Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (19 page)

We
spent very little time at the Belle Tout Lighthouse. There was no need.
Happily, the lighthouse keeper’s manner was as benign as his appearance was
malevolent. He was a jolly fellow, evidently eager to please, and he answered
my questions—and Wat’s—with an old-fashioned deferential courtesy that was
quite disarming. Alas, he was not familiar with Bradford Pearse—by name, sight
or reputation. Yes, he had been on duty through the night and he always kept ‘a
weather eye ‘out for ‘goings-on’ on the peak of Beachy Head— but no, he hadn’t
noticed anything untoward in the past twenty-four hours and neither had either
of his men. He’d observed no strangers on the cliff-top by day and no
unexpected traffic, lights or lanterns during the night. Suicides were all too
common, he regretted to tell us, and the bodies of the poor unfortunates did
not always reappear. When they did it was not necessarily on the next tide, but
sometimes days and occasionally weeks later, and, due to the currents, often a
mile or more along the coast. He regretted the sad occasion of our visit, was
sorry we did not have time to stay for some refreshment and hoped our paths
would cross again in happier circumstances.

As we
drove away from the lighthouse keeper, and he stood, crooked but contented,
waving to us with his withered hand, Wat said, ‘What an extraordinary
individual—I want to paint his portrait.’ I said to our young driver, ‘I like
your uncle very much.’ Oscar said nothing.

On our way to Eastbourne
railway station, we stopped briefly at the Devonshire Park Theatre and left a
message for Mr Standen Triggs informing him that, sadly, it now seemed certain
that the services of Mr Bradford Pearse’s understudy would indeed be required.
We stopped briefly also at the police station in Grove Road where the sergeant
on duty took a cursory note of what we had to tell him, but did so reluctantly
and only because Oscar insisted that he should. The sergeant, a God-fearing
family man with a ruddy complexion and a black walrus moustache, did not care
for Oscar’s manner, did not like theatrical folk and had no sympathy for the
suicidally inclined. ‘Suicide’s a criminal offence,’ he reminded us. ‘If we
find the man, we’ll charge him. Good day, gents.’

Eventually,
at around one o clock, Oscar, Wat and I, in our compact pony-and-trap, trundled
into the forecourt of Eastbourne railway station. As our young driver helped him
climb from the carriage, Oscar presented the boy with half a crown. ‘You’ve
looked after us well, young man. Thank you. May I ask your name?’

‘Brian,’
said the boy, touching his cap in recognition of Oscar’s munificence. ‘Brian
Fletcher.’

‘Oh,’
said Oscar, solemnly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. You’ll need to change it when
you take to the stage professionally. You can’t be called Brian in London, I’m
afraid.’

The boy
looked puzzled. Wat intervened. ‘Pay no attention to Mr Wilde, Brian,’ he said
reassuringly. ‘Brian’s a fine name.’

‘Fiddlesticks!’
said Oscar. ‘Name me an artist called Brian! Name me a composer called Brian!
Name me the lowliest spear-carrier in Irving’s company who boasts the name of
Brian! You cannot! Brian is not a name that rides on clouds of glory. If this
boy is to be an actor, he has to give up his pony-and-cart and change his name!’

‘But
why should he want to be an actor?’ asked an exasperated Wat Sickert, shaking
his head. ‘He’s happy as he is.’

‘Only
the dead are happy as they are, Wat,’ said Oscar. ‘This lad is already an
amateur actor of note. Am I not correct, Brian?’

The boy
blushed and nodded.

‘Indeed,
he is a budding Shakespearean. If I’m not mistaken, he has recently scored
something of a sensation in the Eastbourne Vagabonds’ acclaimed production of
Twelfth
Night.’

‘Did
you see it, sir?’ asked the boy, looking at Oscar, amazed.

‘No’
said Oscar, dolefully. ‘Would that I had. I saw Mr Irving and Miss Terry in the
play at the Lyceum. Not a success.’

Wat
Sickert was now standing face to face with Oscar, hands on hips, head thrown
back in scornful disbelief. ‘How is this possible, Oscar? If you have not met
the boy before, how on earth did you know that he has appeared in Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night?’

Oscar
was not looking Sickert in the eye. He was gazing over his shoulder, towards
the station cab rank.

‘Come,
Oscar,’ said Sickert. ‘Explain yourself.’

Oscar
looked at Wat and smiled. ‘The boy was familiar with the word
“consanguineous”—and proud to be. It’s a word that features prominently in
Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night,
but not, I imagine, in the daily discourse
of the average East Sussex stable lad … I jumped to a happy conclusion,
that’s all— prompted no doubt by my seeing a poster advertising the Eastbourne
Vagabonds’ production of the play displayed in the foyer of the Devonshire Park
Theatre.’

I
laughed. ‘How did you know that the Eastbourne Vagabonds’ production had been
“acclaimed”, Oscar?’ I asked.

‘All
amateur productions are acclaimed, Robert. That is
the rule.’ He turned back to the boy who was now standing wide-eyed and
open-mouthed between us. ‘Brian,’ he declared, ‘I have solved your dilemma. In
future, you are to have two names—one for the town, one for the country. In
Eastbourne, while you are an amateur actor, you may continue to call yourself
Brian. But when you come to London and turn professional, you will need another
Christian name—something, if I may say so, with a more romantic ring to it …’
From inside his coat pocket, he produced his silver cigarette case and began to
tap it against his chin thoughtfully. ‘What would you say to the name “Sebastian”,
Brian? Does “Sebastian” appeal to you?’

The boy
laughed nervously. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he muttered. ‘Sebastian—it’s the
part I played in the play.’

‘Good,’
said Oscar. ‘I guessed as much. That’s settled then.’ He put out his right hand
and the boy shook it, bowing his head as he did so. ‘It’s been a pleasure to
meet you, Brian,’ Oscar went on, now, in his left hand, holding his silver
cigarette case out towards the boy. ‘Please accept this as a token of my
appreciation and friendship. And as a christening present.’

The lad
took the silver cigarette case in both hands and looked on it in wonder. He
shook his head. ‘I can’t, sir. I mustn’t …’

‘You
can and you must,’ Oscar laughed. ‘Indeed, you have no choice. Look inside—you
will see that it is already inscribed to you.’

Oscar
leant forward and opened the cigarette case for the boy. He indicated inside
the lid. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Read what it says.’

The boy
narrowed his eyes and read the inscription:

Sebastian
from Oscar

with
love

Oscar turned to me. ‘Do
you have Pearse’s bag, Robert? We must be on our way or we shall miss our
train.’ He turned to Sickert. ‘Come, Wat. Our business here is done.’

Leaving
the boy, standing by his pony-and-trap, turning his silver trophy over and over
in his hands, we made our way hastily across the forecourt into the station.

‘You’re
astonishing, Oscar,’ exclaimed Wat Sickert. ‘I’ve never witnessed a scene quite
like it.’

‘I’m a
vain old fool,’ cried Oscar. ‘But I’m
observant,
I’ll grant you that.
Did you see what I saw—in the station forecourt?’

‘No,’
said Wat, as we found an empty first-class compartment and began to climb
aboard.

‘Out of
the corner of my eye I saw a familiar figure getting into one of the station
cabs. I’d have gone over to him if I hadn’t been playing out my little drama
for the benefit of the boy …’

‘Who
was it?’ I asked, settling back into my seat, still holding Bradford Pearse’s
Gladstone bag at my side.

‘Didn’t
you notice him either, Robert?’

‘No,’ I
said. ‘Who was it?’

‘It was
Francis Douglas, Lord Drumlanrig— Bosie’s brother. What is he doing in
Eastbourne, I wonder?’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘WHAT’S IN A NAME?’

As our train gathered
steam, Oscar stood at the carriage window gazing out over the red and grey
rooftops of Eastbourne scudding by. ‘Drumlanrig turning up like that …’ he
mused. ‘It’s a curious coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘Yes,’
retorted Sickert, sitting back in the corner seat, contemplating our remarkable
friend. ‘Not unlike the “curious coincidence” of you chancing to have on hand a
silver cigarette case charmingly inscribed to “Sebastian” just when you needed
one! How did you pull off that trick, Oscar? Was it a coincidence? Or do you
have half a dozen cigarette cases secreted about your person—each inscribed to
a different Shakespearean hero?’

Oscar
turned back from the window, unhooked his crimson cape, furled it into a bundle
and placed it with his white fedora hat on the luggage rack above our seats. He
smiled at Sickert and shook his head.

‘What
would you have done if the boy had been cast to play the part of Fabian,
Oscar?’ I asked.

‘The
boy would not have been cast to play the part of Fabian, Robert. The boy is
beautiful. He had to have played Sebastian. What else could he have played?’ He
sat himself in the window seat opposite mine. ‘Curio, I suppose,’ he added, ‘or
Valentine. But they’re not leading roles, and I sense young Sebastian Fletcher
is destined for leading roles.’ He leant across to Sickert. ‘May I cadge one of
your cigarettes, Wat, my friend? The boy now has all of mine.’

Wat
obliged and Oscar lit up. As a smoker, Oscar was a sensualist. With deep
satisfaction he filled our compartment with a haze of blue-grey smoke. Through
it, waving Wat’s cigarette in the air, he announced: ‘No one in all literature
is a richer source of perfect names than Shakespeare. He is the master of
nomenclature. Names, as you know, are everything.

‘Are
they?’ I asked. ‘Are they really?’

‘Oh,
yes, Robert,’ he said earnestly, ‘indeed they are. I am as I am because I’m
called as I’m called. And so are you. You began with five names, did you not,
Robert? So did I. How many names do you have Wat?’

‘Just
three: Walter Richard Sickert.’

Oscar
reflected on them. ‘They’ll serve,’ he said, ‘but you should perhaps have
started out with one or two more. I began life as Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie
Wills Wilde—a name with two Os, two Fs and two Ws … It has a fine ring to it,
does it not? But a name which is destined to be in everybody’s mouth must not
be too long. It comes so expensive in the advertisements! When one is unknown,
a number of Christian names are useful, of course, perhaps needful—but as one
becomes famous one sheds some of them, just as a balloonist, when riding
higher, sheds unnecessary ballast … All but two of my five names have already
been thrown overboard. In time, I shall discard another. The day will come when
I’m known by five letters of the alphabet, no more: two vowels and three
consonants—like Jesus or Judas, or Pliny or Plato. A century from now, my
friends will call me Oscar; my enemies will call me Wilde.’

Wat
Sickert smiled and proffered Oscar a second cigarette. ‘You still haven’t
explained the cigarette case inscribed to “Sebastian from Oscar with love” …’

‘It was
a present to myself. Oscar is neither a saint’s name nor Shakespearean;
Sebastian is both. Sebastian is my
alter ego.
I am Oscar in town and
Sebastian in other times and other places…. I gave the boy my own cigarette
case—on impulse. It was the moment for it, was it not? One should always seize
the moment.’

The
train jolted to a halt. ‘Where are we?’ asked Wat, straining forward.

Oscar
peered out of the murky window. ‘Leap Cross,’ he said. ‘Names are everything.
Shall we seize the moment to examine Pearse’s Gladstone bag?’

‘Perhaps
you should do so,’ I said to Sickert, passing the case across to him. ‘He was
your friend.’

‘He
is
my friend,’ said Sickert, opening the bag with a heavy sigh and carefully
emptying the contents onto the seat beside him. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead. I
don’t want to. Why should he take his own life? Who would want to kill him?’
Oscar said nothing.

The bag
disgorged no secrets. ‘It’s as you said, Oscar—just papers .’ Sickert sorted
the material into separate piles. ‘There’s correspondence here with assorted
theatre managers … postcards from landladies confirming digs … bills and
statements, plenty of those …’

‘Is
there a bank book?’ asked Oscar.’ Or any receipts from pawnbrokers—from the
likes of Ashman in the Strand?’

‘No,
none that I can see. There’s the script of
Murder Most Foul,
Tuesday’s
Times,
a copy of the Eastbourne
Gazette,
a copy of Bradshaw’s railway
timetable, more bills, but no bank book and no receipts from pawnbrokers …’ Wat
returned the material to the Gladstone bag. He snapped it shut. ‘What do we do
with this now?’ he asked.

‘Keep
it safely and, in due course, if need be, pass it on to his next of kin.’