Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (27 page)

I
looked and then I saw his eyes shining in the gloom. It was Antipholus, the
black boy from Astley’s Circus. He was hidden in the doorway, crouching on the
ground. As we approached, he sprang to his feet and saluted Oscar.

‘How
now my little tightrope-walker? What news on the Rialto? Where’s Mr McMuirtree
been since your last report?’

The boy
stood smartly to attention. ‘At the Ring of Death all afternoon, sir—training, training
hard, working up a sweat. Lord Queensberry came by and stayed for half an hour.
Then Mr McMuirtree bathed and dressed and took a cab across town to the Cadogan
Hotel.’

‘You
followed him?’

‘I
followed him.’

‘How?’
I asked. ‘Not in a cab, surely?’

The lad
giggled. ‘No, sir! On my bicycle. I held on to the back of Mr McMuirtree’s cab
and was pulled along, all the way, door to door.’

‘And
were you seen?’

‘Not by
Mr McMuirtree, sir. I hope I know my business.’

‘What
happened at the Cadogan?’ asked Oscar.

‘He
went in with an assortment of coloured boxes.’

‘Stage
properties, I expect,’ said Oscar, ‘for tomorrow’s entertainment.’

‘Then
he came out again and took the same cab back to Astley’s. The round trip cost
him two shillings.’

‘And
then?’ asked Oscar.

‘And
then, when he should have changed and come here to the theatre as you’d told me
to expect, Mr Wilde, he met up with the Reverend George instead.’

‘Is
that what you call him?’ I asked. ‘Do you like the Reverend George?’

‘Well
enough, sir. He’s our padre. He’s a bit sweet on Bertha, but you know what
clergymen are. He tips like a gentleman anyway.’

‘And
what did Mr McMuirtree and the reverend gentleman do?’

‘They
went off together—to The Bucket of Blood.’

‘The
Bucket of Blood?’ I queried.

Oscar
laughed. ‘The Lamb and Flag in Rose Street, Robert. You really have led a very
sheltered life.’

‘Why is
it called The Bucket of Blood?’ I asked. My friend gave me a pitying look.
‘Because of the bare-knuckle fighting that goes on there— professional fights,
for money, but strictly non-Queensberry Rules.’ He turned back to the boy. ‘How
long were they there?’

‘All
evening. Till just now. I watched the Reverend George go on his way and then I
followed Mr McMuirtree back to his digs behind the circus. I heard the key turn
in his lock. I watched the window. I saw the candles put out. He should be safe
enough till morning, Mr Wilde—unless, of course, he’s murdered in his sleep.’

‘Thank
you, Antipholus,’ said Oscar, handing him a coin. ‘Here’s your shiny shilling.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘MADAME LA GUILLOTINE’

David McMuirtree was not
murdered in his sleep. Indeed, when next we saw him—on Sunday afternoon in Tite
Street for Oscar’s fund-raiser—he was brim-full of life. He crackled with
energy. Nominally, he was there merely to play his part in the entertainment as
Alphonse Byrd’s illusionist’s assistant, but his bearing and demeanour were
hardly those of a humble hired hand. While Byrd, all dressed in black, stood at
the far end of the Wildes’ crowded first-floor drawing room, silently guarding
his magician’s table like an undertaker in attendance on a coffin, McMuirtree,
also dressed in black, moved easily among the throng, nodding here, smiling
there, like the son of the family welcoming distant relations to the wake.
McMuirtree was noticeable because of his commanding height and fine physique.
He was memorable because of his shaven head, warm blue-black eyes and curious,
rasping speaking voice.

‘He’s
very striking,’ remarked Willie Hornung, standing by the fireplace, tucking in
to a fruit sorbet while surveying the scene.

‘He is
an odd mixture,’ I said. ‘I can’t fathom him. He has the build of a
prize-fighter—’

‘And
the manners of a Don Juan,’ added Conan Doyle, scratching his moustache with
the stem of his pipe. ‘I’d watch him.’

‘We’re
all going to,’ said Walter Sickert, smiling slyly. ‘He’s the star attraction.’

‘Not
today,’ I ventured. ‘Tomorrow, maybe, at Astley’s Circus when he has this gala
bout to display the merits of the Queensberry Rules. But today, I think, he’s
somewhat further down the bill. He’s the magician’s assistant.’

‘He’s
the one we’ll watch all the same,’ said Sickert, helping himself to a second
iced cream from the sideboard. ‘I’m a connoisseur of the halls. McMuirtree has
what it takes.’

Conan
Doyle sniffed and lifted himself up and down on his toes. ‘Do you think so? I
wonder.’

‘I
don’t,’ said Sickert. ‘We’re talking about the man for a reason—there’s
something about his presence that compels our attention.’

‘Yes,’
harrumphed Doyle. ‘His cockiness.’

Willie
Hornung laughed and pushed his
pince-nez
further up his nose the better
to observe McMuirtree’s progress.

Sickert
waved his dessert spoon in the air. ‘I’ve seen him fight—just the once. And
I’ve met him— just the once, when I sat next to him at dinner last Sunday. I
barely know him, but he’s made his mark on me. Why? Because, in his way, he’s
an artist-in the ring and out of it.’

‘He’s
not a very subtle artist, is he?’ I said. McMuirtree, as I spoke, was being
greeted by our hostess. He raised Constance’s hand to his lips as though they
were old friends.

‘Always
remember Whistler’s golden rule, Robert—”In art, nothing matters so long as you
are bold.”‘

If
David McMuirtree was a star attraction that afternoon, he was not without
competition. For a start, he had the Wilde boys to contend with. Oscar and
Constance had decked out their sons in fancy dress. They were in orange and
green velvet suits, with frilly shirts and buckled shoes. Cyril was costumed as
Little Lord Fauntleroy and his younger brother, Vyvyan, because of his
naturally curly hair, was dressed to represent the little boy in Sir John
Millais’s famous painting,
Bubbles.
The boys themselves, as they
explained to everyone who stopped to admire and pet them, would much have
preferred to come dressed in their matching sailor suits (made of real naval
cloth with lanyards with real knives at the end of them), ‘but this is what
Papa wanted and this is Papa’s party’.

In
terms of his own apparel, ‘Papa’ had certainly taken note of Whistler’s golden
rule. The colour of Oscar’s frock coat and trousers was ultramarine blue; his
waistcoat was of gold brocade; his tie was crimson; his buttonhole was a
columbine flower set against a fan of cymbalaria leaves. The
‘tout ensemble’,
he explained, was inspired by his cufflinks—’they came to me from Wat
Sickert … They are exquisite, are they not? He won’t tell me where he found
them … We all have our secrets.’

The
cuff-links were enamel, exquisite and extraordinary. They each featured a
near-perfect miniature reproduction of Leonardo da Vinci’s painting,
The
Virgin of the Rocks.
As Oscar explained, his eyes filling with tears as he
did so, the colour of his frock coat matched the colour of the Madonna’s
mantle; his waistcoat was inspired by the Christ child’s swaddling clothes; his
tie was of the same hew as the angel Uriel’s cloak; and his buttonhole included
plants depicted in the painting—’columbine to symbolise the holy spirit and
cymbalaria representing constancy.’

Conan
Doyle sucked hard on his pipe as Oscar held his cuff up to his friend for
closer inspection. ‘I’m not sure that I approve, Oscar,’ he grumbled.

‘And
why not?’ asked Oscar.

‘I’m
not sure that I know,’ muttered Doyle. ‘It doesn’t seem quite right, that’s
all.’

‘When’s
the magic starting, Papa?’ Little Lord Fauntleroy was tugging at his father’s
sleeve.

‘Now!’
said Oscar. ‘This very minute!’ And he gathered up his sons and led them to the
end of the room where Alphonse Byrd and David McMuirtree were standing waiting
to begin their performance. The audience—there were some thirty of us in all-found
chairs or stools to sit on, or leant against the piano or the mantelpiece.
Constance sat on a sofa near the performers, with her friend, Margaret Brooke,
and Mrs Robinson, the clairvoyant, on either side of her, and Charles Brooke
and Edward Heron-Allen perched on the sofa’s arms. Miss Bradley and Miss
Cooper, in immaculate gentlemen’s evening dress, sat cross-legged on the floor
at the front of the crowd, with Bosie and Lord Drumlanrig and Vyvyan and Cyril
at their side. At the last moment, as the clock on the landing struck five,
Arthur, the butler, Mrs Ryan, the cook, and Gertrude Simmonds, the boys’
governess, crept in at the door to watch the show.

Unbidden,
the room settled, and Oscar spoke. His voice was low-we had almost to strain
to hear him—and in his eyes there were still the remnants of tears. ‘Once upon
a time,’ he began, ‘there was a magnet … and in its close neighbourhood were
some steel filings.’

‘He’s
going to tell a story!’ cried Cyril.

‘Hush!’
said Constance lifting her finger to her lips.

Oscar
raised his voice a little. ‘One day two or three little filings felt a sudden
desire to go and visit the magnet, and they began to talk of what a pleasant
thing it would be to do. Other filings nearby overheard their conversation and
they, too, became infected with the same desire. Still others joined them, till
at last all the filings began to discuss the matter, and more and more their
vague desire grew into an impulse. “Why not go today?” said some of them; but
others were of the opinion that it would be better to wait until tomorrow …
Meanwhile, without their having noticed it, they had been involuntarily moving
nearer to the magnet, which lay there quite still, apparently taking no heed of
them.’

Oscar
reached into his pocket for his silver cigarette case. ‘And so they went on,’
he continued, his eyes darting about the room as he spoke, ‘all the time
insensibly drawing nearer to their neighbour … And the more they talked, the
more they felt the impulse growing stronger, till the more impatient ones
declared that they would go
that
day, whatever the rest did. Some were
even heard to say that it was their
duty
to visit the magnet, and that
they ought to have gone long ago. And while they talked, they moved nearer and
nearer, without realising that they had moved. Then, at last, the impatient
ones prevailed, and, with one irresistible impulse, the whole body cried out,
“There is no use waiting, we will go today. We will go now. We will go
at
once.”
And then in one unanimous mass they swept along, and in another
moment were clinging fast to the magnet on every side. Then the magnet
smiled—for the steel filings had no doubt at all but that they were paying that
visit of their own free will.’

Oscar
paused, and looked about the room, and smiled, and lit his cigarette.

‘Bravo,
Papa!’ called Little Lord Fauntleroy, leading the applause.

Conan
Doyle, sucking on his pipe, leant over to Wat Sickert and murmured: ‘Who did
you say was the “star attraction”?’

Oscar
bowed his head briefly, then threw it back, drew slowly on his cigarette and,
through a cloud of pale grey smoke which he did nothing to wave away, went on:
‘What has drawn you here today, ladies and gentlemen, is your generous impulse.
Together, this afternoon, we have raised more than thirty pounds for the
benefit of the Earl’s Court Boys’ Club. Thanks to you, these lads—rough boys,
working-class boys, street urchins some of them will be able to acquire
discipline, fitness and skill by learning to box in a proper boxing ring, with
real boxing clubs and according to the Queensberry Rules!‘ This time it was
Drumlanrig and Conan Doyle who led the applause.

‘Discipline,
fitness and skill …’ repeated Oscar, revealing his teeth in a mischievous
grin. ‘They’re what’s wanted in Earl’s Court, to be sure. Here in Chelsea, naturally,
we incline more to indulgence, indolence and idleness.’

‘You’re
wicked, Oscar!’ hissed Miss Cooper.

‘That’s
why we love him,’ murmured Lord Alfred Douglas at her side.

Oscar
moved towards the mantelpiece. ‘Iced champagne and Russian caviar are to be
served shortly,’ he announced. ‘But, first …’ He held out his arm towards the
arena he had just vacated: ‘The entertainment!’

‘Yes!
Yes!’ cried Cyril and Vyvyan simultaneously.

‘Ladies
and gentlemen, would you please welcome this afternoon’s master of magic and
prince of illusion, late of the Victoria Music Hall, Solihull, sometime toast
of the West Midlands circuit, now darling of the Cadogan Hotel pantry,
Mr
Alphonse Byrd,
together with his able assistant, the David and Goliath of
Astley’s Circus,
Mr David McMuirtree!’

Oscar
raised both hands above his head and clapped them together loudly as Byrd,
alone, stepped from the corner of the room and took a bow. He was thin and pale
and, for an entertainer, disconcertingly solemn. When he bowed, he bowed low,
letting his arms hang forward so that his fingers almost touched the ground.
The crown of his head was bald and mottled, and what little hair he had was
white and wispy. He stayed bent forward, sustaining his bow for longer than was
comfortable, and then, suddenly, as the applause subsided, he stood up
abruptly, stretching his arms out wide—and, as he did so, two huge bouquets of
brightly coloured paper flowers appeared in either hand! As we gasped and
laughed and cheered, Byrd stepped towards Constance and carefully laid both
bouquets on her lap like a mourner placing floral tributes on a grave.