Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (5 page)

Oscar
was folding his slip of paper in two and placing it in the collection bag. ‘It
deserves to be,’ he said, ‘but it isn’t, I’m afraid. I first heard it in Oxford
years ago. At Balliol, more’s the pity.’ He held up the velvet bag for Byrd to
take it from him. ‘Are we all done?’ he asked.

‘We
are,’ boomed Bradford Pearse.

‘This
is rather fun,’ said Willie Hornung, polishing his
pince-nez
with a
corner of his napkin.

‘I’m
glad you are having a happy evening, Willie,’ said Oscar. ‘Help yourself to
another glass of Mariani wine.’

When
Byrd had been around the table and each of us had placed his folded slip of
paper into the collection bag, Oscar took a teaspoon and clinked it against the
side of his brandy glass. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the moment is upon us. If your
glasses are all charged and your cigars are lit, we shall proceed with the
game.’ He turned to Byrd who was standing at his right shoulder. ‘Mr Byrd, if
you would be so kind, please draw the first slip from the bag and read out the
name thereon inscribed.’

Byrd
pulled back his cuff—as a magician might to show his audience nothing was
concealed up his sleeve—and plunged his hand into the bag. He let us see his
fingers rummaging about inside the bag and then, with a self-conscious
flourish, pulled out a slip of paper and held it close to his eyes.

‘This
is fun,’ repeated Willie Hornung, sitting forward in his place.

Oscar
smiled at the young man and then looked up at Alphonse Byrd. ‘Mr Byrd,’ he
said, ‘be so kind, would you, as to read out the name of our first murder
victim?’

Byrd
scrutinised the paper in his hand and looked out across the room. The night
manager of the Cadogan Hotel was not an impressive figure—he had the stooped
shoulders and watery eyes of a man defeated by life—but he had once been a
professional performer and in that brief moment, holding the slip of paper in
one hand and his magician’s bag in the other, he commanded our attention with
an authority that even the great Robert-Houdin might have envied.

Oscar
killed the moment. ‘Byrd,’ he snapped, ‘we’ve heard the pin drop. Read out the
name.’

Flinching
momentarily, as though Oscar had suddenly struck him across the ear, Byrd did
as he was bidden. ‘The first victim is to be “Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers”,’ he
announced.

The
silence in the room that, a moment before, had been so expectant—exhilarating,
almost—now became uncomfortable. Every one of us present was familiar with the
name of Elizabeth Scott-Rivers. Miss Scott-Rivers was the unhappy bride-to-be
abandoned a week before her wedding day by the Hon. the Reverend George
Daubeney, my particular guest at the Socrates Club dinner that night. She was
the jilted maiden—an heiress and the only child of elderly parents who had
predeceased her—who had gained the sympathy of the public, and the braying
approbation of the press, when, in the High Court of Chancery, she had sued her
former fiancé for breach of promise, won her case and brought the wretched man
to his knees and the brink of financial ruin.

‘Well,
well …’ said Oscar with a sigh. Conan Doyle put his fingers to his eyes and
shook his head. George Daubeney was seated on my right. I rested my hand on his
arm. ‘Next!’ commanded Oscar.

Suddenly,
violently, Daubeney pulled his arm away from me and got to his feet, knocking
over a glass of the absurd Mariani cordial in the process. ‘I’m so sorry,
gentlemen,’ he blurted out. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking of. I despise the
woman. I hate her. But I wish her no harm. I should not have introduced her
name to this game like this. It was inexcusable. May God forgive me. May you
forgive me. I have drunk too much.’

Oscar
raised his right hand and held it aloft, like a bishop pronouncing the
blessing. ‘Be seated, George. Calm yourself. You can’t have had more than a
glass.’

I put
out my hand and took Daubeney’s arm once more. I pulled him back into his
chair. ‘I’m a fool,’ he muttered. ‘A bloody idiot.’

‘Come,’
said Oscar briskly, ‘let us go on. And please remember, gentlemen, that the aim
of the game is for the rest of us to guess who has chosen whom as a victim, not
for the putative perpetrator of the crime to offer an immediate confession.’ Daubeney
sat, in heavy silence, gazing disconsolately at his empty glass. ‘Byrd,’ said
Oscar, ‘draw out the next victim’s name if you please.’

Byrd
produced a second slip of paper from his bag and read out the name, this time
with rather less ceremony. ‘“Lord Abergordon”,’ he said.

‘Who?’
asked Heron-Allen.

Byrd
repeated the name: ‘Lord Abergordon.’

‘A
curious choice,’ said Oscar, taking a sip of brandy.

‘Who is
he?’ asked Sickert.

‘We
neither know nor care,’ boomed Bradford Pearse.

‘He’s
an elderly and obscure member of the government, I believe,’ said Bram Stoker.

‘He
won’t be much of a loss then,’ said Heron-Allen, with a wry smile.

‘Very
droll, Edward,’ murmured Oscar. ‘You’re getting the idea. Next, if you will, Mr
Byrd—kindly maintain the momentum.’

Byrd
produced the third slip of paper, and smiled, and read out the name: ‘“Captain
Flint”.’

‘That’s
more like it,’ said Oscar.

‘Who’s
Captain Flint?’ asked Willie Hornung.

‘The
hotel parrot,’ said Bosie. ‘He’s the moth-eaten creature who sits in that cage
by the porter’s desk. He’s impertinent and garrulous and deserves everything
that’s coming to him. I wanted to murder my father, of course, but Oscar said I
couldn’t, at least not on a Sunday, so I chose the parrot instead.’

Oscar
turned to his handsome young friend and reprimanded him. ‘Bosie, you have now
spoilt what was a most excellent choice. The object of the game is not for you
to reveal who is your intended victim. It is for the rest of us to guess.’ He
turned back to Byrd. ‘On, man, on!’

Byrd
produced a fourth slip of paper from the velvet bag and read out the name with
a flourish. ‘“Mr Sherlock Holmes”,’ he said.

‘That’s
much more like it!’ cried Oscar.

‘I
agree,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘On,
on, Byrd! Don’t dawdle, man. Give us the next name.’

The
night manager had the fifth slip ready. He looked at it and hesitated.

‘Well?’
said Oscar.

“Mr
Bradford Pearse”,’ said Byrd.

‘Oh?’
said Bradford Pearse, with a shallow laugh.

‘Someone
here wants me out of the way …’

A
courteous rumble of dissent went round the table. Conan Doyle spoke up. ‘This
game is not amusing, Oscar,’ he said.

‘It’s
not the game that isn’t amusing,’ said Oscar smoothly. ‘It was Pearse’s Fabian
that failed to entertain—alas! It’s a devil of a part. Several of the critics
said poor Pearse deserved to be shot …’

Oscar
smiled benignly at the unfortunate actor. ‘It’s only a game, Bradford,’ he said
gently. Pearse nodded and shrugged his shoulders and reached for the decanter
of brandy. Oscar turned back to the hotel night manager. ‘Onward, Mr Byrd.
We’re almost halfway. Who is our next victim to be?’

Byrd
had the next slip of paper already in his hand. ‘“Mr David McMuirtree”,’ he
announced.

‘Goodness
me,’ said Willie Hornung.

‘This
must stop, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle, sharply. ‘Enough’s enough. Mr Pearse and
Mr McMuirtree are our guests. They have come here to be entertained—not
threatened with murder, even in jest.’

‘I
don’t take it personally,’ whispered McMuirtree from the far end of the table.

‘Really?’
murmured Charles Brookfield. He was seated directly facing McMuirtree. He
looked him in the eye. ‘What other way is there to take it?’ he asked.

‘As our
chairman says,’ answered McMuirtree, turning away from Brookfield and looking
towards Oscar, ‘it’s only a game.’

‘Thank
you, Mr McMuirtree,’ said Oscar, raising his brandy glass in the boxer’s
direction. ‘We green-carnation men understand one another.’

Conan
Doyle growled unhappily and shook his head. Oscar leant towards the good
doctor.

‘Don’t
look so serious, Arthur. Humanity takes itself far too seriously as it is.
Seriousness is the world’s original sin. If the cavemen had known how to laugh,
history would have been very different and so much jollier. Come, Byrd, who’s
next?’

The
night manager stood before us and plunged his hand into the bag once more. He
produced another slip of paper.

‘Read
it out,’ said Oscar.

‘“Mr
David McMuirtree”,’ said Byrd.

‘Again?’
asked Heron-Allen, seeming suddenly to wake from a reverie.

‘Yes,
sir,’ said Byrd. ‘Again.’

‘Pull
out another one,’ commanded Oscar. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

‘What
number is this?’ asked Bosie.

‘This
is the eighth, Lord Alfred,’ said Byrd, holding the next piece of paper in
front of him.

‘Whose
name is it this time?’ asked Oscar.

‘It is
the same name, I am afraid,’ said Byrd. ‘“Mr David McMuirtree”.

‘Stop
this, Oscar,’ protested Conan Doyle. ‘Stop this now!’

‘No,’
rasped McMuirtree. ‘I’m not put out, I assure you. It really does not matter.’

‘Quite
right, Mr McMuirtree,’ said Oscar, ‘Nothing that actually occurs is of the
smallest importance.’ He delivered the aphorism lightly (it was one of his
favourites), but I was watching him as he spoke and I saw the anxiety in his
eyes. ‘Come, Byrd, continue,’ he said crisply. ‘We are nearly there. Three of
us seem inclined to murder Mr McMuirtree. Let’s see if there is to be a fourth.
Draw out the next name, if you will.’

Byrd
did as he was asked. He held the slip closer to his eyes and paused.

‘Well?’
asked Bosie.

‘“Mr
David McMuirtree”,’ said Byrd once again.

‘“Ask
not for whom the bell tolls …” ‘murmured Oscar, furrowing his brow and
raising his glass once more in the direction of McMuirtree. ‘Let’s have the
next one, Byrd,’ he added. ‘We’re too steeped in blood to turn back now. I’m
sure McMuirtree agrees.

McMuirtree
inclined his head towards Oscar and smiled.

‘It’s
decent of you to be so obliging,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘Who’s
next?’ said Oscar.

Byrd
drew another slip of paper from his bag.

McMuirtree,
from the far end of the table, looked towards him and enquired quietly, ‘Well?’

‘The
next victim is “Old Father Time”, announced Mr Byrd.

‘That’s
more like it,’ said Bram Stoker, gently banging the table with the flat of his
hand to indicate his approval.

‘Not so
exciting though,’ said Bosie. ‘Perhaps I should have named my father, after
all.’ He turned to his brother, seated on his left. Lord Drumlanrig was lighting
a cigar. ‘Why didn’t you choose our father as your victim, Francis? You loathe
him as much as I do and you stand to gain more from the inheritance.’

‘Lord
Drumlanrig may well have selected the Marquess of Queensberry as his victim,
Bosie,’ said Oscar, placing his fingers lightly on the back of his young
friend’s right hand. ‘Byrd still has three names to reveal.’ He turned back to
the club secretary. ‘Who’s next?’

Byrd
was ready, slip of paper in hand. ‘The next victim is “Eros”,’ he announced.

‘Eros?’
asked Willie Hornung, putting down his glass of Vin Mariani and looking about
the table with a bright-eyed innocence that was endearing. ‘Does Eros count? He
is a mythical Greek god, isn’t he?’

‘If you
can murder Time,’ said Oscar, ‘I imagine you can destroy a myth. In fact, I
know men who have done both. I think Eros is a permissible victim within the
rules of the game, Willie. Continue, Byrd.’

‘Yes,’
said Brookfield, who now appeared quite bloated with drink. ‘Let’s have done
with it. Who’s next for the chop?’

Alphonse
Byrd felt inside the bag and pulled out a slip of paper. He held it to his eyes
and looked puzzled. He turned it over and examined it more closely. ‘It’s
blank, Mr Wilde,’ he said, passing the paper to Oscar.

Oscar
held it lightly between his thumb and forefinger. ‘So it is, Byrd. Nothing will
come of nothing. Next, please!’

‘This
is the penultimate slip of paper, I believe,’ said Byrd.

‘Get on
with it!’ jeered Brookfield.

The
club secretary cleared his throat before reading out the name: “‘Mr Oscar
Wilde”.’

There
was laughter around the table. Stoker banged his right hand repeatedly on the
cigar box to show his approval. Even Conan Doyle smiled. Oscar acknowledged the
mocking ovation with a seated bow. ‘I suppose it was inevitable,’ he muttered,
‘though I’m sorry that my name should have been the thirteenth to be drawn.
Come, Mr Byrd, let’s name the final victim and be done.’

Byrd,
who was now standing at the side of the table, behind Willie Hornung and Conan
Doyle, put his hand into his small velvet bag for the final time. He drew out
the paper and looked at it. He sniffed and brushed the back of his knuckles
against his mouth.