Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (28 page)

She was only just dead: her flesh was still warm and soft to the touch. I closed her eyelids, but allowed Yarborough, the senior man, to examine her first. He proceeded exactly as I would have done – meticulously, with care and concentration, swiftly but not in haste – and reserved his judgement until I had examined the body also.

Our conclusions, when we shared them, proved identical. The poor girl had died not from her stab wounds, but from a broken neck. To the right side of her jaw were the impressions of finger marks,
suggesting that a hand had been placed across her mouth. Her head had then been pulled from left to right with so mighty a force that the vertebrae at the top of her spine had snapped, severing her spinal cord and killing her outright.

‘Is this the work of one man?’ I wondered.

‘One devil incarnate,’ said Yarborough.

‘Or of two men? While one brute held her down, the other broke her neck …’

‘Either with his bare hands or smashing the neck violently against a solid surface – a step or the edge of a wall. The force used must have been considerable.’

‘And what about the wounds to her chest and neck? Do you recognise them?’

‘Yes,’ answered Lord Yarborough. ‘I do.’

We were kneeling on either side of the girl’s body. The Duke of Albemarle stood at her feet, gazing down on us. He turned away.

Lord Yarborough continued quietly: ‘The marks on the breasts are superficial, as you can see – cuts and tears executed with a knife and intended to disfigure and mutilate, not to kill. It is exactly as it was with the Duchess of Albemarle.’

‘But the incisions in the neck are not quite the same.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘They are not so neat, nor so subtle. This murder is more brutal, more brutish – more quickly done.’

‘But the work of the same man?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Or designed to seem so.’

‘Is she a patient of yours?’ I asked.

‘This girl? Miss Lavallois?’ He sounded surprised by my question, but not affronted. Looking up from the bloody body that lay on the floor between us, he smiled bleakly. ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘She was not a patient of mine. Alas.’

We got to our feet. ‘We’d best alert the theatre manager,’ I said. ‘Where is he?’

‘Drowning his sorrows with the Great McGonagall, I imagine,’ replied Yarborough, with a chuckle. ‘Leaving us be – as the prince requested.’

‘We must find him,’ I said. ‘We must call the police.’

‘Let us not be precipitate,’ urged the Duke of Albemarle, glancing towards the ante-room. ‘Let us send the others on their way first.’

‘But they are witnesses,’ I protested.

‘Witnesses to what?’ responded the duke. ‘Not to the murder.’

‘No, not to the murder – but Miss Dvorak discovered the body.’

‘She went to the water closet, opened the door and discovered a body, yes – but what of that? Does it signify? Will knowing that in any way assist the police?’

‘We were all here,’ I said. ‘We are all witnesses.’

‘Witnesses to what? We saw nothing. We heard nothing. We were standing in a ludicrous fairy ring, playing some tomfool game at the moment when the body was discovered. What’s it to do with us?’

Against my better judgement, and urged to it by
Lord Yarborough, I allowed the duke’s view to prevail.

Leaving the Lavallois girl’s corpse stretched out on the floor of the vestibule, we joined the others in the ante-room. Dvorak’s daughter was no longer weeping, but there were still tears in her red-rimmed eyes and she clung pathetically to her father. Dvorak himself glistened with nervous perspiration.

‘Are the police coming?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Not yet,’ I said.

‘No,’ said the Duke of Albemarle. ‘The police are not coming.’

‘There were thirteen in the circle,’ said Dvorak distractedly. ‘Thirteen. It is a bad number. And that talk of secrets—’

‘Forget it now,’ said the duke. ‘Return to your hotel. Look after your daughter. Mr Wilde and his friends will escort you.’

‘I set sail for America on Thursday. I am fearful.’

‘Do not be,’ said Oscar gently. ‘The Atlantic is much misunderstood.’

‘But if the police have questions—’

‘Go to America, Monsieur Dvorak,’ urged the Duke of Albemarle, ‘take your daughter with you – and put all this out of your mind.’

‘But if there is to be an investigation—’

‘It need not concern you. Return to your hotel, sir. Speak of this to no one. Pack your bags and set sail on Thursday as you planned. Who knows that you were here tonight?’

‘Nobody – other than those who were present.’

‘Then forget that you were here. Wipe this dreadful experience from your mind – entirely. It will be best.’

‘And for your daughter also,’ added Lord Yarborough.

‘Very well,’ muttered Dvorak. ‘Another secret, but perhaps for the best.’ Sighing heavily, he held his daughter close.

Oscar, I noticed, had broken from the group and gone into the vestibule to collect Dvorak’s hat and cane and his daughter’s evening cloak. As he returned I saw him look down at the body of the dead girl. He studied her face and did not flinch. I was surprised: Oscar is not one to lightly look on death. He makes a fetish of beauty. And he has a horror of the disfigured and the grotesque.

‘Goodnight, gentlemen,’ said the Duke of Albemarle. ‘Goodnight, mademoiselle.’

Oscar, Sherard and LaSalle escorted the Dvoraks into the street. As they were departing, Oscar paused to pick up a small package from the sideboard. It was wrapped in a linen napkin. He held it up.

‘My supper – lamb cutlets and lobster claws. There’s nothing quite like an unexpected death for quickening the appetite.’

‘Goodnight, Oscar,’ I said.

‘Goodnight, Arthur. I will call on you at breakfast. We must report all this to the Prince of Wales.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked the Duke of Albemarle sharply.

‘Because he was not here,’ said Oscar, smiling. ‘Because he left before the body was discovered – don’t you recall, Your Grace?’

The duke laughed. ‘Yes, of course. I had forgotten. Thank you for reminding me. Thank you, Mr Wilde. Goodnight.’

The moment Oscar and the rest of his party had gone, the Duke of Albemarle declared: ‘Wilde is right. We must protect the prince at all costs – both princes.’ He looked back towards the vestibule. ‘We must move the body.’

‘What?’ I cried, dumbfounded.

‘We cannot hide the fact that the Prince of Wales was here tonight. There are a thousand witnesses to his presence in the royal box. But we can hide the fact that a young woman’s mutilated body was discovered immediately adjacent to the royal box. We can move the body.’

‘I think not,’ I said coldly.

‘Think again,’ said the duke. ‘A scandal could ruin the prince. We have a duty to protect him.’

‘We have a duty to the truth.’

‘We are not hiding the truth, Doctor. We are protecting the reputation of the heir to the throne.’

‘And of his eldest son,’ added Lord Yarborough, ‘our someday king – and a man once rumoured to be Jack the Ripper.’

Standing between Lord Yarborough and the Duke of Albemarle, I looked each man frankly in the eye.

‘I cannot be party to this, gentlemen. Do as you think fit. Do as you think proper. So long as the course of justice is not perverted by your action, I will not speak of this to others – ever. But I will not be party to it. Forgive me. Goodnight, gentlemen.’

‘Goodnight, Doctor.’

They spoke the words in unison.

7 a.m. Wednesday, 19 March 1890.
I have barely slept. I have written up my journal, but now I think I must destroy what I have written – destroy it to protect the reputation of the Prince of Wales, and my own reputation, too.

How have I become enmeshed in this? I am sworn to secrecy. I cannot even whisper of it to my darling Touie. My hero was right: ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive!’

53
Telegram from Arthur Conan Doyle to his wife,
Louisa ‘Touie’ Conan Doyle, despatched on
Wednesday, 19 March 1890, at 7.30 a.m.

UNEXPECTED BUSINESS. SADLY DELAYED IN LONDON UNTIL FRIDAY. DEEPEST REGRETS. KINDLY ASK CARTER TO BE LOCUM FOR SURGERY TODAY. LETTER FOLLOWS. YOUR EVER LOVING ACD

54
Telegram delivered to Oscar Wilde at 16 Tite Street,
Chelsea, on Wednesday, 19 March 1890, at 7.30 a.m.

CERTAIN PERSON REQUIRES YOUR PRESENCE AT TWELVE NOON TODAY WEDNESDAY AT SARAH CHURCHILL RESIDENCE. REQUEST BRING DOYLE. STRICTEST CONFIDENCE. OWL

55
From the diary of Rex LaSalle