Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (28 page)

His
entertainment lasted half an hour. His skill was considerable. Effortlessly,
without emotion, with barely any commentary, and with minimal assistance from
McMuirtree, he made playing cards vanish and top hats disappear. From an empty
cardboard box—which he pierced repeatedly with a rapier—he produced a violin.
He transformed oranges into lemons, lemons into billiard balls and a furled
umbrella into a union flag. Oscar especially liked it when he turned a jug of
water into a carafe of wine. ‘Always a favourite,’ he murmured.

The
climax of the entertainment involved neither snake-charming nor fire-eating, as
I had hoped. Constance had vetoed both. Instead it was a celebration of what
Oscar described gleefully as ‘the worst excesses of the French revolution’.

‘Finally,’
said Alphonse Byrd, ‘or should I say
“finalement”?’—it
was the only hint
of humour in his entire presentation—’may I introduce “Madame La Guillotine”?
It is her birthday. Let us wish her well.’

As Byrd
spoke, McMuirtree stepped forward carrying a tall and weighty object, draped in
a black silk sheet. It was about five foot high and two feet wide, a little
smaller than a cheval mirror. With a flourish, he pulled away the sheet and
revealed what appeared to be an exact replica of a guillotine. The Wilde boys
squealed with pleasure. Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper giggled. The other ladies
in the room all gasped.

‘This
instrument of execution,’ said Byrd, unflinching, ‘was first used in the
streets of Paris-in the Place de Grève, to be precise—one hundred years ago
this week. Our model is smaller than the French original, but it’s quite
solid—the beams are made of Welsh pine, the blade is made of Sheffield steel, the
block is English oak—and it works well enough … See!’

From a
basket beneath the magician’s table McMuirtree produced a large white cabbage
and held it high in the air, on the points of his fingers, for all to see. He
passed the cabbage to Byrd, who took it, and felt its weight, and laid it on
the execution block, lowering a narrow wooden beam shaped like an ox’s halter
onto the vegetable to secure it in position. Then, with some ceremony, the
magician untied the thin rope that held the blade in place at the top of the
guillotine. He held the rope taut so that the blade did not move. ‘Watch,’ he
whispered softly, closing his own eyes and turning his head away from the
scene. He paused. He took a long, deep breath and held it. ‘Now!’ he cried,
with a sudden, terrifying vehemence, releasing the rope and letting the blade
fall. It came down at once—sharply, swiftly, silently—and landed with a small
thud on the oak block. The cabbage fell to the floor, cleanly cut in two.

The
room was silent. Alphonse Byrd opened his eyes and looked on what he saw with
satisfaction. McMuirtree bent down and recovered the two halves of the cabbage.
He held them aloft in either hand and bowed.

For the
first time that afternoon, Alphonse Byrd smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Your present
attention is even more welcome than your former applause.’ He looked at the
apparatus at his side. ‘Our guillotine appears to be in working order,’ he
continued. ‘It is time now to put it properly to the test. One hundred years
ago, in Paris in the late spring of 1792, a gentleman by the name of Nicolas
Jacques Pelletier was the first man to lose his head to the blade of Madame La
Guillotine. One hundred years on, in London in the late spring of 1892, do we
have a volunteer brave enough to follow in his footsteps?’

‘Yes!’
called Little Lord Fauntleroy, jumping to his feet and waving his hand in the
air.

‘No—please!’
gasped Constance Wilde, reaching forward towards her boy. Together Miss Bradley
and Miss Cooper pulled Cyril back onto the floor.

‘Why not?’
the little fellow demanded furiously. ‘Why not?’

‘Mrs
Wilde is right,’ said Byrd. ‘This is not a game for little boys.

‘I
shall be seven on the fifth of June!’ cried Cyril.

‘Nevertheless,’
said Byrd solemnly, ‘I think we require the services of a slightly older
gentleman for this assignment.’ He looked about the room with darting eyes.
‘Who would like to place his head upon the block?’

From
the fireplace, Willie Hornung stirred. He raised an arm and said amiably: ‘I’ll
give it a go.’ With a quick hand on the shoulder, Conan Doyle held his young
friend back. No one else moved.

Byrd
turned slowly towards McMuirtree. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘in that case I must ask my
assistant to assist.’ McMuirtree smiled and began to remove his jacket. Byrd
turned back to the guillotine and raised the blade and secured it afresh at its
departure point. He produced a silk handkerchief from his pocket and brushed
the shards of cabbage from the cutting edge. He lifted the wooden halter that
had held the cabbage in place and invited McMuirtree, who had now removed his
tie and collar and shirt stud, to lay his neck upon the block.

The
boxer, still smiling, knelt down behind the guillotine. With his large brown
hands he gripped the sides of the block, leant forward and put his head in
place. He turned his face upward and stared out towards the audience. Byrd
brought the wooden halter down around his neck to pinion him.

‘Is
this suitable for a children’s party?’ demanded Conan Doyle from his position
by the fireplace.

‘Yes!’ cried
Cyril Wilde, clapping his hands with glee. Vyvyan had crawled across Miss
Cooper and was now lying across his mother’s lap.

‘We’re
nearly done,’ said Byrd. ‘In a moment, our revels will be ended. The
decapitation itself takes no more than one thirtieth of a second.’

‘How
does he know?’ Bosie giggled.

Alphonse
Byrd looked down at David McMuirtree. ‘Are you ready, sir?’ he asked. ‘Are you
prepared for what’s to come?’

‘I am,’
rasped McMuirtree.

‘Do you
wish for a blindfold?’

‘No, I
do not.’

‘Very
well,’ said Byrd quietly. ‘The moment of execution is upon us.’ He turned to
the guillotine and solemnly untied the rope. With one hand he held it taut.
With the other he reached out to the blade and lightly ran his forefinger along
its edge. He winced and sharply drew in his breath. He held his finger out
towards the room. A pin-prick of purple blood bubbled into a drop. He put the
finger into his mouth and for a moment held it there. Then, as he had done
before, he closed his eyes and turned his head away. ‘Watch,’ he whispered
softly. ‘Watch closely.’

McMuirtree
lowered his head. We could no longer see his eyes, but at the very apex of his
cranium, within a shallow indentation, clearly visible, a pulse beat steadily.
Byrd stood motionless. We waited. There was no sound but of Oscar drawing on
his cigarette.

‘Now!’
cried Byrd, with a vehemence even fiercer than before. He let go the rope and
the blade fell. It fell, crashing down to the oak block in an instant.

There
were cries of alarm and disbelief from every corner of the room.

‘What’s
happened, Oscar?’ hissed Sickert.

‘Is he
dead?’ asked Cyril Wilde expectantly.

‘It’s
only a game!’ called Oscar.

‘Indeed!’
cried Alphonse Byrd, smiling for a second time.

The
blade had apparently passed through McMuirtree’s body—you could see it clearly
on either side of his neck—but he was not dead. Far from it. Slowly, he raised
his head and opened his eyes wide. He smiled and, in his rasping voice,
declared: ‘It seems I have survived.’

As
McMuirtree spoke, Byrd set to work, swiftly raising the blade, lifting the
wooden halter and releasing his assistant from the guillotine. The boxer rose
to his feet at once and, stepping round the deadly apparatus, took his place
immediately at Byrd’s side. Together they bowed. Suddenly the drawing room at
16 Tite Street was filled with laughter and applause.

‘How
did you do it?’ demanded Cyril, running towards the two men open-mouthed with
admiration.

‘Congratulations
gentlemen,’ said Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper getting to their feet.

Constance
called over to the butler. ‘Arthur, we are ready for our champagne now.’

‘I
think we need it,’ said Edward Heron-Allen.

‘I
think we
deserve
it!’ said Margaret Brooke. ‘My nerves are all
a-jangle.’

Her
husband wiped his large red face with his handkerchief and chuckled: ‘I’m not
sure whether my charitable donation should be larger or smaller because of
this.’

Mrs
Ryan and Gertrude Simmonds were already passing through the room carrying
dishes piled high with inch-long wafers shaped like tiny rowing-boats, each
wafer filled with a spoonful of black caviar.

Oscar
went forward and shook both of the entertainers warmly by the hand. ‘Mr Byrd,
Mr McMuirtree,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I doubt that Mr Irving himself could have
commanded the room more brilliantly.’

‘How
did they do it, Papa?’ asked Cyril, tugging at his father’s ultramarine frock
coat.

‘We
must not let daylight in on magic,’ replied his father.

‘Why
not, Papa?’

‘Because
a secret that was beautiful becomes banal when it’s revealed.’

The
boy, unconvinced, set about examining the guillotine as Byrd and McMuirtree
began to dismantle it. ‘Look, Papa,’ he cried, excitedly, ‘the magician’s
finger is still bleeding.’

‘Only a
little,’ said Byrd, tying a handkerchief around it.

‘Mr
Byrd takes risks for his art,’ explained Oscar. ‘All artists must.’ Oscar
smiled at McMuirtree who was wrapping the guillotine blade in a baize cloth.
‘I’m relieved you survived your ordeal, Mr McMuirtree.’

The
boxer laughed and looked Oscar steadily in the eye. ‘And if I survive until
midnight tomorrow, Mr Wilde, I think we can consider the case closed.’

‘Can I
keep the cabbage?’ asked Cyril, lifting up one half of it and holding it close
to his chest.

‘You
may,’ said McMuirtree, ‘if your father will allow it.’

Oscar
sighed. ‘I try to set an example. I wear a columbine in my buttonhole inspired
by Leonardo’s
Virgin of the Rocks,
and my son craves half a cabbage
salvaged from the guillotine … What is to be done?’

‘Is
that a “yes”, Papa?’ enquired the little boy and, assuming that it was, without
waiting for an answer, he ran off to find his mother to show her his trophy.

The
butler stood at Oscar’s side with a tray of champagne.

‘A
drink, gentlemen? You’ve earned it.’

McMuirtree
was about to take a glass, but Byrd stopped him. ‘I think not, Mr Wilde. It’s
not really our place, is it? We’ll just gather up our bits and pieces and be on
our way.’

‘As you
please,’ said Oscar. He dismissed the butler with a nod and a smile, bringing
his fingertips together in a silent salaam. Oscar turned back to Byrd and McMuirtree.
‘I’m in your debt, gentlemen. I’ll call at the Cadogan tomorrow and we can sort
out the crinkle.’

The
entertainers continued packing up their paraphernalia as Oscar set about
working the room. He found me nearby, at the piano, scoffing caviar, and having
my hand ‘read’ by Mrs Robinson.

‘Do you
see murder also in Robert’s palm, Mrs R?’ he asked teasingly.

The
lady, who was seated on the piano stool, tilted her head to one side and looked
up at him. ‘No, Mr Wilde,’ she said firmly. ‘We are each unique. Every hand is
different. In Mr Sherard’s hand I see no sudden death, no murder—but much
matrimony!’

‘I am
hoping to be divorced, Mrs Robinson,’ I said softly.

‘That’s
as may be,’ replied the lady soothingly, ‘but you’ll be married again—twice
more.’

‘I
don’t believe it!’ I cried.

‘You
may not want to believe it,’ she said, ‘but it’s clearly written. Look …’ She
held open my palm. ‘Your life-line flows long and strong—from here to here and
cutting across it, as you can see, are tiny sets of parallel lines, like
bridges. Each bridge represents a marriage. Along your life-line there are
three …’ She looked up and smiled at me. She turned to Oscar and took his
right hand and turned it over and laid his palm next to mine. ‘Now, when we
consider Mr Wilde’s life-line, what do we see? It’s deeper than yours,
wider—the river flows faster, the currents are deeper and more powerful …’

‘And
how many little bridges cut across my life?’ Oscar enquired, leaning forward
the better to see his hand.

‘Just
the one,’ she answered. ‘Here.’ I saw the tiny parallel lines she spoke of.

‘And
where is this “sudden death” you say you saw in my unhappy hand?’

‘There,’
said Mrs Robinson letting her pointed fingernail rest on a concentrated
confusion of tiny lines that were undoubtedly evident in Oscar’s palm—and as
certainly absent from mine.

‘Your
hand is the map of your life, Mr Wilde,’ explained the fortune teller, running
her fingers lightly across my friend’s palm. ‘I look down onto your hand and I
see a landscape laid out before me— with hills and valleys, dense forests and
open fields, and flowing through them the principal river—your life-line—with,
running into it, tributaries, so many of them—smaller rivers, streams,
rivulets, brooks and gullies, each one representing a different current in your
life. Where this brook abuts this field, Mr Wilde, I see a whirlpool … and it
worries me.