Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (36 page)

Conan Doyle raised an eyebrow and looked again at the newspaper. ‘He has a poor turn of phrase. “Needle in a haystack” – I don’t think much of that.’

‘Exactly!’ cried Oscar. ‘Doesn’t that phrase give the whole game away?’

‘How do you mean?’ laughed Conan Doyle. ‘It’s not very felicitous, I grant you. Even a trifle obvious.’

‘
Precisely
, Arthur. It’s far too obvious. The whole
cock and bull story is far too obvious. It’s so predictable that it’d disgrace a three-volume novel.’ Oscar pulled the newspaper from Doyle’s grasp. ‘This is all piffle, piss and wind, Doctor. Poppycock from start to finish.’ Taking the paper, he flung it contemptuously into the corner of the carriage. ‘I doubt there’s a word of truth in it. Not a word.’

‘Not a word?’

‘Not a word, Arthur. This is Owl’s doing. This has Owl’s handwriting all over it.’

‘Owl?’

‘Tyrwhitt Wilson – equerry to the Prince of Wales. He went to Harrow, didn’t he? Gentlemen go to Eton, scholars go to Winchester, cads go to Harrow. That’s the rule. Owl’s got perfect manners, but he’s not to be trusted.’

Conan Doyle shook his head in bewilderment. I sat up, rubbing my eyes.

‘What are you telling us, Oscar?’ I asked. ‘I have been asleep.’

‘We’ve all been dozing, Robert, while a murderer has been running rings around us.’

‘Is Tyrwhitt Wilson the murderer then?’ I asked in amazement.

‘I doubt it. He lacks the necessary style. No, Tyrwhitt Wilson is merely the source of the story that adorns the front page of the London
Evening News.
He’s a cad and a bounder, but he is loyal to his master – I’ll give him that. He placed the story in the paper to protect the prince.
Anything
to keep the gaze of the prying press away from the royal box at the Empire Theatre and down the dark alley by the dustbins beyond the stage
door. When poor Lulu Lavallois’s body was first found, all seemed to be well. The cry went up: “Jack the Ripper strikes again!” But, alas for Marlborough House, the Ripper theory wouldn’t run. The wretched girl had been butchered in the wrong way in the wrong part of town. Even Inspector Andrews of the Yard was up to spotting that. Another diversionary tactic was called for – and Owl supplied it.’

‘Are you suggesting Tyrwhitt Wilson invented this whole story?’ I asked, retrieving the crumpled newspaper from the floor.

‘I am,’ said Oscar. ‘Lock, stock and barrel – to use a phrase with which Owl would certainly be at home. Who else would need to or want to? Tyrwhitt Wilson conjured up the tale and then supplied it directly to the newspaper or to Scotland Yard or to both.’

‘But wouldn’t that be a risky enterprise in itself?’ asked Conan Doyle. ‘He’s well known as the prince’s equerry.’

‘He won’t have gone in person. They have a telephone at Marlborough House. He will have furnished his “information” anonymously, by telephone – and, knowing Owl, quite possibly in an assumed voice. An Englishman cannot speak French, of course, but, oddly enough, he can usually manage quite a convincing stage French accent.’

I was now reading the newspaper for myself.

‘But the article says that Scotland Yard has the name of Miss Lavallois’s former employer.’

‘That’s entirely possible,’ said Oscar. ‘Lulu was a dancer at the Moulin Rouge, whither we are bound. You saw her dancing there yourself, Robert, with your friend,
Jane Avril. They performed the cancan – memorably so. The Moulin Rouge is owned by one Joseph Oller – a Catalan of doubtful history, but a first-class tailor with a well-trimmed beard. I’ve met him. You’ve met him. No doubt, when the Prince of Wales and his equerry visited the Moulin Rouge, they met him, also. Monsieur Oller is well known in Paris. Indeed, he’s notorious. And, I imagine, more than able to look after himself.’

Oscar peered through the carriage window: in the distance, lights flickered. ‘If the Paris Préfecture question Monsieur Oller on behalf of Inspector Andrews of Scotland Yard, Oller will deny everything – and with reason. He is innocent. At least, he is not guilty of the murder of Louisa Lavallois. He is, however, a suspect character. He has served time in prison. He
might
be the murderer. Thanks to Owl’s intervention, the Metropolitan Police and the gentlemen of the British press are now convinced that he is. But it cannot be proved. There’s no hard evidence – and the man’s in France – and who
really
cares about the death of Lulu Lavallois? There’s nothing more to be done … Object achieved: case closed.’

The train had juddered to a halt. On the platform torches flared and in the half-dark station porters scurried back and forth with trolleys piled high with luggage.

‘Our boat awaits,’ said Oscar, getting to his feet, ‘and we are travelling as one should – without encumbrance. No bags or baggage, only our hopes and dreams.’

‘Did I dream it,’ I asked, ‘or was there another fellow in the compartment when we got on? An ugly little man in a black overcoat, with a warped face and a twisted lip?’

‘He got off at Dover Priory,’ said Oscar. ‘Evidently, he’s not joining us in France. I’m surprised. He’s been following us for weeks. I think Arthur was quite struck by his appearance.’

67
From the notebook of Inspector Hugh Boone of Scotland Yard, Wednesday, 19 March 1890

Suspect has left the country. The country is well rid of him.

68
From the diary of Rex LaSalle

‘What man has sought for is neither pain nor pleasure, but simply Life. Man has sought to live intensely, fully, perfectly. When he can do so without exercising restraint on others, or suffering it ever, and his activities are all pleasurable to him, he will be saner, healthier, more civilised, more himself. Pleasure is Nature’s test, her sign of approval. When a man is happy he is in harmony with himself and his environment.’

I am happy tonight. I walked through St James’s Park and cleared my head. All is well. I am content. Oscar loves me. I am certain of that.

Jane Avril

69
From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

O
scar says love is an illusion and that faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect – simply a confession of failure. Is he right? He usually is.

I am twenty-eight years of age and in my life, thus far, I have loved twelve women. None has made me so happy as Jane Avril. We met five years ago, in Paris, in the spring of 1885. I had just turned twenty-three: she was not quite seventeen. I was drawn to her because she was so beautiful. She was drawn to me, she said, because I was a poet and an Englishman, with perfect manners and famous friends and a fund of stories that she loved to hear me tell. Men fall in love with their eyes: women with their ears.

I first set eyes on her at the Bal Bullier, the exotic dance hall, designed like the Alhambra, on the rue de l’Observatoire. She was in a sea-green silk gown, dancing the polka. I was struck not simply by her youthful beauty – her fresh face, her wide eyes, her turned-up nose, her perfect figure – but by her extraordinary
energy. She was so full of life and laughter: she was a ball of fire and a bundle of joy.

I introduced myself to her between dances, took her hand in mine and raised it to my lips. When I told her my name and that I was a poet, she giggled, kissed me on the nose and said, ‘I like you. You’re different.’

That night I bought her a bottle of champagne – Perrier-Jouët, Oscar’s favourite. On the next night I bought her dinner – grilled lobster at Soufflot on the boulevard St Michel. On the third night we became lovers. She made me pay her.

‘My heart you get for free. My breasts cost two sous apiece. I hope you think they’re worth it.’

She was worth every penny that I spent on her that spring and summer, but I am proud to say that I gave her more than mere money and tales of my past adventures. I gave Jane Avril her name.

Her
real
name was Jeanne Richepin, but she was anxious to change it. She wanted a memorable ‘stage name’ because she knew in her bones that she was destined to be a famous dancer. She also needed a new soubriquet because, once she had made her fortune, she did not want her mother – who had abused her and whom she despised – pursuing her to claim a share of it. We chose ‘Jane’ together because – in my honour – she wanted an English version of her first name, and we chose ‘Avril’ because it was then April, the month of promise.