Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (36 page)

‘Put it
away, Bosie,’ cautioned Oscar, turning away from the young aristocrat and
shading his eyes with the backs of his hands. ‘You are making an exhibition of
yourself.’

Lord
Alfred Douglas laughed, kissed the barrel of the little palm pistol and slipped
it into his blazer pocket. ‘I’ve just wasted a shilling sending you a wire,
Oscar,’ he said, stepping away from the doorway of the post office and looking
disdainfully at the members of the public who were staring at him open-mouthed
in astonishment. ‘I have to go to Oxford tomorrow. My tutor is demanding my
presence. He says that if I fail to appear in his rooms by twelve noon, essay in
hand, I shall be sent down.’

‘And
what has this to do with me?’ asked Oscar warily, raising an eyebrow.

‘I want
you to come with me to Oxford tomorrow, Oscar. You can write my essay for me on
the train.’

‘Don’t
be absurd, Bosie.’

‘Don’t
be unkind, Oscar.
Please.
It doesn’t need to be a very long essay. Or
very good. Just a page or two on “The Evolution of the Moral Idea”. I’ve not
the first notion of where to begin. You’ll do it so beautifully, Oscar, so
charmingly. Please, Oscar,
cher ami.
My whole academic future depends on
it.’

Oscar
looked at the young man and sighed. He pushed the boy’s boater to the back of
his head so that a heavy flop of fair hair fell across his right eye. ‘Lord
Alfred Douglas, you are utterly ridiculous. You will not be sent down from the
university for failing to produce an essay on time. You might be for parading
in the streets of London in possession of a firearm with intent to kill.
However …’ He smiled and shook his head wearily. ‘For your own protection,
therefore,’ he continued, ‘and for no other reason, I will accompany you to
Oxford tomorrow.’

Alfred
Douglas clapped his hands together and cheered. ‘Thank you, old fellow. Thank
you! And the essay?’

‘We
shall work at it on the train
together.’

The
young man punched his older friend affectionately on the shoulder. ‘You’re the
business, Oscar. You’re the best.’

‘And
now, Bosie,’ said Oscar, firmly, ‘when I have despatched my telegrams, I trust
you will join us for luncheon in Tite Street.’

‘No,’
said the boy at once, ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m lunching with Mama. I promised.
We’re celebrating Father’s latest humiliation.’ He glanced at his timepiece and
grimaced. ‘I must go. I’m late.’ Suddenly he looked at us both and grinned
excitedly. ‘Of course, last night you were there! At the Ring of Death—in at
the kill. Apparently, there was blood all over the shop. The papers are full of
it. Poor McMuirtree murdered even though he played by the Queensberry Rules!’
He brought his boater forward onto his head. ‘You must tell me all about it
tomorrow, Oscar. Write the essay tonight, old man, then we can
talk
on
the train. That’ll be so much more fun. “The Evolution of the Moral Idea”—a
thousand words will do it. Nine o’clock at Paddington. The usual Oxford
platform. Will you get the tickets? Bless you, Oscar. Goodbye, Robert.’

He
shook my hand. He embraced Oscar. And he was gone. With Lord Alfred Douglas it
was ever thus.

Oscar
went into the post office to send his telegrams. I found a news vendor and
bought a selection of the early editions of the evening papers. All featured
the mysterious murder at Astley’s Circus on the front page and most did so in
lurid detail. The
Standard
described McMuirtree as ‘a well-known figure
in boxing circles who, it now transpires, led a double life as a police informant’.
The
Evening News
reported that Inspector Gilmour of Scotland Yard
already had a number of potential suspects in his sights,’ notorious villains
bent upon destroying Mr McMuirtree because of what he knew’. On an inside page,
the
Star
carried photographs of some of the distinguished audience who
had witnessed the tragic events of the night before, including the Marquess of
Queensberry, the Earl of Rosebery, Dr Arthur Conan Doyle and Mr Oscar Wilde.

In the
cab to Tite Street, as we scanned the press, and Oscar clucked and tutted at
what he read, I suggested that, perhaps, we should try to keep the papers away
from Constance.

‘The
prose style is appalling, Robert, I agree,’ Oscar answered, shaking his head
despairingly. ‘We must protect my lamb as best we can. She is quite sensitive.’

‘Be
serious, Oscar.’

He
looked at me and smiled. ‘We can hardly keep last night’s massacre a secret,
Robert. McMuirtree was a guest in our house two days ago. His sudden death—the
horrific manner of his murder—the servants will be speaking of little else …
But I agree—there is still no need to tell Constance about the Socrates Club
dinner and my foolish game and its deadly consequences …’

‘Should
we not warn her, if her life is in danger?’

‘To
what purpose? In my experience, a worry shared is a worry doubled. In any
event, I believe she is safe enough till Friday.’

At Tite
Street, Arthur the butler greeted us at the front door. ‘I was sorry to hear
about Mr McMuirtree, sir. Nasty business.’

‘Indeed,
Arthur. Very nasty. Is Mrs Wilde about?’

‘She is
upstairs, sir. Luncheon will be served in fifteen minutes.’

We made
our way upstairs. Oscar went on to the second floor, ‘to spend a penny’, he
said archly, and to find his wife. I let myself into the first-floor drawing room.
It was my favourite room at Tite Street. It was, by the standards of the time,
extraordinarily uncluttered. The white wallpapered walls were hung with
etchings by James Whistler and Mortimer Menpes. The unique ceiling was
Whistler’s work as well: it featured an awning of peacock feathers! I made my
way over to the painted grand piano that stood in the corner of the room and
looked out onto the Wildes’ small and somewhat barren back garden. As I stood
by the window I was overcome by a curious sensation … I felt I was being
observed by an unseen power; I became conscious of an invisible ‘presence’
nearby.

I
turned and looked about the room. There was no one there. I turned back and
gazed out of the window once more. Again I felt a hidden ‘presence’. I looked
down towards the floor. My eyes followed the painted white skirting board to
the fringed edge of the white velour curtains that framed the window. Beneath
the curtain’s fringe I saw a pair of feet in leather ankle boots.

Appalled,
unthinking, I pulled back the curtain and grabbed the figure lurking there. I
took him by the throat and threw him to his knees. Then I saw who it was. I
barked at him: ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

Slowly,
Edward Heron-Allen got to his feet, dusting down his trousers and adjusting his
collar. ‘Steady on, old boy,’ he said. ‘This ain’t your house, you know.’

I
looked at the man and felt my gorge rise with loathing. He was so at ease with
himself, so self-assured, so complacent.

‘What
the deuce were you doing behind that curtain?’ I demanded.

‘Waiting
for Constance,’ he said lightly.

He made
me burn with rage. ‘Waiting for Constance?’ I repeated angrily.

‘We
were playing a game of hide-and-seek. We play games together. It’s quite
natural. It’s what brothers and sisters do.’

‘You
are not Mrs Wilde’s brother,’ I hissed at him.

‘Would
that I were,’ he said. ‘I love her as a man should love his sister—easily,
without complication.’

‘I
don’t understand you,’ I said.

‘I see
that,’ said Heron-Allen. ‘You love Constance, too—but your love is tinged with
guilt. You don’t love her as a brother. You love her as a man loves a woman—you
love her with desire in your heart, with lust in your eyes. And that’s not easy
for you because you love Oscar also and Constance is Oscar’s ever-faithful
wife.’

‘I
don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘It
matters not,’ said Heron-Allen. ‘Lust and love are particular interests of
mine, that’s all.’

‘Along
with violin-making, cock-fighting and the forbidden literature of Persia,’ I
added, making no attempt to conceal my contempt.

‘In the
matter of the no-man’s-land between lust and love, we can learn much from the
Persians,’ he said, moving past me towards the mirror that hung above the
fireplace. He peered into the looking glass. With delicate hands he adjusted
his hair. With his tongue he moistened his forefinger and carefully pushed back
each of his eyebrows. ‘In matters of carnality, other cultures have much to
teach us. I have studied bestiality, you know—congress between man and beast.
And necrophilia. Where lust ends and love begins … it’s all very intriguing.’

‘And is
this the sort of stuff with which you edify Mrs Wilde,’ I asked, ‘when you two
are playing your “games” together?’

‘No,’
he laughed. ‘Of course not. Mrs Wilde and I are friends—true friends. That’s
all. My wife has been away for a month, visiting her sister and her sister’s
new-born baby. Oscar is always otherwise engaged. Constance and I have made
time for each other because we take delight in each other’s company. We play
together and are happier because of it. In England only children are allowed to
play. That is a pity.’

Suddenly,
the drawing-room door was opened. It was Constance, looking as lovely as I had
ever seen her. ‘Is this where you two have been hiding?’ she chided. ‘Luncheon
is served. Come now. Oscar is growing impatient.’

Over
lunch—pea soup, griddled lamb chops, and blackcurrant-and-apple pie—I said very
little. Edward Heron-Allen said a great deal. Oscar, drinking white Burgundy,
and Constance, drinking lemonade, looked on him with unaffected admiration as
though he were a favourite child, an infant prodigy. The range of his interests
was certainly extraordinary and the depth of his erudition undoubtedly
impressive. In fairness, I could not fault him either on grounds of decorum or
discretion. We talked of McMuirtree’s murder, inevitably, but Heron-Allen
glossed over the most horrific details of the boxer’s death and went out of his
way to steer the conversation towards sunnier topics: the beauty and
intelligence of the Wilde children, the origins of the English eating apple,
the subtlety of Mozart’s late violin sonatas, the absurdity of the new
paintings at the Royal Academy, the prospects for Mr Irving’s
King Lear,
Oscar’s
continuing triumph at the St James’s.

After
lunch, Constance invited Heron-Allen to join her and her boys for a walk in
Hyde Park. To my astonishment, Oscar (who regarded a stroll down Piccadilly as
a two-mile hike and a two-mile hike as an utter impossibility) proposed that he
and I should join them.

‘Oscar,’
exclaimed his wife, as amazed as I was, ‘what on earth has come over you?’

‘Don’t
I say in my play that health is the primary duty of life?’ Oscar answered,
getting to his feet and breathing deeply while placing his fingers lightly
across his diaphragm. ‘I think a post-prandial perambulation will be most
invigorating.’ He exhaled slowly and then, apparently exhausted, began to feel
in his jacket pocket for his cigarette case. ‘But you may be right, my
dear—going as far as the park might be overdoing it. Perhaps we could just
amble up the road to Brompton Cemetery?’

‘Take
the boys to a graveyard, Oscar?’ said Constance, furrowing her brow. ‘Something
has
come over you!’

‘Not
the graveyard,’ said Oscar quickly. ‘The allotments to the south of the
graveyard.’

‘Do you
have allotments nearby?’ asked Heron-Allen with enthusiasm. ‘I should love to
see your allotments.’

Together,
Oscar and I burst out laughing.

‘What
is so funny, gentlemen?’ Constance enquired reprovingly.

Oscar
spluttered: ‘Edward saying he’d love to see our allotments … I believe he
means it.’

‘I do,’
said Edward Heron-Allen, seriously. ‘The development of urban horticulture is a
particular interest of mine.’

It took us no more than
half an hour to reach the small plot of allotments to the south side of
Brompton Cemetery. Oscar and Heron-Allen led the way, with Oscar proudly
pushing his older son, Cyril, along the street in a child’s chariot while
Heron-Allen carried his godson, Vyvyan, on his shoulders. Constance and I
followed behind them, arm in arm. It was a delightful walk. Heron-Allen was
right: when Constance held my arm tight as we crossed the road my feelings
towards her were indeed tinged with guilt.

The
allotments, when we found them, were an unimpressive sight: ten small plots of
ground, each no more than fifteen feet square, all overgrown, all unkempt.
‘These do not look much loved,’ said Heron-Allen sadly, lifting his godson to
the ground. The two Wilde boys scampered around the allotments happily, jumping
across the beds, sniffing at what flowers there were, pulling at the greenery. Almost
at once, at the edge of the allotments, by the railings that bordered the
cemetery, the boys discovered a small mound of newly turned earth and began to
poke at it with small sticks of wood. ‘Is this a sand-castle, Papa?’ asked
Cyril.

‘No,’
said Oscar, ‘I think it is a parrot’s grave.’