by David Field
‘Yes, I know about those,’ Percy confirmed, ‘but even if we assume that the train was halted for long enough for the Pullman to be removed and left on the line, that wouldn’t have taken more than another ten minutes, surely? And a conscientious driver could make up the time on the long haul to Holyhead, could he not, if there were no more delays?’
‘Yes, of course. If you wait for just a moment, I’ll get the guard’s report for the Holyhead leg brought up here.’
As he walked to his office door and shouted an instruction down the stairs, Percy wondered why the man hadn’t taken the trouble to have it available for his arrival. Suppressing his annoyance, he turned back to Prentice.
‘Do you recall anyone leaving the Pullman during the time that the train was standing at the platform?’
‘Just a woman — a low sort, at a guess.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, the way she were dressed, for one thing. Kinda rough lookin’, wi’ a bonnet an’ shawl. An’ she were carryin’ a bag, like she were a traveller o’ some sort. Fair enough, it were a cold night, but even so — only them sort dresses like that fer a train journey. An’ I knew there were a man in the carriage, ’cos I saw ’im go scuttlin’ back ter the carriage at Rugby, after ’e ’eld the train back fer some reason. That’s why we was late gerrin’ in ’ere that evenin’.’
‘Did you see the man leave the Pullman carriage again?’
‘No, but I coulda missed ’im, on account o’ the fact that I were ’andin’ the train over ter Joe Hughes. There’s a bit o’ paperwork involved, an’ I were in the guards van wi’ ’im while the train were stationary at the platform.’
‘So the man could have got out of the Pullman — let’s say to use the Buffet — and got back in again without you noticing?’
‘Yeah, o’course, but I didn’t see owt like that.’
Johnson was back in the chair behind his desk, and Percy’s next question was directed to him. ‘You presumably have a “Ladies Waiting Room” on the platform that the Holyhead train was stationary at?’
‘We have them on both main line platforms,’ Johnson assured him, ‘plus the General Waiting Room, that women of the lower sort often use, if I may anticipate your next question.’
‘So it would be nothing unusual were a woman to enter the General Waiting Room?’
‘Not at all.’
‘And it has lavatories?’
‘Indeed — that’s in the main what people use it for.’
‘So follow me through this possibility. A man enters the General Waiting Room, disguised as a woman, changes into men’s clothing that he’s carried in with him, transfers the woman’s clothing into the bag, then walks out again dressed as a man and takes a seat in one of the main carriages, probably a First Class one.’
‘It’s possible,’ Johnson conceded, ‘although a bit far-fetched, if you don’t mind me saying so. Excuse me a moment.’
That last remark had been prompted by a knock on the office door. Johnson went to the door, took the paper he was handed, read it briefly, and walked back to his desk with raised eyebrows.
‘It seems that you were right, Inspector,’ he smiled. ‘The train arrived at Holyhead twelve minutes late and the guard — Joseph Hughes — reported a signal delay not far west of here.’
‘Beeston?’ Percy said with a smirk.
‘How did you guess?’
‘I didn’t — I was relying on previous enquiries I’ve been making. Now tell me — where exactly was the train halted, and how close was it to the old branch line to the salt workings?’
‘Come and look at this large scale map on the wall,’ Johnson invited him.
Percy stood up and walked to the wall, where Johnson pointed with a ruler.
‘See there?’ he indicated. ‘East of Beeston, in the Crewe direction, there’s a signal box. The reason for its existence, historically, is the adjacent level crossing, with the gates controlled from the signal box, and the nearby salt workings to which you referred. There’s a branch line down to the old workings off the down line — that’s the line going west towards Holyhead — and the signal box — “Beeston Main”, we call it — controls the signals and points where the old salt sidings join the main line. In the old days they’d be hauling salt out of there to their sidings, just off the main line, but to the side of it. Then the salt wagons could be hauled from the sidings onto the main line during quiet periods and pulled into Chester by one of our goods engines. That was in the old days, of course, but the signal box is still there, since it commands a five mile stretch of line.’
‘Is the junction of the main line with the branch line still in working order, and do trains still occasionally use it?’ Percy asked.
Johnson thought for a moment. ‘Yes. It was closed for a while but has recently come back into use. The signalman at Beeston Main could give you more details. That box is manned twenty-four hours a day, so whatever time you go there’d be someone there to advise you.’
‘Again, thinking out loud,’ Percy said, ‘if the train were halted at the signal, it might be possible to unhitch the Pullman car and tow it onto the branch line?’
‘In theory, yes,’ Johnson admitted. ‘Provided the man doing so was an experienced shunter, as Harry Prentice has already explained. And as regards the unscheduled stop at Beeston, I suggest you talk to the duty signalman there, since he’ll have all the details recorded in his Train Register Book.’
‘That’s precisely what I intend to do,’ Percy announced, ‘and thank you for your invaluable assistance this morning. Since I believe I’ll be occupied this afternoon, and will require overnight accommodation, may I take it that you have a suitable hotel near to the station?’
‘Indeed we do,’ Johnson replied with a smile, ‘The Crewe Arms, just across the road, and it offers the last word in comfort. I’ll arrange a room for you, and please accept our hospitality free of charge. We’re only too happy to accommodate an officer from Scotland Yard.’
‘Let’s hope you still are when you learn of my capacity for food and drink,’ Percy replied, grinning.
Chapter Thirteen
Jack made sure that he was back in the public gallery early enough after the dinner break to get a seat near the front, and far away from his malodorous companions of the morning session. He was hoping that he wouldn’t nod off from sheer boredom as he recalled what Carson had advised him regarding his tactics for cross-examining Wilde. As far as Jack remembered what he had been told, Carson would begin by attacking Wilde’s pretence at being an artistic man of culture — an ‘aesthete’, as Robbie Ross had termed it.
The judge was escorted back onto the bench and Wilde resumed his position in the witness box, a look of arrogant defiance fixed on the counsel ranged down the bar table. Carson rose to his full six feet two in height, squared his jaw and began.
‘You stated that your age was thirty-nine. But I believe you are over forty. You were born on 16th October 1854, were you not?’
‘I have no wish to pose as being young.’ Wilde smiled back confidently. ‘I am thirty-nine. You have my certificate and that settles the matter.’
‘But being born in 1854 makes you more than forty?’
‘Very well.’
‘What age is Lord Alfred Douglas?’
‘Lord Alfred Douglas is about twenty-four, and was between twenty and twenty-one years of age when I first knew him.’
‘You have stayed with him at many places?’
‘Yes.’
‘At Oxford? Brighton on several occasions? Worthing?’
‘Yes.’
‘And in various hotels in London?’
‘Yes; at one in Albemarle Street, and in Dover Street, and at the Savoy.’
‘Did you ever take rooms yourself in addition to your house in Tite Street?’
‘Yes; at 10 and 11 St. James’s Place. I kept the rooms from the month of October, 1893, to the end of March, 1894. Lord Alfred Douglas has stayed in those cham
bers, which are not far from Piccadilly. I have been abroad with him several times and even lately to Monte Carlo.’
‘This is in your introduction to Dorian Gray,’ Carson announced in a sudden change of tack, as he began to quote from it: ‘“There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.” That expresses your view?’
‘My view on art, yes.’
‘Then, I take it, that no matter how immoral a book may be, if it is well written, it is, in your opinion, a good book?’
‘Yes, if it were well written so as to produce a sense of beauty, which is the highest sense of which a human being can be capable. If it were badly written, it would produce a sense of disgust.’
‘Then a well-written book putting forward perverted moral views may be a good book?’
‘No work of art ever puts forward views. Views belong to people who are not artists.’
‘A perverted novel might be a good book?’
‘I don’t know what you mean by a “perverted” novel.’
‘Then I will suggest Dorian Gray as open to the interpretation of being such a novel?’
‘That could only be to brutes and illiterates. The views of Philistines on art are incalculably stupid.’
‘An illiterate person reading Dorian Gray might consider it such a novel?’
‘The views of illiterates on art are unaccountable. I am concerned only with my view of art. I don’t care two-pence what other people think of it.’
‘The majority of persons would come under your definition of Philistines and illiterates?’
‘I have found wonderful exceptions.’
‘Do you think that the majority of people live up to the position you are giving us?’
‘I am afraid they are not cultivated enough.’
‘Not cultivated enough to draw the distinction between a good book and a bad book?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘The affection and love of the artist of Dorian Gray might lead an ordinary individual to believe that it might have a certain tendency?’
‘I have no knowledge of the views of ordinary individuals.’
‘You did not prevent the ordinary individual from buying your book?’
‘I have never discouraged him.’
‘Allow me to share a passage with you,’ Carson said with heavy sarcasm as he opened his copy of it at a marked page, and for the benefit of the jury announced that it was the scene in which the painter Basil Hallward describes to Lord Henry Wooton his first meeting with Dorian Gray. ‘“…after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious Academicians, I suddenly became conscious that someone was looking at me. I turned half-way round, and saw Dorian Gray for the first time. When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious instinct of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. I did not want any external influence in my life... Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that Fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I knew that if I spoke to Dorian I would become absolutely devoted to him, and that I ought not to speak to him. I grew afraid, and turned to quit the room... Suddenly I found myself face to face with the young man whose personality had so strangely stirred me. We were quite close, almost touching. Our eyes met again. It was mad of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him. Perhaps it was not so mad, after all. It was simply inevitable. We would have spoken to each other without introduction. I am sure of that. Dorian told me so afterwards. He, too, felt that we were destined to know each other... The merely visible presence of this lad — for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty — his merely visible presence — ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in itself all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and body — how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and have invented a realism that is bestial, an ideality that is void. Harry! Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You remember that landscape of mine, for which Agnew offered me such a huge price, but which I would not part with? It is one of the best things I have ever done. And why is it so? Because, while I was painting it, Dorian Gray sat beside me”.
‘Now I ask you, Mr. Wilde,’ Carson demanded in a stern voice, ‘do you consider that that description of the feeling of one man towards a youth just grown up was a proper or an improper feeling?’
‘I think it is the most perfect description of what an artist would feel on meeting a beautiful personality that was in some way necessary to his art and life.’
‘You think that is a feeling a young man should have towards another?’
‘Yes, as an artist.’
Carson glared at him disbelievingly, then stuck out his chin aggressively as he enquired, ‘How about this extract, then, Mr Wilde?’ and continued reading from the book: ‘“It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I have never loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as Harry says, a really ‘grande passion’ is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country. Well, from the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I quite admit that I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When I was away from you, you were still present in my art. It was all wrong and foolish. It is all wrong and foolish still. Of course, I never let you know anything about this. It would have been impossible. You would not have understood it; I did not understand it myself. One day I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you. It was to have been my masterpiece. It is my masterpiece. But, as I worked at it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that the world would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much... You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped”.
‘Do you mean to say that that passage describes the natural feeling of one man towards another?’ Carson demanded.
‘It would be the influence produced by a beautiful personality.’
‘A beautiful person?’
‘I said a “beautiful personality.” You can describe it as you like. Dorian Gray’s was a most remarkable personality.’
‘May I take it that you, as an artist, have never known the feeling described here?’
‘I have never allowed any personality to dominate my art.’
‘Then you have never known the feeling you described?’
‘No. It is a work of fiction.’
‘So far as you are concerned you have no experience as to its being a natural feeling?’
‘I think it is perfectly natural for any artist to admire intensely and love a young man. It is an incident in the life of almost every artist.’
‘But let us go over it phrase by phrase. “I quite admit that I adored you madly.” What do you say to that? Have you ever adored a young man madly?’
‘No, not madly; I prefer love — that is a higher form.’
‘Never mind about that. Let us keep down to the level we are at now?’
‘I have never given adoration to anybody except myself.’
The loud laughter that followed this outrageous posture resulted in the swift application of the judicial gavel. Carson allowed himself a wry smile as he continued the interrogation. ‘I suppose you think that a very smart thing?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Then you have never had that feeling?’
‘No. Th
e whole idea was borrowed from Shakespeare, I regret to say.’
‘“I have adored you extravagantly”? — Do you mean financially?’
‘Oh, yes, financially!’ Wilde retorted sarcastically.
Carson frowned. ‘Do you think we are talking about finance?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Don’t you? Well, I hope I shall make myself very plain before I have done. “I was jealous of every one to whom you spoke.” Have you ever been jealous of a young man?’
‘Never in my life.’
‘“I wanted to have you all to myself.” Did you ever have that feeling?’
‘No; I should consider it an intense nuisance, an intense bore.’
‘“I grew afraid that the world would know of my idolatry.” Why should he grow afraid that the world should know of it?’
‘Because there are people in the world who cannot understand the intense devotion, affection, and admiration that an artist can feel for a wonderful and beautiful personality. These are the conditions under which we live. I regret them.’
‘These unfortunate people, that have not the high understanding that you have, might put it down to something wrong?’
‘Undoubtedly; to any point they chose. I am not concerned with the ignorance of others...’
Carson continued reading from The Picture of Dorian Gray: ‘“Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man’s face. It cannot be concealed. People talk of secret vices. There are no such things as secret vices. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the droop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even... But you, Dorian, with your pure, bright, innocent face, and your marvellous untroubled youth — I can’t believe anything against you. And yet I see you very seldom, and you never come down to the studio now, and when I am away from you, and I hear all these hideous things that people are whispering about you, I don’t know what to say. Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it? Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house nor invite you to theirs? Why is your friendship so fateful to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend. There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable. What about Adrian Singleton, and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent’s only son, and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him? Dorian, Dorian, your reputation is infamous...” Does not this passage suggest a charge of unnatural vice?’ Carson demanded.