Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (30 page)

Oscar
smiled at the nervous young man and laid his hand on his. ‘When I look at the
map,’ he said, ‘and see what an ugly country Australia is, I feel that I want
to go there and see if it cannot be changed into a more beautiful form. Perhaps
you will take me there one day, Willie? Would I feel at home in Sydney?’

‘Gentlemen,’
growled Conan Doyle, clearing his throat. ‘Can we stick to the matter in hand?
Byrd was fond of his parrot—’

‘He
adored the creature,’ said Oscar emphatically, removing his hand from Willie
Hornung’s and looking Conan Doyle directly in the eye.

‘Did
Byrd have enemies?’

‘Byrd
has few friends, it seems, other than McMuirtree, but he has no known enemies.
Those who work with him at the hotel appear to accept him for what he is—a cold
fish. They don’t warm to him, but they don’t dislike him. They don’t despise
him, certainly. There is nothing to suggest that the unfortunate Captain Flint
was slain by someone with a grudge against Mr Alphonse Byrd.’

‘So the
parrot’s death remains a mystery,’ said Conan Doyle with a short sigh. He took
his pocket watch from his waistcoat. ‘I must go,’ he announced, pushing back
his chair and getting briskly to his feet.

‘I’ll
come with you,’ said Willie Hornung, taking a final gulp of wine and pulling
his napkin from his shirt. ‘We can share a cab into town.’

Oscar
and I got to our feet and shook hands with the good-hearted doctor and his
young charge. My friend’s vast circle of acquaintance included all types and conditions
of men. Almost all of them were fascinating in their way, but with a number I
felt distinctly uncomfortable. With Arthur Conan Doyle and Willie Hornung I
always felt at ease.

‘Will
we be seeing you tonight?’ Oscar called after them as they made their way
towards the door. ‘McMuirtree’s bout begins at eight o’clock.’

Conan
Doyle waved as he went. ‘We have our tickets. We’ll be there—without fail.’

When
they had gone, and Oscar and I were seated once more, lingering over the last
of Le Montrachet
‘65,
I said to my friend: ‘If McMuirtree survives
tonight, if tomorrow morning he’s still alive and well, will it all be over do
you think? Will you feel the curse has been lifted?’

‘I’ll
feel I can sleep more safely in my bed,’ he answered slowly. ‘And I’ll feel
that my dear wife can sleep more safely in hers. But I’ll still ponder on the
fate of Bradford Pearse. Did he fall or was he pushed? And I’ll still need to
solve the riddle of Captain Flint—or else be obliged to give the wretched
Brookfield thirteen guineas.’ The yellow wine in his glass was now peppered
with strawberry. Oscar gazed into it reflectively. ‘Who killed the parrot,
Robert? That is the question.
Qui a tué le perroquet?’
He reached for
the bottle. It was empty. ‘Flaubert kept a stuffed parrot on his desk to give
him inspiration, did he not? I believe he used the parrot in
Un Cœur simple.
I have not read the story. Have you? I must.’ Suddenly he was galvanised.
‘I shall! This very afternoon. Do you have a copy, Robert? I don’t. We shall go
to the French Bookshop in search of it. I shall get the bill and we shall go to
Beak Street at once. Who knows, we might also find your friend the Hon. the
Reverend George Daubeney there, might we not? It’s where you first met. The
French Bookshop is one of his haunts, didn’t you say?’ He waved his napkin
cheerily towards the head waiter. ‘I look forward to telling our cabby that we
are going to Beak Street in search of a simple heart. It will amuse him. Drink
up, Robert. The game’s afoot.’

The drive from Sloane
Street to Beak Street took half an hour. It would have taken less long if,
along the way, Oscar had not insisted on stopping at every tobacconist’s shop
until he found one that could supply him with a tin of Player’s Navy Cut
cigarettes. ‘McMuirtree did me a great service introducing me to these, Robert.
As he noted, they are not a gentleman’s cigarette—but it’s their very roughness
that lends them their charm. It’s what a man needs after lobster, strawberries
and white Burgundy.’

Our
cabman, who Oscar claimed was ‘an old friend’, gave not the least impression of
knowing who Oscar was nor of understanding any of the array of quips, observations
and reflections on Flaubert that Oscar lightly tossed his way. Whenever Oscar
spoke, the man merely sniffed and sucked on his own cigarette. When we reached
our destination and, with much ceremony, Oscar asked him to kindly wait for us
and presented him with a silver sovereign by way of ‘interim payment’, the man
gave a perfunctory nod and pocketed the sovereign as if it had been a sixpence.

The
Librairie
Française
in Beak Street was a magnet for civilised souls in the London of
the 1890s. From the outside it had the reassuring air of a milliner’s shop in a
novel by Jane Austen, but behind the Regency shopfront with its enticing window
of many panes, was a dimly lit smoke-filled emporium that smacked more of Paris
or Marseilles (or even Athens or Algiers) than of Bath or Cheltenham Spa. As
well as books and journals of every description (including quite a number a respectable
writer might be loath to describe !), Monsieur Hirsch, the Frenchman who had
opened the shop in 1889, stocked a rich assortment of Gallic luxuries that
could not normally be obtained in London—French toiletries, French cigarettes,
French cheeses, continental-style prophylactics, bottles of absinthe. ‘Smell
the corruption,’ said Oscar as we pushed open the door and a little bell tinkled
to signal our arrival.

Within
the shop the air was close, heavy with incense. We closed the front door behind
us and the bell rang again. We appeared to be only customers, but we were not
alone.

‘Good
God!’ cried Oscar in alarm as a mass of green and yellow feathers flew
violently towards us. ‘Is that a parrot?’

A small
bird ricocheted about the crowded room, frantically hurling itself against
walls and lamps and pictures. We cowered helplessly by the door. Eventually,
the creature came to rest on top of a high bookshelf.

‘It’s a
canary,’ I said. ‘One of a pair.’

Oscar
peered up at it suspiciously. ‘Known as “Edmond” and “Jules” no doubt.’

‘Yes,
as it happens. How on earth did you know?’

‘I
didn’t. I guessed. We are in a French bookshop. That the owner should name his
twin canaries in honour of the Brothers Goncourt is to be expected.’

I
smiled. ‘Monsieur Hirsch keeps a monkey as well.’

Oscar
sighed. ‘Does he dress it as a matelot? How depressing.’

‘Bonjour,
messieurs!’
A familiar voice greeted us through the
haze. It was the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney. He emerged, smiling, from
behind a narrow beaded curtain at the far end of the shop. He was unshaven, his
eyes were bloodshot, his mouth was thick with saliva, but he appeared in the
best of humour. He was carrying an artist’s portfolio tied together with blue
ribbon. He laid it on the cluttered counter and took each of our hands warmly
in his. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ he said, wiping the edge of his lips
with his thumb and forefinger, ‘but a considerable one.’ He was wearing white
cotton evening gloves.

‘What
news of your inheritance, George?’ asked Oscar, offering the clergyman one of
his new cigarettes.

‘Still
encouraging, though not yet entirely settled.’

‘We
thought we might find you here,’ I added, holding a match to light both his
cigarette and Oscar’s.

‘What
can I do for you? I’m minding the shop for Charles—for Monsieur Hirsch. He’s
out walking the monkey. It’s Monday afternoon. It’s very quiet. You’re my first
customers.’

Oscar’s
eye was fixed on the artist’s portfolio. George Daubeney grinned.

‘I’ve
been exploring some of Charles’s hidden treasures.’ Gingerly, he undid the
ribbon and pulled open the portfolio. ‘Prints of masterpieces by Peter Paul
Rubens. I know you appreciate an ample bosom, Oscar.’

We
gazed down on a fine reproduction of Rubens’ celebrated painting of Cimone and
Efigenia. ‘Delicious, aren’t they?’ gloated the clergyman, running his fingers
across the ladies’ sumptuous breasts.

‘Does
he?’ I asked, surprised. ‘Do you, Oscar? Do you “appreciate an ample bosom”?’
Much amused, I looked enquiringly at my friend. His face betrayed nothing as he
gazed in silence at the painting and drew slowly on his cigarette.

‘Indeed
he does,’ continued Daubeney, gleefully. ‘I recall the advertisements
well—posters promoting “Madame Fontaine’s Bosom Beautifier”, endorsed by the
“doctor of aesthetics” himself. “Just as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow,
just so sure will it enlarge and beautify the bosom.”‘

‘The
words were not mine,’ said Oscar, coolly.

‘But
your portrait was on the poster, Oscar, alongside a spray of lilies, a
profusion of sunflowers and, as I remember, the prettiest full-breasted maiden
you ever saw.’

‘Is
this true, Oscar?’ I marvelled. ‘Did you give your blessing to “Madame
Fontaine’s Bosom Beautifier”?’

‘It was
some years ago,’ he said. ‘I think you were living in Paris at the time.’

‘Oh,
yes, Robert,’ continued Daubeney, with lubricious relish, ‘Our Oscar is a noted
connoisseur of the female form.’

‘My
taste has become somewhat more refined with the passing years,’ said my friend
lightly, feeling in his pocket for another Player’s Navy Cut.

Daubeney
turned over the first print to reveal another. ‘So, Oscar, you prefer something
less obvious nowadays, do you? More subtle, less obtrusive, more
gamine.
Is
this more to your liking?’ The naked girl in the painting was standing on a
sheath of red silk, wrapped in fur, gazing out to the artist. Her round breasts
rested on her folded arms. ‘We are told her name is Helen Fourment. More than
that we do not know.’

‘She
was someone’s daughter,’ said Oscar, quietly, ‘someone’s sister …

Daubeney
laughed. ‘But not yet someone’s wife. Look at her innocent face. Look at her
mouth. She is a virgin you may be sure of that.’ He turned to the next print.
‘This is my favourite. I notice the cufflinks you are wearing, Oscar. I think
this may prove to be a favourite with you, too.’

Oscar
was wearing the enamel cuff-links that he had worn the day before, the ones
that featured a miniature reproduction of Leonardo da Vinci’s painting,
The Virgin
of the Rocks.
The Rubens print that George Daubeney now displayed was
entitled
The Origin of the Milky Way.
It was a painting of the Virgin
Mary offering her left breast to the Christ child. With his gloved hands,
Daubeney held up the picture for Oscar to inspect more closely. ‘Feast your
eyes upon the teat, my friend. It quite revives your faith, doesn’t it?’

Oscar
drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Is this enthusiasm of yours, George, entirely
seemly in a man of the cloth?’

‘God
gave us seed that we might spill it, Oscar,’ replied the clergyman, almost in a
whisper. He closed the portfolio and began to tie up the blue. ribbon. ‘If you
have had satisfaction from
The Virgin of the Rocks,
I have other,
similar cuff-links in stock. Just in from the Americas, I have
The Virgin of
Guadalupe
…’

‘And
the price?’ Oscar raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. ‘Five pounds, as
ever?’

‘Indeed,’
said Daubeney, ‘and, as ever, the quality is guaranteed.’

Oscar
paused and contemplated Daubeney. ‘I now know why you removed your cuff-links
when you took refuge in the church on the morning after the fire in Cheyne
Walk. It wasn’t because the cuff-links didn’t match. It was because you
realised that you would shortly be interviewed by the police …’

Daubeney
smiled at Oscar and with the tip of his tongue collected the flecks of moisture
from either side of his mouth. ‘You noticed?’ he said. ‘Yes, I removed the
cuff-links because I feared that they might send out the wrong signal. In my
limited experience, the officers and men of the Metropolitan Police do not
appreciate the subtleties of fine art in the way that we do.’

Oscar
snapped shut his cigarette case and turned away from the shop counter to look
about the room. ‘As it happens, George, what we’re in search of this afternoon
is simply a book.
Un Coeur simple,
a short story,
de Gustave Flaubert.’

Daubeney
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved quickly across the room. He
stopped to scan a particular shelf. He ran his fingers alone the spines of
assorted volumes. ‘Alas, Charles does not appear to have it.’ He turned to
Oscar and shrugged. ‘I can offer you
Madame Bovary.
She had fine breasts.’

‘Is
that a feature of the novel?’ asked Oscar, laughing.

‘It is
when I read it,’ Daubeney replied.

‘We
must go,’ Oscar announced, moving me briskly towards the door. ‘Doubtless we
shall see you tonight, George—for McMuirtree’s bout.’

‘Of
course. I am the padre. It requires my blessing.’

‘A
tout à l’heure,
then,
mon ami.
Give our
regards to Monsieur Hirsch.’