Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (7 page)

‘Good
morning, Robert,’ said Conan Doyle, amiably, lowering his copy of
The Times.

Oscar
threw down his newspaper. ‘I need a hobby,’ he declared. ‘I must take up
sculpture, like Arthur here. Good morning, Robert. Did you sleep well?’

‘Good
morning, Oscar. Yes, thank you, very well.’

‘I hope
you dreamt well. Dreaming is your hobby, I know.’

I
laughed and looked about the room in the hope that there might be a pot of
coffee somewhere to be found. ‘Is Constance about?’ I asked.

‘She
and Gertrude Simmonds have taken the boys to Kensington Gardens. They have gone
to feed the ducks. Everyone, it seems, has a useful hobby, but I.’

‘I’ll
go in search of some coffee, if I may,’ I said.

‘Of
course,’ said Oscar. ‘Mrs Ryan will boil you an egg as well. And Constance will
be back shortly, I’m sure. But, remember, Robert: when you see her, not a word
about last night, if you please. It was only a game, but my darling wife is a
sensitive creature and I would not want to distress her for the world.’

‘I
know,’ I said. ‘I shan’t say a word. But I still can’t help wondering which of
our motley party would have thought of naming Constance like that, even in
jest.’

‘Stop
wondering,’ said Conan Doyle, sharply. ‘Forget all about it.’

‘I
will,’ I said. ‘I have.’

‘Good,’
said Oscar, turning his head towards the window. ‘It is a golden day, is it
not?’

As he
spoke, and we followed his eye towards the sun-filled casement, the three of us
were abruptly arrested in our thoughts by the sudden crack-crack-crack of what
sounded like pistol shots.

‘Good
God!’ cried Conan Doyle, leaping to his feet, ‘What’s that?’

The
triple-crack sounded once more. The noise was louder than before. ‘It’s someone
at the door,’ said Oscar, getting to his feet and moving cautiously towards the
window. The furious rat-tat-tat continued. ‘It’s some lunatic gone berserk with
the door knocker.’

‘Who is
it?’ demanded Conan Doyle, joining Oscar at the window and peering down into
the street.

‘I
cannot tell,’ said Oscar. The knocking had stopped. ‘Either he’s gone or Arthur
has let him in.’

There
was a sudden commotion in the hallway downstairs: the sound of two men arguing.
There was the noise of a momentary scuffle, followed by the fierce pounding of
footsteps on the stairs and then, suddenly, in the drawing-room doorway, there
appeared before us, in besmirched and dishevelled evening dress, the shambling
figure of the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney. His hands were covered in
blood.

‘Miss
Elizabeth Scott-Rivers …’ he cried. ‘The woman that last night I said I
wanted to murder … she is dead! She’s been burnt alive.’

CHAPTER FIVE

A DEATH IN CHEYNE WALK

‘Calm yourself, man,’ said
Conan Doyle.

‘Did
you do it?’ asked Oscar.

George
Daubeney stumbled into the Wildes’ picture-perfect drawing room and collapsed upon
a low
chaise-longue.
He buried his head in his bloodied hands and began
to sob uncontrollably.

‘Control
yourself, sir!‘ ordered Conan Doyle. The good Scottish doctor—who was no more
than eighteen months my senior but always seemed to me to be older than my
father stepped out onto the landing to where Oscar’s butler was hovering
anxiously. ‘A bowl of boiling water, towels and soap, if you please,’ he said.
‘And perhaps Mrs Ryan could prepare some sweet tea?’

‘Shall
I fetch the kitchen brandy as well, sir? ‘called the butler over his shoulder
as he hurried downstairs in answer to Doyle’s clear command.

‘No,
thank you, Arthur. I think alcohol has done enough damage for one night. If you
can bring up my bag when you come, I’d be obliged. It’s by the hat-stand in the
hallway.’

In the
sun-filled drawing room, Oscar was seated in an armchair immediately facing the
wretched Daubeney. The clergyman’s sobbing had given way to a low, pathetic
whimper.

‘Did
you do it?’ repeated Oscar. ‘Did you murder Miss Scott-Rivers?’

Daubeney
lifted his head from his hands. His eyes were bulging, bloodshot, rimmed with
tears. The irises were a dirty yellow, the colour of old straw. He looked
directly at Oscar, but said nothing.

‘He’s
in a state of shock,’ said Conan Doyle, returning to the room.

‘He’s
not alone in that,’ said Oscar, quietly. Conan Doyle got down on his haunches
and squatted by George Daubeney. ‘We’re going to clean you up, man, and you can
tell us what’s occurred.’

Daubeney
shook his head. ‘I do not know,’ he mumbled.

‘What
don’t you know?’ asked Doyle.

‘I do
not know what happened,’ said Daubeney, very slowly. He seemed to be in a kind
of trance. He turned away from Arthur and gazed at Oscar, imploringly. ‘Help
me,’ he whispered.

‘I can
smell fresh smoke,’ said Doyle, sniffing at the man’s grubby apparel. ‘He’s
been in a fire all right.’

‘She’s
dead,’ whispered Daubeney. He was barely audible.

‘Did
you do it?’ Oscar repeated the question for the third time.

‘Her
face was gone, burnt clean away. Her hair was still alight.’

Oscar
got up from his chair and paced towards the window. ‘We must get him out of
here before Constance returns.’ He turned to me. ‘Where does he live?’

‘I’m
not sure,’ I said.

‘He’s
your friend, Robert,’ Oscar snapped. ‘You brought him into our lives.’

‘I
think he has a room in Wandsworth.’ I faltered. ‘I barely know him, Oscar.’

‘Forgive
me,’ said Oscar, quickly. It was rare for him to show his temper. As a rule,
his demeanour remained serene even at the most testing of times. ‘That was
uncharitable of me, Robert. Unpardonable. His family have disowned him, I
know—you told me. I do not ask you to do the same.’

‘I know
very little of him,’ I protested.

‘Help
me,’ bleated the hapless creature on the
chaise-longue.

Arthur
and Mrs Ryan came into the room. The butler, a towel thrown across his
shoulder, was carrying a pail of steaming water and a bar of carbolic soap in
one hand and Conan Doyle’s bag in the other. The housekeeper brought in a tray
crowded with cups and saucers, jugs and pots, a biscuit barrel and a small
decanter of cognac. ‘There’s sweet tea and coffee here,’ she said, ‘and some
brandy—for medicinal purposes.’

‘There’s
no need,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘The
brandy’s for Mr Wilde,’ said Mrs Ryan crisply. She placed her tray on top of
the grand piano. ‘Shall I leave you to look after yourselves, gentlemen?’

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar, beaming at his housekeeper. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ryan.’ As she left the
drawing room, she smiled and dropped a curtsy towards her master. ‘There’s no
need to mention this disturbance to Mrs Wilde when she returns,’ Oscar added.
‘Best not trouble her or the boys.

The
butler followed the housekeeper out of the room. As he left us, I noticed that
Oscar inclined his head towards him and brought his fingertips together as if
offering his servant a silent salaam. I helped Oscar pour out the refreshments.
He added a generous dash of cognac to my coffee and his own. I took a cup of
sweetened tea over to George Daubeney. Conan Doyle had washed the man’s hands
and face and was now applying tincture of iodine to the torn skin on his palms
and wrists and arms. Daubeney winced. I held the tea cup to his lips. He drank
from it slowly. I realised, looking into the man’s face closely for probably
the first time, that Conan Doyle had been correct in his initial assessment:
Daubeney had a weak mouth.

‘Tell
us what has occurred, Daubeney,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘Take your time, but tell us
everything. It may be necessary for us to call the police.’

‘The
police will already be there,’ answered Daubeney, taking the tea cup from me
and draining it in a long, slow gulp.

‘Where?’
asked Oscar.

‘At 27
Cheyne Walk her house.’

‘Is
that where you’ve come from?’ asked Doyle.

‘Yes.’

A
silence fell.

‘Well?’
said Oscar.

‘What
happened?’ barked Conan Doyle. ‘For God’s sake, man, tell us what happened!’

Conan
Doyle’s outburst produced the desired result. Daubeney handed his tea cup back
to me and looked about the room, as if taking in his surroundings for the first
time. ‘When I left you last night,’ he began, ‘I walked down to the embankment
and along the water’s edge towards Wandsworth Bridge. There was no moon, but it
was a fine night and when I reached her house I saw the light in her window.’

‘Whose
window?’ asked Conan Doyle. ‘The window of Miss Scott-Rivers?’

‘Yes,’
said Daubeney, ‘Her drawing-room window.’

‘Had
you gone with the intention of seeing her?’ asked Oscar.

‘No,
not for a moment,’ he protested. He had not spoken so loudly before. His sudden
vehemence was startling.

‘And
yet,’ said Oscar calmly, ‘when you left the Cadogan Hotel, you said you had
business to attend to?’

‘I was
in drink,’ replied the man, casting his eyes to the ground.

‘You
were not drunk,’ said Oscar. ‘I watched you during dinner, Mr Daubeney. You
consumed two glasses of wine all evening, three at most.’

‘I did
not murder her, Mr Wilde. You must believe me. That is why I have come here
now. I need you to believe me.’

‘You
told us all you wished to see her dead,’ said Oscar.

‘But I
did not kill her.’

‘Yet
she is dead, you tell us.’

Daubeney
shuddered. ‘Burnt alive,’ he said, closing his eyes.

‘What
happened?’
Conan Doyle demanded. ‘Pull yourself together, man.’

Daubeney
opened his eyes and looked at Conan Doyle directly. ‘I reached her house. It’s
on the embankment, fifty yards or so from the water’s edge. I saw the light in
her window—in her drawing-room window, on the ground floor. Yes, I admit it.
For a while, I did consider going up to the front door and ringing the
doorbell, and attempting to gain admittance, but I did not do so. I swear to
you, as God is my witness, I did not do so.’

‘What
did you do?’ asked Oscar.

‘I sat
in front of her house, on a wooden bench on the embankment overlooking the
river Thames. I sat and I prayed. I prayed for her soul and for mine.’

‘And
then?’

‘I fell
asleep.’

‘You
fell asleep?’ cried Conan Doyle. ‘For how long?’

‘I do
not know. What awoke me was the shriek of the klaxon from the fire-boat on the
river. I heard it. I came to. Then I saw the fire-boat steaming through the
darkness towards the embankment. I turned about me and I saw the house …
There were flames leaping from her window. The drawing room was ablaze. I ran
towards the house. I ran up the front steps. I beat on the door. I climbed
across the iron railings. That’s when I tore my coat. I climbed from the front
steps up onto the ground-floor window ledge and beat my arms against the
window-pane. The glass smashed. I fell forward and caught myself on the edge of
the window frame. And then I saw her, lying by the fireplace, her face all
burnt away, the flames dancing around her skull, burning the stubble of her
hair as in a forest fire.’

Oscar
was on his feet. ‘We must go there now.’

Conan
Doyle was still crouching at Daubeney’s side. ‘What happened next? Did you go
into the room?’

‘The
flames beat me back,’ said Daubeney, hiding his face behind his fingers as if
in shame. ‘I climbed back along the window ledge, and jumped over the area
steps onto the pavement. I could hear the firemen by the embankment. They were
coming ashore. I panicked. I ran away. I took refuge nearby—in All Saints
church. I hid in the chapel of St Thomas More. I lay beneath the altar and I
prayed for her soul and for mine. And, for a while, I think I slept. And when
day came, and the church began to come to life, I crept out and made my way
here.’ He turned towards Oscar. ‘I needed to see you, Mr Wilde. I needed you to
know that whatever I said last night when playing that infernal game of yours, I
did not murder Elizabeth. By all that’s holy, I swear to you I did not.’

Oscar
said nothing.

‘Mr
Daubeney,’ said Conan Doyle, getting to his feet. ‘Everything you have told us
you must now tell to the police.

Daubeney
looked at Oscar imploringly.

‘Dr
Doyle is right,’ said Oscar. ‘There is no time to lose. The longer you take to
report what you know to the proper authorities, the more suspicious your
behaviour will appear to be.’

‘I am
innocent,’ pleaded Daubeney, getting to his feet and turning desperately
between Oscar and Conan Doyle.

‘I
know,’ I said, ‘but do as my friends advise, George. It will be best.’