by David Field
‘I had seen communications from Lord Queensberry, not to his son, but to a third party — members of his own and of his wife’s families. I went to the Albemarle Club on the 28th of February and received from the porter the card which has been produced. A warrant was issued on the 1st of March.’
‘It is suggested that you are responsible for the publication of the book “Dorian Gray”. Was that first published in serial form?’
‘It was first published in Lippincott’s and afterwards in book form with some additional chapters. It was much reviewed.’
‘Your attention has been called to the statements which are made in the pleadings referring to different persons and impugning your conduct with them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there any truth in any of these accusations?’
‘There is no truth whatever in any one of them.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wilde. Please remain where you are, unless... Your Lordship, I am mindful of the hour...’
‘Yes, indeed,’ his Lordship agreed. ‘Mr Bailiff, please adjourn the court until two in the afternoon.’
As the general stampede for the exits began, Jack decided to hang back, rather than get knocked down the narrow staircase. He was gazing down at the rapidly emptying ‘bar’ area below when he became aware of a middle-aged man in a frock coat and silver cravat waving uncertainly at him. When Jack returned the wave, the man ventured a tentative question.
‘Are you by any chance with Scotland Yard?’
‘I am.’
‘Ah, good. Mr Carson was hoping someone would be here from the Yard. He wants to see you in the robing chambers during the dinner break.’
‘Where will I find them?’
‘Ground floor, past the Bailiffs’ Lodge, then the last door down on the left. Just head for all the noise.’
The man had certainly not been exaggerating about the wall of animated male bonhomie and cross chatter that assailed Jack’s ears as the door was opened to his knock, and when he announced his business he was invited to enter. Seemingly this was the room in which all the barristers congregated when they were not in court and he found Carson in the corner by a huge table on which were several gorgonzola cheeses, a selection of spoons, several large carafes of wine and at least a dozen glasses. Carson was spooning into one of the cheeses as he spotted Jack walking hesitantly towards him. He smiled. ‘Ah. Sergeant...?’
‘Enright.’
‘Yes, quite. I was wondering how the search for Lord Stranmillis was going.’
‘Very well,’ Jack assured him. ‘Inspector Enright’s dealing with that aspect of our joint investigation, but it looks increasingly as if your friend staged his own disappearance somewhere near that estate of his in Cheshire. In the meantime, the Inspector’s left me to enquire into possible connections that Wilde might have among the wealthy and well-placed members of our society. I watched this morning’s proceedings from the public gallery.’
‘What did you make of Wilde himself?’
‘An arrogant sod, in my opinion. He seemed more interested in his public image than in prosecuting the alleged libel against him.’
‘An astute assessment. And Queensberry?’
‘He gave me the impression that he was genuine, and I know how I’d feel if it were my son in Wilde’s greasy clutches.’
‘Quite. Well, I think that you may look forward to an interesting afternoon’s entertainment. I get to begin cross-examining Wilde this afternoon, and when I’ve finished with him the world will see what a pompous, self-satisfied, lying balloon the man really is — and how badly he’s corrupting the youth of this country.’
‘Actually, I was hoping you could give me addresses for some of the witnesses you have lined up. I’m particularly interested in talking to the man Allen who was mentioned this morning, and who seemed to be behind the attempt to blackmail Wilde over those letters. He may be able to point me towards higher placed individuals.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Well, from what I could gather from what Wilde told his barrister, Allen seemed to quickly lose interest in the final letter — almost as if that wasn’t what he was about. I’m speculating that he may have been sent by someone high up to warn Wilde to keep his mouth shut and moderate his behaviour in certain quarters. Wilde’s story didn’t quite ring true and I think that their real conversation may have been in connection with something else. Or somebody else.’
‘Yes, I got that feeling too. I’ll get my clerk to give you those addresses. But my main task this afternoon is to convince the jury that Wilde is a posing defiler of young men.’
Chapter Twelve
While Jack had been following the first morning of Wilde’s attempt to retrieve his good name, Lucy and Esther had been insinuating their way backstage at the St James Theatre. At first Stage Manager Vernon Treston had looked askance at the two women who had been conducted to his office by the stage doorman and who claimed to have answered his request for a Wardrobe Mistress for the latest production.
‘Why are there two of you?’ Treston asked suspiciously as he eyed Esther up and down, to her mounting discomfort.
‘I was advised that some of your costumes need running repairs,’ Lucy replied in the same haughty tone. ‘My sister-in-law Esther here has years of experience with needle and thread, and we’re a partnership. She sews, while I organise Wardrobe.’
‘I can only afford to pay one of you, and it’s only five pounds a week.’
‘You can give that to Esther,’ Lucy replied with a queenly air, ‘and she’ll be doing us both a favour working for such a pittance, given her normal run of clients. As for me, I’m here to add this prestigious run to my credentials before I apply for a more permanent position in Drury Lane. But if you’re not interested, just say so now, and while you’re saving yourself some time, you won’t be wasting any more of ours.’
That seemed to do the trick, and a few moments later Lucy was organising a provisional stock-take of costumes against an inventory that revealed the absence of a complete set of ‘gentleman’s morning attire, male understudy.’ Several of the cast were watching her indolently as they sat around backstage on chairs that were dotted between the various racks of clothing, and Lucy looked up with a tut.
‘Which of you is the male understudy, and why isn’t your stage costume back on the rack with the others?’
‘It disappeared when he did,’ was the tired response of the tall debonair man who was examining his fingernails with disdain.
‘Name?’ Lucy enquired in the manner of a schoolteacher checking off a class roll.
‘Mine or his?’
‘Yours, then his.’
‘I’m Allan Aynsworth, male lead, playing the part of Algernon Moncrieff. You may have heard of me, if you’re “theatre”. But I’ll almost guarantee that you’ve never heard of Giles Holloway, the male understudy. He must have got bored waiting for me to die, or to finally succumb to the dreadful slop they serve in my digs, because he took off almost a month or so ago now, complete with the costume that he never got to wear.’
‘So you have no male understudy?’
Aynsworth shook his head. ‘No, and I urgently need some surgical intervention in a very delicate part of my anatomy, so it’s damned annoying. And if one of us goes down with dose of something disagreeable, then Vermin Vernon will have to walk on stage and read the part from the script, which will hardly please the paying guests. So, all in all, it’s a bit of a bugger.’
While Lucy was engaging the self-described leading man in conversation, Esther was examining each garment as she took it off the rack and making a mental list of those in most urgent need of some hasty repair work. She gasped in amazement at the hanging portion of a summer dress that had begun to part at the waistband and that with a decent tug would descend to the stage, revealing the rear end of whichever actress was unfortunate enough to be wearing it at the time. Knowing nothing about the play itself, but concluding from the general state of
the garment that it normally spent a considerable amount of time on stage, she lifted it down and carried it to a table to the side. She brought over a chair and opened the travelling needlework case that she’d brought with her and began to repair the section of waistband that had come adrift through constant wear.
As she bent over the garment, hard at work with a preliminary running stitch, she was half aware of a young girl — little more than a teenager — lifting down another of the costumes, examining the label on the hanger, then holding it up against herself. There was a small cry of disappointment, then a hesitant silence, before the girl plucked up the courage to speak to Esther.
‘Are you the new Wardrobe Mistress?’
‘No, that’s my sister-in-law Lucy. I just do the repairs for her.’
‘How long will you be with Gwendolen’s costume for Act One?’
‘Is that what this is? Only a few minutes, why?’
‘Well, it’s just that I need you to make this costume shorter, ready for this evening’s performance. Evelyn’s got one of her sick headaches, and it’s my big chance! But I’m going to be nervous enough as it is, and the last thing I’ll need is the worry that I’ll trip over the hem at some vital point in the scene.’
She saw the uncomprehending look on Esther’s face and grinned self-consciously.
‘Sorry. Let me start again. I’m Emily Baxter, female understudy, and my role here is to learn all the female parts in case any of the actresses goes off sick. That’s what’s happened to Evelyn Millard, who’s cast as Cecily Cardew, one of the leading female parts. If Evelyn runs true to form, or so I’m told, she’ll be out until next Monday, which gives me several evening performances and a matinee, and if I can pull it off there’ll probably be more parts for me in the future, to judge by the critical acclaim for this run. It’s just a pity that Giles won’t be here to hold my hand in the wings before I go on.’
‘Giles?’
‘Giles Holloway, my fiancé, and the male understudy. At least, he was, until he took off over three weeks ago. But he’s apparently undertaking an acting role for my uncle, who’s financing another production in the West Country or somewhere. He’s very keen on the theatre, is my uncle, and he put a lot of money into this production, along with his good friend Dermot O’Brien. They’re both very good friends of Mr. Wilde’s.’
‘Give that costume to me,’ Esther instructed Emily encouragingly, ‘and let me hold it up against you and see how much the hem needs to be raised for it to fit you. I take it that Miss Millard is taller than you?’
‘By two inches at least,’ Emily admitted ruefully. ‘They say I’m really a bit on the short side for an actress, but my uncle’s very encouraging towards me in my theatrical ambitions. I think I’m his favourite niece, although he’s got heaps, because he has three sisters, and they all had girls. Sorry, I’m prattling on bit, aren’t I, when I really should be letting you get on?’
‘Not at all. Would you be offended if I asked if your uncle insisted that you be employed as the female understudy in return for his investment in the production?’
‘Not at all, and you’re absolutely correct. But I intend to make it on my own ability, and Uncle Patrick was only a minor backer compared with his friend Lord Stranmillis.’
Esther’s ears pricked up and she beckoned Emily to step forward while she lifted part of the hem and pinned it up as a marker for the amount of shortening required. Then she gestured for the girl to take a seat beside her as she placed the garment she’d been working on down on the side table and began to take up the hem on Emily’s costume, while engaging her in seemingly casual conversation.
‘I can have this ready for you in ten minutes,’ she assured Emily, ‘but you’ll have to stay here while I do, so that I can check it against you when I’ve finished. Am I keeping you from anything important?’
‘Believe me, nothing’s as important to me right now as that dress, so I’ll just sit here quietly and let you get on with it.’
‘I actually prefer to natter while I work,’ Esther assured her, ‘so tell me more about your wonderful uncle, Patrick something or other, wasn’t it?’
‘Patrick Ryan, but most people who know him well call him “Paddy”, on account of the fact that he’s Irish. He’s made an absolute fortune in various engineering enterprises, and he has this big estate in Sussex, where all we girls used to spend every summer. There were always heaps of other people around and we got into the habit of putting on a play every August — that’s how I got the acting bug, and Dermot O’Brien was always there. Sometimes Oscar Wilde and one of his friends as well, and when Dermot became Lord Stranmillis and made even more money than Uncle Paddy, they decided to put money into Oscar’s plays.’
‘And it was your uncle — Patrick Ryan — who found some acting work for your fiancé? What was his name again?’ Esther asked as casually as she was able.
‘Giles. Giles Holloway. We’re planning on getting married next year sometime, but Uncle Paddy wanted Giles to become more established before that happened, so he fixed up for him to go bunburying somewhere out west.’
‘What on earth is “bunburying”? Is it something like blackberrying?’
‘No,’ Emily giggled. ‘It’s actually something that comes up in the play we’re putting on at the moment. The main character — “Algie” — pretends to have a friend called Bunbury who urgently requires his attendance whenever he’s trying to avoid some social engagement that he finds tiresome. And the other main character, Jack Worthing, pretends to be two different people in two different places. So “bunburying” has become a popular expression around here for pretending to be somebody else, although the actual “Bunbury” character is fictitious and never appears on stage or anything.’
‘So your fiancé’s off somewhere pretending to be someone else?’
‘I think so. To be perfectly honest, Giles and Uncle Paddy were pretty secretive about the entire business, but Giles was assured that he’d be well paid and that he’d be offered lots more theatrical roles in future. So I assume that he’s gone on stage in some production or other that Uncle Paddy’s financing. My only concern is that he hasn’t been in touch to tell me how it’s all going. No letters, or anything. That’s not like Giles.’
‘Never mind,’ Esther replied reassuringly, ‘I have a husband who’s guilty of not telling me what he’s up to and we actually live in the same house.’
Esther had a great deal to tell Uncle Percy when — and always assuming if — he got back from his explorations along the railway line to Holyhead.
Percy had in fact got no further than Crewe at that point. He’d wired ahead regarding the nature of his enquiries and when he was ushered with due ceremony into the office of Solomon Johnson, Northern Regional Superintendent of the LNWR, there was another nervous looking man seated in the other visitor’s chair.
‘Do come in, Inspector,’ Johnson said invitingly. ‘I was able to arrange for the attendance of Harry Prentice here, who was the duty guard between Rugby and Crewe on the train in question. A strange business altogether, you’d agree, but all seemed to be in order when the express left Crewe on its final leg.’
Percy shook hands with Harry Prentice and made a mental note of the clammy coolness, usually a sign of apprehension. Apprehension over what precisely would remain to be seen.
‘Mr Prentice is based here in Crewe,’ Johnson explained, ‘and will normally work the route from here back to Rugby, and vice versa. He was the guard when the Holyhead express pulled into Crewe that night and would have gone off duty immediately after handing the train over to the Holyhead guard, a Mr Joe Hughes.’
Wondering whether or not Mr Prentice would be allowed to speak for himself, Percy turned to him and smiled. ‘Which of you would have waved the train off after the engine had been changed?’
‘That were me,’ Prentice replied.
‘And what was the rearmost carriage on the train when it pulled away from the platform that evening?’
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‘That there Pullman what went missin’ somewhere down the line,’ Prentice recalled.
‘No doubt in your mind about that?’ Percy prompted him.
Prentice shook his head. ‘None whatsoever.’
‘How was it attached to the rest of the train, exactly?’
‘Just the normal hook and chain coupling, along with the screw coupling to tighten the buffers.’
‘So if the Pullman were to be removed from the rear of the train, it was just a simple matter of unhooking a chain?’
Prentice shrugged. ‘Yer make it sound easy, but there’s a special long pole what yer needs ter use ter unhook the chain. There’s always one in the guard’s van, but otherwise yer’d need ter bring yer own. Yer’d also need to disconnect the brake pipe to the luggage van, along with the steam-heating pipe what’s in use this time o’ the year, but it’s not difficult for someone who knows what they’re doing. But the train’d be travellin’ at over fifty miles an hour once it got movin’, and there’s no stops between ’ere an’ ’Olyhead, not fer that train anyroad.’
‘Presumably the train could be halted by a signal?’ Percy probed. ‘The train I came up from Euston on this morning stopped several times for unfavourable signals.’
‘Oh yeah, o’course,’ Prentice confirmed. ‘If there’s some sorta blockage on the line, like a dead cow or summat, then the signalman responsible fer that section’d drop the signal, an’ the driver’d be obliged ter stop the train.’
‘At which time the Pullman could simply be unhooked and left standing when the signal was raised for the train to move on?’
‘Yeah, s’pose, but they’d ’ave ter take the rear lamp off it an’ put it on the back o’ the luggage van, otherwise the bloke in the next signal box they went past’d stop the train again. Regulations, them is.’
Percy turned to address Johnson. ‘Do you happen to know of any unscheduled stoppages of that particular train that evening?’
Johnson thought for a moment. ‘Any unscheduled stop would have to be noted by the guard in his log. The location, and the time taken. From memory the train reached Holyhead about fifteen minutes late, although it was ten minutes late leaving here that evening, due to delays in Rugby.’