Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (6 page)

‘Come
on, man,’ cried Brookfield from his corner.’ What does it say?’

‘It
says, “Mr Oscar Wilde”,’ said Byrd. He spoke quietly and then shook his head
and placed the paper and the bag on the table and looked towards Oscar. ‘I’m
sorry, Mr Wilde.’

‘Goodness,’
cried Oscar, grinning. ‘I’m almost as unpopular as McMuirtree. I’m not sure
whether to be gratified or appalled.’

‘Welcome
to the club, Mr Wilde,’ said McMuirtree, with a husky laugh.

‘It’s
only a game,’ grunted Bradford Pearse.

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar, amiably.

Arthur
Conan Doyle was leaning across Edward Heron-Allen, holding the last of the
slips of paper Byrd had drawn from the bag. He peered at it intently. ‘It’s not
a game any more,’ he said.

‘It’s
only a joke, Arthur,’ said Bosie through a cloud of cigar smoke. ‘Oscar can
take a joke.’

‘I
think the joke is over,’ said Conan Doyle, getting to his feet. He moved to the
head of the table and, putting his arm over Oscar’s shoulder, held the slip of
paper out before him. ‘The name of this last “victim” … the name that’s
written here … Look at it carefully, Oscar. What does it say?’

Oscar
studied the piece of paper that Conan Doyle held before him and read the words:
‘“Mrs Oscar Wilde”.’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘WE LIVE AND LEARN’

Young Willie Hornung
filled the silence that had fallen in the private dining room at the Cadogan
Hotel. ‘Who would want to murder Mrs Wilde?’ he asked.

‘No one
in their right mind,’ said Bram Stoker, ‘even in jest.’ The Irishman stubbed
out his cigar on a side-plate and pushed his chair away from the dining-room
table. He got to his feet and looked about the room, scratching his beard. ‘The
game’s gone sour,’ he said.

‘I
agree,’ said Conan Doyle. He looked sternly around at all of us. ‘I don’t know
about the rest of you, gentlemen, but I’m for my bed.’

Everyone
began to move.

‘No,
gentlemen, no!‘ Oscar protested. ‘We must get to the bottom of this.’

‘Not
tonight, Oscar,’ said Stoker, firmly.

‘I
insist,’ said Oscar. ‘I’m the club chairman.’

‘But
I’m the older animal, Oscar,’ Stoker growled, ‘and I’ve had enough excitement
for one evening. Mr Irving is embarking on
King Lear
in the morning.
First day of rehearsals. Lear can’t rely on his daughters, but the Guv’nor
likes to think he can rely on me. It’s late, Oscar, and, whatever you say, I’m
for turning in.’

‘We all
are,’ chimed Wat Sickert, from the far end the table. He, too, was on his feet.
‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve,’ he said softly. He leant over
the dining table, licked the palm of his left hand and cupped it and used it as
a snuffer to extinguish the guttering candles that were set in a circle around
what once had been Lillie Langtry’s favourite epergne. The room was plunged
into sepulchral gloom. The only source of light was a pair of gasoliers above
the fireplace. ‘‘Tis almost fairy-time,’ he said. He turned to Bradford Pearse.
‘Come, Brad, you can be my guest a while longer and stay the night at my place.
I’ll see you don’t get murdered in your sleep.’

Pearse
laughed. I noticed he was sweating. He had a large white handkerchief in his
hand and he used it to wipe the perspiration from his face and neck and brow.
‘I’m ready,’ he said.

Sickert
leant across his friend to shake Bram Stoker by the hand. ‘Goodnight, Bram,’ he
said warmly. ‘Give my respects to Irving.’

‘I
will.’

‘If
ever he needs a portrait …’

‘We
know where to find you, Wat,’ replied Stoker, genially. He peered across the
darkened table towards Conan Doyle, who was assisting Oscar to his feet.
‘Goodnight, Arthur. Give us a week or three to get
Lear
out of the
traps—the Guv’nor has lumbered himself with a plump Cordelia and a troublesome
Fool and then I’ll get you in for an hour and you can tell him all about your
play. I think he can be persuaded …’

‘Is
Arthur writing plays now?’ muttered Oscar in a mock-grumble. ‘Perhaps I should
consider opening a medical practice?’

‘Goodnight,
Mr Chairman,’ said Stoker. ‘The night has been unruly, but memorable. Thank
you. And thank you, Byrd, for the feast. We’ve eaten like princes, as usual.
Goodnight all, Come, Brookfield— we’ll share a cab.’

Charles
Brookfield, his long, handsome face flushed with wine, was already standing by
the door. He held himself unnaturally erect: he was deep in drink. ‘Goodnight,
gentlemen,’ he called to the room. ‘My play is entitled
The Poet and the
Puppets.
It opens on the nineteenth of the month. Your attendance will do
me honour.’

As
Stoker took Brookfield by the arm and escorted him from the room, Oscar shook
his head and murmured, ‘Ambition is the last refuge of the failure.’

‘Goodnight,
Oscar,’ said Lord Drumlanrig. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’

‘Bonne
nuit, mon cher,’
Bosie called to Oscar, pulling his
brother with him towards the door.

‘Goodnight,
gentlemen,’ said Oscar. ‘Will I see you tomorrow, Bosie?’

‘Murderers
permitting,’ said Bosie, with a laugh, giving the room a playful farewell wave.

Oscar
watched the Douglas brothers depart. ‘Bosie is wonderfully amusing, is he not?’
he said to nobody in particular.

The
remaining members of the party were now exchanging farewells and moving towards
the door. McMuirtree was assisting Byrd in clearing the decanters and dead wine
bottles from the table onto a large butler’s tray on the sideboard. Willie
Hornung was telling Conan Doyle that he had had a ‘capital evening’, ‘tip-top’,
one of the best he’d ever known. Edward Heron-Allen, I realised, had already
slipped away, apparently unnoticed. I turned to say goodnight to the Hon. the
Reverend George Daubeney and saw that he, alone of the party, was seated still.
The poor fellow—my special guest! was slumped in his place, gazing vacantly
into the middle distance.

‘Come,
George,’ I said, ‘let’s get you a cab.’

Daubeney
slowly turned his weary, pock-marked face towards me and, with an effort,
pushed his chair away from the table. He started to get to his feet, but, as he
did so, lurched forward, stumbled and fell onto his knees, clutching at my legs
for support. ‘Forgive me, Robert,’ he slurred. He put his hands back onto the
table’s edge as I helped him pull himself up again. ‘I have drunk too much,’ he
mumbled.

‘But
only from the well of unhappiness,’ said Oscar, who was still standing at the
head of the table nursing his empty brandy glass.

‘Do you
want a bed at the hotel?’ asked Byrd. ‘We can find you a room.’

Daubeney
looked up at the night manager and smiled bleakly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You
are kind, but I have business to attend to. I will be on my way.’

‘Are
you sure, George?’ I asked.

‘I can
walk home,’ he said. ‘It’s not far. The fresh air will do me good.’

He
shook me by the hand and bowed towards Oscar and the others and took his leave.

‘He is
an unfortunate creature,’ said Oscar. ‘There is something infinitely pathetic
about other people’s tragedies.’

Oscar
handed his empty brandy glass to Alphonse Byrd. ‘Thank you, Mr Secretary Byrd,’
he said, with a self-conscious half-smile upon his lips. He looked at Byrd’s
associate, David McMuirtree, and bobbed his head in the bald boxer’s direction.’
A pleasure to have made your acquaintance, sir. Four of those seated at this
table tonight chose you as their murder victim. I wonder why?’

‘I’m a
prize-fighter and the son of a footman,’ said McMuirtree in his curious
croaking voice. ‘I had no right to be here. I do not belong.’

‘Certainly
you are far too well-dressed to pass for an English gentleman,’ said Oscar,
smiling.

‘Am I?’
whispered McMuirtree.

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar. ‘Your shoes are very shiny. But it was probably that charming green
carnation in your buttonhole that sealed your fate. You have physical strength,
personal beauty, an interesting history and exquisite taste, Mr McMuirtree. No
wonder people took an instant dislike to you.’

McMuirtree
laughed.

‘Goodnight,
sir,’ said Oscar, ‘I trust we shall meet again. Perhaps, one day, I shall have
the pleasure of seeing you fight.’ Oscar shook McMuirtree’s hand and continued
holding it for a moment. ‘At which fairground are you to be found at present?’

‘I’m at
Astley’s Circus for the summer,’ answered the boxer genially, looking Oscar
steadily in the eye. ‘There’s a bout on Monday week you might enjoy, Mr Wilde. I’ll
send you tickets.’

‘Thank
you,’ said Oscar. ‘Thank you very much. I should like that.’ He called to the
club secretary:

‘We
like your friend, Byrd. Well done. Goodnight.’ He turned to the rest of us:
‘Arthur, Willie, Robert, come. Let’s run the gauntlet of that fearful parrot
and find ourselves a cab.’

In
fact, the parrot was silent as we crossed the darkened front hall of the
Cadogan Hotel. Its cage was shrouded in a huge embroidered shawl. We were
fortunate, too, when we reached the street. Two empty cabs were waiting on the
rank at the corner of Sloane Street and Knightsbridge.

‘Mr
Sickert is a fascinating character,’ said Willie Hornung eagerly. ‘He told me
tonight that “Knightsbridge” is the only word in the English language that
features six consonants in succession.’

Conan
Doyle chuckled. ‘Well, I never … You live and learn.’

‘And
then, of course, you die and forget it all,’ said Oscar, quietly.

We saw
young Hornung into the first cab and waved him on his way towards his digs in
Bayswater. As he departed, he looked out of the two-wheeler towards us and
called cheerily: ‘I’ll not forget tonight. Thank you so much!’

‘What a
delightful young man,’ said Oscar, as Willie Hornung’s cab disappeared into the
darkness. ‘The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is
unbecoming. I have a feeling that our Willie will be a boy for ever.’

‘He’s a
good lad,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘He has
a good friend,’ said Oscar, putting his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. ‘You’ll stay
the night in Tite Street, won’t you? It’s too late to make the pilgrimage to
Norwood.’

The
three of us climbed aboard the second cab and, as Oscar settled back into his
seat, he flicked his gloves lightly across Doyle’s knees and said, ‘I’m loath
to admit it, dear Doctor, but you were right: that game was a mistake. There were
strangers in our midst …’

‘And
wine was taken,’ added Conan Doyle, ‘somewhat too liberally.’

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar, smiling ruefully. ‘But what’s said when drunk was thought when
sober. Did that last slip of paper really name “Mrs Oscar Wilde”?’

‘I fear
so,’ said Doyle. ‘It was intended as a joke, of course, but it was a poor one.’

‘Could
it not have been a slip of the pen?’ I suggested.

‘It
could, I suppose,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘I
don’t think we’ll mention it to Constance, do you?’ said Oscar.

‘I
think we should all forget all about it,’ urged Conan Doyle, emphatically. ‘It
was only a game, after all.’

When we reached Tite
Street, the house was in darkness. The street was in darkness, too. It was one
o’clock. The family was asleep and the staff—the three of them: Arthur, Oscar’s
faithful butler, Mrs Ryan, the cook, and Gertrude Simmonds, the boys’ devoted
governess—had retired for the night. Arthur had left the hallway gasolier lit
low and put out candlesticks to light us to our beds. ‘You’re in my study,
Robert, on the divan,’ said Oscar, ‘as befits a married man in the throes of a
divorce. You’re in the guest-room, Arthur, on the second-best bed. I’m leaving
it to Constance in my will, of course. Goodnight, gentlemen. Sleep well. Don’t
brood on the events of the evening. They’re done. As Arthur says, it was only a
game, after all.’

I slept
profoundly. Absurdly, I eased myself towards sleep with playful thoughts of
Constance Wilde. My marriage to Marthe was a dead and dreary thing so dead, so
dreary I lacked the energy or interest even to pursue my divorce and my
dalliances with Kaitlyn and Aniela, once so thrilling, had now run their
course. I was thirty-one and in want of love. To think of Constance in terms of
romance was utterly ridiculous, of course—she was four years my senior and had
no eyes for any man but Oscar— and yet, by way of reverie, nothing more, to
picture myself in her arms was something quite delicious.

I did not wake until ten
o’clock in the morning. I found Oscar and Arthur, already breakfasted, dressed
and shaved, seated in the Wildes’ white drawing room reading the morning papers.
As I entered the sunlit room Oscar sighed from behind his copy of the
Morning
Post.
‘Tell me,’ he breathed, wearily, ‘why, oh why do I persist in reading
this stuff? The newspapers of today chronicle with degrading avidity the sins
of the second-rate, and with the conscientiousness of the illiterate give us
accurate and prosaic details of the doings of people of absolutely no interest
whatever. I must give them up.’