Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (34 page)

64
From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle

I am an odd fellow. I acknowledge it. I am a man divided. I am a qualified physician, with special interests in diseases of both the body (consumption) and the mind (hysteria) – a family doctor with a general practice that I need to nurture. I am also an aspiring writer with a yearning for adventure – a hunger for danger and a thirst for the unknown. I am quite torn in two.

Part of me – the better part – wishes that, tonight, I was at home in Southsea, my little wife curled up in my arms, my darling daughter asleep in her crib at my side. The other part is grateful that I am where I am – in a dimly lit, smoke-filled, first-class compartment (which I cannot possibly afford), approaching the docks at Dover, on the night train to Paris, in the company of Oscar Wilde (dilettante, dandy, detective – and man of genius), his friend, Robert Sherard, and a complete stranger – an ugly individual with a twisted lip.

Oscar is reading our fellow traveller’s evening
newspaper; that gentleman is fast asleep – and snoring fitfully; Mr Sherard is sleeping too. I am wide awake and making these notes in my journal. I have determined to keep a full record of my adventures with Oscar: they will furnish plentiful material for future yarns concerning Sherlock Holmes.

Tonight, for example, Oscar introduced me to the macabre delights of an opium den. Such places are unknown in Southsea. In East London, they abound. And Oscar, so at ease within the Marlborough House set and among the smooth club men of Pall Mall, appears equally at home amid the villains and ruffians of Limehouse – the East Indian sailors, the Lascars and the Chinamen who peddle opium and cocaine.

When we left Mrs Langtry, it was half past six. Rex LaSalle – Oscar’s friend, the self-styled ‘vampire’ – took his leave of us. He had a sudden, throbbing pain in his temple, he said.

‘Where we are going now will clear your head most wonderfully,’ said Oscar.

LaSalle would not be pressed: he said he was confident that a quiet walk in St James’s Park would be sufficient to do the trick.

We bade LaSalle farewell at the corner of Duke Street and St James’s, then climbed aboard Oscar’s brougham.

‘Where are we going now?’ I asked.

‘To Paris by way of London Bridge.’

‘To Paris? Tonight? I thought we were to go to Paris tomorrow. That’s what I have told them at my hotel.’

‘Our plans have changed. There’s no time to be lost, Arthur. We need to get to the root of these mysterious deaths before another one occurs.’

‘If Mrs Langtry is to be believed,’ said Robert Sherard, ‘our first port of call should be the court of His Royal Highness the Prince Albert Victor.’

‘Indeed,’ said Oscar, smiling slyly. ‘Hence our
détour
by way of London Bridge. We are on our way, gentlemen, to “The Bar of Gold”.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘A restaurant?’

‘Of a kind, Arthur. It’s a notorious den of iniquity where the only item on the menu is opium. According to Bram Stoker, Prince Eddy is one of the
habitués.
Bram told me so last night when we were at the Empire. If we get to the place between seven and eight Bram should be there with His Highness – they have Vampire Club business to discuss. Bram assures me that if we are to talk frankly with the prince, we will never have a better opportunity. At “The Bar of Gold” Prince Eddy is at his most unbuttoned.’ Oscar called up to our coachman: ‘Upper Swandam Lane, driver. Eastward ho!’

It took almost an hour for our brougham to reach the address – a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves that line the north side of the river Thames to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, we found the den of which we were in search.

‘“The Bar of Gold”, gentlemen,’ announced
Oscar, leading the way. ‘Will it live up to its promise, I wonder?’

We passed down the steps, worn in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet. By the light of a flickering oil lamp above the door we found the latch and made our way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship. Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange, fantastic poses, with bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back and chins pointing upward. Here and there a dark, lacklustre eye turned upon the newcomers. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the metal bowls of the opium pipes.

Most of the denizens of “The Bar of Gold” lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour.

‘Have you been to this hell-hole before?’ I whispered to Oscar, as gradually our eyes began to accustom themselves to the gloom.

‘Once,’ he said, ‘under the misapprehension that it was a gateway to paradise. I was particularly disappointed in the opium-master. I had envisioned a magnificent Chinaman, richly costumed as a mandarin – a figure from
Aladdin
,
an emperor of poppy fruit. Instead, I was welcomed by a sour-faced Malay in a filthy smock who handed me a pipe without ceremony and left me alone to suck upon it until the fumes overwhelmed me. It was not a beautiful experience. It cost half a crown but was not worth sixpence.’

As he spoke, a sallow Malay attendant, exactly fitting Oscar’s description, hurried up to greet us. He said not a word, but bowed cursorily and beckoned us to follow him. Shuffling along in down-at-heel slippers, he led us between the dismal berths to the far end of the long room where stood a small brazier of burning charcoal. Seated around it on low wooden benches were three figures – each just recognisable in the low, reflected firelight: Bram Stoker, Prince Albert Victor and Frank Watkins, page to the Prince of Wales.

None looked up as we bowed awkwardly towards the prince and crouched down to perch on the benches alongside them. The prince and the page were sharing a pipe. As we took our places, the prince claimed it from the youth and sucked on it slowly, his eyes closed, his head held back. We watched and said nothing. His Royal Highness sucked on until a faint gurgling in the pipe-stem announced that the opium in the bowl was spent.

‘More?’ muttered the Malay, leaning down by the prince’s ear.

The prince opened his eyes and blinked. ‘No more,’ he murmured. ‘I will talk with my friends.’

Handing the pipe to the page, he waved the Malay away.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, breathing deeply and closing his eyes once more, ‘good evening. Bram told me that you might drop by. Welcome to “The Bar of Gold”. Be not too proud to be here. It’s all part of the British Empire.’

‘Good evening, sir,’ said Oscar quietly.

The prince opened his eyes and smiled. His pupils were dilated: he had the stare of a man possessed, but his way of speaking – his manner – was all courtesy and gentleness.

‘I am pleased to see you, Mr Wilde. You know some of my secrets and I trust you.’

‘You can trust me, sir.’

‘I am grateful. I am surrounded by those I cannot trust – and those who do not trust me. It makes a fellow feel quite lonely. And yet, wherever I go, I am never alone. There’s always a policeman lurking – watching me from the shadows. Did you see him at the door? Did you spot him?’

‘No,’ said Oscar. ‘I saw no one. Is he always there?’

‘Always. I imagine he is in my father’s pay – or the Home Secretary’s. I trust he’s well paid. He’s dogged, I’ll give him that. Day and night, he’s always there. I can never escape his watchful eye. The devil knows, I’ve tried.’

He laughed and glanced down towards the pipe that the page was holding: a sixteen-inch length of black bamboo, as thick as a man’s finger, with,
screwed to its end, a tiny iron bowl the shape of a pigeon’s egg.

‘The opium here is sweet. I can at least escape from my policeman in “The Bar of Gold”.’

The page – Frank Watkins: a handsome youth with bright hazel eyes and copper-coloured hair – leant across and kissed the prince’s neck. The prince raised his right hand and buried his fingers in the boy’s hair, clasping the lad’s head close to him.

‘I need you, Frank,’ he murmured, and then, as if suddenly waking, startled, from a sleep, he released the boy and looked about him – gazing sharply at Oscar, at me, at Robert Sherard, as if he had seen none of us before. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘We remain concerned about the death of the Duchess of Albemarle,’ said Oscar.

‘Are you police spies, too?’ demanded the prince. He seemed a man suddenly transformed.

‘No,’ replied Oscar soothingly. ‘We are friends.’

‘Are you working for my father?’

The prince’s small eyes burned fiercely in a face wet with perspiration. In the glow of the brazier he had the look of a feral creature glimpsed by lamplight in the undergrowth.

‘No,’ said Oscar truthfully. ‘When we spoke last of this matter, we were. But no longer, sir – I do assure you.’

‘You “assure” me, do you, Mr Wilde? What’s your assurance worth? Why should I trust you? In God’s name, what business is Helen’s death of yours?’

Oscar said nothing. Frank Watkins, the page, put his arm around the prince’s back. Behind us, the Malay hovered with fresh pipes of opium.

Bram Stoker pulled a large, red handkerchief from his coat pocket and passed it to the prince. His Highness wiped his face with it and calmed himself.

‘Helen Albemarle died of a heart attack,’ he said. ‘According to Lord Yarborough. Yarborough’s a doctor, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and a distinguished one. I am a doctor, too, Your Highness. With Lord Yarborough I examined the duchess’s body some hours after her death and there were marks upon her body – cuts, abrasions—’

He did not look at me but continued to gaze at Oscar.

‘Mr Wilde seemed to think they were the marks of a vampire. Mr Wilde, I recollect, wondered whether I might be the vampire in question.’

Oscar made to protest, but the prince continued speaking, laughing derisively as he spoke: ‘Mr Wilde is said to be the most brilliant man of his generation. At Trinity College, Dublin, I’m told, Mr Wilde won every prize on offer and walked away with a First. At Trinity College, Cambridge, I failed to last the year and walked away with nothing. But I’m not so stupid as Mr Wilde. There are no such creatures as vampires. I know that. Stoker knows that. We
amuse
ourselves with vampires. We pursue them for our sport. We do not
believe
in them.’

‘You believe in porphyria,’ said Oscar softly.

‘Porphyria is a disease of the blood that drives men mad, Mr Wilde. Porphyria is real. Vampires aren’t.’

‘The cuts on the duchess’s body were real, Your Highness,’ I said.

‘I don’t doubt it, Doctor,’ said the prince, turning his gaze from Oscar to look at me. ‘But they were not inflicted by a vampire. The Duchess of Albemarle’s husband was in the habit of beating his wife. He beat her cruelly. He beat her
savagely
, to be precise.’

The prince paused and mopped his face. Returning the red handkerchief to Bram Stoker, he looked once more at Oscar.

‘Did you not know that, Mr Wilde?’

‘No,’ said Oscar, quietly. ‘I did not.’

‘The Duke of Albemarle is a brute,’ said Prince Albert Victor. ‘He beat his wife. I imagine he beats his servants.’

‘But the marks on the duchess’s torso were not bruises,’ I said. ‘They were not the mark of a lash or a whip. They were
incisions
.’

‘Yes,’ said the prince. ‘Incisions – cuts inflicted with a pocket knife kept for the purpose. I’m sure you’ve seen the knife. His Grace also uses it to cut his cigars. The Duke of Albemarle did not thrash his wife with a whip. He cut her quite precisely with a pocket knife.’

‘How do you know this, Your Highness?’ asked Oscar.

‘Helen told me. She told my father, also.’

‘Did you see these cuts?’ I asked.

‘No. His Grace was careful never to mark his wife’s face or arms or hands. Helen told me that her husband was most particular about where on her body he marked her. I never saw the scars. But my father did.’

‘Did the Prince of Wales tell you this?’

‘No. My father and I don’t discuss matters of an intimate nature, Mr Wilde. My father told his equerry – and Owl told me. And if he had not, Frank would have told me. Frank is my father’s page. Frank hears everything and tells me all that he has heard.’

The prince reached out and took the page affectionately by the scruff of the neck. The boy paid no attention: he was busy sucking on a fresh opium pipe.

‘And why did the duke mistreat his wife?’ I asked.

‘Because he loved her,’ said Prince Albert Victor.

‘A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her,’ said Oscar, softly.

‘That is absurd,’ I snapped.

‘It is true, nevertheless,’ murmured Oscar.

‘Because he loved her,’ repeated the prince, ‘and because she did not love him. Because she loved other men.’

‘That is why he wounded her as he did,’ suggested Oscar.

‘Yes,’ said Prince Eddy. ‘He cut her breasts and her belly because none would see the wounds except for Her Grace and her lovers.’

‘And her lady’s maid,’ I added.

‘Your father saw those wounds?’ asked Oscar.

‘I imagine so,’ said the prince. ‘I do not know for certain.’

‘And he could do nothing about it because to admit that he had seen the wounds would be to admit to his own adultery …’

‘Yes.’ The prince laughed. ‘And risk a scandal!’

‘However much he might have loved her, the Prince of Wales could not protect the Duchess of Albemarle because the Duke of Albemarle, at all times, had the upper hand. The prince could do nothing to help his mistress – nothing at all – for fear that the duke would sue his wife for divorce, naming the heir apparent as co-respondent.’