Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery

by Gyles Brandreth

  Warder Stokes said nothing, but took my spoon from me and my bowl of half-eaten gruel and departed.

  I sat at the foot of my narrow bed and lowered my head and tried to say a prayer. It was in vain. Once more, unbidden, the crowd from the platform at Clapham Junction filled my mind’s eye. But now, curiously, I began to feel more regret for the people who laughed at me than for myself. To mock at a soul in pain is a dreadful thing. In the strangely simple economy of the world, people only get what they give, and to those who have not enough imagination to penetrate the mere outward aspect of things and feel pity, what pity can be given save that of scorn?

  As I sat there, alone in my cell, gazing down at my torn and calloused hands, I realised that I must – somehow – find a way to get something out of my punishment beyond bitterness and despair. Until my imprisonment, all my life I had taken praise as my right and pleasure as my due. Now my fame had turned to infamy: to me pleasure and praise were now equally denied. If I could but learn to accept this – to accept all that had happened to me – might not those moments of submission, abasement and humiliation – at Wandsworth, at Clapham Junction, here at Reading Gaol – lead me, in time, to a better, sweeter, happier place? All the spring may be hidden in the single bud, and the low ground nest of the lark may hold the joy that is to herald the coming of many rosered dawns. So, perhaps, whatever beauty of life remained to me would be contained in my moments of surrender.

  Suddenly, I spoke out loud – in a stentorian tone that would have done credit to Henry Irving: ‘Sweet are the uses of adversity . . .’

  ‘Silence!’ called Warder Stokes. He pushed open the door of my cell. ‘C.3.3. – silence!’

  I stood, reproved. ‘You are quite right, warder. I was out of order. That was not the Bible. That was Shakespeare. They say, of course, that Shakespeare may have had a hand in the King James translation, but even so . . .’

  ‘Chapel,’ commanded Warder Stokes. ‘Put on your cap.’

  Almost amused, I donned my hood of humiliation and meekly followed the warder as he led me from the infirmary, through two sets of iron gates, down two flights of steep stone steps and through a further gate into the prison courtyard. As we crossed the damp, grey flagstones, from beneath my cap I glanced about me. ‘Is that the chapel?’ I enquired.

  ‘That’s the gatehouse.’

  I halted in my tracks. ‘In the November mist, I mistook it for the west front of a Gothic cathedral. And those are turrets, I see now – not bell towers.’

  ‘The governor lives in one,’ vouchsafed Warder Stokes. ‘The chaplain in the other.’

  ‘They live like princes,’ I declared, gazing up at the twin towers. ‘I wonder which of them has laid claim to Rapunzel?’

  ‘Move,’ ordered Warder Stokes.

  I began to walk again. ‘Who guards the rampart between the towers?’ I enquired.

  ‘That’s the roof of the gatehouse,’ said my keeper. ‘The warders who guard it are armed. If you try to escape, they fire.’

  ‘It must command tremendous views,’ I said, turning back to look at it.

  ‘It was where they put up the gallows in the old days.’

  ‘In your father’s time?’

  ‘Ten thousand came to watch a hanging then.’

  My plays had a following too, I thought, but I said nothing.

  ‘March on,’ ordered Warder Stokes.

  We crossed the courtyard and passed through further gates. Now, in single files, from all corners of the prison, other prisoners appeared. They shuffled forward, hooded, abject, forlorn. Theirs was the gait of broken men. ‘And women, too?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ said my warder quietly. ‘There are seventeen women here.’ We fell in alongside them, bedraggled creatures, dressed in long coats of prison grey, bent like witches, veiled like nuns. ‘You will be silent now,’ said Stokes.

  In the chapel, the women sat in the frontmost pews. Behind them came the debtors and the men on remand awaiting trial. The rest of us – we convicts – filled up the remainder of the stalls, wooden benches that rose, row by row, in banks, tiered like gallery seats at the music hall. Each long bench was divided into individual cubicles, just wide enough for a small man to sit in. The whole construction ensured that all would be uncomfortable and no prisoner could see or hear or touch another. I found my place – it was marked C.3.3. – and sat in it, in silence, gazing down at my knees once more, listening to the heavy breathing all around me. At the back of the chapel, a man began to whistle. A warder shouted, ‘Quiet!’ Throughout the service, four warders stood at the front of the chapel, with their backs to the altar and their eyes on us. Their presence did not encourage us to incline our hearts to prayer.

  Nor, let it be said, did the manner of the prison chaplain, who read out the service as though he understood not a word of it. The reverend gentleman gloried in the name of Friend, but beyond his surname he appeared to me to have no trait or characteristic to suit him to his calling. He spoke the mighty words of the Book of Common Prayer in a dreary monotone, like a man without a heart, let alone a soul.

  ‘It was an arid service that offered me no comfort,’ I observed to Warder Stokes as he escorted me out of the chapel and back into the prison yard. ‘Am I to endure this every day and twice on Sunday?’

  ‘Quiet.’

  ‘O God, make speed to save me.’

  ‘Quiet, C.3.3.’

  ‘O Lord, make haste to help me.’

  ‘Quiet.’

  ‘I am saying my prayers. That must be allowed, surely?’

  ‘You will be silent at all times.’

  Warder Stokes held no terror for me. He was a young man with crooked teeth and carrot-coloured hair wearing a uniform that was too big for him. He was my gaoler, but might he not also be my friend? I determined in that moment never to address him when we might be observed or overheard. I said nothing more until we had reached the stone steps leading back to the infirmary.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘You will stay in your cell up here until the surgeon has seen you. He will decide what you’re fit for.’

  ‘I am fit for nothing,’ I said.

  ‘It’ll either be the pump-house or picking oakum in your cell.’

  ‘You don’t have a treadmill here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No treadmill?’ I sighed. ‘What is the world coming to?’

  ‘In the pump-house ten of you work the crank that takes the water round the prison. It’s like a treadmill.’

  ‘But it serves a useful purpose. It’s not like a treadmill at all.’

  I paused on the stairs to regain my breath. I leant against the wall. Stokes paused, too. ‘You’re not like the other prisoners, are you? We don’t get many gentlemen in here.’

  ‘You’re not like the other turnkeys, are you, Warder Stokes? You don’t get many good men in here, I imagine.’ I turned my hooded head towards him. ‘Are you happy, I wonder? When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy.’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ he said, walking on.

  ‘I am relieved to hear it,’ I answered, laughing. As I laughed, I realised I had not laughed out loud for months.

  ‘Shh,’ hissed Warder Stokes. ‘You must be silent at all times.’

  We had reached the top of the stone steps. Warder Stokes unlocked the iron gate that led to the infirmary guard-room. Another warder – an older man – was seated at a table in the centre of the room. He had a tin mug of tea in front of him. He looked up from his newspaper as we entered.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘The new man – arrived last night – from Wandsworth.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the seated figure, pushing back his chair. ‘The malingerer and sodomite.’ He gestured towards me with his mug of tea. ‘Take off your cap. Let’s take a look.’ I did as I was bidden. The warder stared at me. He put down his tea. ‘We’ve heard all about you,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing we don
’t know.’ He looked to Warder Stokes. ‘Why’s he up here?’

  ‘The surgeon hasn’t seen him yet.’

  ‘Does he need to? We know all about this one.’ He got to his feet and took a step towards me. He eyed me up and down, as though I were a disappointing piece of livestock on my way to market. ‘There’s no sign of the surgeon,’ he said to Warder Stokes. ‘I’ve brought one up from E Ward – E.1.1. Seeping blood.’

  ‘Which cell?’

  ‘Number 3. I saw Number 1 was taken.’

  ‘Much blood?’

  ‘Enough.’ He turned to look at the clock on the guardroom wall. My eye followed his and I turned to look at the clock, too. ‘No looking around or about at any time,’ he snapped. ‘Hasn’t Warder Stokes read you the rules?’

  I bowed my head. On the stone steps with Stokes I had laughed. Now, once more, I wanted to weep.

  ‘If you’re staying, I’ll take my lunch early, Stokes.’ He sized me up once more. He yawned. ‘What’s this one’s number?’ he asked.

  ‘C.3.3.’

  ‘Up on the third floor?’ He looked at me disparagingly. ‘The exercise should do him good.’ He picked up his paper from the table, nodded to Warder Stokes and went on his way.

  Warder Stokes pointed me across the guard-room towards the gate that led to the infirmary cells. From beyond the bars we could hear the sound of coughing.

  ‘Where is E Ward?’ I asked.

  ‘You don’t need to know. You won’t be going there.’

  ‘Forgive me. I was curious. I apologise.’

  ‘It’s beyond the pump-house and the punishment block. We passed it just now. It’s where the women prisoners are kept. They’re only let out to go to chapel.’

  ‘Or to come here,’ I said.

  ‘No, they don’t come here. They have their own infirmary.’ He pushed open the gate to the row of cells. The coughing was close now. ‘This isn’t a woman here. This is a boy. Some of the younger boys are kept over in the women’s ward – the privileged ones.’

  ‘A boy? How old is he?’

  ‘He’s twelve, thirteen, something like that.’

  ‘Poor child.’

  ‘He broke the law. He’s learning his lesson.’

  ‘What’s his name – his Christian name?’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Poor Tom.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him. He gets well looked after. He’s Warder Braddle’s favourite.’

  6

  21 November 1895

  Dr Maurice

  ‘May I ask about Warder Braddle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please. I need to know.’

  ‘Enough. Into your cell.’

  Warder Stokes took me by the elbow and moved me briskly along the short row of cells. Mine was the last in the line – opposite that of the boy called Tom.

  ‘Warder Braddle,’ I persisted. ‘Is he living?’

  Stokes laughed. ‘He was alive and well when I last saw him.’

  ‘I must see him.’

  ‘You’ll see him soon enough.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I cried. ‘Was he here last night? I will go mad. Where is he?’

  ‘Wandsworth, if you must know. I don’t know when he’s due back, but he’ll be here soon enough.’

  ‘God Almighty—’

  ‘No profanity. You know the rules. Into your cell.’

  Warder Stokes pushed me into the cell. ‘Read your Bible,’ he said. ‘Calm down. The surgeon will come in due course.’

  I stood there, in my grotesque prison garb, clutching my absurd convict’s cap, looking in desperation at the young man with the crooked teeth and the freckled face. ‘You are my only friend,’ I pleaded. ‘You must save me.’

  Stokes stood, bewildered and, I now see, embarrassed. ‘I am not your friend, Mr Wilde. I am your turnkey. If you want to be saved, you’d better see the chaplain about that.’ He stepped out of the cell and closed the door.

  ‘You know my name!’ I called out.

  ‘We all know your name. Warder Braddle has told us all about you.’ He turned the keys in the locks. ‘Be quiet now or I’ll have to report you to the governor.’ With his fist he banged on the back of the door. ‘You know the rules,’ he repeated. ‘Silence must be observed on all occasions by day and night.’

  I heard his steps retreating along the passageway. I leant back against the cold stone wall of the cell, listening. I could hear the sound of the boy in the cell opposite mine. It was the sound of coughing and retching. I went to my door and put my face to the spyhole. I could see nothing. I cupped my hands around my mouth and called out the boy’s name. ‘Tom!’ There was no reply. I called again, ‘Tom! Tom! Can you hear me?’

  From along the passageway, Warder Stokes shouted: ‘Silence!’ I waited, holding my breath. ‘Silence – on pain of punishment.’

  I felt giddy with confusion and despair. I saw the Bible on the wooden chair beside my bed. I went to pick it up and it fell open at the Book of Psalms. I lay on the bed and turned my head to one side and, as I read the words, I spoke them out loud.

  Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord.

  Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.

  If thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?

  But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared.

  I wait for the Lord, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope.

  My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning.

  I did not hear the surgeon as he entered the cell. I did not register his presence until I opened my eyes and found a bespectacled man with a bird’s-nest beard and mutton-chop whiskers leaning over me. He had a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘I have kept you waiting,’ he said. ‘I apologise. I had another prisoner to see.’

  There was a Scottish burr to his accent. He spoke softly and I was startled by the power of his walnut-coloured eyes. They appeared like owls’ eyes behind the lenses of his spectacles.

  ‘You are a friend?’ I asked, confused.

  ‘I am the prison surgeon,’ he said. ‘Dr Maurice.’

  ‘You are a friend,’ I repeated. ‘I can tell.’

  ‘No,’ he said, standing up and looking down at me, ‘but I studied at Edinburgh with your friend, Conan Doyle. We were both students of the great Dr Bell.’

  ‘Arthur’s model for Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘Indeed. Observation is everything – that’s what Dr Bell taught us.’ Dr Maurice looked down at me intently. He was a tall man, bony and angular. He stood at my bedside with his hands in his pockets, jangling keys and coins, contemplating me with a furrowed brow and what appeared to be kindly amusement. ‘And you, I’ve been led to believe, are Conan Doyle’s model for Holmes’s older brother – the brilliant but indolent Mycroft Holmes.’

  ‘So Arthur says – but I have not seen him for a time.’

  ‘I imagine not,’ said Dr Maurice, ‘under the circumstances.’ The surgeon stepped away from the bed – his legs were long, narrow and stiff, as though he walked on stilts. He bent over to open his medical bag and, from it, fetched a stethoscope. ‘You’d better rise from that semi-recumbent posture, C.3.3. I am here to examine you.’

  ‘You will be my friend,’ I said. ‘You must call me by my name, Dr Maurice.’

  ‘While you are here, you will be known by your number, sir. That is the rule – and it has its merits.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘It does. It reminds us that all men are equal in prison – all will be treated the same, regardless of who they are and where they come from. Now undress.’

  ‘What about the women and children?’ I asked, standing up to take off my jacket and shirt.

  ‘Men, women, children – once convicted and sentenced, they are all treated the same here. There can be no favourites.’ He pressed the cold listening bell of the stethoscope to my chest.r />
  ‘But Tom, I am told, is Warder Braddle’s favourite.’

  ‘Do not listen to idle gossip, sir. And do not spread it. The prison rule of absolute silence has its merits, also.’

  ‘How is poor Tom?’ I asked, turning my eyes towards the cell door.

  ‘If you’re referring to the prisoner across the way, the answer to your question is that it’s none of your business.’

  ‘But it is – surely? We have a Christian duty to love our neighbours, do we not? No man is an island.’

  ‘Except in prison – under the separate system.’ The surgeon gave a small laugh. I realised that if he had studied with Conan Doyle at Edinburgh he must be younger than he appeared – in his late thirties, at most. He hid his youth behind his heavy beard. ‘Turn around,’ he said. ‘Show me your back.’ I turned my back to him. I felt his hands on my shoulder blades. They soothed me. I felt the pressure of his fingers as he tapped them – hard – against my ribcage. ‘Cough for me,’ he said. I did as I was told. ‘Now take a deep breath and hold it . . . Now exhale.’

  ‘The poet John Donne went to prison,’ I said.

  ‘And his brother, Henry, died at Newgate – of the bubonic plague . . . Turn around . . . At least you’ve been spared that . . . Bend over now, as far as you can . . .’ The surgeon growled softly and pulled on his beard. ‘Stand up – slowly . . . You’re unfit – to say the least. You cannot touch your knees, never mind your toes. You have not treated your body as a temple, have you?’

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘I have eaten, I have drunk, I have smoked – so much! I let myself be lured into long spells of senseless and sensual ease . . . And you see the result.’ I held out my naked arms, I gazed down at my loose and hideous flesh.

  ‘Take down your trousers,’ said Dr Maurice. ‘I must examine your private parts.’

  I pulled down my ludicrous convict’s pantaloons with their obscene black arrows. ‘Once,’ I said, ‘I amused myself with being a flâneur, a dandy, a man of fashion . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said the surgeon, crouching down before me, ‘Conan Doyle told me – and I read the newspapers and the magazines.’