Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (21 page)

‘The
lot of the private detective is not an easy one. He sighed. ‘We’re now going to
have to run the gauntlet of another surly stage doorkeeper. Will it be a
bearded lady? Or a two-headed dwarf? More probably a hapless acrobat who has
succumbed to arthritis.’ He handed our driver two shillings. ‘I really cannot
bear the ugliness of the world,’ he said. The cabman touched his cap and nodded
in agreement.

But,
for once, Oscar was mistaken. The stage doorkeeper was no grotesque. He was a
handsome young African boy, a shiny-faced youth with huge eyes and brilliant
white teeth. ‘By all that’s wonderful!’ cried Oscar. ‘I expected to find
Cerberus at the gates of Hades. Instead I find an old friend. Robert, this is
Antipholus!’

The
boy—he must gave been fifteen or sixteen years of age sprang to his feet and,
emerging from the stage doorkeeper’s cubby-hole, bowed low to us both. Oscar
shook the lad warmly by the hand and at once reached into his waistcoat pocket
to find a sovereign to present to him by way of greeting.

The
youth beamed at Oscar. ‘Thank you, Mr Wilde. You’ve not changed.’

‘Whereas
you’ve grown, my friend,’ said Oscar, spinning the boy around and inspecting
him. ‘Antipholus was a boot boy at the Savoy when first we met,’ he added by
way of explanation. ‘Now he appears to have run away to the circus .’ He looked
into the boy’s face anxiously. ‘What are you doing here, Antipholus?’

‘I’m
going to be a clown, Mr Wilde,’ said the boy happily.

‘Oh,
Mary, Mother of God!’ cried Oscar. ‘A clown! A clown!’ He clapped his hands
over his eyes. ‘What’s wrong with the youth of today, Robert?’ he wailed. ‘I
fear for the future of the empire.’

The boy
looked at Oscar and began to giggle. ‘You really haven’t changed, Mr Wilde,’ he
laughed. ‘It was you who told me that if I was to succeed in life I’d have to
learn to walk a tightrope. I’m only doing what you told me.’

Oscar’s
eyes were pricked with tears, but he was smiling. ‘May the gracious Lord
forgive me,’ he cried. ‘It seems it’s all my fault!’

Suddenly
the laughing boy looked anxious. ‘Oh, Mr Wilde,’ he said, ‘I hope you haven’t
come to see the circus? The circus has gone to Blackpool for the summer.

‘No,
Antipholus.’ Oscar raised his fists and punched the air playfully. ‘We’re here
for the boxing. We’re in search of a Mr David McMuirtree.’

‘“Mighty
McMuirtree—David and Goliath”?’

‘Is
that what he’s called?’

‘He’s
inside, sir. With his lordship.’

‘With
“Lord” George Sanger?’ I chipped in, eager to show off my circus knowledge.

‘I
think not,’ said Oscar, looking at me despairingly.

‘Oh,
no, sir,’ said the boy. ‘“Lord” George is in Blackpool. This is a real lord.
I’ll take you through. Follow me.’

We
followed the boy through a heavy metal door and down some shallow steps. ‘Mind
your heads! ‘he called as he ducked down sharply and led us under a stone arch
and into a long, dark, low-ceilinged, narrow, curving corridor. The walls were
of bare brick; the ground underfoot was sodden.

‘It
smells of rats,’ said Oscar.

‘They
come back as soon as the dogs are gone, ‘explained Antipholus. He laughed.
‘It’s worse than the Savoy kitchens here. Don’t stop unless I tell you.
Whatever you tread on, keep moving.’

‘Are
there no gas lamps?’ I called. The boy and Oscar were some way ahead of me. I
could barely discern their figures in the gloom.

‘“Lord”
George runs a tight ship.’ The boy giggled. ‘Don’t worry—we’re nearly there.’

‘The
stench is unbearable,’ said Oscar.

On the
ground a creature scuttled past me. ‘This is hideous, Oscar,’ I hissed.

‘This
is the circus, Robert.’

‘Stop!’
cried the boy. ‘We’re here!’ Through the gloom I could just see the outline of
his head. ‘Come,’ he called, pushing open a door at the end of the tunnel.
Immediately beyond the door were heavy black curtains. They were rough to the
touch and. smelt of rotten apples and sawdust. Antipholus pulled them back and
released us from our hole into the vast arena of Astley’s amphitheatre.

I had
expected the place to be a blaze of light— the shining palace I remembered from
my childhood. Instead, it was a deserted cathedral, as dark and cavernous as
Fingal’s Cave. It took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the half-light. We
appeared to have entered the arena from beneath the stage: we were at ground
level, facing the auditorium, standing at the outer edge of the circus ring, in
the centre of which was what, for a brief instant, I took to be an altar.

It was
not an altar, of course. It was a large square dais, raised some four feet off
the ground. And standing on the dais, leaning on the ropes of what I now
realised was a boxing ring, was the arresting figure of David McMuirtree. He
was quite naked. His powerful arms, his broad shoulders, his wide chest—brown
and hairless—glistened with sweat. ‘Mr Wilde, Mr Sherard,’ he rasped, ‘Welcome
to the Ring of Death!’

I
looked back to the curtains beneath the stage. Antipholus had disappeared.

‘We’ve
disturbed your rehearsal,’ said Oscar, apologetically, removing his hat in some
confusion and bowing awkwardly.

McMuirtree
murmured: ‘I’m a fighter, not an actor, Mr Wilde.’ He picked up a plum-coloured
dressing gown that was lying in the corner of the ring and, without hurrying,
slipped it on. ‘I don’t rehearse. I train. I practise. I’ve been sparring with
Lord Queensberry. You know one another, I’m sure.’

Out of
the gloom on the far side of the ring stepped the squat and anthropoidal figure
of John Sholto, 8th Marquess of Queensberry. With small white hands he was
tucking his shirt-tails into his grey-check flannel trousers. His cuffs were
loose; his feet were bare. He sniffed contemptuously and furrowed his thick
black eyebrows. Not acknowledging my presence, he looked directly at Oscar and
grunted his name: ‘Wilde.’

Oscar
stepped forward and bowed once more, this time less awkwardly. ‘Your Grace,’ he
murmured, ‘An unexpected pleasure. I’ve just seen Lord Drumlanrig—in Eastbourne.’

Queensberry
sniffed again and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘I believe you see
more of my sons than I do, Mr Wilde. Doubtless you have the time.’

‘Time—’
Oscar began … But his aphorism was still-born.

‘Time
waits for no man,’ grunted Queensberry, picking up his stockings, boots and
jacket from the side of the ring. He ducked nimbly between the ropes and jumped
down into the arena. Casting his jacket over his shoulder, without turning back
towards us, he strode steadily up one of the gangways and out of the
auditorium. He called to McMuirtree as he went:

‘Good
day, my friend. We’re making progress. On Monday we make history.’

When he
had gone, McMuirtree stood smiling, gazing after him. ‘He’s a great man,’ he
said, in his curious croaking voice, ‘but he lacks charm.’ He turned and looked
down towards Oscar. ‘Whereas you, Mr Wilde—you always have something charming
to say.’

‘When
men give up saying what is charming,’ Oscar answered, ‘they give up thinking
what is charming. I hope I’ll never do that.’

I was
still reflecting on the charmlessness of the departed marquess. ‘Is he really
such a great man?’ I asked.

‘If
you’re a boxing man, he is, Mr Sherard, no question. The Queensberry Rules have
transformed the game, turned it from near-lawless brawling into something
approximating a sport.’ McMuirtree held his arms out wide and looked about him.
‘We call this “The Ring of Death” because that’s what it used to be. Men fought
like dogs and fought to the death—no holds barred. The crowds jeered them on.
The referees did nothing. It was brute force and staying-power that won the day.
Now, thanks to Queensberry, skill has a chance. Strategy, too. Psychology,
even. Prize-fighting was licensed barbarism until his lordship came along. It’s
taken him more than twenty years to get the rules established, but on Monday we
have our show bout here and, if all goes well, after the summer, for the first
time, the heavyweight championship of the world will be decided under the Queensberry
Rules. Have no doubt: as long as grown men fight, the Marquess of Queensberry
will be remembered.’

‘He has
joined the ranks of the immortals then,’ said Oscar, lightly.

McMuirtree
had gathered up two pairs of boxing gloves. He stood at the edge of the ring
holding them aloft for us. ‘Care for a friendly knock-about, gentlemen? No
biting, gouging, wrestling allowed— strictly Queensberry Rules.’

‘No,
thank you,’ Oscar protested, waving his hands anxiously in the air. ‘I’m not
one for the martial arts.’

‘But
you have a boxer’s build, Mr Wilde,’ said McMuirtree, bending down and stepping
between the ropes. He jumped to the ground in front of us. ‘And something of a
reputation.’

‘I
don’t know about that,’ said Oscar, laughing. I sensed that my friend was unnerved
by McMuirtree’s physical presence. He was also thrown because he had run out of
cigarettes.

‘I’ve
heard the stories,’ said McMuirtree, fixing Oscar with his eyes.

‘The
stories?’ repeated Oscar.

‘How at
Trinity College, Dublin, the class bully sneered at your poem and you struck
him across the face—and how, when honour had to be satisfied with fists in the
open air, within moments you had floored him. How at Magdalen College, Oxford,
when philistine students came mob-handed to break up your room, you threw them
bodily down stairs-each and every one.’

Oscar
stepped back and looked at McMuirtree in amazement. The boxer, still holding
the gloves in either hand, turned to me. ‘Your friend Mr Wilde plays the
aesthete, Mr Sherard, poses as a shrinking violet, but he’s nothing of the
sort. He can use his fists, I know. He can use a gun, I know. He’s a fine
shot.’.

‘Have
we met before, Mr McMuirtree?’ asked Oscar quietly.

‘We
have, Mr Wilde. At a shooting party in Connemara. In November ‘79. With the
Hicks-Beach family. The shooting was good.’

Oscar
appeared quite flustered. ‘I’m afraid I don’t recall,’ he said. ‘Please forgive
me.’

‘Nothing
to forgive,’ said McMuirtree genially. ‘It was a large party and, in my
experience, you’re only half noticed when you’re only half-a-gentleman.’

Oscar
appeared dumbfounded.

‘Are
you from Connemara?’ I asked, feeling that, somehow, my friend needed rescuing.
It was so rare for him not to be in command of every conversation.

‘No,’
said McMuirtree, ‘I’m from Dublin, like Mr Wilde. I was brought up in Clare
Street, a stone’s throw from Merrion Square. I’m three years older than Mr
Wilde. I’ve known of the Wilde family all my life. Mr Wilde and I once had a
sweetheart in common.’

Gradually
Oscar was recovering himself. ‘Oh?’ he smiled. ‘Who would that be?’

‘Florrie
Balcombe, of course.’ McMuirtree turned to me. ‘She was the prettiest girl in
Dublin.’

‘She
was indeed,’ said Oscar. ‘I had no idea you knew her.’

‘I did
not know her as well as I would have liked. I only kissed her the once. I did
not know her as well as you did, Mr Wilde. Nor as well as Mr Stoker.’

Oscar
laughed. ‘Bram got the better of us both. He married her.’

A
silence fell among us. ‘You don’t by any chance have a cigarette on you, do
you?’ asked Oscar.

David
McMuirtree, naked but for a dressing gown, let the two pairs of heavy boxing
gloves he was holding fall to the ground and, with his fist tightly clenched,
reached his right hand out towards Oscar’s right ear. Oscar flinched.
McMuirtree laughed and pulled his fist away and held it out in front of Oscar
and slowly opened it. There, lying in the palm of his hand was a single
cigarette. ‘Player’s Navy Cut, Mr Wilde—not a gentleman‘s cigarette, but the
best I can do.’

Oscar
clapped his hands with delight and took the cigarette and lit it at once,
drawing on it with deep satisfaction. ‘I’m much indebted to you, Mr
McMuirtree,’ he said. ‘You are a phenomenon, sir. I had come to offer you
counsel, but it’s clear you don’t need my help. I’m certain there’s nothing I
can tell you that you don’t already know.’

McMuirtree
bent to the ground to retrieve his gloves. ‘Is this about your game?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’
said Oscar. ‘My foolish game of “Murder”.’

‘Don’t
take it seriously, Mr Wilde. I don’t.’

‘Perhaps
you should,’ I ventured.

‘“Seriousness
is the only refuge of the shallow”— is that not so, Mr Wilde?’

Oscar
looked at McMuirtree appraisingly. ‘You attended my lecture on
The New
Philosophy?’

‘I
did,’ answered the boxer. ‘I am interested in modern philosophy.’

‘And
modern psychology, too, I think,’ said Oscar, holding McMuirtree’s cigarette
out before him and turning it between his fingers. ‘You are interested in men’s
impulses. You like to know what drives them.’

‘I am a
fighter by trade, Mr Wilde. I look for men’s weaknesses—and their strengths. I
did not go to the University as you did, but I can read. I read the modern
psychologists. I have William James’s
The Principles of Psychology
on my
bedside table.’