Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (15 page)

‘We All Have Secrets’

34
From
Reynolds’s Newspaper
, Sunday, 16 March 1890

The funeral of the Duchess of Albemarle is to take place at St George’s, Hanover Square, London, W., on Thursday next, 20 March, at eleven o’clock. The duchess, noted for her beauty and charitable endeavour, died in the early hours of Friday morning.

Despite speculation in certain quarters, an inquest into the duchess’s untimely death is not expected. The Metropolitan Police Commissioner at Scotland Yard has confirmed that foul play is not suspected and the duchess’s physician, Lord Yarborough, MD, FRS, has issued a statement indicating that his patient died as the consequence of a long-established heart condition, ‘possibly exacerbated by her arduous duties as a liberal and generous hostess’.

On Thursday last, at their mansion in Grosvenor Square, the Duke and Duchess of Albemarle gave an evening reception for 200 notabilities connected with the arts and sciences. The guest of honour on that occasion was HRH the Prince of Wales.

It is not yet known whether the heir apparent will be
among the mourners at the duchess’s funeral on Thursday, but we think it likely. The young Duchess of Albemarle had the distinction of being a favourite with the Prince of Wales, much as Lady Mordaunt, Madame Bernhardt, Miss Chamberlayne, and Mrs Langtry, among others, had been before her.

35
From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

T
his morning (Sunday, 16 March), as arranged, I went to Tite Street at nine o’clock to take breakfast with Oscar. He was not there. Constance (looking ever lovelier) welcomed me sweetly. She said, ‘Oscar often stays away. He needs his freedom. I understand.’ She spoke without any bitterness. She has a generous heart and the gentlest of smiles. We spent the morning together, reading, while her boys played upstairs in the nursery.

At eleven o’clock Oscar appeared. He was unshaven and bleary-eyed, but in the highest of high spirits.

‘I have just driven through the park,’ he announced, ‘and watched some young lads riding their bicycles around the lake. There is nothing like youth. The middle-aged are mortgaged to Life. The old are in life’s lumber room. But youth is the Lord of Life.’ He kissed Constance tenderly on the forehead. ‘To win back my youth there is nothing I wouldn’t do – except take exercise, get up early or be a useful member of the community.’

As we laughed, he caressed his wife’s temples and then untied and tied again the blue ribbon in her hair. ‘My wife is not so slim now as she was in younger and happier days – I blame our boys for that – but her face
has all the intelligence and beauty of the young Apollo, don’t you agree?’

‘I do,’ I said, as Constance blushed and, playfully, pushed her husband away from her.

Oscar stood square before us, stretching. ‘I must shave and bathe, before putting on my lilac shirt and heliotrope tie. Spring is sprung and we have work to do, Robert. The Duke of Albemarle is granting us an interview on his return from church at half past twelve.’

‘It is still Lent, my darling heart,’ said Constance anxiously, ‘and the Albemarle household will now be in mourning – do you think the heliotrope tie quite seemly?’

At 12.30 p.m., Oscar, cleanly shaven and dressed in a black velvet suit, white linen shirt and loose-fitting black silk tie, rang the bell at 40 Grosvenor Square. The front door swung open immediately.

‘His Grace is expecting you, gentlemen,’ said Parker, the butler, bowing slightly. ‘Please follow me.’

He led us across the hallway, to the left of the grand staircase, towards the downstairs morning room. As I glanced back at the closed door to the telephone room, he added, ‘I understand that when you have seen His Grace you wish also to see me.’

‘We would be much obliged,’ said Oscar genially.

We found the Duke of Albemarle standing alone, with his back to us, gazing out of the window into the garden. ‘The daffodils are early this year,’ he said. ‘Helen so loved the daffodils.’

He spun round on his heels and stepped briskly towards us, extending a firm hand to each of us in turn. He is sixty-five, a big man, with thick and wiry silver hair and a farmer’s face: broad and red and honest. He
was dressed in full mourning, but he appeared fresh and bristling with energy. His manners are impeccable; his welcome was cordial.

‘Your Grace did not go to church, I see,’ said Oscar, raising an eyebrow. ‘And you breakfasted late.’

The duke smiled. ‘You have spent too much time with your friend Conan Doyle, Mr Wilde. You are trying to out-Holmes Holmes. But you are correct, of course. I rose later than I should. I have neglected my devotions and only just left the breakfast table. How did you know? Did Parker tell you?’

‘Your butler is the soul of discretion, you may be sure of that. No. The perfect line of your trousers suggests that Your Grace has not been down on his knees and at prayer since they were pressed, while the breadcrumbs on your cuff indicate a slice of toast recently enjoyed.’

‘Very good, Mr Wilde,’ said the duke. He looked at Oscar with amused approval. ‘I have received a note from the Prince of Wales asking me to co-operate with the enquiries you are making on his behalf. I am happy to oblige. I can well understand why His Royal Highness is ready to trust you as his new-found consulting detective.’

Oscar smiled. ‘Because I have an eye for detail?’

‘No. Because you are a man of the world, Mr Wilde. And you understand the prince.’

‘I know His Royal Highness only very slightly,’ Oscar protested. He did not protest strongly; he was flattered by the duke’s suggestion. ‘We met some years ago – as mutual friends of Mrs Langtry.’

‘Yes,’ replied the duke. ‘The Prince of Wales and Mrs Langtry were very close once upon a time.’

‘They are still friends,’ said Oscar.

‘And you understand such friendships, Mr Wilde. I know you do. The prince knows you do. He appreciates that. You are a lord of language and he is the Prince of Wales, but you have much in common.’

Oscar remained silent.

‘The Prince of Wales is a happily married man. So are you. The prince’s wife is a lady of quality and distinction. As is yours. Yet the prince enjoys a number of special friendships beyond his marriage – outside it – friendships that enrich his life but at the same time threaten his position. I am told that you might have a fellow feeling with His Royal Highness in this regard.’

Still Oscar said nothing.

‘We all have secrets, Mr Wilde.’

A heavy silence filled the room. A bright ray of midday sunshine filtered through the window and fell on Oscar, isolating him as a spotlight might upon a bare stage. Dust danced about his head.

It was a curious moment. I have known Oscar for seven years. We have dined together, travelled together, lived together. We have shared digs – and adventures. I know him well. I have not seen him discomfited – and silenced – like this before.

The Duke of Albemarle, having secured the upper hand, moved to a sideboard and returned holding a large, silver cigarette box. ‘A cigarette, gentlemen? It’s American tobacco, I fear. We don’t run to Turkish in Grosvenor Square.’

We each took cigarettes and, as he lit them for us, the duke indicated that we should now sit and make ourselves comfortable. I perched on a low divan. Oscar
found a high-backed armchair out of the sunlight. The duke, who remained standing before the fireplace, put the cigarette box on the mantelpiece, beside a Meissen porcelain shepherd and shepherdess.

‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, crisply, turning to us, ‘to business. And to the point. The Prince of Wales wishes to avoid a scandal. So do I. A scandal would hurt me. A scandal could ruin him. But the prince, because of his profound fondness for my late wife, also wishes to know all there is to know about her death. This is where His Royal Highness and I differ. I believe I know enough already. I do not need to know more.’

Oscar looked up at the duke. ‘You do not need to know more?’ he repeated quietly.

‘I know what Lord Yarborough has told me and that is sufficient. Yarborough is a man I trust. He likes to call himself a “psychiatrist”, but by training he’s a medical man. His judgement can be relied upon. He was my wife’s physician. He signed her death certificate. He is convinced that Helen died of a heart attack – and so am I.’

‘But what provoked that heart attack?’ asked Oscar. ‘What of the wounds about her body and in her neck?’

The Duke of Albemarle blew a great cloud of cigarette smoke across his morning room and laughed out loud. ‘Oh, Mr Wilde,’ he exclaimed, ‘I thought that you of all men would understand! Are you not familiar with unnatural vice?’

Oscar made to speak, but stopped before he did so.

‘Five years ago,’ the duke continued, ‘when I married Helen, I did so in good faith. I loved her dearly. By the time she died, I loved her not at all. There was residual affection, perhaps, but no love left.’

‘And no respect?’ asked Oscar.

‘She had forfeited that.’ The duke turned to gaze out of the window as he spoke. ‘Lord Yarborough is convinced that she was mad. He wanted to take her to his clinic, to cure her of her cravings by hypnosis.’

‘She craved other men?’ asked Oscar gently.

The duke laughed once more – more gently this time – and looked back at Oscar. ‘That’s not a madness, Mr Wilde. Craving other men? That’s commonplace. Half the wives in London crave men other than their husbands, so I’m told.’

Oscar smiled. The duke shook his head and drew slowly on his cigarette.

‘No, what Helen craved was violence – the thrill of it and the pain of it. My wife was a woman who wanted to be thrashed – and went with any man who was willing to do her bidding.’

A different silence filled the room. The Duke of Albemarle sighed and threw the remains of his cigarette into the empty grate.

‘I am sorry,’ said Oscar.

‘My wife brought her own death upon herself, Mr Wilde. Lord Yarborough had told her that her heart was enfeebled. She knew the risk that she was taking – but the risk, the danger, was half the excitement.’