs, but failed to keep it. It is not entirely certain—there
is the possibility that her family will dispute the will as it stands—but,
according to your friend Heron-Allen—a capital fellow, by the way, my kind of
lawyer—the odds are in my favour. It looks indeed as though the booty will be
mine.’

‘He has
brought us presents, Mr Wilde! ‘Antipholus announced with glee.

Daubeney
released Bertha’s pigtails and raised his open palms towards us, adopting a
sudden, solemn air. ‘I regret my fiancée’s passing—of course I do. We were no
longer friends, but I wished her no harm. Whatever she has left me I shall use
for God’s purpose. It shall all be devoted to the education and welfare of the young.’
He leant forward and kissed the top of Bertha’s head.

‘He’s
brought some shag for me,’ said Antipholus, holding out a handful of tobacco,
‘and for Bertha these ribbons and this hoop.’ The boy held up one of his
sister’s pigtails to show off the pale blue ribbon tied to the end of it in a
dainty bow. The girl, who was holding the wooden hoop in her left hand, tried
to hide it behind her brother’s back.

‘I’m
chaplain here, these are my charges,’ said Daubeney, offering us a beatific
smile.

‘You’re
drunk,’ said Oscar. ‘I’m not surprised.’

Bertha
took hold of the clergyman’s hand and kissed him lightly on the knuckles.

‘The
hoop is in exchange for the photograph,’ Daubeney explained.

‘Look!’
said Antipholus proudly. He held up the piece of card that the trio had been
admiring when Oscar and I had discovered them. It was a photograph—a fine
studio photograph—of the little girl in fancy dress. In the picture she was
seated on a small three-legged stool, dressed in a patched and ragged skirt
with a checked shawl about her shoulders. Her head was tilted to one side,
resting against the handle of a kitchen broom. Her hair was untied, full and
frizzy. Her shining eyes were looking out straight towards the camera. There
were large tears trickling down her cheeks.

‘She’s
playing Cinderella,’ explained Antipholus.