Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death (39 page)

‘I’ve
not had time to shave,’ I apologised as I climbed into our carriage.

‘No
matter,’ he said. ‘We are going to a public house. Your appearance is exactly
comme
il faut.’

‘I must
look like a scarecrow,’ I said, realising that I had not even brushed my hair,
‘whereas you, Oscar, you look so …
civilised.’

He
chuckled. ‘With a high hat and a well-cut frock coat anybody, even an
accountant, can look civilised.’ He fingered the rosebud in the lapel of his
coat. ‘I am rather pleased, however, with my buttonhole. This rose is named in
honour of Saint Joan of Arc. Tomorrow is the thirteenth, her feast day. Today,
this rosebud is white. Tomorrow, the flower will open and you will see petals
as red as fire.’

‘Yes,’
I said. ‘Tomorrow is the thirteenth,’ I said. ‘Friday the thirteenth.’

‘Quite,’
said Oscar. ‘Unlucky for some.’

I
turned and looked him this extraordinary, supremely intelligent, highly
educated, profoundly civilised man. ‘You really are deeply superstitious, aren’t
you?’

‘I take
some of it with a pinch of salt,’ he said.

I
laughed.

He
looked at me earnestly. ‘The truth is: I love superstitions, Robert. They are
the colour element of thought and imagination. They are the opponents of common
sense. Common sense is the enemy of romance. Leave us some unreality. Do not
make us offensively sane.’

Our
four-wheeler turned southwards into the Charing Cross Road. ‘Where are we going
now?’ I asked.

‘Nowhere
very romantic, alas. To a public house in Wellington Street to have beer and
sandwiches with Bram Stoker and Charles Brookfield. They are the last of our
“witnesses”.’

‘What
about George Daubeney?’ I asked. ‘Have you cross-examined the Honourable
Reverend?’

‘Not
yet. He and I are having a
tête-à-tête
this afternoon—at his suggestion.
He has something to show me. Something he tells me will please me greatly.’

‘Am I
invited, too?’

‘No,
Robert. Whatever he has to offer is, apparently, for my eyes only.’

‘He’s a
curious sort of clergyman, isn’t he?’

‘Not at
all,’ cried Oscar. ‘In my experience they’re all obsessed with carnality and
corruption. I think they regard it as their stock-in-trade. The bishops are
often the worst.’

I was
beginning to feel more awake. Oscar’s banter was reviving me—and his quirkiness,
his lightness of touch and his easy acceptance of the foibles of others were
serving to remind me of why I found him to be the best company in the world.

As our
four-wheeler trundled down Charing Cross Road towards the Strand, at his behest
I gave Oscar a brief account of my encounters of the day before. When I’d done
I said: ‘I’m afraid I didn’t make much progress, Oscar. I’m not in your league,
alas. Nor that of Sherlock Holmes.

‘Forget
Holmes,’ said Oscar genially. ‘You covered the ground, and covered it well. I’m
grateful.’ He slapped me on the knee by way of congratulation.

‘And
you?’ I asked.

‘I made
some progress, I believe,’ he said lightly, looking out of the carriage window.
Our four-wheeler had stopped momentarily: our horse appeared to have been
distracted by a road-side water-trough. Oscar turned back to me. ‘What did you
make of young Drumlanrig?’ he asked.

I
hesitated.

‘Go
on,’ he said.

‘Can I
follow Whistler’s advice?’ I asked. ‘Can I be bold?’

He
laughed. ‘Are you going to tell me that Lord Drumlanrig is our murderer?’

‘It’s
possible, is it not?’ I said. ‘They are a strange family the Douglases …
moody, headstrong, touched with madness …’

‘Indeed.
“Douglas” in Gaelic means “dark water”, you know. And
“Nomen est omen”
is
my philosophy. But of all the members of the family I’ve encountered thus far,
Francis Drumlanrig seems to me to be the least touched with madness, the most
down-to-earth.’

‘But
Francis Drumlanrig chose his godfather, Lord Abergordon, as his victim—and Lord
Abergordon is dead. By his own admission, Francis Drumlanrig threatened David
McMuirtree—and David McMuirtree is dead’

Our
carriage began to move once more. Oscar lit a cigarette and nodded to me as if
to say, ‘Go on.’

I went
on, uncertain as to whether or not I should. ‘Francis Drumlanrig,’ I said
slowly, ‘is heir to the Marquess of Queensberry … is he not?’

‘He
is.’

‘But
Francis is estranged from his father because his father does not much care for
the kind of company the young man keeps. Lord Queensberry does not much care
for the likes of Lord Rosebery and …’ I hesitated.

‘…
the likes of Oscar Wilde?’

‘Yes,’
I said. ‘The Marquess of Queensberry does not approve of either of his sons’
intimate association with Oscar Wilde. If Francis Drumlanrig were to rid the
world of all the Wildes, would that not endear the young earl to his monster of
a father?’

‘Ingenious,
Robert, as well as bold,’ said Oscar, smiling at me benevolently.

Encouraged,
I went on: ‘Aside from the parrot, there were six people on the list of
victims. Who else had a motive to murder at least four out of the six?’

Our
four-wheeler was drawing to a halt. Oscar threw his cigarette to the floor and
extinguished it under foot. ‘Oh, Robert,’ he cried, pushing open the carriage
door. ‘Beware of dangerous assumptions!’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘I
mean: do not assume that anyone had a motive to murder more than one of the
victims’

I
helped my friend out of the four-wheeler. ‘I do not follow you,’ I said.

‘Could
our murderer not simply have had just one victim in mind—and be busy murdering
all the rest simply to cover his traces, to cause confusion in his wake, to
throw sand in our eyes?’

I stood
with Oscar on the corner of Wellington Street and the Strand and looked up at
the cloudless sky. I was perplexed.

Oscar
paid off our cab and led the way into the saloon bar of the Duke of Wellington
public house. ‘Beer and sandwiches,’ he murmured unhappily as we entered the
crowded, smoke-filled room. We saw Bram Stoker at once. He was standing at the
bar, looking towards the door, waiting for us. There was no sign of Charles
Brookfield.

‘He
sends his apologies,’ said Stoker, handing us each a pint pot of warm, dark
ale.

‘Does
he?’ asked Oscar, looking down at the beer with wide eyes and undisguised
mistrust.

Stoker
laughed. He was a big bear of a man. He was as tall as Oscar—six feet two
inches at least— and quite as broad, but while Oscar seemed overweight and
flabby, Stoker appeared well-built and strong. He was deep-chested and
broad-shouldered. When he laughed, his whole frame shook. ‘No, Oscar, you’re
right,’ he growled through his laugh and, with the back of his nails, he
scratched at his untidy red beard. ‘Brookfield does not send his apologies. He‘s
simply decided not to join us.’

Stoker
picked up his pint pot and led us towards a boxed stall in a dark corner at the
back of the room. Set out on a table within the stall were knives and forks,
plates, wine glasses, napkins, one dish overflowing with cuts of cold meat,
another piled high with portions of dressed crab and two open bottles of
Alsatian wine. ‘Take a pew, gentlemen,‘ said Stoker amiably. ‘I’ve never
thought of Oscar as much of a sandwich man.’

‘By all
that’s wonderful,’ purred Oscar gratefully, lowering his bulk onto one of the
benches within the stall. ‘My spirits soar. Thank you, Bram.’

Stoker
struck a match and lit two candles in the centre of the table. He had bright
blue eyes and ruddy farmer’s cheeks. He smiled at me. ‘Oscar and I go back a
long way. His parents were very good to me in Dublin when I was a boy. Sir
William Wilde was something of a hero of mine.’

‘My
father was an author and antiquarian as well as a medical man,’ Oscar added by
way of explanation.

‘He was
a great man, a good man, a
strong
man, ‘said Stoker, filling our wine
glasses, ‘until the case broke him.’

‘“The
case”?’ I queried. ‘Was Sir William by way of being something of an amateur
sleuth also?’

‘No,’
answered Oscar, smiling. ‘Sir William was by way of being something of a
professional ladies’ man. “The case” was an unfortunate libel action. My father
stood accused of having chloroformed and raped a female patient. It wasn’t
true, of course, but that he and the lady in the case had enjoyed an illicit,
if consenting, relationship could not be denied. The case ruined him. Bram is
correct. It “broke” him.’

‘There’s
a lesson there for us all, gentlemen,’ said Stoker, beaming across the table at
us. ‘Keep out of court at all costs. Cheers!’

We
raised and clinked our glasses. ‘Now,’ said Oscar, helping himself to a portion
of dressed crab,’ explain to me why Brookfield is not here.’

‘He has
an aversion to you, Oscar—it’s as simple as that. He is obsessed with you, but
can’t stand the sight of you at the same time! I imagine at the Socrates Club
dinner, when we played that infernal game of yours,
you
were his
intended victim. He is insanely jealous of you. We all are.’ Stoker looked at
me and winked. ‘I have been ever since I was a young man.’

‘This
is balderdash, Bram,’ said Oscar happily, helping himself to a further portion
of dressed crab. ‘Poppycock.’ He looked at me. ‘I’m the one who was insanely
jealous. Stoker here stole my sweetheart—saw her, stole her, swept her off her
feet.’

‘I had
the advantage of years, Oscar,’ said Stoker.

‘Yes,’
replied Oscar, sniffing the wine with satisfaction, ‘I have that consolation.’
He took a sip of the Alsace and placed his glass back on the table. He leant
towards me confidentially. ‘Florrie Balcombe—Mrs Stoker—is very beautiful.’

‘I
know,’ I said. ‘I have been to first nights at the Lyceum. I have seen the
gentlemen in the stalls and in the balconies standing on their seats to get a
better view of her.’

‘Constance
Lloyd—Mrs Wilde—is very beautiful, too’ said Bram Stoker, without affectation.

‘Indeed,’
I said, my cheeks suddenly reddening.

‘Robert
is a little in love with my wife,’ murmured Oscar, gently patting the back of
my hand.

‘I’m
not surprised,’ said Bram Stoker. ‘I imagine most men are.’

‘And
yet,’ said Oscar, leaning back in the stall and lighting his first cigarette
since we had taken our seats, ‘one man wants to murder her.’

‘It
can’t be so,’ said Stoker. ‘I won’t believe it.’

‘Yes,
it is so,’ said Oscar quietly. He leant forward towards our host: ‘Who did you
choose as your “victim”, Bram, when we played my wretched game?’

‘“Old
Father Time”,’ answered Stoker, smiling. He tugged on his beard ruefully. ‘I
shall be forty-five this November.’

‘And
what is your “secret”, my friend?’

‘My
secret? My secret is laughable. My secret is that in my heart I am still only
twenty-five.’

‘Oh,’
said Oscar, draining his glass. ‘In my heart I’m not yet nineteen.’

We
finished the two bottles of Alsatian wine and ordered a third. We talked of
youth and beauty, of fine wine and good food. Bram cautioned Oscar against a
third helping of dressed crab. Dressed crab, he claimed, had led him to dream
of vampires; we talked of Charles Brookfield’s satire on
Lady Windermere’s Fan
and of Walter Sickert’s paintings of actresses
en deshabillée;
we
talked of George Daubeney and house fires and women’s undergarments—Bram’s grandfather
had been a manufacturer of ladies’ stays. We talked of parrots and monkeys and
murder—Bram had been given a pet monkey by W. S. Gilbert and spoke of an
acquaintance of his [Sir Richard Burton (182 1—1890), translator of the
Arabian
Nights.]
who admitted to murdering a stranger once, ‘casually and without
cause’. It was a wonderfully congenial lunch, and we touched on many topics
peripheral to our ‘case‘, but I was not sure how much solid progress we had
made.

At
three o’clock, however, standing once more on the corner of Wellington Street
and the Strand, Oscar expressed himself well satisfied. Bram Stoker had
returned to the Lyceum (to the rehearsals for Mr Irving’s
King Lear),
having
insisted on paying for our entertainment (‘I got the girl, Oscar—you may have
the dressed crab’) and having agreed to be in attendance at the Cadogan Hotel
the following evening for what he called ‘the extraordinary extra gathering of
the Socrates Club’.

‘I hope
you know what you’re doing, Oscar, ‘Bram called out merrily, as he strode away
from us up the street towards the theatre. ‘And have no fear … I’ll deliver
Brookfield to the dinner for you—that much I promise.’

‘What
now, Oscar?’ I asked.

‘Be
free, my Ariel! At least for this afternoon … Go back to Gower Street. Get to
grips with your wife’s solicitor. I’m looking in briefly on Inspector Gilmour.
I need to be certain he’ll be with us tomorrow night. Then I have my
assignation with the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney—in Beak Street, behind
the arras. He assures me I’ll not be disappointed … And then, Robert, believe
it or not, I am going home. I am returning to the bosom of my family. I shall
be dining with my wife tonight.’