Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (34 page)

‘Oscar’s
Grid’

The
‘gridiron’ created by Oscar Wilde over

breakfast
at the Cadogan Hotel on

Tuesday 10 May 1892

I
obliged him with a chuckle. ‘So what exactly is this “grid”?’ I enquired.

‘It’s
an ingenious network of uniformly spaced perpendicular and horizontal lines.
It’s the sort of thing that Michelangelo or Galileo should have conceived
centuries ago, but apparently failed to do so. In essence, it’s a device for
ordering one’s thoughts. In this case to date, mine have been a jumble.’

‘And now?’

‘Now,
at least,’ he said, passing me his sheet of foolscap, ‘I see the nature of the
jumble. I have laid out what information we have within the grid.’

I
studied his piece of paper. It was easy to read. Oscar’s manner was flamboyant;
his speech was florid; but his handwriting was surprisingly neat. ‘And what
does all this tell us?’

‘It
tells us what we do not know, which is much— and it tells us, also, that some
of what we know makes no sense.’

I
looked at him, confused.

‘We
know who was at the fateful meeting of the Socrates Club on the night of 1 May,
but we do not yet know, in every instance, which diner chose which victim. We
need to find out. This morning, before breakfast, I telephoned Arthur Conan
Doyle.’

‘And
how was he?’ I interjected.

‘In fine
fettle. Never better. Convinced that Inspector Gilmour is right and that
McMuirtree’s bizarre and bloody death has nothing to do with us. “Just an
unlucky coincidence,” according to Arthur. It was not yet nine o’clock when I
put through my telephone call. The good doctor had already completed his
morning course of callisthenics and breakfasted sensibly, on porridge not on
kippers. He told me that he was planning to spend the morning in his hut,
moulding his damp clay while contemplating ways and means of doing away with
Sherlock Holmes. He was as brim-full of good cheer as a choirboy at Christmas
until I asked him a question about the night of 1 May …’

‘Ah,’ I
murmured, leaning forward.

Oscar
smiled at me. ‘You are a good audience, Robert. You will never lack friends.’

‘Well?’
I said. ‘What did you ask him?’

‘I
asked Dr Doyle if he had chosen
me
as his particular “victim” on the
night when we played that foolish game of “Murder”. He seemed taken aback by
the question—quite shocked by the suggestion, in fact. “Why should I name you,
Oscar?” he asked. “Why not?” I replied. “Willie Hornung named Sherlock Holmes
as his victim,” I reminded him, “and Willie is your friend.” “Willie’s just a
foolish boy,” said Arthur. “Was it you who named me, Arthur?” I repeated.
“Certainly not,” he said. He said it quite indignantly. “Then who did you
name?” I asked.’ Oscar paused and took another sip of wine. He swallowed it
slowly and closed his eyes.

‘Well?’
I prompted him, impatiently.

Oscar
opened his eyes and looked at me steadily. ‘“No one,” said Arthur. “I named no
one.”‘

‘What
on earth did he mean?’

‘“What
do you mean, Arthur?” I asked him. “You named no one?” “I named no one,”
repeated Arthur. “I did not wish to participate in the game, so I named no one.
Mine was the blank piece of paper drawn from the bag.”‘

‘Ah …’
I said.

‘You
may well say “Ah!”, Robert,’ Oscar smiled. ‘I said to Arthur on the telephone: “Yours
cannot have been the blank piece of paper drawn from the bag, my friend.” “And
why not, pray?” he asked. “Because, Arthur,” I explained, “the blank piece of
paper drawn from the bag—it was mine.”‘

‘But,
Oscar,’ I said cautiously, ‘I was at the dinner. I was watching you as we
played the game. I’m sure I saw you writing a name on your slip of paper …
I’m sure of it.’

‘The
eye can deceive, Robert. You certainly saw me applying the nib of my pen to a
slip of paper, but the nib was dry. I moved the pen across the paper, but I
left no mark.’

‘Gracious
me,’ I murmured, putting down my glass. ‘This means— ‘Yes,’ mused Oscar,
lighting another cigarette, ‘just’ one blank slip of paper drawn from the bag,
but two people claiming credit for it—and two people one likes to think one
could trust. The glass darkens, Robert. The plot thickens. The mystery deepens.
Despite my grid, I’m at a loss. Perhaps, like poor, doomed Holmes, I should
resort to drugs or the violin as aids to inspiration. Do you keep cocaine in
your rooms, Robert? Do you have a Stradivarius I might borrow?’

‘No,’ I
answered, laughing. ‘The only musical instrument I own is a triangle. You’re
welcome to that.’

‘A
triangle? How wise, Robert—so much easier to pack.’

I
smiled and looked down at his ‘grid’. ‘What is “psittacicide”?’ I asked.

‘“The
killing of parrots”,’ he answered. ‘I grieve for your classical education,
Robert. You are the great-grandson of William Wordsworth!’

I
decided to rise above his banter. ‘The deaths in this case are certainly
unusual,’ I remarked.

‘Are
they not?’ he said, leaning forward. ‘Elizabeth Scott-Rivers is consumed by
fire; Bradford Pearse is thrown to the waves; for David McMuirtree it is death
by a thousand cuts … This is manslaughter on an apocalyptic scale.’

‘Lord
Abergordon died in his sleep,’ I said, returning his sheet of foolscap to him.

‘So we
are told.’ He drained his glass and extinguished his cigarette briskly. He
waved towards the waiter for our bill. ‘How do you think the murderer plans to
despatch me?’ he asked, smiling.

‘Do you
truly believe your life is threatened, Oscar?’

‘You’ve
seen the ugly little man with the sallow skin and the ferret’s eyes. He’s
trailing me for a purpose, Robert—and it’s not a benign one. My life is
threatened, without doubt … And Constance’s life, also. I have loved her. I
owe her much. I married her. I must protect her now.’

‘Perhaps
you should ask Gilmour to put a police guard on Tite Street,’ I suggested.

‘Not
yet. Constance knows nothing of this still. I do not want to alarm her before I
must. According to the logic of the grid, we should both be safe enough till
Friday. These deaths occur sequentially and on the day appointed.’ He glanced
down at his ‘grid’. ‘I am not surprised that Friday the thirteenth is destined
as my doomsday.’ Smiling, he folded the sheet of paper and placed it carefully
in his jacket pocket. ‘We have three days in which to solve the mystery,
Robert. Three days in which to find our murderer.’ He pocketed his pencil and
his cigarette case, wiped his lips with his napkin and tossed it lightly onto
the table.

‘Can it
be done?’ I asked, puzzled at how sanguine he seemed under the circumstances.

He got
to his feet and straightened his waistcoat in a business-like fashion. ‘When
you think what our Lord managed in three days at the end of Holy Week, I am
full of hope, Robert. With your assistance, my friend, and with the aid of our
grid, anything is possible. Come.’

I got
to my feet. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

‘To
meet the suspects, one by one. In turn, to interview each of those who attended
the Socrates Club dinner—to learn his secret. We shall start here. I trust you
have brought your notebook with you?’

In the
entrance hallway of the Cadogan Hotel, we found young Nat, Oscar’s friend, the
freckled pageboy.

‘We’re
looking for Mr Byrd, Nat,’ said Oscar, slipping the lad a sixpenny piece. ‘Is
he about?’

The boy
glanced at the grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs. ‘He’ll still be in
his bedroom, Mr Wilde, but he should be awake. Shall I take you?’

The boy
led us through a series of baize-covered doors, along a labyrinth of dark
corridors to a narrow stone staircase at the very back of the building. ‘It’s
seventy steps, Mr Wilde,’ said the boy solicitously, ‘Can you manage?’

‘I have
no idea!’ exclaimed Oscar. ‘I have never attempted anything so hazardous
before.’

In the
event, Oscar climbed the stairs quite nimbly. At every landing, he paused and
asked the boy a different question. What did Nat think of Mr Byrd? He liked
him: Byrd was a magician and Nat liked that. Did Mr Byrd have many friends?
Beyond Mr McMuirtree, none that Nat knew of. Mr Byrd kept himself very much to
himself. How had the hotel night manager felt about Captain Flint? According to
Nat, Mr Byrd thought the world of the parrot. ‘He loved that parrot, Mr
Wilde—doted on it.’ Had the boy seen Mr Byrd on the previous evening? Yes, Mr
Byrd was in and around the hotel all evening, as usual. ‘He was mostly in his
office or in the lobby. I was on duty till ten, Mr Wilde, like normal. I’m sure
Mr Byrd never left the building all night.’

When we
reached the attic floor, Nat led us along a narrow uncarpeted corridor, where
the ceiling was so low Oscar had to duck his head. There were unpainted,
unvarnished pinewood doors on either side of the corridor and the only light
came from a round window at the far end. ‘All the male live-in staff sleep up
here,’ explained the boy. ‘I share with Billy, the other page-boy, and with Dan
and Jonty, the two kitchen lads. We’re opposite Mr Byrd. He’s here.’ We had
reached the last door in the corridor.

‘Thank
you, Nat,’ said Oscar, producing another coin for the boy. ‘You have brought us
to the summit. We’ll do our best to find our own way down.’

The boy
took the coin in his left hand and, with his right, gave us a smart salute.
With a grin, he then opened his left hand to reveal that the coin had
disappeared. Next, he passed his right hand lightly over his head and held out
his right palm to reveal Oscar’s coin lying on it.

‘Bravo!’
I said.

‘How
old are you now, lad?’ asked Oscar.

‘Fifteen,
sir,’ said the boy, ‘sixteen nearly.’

‘Romeo’s
age a perfect age. Stick with it, Nat. The secret of remaining young is never
to have an emotion that is unbecoming. You understand that, don’t you?’

‘I
don’t understand a word you say, Mr Wilde, but I know it’s good stuff.’

The boy
scampered off down the corridor and Oscar, smiling, knocked on Byrd’s bedroom
door.

‘Come!’
called a voice from within.

We
entered the room. It was dark and uncomfortably hot. There was an unsavoury
stench in the air, the odour of sweat and sour milk. ‘You do not lock your
door, Mr Byrd?’ asked Oscar.

‘I have
nothing to fear, I hope,’ said Byrd. He was sitting on the edge of his bed,
clothed but unshaven. He did not stir as we came into the room. He sat as he
was, his narrow shoulders slumped forward, his cadaverous head bowed low. A gas
lamp glowed dismally on the bedside table.

‘You
have heard the news?’ Oscar enquired.

Byrd
nodded. His hands were clasped together on his lap. Between them he appeared to
be kneading a small piece of coloured cloth, pressing it and turning it between
his clenched right fist and his cupped left palm. ‘Yes,’ he said, barely above
a whisper, ‘I have heard the news. Mr Sickert and Mr Brookfield came to the
hotel late last night. Not to see me, of course. They came by for a nightcap,
that’s all. But when they were leaving they passed me in the hallway. They told
me what had happened.’