Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (45 page)

‘Did he
line the gloves with cockspurs as I suspected?’ asked Edward Heron-Allen.

‘No,’
said Oscar. ‘Cut-up bits of razor from a magician’s home-made guillotine.’

The
clock above the door began to strike the hour. Archy Gilmour and Roger Ferris
got to their feet and positioned themselves at either side of Alphonse Byrd.
Oscar looked along the table and smiled.

‘It’s
midnight,’ said Inspector Gilmour.

‘Yes,’
answered Oscar, quietly, ‘midnight … And it seems I’m still alive.’

Arthur
Conan Doyle pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Are you surprised?’

Oscar
laughed. ‘Not entirely, Arthur—but Mr Byrd may be.’ Gilmour and Ferris took the
impassive Byrd by the arms and pulled him to his feet. He offered no
resistance. His face betrayed no feeling.

‘I
believe,’ said Oscar, ‘that Mr Byrd hoped that by now I, too, would be dead or
dying. He did not choose me as his murder victim, but once McMuirtree had been
successfully despatched, I think he saw no reason why I should not be next.’

The
policemen pulled Byrd’s arms roughly behind his back. From his coat pocket,
Ferris produced a pair of handcuffs and slipped them over the prisoner’s wrists.

‘As he
sees it,’ Oscar went on, ‘life has not been kind to Alphonse Byrd.
I
have
not been kind to him. I have a beauty in my life that makes his ugly. I’ve snubbed
him, taken him for granted—treated him as a servant when, in fact, he’s a
scholar and gentleman …’

‘But
Alphonse Byrd is not a gentleman. Nat, the page-boy at this hotel, he’s a
gentleman. Antipholus, the black boy from the circus—he’s a gentleman. Brian
Fletcher, a young actor we encountered on our way to Beachy Head now he’s a
gentlemen! But Alphonse Byrd … what’s he? He is as most murderers and bullies
are: a funny little man, a whey-faced nondescript nobody—riddled with
resentments, the victim of a million imagined slights. He’s neither a gentleman
nor, indeed, a scholar.’

‘We’ll
take him with us now, Mr Wilde,’ said Archy Gilmour, pulling Byrd away from the
table and pushing him towards the door.

Oscar
continued speaking. He would not be stopped. ‘Byrd told me that he had spent a
term at Oxford, but I knew at once that it was a lie. I asked him which was his
college—and he answered, simply, “New.” No man who has been to New College
ever
calls it “New”.

Gilmour
and Ferris stood with Alphonse Byrd by the dining-room door. ‘Goodnight,
gentlemen,’ grunted Gilmour. ‘We’ll be in touch with those of you from whom
we’ll need statements.’

‘I
think you’ll need this,’ said Oscar, waving the silver hip flask in the
detective inspector’s direction.

‘What’s
that?’

‘Evidence,
I imagine,’ said Oscar lightly. ‘It contains the wine that Mr Byrd poured into
my glass tonight. It contains the second glass of that wine, to be precise. I
allowed Daubeney to drink the first before I realised that it had been
adulterated.’

‘What
are you saying, Mr Wilde?’ asked Inspector Gilmour impatiently.

‘I’m
saying that while Byrd may not be a scholar, he nonetheless appreciates a
classical allusion. As I am the founder of the Socrates Club, and he is the
secretary, he thought it appropriate that I should die as Socrates did. Mr Byrd
sought to murder me tonight with the juice of a plant from his allotment
conium
maculatum:
poison hemlock. I’ll not be pressing charges, however. I only
drank a drop.’

‘What
about Daubeney?’ asked Conan Doyle, getting to his feet and moving towards the
door. ‘I’d better see him.’

‘Yes,
Doctor,’ said Oscar. ‘Perhaps you had— though I doubt that he’s in mortal
danger. I tasted the wine—there was not enough poison in it to kill a man. Our
club secretary is one of those sad creatures who never get anything completely
right. It’s even possible that McMuirtree would have survived his ordeal in the
Ring of Death if Daubeney hadn’t been on hand to push the blades deeper into
the boxer’s severed wrists. Poor, pathetic Alphonse Byrd. Take him away. He
lacks the immortal spark.’

Gilmour
and Ferris bundled Byrd out of the room. Conan Doyle followed them, calling on
Willie Hornung to accompany him. ‘Better do as I’m told,’ said the young man,
pushing his spectacles up his nose and waving to the room as he went. ‘What a
night, Oscar! I’ll not forget it. Thank you!’

Oscar
stood alone at the head of the table, his arms hanging loosely at his side. He
was only thirty-seven, but, suddenly, he seemed quite old washed-out,
washed-up. His face, that, moments before, had been so alive and full of colour
as he told his tale, was ashen. As he looked about the room he appeared
confused: his eyes flickered, his eyelids drooped. As he reached into his
cigarette case I noticed that his fingers shook.

‘What a
night, indeed,’ chortled Edward Heron-Allen, stepping forward and shaking Oscar
warmly by the hand. ‘You’re extraordinary, my friend—a phenomenon …’

‘He
writes plays too, you know,’ said Bosie Douglas, adjusting Oscar’s tie
proprietorially. ‘For a pre-Raphaelite, he’s quite the Renaissance man!’

‘Congratulations,
Oscar,’ said Lord Drumlanrig. ‘A
tour de force.
You should have gone to
the Bar. Why didn’t you? Have you considered politics? I mean it. Rosebery
wants men like you.’

Oscar
smiled wanly. ‘A politician …’ he began—and then he stopped. ‘And I am wary
of lawyers,’ he said. For a moment, I saw fear in his eyes. I sensed him
searching for an aphorism that did not come.

‘We are
staying with our mother tonight, Oscar,’ said Bosie, leaning forward and
kissing Oscar lightly on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Lunch at the Café
Royal as we agreed?’

‘Of
course,’ said Oscar. ‘One o’clock.’

‘Good
night, Oscar,’ said Lord Drumlanrig.

‘And if
you see Papa,’ added Bosie as he pulled his brother with him towards the door,
‘shoot him for me, won’t you? I don’t think I dare murder him myself with you
on the case.’

Oscar
smiled and watched the two young men link arms and go on their way.

‘Quite
brilliant, Oscar,’ boomed Bram Stoker, putting a comfortable hand on his
friend’s shoulder. ‘Drumlanrig was spot-on. It was indeed a
tour de force.
You
out-Irvinged Irving.’ He looked into Oscar’s face and smiled. ‘No wonder you’re
drained. Go home now and have a hot tub and a hot toddy. That’s what the
Guv’nor does. Works every time.’

Charles
Brookfield stood at Bram Stoker’s side. He was holding a cheque for thirteen
guineas. ‘Here you are, Oscar,’ he said. ‘I believe this is what I owe you.’

‘Thank
you,’ said Oscar, inclining his head towards Brookfield. He took the cheque,
examined it, folded it and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He looked
directly into Brookfield’s eyes. ‘And what did you think, Charles?’

‘What
do you mean?’ asked Brookfield.

‘What
did you think?’ repeated Oscar.

‘Of
you? Just now?’

‘Yes,’
said Oscar. ‘Of me just now.’

‘Since
you ask, Oscar,’ answered Brookfield, slowly, weighing his words as he spoke,
‘Since you ask … I thought it was rather like your speech at the opening of
Lady
Windermere—brilliant
in its way, but wrong—ill-judged … just a touch
self-regarding, just a touch too much. Your arrogance, Oscar, will be your
undoing.’

‘Don’t
listen to Brookie, Oscar,’ cried Bram Stoker. ‘He isn’t Irish. He doesn’t
always understand. You were brilliant, my friend—quite brilliant. There’s no
other word. And you restored Pearse to us! How about that?’

Bradford
Pearse and Wat Sickert were standing together by the doorway. Sickert was
holding a cigar, resting an elegant right elbow on Pearse’s broad left
shoulder. ‘We’re going to the Arts Club,’ he announced, ‘now to celebrate the
prodigal’s return.’

Bradford
Pearse nudged Sickert playfully. ‘Will there be entertainment, Wat? Will some
of your models be joining us, eh?’ The barrel-chested actor roared with delight
at the prospect and punched the air. ‘Thank you, Oscar,’ he cried exuberantly.
‘Thank you, dear friend. It’s so good to be back. The lighthouse was
delightful, but the amenities were limited.’

‘Are
you going to grow another beard, Brad?’ asked Bram Stoker, moving to the door,
taking Charles Brookfield with him. ‘These pink cheeks of yours are quite disconcerting.’

‘I
thought a moustache this time—like Sickert’s here. What do think? I’ve played
the old sea-salt long enough. I thought I’d try my luck as a young buck about
town.’

‘You
don’t want to play any more waiters,’ said Charles Brookfield drily. ‘You won’t
get the notices.’

‘I’m an
ac-taw,’ said Pearse happily, ‘I play whatever comes my way.’

‘Are
you coming our way, Oscar?’ called Sickert as the group gathered at the
dining-room door. ‘Are you up for a nightcap?’

‘No,
I’m taking Bram’s advice. It’s late. I’m for my bed. Robert will walk me home.’

‘Good
man,’ said Bram Stoker, acknowledging Oscar with a small salute.

‘Goodnight,
gentlemen,’ said Oscar, raising his hand to his friends.

‘Goodnight,
Oscar.’ ‘Goodnight, Oscar.’ ‘Goodnight, Robert.’ ‘Goodnight, Oscar well done!’

As the
foursome left the room, waving and hallooing as they departed, Wat Sickert
lingered. He turned briefly and looked towards Oscar with pleading eyes.

‘Have
no fear, Wat,’ said Oscar gently. ‘It’s fine. Go now. I know you didn’t touch
the girl.’

Oscar and I walked back to
Tite Street together, arm in arm. The air was still. The night sky was clear.
In the black roof of the world the stars shone bright. As we walked, Oscar
regained much of his energy. As we crossed Sloane Square into the King’s Road
and a dog-cart came hurtling out of the darkness and missed us by an inch or
two, Oscar began to laugh in a way that I had not heard him laugh for a month
or more. It was an easy laugh, happy and unforced. ‘I have survived,’ he
chuckled. ‘I have lived through Friday the thirteenth, Robert, and not been
murdered after all!’

On the
far side of the square, when we had reached the safety of the pavement, I asked
him:

‘Who
was it who chose you as their murder victim, Oscar? Do you know?’

‘It was
Edward Heron-Allen,’ he said, still chuckling. ‘He confessed it when he brought
me his prized cockspur. He said that if I was dead, he could marry Constance. I
told him if I was dead,
you
would marry Constance!’

I
laughed. ‘Did you really, Oscar?’ The notion was absurd, but, even so, to hear
it spoken out loud pleased me very much.

‘I
did—but I’m not dead and you shan’t. And Mrs Heron-Allen is alive and well and
no doubt offering young Edward wifely consolation as we speak.’

We had
stopped beneath a street lamp. In the pale and yellow gaslight I could see that
Oscar was smiling. He seemed happy once again. He lit a cigarette—the last of
his Player’s Navy Cut.

‘You
know,’ I remarked, ‘for a time, I thought that Heron-Allen might be the
murderer?’

Oscar threw
his match into the gutter. ‘I thought you were convinced that it was young
Drumlanrig?’

‘I
was—later. I was absolutely certain of it.’

Contentedly,
we resumed our walk, arm in arm once more. ‘The things one feels absolutely
certain about,’ he said, ‘are never true.’

As we
turned left, into the first of the little alleys leading towards Tite Street, I
paused for a moment and asked: ‘If it was Heron-Allen who named you as his
victim, who was it who named Constance as theirs?’

‘Can
you not guess?’ he asked, walking on. ‘It was Charles Brookfield, I am afraid.’

‘Brookfield?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Did he
tell you?’

‘No—my
grid told me. By a process of elimination. It can only have been Brookfield.’

‘Brookfield
wanted to murder Constance?’ I said, appalled.

‘It was
only a game, Robert,’ said Oscar. ‘No doubt Brookfield wished to put my wife
out of the misery of being married to me.’ He spoke without rancour. He sounded
almost amused by the idea. ‘He is a curious character, our Mr Brookfield …’

‘Indeed,’
I said, tartly.

‘Do you
think that he was right about my performance tonight?’ he asked, glancing up at
the sky as he spoke. He did not wait for my reply. ‘I think that perhaps he
was,’ he said.

Suddenly,
as we reached the corner of Tite Street, he burst out laughing again. ‘You know
that, at first, I believed that Brookfield was our murderer. It was Mrs
Robinson who pointed me in his direction. When she examined the map of my hand,
she said:

“Where
this brook abuts this field, Mr Wilde, I see a whirlpool and it worries me” …
I assumed that my hand was telling her that “Brookfield” would prove my
nemesis!’

‘And
was it not?’

‘I
think not,’ said Oscar, laughing quietly. ‘Mrs Robinson is paid a guinea a
reading. She must say something. At our party, she met Mr and Mrs Brooke, the
Rajah and Ranee of Sarawak, and Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper, the eccentric
poetesses jointly known as “Michael Field”. Mrs Robinson slipped their names
into her reading of my palm— and I heard what I wanted to hear, not what she
was telling me.’