Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (4 page)

‘It
opens on 19 May,’ he announced, ‘my thirty-fifth birthday—it’s a present to
myself. And it’s all about you, Oscar!’

Oscar
inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘How clever of you, Charles, to give the
public what they want.’

‘It’s a
burlesque, Oscar—a satire on
Lady Windermere‘s Fan.
It’s a little sharp
at times, but Bram assures me you won’t mind.’

‘Praise
makes me humble,’ answered Oscar, ‘but when I am abused I know that I have
touched the stars.’

At 7.30
p.m., the hour at which the Socrates Club dinner was customarily served, Oscar
enquired of Byrd, ‘Are we all gathered? There only seem to be thirteen in the
room.’

‘My
guest is late, Mr Wilde,’ answered Byrd, wincing as he spoke. ‘It’s not like
him to be late. My profound apologies. He will be here in the instant.’

Oscar
glanced down at the piece of paper on which he had drawn up the seating plan
for the dinner. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘“David McMuirtree” … I’ve not met him
before, have I?’

‘I
don’t believe so, Mr Wilde,’ said Byrd, looking anxiously towards the door.

‘He
appears to know you, Oscar,’ I said.

‘You’ve
met him, Robert?’

‘Briefly,’
I replied, ‘just the once.’

‘McMuirtree?’
said Charles Brookfield, raising an eyebrow. ‘I recognise the name. Is he a
gentleman?’

‘He’s
what you’d call “half-a-gentleman”, sir,’ said Byrd, apologetically. ‘His
mother was a lady, but his father was a footman.’

‘A
footman!’ exclaimed Oscar. ‘How delightful. How tall?’

Byrd
looked confused. ‘I don’t follow you, Mr Wilde.’

‘How
tall was McMuirtree’s father? Do you know? The taller the footman, the greater
his remuneration.’

‘I
don’t know about the father, Mr Wilde, but McMuirtree must be over six foot.’

‘I’m
delighted to hear it,’ said Oscar, who was more than six foot himself. ‘Is your
friend a footman like his father? I’ve no objection to dining with a footman,
needless to ,say, but I’m not sure Mr Brookfield could cope.

Byrd
gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, no, sir. David McMuirtree’s a boxer. He works the
fairgrounds. I know him from my time on the halls. He was a champion in his
day. I believe he once had the honour of going a round or two with Lord
Queensberry. He’s never been in service, I assure you. He’s a fine figure of a
man. You’ll like him, Mr Wilde.’

At this
point, a tall, broad, handsome man of about forty appeared in the dining-room
doorway. His head and face were totally clean-shaven and his dark brown skin
had a sheen to it like polished chestnut. His nose was prominent, but unbroken;
his eyes were blue-black, but warm. His evening dress was immaculate. He wore a
green carnation in his buttonhole.

‘I like
him very much,’ said Oscar.

‘I
thought you would,’ muttered Byrd, evidently relieved. ‘Shall I have dinner
served, Mr Wilde?’

‘If you
would, Byrd. Thank you.’ Oscar stepped across the dining room and shook
McMuirtree cordially by the hand. ‘Welcome to our little club, Mr McMuirtree.
Socrates taught us that there is only one good and that is knowledge; and only
one evil, ignorance. Already, I feel better for knowing you.’

‘Thank
you, Mr Wilde,’ said McMuirtree, bowing his head and speaking in a tone so
hushed that he was barely audible.

‘There’s
no need to whisper here,’ said Oscar, genially. ‘You are among friends.’

‘I fear
I have no choice but to speak like this,’ answered the boxer in the softest of
whispers. ‘My vocal chords were destroyed some years ago in a bout in
Birmingham. I was hammered in the neck by a lunatic.’

‘I am
sorry to hear it,’ said Oscar, lowering his voice to match McMuirtree’s.

‘Not
everyone plays by the Queensberry Rules,’ said the boxer with a smile.

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar. He turned to the room and clapped his hands together loudly.

‘Hush!’
cried Bosie. ‘The chairman speaks!’

‘Gentlemen,’
said Oscar, ‘kindly take your seats. Dinner is about to be served. You will
find name cards at your places. The seating plan is my responsibility, but the
menu and choice of wines, as ever, have been left to Byrd. He rarely lets us
down.’

When we
had all found our places, Oscar took up his position at the head of the table
and clapped his hands once more. ‘Welcome, gentlemen, welcome. I should explain
to newcomers, this is a club virtually without rules. To keep Wat happy, you
are even allowed to come dressed as you please. We shall say Grace tonight
because we are honoured to have a man of the cloth among us—’ he nodded towards
George Daubeney—’and, as ever, we shall have a loyal toast because Her Majesty
is always present in our hearts. Other than that, we have no formalities no
speeches—and you may say whatever you please—’ Oscar looked directly at David
McMuirtree—’you may
whisper
whatever you please, knowing that whatever
is uttered or undertaken in this room tonight remains between us.’

A
rumble of ‘Hear, hear!’ ran around the table, interrupted by Bosie who called
out, ‘We have no rules, Oscar, but we do have one tradition.’

‘Do
we?’ asked Sickert.

‘Of
course we do,’ said Bosie. ‘Oscar’s game.’

‘Oh,
yes,’ said Oscar. ‘After dinner, we play a game.’

‘What’s
it to be tonight, Oscar?’ asked Bosie. ‘Have you decided?’

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar, ‘I have it in hand … or as Mrs Robinson might say, I have it in
my “unhappy hand”… “Murder” is the game we shall be playing tonight. Mr
Daubeney—George—will you be so kind as to give us Grace?’

The
seating plan

for
the Socrates Club dinner at

the
Cadogan Hotel on Sunday 1 May 1892

CHAPTER THREE

THE GAME

Byrd’s dinner was
exemplary. I noted down the wines in my journal especially: with the fish, an
extraordinarily silky white Burgundy; with the beef, an 1888 Margaux so mellow
that even Charles Brookfield conceded it had ‘merit’. Absurdly, with the
brandy, port and liqueurs, Oscar insisted that Byrd also serve a carafe of ‘Vin
Mariani’, a curious concoction, the colour of dung, made from cheap Bordeaux
wine treated with coca leaves.

‘What’s
this?’ Brookfield asked as Byrd offered him a glass.

‘It’s
not compulsory,’ said Oscar from his end of the table. He had the gift of being
able to listen to several conversations simultaneously.

‘But
what is it?’ insisted Brookfield. ‘It looks disgusting.’

‘It’s a
cordial favoured by His Holiness the Pope, ‘Oscar explained.

‘Well,
we’re not in Rome now,’ said Brookfield, waving Byrd away and reaching for the
port decanter.

‘Nor in
Oporto,’ murmured Oscar. ‘I asked Byrd to serve the Mariani in honour of Dr
Doyle. I believe the beverage contains cocaine. I thought Arthur might care to
introduce it to his friend, Sherlock Holmes.’

Conan
Doyle laughed obligingly. ‘I’d better try a glass then.’

‘Her
Majesty the Queen is apparently partial to it, also,’ said Oscar.

‘Never
mind the wine, Wilde,’ said Brookfield, turning his port glass slowly in his
hand. ‘What about this game of yours?’

‘Oh
yes, Oscar,’ cried Bosie. ‘Let’s play the game!’

‘Are
you sure it’s a good idea, Oscar?’ asked Conan Doyle, leaning towards Oscar
while casting his eyes in the direction of the ‘delicate-minded’ Willie
Hornung.

Oscar
addressed the table. ‘Arthur has reservations about our game, gentlemen. Last
month we played “Mistresses”—and the good doctor felt unable to participate.’

‘I did
not feel it was seemly,’ said Conan Doyle quietly.

‘It was
most unseemly, as I recall,’ said Sickert. ‘I think that was the idea.’ He
turned to his neighbour, McMuirtree, the boxer, to explain. ‘Oscar invited us
all to select the mistress of our choice. As I recall, he picked Joan of Arc.’

‘What
has this to do with Socrates?’ enquired Brookfield, helping himself to a
further libation of port.

‘Socrates
taught us that the greatest way to live with honour in this world is to be what
we pretend to be.’

‘I
don’t follow you,’ said Brookfield.

‘Oh,
but you do, Charles,’ said Oscar, ‘in everything.

‘Come
on,’ cried Bosie. ‘Let’s play the game!’

‘Very
well,’ said Oscar. He looked towards Conan Doyle and whispered, with a kindly
smile: ‘It’s only a game, Arthur.’

‘Very
well,’ said Conan Doyle, nodding to Oscar and patting the back of Willie
Hornung’s hand by way of offering his young friend reassurance. ‘Half a glass
of this Mariani wine of yours, Oscar, and I seem to be up for anything.’

‘Good
man,’ said Oscar, getting to his feet. He stood quite steadily at the head of
the table and, with an amused eye, surveyed the thirteen of us seated before
him. ‘“Murder” is the name of our game this evening. It was Socrates who first
suggested that death may be the greatest of all human blessings, and tonight,
gentlemen, we are to visit that blessing upon the victims of our choice. Do I
make myself clear?’

There
was a general murmur of assent.

‘Does
everyone here have a pen or pencil about his person?’ Oscar asked.

Brookfield
muttered to his neighbour, ‘We’re in the schoolroom now, are we?’

Oscar
went on: ‘Mr Byrd will pass around the table presently and give each of you a
slip of paper and, should you require it, a writing implement. Onto your blank
slip of paper—unseen by your neighbours—you are invited to write down the name
of the person or persons you would most like to murder.’

‘I like
this game,’ boomed Bradford Pearse. ‘What’s the name of the theatre critic on
the
Era?’

‘When
you have written down your victim’s name,’ Oscar continued, ‘Byrd will pass
around the table once more, collecting your slips of paper and placing them
safely in this collection bag.’ He held up a small plum-coloured velvet bag,
the size of a hand. ‘He will then, on my instruction, draw out the slips of
paper, at random, one by one, and read out each name in turn. Our task then,
gentlemen, will be to work out who wishes to murder whom.‘

‘And
why,’ suggested Charles Brookfield, licking the tip of his pencil.

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar. ‘And why.’

‘Will
you be playing, too, Mr Chairman?’ enquired Lord Drumlanrig. ‘Are you allowed
to choose a victim, also?’

‘Naturally,’
said Oscar, sitting down, taking his fountain pen out of his coat pocket and
subscribing his victim’s name to his slip of paper with the deliberation of a
statesman signing an international treaty. ‘There is nothing quite like an
unexpected death for lifting the spirits.’

While
we wrote the names of our proposed victims on the small slips of paper provided
to us by Alphonse Byrd, a curious hush fell upon the room. I wrote down the
name of my victim-of-choice instantly, without giving the matter much consideration.
I then looked about the table and watched the others. Most appeared rapt in
concentration, like students taking an exam by candlelight. Bosie was sucking
on his pencil, apparently much amused by the thought of who was to be his
victim. Bradford Pearse, the actor, was contemplating whatever he had written
with what seemed like wary satisfaction. Wat Sickert looked to me to be drawing
a sketch of his victim. Like Bosie, Sickert was evidently amused by his choice
of prey. Everyone-even the cynical and supercilious Brookfield and
mild-mannered Willie Hornung gave the impression of total absorption in the
task in hand. Only Arthur Conan Doyle looked disengaged. He held his pen,
unopened, in his left hand and stared vacantly ahead of him, fixing his empty gaze
between Lord Drumlanrig and Bram Stoker on the blank wall beyond.

‘Suddenly
it’s quiet as a graveyard in here,’ whispered McMuirtree.

‘Oh,’
said Sickert, smiling slyly, ‘I can hear the Angel of Death flapping her wings.’

Oscar
looked up. ‘Nowhere is there more true feeling, and nowhere worse taste, than
in a graveyard,’ he said.

Bosie
suppressed a giggle. ‘That’s very good, Oscar. Is it one of yours?’