Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (35 page)

‘I am
sorry,’ said Oscar.

‘McMuirtree
was my friend,’ said Byrd, looking up at us for the first time. In the dim
light I saw the anguish in his eyes.

‘Had
you known him long?’ asked Oscar.

‘Twenty
years,’ said Byrd. ‘Half a lifetime. We met at the crossroads.’ Slowly he
turned his head and looked about the room, as if he were seeing it for the
first time. I followed his gaze. The room was crowded with boxes, trunks and
cases, the stage properties and paraphernalia from his magic show. A silence
fell.

‘The
crossroads?’ repeated Oscar, eventually.

‘The
crossroads,’ answered Byrd sharply, ‘where McMuirtree, half-a-gentleman, took
the high road to fame and fortune, and I took the low road that led to where
you find me now.’

‘Ah,’
said Oscar. ‘You were a gentleman … I did not realise.’

‘Did
you not?’ said Byrd, looking directly at Oscar. ‘My father was a gentleman, a
merchant, from Liverpool. My mother was a lady. She died soon after I was born.
My father died on my eighteenth birthday. He shot himself. He owned a ship and
he lost it in the China seas. When his ship went down, his fortune sank with
it. A merchant without means ceases to be a gentleman. I was at the university
at the time, Mr Wilde—your university, where you won all those prizes.’

‘I did
not know,’ said Oscar. ‘What college were you at? I was at Magdalen.’

‘I
know,’ said Byrd, looking down at his hands once more. ‘I was at New.’

‘Ah,’
said Oscar amiably. He turned to me. ‘What was your college, Robert?’

‘I was
at New College, too,’ I said.

‘I
thought so.’

‘And I
did not complete my degree either,’ I added.

‘I did
not complete my first term,’ said Byrd. ‘I left Oxford within a fortnight of my
father’s death. I took to the road. I followed in the footsteps of my childhood
heroes—Maskelyne and Cooke, the great illusionists. My father had taken me to
see them perform at the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly. I marvelled at all that
they did. I wanted to be like them. I went to work for them. I was apprenticed
to them for two years. They taught me my craft.’

‘You
learnt it well,’ I said.

‘I
learnt the craft of it. I mastered the tricks. My technique was impressive, but
according to John Maskelyne, I lacked “the immortal spark”. I did not ,,engage”
the audience.’

‘You did
not look them in the eye,’ suggested Oscar.

‘Precisely,’
replied Byrd, staring steadily at Oscar. ‘Exactly so. I lacked the courage.
According to John Maskelyne, to be a great illusionist requires daring and what
he called “panache”. I had neither.’

‘But
David McMuirtree had both … enough for two?’

Byrd
gave a hollow laugh. ‘You appear to know my story, Mr Wilde.’

‘I
guess at it, that’s all,’ said Oscar kindly.

‘McMuirtree
came to work for Maskelyne and Cooke as well. We were of an age, but he was
everything that I was not. He was strong; he was handsome; he could engage the
crowd. I was the better magician, but he was the bigger man. We completed our
apprenticeship with Maskelyne and Cooke and took to the road ourselves.’

‘As
“McMuirtree and Byrd”?’

‘Exactly
so.’

‘And
did you prosper?’ Oscar enquired.

‘We
might have done. Thanks to Mr Maskelyne, we had contacts. We got bookings. We
were at the bottom of the bill, of course, because we were young and unknown,
but we had prospects. We might have prospered, given time. But McMuirtree was
impatient—and easily distracted. He took up boxing. He saw it as a more certain
path to glory. And then, of a sudden, almost on a whim, he joined the
Metropolitan Police. They gave him opportunities to box and a steady income.’

‘He
abandoned you?’

‘He
went his own way, but we kept in touch. We never lost touch.’

‘But
you abandoned the stage?’ asked Oscar.

‘Without
McMuirtree, I had little choice. John Maskelyne was right, Mr Wilde. I lacked
courage and panache. And I was not tall enough to join the Metropolitan
Police.’ He looked up at us both and grimaced and opened his fingers to let a
handful of green feathers flutter to the ground.

‘Poor
Captain Flint,’ said Oscar.

Byrd
leant forward and carefully picked up each of the tiny feathers. There were
thirteen of them in all.

‘Where
is your parrot now?’ asked Oscar.

‘I have
laid him to rest,’ said Byrd.

I
looked about the room, wondering in which box or trunk or magician’s cabinet
the unhappy hotel manager had placed the mortal remains of his feathered
friend.

‘Not
here,’ he said, with a dry laugh. ‘At my allotment by Brompton Cemetery.’

Oscar
looked surprised. ‘You have an allotment, Mr Byrd?’

‘A
small one. Gardening is my only pleasure now. I work nights here at the hotel
so that by day I can dig my patch of earth. I lead a simple life, Mr Wilde.
“Having the fewest wants, I am nearest to the gods.”‘

Oscar
smiled. ‘I recognise the line.’ He looked down at Alphonse Byrd and shifted the
weight between his feet. ‘And speaking of Socrates, Mr Byrd, let me come to the
point and then Mr Sherard and I can leave you in peace. At our club dinner the
other Sunday, during my foolish game, you will recall that it was Lord Alfred
Douglas who named Captain Flint as his intended victim?’ Byrd nodded, but said
nothing. Oscar continued: ‘I am certain that Lord Alfred meant the bird no
serious harm. It was just one of his less happy jokes—and for it, and on his
behalf, I apologise. So the question remains: who do you think killed the
parrot, Mr Byrd?’

Byrd
gazed down at the feathers in his hand. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ he
murmured. ‘I have no idea. None whatsoever. A monster, that’s for certain.’

Oscar
pressed him. ‘You have no idea, Mr Byrd?’

‘None
at all. None.’

‘And
who do you think might have killed David McMuirtree?’ asked Oscar.

‘Oh,’
answered Byrd, without hesitation, ‘I’m certain the police will be able to tell
you that.’

‘Really?’
countered Oscar.

‘David
McMuirtree worked for the police. He was a police informer. He will have been
killed by a member of the criminal fraternity bent on revenge. Of that I’m
certain. His life always hung by a thread. He knew it.’

‘Is
that why, at the Socrates Club dinner, when we played the game of “Murder”, you
named your friend as your victim of choice?’

Byrd
looked up at Oscar and laughed. It was an easy laugh. ‘How did you know that,
Mr Wilde?’

‘I did
not know it, Mr Byrd.’

‘It was
a joke, that’s all. It was a joke that he appreciated. I told him about it
afterwards. He often joked about the possibility of being murdered. It did not
seem to trouble him.’

‘He had
courage and panache,’ said Oscar.

‘“Nothing
can harm a good man, either in life or after death”,’ said Byrd, taking a deep
breath and closing his hands around his parrot’s feathers.

‘Ah,’
said Oscar, ‘Socrates once again.’ He turned to me and nodded, indicating that
it was time for us to leave.

‘I was
a classicist once, Mr Wilde,’ said Alphonse Byrd, not stirring from his bed.

‘Indeed,’
said Oscar, bowing towards him. ‘And a gentleman.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EVER THUS

‘What now?’ I asked as we
came down the steps of the Cadogan Hotel onto Sloane Street.

There
was colour in Oscar’s cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes. He stood for a moment
considering his next move and then announced: ‘We turn left, I think.’

He took
my arm and steered me in the direction of Knightsbridge. At the very moment
that he did so, there was a sudden, sharp, crashing sound behind us. We turned
abruptly and saw, smashed into pieces on the pavement immediately behind us,
the remains of a large black slate that had fallen from the roof of the hotel.
In silence, we looked up at the building. On every floor the windows were all
shut. No curtains twitched. A pair of pigeons hovered about the rooftop and
landed on the chimney stack.

‘Let us
go to the police,’ I said urgently.

Oscar
laughed. ‘Because of a loose tile on a hotel roof? That was an accident, Robert
…’

‘You
might have been killed.’

‘But I
wasn’t,’ he said calmly. ‘And nor were you.’

‘Let us
go to the police,’ I repeated.

‘All in
good time,’ he said. ‘I need to visit the post office first. I have telegrams
to send to Oxford, to Eastbourne, to Bosie and to Constance.’

‘To
Constance?’ I queried, as he took my arm once more and steered me in the
direction of his choosing. ‘I thought we were lunching with Constance in Tite
Street?’

‘We
are,’ said Oscar, happily. ‘My telegram will arrive after luncheon. It will
show her that we anticipated how grateful we would be.’ His arm was linked
through mine. His large head was erect and held back (he liked his chestnut
hair to catch the breeze), but his sloping eyes glanced down towards me and he
smiled. ‘When Constance and I first met, Robert, we telegraphed each other
twice a day—at least !—and at a moment’s notice I rushed back from the uttermost
parts of the earth to see her for an hour and do all the foolish things that
wise lovers do. Romance lives by repetition. Do you think that if I behave once
more as once I did, I will feel once more for her as once I felt?’

I did
not answer him. What could I say?

As we
reached the corner of Knightsbridge and Brompton Road and paused at the
kerbside, Oscar took his arm from mine and reached for his cigarette case.
‘What did you make of friend Byrd?’ he asked, offering me a cigarette.

‘He
struck me as being a somewhat pathetic creature,’ I answered.

‘Indeed.’
He struck a match and cupped his hands around the flame. He lit my cigarette.
‘But I was intrigued to find that the great John Maskelyne had been among his
mentors.’

‘Is
Maskelyne one of your heroes, Oscar?’ I asked, drawing on my cigarette without
much satisfaction. It was a Player’s Navy Cut and more to Oscar’s taste than
mine.

‘As a
master of theatrical illusion,’ said Oscar, ‘Maskelyne has no equal.’ There was
a gap in the traffic and he stepped out into the road. I followed him. ‘Of
course,’ he added, laughing, as he steered us between an omnibus and a milk
float, ‘if he was to be run over in the street tomorrow, who knows how he might
be remembered?’

‘I
don’t follow you, Oscar,’ I said.

‘Maskelyne
is world famous now for his bag of tricks, for his conjuring and his feats of
levitation—but what will posterity make of him?’ We had reached the safety of
the pavement opposite. ‘I reckon John Maskelyne’s lasting claim to fame will
rest on his one non-theatrical invention: the lock for the public convenience
which requires a penny coin to operate.’

‘Good
grief,’ I exclaimed, dropping my cigarette into the gutter. ‘Did Maskelyne
invent that?’

‘He
did,’ said Oscar, ‘and the euphemism “spend a penny” that goes with it. I am a
poet and a playwright who has spent a lifetime spinning words, Robert, and yet,
were Ito live for a thousand years, I doubt very much that I could come up with
a phrase destined to be half so famous! Alas, we cannot choose the nature of
our own immortality.’

I
chuckled. ‘I wonder how you will be remembered, Oscar?’

We had
reached the crowded doorway of the Knightsbridge post office. Oscar paused.
Customers brushed past us as they went about their business. ‘For my downfall,’
he said, smiling gently. ‘In my end will be the beginning of my notoriety. I am
certain of that. I always have been.’ He held his open palm up in front of me.
‘Mrs Robinson has seen it in this unhappy hand.’ Oscar spoke often of the
prospect of his premature demise and usually did so with melodramatic relish.
‘If I should be murdered at the end of this week, Robert, I will be known for
all time as the playwright who died on Friday the thirteenth. I will be the Kit
Marlowe of the nineteenth century, remembered as much for the manner of my
death as the matter of my life.’

‘You’re
not going to be murdered on Friday,’ I insisted.

As I
spoke—as I uttered the very words ‘You’re not going to be murdered on Friday’—a
man’s arm pushed between me and my friend and I saw the silver barrel of a gun
suddenly pointed at Oscar’s chest. My heart stopped. My head reeled. ‘For God’s
sake,’ I cried without thinking, grabbing the hand that held the pistol and
wrenching it up into the air.

‘Hold
on, old boy!’ cried Bosie Douglas, shrieking with laughter and pulling himself
free of me. ‘It’s not loaded.’

I
stepped back and looked in appalled amazement at the beautiful young man who
stood before us. He was wearing white cricket flannels, a pea-green blazer, a
yellow boater and a broad and ridiculous grin. He embraced Oscar, kissing him
on the cheek, while holding out his open palm towards me. Within his palm
nestled the most remarkable firearm I had ever seen. It was no larger than a
cigarette case: the chamber for the cartridges was circular, silver, and
embossed like a snail’s shell; the single barrel of the gun was no longer or
wider than a finger. ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ purred Bosie. ‘She’s French. Made
by a Monsieur Turbiaux in Paris. Apparently her muzzle velocity is pitiful, but
what do I care? I shall only be using her once—at very close range. My dear
papa won’t feel a thing … But, then, has he ever?’