The Posing Playwright

by David Field

  ‘Nothing about sodomy?’

  ‘Not yet. I can only hope that it livens up tomorrow, or that either Carson or Wilde dies overnight.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Really — that bad. But how was your day with Lucy?’

  ‘I think we know who impersonated Stranmillis on that train!’ Esther announced proudly.

  Jack’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? Who?’

  ‘Someone who has hopes of becoming an actor, and who was persuaded to take off with a fine suit of clothes from the theatre.’

  ‘Won’t they miss him?’

  ‘He’s the understudy, apparently. Name of Giles Holloway, and the fiancé of the girl who’s the female understudy. She also obligingly disclosed that she’s Patrick Ryan’s niece, that he and Lord Stranmillis are the financial backers for Wilde’s current play, and that they’re both good friends of his. How about that, then?’

  ‘Percy’s right — you do make a marvellous detective. But that’s because you’re able to sit back and view things from a distance. Percy and I have to do all the leg work. And tomorrow I have to go back and listen to that boring court case.’

  ‘Didn’t you learn anything useful?’

  ‘Apart from the fact that I’m glad Mother didn’t talk me into becoming a lawyer, you mean? Not really, except that I’ve got another name to follow up on. A man called Allen, who tried to get money from Wilde for an indiscreet letter he’d written to his boyfriend Bosie, but then seemed to lose all interest in it, according to what Wilde said in court. I’m wondering if in fact there was a meeting between Wilde and Allen, but that it had nothing to do with any letter. And now that you tell me that Wilde was beholden to Ryan and Stranmillis, and in fact mixed with them socially, it’s beginning to form a pattern. Quite where it all leads I’ve no idea, but when this actor chap gets back to the theatre, we’ll obviously have to haul him in and ask who hired him to pretend to be Stranmillis.’

  ‘According to this girl Emily Baxter it was her uncle, Patrick Ryan. From memory, wasn’t he a friend of Stranmillis’s from their university days?’

  ‘Yes, and possibly a business rival,’ Jack reminded her. ‘But we have to ask ourselves whether Ryan was assisting his friend Stranmillis to disappear — and if so, why? — or whether there was something more sinister involved.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know, not at this stage. We’ll have to wait and see what Uncle Percy can add when he gets back from Crewe. In the meantime, it’s another excruciatingly dull day in court for me tomorrow. Are you going back to the theatre tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course. I still have some work left to do, and instinct tells me that I need to keep close with Emily Baxter — the young woman I mentioned.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jack resumed his seat on the public benches with a sinking heart, but a determination to see the case through, as Justice Collins swept onto the Bench and nodded to Carson.

  ‘I take it that you’re in a position to resume your cross-examination, counsel?’

  ‘If it please your Lordship.’

  Wilde walked back to the witness box with a facial expression of studied boredom and smiled up at the public gallery, as if taking a curtain call at his theatre. Then he squared his jaw as Carson rose and began where he’d left off the previous afternoon.

  ‘We’ll move, if we may, Mr Wilde, to your relationship with Alfred Douglas, at the time when you wrote that letter we were discussing yesterday. Were you living at the Savoy at that time?’

  ‘Yes, I was there for about a month, and had also my house in Tite Street. Lord Alfred had been staying with me at the Savoy immediately before I wrote that letter.’

  ‘How long had you known Wood?’

  ‘I think I met him at the end of January, 1893 at the Cafe Royal where he was sent to find me by Lord Alfred Douglas who telegraphed from Salisbury. Lord Alfred asked me to do what I could for Wood, who was seeking a post as a clerk. I do not know where he was living at that time. Taylor was living at 13 Little College Street, and I have been there to tea parties on many occasions. They were all men at the parties, but not all young men. I took Wood to supper at the Florence Restaurant in Rupert Street, because Lord Alfred had asked me to be kind to him.’

  ‘Who was Wood?’

  ‘So far as I could make out he had no occupation, but was looking for a situation. He told me he had had a clerkship. At that time he was about twenty-three years of age.’

  ‘Then do I understand that the first time you met Wood you took him to supper?’

  ‘Yes, because I had been asked to be kind to him. Otherwise it was rather a bore.’

  ‘Was Taylor or anybody else there?’

  ‘No.’

  Carson adopted his fiercest expression as he fired a direct series of questions at Wilde, demanding to know whether or not he had been guilty of gross indecencies with Wood, all of which Wilde indignantly denied. Carson then seemed to soften his tone as he explored another line of enquiry.

  ‘Had you a private room at the Florence?’

  ‘Yes. I went there so that I could get a cheque cashed because the next day was Sunday.’

  ‘How much did you give Wood then?’

  ‘£2.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Lord Alfred Douglas asked me to be kind to him. I don’t care about different social positions.’

  ‘I suggest that you first had immoral relations with him and then gave him money.’

  ‘It is perfectly untrue.’

  ‘Did you consider that he had come to levy blackmail?’

  ‘I did; and I determined to face it.’

  ‘And the way you faced it was by giving him £15 to go to America?’

  ‘That is an inaccurate description. I saw that the letters were of no value, and I gave him the money after he had told me the pitiful tale about himself, foolishly perhaps, but out of pure kindness.’

  ‘I suggest that you gave him £30. Did you give him £5 more next day?’

  ‘Yes; he told me that after paying his passage to America he would be left almost penniless. I gave him £5.’

  ‘Had you a farewell lunch at the Florence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was after lunch that you gave him £5?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After Wood went to America did he ask you for money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he call Taylor by his Christian name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Wood call you “Oscar”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you call Wood?’

  ‘His name is Alfred.’

  ‘Didn’t you call him “Alf”?’

  ‘No, I never use abbreviations.’

  ‘Did you not think it a curious thing that a man with whom you were on such intimate terms should try to blackmail you?’

  ‘I thought it infamous, but Wood convinced me that such had not been his intention, though it was the intention of other people. Wood assured me that he had recovered all the letters.’

  ‘And then Allen came with a letter, possession of which you knew he had secured improperly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was Allen?’

  ‘I am told he was a blackmailer.’

  ‘Was he a blackmailer?’

  ‘I never heard of him except as a blackmailer.’

  ‘Then you began to explain to the blackmailer what a loss your manuscript was?’

  ‘I described it as a beautiful work of art.’

  ‘May I ask why you gave this man, who you knew was a notorious blackmailer, ten shillings?’

  ‘I gave it out of contempt.’

  ‘Then the way you show your contempt is by paying ten shillings?’

  ‘Yes, very often.’

  ‘I suppose he was pleased with your contempt?’

  ‘Yes, he was apparently pleased at my kindness.’

  ‘Were you staying at the Albemarle Hotel about 26th of February
, 1892?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At that time were Messrs. Elkin Mathews & John Lane, of Vigo Street, your publishers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you become fond of their office boy?’

  ‘I really do not think that that is the proper form for the question to be addressed to me in. I deny that that was the position held by Mr. Edward Shelley, to whom you are referring. I object to your description.’

  ‘What age was Mr. Shelley?’

  ‘I should think about twenty. I first met him in October when arranging for the publication of my books. I asked him to dine with me at the Albemarle Hotel.’

  ‘Was that for the purpose of having an intellectual treat?’

  ‘Well, for him, yes. We dined in my own sitting-room, and there was one other gentleman there.’

  ‘On that occasion did you have a room leading into a bedroom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you give him whisky and sodas?’

  ‘I suppose that he had whatever he wanted. I do not remember. He did not stay all night, nor did I embrace him...’

  ‘Did you ever give him money?’

  ‘Yes; on three occasions — the first time £4, the second time his railway fare to Cromer, where I invited him to meet my wife and family, and the third time £5.’

  ‘Did you think this young man of eighteen was a proper or natural companion for you?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Did you give him a signed copy of the first edition of Dorian Gray?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you become intimate with a young lad named Alphonse Conway at Worthing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He sold newspapers at the kiosk on the pier?’

  ‘No, I never heard that up to that time his only occupation was selling newspapers. It is the first I have heard of his connexion with literature.’

  The laughter that this glib reply generated terminated abruptly at the fall of the judge’s gavel, and Carson smiled grimly before continuing, ‘What was he?’

  ‘He led a happy, idle life.’

  ‘He was a loafer, in fact? How old was he?’

  ‘He seemed to me to be just enjoying life. He was a youth of about eighteen.’

  ‘How did you make his acquaintance?’

  ‘When Lord Alfred Douglas and I were at Worthing, we were accustomed to go out in a boat. One day when the fishermen were launching a boat on the high beach, Conway, with another lad, assisted in getting the craft down to the water. I said to Lord Alfred Douglas, “Shall we ask them to come out for a sail?” He assented, and we took them. After that Alphonse and I became great friends, and it is true that I asked him to lunch with me. He also dined at my house, and lunched with me at the Marine Hotel.’

  ‘Was his conversation literary?’

  ‘On the contrary, quite simple and easily understood. He had been to school where naturally he had not learned much.’

  ‘He was a simple country lad?’

  ‘He was a nice, pleasant creature. His mother kept a lodging-house, and his desire was to go to sea. It is not true that I met him by appointment one evening and took him on the road to Lancing, kissing him and indulging in familiarities on the way.’

  ‘Did you give him anything?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but no money.’

  ‘Did you give him sums amounting to £15?’

  ‘Never. I gave him a cigarette case in which I placed a paper inscribed “Alphonse from his friend Oscar Wilde.” I called him “Alphonse,” but he did not call me “Oscar.” I also gave him my photograph, on which I wrote “Oscar Wilde to Alphonse.” I also gave him a book called The Wreck of the Grosvenor.’

  At this point, at Carson’s request, the court bailiff held up these exhibits, which were then passed round the jury benches. Carson took a sip of water and continued, ‘Were you fond of this boy?’

  ‘Naturally. He had been my companion for six weeks.’

  ‘Did you take him to Brighton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And provided him with a suit of blue serge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And a straw hat with a band of red and blue?’

  ‘That, I think, was his unfortunate selection.’

  ‘But you paid for it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You dressed this newsboy up to take him to Brighton?’

  ‘No. I did not want him to be ashamed of his shabby clothes. He told me his father had been an electrical engineer, and had died young.’

  ‘In order that he might look more like an equal?’

  ‘Oh, no! He could not look like that. No, I promised him that before I left Worthing I would take him somewhere, to some place to which he wished to go, as a reward for his being a pleasant companion to myself and my children. He chose Portsmouth, as he was anxious to go to sea, but I told him that was too far. So we went to Brighton. We dined at a restaurant and stayed the night at the Albion Hotel, where I took a sitting room and two bedrooms. I am not sure that the bedrooms communicated by a green baize door. We returned next day. I have never taken any other boy to the Albion. I am quite certain of that.’

  At this point the judge suggested that it might be appropriate to adjourn for lunch, and once the courtroom began to clear, the same man who had the previous day invited Jack to join Carson in the robbing room walked across to a point immediately below the front row of the public gallery and invited Jack to lean forward and take a piece of paper from him.

  ‘Mr Carson asked me to give you these addresses you were enquiring about during the dinner break yesterday.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Jack replied as he took the paper, folded it and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Is Mr Carson free for a moment?’

  Ten minutes later Jack was back watching Queensberry’s counsel consume more gorgonzola in one mouthful than Jack could contemplate in a month. Blue cheese was not his favourite smell, so he kept his distance as he asked a question he had been intending to ask at their first meeting, but kept slipping his mind.

  ‘Inspector Enright asked me to enquire how you first became aware that Lord Stranmillis was missing.’

  Carson smiled. ‘Unlike my old friend Shorty Stranmillis, I occasionally revisit the town of my birth, where I retain a few friends among the local police, the “Dublin Metropolitan”. When Shorty failed to show up for the meeting in Dublin, the Secretary of the Welcoming Committee telegraphed to his London address to enquire if he had changed his travel plans. When advised that Shorty had set off for Dublin as planned, the worthy gentleman assumed the worst, and contacted the local police.’

  ‘But why did they then contact you?’

  ‘They knew me as a fellow Unionist and were concerned in case Shorty had fallen into Fenian clutches. They also knew that I had certain highly placed contacts within the Government, and that I’d be able to sway them into commencing a search without delay.’

  ‘So nothing to do with Oscar Wilde?’

  ‘No, pure coincidence. But by equal coincidence I was about to contact the Home Secretary anyway, when I learned that some of the witnesses unearthed by my instructing solicitors were hinting that big names might be implicated in homosexual scandals.’

  ‘You were obviously of the belief that some harm had befallen Lord Stranmillis?’ Jack persevered. ‘Did it never occur to you that he might simply have sought to disappear for personal reasons? Reasons perhaps connected with Mr Wilde?’

  ‘That’s a disgraceful suggestion, young man!’ Carson snarled. ‘While it’s true that Shorty never married, that’s no justification for an assumption that he might be — “otherwise inclined”, to put it politely.’

  ‘But it’s a possibility, is it not?’ Jack replied in his own defence. ‘At the Yard we always maintain a policy of keeping all options open until we have evidence to justify closing them. And even if your friend was not an intimate of Mr Wilde’s, he might have had other reasons for wishing to escape the spotlight — a po
ssible business reversal, for example? It seems to me, and to Inspector Enright, I might add, that it’s been too readily assumed that Stranmillis was the target of Fenians.’

  ‘I sincerely hope that you’re correct,’ Carson replied coldly. ‘Now, if you’d excuse me...’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Jack replied. Then his stubborn refusal to be browbeaten overcame him, and he couldn’t help adding, as he turned to leave the robing room, ‘I must prepare myself for the afternoon ordeal. I can only hope that I’ll manage to remain awake.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Having arranged for the coachman to collect him in two hours time, Percy took mental stock of the scene before him. A dirt track led downhill slightly towards some sort of mine shaft with several buildings clustered round it, one of which appeared to be a cottage. Immediately to his right was a single rail line that ran all the way down to the buildings, with a large lake on its left at the foot of the slope. Where Percy was standing was some sort of junction, and off to its right, running parallel to the main line, east to west, was a sidings containing a dozen or so tank wagons that were presumably awaiting their removal, via the main line, to wherever they were destined to go.

  With a sigh, Percy began the trek several hundred yards or so down the track, with the branch line to his right. He made careful note of the absence of rust on the line, which suggested that it was in regular use, and he looked for signs of activity in the buildings towards which he was picking his way carefully between the large stones that occasionally protruded through the loose soil of the track at his feet. Although it was a working day the mine itself appeared deserted, and he was just asking himself if anyone would be around for him to interview when there was a bark of warning, and a large snarling dog raced up from the door of the cottage, yelping an unmistakable instruction that he was to proceed no further.

  Percy stood stock still as the unkempt brute dropped to its haunches and growled threateningly. He was unsure what breed it was, but it was very hairy, very dirty, and very displeased to see him. Man and dog maintained intense eye contact until a rough voice commanded the dog to come to heel, and with a lingering, wistful final glare at Percy’s leg, it rose and ran back to where a man was standing at the cottage door.