Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery (9 page)

Warder Stokes said nothing, but took my spoon from me and my bowl of half-eaten gruel and departed.

I sat at the foot of my narrow bed and lowered my head and tried to say a prayer. It was in vain. Once more, unbidden, the crowd from the platform at Clapham Junction filled my mind’s eye. But now, curiously, I began to feel more regret for the people who laughed at me than for myself. To mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful thing. In the strangely simple economy of the world, people only get what they give, and to those who have not enough imagination to penetrate the mere outward aspect of things and feel pity, what pity can be given save that of scorn?

As I sat there, alone in my cell, gazing down at my torn and calloused hands, I realised that I must – somehow – find a way to get something out of my punishment beyond bitterness and despair. Until my imprisonment, all my life I had taken praise as my right and pleasure as my due. Now my fame had turned to infamy: to me pleasure and praise were now equally denied. If I could but learn to accept this – to accept all that had happened to me – might not those moments of submission, abasement and humiliation – at Wandsworth, at Clapham Junction, here at Reading Gaol – lead me, in time, to a better, sweeter,
happier
place? All the spring may be hidden in the single bud, and the low ground nest of the lark may hold the joy that is to herald the coming of many rosered dawns. So, perhaps, whatever beauty of life remained to me would be contained in my moments of surrender.

Suddenly, I spoke out loud – in a stentorian tone that would have done credit to Henry Irving: ‘Sweet are the uses of adversity . . .’

‘Silence!’ called Warder Stokes. He pushed open the door of my cell. ‘C.3.3. – silence!’

I stood, reproved. ‘You are quite right, warder. I was out of order. That was not the Bible. That was Shakespeare. They say, of course, that Shakespeare may have had a hand in the King James translation, but even so . . .’

‘Chapel,’ commanded Warder Stokes. ‘Put on your cap.’

Almost amused, I donned my hood of humiliation and meekly followed the warder as he led me from the infirmary, through two sets of iron gates, down two flights of steep stone steps and through a further gate into the prison courtyard. As we crossed the damp, grey flagstones, from beneath my cap I glanced about me. ‘Is that the chapel?’ I enquired.

‘That’s the gatehouse.’

I halted in my tracks. ‘In the November mist, I mistook it for the west front of a Gothic cathedral. And those are turrets, I see now – not bell towers.’

‘The governor lives in one,’ vouchsafed Warder Stokes. ‘The chaplain in the other.’

‘They live like princes,’ I declared, gazing up at the twin towers. ‘I wonder which of them has laid claim to Rapunzel?’

‘Move,’ ordered Warder Stokes.

I began to walk again. ‘Who guards the rampart between the towers?’ I enquired.

‘That’s the roof of the gatehouse,’ said my keeper. ‘The warders who guard it are armed. If you try to escape, they fire.’

‘It must command tremendous views,’ I said, turning back to look at it.

‘It was where they put up the gallows in the old days.’

‘In your father’s time?’

‘Ten thousand came to watch a hanging then.’

My plays had a following too, I thought, but I said nothing.

‘March on,’ ordered Warder Stokes.

We crossed the courtyard and passed through further gates. Now, in single files, from all corners of the prison, other prisoners appeared. They shuffled forward, hooded, abject, forlorn. Theirs was the gait of broken men. ‘And women, too?’ I whispered.

‘Yes,’ said my warder quietly. ‘There are seventeen women here.’ We fell in alongside them, bedraggled creatures, dressed in long coats of prison grey, bent like witches, veiled like nuns. ‘You will be silent now,’ said Stokes.

In the chapel, the women sat in the frontmost pews. Behind them came the debtors and the men on remand awaiting trial. The rest of us – we convicts – filled up the remainder of the stalls, wooden benches that rose, row by row, in banks, tiered like gallery seats at the music hall. Each long bench was divided into individual cubicles, just wide enough for a small man to sit in. The whole construction ensured that all would be uncomfortable and no prisoner could see or hear or touch another. I found my place – it was marked C.3.3. – and sat in it, in silence, gazing down at my knees once more, listening to the heavy breathing all around me. At the back of the chapel, a man began to whistle. A warder shouted, ‘Quiet!’ Throughout the service, four warders stood at the front of the chapel, with their backs to the altar and their eyes on us. Their presence did not encourage us to incline our hearts to prayer.

Nor, let it be said, did the manner of the prison chaplain, who read out the service as though he understood not a word of it. The reverend gentleman gloried in the name of Friend, but beyond his surname he appeared to me to have no trait or characteristic to suit him to his calling. He spoke the mighty words of the Book of Common Prayer in a dreary monotone, like a man without a heart, let alone a soul.

‘It was an arid service that offered me no comfort,’ I observed to Warder Stokes as he escorted me out of the chapel and back into the prison yard. ‘Am I to endure this every day and twice on Sunday?’

‘Quiet.’

‘O God, make speed to save me.’

‘Quiet, C.3.3.’

‘O Lord, make haste to help me.’

‘Quiet.’

‘I am saying my prayers. That must be allowed, surely?’

‘You will be silent at all times.’

Warder Stokes held no terror for me. He was a young man with crooked teeth and carrot-coloured hair wearing a uniform that was too big for him. He was my gaoler, but might he not also be my friend? I determined in that moment never to address him when we might be observed or overheard. I said nothing more until we had reached the stone steps leading back to the infirmary.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

‘You will stay in your cell up here until the surgeon has seen you. He will decide what you’re fit for.’

‘I am fit for nothing,’ I said.

‘It’ll either be the pump-house or picking oakum in your cell.’

‘You don’t have a treadmill here?’

‘No.’

‘No treadmill?’ I sighed. ‘What is the world coming to?’

‘In the pump-house ten of you work the crank that takes the water round the prison. It’s like a treadmill.’

‘But it serves a useful purpose. It’s not like a treadmill at all.’

I paused on the stairs to regain my breath. I leant against the wall. Stokes paused, too. ‘You’re not like the other prisoners, are you? We don’t get many gentlemen in here.’

‘You’re not like the other turnkeys, are you, Warder Stokes? You don’t get many good men in here, I imagine.’ I turned my hooded head towards him. ‘Are you happy, I wonder? When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ he said, walking on.

‘I am relieved to hear it,’ I answered, laughing. As I laughed, I realised I had not laughed out loud for months.

‘Shh,’ hissed Warder Stokes. ‘You must be silent at all times.’

We had reached the top of the stone steps. Warder Stokes unlocked the iron gate that led to the infirmary guard-room. Another warder – an older man – was seated at a table in the centre of the room. He had a tin mug of tea in front of him. He looked up from his newspaper as we entered.

‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

‘The new man – arrived last night – from Wandsworth.’

‘Ah,’ said the seated figure, pushing back his chair. ‘The malingerer and sodomite.’ He gestured towards me with his mug of tea. ‘Take off your cap. Let’s take a look.’ I did as I was bidden. The warder stared at me. He put down his tea. ‘We’ve heard all about you,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing we don’t know.’ He looked to Warder Stokes. ‘Why’s he up here?’

‘The surgeon hasn’t seen him yet.’

‘Does he need to? We know all about this one.’ He got to his feet and took a step towards me. He eyed me up and down, as though I were a disappointing piece of livestock on my way to market. ‘There’s no sign of the surgeon,’ he said to Warder Stokes. ‘I’ve brought one up from E Ward – E.1.1. Seeping blood.’

‘Which cell?’

‘Number 3. I saw Number 1 was taken.’

‘Much blood?’

‘Enough.’ He turned to look at the clock on the guardroom wall. My eye followed his and I turned to look at the clock, too. ‘No looking around or about at any time,’ he snapped. ‘Hasn’t Warder Stokes read you the rules?’

I bowed my head. On the stone steps with Stokes I had laughed. Now, once more, I wanted to weep.

‘If you’re staying, I’ll take my lunch early, Stokes.’ He sized me up once more. He yawned. ‘What’s this one’s number?’ he asked.

‘C.3.3.’

‘Up on the third floor?’ He looked at me disparagingly. ‘The exercise should do him good.’ He picked up his paper from the table, nodded to Warder Stokes and went on his way.

Warder Stokes pointed me across the guard-room towards the gate that led to the infirmary cells. From beyond the bars we could hear the sound of coughing.

‘Where is E Ward?’ I asked.

‘You don’t need to know. You won’t be going there.’

‘Forgive me. I was curious. I apologise.’

‘It’s beyond the pump-house and the punishment block. We passed it just now. It’s where the women prisoners are kept. They’re only let out to go to chapel.’

‘Or to come here,’ I said.

‘No, they don’t come here. They have their own infirmary.’ He pushed open the gate to the row of cells. The coughing was close now. ‘This isn’t a woman here. This is a boy. Some of the younger boys are kept over in the women’s ward – the privileged ones.’

‘A boy? How old is he?’

‘He’s twelve, thirteen, something like that.’

‘Poor child.’

‘He broke the law. He’s learning his lesson.’

‘What’s his name – his Christian name?’

‘Tom.’

‘Poor Tom.’

‘Don’t worry about him. He gets well looked after. He’s Warder Braddle’s favourite.’

6
21 November 1895
Dr Maurice

‘M
ay I ask about Warder Braddle?’

‘No.’

‘Please. I need to know.’

‘Enough. Into your cell.’

Warder Stokes took me by the elbow and moved me briskly along the short row of cells. Mine was the last in the line – opposite that of the boy called Tom.

‘Warder Braddle,’ I persisted. ‘Is he living?’

Stokes laughed. ‘He was alive and well when I last saw him.’

‘I must see him.’

‘You’ll see him soon enough.’

‘Where is he?’ I cried. ‘Was he here last night? I will go mad. Where is he?’

‘Wandsworth, if you must know. I don’t know when he’s due back, but he’ll be here soon enough.’

‘God Almighty—’

‘No profanity. You know the rules. Into your cell.’

Warder Stokes pushed me into the cell. ‘Read your Bible,’ he said. ‘Calm down. The surgeon will come in due course.’

I stood there, in my grotesque prison garb, clutching my absurd convict’s cap, looking in desperation at the young man with the crooked teeth and the freckled face. ‘You are my only friend,’ I pleaded. ‘You must save me.’

Stokes stood, bewildered and, I now see, embarrassed. ‘I am not your friend, Mr Wilde. I am your turnkey. If you want to be saved, you’d better see the chaplain about that.’ He stepped out of the cell and closed the door.

‘You know my name!’ I called out.

‘We all know your name. Warder Braddle has told us all about you.’ He turned the keys in the locks. ‘Be quiet now or I’ll have to report you to the governor.’ With his fist he banged on the back of the door. ‘You know the rules,’ he repeated. ‘Silence must be observed on all occasions by day and night.’

I heard his steps retreating along the passageway. I leant back against the cold stone wall of the cell, listening. I could hear the sound of the boy in the cell opposite mine. It was the sound of coughing and retching. I went to my door and put my face to the spyhole. I could see nothing. I cupped my hands around my mouth and called out the boy’s name. ‘Tom!’ There was no reply. I called again, ‘Tom! Tom! Can you hear me?’