2007 - Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders (8 page)

“I fear so,” said Oscar, bleakly.

“Oh dear,” muttered Bellotti. “He’ll have run away then. They do. Am I right? Has he disappeared?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll have gone to his mother in Broadstairs. That’s what happens. That’s what they all do. In time of travail, they turn to their mothers.”

“Do you happen to have her address?” asked Oscar.

“The Castle, Harbour Street. The property does not quite live up to the address, but as seaside guest houses go, it has all the essential amenities. I stayed there two summers ago. That’s how I met young Billy Wood. He was waiting at table. I sensed at once you’d like him, Mr Wilde. I encouraged him to come to town, partly on your account.”

“Thank you,” said Oscar, and we got to our feet. Bellotti did not move.

As we pushed our way back through the crowd, I asked, “Is he blind?”

“He may be,” said Oscar. “He appears to be. But I would not count upon it. With a man like Bellotti, you can never be quite sure of anything.”

Back in the street, our two-wheeler was waiting. We were about to clamber aboard when, simultaneously, both Oscar and I lurched forward and let out an involuntary cry of pain. A blow, like the lash of a whip, had been struck across the backs of our calves. Oscar fell forward against the carriage. I turned around angrily. Standing immediately behind us was a small figure in a page-boy’s uniform. I was about to cuff the lad across the ear when I realised that our assailant was not a boy at all, but a dwarf. His body was diminutive but not misshapen; his large head was both unnatural and grotesque. His face was heavily lined; his skin was sallow and weather-beaten. There was a sneer on his lips and in his hands the cane that he had swiped across our legs to attract our attention. I saw at once that it was the swordstick that I had presented to Constance on her honeymoon, and I realised at once that Oscar must haw left it at Bellotti’s table.

The dwarf held out the cane towards Oscar, who, recovering his balance, took it. To my astonishment, he then reached into his pocket and found a coin to give to the man. “For God’s sake, Oscar!” I protested.

The dwarf grabbed the money and backed away, laughing at us contemptuously. Oscar climbed into the cab. “Pleasure and pain,” he said, “they’ve both to be paid for, one way or another.”

“Did you know him?” I asked, as I followed Oscar into the two-wheeler.

“He’s a creature of Bellotti’s,” he answered. “He is unpleasant, I grant you, but I pity him his deformity.”

“What does he do for Bellotti?” I said.

“His bidding,” Oscar replied, with a wan smile.

“He is a nasty piece of work,” I said, rubbing my calves, which were still sore from the unwarranted assault.

“It needs not a ghost come from the grave to tell us that, Robert. He is ugly and vicious, so put him out of your mind. The less said about life’s sores the better. Think happier thoughts. Think: tomorrow, we shall be going to Broadstairs and perhaps I shall buy you a boater when we are at the seaside…”

The two-wheeler took us from Knightsbridge, down Piccadilly and through Soho towards my room on Gower Street. When we reached the side-street by Soho Square where, two nights before, I had seen Oscar with the young woman—the stranger with the disfigured face—abruptly my friend called to the cab to stop. “I will alight here,” he said. “You go on home, Robert. The fare is paid.”

He climbed down from the carriage and turned to me.

“Yes, Robert,” he said, “I have an assignation—in a slightly disreputable part of town. And you have curiosity. Both, I trust, will do us credit.”

3 September 1889

W
hat was Orcar’s assignation in that slightly disreputable part of town? He did not volunteer the information, and I did not press him for it.

It is curious how men who are good friends, close friends, true friends, who may have been on the most intimate and familiar terms over any number of years, can nevertheless know next to nothing of one another’s love lives.

I knew Oscar Wilde well, but I did not then know the secrets of his heart.

In Paris, in the cloudless spring of 1883, when we first met, we dined together, time and again, at Foyot’s, at Voisin’s, at Paillard’s, at all the best tables; we strolled together, hour upon hour, through the gardens of the Tuileries, through the Palais du Louvre, along the banks of the Seine; we dined and we talked; we walked and we talked; and when we talked, we talked of everything beneath the sun and moon, of art and literature, of music and revolution, of life and death, and, yes, of love. But when we talked of love, I realise now, it was always in the abstract.

Once, I told Oscar how at Oxford, when I was twenty (before I was sent down), I had visited a prostitute.

Immediately, he reciprocated and told me how at Oxford, when he was twenty (before he won the Newdigate Prize), he, too, had visited a prostitute, but he told me no more of the experience than that. In Paris, memorably, we had been together at the Eden Music Hall on the night on which he met—and shared the bed—of the celebrated Marie Aguetant. Following that first encounter, I know that he called upon her more than once and later, after her brutal murder, I recall him saying, “I think of her often, Robert,” but what he thought of her—and why—he did not tell me.

In London, in Soho, on occasion, I visited a brothel and enjoyed the dubious delights on offer there. Did Oscar also? Before his marriage, and after, several of his closest friends were actresses. Not all were ladies. He flirted with them outrageously. Did he lie with them also? He told me he loved Lillie Langtry ‘with a passion’—but said no more than that. He called her ‘Lil’; he kissed her upon the lips (I know; I saw it happen); but did he share her bed? I cannot tell. He loved Constance—of that I am certain—but did he love others too? Did he betray his wife with other women? And was the girl I had seen him with in Soho Square one such? And if he did, and if she was, was it truly betrayal? Or did he believe—as I did; as I do—that you can love more than one person and keep faith with both?

Travelling with him, first class, on the train to Broadstairs, early in that September of 1889, he seemed to read my thoughts. We were alone in the carriage, seated opposite one another, and a silence had fallen between us. I was gazing at his tired eyes and wondering whom he had met the night before—and why—and what had passed between them. I was thinking of Constance, whom I loved, and of my promise to protect her. Did she have cause to be jealous? Could she depend on Oscar’s fidelity? And, if she could not, would the truth, if ever she learnt it, be very painful to her?

I was in a kind of reverie, slowly turning over these questions in my mind, when I realised that my friend was speaking to me.

“Fidelity is overrated, Robert,” I heard him say. “It is loyalty that counts—and understanding.”

“Indeed,” I murmured, unsure of where our conversation might be leading.

“Take my mother, for example. Such a feeling as vulgar jealousy could take no hold on her.” I nodded, but said nothing. With Oscar, I often nodded and said nothing. “My mother was well aware of my father’s constant infidelities, but simply ignored them. Before my father died, he lay ill in bed for many days. And every morning a woman dressed in black, and closely veiled, used to come to our house in Merrion Square, in Dublin. Unhindered either by my mother or anyone else, she used to walk straight upstairs to my father’s bedroom, sit down at the head of his bed, and so remain there all day, without ever speaking a word or once raising her veil.

“She took no notice of anybody in the room, and nobody paid any attention to her. Not one woman in a thousand would have tolerated her presence, but my mother allowed it, because she knew that my father loved this woman and felt that it must be a comfort to have her there by his dying bed. And I am sure that she did right not to judge that last happiness of a man who was about to die, and I am sure that my father understood her apparent indifference, understood that it was not because she did not love him that she permitted her rival’s presence, but because she loved him very much, and died with his heart full of gratitude and affection for her.”

He smiled at me and brushed what might have been a tear from the corner of his eye. “We have mothers on the mind, do we not, Robert? It is understandable. We are on our way to meet the unfortunate mother of poor Billy Wood—a mother who has lost her child and does not yet know it.”

“Are we to tell her?” I asked.

“If she does not already know,” said Oscar, “we must.”

“But if there is no body—”

“I saw the body of Billy Wood, Robert. He is dead. Mrs Wood will not see her boy again. And he was her only child.”

“You know that?”

“He told me so. He spoke often of his mother. He loved her dearly. He told me that his mother did not understand him, but that she understood herself well enough to know she did not understand him. He was a clever boy. And kind. He told me he had come to London to make his fortune so that one day he could care for his mother as she had once cared for him. And he would have made a fortune, Robert…”

“You think so?”

“I know so, Robert. He had no education to speak of—he could barely read—but when I read Shakespeare to him, he would memorise the words almost at once and then declaim them with an instinctive authority, intelligence and feeling that were remarkable. He was perhaps the most gifted young actor I have ever known. We were working on
Romeo and Juliet
when he died. I had planned to introduce him to my friend Henry Irving at the Lyceum. Irving, great actor-manager that he is, would have recognised Billy’s gift. Billy Wood had the makings of what they call ‘a star’. He was luminous. He shone. He would have gone far, Robert. He would indeed have made a fortune. I was proud to be nurturing his natural talent. His loss to me is grievous. His loss to his mother will be terrible.”

“What sort of woman is she?” I asked. “Do you know?”

“I have dark forebodings about her, Robert,” Oscar replied, blowing his nose and mopping his mouth with his handkerchief. He shifted in his seat. “I am not optimistic. You must remember, she lives in Broadstairs.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, sensing that Oscar’s mood was moving rapidly from the elegiac to the playful.

Oscar shook his head, muttering with a sigh, “Broadstairs…ah me!”

“What is wrong with Broadstairs?” I ventured. “Is it not one of Queen Victoria’s favourite watering holes?”

“Her Majesty is not the problem, Robert. It is Dickens who is the difficulty.”

“Dickens?”

“Dickens! Yes, Robert, Charles Dickens, the late, lamented. Broadstairs was his favourite holiday retreat. It was Dickens who put Broadstairs on the map. He wrote
David Copperfield
there—in a cliff-top villa that, naturally, now glories in the name of Bleak House. If you are so inclined, you may visit it. There is a twopenny tour. And if you take it, when you reach the room that used to be the great man’s study you will learn of the legend that says, “Leave a note for Mr Dickens in the top drawer of his writing desk and he will come in the night to read it…” Oh, yes, in Broadstairs the spirit of Dickens is everywhere—
he
is everywhere. You cannot escape him, try as you might, because, by way of unconscious tribute to their most celebrated visitor, the good people of Broadstairs have each and every one transmogrified themselves into characters from their hero’s oeuvre. The stationmaster looks like Micawber, the town crier
is
Mr Bumble, the benevolent landlady at the Saracen’s Head takes her cue from Mrs Fezziwig…”

“You exaggerate, Oscar.” I laughed.

“Would that I did,” he sighed. “Our Mrs Wood, I fear, poor Billy’s mother, will be playing her part like all the rest. She will be Mrs Todgers, I imagine, “affection beaming in one eye, calculation shining out of the other”—or, more likely, Mrs Gummidge, a lone, lorn creature for whom ‘everythink goes contrairy’. Broadstairs is not as other towns are, Robert, mark my words.”

To my astonishment, when we alighted from the train, it seemed that Oscar was right. It must, of course, merely have been the power of his suggestion, but, as we walked the short distance down the hill from the railway station towards the centre of the town, every passer-by appeared to be a caricature of humanity, decked out in elaborate period costume, playing a role in a vast Dickensian pageant. We passed an obsequious muffin-man who touched his cap to us (“Uriah Heep,” murmured Oscar); a fair-haired, shoeless, ragged boy to whom Oscar tossed a halfpenny (“Oliver Twist?” I asked); a beaming, bon-homous, bespectacled gentleman who raised his hat to us unbidden with a “Capital morning, is it not?” (“Mr Pickwick!” we whispered merrily, together and at once); and several more. But the game stopped—the game was forgotten—the moment we reached The Castle, Harbour Street.

The house itself was tall and narrow, running to three floors. It took its name from the castellated design of the decorative brick-and-flint work above the ground- and first-floor windows and the front door. The Castle looked to be what it was: a small seaside hotel that had known better days. The dilapidation was evident: the curtains at the unwashed windows were faded and ill hung; the stone front steps were chipped and badly worn; the boot scraper was broken; the brickwork was weather-beaten and discoloured; and the paint was peeling on the hanging sign that announced the hotel’s name as well as on the wrought-iron railings and the gate that led to the area steps.

It was on these steps that we first encountered the man who, we later learnt, was Edward O’Donnell.

Had we still been playing Oscar’s game, we might, in unison, have cried, “Bill Sikes!” for the man—unshaven, unkempt, and unsteady on his feet—was clearly a brute and a drunkard. Nevertheless at that moment I do not believe that either Oscar or I gave Dickens a moment’s consideration. Edward O’Donnell inspired fear, not playfulness. He was not young—he might have been fifty—but he had the build of an ox and there was madness in his eyes.

As we approached the house, he lurched from the area steps onto the street and stood before us, confronting us, blocking our way. We froze, quite terrified. With one hand outstretched he steadied himself on the iron railings; with the other he gesticulated wildly towards our faces, jabbing his extended forefinger close to Oscar’s eyes first, then to mine. “Have you come for her?” he bellowed. “Have you come for the bitch, the slattern? I wish you joy of her—and her beloved boy. God rot them both. She is the devil’s whore. God knows, I’ve always hated her.
La putaine!
”