Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (2 page)

‘I
observed them in the hallway, smoking cigarettes, and kissing one another, upon
the lips.’

‘Extraordinary,’
said Oscar, shaking his head wanly, ‘especially when you consider the amount of
influenza sweeping through Chelsea this spring.’

‘And
what about the unhealthy-looking gentleman over there? He has the appearance of
a dope-fiend, Oscar.’

‘George
Daubeney?’ exclaimed Oscar. ‘The Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney? He’s a
clergyman, Arthur, and the son of an earl.’

‘Is he
now?’ replied Doyle, chuckling. ‘Why do I recognise the name?’

‘It has
been in all the papers, alas. The Reverend George was sued for breach of
promise. It was a messy business. He lost the case and his entire fortune with
it.’

‘He has
a weak mouth,’ said Conan Doyle.

‘And a
stern father who declines to bail him out, I’m afraid. I like him, however. He
is assistant chaplain at the House of Commons and part-time padre to Astley’s
Circus on the south side of Westminster Bridge.

‘No
wonder you like him, Oscar! You cannot resist the improbable.’

Now it
was Oscar’s turn to chuckle. He touched Conan Doyle on the elbow and invited
his friend to scan the room. ‘Look about you, Arthur. You are a man who has
seen the world, the best and worst of it. You have journeyed to the Arctic in a
whaler. You have lived in Southsea out of season. You are familiar with all
types and conditions of men. Consider the assorted individuals gathered in this
drawing room this afternoon and tell me which one of them, to you, looks to be
the most incontrovertibly “respectable”.’

Doyle
was entertained by the challenge. He stepped back and stood, arms akimbo, fists
on hips. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes and, slowly, carefully,
surveyed the scene before him. Constance had gathered a motley crowd to her
charitable tea party. ‘What precisely am I looking for, Oscar?’

‘The
acme of respectability,’ said Oscar. ‘The face, the figure, the demeanour, the
look
that says to you: “This chap is sound, no doubt about it.”‘

‘Mm,’ growled
Doyle, taking in the faces around him, turn by turn. ‘They all look a bit
doubtful, don’t they?’ He looked beyond where George Daubeney was standing, to
the doorway, where Charles Brooke, the English Rajah of Sarawak and a
particular friend of Constance, was holding court. ‘Brooke has the look of a
leader about him, doesn’t he? I know him slightly. He’s sound. He’s a
gentleman.’

Oscar
raised his forefinger and waved it admonishingly. ‘No, no, Arthur. Don’t tell
me about people you already know. I want you to make a judgement entirely on
appearance. Look about this room and pick out the one person who strikes you as
having about him an air of absolute respectability.’

‘I have
him!’ cried Doyle triumphantly. ‘There! ‘He indicated a sandy-haired young man
of medium build and medium height who was standing with Constance Wilde at the
far end of the room. Constance’s older boy Cyril, nearly seven years old, was
at her side with his arms clasped around her skirt. Her younger son, Vyvyan,
then five and a half, was seated happily on the young man’s shoulders tugging
at his hair.

‘He’s
your man, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘He’s easy with children—and children are
easy with him. That’s a good sign.’

‘He is
Vyvyan’s godfather,’ said Oscar.

‘I’m
not surprised. You chose well. He has the air of a thoroughly dependable
fellow. What’s his name?’

‘Edward
Heron-Allen,’ said Oscar.

‘A
sound name,’ said Conan Doyle, with satisfaction.

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar, smiling.

‘A
respectable name.’

‘Certainly.’

‘And
his profession, Oscar? He’s a professional man—you can tell at a glance.’

‘He is
a solicitor. And the son of a solicitor.’

‘Of
course he is. I might have guessed. Look at his open face—it’s a face you can
trust. It’s the face of a good-hearted, clean-living,
respectable
young
man. How old is he? Do you know?’

‘About
thirty, I imagine.’

‘And
how old is the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney, may I ask?’

‘About
the same, I suppose.’

‘But
Daubeney,’ said Doyle, his eyes darting from Oscar to Constance, ‘looks ten
years the older of the two, does he not? Daubeney’s face, I fear, speaks of a
life of dissipation. My man’s face speaks of The Great Outdoors. He has colour
in his cheeks. His jaw is clean-cut, his eyes sparkle, his conscience is clear.’

‘My,
my, Arthur, you are taken with him.’

Conan
Doyle laughed. ‘I’m only doing as you asked, Oscar judging by appearance.
Edward Heron-Allen’s appearance is wholly reassuring. You cannot deny it. Look
at his suit.’

‘The
tailoring is unexceptional.’

‘Precisely.
The man is not a dandy. He is a gentleman. His suit is sober: it’s exactly the
sort of suit you’d expect a solicitor to wear on a Sunday. And his tie, I
think, tells us he went to Harrow.’

‘He did
indeed,’ said Oscar, grinning broadly, ‘and played cricket for the First XI.’

Conan
Doyle caught sight of Oscar’s wide and wicked smile and, suddenly, began to
beat his own forehead with a clenched fist. ‘Oh, Oscar, Oscar,’ he growled
ruefully, ‘have I taken your bait? Have I fallen headlong into an elephant
trap? Are you about to reveal to me that my supposed model of respectability is
in fact the greatest bounder in the room?’

‘No,’ said
Oscar, lightly. ‘Not at all. But we all have our secrets, Arthur, do we not?’

‘What’s
his? Has he embezzled all his clients’ money?’

‘He is
in love with Constance.’

‘Your
wife?’

‘My
wife.’

Conan
Doyle looked concerned. He was a loyal and conscientious husband. His own young
wife, Louisa, known as ‘Touie’, was a victim of tuberculosis. Doyle went out
and about without her, but she was never far from his thoughts. He tugged at
his moustache. ‘This fellow, Heron-Allen, being in love with your wife,
Oscar—does it trouble you?’

‘No,’
said Oscar, ‘not at all.’

‘And
Mrs Wilde?’ asked Doyle. ‘How does she feel?’

‘It
does not trouble Mrs Wilde.’ Oscar smiled. ‘Mrs Heron-Allen, however, may find
it a touch perturbing.’

‘Ah,’
said Doyle, frowning, ‘the fellow’s married, is he? He doesn’t look like a
married man.’

‘I
agree with you there, Arthur. He looks totally carefree, does he not?’

‘He
looks quite ordinary to me,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘That’s why I picked him when
you started me off on this absurd game. I shouldn’t have indulged you, Oscar.’

‘Edward
Heron-Allen is anything but ordinary, Arthur. He cultivates asparagus. He makes
violins. He speaks fluent Persian. And he is a world authority on necrophilia,
bestiality, pederasty, and the trafficking of child prostitutes.’

‘Good
grief!’ Arthur Conan Doyle blanched and gazed towards Edward Heron-Allen in
horror. The young solicitor was lifting Vyvyan Wilde from his shoulders. He
kissed the top of the boy’s head as he lowered him safely to the ground. ‘Good
grief,’ repeated Conan Doyle.

‘I’ve
seated you next to him at dinner, Arthur. You’ll find him fascinating. He’s
another chiromancer—like Mrs Robinson. Let him read your palm between courses
and he’ll advise you whether to plump for the lamb or the beef.’

‘I’m
speechless, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle, still staring fixedly in the direction of
Edward Heron-Allen and Constance Wilde. ‘I’m quite lost for words.’

‘No
matter,’ said Oscar blithely. ‘Heron-Allen can do the talking. He has a great
deal to say and you’ll find all of it’s worth hearing.’

‘Are
you serious, Oscar?’ Doyle protested. ‘Is that man really joining us for
dinner?’

Oscar
chuckled. ‘Why not? He looks respectable enough to me. In fact, he’s my
particular guest tonight. Sherard here is bringing the Hon. the Reverend George
Daubeney. Who is your guest to be?’

Conan
Doyle was now blowing his nose noisily on a large, red handkerchief. ‘Willie …
Willie Hornung,’ he said, hesitating to name the name. ‘You don’t know him.
He’s a young journalist, an excellent fellow, one of the sweetest-natured and
most delicate-minded men I ever knew.’

‘Hornung
… Willie Hornung.’ Oscar rolled the name around his mouth, as though it were
an unfamiliar wine.

Doyle
returned his handkerchief to his pocket and looked Oscar in the eye. ‘Perhaps I
should advise Hornung to stay away. Willie’s not what you’d call a man of the
world.’

‘Don’t
be absurd, Arthur. How old is he?’

‘I
don’t know. Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?’

‘Keats
was dead at twenty-five, Arthur. It’ll do Mr Hornung good to live a little
dangerously, take life as he finds it. It’s the possibility of the pearl or the
poison in the oyster that make the prospect of opening it so enticing. Besides,
we have to have him or we’ll be thirteen at table.’

‘Is
Lord Alfred Douglas coming?’

‘Bosie?
Of course.’ Oscar threw his head back and brushed his hands through his hair.
‘Bosie is coming, very much so. And he’s bringing his older brother, Francis,
with him. You’ll like Lord Drumlanrig, Arthur. He’s about the same age as your
young friend, Hornung, and sweet-natured, too. I’m all for feasting with
panthers, but it’s good to have a few delicate-minded lambs at the trough as
well. One can have too much of a bad thing.’ He looked around the room. ‘Where
is Bosie? He should be here by now.’

The
Wildes’ drawing room was beginning to empty. Katharine Bradley and Edith
Cooper, the poetesses dressed as chimney-sweeps, were standing by the doorway
blowing kisses towards Oscar. Miss Bradley, the taller of the two, had taken a
huge bulrush out of a vase by the fireplace. She called to Oscar: ‘I’m stealing
this, dearest one. I hope you don’t mind. Moses and Rebecca Salaman are coming
to supper. This will make them feel so at home.’ Oscar nodded obligingly.
Charles Brooke, the Rajah of Sarawak, was handing Constance a cheque and
grandiloquently saluting her for her charitable endeavours on behalf of
humankind in general and the Rational Dress Society in particular. His wife,
Margaret, a plain and patient woman, was pulling at his arm. ‘Will he ever stop
talking?’ she asked.

‘Only
if we start listening,’ answered Constance, with a kindly laugh, kissing her
friend on the cheek. ‘Thank you both for coming. And thank you, Charles, for
your generosity. Every one has been so kind, so good.’

‘It’s
you, Mrs Wilde,’ said Edward Heron-Allen, stepping toward his hostess and
lifting her hand to his lips. ‘You inspire us.’

Conan
Doyle spluttered into his red handkerchief and whispered to Oscar, ‘The man’s
intolerable.’

‘You
inspire our devotion,’ Heron-Allen continued, still holding Constance’s hand
and looking into her eyes. ‘We love you. It’s as simple as that.’

‘We
love Oscar, too,’ said a voice from the landing. ‘But that’s more complicated,
of course.’

‘Ah,’
said Oscar, clapping his hands, ‘Bosie is upon us.’

Lord
Alfred Douglas appeared in the doorway of the Wildes’ drawing room and held his
pose. Bosie was an arrestingly good-looking boy. I use the word ‘boy’
advisedly. He was twenty-one at the time, but he looked no more than a child.
Indeed, he told me that, later that same summer, a society matron was quite put
out when she invited him to her children’s tea party and discovered her
mistake. Even at thirty-one, people would enquire whether he was still at
school. Oscar used to say, ‘Bosie contained the very essence of youth. He never
lost it. That is why I loved him.’

Oscar
did indeed love Lord Alfred Douglas and made no bones about it. Slender as a
reed, with a well-proportioned face, gently curling hair the colour of ripe
corn and the complexion of a white peach, Bosie was an Adonis—even Conan Doyle
and I could not deny that. Oscar loved him for his looks. He loved him for his
intellect, also. Bosie had a good mind, a ready wit—he liked to claim credit
for originating some of Oscar’s choicest quips—and a way with words and language
that I envied. He was intelligent, but indolent. When he left Oxford the
following year, he left without a degree. (As I had done. As Shelley and
Swinburne did, too. Bosie’s poetry may not rank alongside theirs, but,
nonetheless, the best of it has stood the test of time.)

Oscar
Wilde also loved Lord Alfred Douglas because of who he was. Though he made wry
remarks to suggest otherwise, Oscar was a snob. He liked a title. He was
pleased to be on ‘chatting terms’ with the Prince of Wales. He was happy that his
acquaintance encompassed at least a dozen dukes. And he was charmed to find
that Bosie Douglas (with his perfect profile and manners to match) was the
third son of an eighth marquess— albeit a marquess with a reputation.

Even in
1892, Bosie’s father, John Sholto Douglas, 9th Marquess of Queensberry, was
notorious. Ill-favoured, squat, hot-tempered, aggressive, Lord Queensberry was
a brute, a bully, a spendthrift and a womaniser. His one strength was that he
was fearless. His one unsullied claim to fame was that, with a university
friend, John Graham Chambers, he had codified the rules of conduct for the
sport of boxing. He was himself a lightweight boxer of tenacity and skill. He
was also a daring and determined jockey (he rode his own horses in the Grand
National) and a huntsman noted for ruthlessness in the field. He carried his
riding whip with him at all times. He was said to use it with equal ease on his
horses, his dogs and his women. In 1887, Lady. Queensberry, the mother of his
five children, divorced him on the grounds of his adultery.