We sat, conspicuously, at a round table in the middle of a crowded dining room on the ground floor. Oscar is always happy to be seen as well as heard. He placed his ‘little vampire’, Rex LaSalle, on his right hand and treated the young man as he might have done a favourite spaniel – petting and teasing him alternately.
As the wine flowed, so did Oscar’s aphorisms. I noted the new ones – and the variations on the familiar ones. This one I had not heard before: ‘If you pretend to be good, the world takes you very seriously. If you pretend to be bad, it doesn’t. Such is the astounding stupidity of optimism.’
As we were finishing the magnum of champagne and Oscar was wondering out loud if he should choose a different vintage for the second, LaSalle asked casually, ‘Have you seen The Times this morning? It seems the Duchess of Albemarle’s funeral has been postponed until Saturday.’
This news galvanised Oscar. He drained his glass, extinguished his cigarette and pushed back his chair.
‘Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘we must proceed to Grosvenor Square. We must beard the Duke of Albemarle in his lair. We must discover the meaning of this.’
‘Hold on, old boy,’ said Conan Doyle, who was now enjoying his wine. ‘I thought we were off the case. I distinctly heard a certain person say “case closed” – not an hour ago.’
‘Has the Prince of Wales lost interest in the matter?’ asked LaSalle, leaning forward.
‘Hush!’ hissed Conan Doyle, looking anxiously about him. ‘No names. We are sworn to secrecy.’
‘The Truth is our only mistress now,’ said Oscar, getting to his feet. ‘We are beholden to none but her.’
He took a five-pound note from his pocket and threw it on to the table.
‘Come, gentlemen. To Grosvenor Square. The game’s afoot.’
Our brougham made slow progress. The West End traffic was heavy and another carriage had turned over at Hyde Park Corner.
‘We should have walked,’ said Conan Doyle, adding, with his eyes half closed: ‘I don’t know why we are going to Grosvenor Square in any event. The duke won’t see us.’
‘He will,’ said Oscar. ‘He will feel an obligation. He knows that you know that he moved the body of Louisa Lavallois.’
‘I know no such thing,’ replied Conan Doyle, sitting upright. ‘I have said not a word on the matter.’
Smiling, Oscar waved Conan Doyle’s protestation aside. ‘The duke will see us. A man always makes time for those who know his secrets.’
And so it proved. Within moments of our arrival at 40 Grosvenor Square, Parker, the butler, admitted us to the duke’s presence. It was not quite three o’clock in the afternoon, but the duke was in the morning room, enjoying a post-prandial coffee, smoking a cigar and reading Pride and Prejudice.
‘Ah, the comfort of Miss Austen,’ murmured Oscar, as he bowed to His Grace. ‘If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.’
The duke disregarded Oscar’s pleasantry, got to his feet and stood facing us, his back to the fireplace. Evidently unamused by our intrusion, he invited us neither to sit nor take our ease. From inside his jacket, he produced a small ivory-handled pocket knife, which he used to cut off the lighted tip of his cigar. The unsmoked portion of cigar he laid carefully on the mantelpiece, then wiped the blade of the knife with his handkerchief and returned the knife to his pocket.
‘I am surprised to see you, gentlemen,’ he said bluntly. His eye rested stonily on Arthur Conan Doyle.
‘We were surprised to read of the postponement of the duchess’s funeral, Your Grace. We were concerned.’
The duke turned his gaze on Oscar. ‘Is that why you are here?’
‘It is,’ said Oscar. ‘It is the only reason.’
The duke’s frown began to soften.
‘So far as last night is concerned,’ Oscar continued smoothly, ‘I believe we are all of one mind. The theatre manager was wise to dispose of the poor girl’s body in that alley by Leicester Square. Why entangle the heir apparent in a sordid murder inquiry when it is quite unnecessary to do so? The police can now be left to pursue the matter in the normal way of things.’
‘Indeed,’ said the duke lightly and smiled. ‘Gentlemen, be seated, please.’
‘No, thank you, sir,’ said Oscar. ‘We’ll not linger.’
‘A cigarette, then?’ said the duke, taking the silver cigarette case from the mantelpiece and offering it to each of us in turn. ‘It was an unfortunate ending to an otherwise enjoyable evening. Dan Leno was at his best, I thought.’
‘And the Great McGonagall at his worst,’ said Oscar. ‘He is magnificent in his awfulness, is he not? He is an extraordinary national monument – like Monsieur Eiffel’s new tower in Paris, splendid and pointless at the same time.’
The duke laughed, his demeanour now quite changed. Taking up the cigar he had just extinguished, he relit it.
‘I am pleased to see you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your concern about the funeral. There’s nothing untoward in the postponement. The opposite, in fact. The Bishop of London wished to be one of those conducting the obsequies. He is an old friend. He was not free tomorrow. He can be with us on Saturday.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Oscar, drawing on his cigarette with satisfaction. ‘And I imagine the extra two days will be helpful to members of the late duchess’s family who have farther to travel.’
‘Helen had many friends, but no family to speak of. Her parents are both dead. She had no brothers, no cousins.’
‘She was not an only child?’
‘No, Mr Wilde. I think you know that. She had – has – a sister – a younger sister, Louise Lascelles. I believe Dr Doyle met her at Lord Yarborough’s clinic at Muswell Hill.’
Conan Doyle grunted awkwardly. ‘Yes, I saw her briefly. She is not well.’
‘She is quite mad, Doctor. It is heartbreaking.’
‘Indeed,’ muttered Conan Doyle.
‘I am grateful to Yarborough for all that he is doing for her. He is attempting to cure her through hypnosis. He wanted to admit Helen to the clinic also, but she’d have none of it. She was wilful, even when she was calm. And she was not often that.’
‘Both sisters suffered from the same condition?’ asked Conan Doyle. ‘Both exhibited the same symptoms?’
‘Yes,’ said the duke, sighing heavily. ‘I married Helen for her gaiety and discovered that I had married an hysteric.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Conan Doyle.
‘Hysteria is a sickness – a disease – that’s not yet understood. Charcot and Yarborough are exploring its pathology and I am helping them as best I can, funding their researches. But money alone cannot provide the answers. The human body must be ready to reveal its secrets. Progress is slow.’
He extinguished his cigarette in a small silver ashtray that bore the Prince of Wales’s feathers and laughed bitterly.
‘What am I saying? There is no progress.’
‘None at all?’
‘None at all – if Yarborough’s to be believed. And he is. He’s a good man. A great man.’ The Duke of Albemarle looked directly at me. ‘I believe he is a kinsman of yours, Mr Sherard. You are cousins, I think?’
‘Bastard cousins,’ I said, embarrassed.
‘Cousins nonetheless,’ said Rex LaSalle.
‘Exactly, sir,’ said the duke, smiling. ‘Blood’s thicker than water and all that.’
‘Will the duchess’s sister be able to attend the funeral?’ enquired Oscar, putting out his cigarette alongside the duke’s in the ashtray with the Prince of Wales’s feathers.
‘Oh no. She is far too unstable. Her lunacy is profound, her fits unpredictable. I fear she will live out her days in an asylum, as thousands do, as tens of thousands have before her. It is pitiable – horrible – and, as yet, there is no cure. My poor Helen may be the more blessed to be dead.’
‘May she rest in peace,’ said Oscar.
‘Thank you,’ said the duke. ‘And thank y
ou for calling, gentlemen. I apologise for not being more welcoming. I have been under some strain in recent days.’ He glanced towards the novel he had put down on the side table. ‘Hence the “comfort of Miss Austen”, as Mr Wilde so neatly puts it.’
‘Yes,’ said Oscar, ‘there is great consolation in known relationships.’
The duke smiled. ‘They say Mr Darcy is loosely modelled on my grandfather.’
His Grace led us to the door of the morning room. As he opened it, we found Parker, the butler, immediately awaiting us outside.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said the duke pleasantly. ‘On Friday evening, early, I am holding a small reception here in my wife’s memory. The Prince of Wales does not attend funerals as you know, but he will be honouring us with his presence on Friday. He was very fond of Helen. I hope, gentlemen, that you will be able to honour us with your presence, too.’
We left him at the door of the morning room and, in silence, followed the butler along the corridor back to the front hall. Retrieving our hats, we bade the butler good day. He opened the front door for us and, as he did so, as we were lined up to depart, we heard a noise coming from the gallery at the top of the main staircase.
Looking up, we saw a young housemaid looking down at us. She had dropped a pile of linen and was kneeling down beside it, staring at us through the wooden balustrade. As her eyes met ours, her young face contorted in a silent scream. Hurriedly she grabbed the linen, scrambled to her feet and ran away.
‘It’s Her Grace’s maid,’ said the butler. ‘The poor child has taken it very badly.’
61
The Jersey Lily
Telegram delivered to Constance Wilde at 16 Tite Street, Chelsea, on Wednesday, 19 March 1890 at 6 p.m.
BREAKFAST AND LUNCH WITH SHERLOCK HOLMES. SHERRY WITH A PRINCE. CIGARETTES WITH A DUKE. TEA WITH THE JERSEY LILY. DINING WITH VAMPIRES THEN TAKING THE NIGHT TRAIN TO PARIS. ALL TOO TEDIOUS BUT MUST BE DONE. FRESH WOODS AND NEWS TOMORROW. EVER YOUR LOVING OSCAR
62
Telegram delivered to Louisa ‘Touie’ Conan Doyle in Southsea, on Wednesday, 19 March 1890 at 6 p.m.
DEEPLY DISTRESSED. UNAVOIDABLE FURTHER DELAYS. PLEASE SECURE CARTER AS LOCUM FOR FRIDAY SURGERY. RETURN TO SOUTHSEA BY SATURDAY EVENING GUARANTEED. MY LOVE AND APOLOGIES ACD
63
From the diary of Rex LaSalle
I looked directly into the eyes of the maidservant and she looked directly into mine. I saw fear there, bordering on terror, but it was not blind, animal fear. I saw intelligence and understanding, too.
Oscar asked: ‘Is it possible that she is an hysteric also?’
‘Yes,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Can you “catch” hysteria – like the measles?’
‘No, but you can observe it in others and learn the symptoms and imitate them – consciously or unconsciously. You can induce your own hysteric state.’
‘And can hysteria render you speechless?’
‘Hysterical paralysis is not uncommon. It can rob you of the power of speech, certainly – but for an hour, a day, months at most. Not for a lifetime. We were told the girl was deaf and dumb from childhood.’
‘We were.’
Oscar’s brougham took us from Grosvenor Square to St James’s by way of the post office in Albemarle Street where Oscar and Conan Doyle stepped down for a moment to send telegrams to their wives.
When I said, ‘The one advantage of not having a wife is that you don’t have to tell her lies,’ Oscar replied: ‘But a perfect lie is one of life’s most perfect pleasures, is it not?’
While Oscar and Conan Doyle were about their business, I remained with Robert Sherard in the brougham. I asked him about his grandfather, the last Earl of Harborough. Had he known him?
‘No, he was already an old man when my father was born. My father was his natural son.’
‘And his only son?’
‘Yes, but conceived and born out of wedlock. My father might have been an earl, but for the small matter of his illegitimacy. Instead, he became a clergyman – and a poor one at that. He’s spent his life as an itinerant Anglican chaplain.’
‘Do you not resent the fact of your father’s illegitimacy?’ I asked. ‘Would you not have liked to be an earl?’
‘I would like to be a great man,’ he replied, ‘but not necessarily an earl. I would like to be like Oscar: extraordinary, original, unique.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘It’s what we all want – to be extraordinary, original, unique.’
‘Is that why you claim to be a vampire?’
‘I am a vampire,’ I said.
He did not believe me. No one does.
The brougham took us on to the St James’s Theatre and stopped in Duke Street, outside the stage door.
‘Gentlemen,’ declared Oscar, ‘we have a treat in store. We are taking tea with Lillie Langtry.’
‘How wonderful,’ said Robert Sherard. ‘But why?’
‘Because few – if any – know the Prince of Wales so well as Lillie does. I wish to ask her something about His Royal Highness. It is something we need to know.’
With a spring in his step, Oscar led the way into the stage door.
‘Are we expected?’ asked Conan Doyle.
‘No, but the Jersey Lily loves the unexpected.’
Oscar glanced up at the clock on the wall facing the stage-doorkeeper’s lodge.
‘It is half past five. The matinée finished half an hour ago. Mrs Langtry’s kettle will be bubbling merrily on the hob. There may even be scones.’
He rattled the grille behind which lurked the dozing doorman. The old man sat slumped at his table; his gnarled, bald head lolled to one side; his near-toothless mouth hung open.
‘Mr Oscar Wilde for Mrs Lillie Langtry.’
Oscar announced himself three times before the doorman stirred. He looked up slowly and grunted and smacked his lips. Without comment, he took the florin that Oscar held out to him.
‘This way!’ cried Oscar as we followed the shuffling doorman through an inner doorway and down a narrow flight of stone steps towards Mrs Langtry’s dressing room.
As we went, over his shoulder, Oscar offered a hymn of praise to the object of our pilgrimage.
‘As I am sure you know, she is the most painted woman of our age. Millais called her, quite simply, the most beautiful woman on earth. But Lillie’s beauty has no meaning. Her charm, her wit, her mind – what a mind! – are far more formidable weapons. She is all fire and energy.’
The doorman knocked on the dressing-room door. There was no answer.
‘Allow me,’ said Oscar. ‘We are old friends.’ Oscar knocked on the door himself and opened it without awaiting a reply. ‘Lillie,’ he called. ‘My Lillie.’
We saw her at once: the gas lamps in the room were turned high. She was lying on a chaise longue next to her dressing table, wrapped in a heavy woollen shawl. Her hair was swept up and pinned tight against her head. Over her eyes she wore a black harlequin’s mask. There was little of her celebrated beauty on display.
‘Come away,’ hissed Conan Doyle. ‘The poor woman’s asleep.’
‘She was,’ murmured the slumbering figure. ‘But Wilde hath murdered sleep and Langtry shall sleep no more.’
She pulled the mask from her eyes and sat up, blinking. Gathering the shawl about her and shaking her head, she got slowly to her feet. She wore no stockings. On bare tiptoes she teetered towards Oscar and accepted his embrace.
‘If I didn’t owe my entire career to you, Mr Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde, I would be quite cross. I’ve just given three hours of As You Like It to a half-empty house. The worse the business, the greater the struggle. I have another three hours of it tonight. I need my beauty sleep between performances. I’m thirty-six now, Oscar. My God, do I need my beauty sleep!’
Oscar broke away and stepped back to admire the lady. ‘Isn’t she wonderful?’
‘Isn’t he ridiculous?’ growled the actress.
Her voice was deep and warm: she appeared to laugh as she spoke. She surveyed the trio of young men standing crowded in her doorway.
‘Who are these people, Oscar? I can see that they are young and handsome.’ She moved towards us. ‘Robert I recognise. Robert I remember. But who is this?’ She put out her hand to Conan Doyle. ‘Is this an intrepid hunter newly returned from the Amazon jungle? He has the mark of the hero about him.’
‘This is Arthur Conan Doyle,’ said Oscar.
‘I know him. I know his name. I know his work. Micah Clarke is quite possibly my favourite novel.’
Conan Doyle blushed and, shifting from foot to foot with pleasure, attempted to click his heels as he bowed to the actress.
‘He is a gentleman – with the loveliest moustache I have seen in my entire life. I want to marry him, Oscar. I want to marry him at once.’
‘He is already married, Lillie.’
‘The best ones always are.’ She sighed. ‘How is dear Constance?’ she asked. ‘As patient as ever?’ Without waiting for Oscar’s reply, she turned to me: ‘You are not married, are you, sir? You are far too young – and far too pale.’
‘This is Mr Rex LaSalle,’ said Oscar as Mrs Langtry took me gently by the hand.
She looked up at me and paused, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to one side.
‘I know you, too. I know your name. Have we not met before? Are we not old friends?’
‘We have not met before, Mrs Langtry.’
‘Are you sure? LaSalle – it’s an old Jersey name. You come from Jersey?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘Is that all? I’m sure I knew you when you were a little boy. My father was Dean of Jersey.’
‘I know.’
‘We lived in St Saviour, at the old rectory, and your family lived in St Saviour, too. I remember. I remember you as a little boy, with corn-yellow hair and sea-green eyes – Reginald LaSalle.’
‘That was my brother,’ I said. ‘He died.’
Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers Page 18