Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers

by Gyles Brandreth

  ‘They are still friends,’ said Oscar.

  ‘And you understand such friendships, Mr Wilde. I know you do. The prince knows you do. He appreciates that. You are a lord of language and he is the Prince of Wales, but you have much in common.’

  Oscar remained silent.

  ‘The Prince of Wales is a happily married man. So are you. The prince’s wife is a lady of quality and distinction. As is yours. Yet the prince enjoys a number of special friendships beyond his marriage – outside it – friendships that enrich his life but at the same time threaten his position. I am told that you might have a fellow feeling with His Royal Highness in this regard.’

  Still Oscar said nothing.

  ‘We all have secrets, Mr Wilde.’

  A heavy silence filled the room. A bright ray of midday sunshine filtered through the window and fell on Oscar, isolating him as a spotlight might upon a bare stage. Dust danced about his head.

  It was a curious moment. I have known Oscar for seven years. We have dined together, travelled together, lived together. We have shared digs – and adventures. I know him well. I have not seen him discomfited – and silenced – like this before.

  The Duke of Albemarle, having secured the upper hand, moved to a sideboard and returned holding a large, silver cigarette box. ‘A cigarette, gentlemen? It’s American tobacco, I fear. We don’t run to Turkish in Grosvenor Square.’

  We each took cigarettes and, as he lit them for us, the duke indicated that we should now sit and make ourselves comfortable. I perched on a low divan. Oscar found a high-backed armchair out of the sunlight. The duke, who remained standing before the fireplace, put the cigarette box on the mantelpiece, beside a Meissen porcelain shepherd and shepherdess.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, crisply, turning to us, ‘to business. And to the point. The Prince of Wales wishes to avoid a scandal. So do I. A scandal would hurt me. A scandal could ruin him. But the prince, because of his profound fondness for my late wife, also wishes to know all there is to know about her death. This is where His Royal Highness and I differ. I believe I know enough already. I do not need to know more.’

  Oscar looked up at the duke. ‘You do not need to know more?’ he repeated quietly.

  ‘I know what Lord Yarborough has told me and that is sufficient. Yarborough is a man I trust. He likes to call himself a “psychiatrist”, but by training he’s a medical man. His judgement can be relied upon. He was my wife’s physician. He signed her death certificate. He is convinced that Helen died of a heart attack – and so am I.’

  ‘But what provoked that heart attack?’ asked Oscar. ‘What of the wounds about her body and in her neck?’

  The Duke of Albemarle blew a great cloud of cigarette smoke across his morning room and laughed out loud. ‘Oh, Mr Wilde,’ he exclaimed, ‘I thought that you of all men would understand! Are you not familiar with unnatural vice?’

  Oscar made to speak, but stopped before he did so.

  ‘Five years ago,’ the duke continued, ‘when I married Helen, I did so in good faith. I loved her dearly. By the time she died, I loved her not at all. There was residual affection, perhaps, but no love left.’

  ‘And no respect?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘She had forfeited that.’ The duke turned to gaze out of the window as he spoke. ‘Lord Yarborough is convinced that she was mad. He wanted to take her to his clinic, to cure her of her cravings by hypnosis.’

  ‘She craved other men?’ asked Oscar gently.

  The duke laughed once more – more gently this time – and looked back at Oscar. ‘That’s not a madness, Mr Wilde. Craving other men? That’s commonplace. Half the wives in London crave men other than their husbands, so I’m told.’

  Oscar smiled. The duke shook his head and drew slowly on his cigarette.

  ‘No, what Helen craved was violence – the thrill of it and the pain of it. My wife was a woman who wanted to be thrashed – and went with any man who was willing to do her bidding.’

  A different silence filled the room. The Duke of Albemarle sighed and threw the remains of his cigarette into the empty grate.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Oscar.

  ‘My wife brought her own death upon herself, Mr Wilde. Lord Yarborough had told her that her heart was enfeebled. She knew the risk that she was taking – but the risk, the danger, was half the excitement.’

  ‘Whom was she with on the night she died? Do you know?’

  ‘I do not. I neither know nor care. It does not matter. Whoever he was, he was not responsible for her death.’

  ‘But he was responsible for the wounds about her person.’

  ‘She would have welcomed those,’ said the duke. ‘It was the wounds she craved.’

  The clock upon the mantelpiece struck one. The duke took a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and inspected it. Oscar rose to his feet.

  ‘How much of this does the Prince of Wales know?’ he asked.

  ‘All of it. I called upon His Highness last evening and told him everything.’

  ‘Did you tell the prince who you thought the man might be?’

  ‘It might be any man, Mr Wilde – any man at all. At least, any man who was in this house at about half past eleven last Thursday night.’

  ‘Half past eleven?’ repeated Oscar. ‘But the duchess died just before midnight, did she not?’

  ‘Helen was seen on her way to the telephone room at half past eleven. She went to receive a call. She passed Parker on the landing. She told him that she had been called to the telephone as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘She did not say.’

  ‘At half past eleven?’

  ‘At half past eleven. Parker is sure of that.’

  ‘Yet she was seen in the drawing room after that,’ said Oscar.

  ‘I did not know that,’ said the duke.

  ‘And when did you discover her body, Your Grace? It was not on Friday morning, was it?’

  ‘No. It was at midnight – just a moment before the prince departed. I expected Helen to join me in the hallway to bid farewell to the royal party, but she was nowhere to be found. When I asked Parker to search for her, he told me about the telephone call. I looked into the telephone room and there she was – half naked, bloodied, lifeless.’

  ‘Why did you not raise the alarm at once?’

  ‘And cause a scandal? I saw at once that she was dead. I knew at once what must have happened. Lord Yarborough had warned me of the possibility.’

  ‘You should perhaps have called the police,’ I suggested, getting up from the divan and standing alongside Oscar.

  The duke looked at me directly. ‘This is not a matter for the police,’ he said. ‘Or the press. This is a private matter.’ He turned to look at Oscar. ‘Make the private public and who knows what the consequences may be.’

  ‘We will persist with our enquiries,’ said Oscar carefully, ‘unless His Royal Highness requires us to desist.’

  ‘Nothing will be gained by knowing more, Mr Wilde. Persist if you must. I cannot stop you. Talk to whom you will. I will not stand in your way. But ponder as you persist: what is to be gained by what you are doing? My wife is dead. Her life cannot be recovered. Let her rest in peace.’

  The door to the morning room opened. Parker, the butler, stood waiting to escort us from the ducal presence. We shook hands with His Grace, thanked him for his time and courtesy, and made our retreat.

  As we returned across the hallway towards the front door, the servant looked up at Oscar enquiringly. ‘And do you wish to speak to me now, sir?’

  ‘No, thank you, Parker, your master has spoken for you. There will be no need.’

  ‘I’m glad of that, sir,’ said the butler.

  ‘But the duchess’s maid,’ said Oscar, gently staying the butler’s hand as it reached for the front door. ‘Might we speak with her?’

  ‘That won’t be possible, I am afraid.’

  ‘Why not? Is she gone away?’

  ‘Oh n
o, Nellie’s here, sir, but you can’t speak with her.’

  ‘Why not?’ Oscar persisted.

  ‘Because she’s deaf and dumb, sir. Has been from a child.’

  ‘But I saw her quoted in the newspaper, Mr Parker – at length.’

  ‘So you did, sir. His Grace thought it expedient at the time. Nellie knew nothing of it. She’s deaf and dumb. And she neither reads nor writes. She was one of the laundry maids until not long ago. Her Grace took pity on her and elevated her above her station. Her Grace was very fond of her.’

  ‘Might we at least see her?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘Not today, sir,’ said the butler, pulling open the front door and stepping aside to allow us to pass. ‘She is in bed. She’s in a bad way. She fell down the stairs.’

  Mortlake

  36

  From the diary of Rex LaSalle

  Last night, as we drove west out of London towards the churchyard at Mortlake, Oscar rested his hand on my arm and said, ‘I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices.’ He pulled down the black blinds on the windows of our carriage. ‘I never take any notice of what common people say,’ he continued, ‘and I never interfere with what charming people do.’ He moved closer to me in the darkness. ‘I have a feeling that Bram’s vampires will prove to be charming people and that we will like them very much.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that the Duchess of Albemarle was attacked by a vampire?’ I asked.

  ‘Jules Verne tells us that one day soon men will fly to the moon. Mrs Langtry is to essay the role of Cleopatra. I shall have lost a stone in weight by Christmas. In this world, Rex, all manner of marvels are possible. The duchess may indeed have been attacked by a vampire – or by a man who believed he was a vampire – or by a man pretending to be a vampire. Or the wounds in her neck could have been self-inflicted to give the impression of a vampiric attack – or they may have nothing to do with vampires at all … Who knows?’

  I turned my head towards him. In the darkness I could barely discern his profile, but I felt the warmth of his breath, his face was so close to mine.

  ‘Oscar,’ I said, ‘do you recall that on the night of the duchess’s death, I asked you whether you had ever tasted blood, fresh blood, human blood, and you said that you had not?’

  ‘I do recall it, Rex,’ he answered, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘It is not a conversation one is likely to forget.’

  ‘When I told you that I had tasted blood, and would taste blood again that very night, you asked me whose blood it was that I would taste.’

  ‘I did. I remember it well.’

  ‘And, pointing towards our hostess, across the crowded room, I told you that it would be hers.’

  ‘I have not forgotten.’ I sensed that his face was turned towards mine, but I could not see it in the gloom.

  ‘May I ask you something, Oscar?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Since that night, since the duchess’s death, why have you not questioned me about any of this? You have told me about the enquiries you are making, about your interviews with the Prince of Wales and Lord Yarborough and the duke, but you have not cross-examined me. Why not?’

  ‘There is no need. You did not taste the duchess’s blood that night.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because, from the moment you spoke of doing so until the moment my friend Sherard caught sight of the duchess’s dead body within the telephone room, you did not leave my side.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Besides, as I told you last night, whatever you are, you are not a vampire.’

  ‘And how can you be so certain of that?’

  ‘Because a true vampire, as every folklorist knows, has an aversion to roses – and you, my dear Rex, do not.’

  I felt his hand reach for my coat and lightly touch the buttonhole he had given me. I felt his mouth as it placed a gentle kiss upon my cheek.

  I have him in my grasp.

  37

  Letter from Bram Stoker to his wife, Florence, delivered by messenger at 9 a.m. on Monday, 17 March 1890

  Lyceum Theatre,

  Strand,

  London

  3 a.m.

  Florrie –

  I am just in from the expedition to Mortlake. I am log-tired, but wide awake! We have rehearsals starting at ten in the morning (sharp – you know what the old man’s like), so I shall kip down here and get what sleep I can.

  I will give you a full account of our moonlit picnic among the gravestones when I see you. Suffice to say, Oscar and his young ‘vampire’ friend – a pale-faced Adonis by the name of Rex LaSalle – were in their element, and entered wholeheartedly into the spirit of the occasion, while the other two – Robert Sherard and Arthur Conan Doyle (good man) – were more circumspect.

  At the finish, Doyle, I think, was frankly shocked. I had my reservations too. As you know, I go because the notion of the ‘Vampire Club’ amuses me and because there are true scholars there as well as rogues and vagabonds. (And royalty. Our patron was in attendance tonight – memorably so.) I believe that I learn something every time that I attend, but perhaps now I have enough research – the time has come to write the wretched book!

  I will send this note to you by messenger at daybreak. The clock on St Clement Danes has just struck three. I trust you are sleeping sweetly, beloved one. May the blessed St Patrick watch over us both.

  Bram

  38

  From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle

  I travelled out to Mortlake with Bram Stoker (Irving’s man of business) and Robert Sherard.

  South of the river, our cabman lost his bearings. Twice, he had to stop to ask the way: first at a public house in Barnes, and then, half a mile further on, at a deserted crossroads, where, at midnight, by moonlight, we came upon a curious scene: a man (heavily cloaked) and a stable lad, standing by the roadside, grooming a fine white stallion. (If I had a fancy for such things, I would have said it was a ghostly vision.) When our cabman called out to them, neither answered, but the cloaked man pointed west and our cabman drove on.

  It was long past twelve when, eventually, beyond Mortlake village itself, down an overgrown and lonely track, we reached the churchyard of St Mary Magdalen. I had expected to find there a handful of hooded figures lurking between the graves. Instead, it was like a bankside party on Boat Race night.

  There were upward of fifty souls in attendance: men of all ages and every class: young bucks in evening dress, clerks and tradesmen in overcoats and waterproofs, ruffians in little more than rags. They stood in small clusters, illuminated by lanterns and torchlight; some holding pint pots and uncorked bottles of wine, carousing; some engaged in loud and earnest conversation; a few, in the shadows, away from the rest, silent, seemingly wrapped in one another’s arms.

  ‘All manner of men come here,’ said Stoker, as he led us through the throng.

  ‘What brings them?’ I asked. ‘Do they all claim to be vampires?’

  Stoker laughed. ‘Far from it. This is a club without rules, open to all. Only one or two will call themselves vampires. Rather more will be like me – students of the subject. Most, however, will confess to coming mainly for amusement’s sake, for the company, out of curiosity –’ he glanced towards the figures in the shadows – ‘or for reasons of concupiscence and carnality.’

  ‘And the police make no objection?’

  ‘The club secretary is the deputy commissioner for the metropolis.’ He laughed once more. ‘We are a long way from Southsea, Dr Doyle.’

  Purposefully, he led us up the narrow pathway towards the porch of the church.

  ‘You must meet tonight’s presiding officer,’ he said. ‘He’s a good man. From County Cork. He’ll be giving the address.’

  ‘He’s a priest,’ I murmured in astonishment.

  ‘He is indeed,’ answered Stoker. ‘It’s his church, his gra
veyard. We are his guests this evening.’

  Beaming broadly, the priest, a stooped, elderly, white-haired man, dressed in a black cope and all the vestments appropriate to a funeral, stepped eagerly towards us with outstretched arms. Though his back was bent, his spirit was lively. He exuded bonhomie and smelt of whiskey and burnt incense. He embraced Bram Stoker as he might a brother, then shook Sherard and me warmly by the hand. His face was deeply lined, but his fingers were soft and delicate.

  ‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ he said in booming tones. ‘Bram sent a note to tell me you’d be coming. I know all about you. Oscar is already here with his young friend. They’ve gone in search of wine. Welcome. You are among friends. We don’t stand on ceremony. In a graveyard, all are equal. It’s the democracy of death.’

  We stood with the priest – Father John Callaghan is his name – as the whisper went round that the formal proceedings were about to begin. From all corners of the churchyard, the members of the Vampire Club and their guests moved slowly towards the church porch.

  ‘It’s a fine turnout tonight,’ said the priest, with satisfaction. ‘They look like carol-singers gathering around the tree on Christmas Eve, don’t they? If you didn’t know it, you’d not believe they were a band of brothers come to raise the undead.’

  ‘Is that your purpose,’ I asked, ‘to raise the undead?’

  Father Callaghan chuckled and laid his hand on my shoulder reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, Dr Doyle. I’m a good Catholic. I have my rosary and my crucifix about me. You’ll be quite safe.’

  I stood alongside him on the porch step as the men began to settle in a broad semi-circle before us. Beneath the yellow and orange light of the lanterns and wax candles, their faces glowed with expectation. As I sensed the priest was about to speak, I made to distance myself a little, but he put out a hand to restrain me.

  ‘Stay,’ he said. ‘Don’t go. You’re young and strong. I may need you.’

  He turned his head towards the interior of the porch and, with a brief nod, indicated a pair of gravedigger’s spades resting against the doorway. I stood where I was, filled with foreboding.