Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (38 page)

‘Can
you remember what was said?’ I asked.

‘Arthur
was saying that he thought that Oscar had missed his vocation, that Oscar—had
he so chosen-could have become a private consulting detective quite as
brilliant and perceptive as Sherlock Holmes. Brookfield scoffed and said,
“Oscar Wilde as a detective is a preposterous notion. Indeed, Oscar Wilde as a
person is a preposterous notion. Oscar Wilde is a charlatan.”‘

‘He
said this at dinner?’

‘After
dinner, as we were preparing to leave. I imagine he was drunk.’

‘Did
Conan Doyle rebuke him?’

‘Arthur
was very calm, very dignified. He said. “Mr Brookfield, history will show you
that the so-called charlatan is always the pioneer. From the astrologer came
the astronomer, from the alchemist the chemist, from the mesmerist the
experimental psychologist. The quack of yesterday is the professor of tomorrow.
Mr Wilde is by no means preposterous. He is merely ahead of his time.”’

‘And
what did Brookfield say to that?’

‘“That’s
a very pretty speech, I’m sure, sir, but it don’t change my opinion of Mr Oscar
Wilde.”‘

As he
spoke, Hornung kept looking over his shoulder as if fearing the imminent
arrival of the monstrous editor he was employed to assist. ‘Forgive me,
Robert,’ he said. ‘I must get back to my chewing—gum.’

‘And
what about your “secret”?’ I asked. ‘Oscar says everybody has a “secret”.
What’s yours?’

Hornung
laughed nervously and pushed his
pince-nez
up his nose. ‘Oscar already
knows mine. It’s my name …’

‘Your
name?’

‘I call
myself William—everyone knows me as Willie—but that’s not my first name.’

‘And
that’s your secret?’

‘Yes,’
he said, running his hands through his hair again.

‘And
what is your first name?’ I asked.

‘Ernest,’
he said. ‘My name is Ernest. Oscar seemed to think that was very funny indeed.’

I left
Hornung and walked in the spring sunshine from Fleet Street to the Strand, down
Savoy Hill to the Embankment, past Gatti’s in the Arches (George Daubeney and
Wat Sickert’s favourite music hall), past Charing Cross railway station, to
Scotland Yard. Inspector Gilmour was not in his office and not expected back
before dusk. He was out on a case— in the East End’, on the trail of some ‘notorious
villains’—and his deputy and his deputy’s deputy were both with him. According
to the desk sergeant, an amiable officer of riper years, I could expect ‘progress
in the matter of the McMuirtree murder any minute now—certainly within the
week’. I left Gilmour a note, signed on Oscar’s behalf, inviting him to come to
dinner at the Cadogan Hotel on Friday night, at half past seven, bringing one
of his deputies with him.

From
Scotland Yard I walked on towards Westminster Bridge where I picked up another
cab and travelled on to the King’s Road, to the Chelsea Arts Club. I found
Walter Sickert in the club mess room, the large studio at the back of the
building, sitting alone with a plate of ham and pickled onions and a bottle of
Algerian wine. He was reading a letter when I arrived. He looked up at me with
tears in his sea-green eyes.

‘Get
yourself a glass,’ he said, pushing his bottle of wine towards me. ‘I am
reading a letter from a friend of mine in Paris. He knew Van Gogh—the Dutch
artist who killed himself.’

I
poured myself a glass of wine.

‘Van
Gogh’s paintings are so full of life, so full of sunshine and colour, and yet
the poor man was so wretched in this world that he killed himself.’ He waved
the letter he was holding in my direction. ‘Do you know what Van Gogh’s dying
words were?
“La tristesse durera toujours
.”’

‘“The
sadness will last forever,” ‘I translated.

‘No,’
said Sickert, raising his glass to his lips. ‘“The sadness will never go away.”
There’s a difference …’ He skewered a pickled onion with his fork. ‘Do you
think Bradford Pearse felt like that?’

‘Have
you had any news of Pearse?’ I asked.

‘None,’
he said. ‘Has Oscar?’

‘I
don’t believe so.’

Sickert
blew his nose on a huge blue handkerchief and nodded towards the small, torn
buff-coloured envelope that lay beneath his letter on the table. ‘Oscar sent me
a wire. He said you might drop by. Oscar’s a good man—a touch absurd, of
course, but fundamentally good.’

I
smiled. It was amusing to hear Wat Sickert, with his outsized bow-tie, his
yellow spats and waxed moustache, describe Oscar as ‘a touch absurd’.

Sickert
went on: ‘I have known Oscar since I was a boy. He used to come on holiday with
us, you know. He was wonderful to my mother when my father died. Mother was inconsolable—until
Oscar came to call. He talked to her of my father with such sweetness, such
gentle humour. He taught her how to laugh once more.’ He wiped more tears from
his eyes and waved the empty wine bottle in the air in the hope of attracting a
waiter’s attention. ‘Of course, some people can’t abide Oscar—think he’s the
most dreadful bore. Wasn’t it you who told me that Victor Hugo actually fell
asleep during one of dear Oscar’s wittiest set-pieces?’

I
laughed. ‘It was.’ The waiter arrived with a fresh bottle. ‘Of course,’ I
added, ‘Monsieur Hugo was very old at the time.’

Sickert
recharged our glasses. ‘Let us drink to Oscar,’ he said. ‘He’s a great man. And
a darling. And a good friend, too. He’s going to unravel the secret of these
mysterious deaths, you mark my words. Who killed the parrot? Who pushed poor
Bradford Pearse to his doom? Who slashed the boxer’s wrists? I’ve no idea—none
at all!—but Oscar will uncover the truth, I know it. He has a genius for this
kind of thing.’

I took
one of the pickled onions from Sickert’s plate. ‘Gilmour of the Yard is also on
the case,’ I said.

Sickert
put down his glass dramatically, splashing wine onto the table. ‘Forget Gilmour
of the Yard,’ he expostulated. ‘Oscar will do it—alone, unaided. Two artists
sit side by side painting the same subject. Only one of the paintings works.
Whistler taught me that. Whistler used to say that “the bogey of success only
sits on one palette”. Oscar will do it single-handed.’ He laughed and poured
more wine into his glass. ‘Which is fortunate as, sadly, I have no help to
offer. No useful recollections, no helpful
aperçus.
I must drink up and
return to my studio. What are you doing this afternoon, Robert? I am
discovering the delights of a new model this afternoon. I am spending the rest
of the day with skin that’s quite unblemished, with tiny ankles, lissom thighs,
a slim waist and breasts so firm and small that they might be a boy’s … Have
you ever painted a virgin, Robert?’

‘No,’ I
said, ‘I’m not an artist.’

‘Or
slept with one?’ he added, waving his glass in the air. ‘It amounts to the same
thing.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

QUESTIONS, QUESTIONS

At eleven o’clock that
evening, my head aching from a surfeit of Algerian wine, I made my way into the
smoking room of the Albemarle Club, 36 Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. To my
surprise, Oscar was already there. He was standing by the fireplace, his right
elbow resting gently on the oak mantelpiece, his right hand nursing a large
glass of brandy. He was not alone. Seated in the low leather armchairs on
either side of the fireplace were the Douglas brothers. Bosie, who appeared to
be wearing tennis clothes, was lying back languidly, his arms flopping on to
the floor, his head cast to one side, his eyes closed. Francis, Lord
Drumlanrig, by contrast, was in evening dress, sitting forward on the edge of
his chair, his face flushed and his eyes alert. He was gazing resolutely
towards Oscar.

‘You’ve
not forgotten us,’ cried my friend, as I arrived. ‘We thought perhaps you had.’
Oscar, I sensed at once, was in a teasing frame of mind.

‘How
was Oxford?’ I asked, going to the sideboard and helping myself to a weak
brandy and soda. ‘Have you made progress?’

‘Oxford,’
said Oscar, who looked extraordinarily fresh given the lateness of the hour and
the length of his day, ‘was all that we dared hoped for. Our essay, I’m proud
to tell you, Robert, was considered Alpha material. Socrates, Spinoza, Saint-Simon,
Sappho— we brought them all into play and Bosie’s tutor was suitably impressed.
The dear old gentleman did not appear to notice that our references were chosen
entirely for their alliterative allure. He chewed happily on his handkerchief
throughout our reading and offered us each a glass of sherry at the end of it.’

‘You
read Bosie’s essay out loud for him?’

‘I
wrote it; I read it; Bosie takes the credit. It is extraordinary what you can
get away with if you try. I’m sure Sickert will have shared Whistler’s maxim
with you: “In art, nothing matters so long as you are bold.” In my experience, that’s
true in life as well.’

Lord
Drumlanrig was still gazing fixedly at Oscar. He was twenty-five years old. He
was not as beautiful as his younger brother. Francis Drumlanrig had what Oscar
called ‘utilitarian good looks: they serve, they don’t inspire’. The young aristocrat
shifted further forward on his chair. ‘If that’s all, Oscar,’ he said, somewhat
awkwardly, ‘I’ll be on my way. I must look in on Lord Rosebery before midnight.
I’m expected. Thanks for the drink.’

He got
to his feet and offered Oscar his hand. Oscar took it and held it and turned to
me. ‘Francis kindly joined us after dinner,’ he explained. ‘I had some
questions for him and he has answered them all—most helpfully. I have to say he
submitted to my cross-examination with an extraordinarily good grace.’ Oscar
let go of the young man’s hand. ‘He blushes. He is embarrassed. There is no
need. I asked Lord Drumlanrig if he had met the late David McMuirtree on any
occasion prior to the 1 May gathering of the Socrates Club. He acknowledged
that he had just the once. It was a secret meeting, a brief encounter, an
assignation on Westminster Bridge—arranged by McMuirtree at McMuirtree’s
request.’

The
young peer stood to attention, with his arms at his side, his cheeks burning,
his eyes now firmly fixed on the empty fire grate.

Oscar
went on: ‘McMuirtree told Lord Drumlanrig that rumours were circulating—rumours
of a most unsavoury nature, rumours suggesting that the older man was exerting
an unnatural influence over the younger. As you know, Lord Drumlanrig is Lord
Rosebery’s political secretary. McMuirtree warned him that certain people—the
Marquess of Queensberry among them—were saying that Lord Drumlanrig and Lord
Rosebery were lovers.

‘I
denied any wrongdoing,’ said Drumlanrig hoarsely, still staring into the grate.
‘I denied it absolutely.’

‘He
denied it absolutely,’ repeated Oscar gently. ‘He told McMuirtree not to meddle
in matters that did not concern him. He told McMuirtree to mind his own his
business. He told him so in no uncertain terms.’

‘Did he
threaten him?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’
said Francis Drumlanrig, turning and looking at me with dark, bewildered eyes,
‘I threatened him—in a manner of speaking. I threatened him, but I did not
murder him.’ He bent over and picked up a newspaper from the floor. ‘I must go
now, Oscar. Forgive me. Goodnight, Oscar. Goodnight, Sherard.’

‘Well …’
I said, with a sigh, after Drumlanrig had gone. ‘Well, well …’

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar. ‘There is much to ponder. And I imagine, Robert, there is also much
to report. We’ve had busy days the both of us.’ He drained his glass and put it
on the mantelpiece. ‘Let’s to bed now. I’m sleeping at the club tonight. I’ll
pick you up in Gower Street at noon.’ He put his arm around me and led me
towards the door. ‘Come, let’s tiptoe out. We’ll leave Bosie sleeping here. His
triumph in Oxford has exhausted him.’

I was exhausted, too. And
foolish. I reached my room in Gower Street as midnight struck and yet I did not
put out my lamp until gone three in the morning. First, I allowed myself to be
distracted by re-reading and attempting to draft a reply to yet another
importunate letter from my estranged wife’s solicitor; next, I decided to write
up my journal while the events of the day were still relatively fresh in my
mind; finally (and fatally!) I began to read a licentious volume George
Daubeney had encouraged me to buy on one of our visits to the
Librairie
Française.
When, eventually, sated with the absurd antics of the libidinous
nuns and novices of the
Couvent de la Concupiscence,
I put the book
aside and closed my eyes, I fell asleep almost at once. I was dead to the world
for nigh on nine hours. It was Oscar who woke me, rat-tatting on the front door
with his sword-stick.

I
looked out of my window and waved down to him. He was dressed immaculately,
wearing a dove-grey frock coat and lemon-yellow gloves. (He kept clothes in an
assortment of London clubs and hotels.) He raised his black silk top hat to me
and indicated the four-wheeler at the kerbside that awaited us. I threw on my
clothes—the clothes I had worn the day before !—and ran down the stairs to join
him.