The Posing Playwright

by David Field

  ‘Actually, the telegraph boys received such light sentences that one or two bolder journalists began asking questions, and one of them unearthed a male prostitute called John Saul, who revealed a frightening connection with guardsmen at Dublin Castle a few years before that. But despite allegations of a cover-up at high levels, most of the high-ranking Mary-Annes suspected of using the Cleveland Street “facilities”, shall we call them, had managed to slip away abroad. But what makes me suspicious of this current pretence at a prosecution is that the Home Secretary who’s called in the Political Branch was, while a practising barrister, one of the counsel who defended the boldest of the journalists, a man named Ernest Parke, when he was accused of libelling the Earl of Euston by claiming that he was implicated in the Cleveland Street scandal.’

  ‘Surely, that means that he was determined to get to the truth?’ Esther suggested.

  Percy shook his head. ‘It’s also rumoured that the defence team went soft in order to ensure that Parke was found to have libelled Euston, who walked out of court with his reputation intact. Asquith is now our Home Secretary, and the senior barrister for the defence, Frank Lockwood, became Solicitor General. In both cases, I suspect, those were their rewards for their assistance in a cover-up.’

  ‘I gather that you and Jack have now been brought in to investigate another similar scandal, and from what you were saying just then, you suspect another cover-up. Am I right?’

  Percy beamed his appreciation. ‘You really should join the Yard when they decide to employ females. You’re one hundred per cent correct, I’m afraid. The Political Branch are known informally within Met circles as “The Whitewash Boys”, and I for one deeply resent having my talents wasted in complex investigations which by some mysterious process never make it to court. Nor am I even allowed to exact any justice of my own devising. I don’t want Jack disillusioned in his first promoted position.’

  ‘You haven’t yet mentioned why Jack will be required to visit male brothels. What’s this latest scandal?’

  ‘Possibly a storm in a teacup, or just a bad-tempered display of pique by two people who don’t like each other. Ever heard of a playwright called Oscar Wilde?’

  ‘Can’t say I have, but what’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing, according to him. But a prominent peer of the realm called the Marquess of Queensberry has accused him of sodomy, and Wilde’s decided to prosecute him for criminal libel.’

  ‘Did I just mishear you? Don’t the authorities prosecute?’

  ‘Normally, yes, but they ducked this one and refused to proceed, which makes me even more suspicious of a cover-up. Undaunted, Mr Wilde has brought a private prosecution, which he’s entitled to do, and Queensberry’s defence counsel, Edward Carson, has employed private detectives by the coach-load to investigate Wilde’s private life. That’s why we were called in.’

  ‘I’ll take a guess that Mr Wilde can be proved to have been associating with some very prominent people, and it’s time for more whitewash.’

  ‘Precisely. That will be Jack’s main task — asking awkward questions in dens of depraved iniquity in which silence and diplomacy are combined with dubious practices, and whose no doubt substantial income depends on their managers’ abilities to suppress individual identity and wipe away any stains on the reputations of those able to pay for the service.’

  ‘I can now appreciate why you’re concerned that Jack will be even more grumpy than usual when he comes home at night. I don’t think you need worry about any attacks on his morals, but he’ll most certainly get moody if he thinks he’s getting nowhere. He’s very stubborn, as you no doubt had occasion to note when he was growing up. But if he’s going to be doing all the legwork on the investigation that your department’s been handed, what are you going to be doing, and what part in it do you think I can play?’

  ‘Simply being a sounding board for my ideas and giving me a fresh pair of suspicious eyes when I’m in danger of missing something.’

  ‘Something to do with what, exactly?’

  ‘Do you have a pencil and notepad handy? You might be as well writing down the bare facts that I’m going to give you, then we can add to them as I winkle out more, except that I suspect that I’ll be out of London for long periods of time.’

  After being reassured by Alice that playing at “baddies and goodies” with Lily and Bertie in the front living room was what she had been born to do with her life, Esther retreated back into the kitchen armed with a drawing pad and pencils of various hues and sat down with an expectant look on her face.

  ‘Very well. The facts, please.’

  ‘In return for tipping us off regarding what his bloodhounds had discovered, Edward Carson — you remember, Queensberry’s barrister? — asked us to conduct a missing person enquiry.’

  ‘Which the Yard doesn’t do, or so you told us when Alice asked you to look for her missing niece Emily that time. Or are you compromised already?’

  ‘Probably, but leaving aside the politics of the matter, this man might be connected with the enquiries that Jack’s going to be conducting. That’s another reason why I want you on the case — making sure that nothing slips between the floorboards as our two separate enquiries proceed.’

  ‘So who’s your missing man? Someone connected with this Wilde person?’

  ‘Could be, which is what makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, never a good sign. How coincidental is it that a prominent playwright moving in the best of social circles is accused of sodomy, while a prominent member of society disappears? The missing man is called “Lord Stranmillis”. He’s a peer of the realm, in other words a member of the House of Lords, and he was recently one of those who voted against Irish Home Rule, which has given Mr Carson reason to believe that he may have abducted by Fenians — you’ve heard of those, I take it?’

  ‘Irish independence rebels?’

  ‘“Terrorists”, to give them their more accurate label. What they can’t achieve politically they hope to bring about with murder, arson, explosives and fear.’

  ‘So this man may have been abducted for what reason? To kill him and leave his body somewhere prominent and embarrassing, or to pressure the Government into casting Ireland off into the western ocean?’

  ‘That’s what Carson thinks. But Stranmillis has been missing for over two weeks, and in my experience, if he’d been abducted, those responsible would have advised us by now.’

  ‘If not abducted, then what?’ Esther asked, pencil poised.

  ‘I have a feeling that he’s made it look as if he’s been abducted and has simply made off into the sunset for reasons of his own.’

  ‘Connected with Mr Wilde?’

  ‘Perhaps. Certainly, at present, I’m working on the theory that the two matters are connected.’

  ‘So how and when did he disappear?’

  ‘He was booked on the boat train from Euston to Holyhead, from where he was due to board an overnight ferry to one of Dublin’s ports of entry — a place called Kingston. So far as we know, he disappeared somewhere en route. We certainly know he never stepped off the boat in Kingston.’

  ‘How do we know he even boarded the train at Euston?’

  ‘Good thinking. But he made the journey in his own private Pullman carriage — that’s a posh passenger wagon to you — and I’m advised that he was seen getting into it by platform staff at Euston. I’ll obviously be checking on that point as one of my first actions, but no doubt he was well known for the size of his tips to luggage porters.’

  ‘He was wealthy?’

  ‘Was he ever! They don’t come much richer than Lord Stranmillis, again so I’ve been informed, and again so I’ll be investigating.’

  ‘Silly question, perhaps, but has the Pullman carriage been examined for signs of violence?’

  ‘That’s the first thing I’ll be ordering when we find it.’

  ‘It’s gone missing?’

  ‘Why else would we be looking for it?’

 
‘Do we know approximately where it went missing?’

  ‘No idea yet. I’ve contacted the London and North Western Railway, who advise me that the train had two scheduled stops, at Rugby and Crewe, both in order to change engines.’

  ‘Time enough for his Lordship to make himself scarce?’

  ‘Obviously, but before I can confirm that promising theory I’ll need to speak to the station staff on duty at both stations.’

  ‘How can the Pullman carriage have disappeared during the journey?’ Esther said as she looked up from the notepad, which now had its front page decorated with her scribbles.

  ‘It was at the back of the train, even behind the guard’s van, so it could have easily been detached.’

  Esther stared at the far wall before voicing what was on her mind. ‘If Lord Stranmillis simply wanted to disappear, he could just have stepped out of his carriage during one of the engine stops. Why make the carriage disappear as well?’

  ‘I’m not sure. But if I’m correct in my theory that his Lordship wanted to fake his own disappearance and make it look like an abduction, then one way of making it seem more credible would be to arrange for the carriage to go missing as well. We’re meant to think that it was driven off at gunpoint with his Lordship inside and taken to wherever the Fenians, or whoever, are holding him.’

  ‘That would require the active collusion of railway staff, would it not?’

  ‘Unless the Fenians have locomotive engineers among their ranks, yes. Or — another possibility — they forced real railway operatives to drive the Pullman off somewhere, either at gunpoint or under threat to their nearest and dearest. Either way, the railway staff aren’t likely to be over-co-operative, even if I can identify them.’

  ‘Tell me more about his Lordship.’

  ‘If I could, I would. Jack’s due to meet with Carson again this afternoon, when he gets out of court, in order to collect copies of the evidence against Mr Wilde and also as much information as we can on Lord Stranmillis, who’s a personal friend of Mr Carson.’

  ‘How personal?’

  ‘Again, good thinking, and I haven’t ruled out that possibility either. One thing’s for certain — I’m only going to be told what I need to know, and I’ll need to question every single fact I’m given, so that I’m not the one left covered in whitewash. Now I need to leave — may I do so with the happy thought that Mrs Enright will be part of the investigation?’

  ‘Did you ever seriously doubt it? There’s a limit to the mental exercise involved in the boiling of nappies.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Thank you for taking the time to wait for me, Sergeant,’ Edward Carson boomed as he strode back into his chambers at the Middle Temple, followed by a flurry of clerks carrying bundles of papers. ‘One can never predict when a trial judge will hear the call of his bladder or call a halt to proceedings for the day rather than nod off in full view on the Bench, and the commercial matter that I’m currently engaged in seems destined to drone on for another week or so. Come inside and I’ll call for some tea. Maurice, could you organise that, please?

  ‘Now then,’ Carson beamed as he perched his legal wig on the top of a hat stand, slipped off his court robe and came back to the large table overflowing with paper, still dressed in his bar jacket with its fancy ‘tabs’ down the front. ‘This pile is a copy of all the statements I’ve so far been given in connection with the Wilde case. It doesn’t make pleasant reading, and you might need a cab in order to get it all back to your office in Whitehall. I’d certainly appreciate it if you wouldn’t risk lumbering it all onto a bus.’

  ‘Who are all these witnesses?’ Jack enquired.

  ‘A few male prostitutes, a handful of Molly House proprietors, and a selection of domestics who can place Mr Wilde and “Bosie” Douglas in each other’s company at various private hotels on the south coast and elsewhere. But perhaps most tellingly, the sad recollections of various young men of lowly origin who were solicited, flattered, entertained and ultimately deflowered by Mr Wilde. They are the ones we’ve been obliged to remunerate.’

  ‘Won’t that open them to cross-examination regarding their motives?’ Jack asked, then wished he hadn’t as a flash of irritation crossed Carson’s face.

  ‘You do your job, and leave me to worry about mine, although since you ask I’m hoping that the mere threat of these young men taking to the witness box will be enough to force Wilde’s hand into a retraction.’

  ‘When is the trial expected to begin?’

  ‘A week on Wednesday — the third of April — so far as can be calculated at this stage. It’s second on the Old Bailey list of trials for that week before Mr Justice Collins, and the first trial’s reckoned to be likely to run no longer than two days.’

  ‘Is there anything in these witness statements that might lead to speculation regarding the extent of Wilde’s depraved relationships?’

  ‘Not directly, no. But Wilde’s counsel, Sir Edward Clarke is a very adept cross-examiner and he might try pushing some of the less sophisticated witnesses into exaggerating their role in what is likely to be a very highly publicised case. Put another way, these simple young men will become famous overnight and might be tempted to gild the lily in order to make themselves look more important, and perhaps even earn money from the less responsible newspapers in return for their exclusive stories.’

  ‘Would they sink so low?’ Jack queried.

  Carson treated him to a look of scorn. ‘These are young men of the lowest order, prepared to open their arses for a pound a time — sometimes less. What do you think they’d be prepared to do for a hundred pounds?’

  ‘I take your point,’ Jack replied, duly chastened. ‘But insofar as Mr Wilde’s transgressions may extend up the social ladder, I’ll need to make my own enquiries, is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Isn’t that why you’re a police officer? As far as that’s concerned, I’d recommend that you start here in London, with particular reference to the house in Tite Street, Chelsea, occupied by Wilde, his wife and his two sons. Douglas was a frequent guest there, since he and Wilde struck up a friendship during Douglas’s impoverished student days at Oxford. They were introduced in London by a Canadian journalist called Robert Ross. He makes no secret of his homosexuality and we believe that he was the one who effected introductions between Wilde and some of the young boys on our witness list. If he procured for Wilde, he may have done it for others, and the boys may drop their names out at an inconvenient moment.’

  ‘I’ll follow up on all those,’ Jack promised as he extracted his notebook and pencil. ‘Now, the Inspector has asked me to get more information on the missing man, Lord Stranmillis, preferably including a photograph.’

  Carson smiled and reached out towards a large silver framed photograph on his desk, which he turned to face Jack.

  ‘The one in the middle,’ he said.

  Jack found himself looking at a photograph taken during some sort of formal occasion inside a richly equipped hall. There were three men dressed in dinner jackets and white ties, smiling at the camera, and the one on the left was unmistakeably Edward Carson himself.

  ‘Reunion dinner at Trinity last year. “Shorty” Stranmillis is the chappie in the middle, I’m on the left as you look at the photograph, and the one on the right is Phadrig Ryan, the owner of Ryan Industries.’

  ‘Lord Stranmillis’s nickname is “Shorty”?’

  Carson nodded. ‘For obvious reasons, although he did himself no favours standing between myself and Ryan, since we’re both over six feet. Poor old Shorty’s a mere five foot four or thereabouts.’

  ‘May I keep this?’ Jack asked. ‘We may need it for identification purposes.’

  ‘If you find his body, you mean?’

  ‘Certainly then, but also when we make enquiries among those who are likely to have seen him last.’

  ‘It’s not actually mine to loan out,’ Carson advised him with a frown. ‘I was sent this by Ryan, who was the one who pa
id the photographer, then sent copies to Shorty and myself, asking that we keep them safe, in case he was successful in getting his copy of it into the Trinity Old Boys’ magazine. But if you promise to look after it very carefully, I can loan it to you for as long as you need it.’

  Jack agreed and Carson carefully extracted the cardboard from the rear of the frame, then slid the photograph out and slipped it into a large folded sheet of what looked like title deed paper.

  ‘Thank you for that,’ Jack said. ‘Now, what else can you tell me about “Shorty” Stranmillis?’

  ‘His real name was Dermot O’Brien and like me he was born in Dublin, of Protestant parents, but in his case with family links to a peerage in the north of the country — the one he inherited from his uncle. He obtained a good honours degree in Natural Sciences, as did Paddy Ryan, who was more his friend than mine during our student days, although Paddy was a good Catholic boy. Shorty lost no time in heading east and set up a business with a steel plant near Sheffield, supplying rail lines just ahead of the massive competition between the rail companies to supply faster and more comfortable services. Then he transferred his interest to somewhere in the Manchester area, manufacturing pipes for underground cables. Finally, so far as I know, he branched out into quarrying and was supplying building materials under Government contract, just as they were expanding and improving our road networks.’

  ‘It sounds as if your friend Stranmillis had the gift of foresight as to which business to invest in next,’ Jack observed suspiciously. ‘In fact, some might say that he had inside knowledge.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first to suggest that,’ Carson replied, ‘but not a single act of corruption was ever proved against Shorty. When he inherited the peerage, there were of course accusations of nest-feathering and the predictable allegations that he’d bought his seat in the House of Lords, but these came in the main from frustrated business rivals. Shorty seemed to sail through them all unscathed.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’