‘Look at me now, Doctor.’
‘I am,’ he said, examining me. He got to his feet. ‘I have seen worse,’ he added, smiling. ‘But I am a prison surgeon. I have seen the worst.’ He turned back to his bag to put away the stethoscope. ‘Where did it all go wrong, do you think?’
‘Did Arthur never tell you?’ I asked.
‘He told me that you had surrounded yourself with smaller natures and meaner minds, that you became a spendthrift of your own genius.’
‘He is quite correct.’
‘Conan Doyle is a keen observer – and a good man.’
‘The best of men,’ I said, thinking of him, of his firm grip and steady eye, his tweed coat and walrus moustache, his uncomplicated decency, and recollecting the adventures that we had shared.
‘He admires you still.’
‘I admire him.’
‘Mens sana in corpore sano – a healthy mind in a healthy body – that’s Conan Doyle’s motto. It’s not a bad one. It’s kept him on the straight and narrow.’
‘It’s kept him out of prison!’ I laughed. ‘But I chose a different path . . .’
‘You had everything,’ said the surgeon, now examining my ears, ‘but it was not enough?’
‘Tired of being on the heights, I deliberately went to the depths in the search for new sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought, perversity became to me in the sphere of passion.’
‘Desire, at the end, is a malady, or a madness, or both.’
‘I see that now, Doctor. I see the error of my ways. I took pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. I grew careless of the lives of others – my wife, my children, my true friends. I forgot that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character, and that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some day to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over myself. I was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I allowed pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace – as you see. There is only one thing for me now, absolute humility.’
‘Your mind seems to be in perfect working order.’ I smiled. He nodded towards my prison clothes lying on the bed. ‘Get dressed now.’ I pulled on my shirt. He watched me as I did so. ‘Can I report to Conan Doyle that I have seen you?’ he asked. ‘When he last saw you he thought that you had gone mad.’
‘It was a temporary insanity.’
‘I have enjoyed our conversation, sir,’ said the surgeon, gravely, ‘but it must be our last. This is a prison. It is a world apart and you who are obliged to live here and we who choose to work here must abide by its rules. It is the only way.’ He picked up his bag and moved towards the cell door. ‘There is dry blood around your right ear. Wash the outer ear with care. Does the ear itself cause you much pain?’
‘Some.’
‘Endure it as best you can. I will prescribe an antidote for your dysentery. Take it. Keep yourself clean. Exercise. As you walk around the prison yard, think of Conan Doyle and walk as he would walk – with your shoulders back and your head held high. Eat the food that is provided. You’ll get accustomed to it in time. Do not drink anything but the water and tea and cocoa given to you with your meals. If you are offered illicit alcohol, do not touch it. Whoever offers it to you – prisoner or turnkey – refuse it. It is not safe. And take each day as it comes. Your time here will pass.’
He pulled open the cell door and called down the corridor: ‘Warder!’ He turned back and looked at me once more with his large owl’s eyes. ‘Goodbye.’
‘And Tom?’ I asked, lowering my voice and turning my head towards the cell that faced my own.
‘He is not well,’ murmured the surgeon. ‘He has a strong spirit, but a weak chest and . . .’ He hesitated. ‘And other difficulties.’ His voice trailed away.
‘But Warder Braddle will watch out for him,’ I said.
‘Beware of Warder Braddle,’ said Dr Maurice earnestly. ‘Mark what I say. Beware of him.’
7
21 November 1895
Warder Braddle
That evening I was moved from the infirmary to my appointed cell: C.3.3. – the third cell on the third level of the third wing, C Ward.
The cell itself – narrow, dank and dark, with stone walls painted stone grey – was much like my cells at Wandsworth and at Pentonville, but the regime at Reading was different. Supper was served fifteen minutes earlier – from half past five o’clock. The fare, however, was the same: a pint of foul-tasting oatmeal gruel slopped into a tin bowl and delivered through a hatch the size of the mouth of a letterbox set into the cell door. With mine came what smelt like a saucer of poison: Dr Maurice’s antidote for my dysentery.
Between seven o’clock and seven-thirty a warder would call at each cell to collect any tools that the prisoner might have been using for his day’s labour. At 7.30 p.m. a bell was rung to indicate that it was time for bed. At 7.45 p.m., from a central point in the inspection hall, by means of a single lever, the gas jets in each of the prison’s two hundred and fifty cells were extinguished simultaneously.
I lay on my back in the darkness. My ear ached. I closed my eyes and thought of Conan Doyle – of his vigour – and of the unspoilt goodness of the man. I thought of Dr Maurice – no doubt at home by now, seated by the fireside with his pretty wife at his bony knee. Was he reading to her from The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes? I opened my eyes. Six feet above the head of my bed was my window: a hole in the thick wall, six inches deep and eighteen inches wide, barred and blocked with opaque glass. Beyond it shone the moon (the silver moon!), but through the glass I could discern no more than a pale yellow smudge. I closed my eyes. I could not sleep. I dared not dream. A dreamer, I once said, is one who can only find his way by moonlight – and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.
What stuff I had said! ‘A little sincerity is a dangerous thing and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.’ What nonsense I had talked! ‘An idea that is not dangerous is not worthy of being called an idea at all.’ Had I ever said anything of any worth? ‘A man who does not think for himself does not think at all.’ Was that true or merely clever? Was it even clever?
As I lay in my cell in Reading Gaol, I smiled as I thought of Arthur Conan Doyle. I had created the Selfish Giant and the man who sold his soul to retain his youth and beauty. Arthur had created Sherlock Holmes! ‘How often have I said to you, Watson, that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?’ I spoke the words out loud – and as I did so I knew that I had solved the mystery of Warder Braddle. I fell into a deep sleep.
I had no idea what time it was when I woke up. It was still night. It was a muffled sound in the distance that woke me. Was it the hooting of an owl? Or the sounding of a bell? Was there a church near by, outside the prison walls? Was it the chime of one o’clock – or the quarter? – that I had heard? I pulled myself up and rested on my elbow as my eyes adjusted to the gloom. I looked about my little cell. My furnishings were meagre. Beside my narrow bed, I had one upright wooden chair, a deal table (two foot square) and, in the corner, on the ground, the pan for my slops and a bucket of washing water. Nothing more – apart from the small gong and hammer affixed to the wall by the door to be used to alert a warder in case of emergency.
My ear, I noticed, no longer ached. And my stomach did not churn as insistently as it had done in recent days. I listened to the stillness and felt, curiously, at peace. I was staring immediately ahead, looking directly at my cell door. I could see the outline of the hatch, the spyhole above it, to the left the locks, to the right the door’s heavy iron hinges. As I gazed on it, slowly, silently, the door began to open. And outlined in the doorway the silhouette of a tall, thin man with a large head appeared. Softly, the man stepped into my cell. Carefully, noiselessly, he closed the door behind him and walked, with measured steps, towards my bed.
I looked up at him. ‘Warder Braddle,’ I said, quietly, ‘you hav
e returned sooner than expected.’
‘You were expecting me?’ he whispered.
‘I was.’
‘You know me?’ he asked.
‘I do,’ I said.
The man held a box of matches in his hand. He struck a light and, as the blue and yellow flame flared up before his face, I recognised the pockmarked, sallow skin, the lipless mouth, the shining eyes, the goblin’s nose. He lit a cigarette.
‘And now I see that you are the brother, not the father,’ I said. ‘I could not be sure. Your father was a turnkey, too, I suppose – another Warder Braddle. The calling runs in the blood, I know.’
‘My father died ten years ago.’
‘And now your brother is dead, too. I am sorry.’
‘You are not sorry, Wilde.’ The man sucked on his cigarette. He looked down at me. ‘You are not sorry. You are the one responsible.’
‘I am not responsible for your brother’s death.’
‘You killed him, Wilde.’
‘That is absurd,’ I protested.
‘Don’t raise your voice,’ he whispered fiercely. He stepped closer to my bed and stood looming over me. He had all the features of Thomas Braddle, but was clearly the younger brother. He blew his cigarette smoke into my eyes. ‘My brother is dead and it is your doing, Oscar Wilde.’
‘It is not my doing,’ I said quietly.
‘You poisoned him.’
‘No, his heart gave way. He had a weak heart. An intestinal rupture triggered a cardiac arrest. I heard the surgeon say so.’
‘Oh, yes, that’s what they say. I went to Wandsworth today. That’s what they told me, too – the governor and the surgeon – before they buried him. That’s what’s gone onto the death certificate, you can be sure of that. They don’t want any unnecessary trouble. They don’t want a scandal. But we know the truth, don’t we, Wilde? You killed my brother. You infected him.’
‘This is madness.’
‘You turned his stomach.’
‘We were not friends,’ I murmured. ‘I grant you that.’
‘He despised you, Wilde. Do you know what he called you? Do you? Answer me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Say it.’ He bent over and pushed his face close to mine. ‘Say it, Wilde.’
I remained silent.
‘Say it.’
Still I stayed dumb. Suddenly, the warder raised his right hand and struck me hard on the head. ‘Malingerer and sodomite,’ he hissed.
I closed my eyes.
‘He died in your cell, Wilde.’
My temple throbbed, my ear ached, but I felt strangely calm. This man did not frighten me. ‘Warder Braddle came to my cell, uninvited,’ I said, ‘in the middle of the night. It appears to be a Braddle family characteristic.’
‘Do not mock me, Oscar Wilde. This is my ward. You are my prisoner. You obey my orders. You are under my command. I shall come here when I please, as I please, and you will do my bidding. My brother is dead. He has gone to heaven, but I am still here and I shall make your life a living hell.’
He stood upright, and turned, and tossed the remainder of his cigarette into the bucket of water in the corner of the cell. ‘This cell stinks, Wilde. You stink.’ He moved towards the door. He took out his pocket watch and peered at it in the gloom.
‘What time is it?’ I asked.
‘Gone one o’clock,’ he answered. He pulled open the cell door. ‘I am on my rounds and I find that all my prisoners are sleeping like babes. Horse thieves and blackmailers, pimps and murderers – all asleep, except for one. Is it your unquiet conscience that’s keeping you awake, C.3.3.?’
‘All asleep?’ I answered. ‘Is Tom sleeping now?’
‘Sleeping? My brother Thomas is dead,’ snapped the warder. ‘How dare you speak of him like that? How dare you use his Christian name?’
I sat up. ‘I did not mean your brother, Warder Braddle – may your brother rest in peace. I meant Tom, the boy who is here as a prisoner – the boy from E Wing.’
The warder let go of the cell door. ‘How do you know of him? How do you know his name?’
‘He was in the infirmary today,’ I said.
‘You spoke with him? You will be punished.’
‘I did not speak with him. I heard him coughing – that is all. He is not well.’
‘It is a cough,’ rasped the warder, ‘nothing more.’
‘I am glad to hear it. I was concerned. A child should not be in a place like this.’
‘He is not a child. And he is well enough.’
‘I was concerned – that is all.’
‘Concern yourself with what concerns you, C.3.3. Know your place. Remember who you are – sodomite and malingerer.’ He spat out the words. ‘Keep clear of that boy. Lay one finger on him and I will kill you with my bare hands. Do you understand? Do you understand?’
In the morning, standing on the gantry outside my cell, waiting in line with the other men to take my slops to the latrine, I heard a voice behind me.
‘Did Braddle come to you last night?’
I turned my head. ‘Don’t look,’ said the voice. ‘Don’t answer. Just listen. We can talk later. When breakfast has been cleared and before we muster for chapel, stand by your cell door, put your ear to the hatch and wait till you hear me call. I will only speak if it’s safe. I know who you are and I am glad that we are neighbours.’
8
22 November 1895
C.3.2.
At Reading Gaol all men look alike. Our hideous prison garb robs us of our individuality. (It is not called ‘uniform’ without reason.) Our grotesque caps render us invisible. We can reveal who we are only when we speak – and we cannot speak to one another, except on pain of punishment.
As our line trudged back from the latrines to our cells, through the narrow slits in the veil that flapped against my face I studied the man who trudged ahead of me – the man who had called out to me. I tried to look at him as Holmes would have done, with an analytical eye. He was a slim man, not so tall as I am, but clearly fitter, and younger. By convict standards, his shoulders were less stooped than most and his head was held quite high. He moved at a steady pace, not shambling like the others, but treading carefully – gracefully even. Was he a dancer? No – he held his arms stiffly at his side, with the palm of his free hand open flat and his thumb aligned with his fingers. A soldier, perhaps? A guardsman?
When we were once more in our cells and the doors had all been locked and the clatter of warders’ feet on the gantry steps had faded away, I stood, as instructed, with my ear pressed against the hatch in my cell door. The cold metal soothed my ear. I felt exhilarated, almost happy. A fellow prisoner had promised to speak to me! I waited. I waited several minutes, pressing my head against the iron, listening intently. In the far distance, I heard the sound of clanging gates and the faint rumble of wheels on cobblestones. Did I hear a dog barking? Or was it a man’s cry? Time passed and silence fell. I went on waiting, standing, leaning against the door, listening, until my back ached and my ear burnt. Eventually, I lifted my head from the door, feeling foolish and disconsolate, humiliated. And then I heard more steps, close by – a single pair of boots this time, clattering as they descended the metal stairway outside my cell, moving rapidly away, from the third level to the second to the first. Then, a further silence. I pressed my ear to the door once more.
‘Can you hear me?’ called the voice. It was wonderfully clear – and light and fluting. I thought, as I heard it, that it was like an angel’s voice – strong but gentle, mellifluous, melodious, sweet to the ear. ‘Can you hear me?’ It came again as an echo across a valley.
‘I can hear you,’ I answered. ‘Is it safe to speak?’
The voice laughed. It was high pitched and playful. ‘Yes, I am always careful. Warder Stokes has just gone down to muster with the rest of them in the central hall. Did you not hear him go? He has a light footstep. You will grow accustomed to the sounds of prison life very soon. You must learn to let your ea
rs be your eyes while you are here. The good news, my friend, is that we have almost ten minutes for our chinwag now.’
‘You are Indian,’ I said suddenly.
‘You are very clever,’ cried my interlocutor, laughing gaily. ‘It is the sing-song in my voice that gives the game away. How do you do, sir?’
‘I am very well,’ I said – absurdly. I was alone, half crouching, half leaning against the iron door of a prison cell in Reading Gaol, but I spoke as though I were lolling in an armchair in the telephone room at Brown’s Hotel. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘And I am honoured to make yours, Mr Oscar Wilde.’
‘You know my name?’
‘And your reputation, sir.’
‘I am sorry to hear that.’
‘It is a fine reputation, sir. You are an artist. And a noted wit. “I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a word of what I am saying.” That is my favourite.’ Through the shuttered hatch in my cell door came a carillon of laughter.
‘Can we not be heard?’ I asked.
‘Only by each other. There are no warders on our floor at present. They will be back to let us out for chapel – not before. Usually we are safe until the chapel bell sounds, but if I hear someone coming before then I will ring my gong and pretend that I have the toothache. We can talk like this every morning. I am so happy to have you as my neighbour, Mr Wilde. I very much enjoy a good chat.’
‘As do I, sir,’ I said, with feeling.
‘When I heard that you were coming to Reading Gaol, I prayed that you would be my neighbour and, by jingo, here you are. Good conversation has been sadly lacking at Reading Gaol.’
‘It is a happy chance that our cells adjoin,’ I said.
My neighbour laughed uproariously once more. ‘It is no chance, Mr Wilde. It is the work of the gods.’
‘It is certainly some sort of miracle,’ I murmured.
‘Move your mouth closer to the hatch, Mr Wilde. I do not wish to miss any of your gems.’
I stood back and gazed at the iron door. ‘I have no gems to offer, alas,’ I whispered.
Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery Page 7