‘Are you suggesting Tyrwhitt Wilson invented this whole story?’ I asked, retrieving the crumpled newspaper from the floor.
‘I am,’ said Oscar. ‘Lock, stock and barrel – to use a phrase with which Owl would certainly be at home. Who else would need to or want to? Tyrwhitt Wilson conjured up the tale and then supplied it directly to the newspaper or to Scotland Yard or to both.’
‘But wouldn’t that be a risky enterprise in itself?’ asked Conan Doyle. ‘He’s well known as the prince’s equerry.’
‘He won’t have gone in person. They have a telephone at Marlborough House. He will have furnished his “information” anonymously, by telephone – and, knowing Owl, quite possibly in an assumed voice. An Englishman cannot speak French, of course, but, oddly enough, he can usually manage quite a convincing stage French accent.’
I was now reading the newspaper for myself.
‘But the article says that Scotland Yard has the name of Miss Lavallois’s former employer.’
‘That’s entirely possible,’ said Oscar. ‘Lulu was a dancer at the Moulin Rouge, whither we are bound. You saw her dancing there yourself, Robert, with your friend, Jane Avril. They performed the cancan – memorably so. The Moulin Rouge is owned by one Joseph Oller – a Catalan of doubtful history, but a first-class tailor with a well-trimmed beard. I’ve met him. You’ve met him. No doubt, when the Prince of Wales and his equerry visited the Moulin Rouge, they met him, also. Monsieur Oller is well known in Paris. Indeed, he’s notorious. And, I imagine, more than able to look after himself.’
Oscar peered through the carriage window: in the distance, lights flickered. ‘If the Paris Préfecture question Monsieur Oller on behalf of Inspector Andrews of Scotland Yard, Oller will deny everything – and with reason. He is innocent. At least, he is not guilty of the murder of Louisa Lavallois. He is, however, a suspect character. He has served time in prison. He might be the murderer. Thanks to Owl’s intervention, the Metropolitan Police and the gentlemen of the British press are now convinced that he is. But it cannot be proved. There’s no hard evidence – and the man’s in France – and who really cares about the death of Lulu Lavallois? There’s nothing more to be done … Object achieved: case closed.’
The train had juddered to a halt. On the platform torches flared and in the half-dark station porters scurried back and forth with trolleys piled high with luggage.
‘Our boat awaits,’ said Oscar, getting to his feet, ‘and we are travelling as one should – without encumbrance. No bags or baggage, only our hopes and dreams.’
‘Did I dream it,’ I asked, ‘or was there another fellow in the compartment when we got on? An ugly little man in a black overcoat, with a warped face and a twisted lip?’
‘He got off at Dover Priory,’ said Oscar. ‘Evidently, he’s not joining us in France. I’m surprised. He’s been following us for weeks. I think Arthur was quite struck by his appearance.’
67
From the notebook of Inspector Hugh Boone of Scotland Yard, Wednesday, 19 March 1890
Suspect has left the country. The country is well rid of him.
68
From the diary of Rex LaSalle
‘What man has sought for is neither pain nor pleasure, but simply Life. Man has sought to live intensely, fully, perfectly. When he can do so without exercising restraint on others, or suffering it ever, and his activities are all pleasurable to him, he will be saner, healthier, more civilised, more himself. Pleasure is Nature’s test, her sign of approval. When a man is happy he is in harmony with himself and his environment.’
I am happy tonight. I walked through St James’s Park and cleared my head. All is well. I am content. Oscar loves me. I am certain of that.
Jane Avril
69
From the notebooks of Robert Sherard
Oscar says love is an illusion and that faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect – simply a confession of failure. Is he right? He usually is.
I am twenty-eight years of age and in my life, thus far, I have loved twelve women. None has made me so happy as Jane Avril. We met five years ago, in Paris, in the spring of 1885. I had just turned twenty-three: she was not quite seventeen. I was drawn to her because she was so beautiful. She was drawn to me, she said, because I was a poet and an Englishman, with perfect manners and famous friends and a fund of stories that she loved to hear me tell. Men fall in love with their eyes: women with their ears.
I first set eyes on her at the Bal Bullier, the exotic dance hall, designed like the Alhambra, on the rue de l’Observatoire. She was in a sea-green silk gown, dancing the polka. I was struck not simply by her youthful beauty – her fresh face, her wide eyes, her turned-up nose, her perfect figure – but by her extraordinary energy. She was so full of life and laughter: she was a ball of fire and a bundle of joy.
I introduced myself to her between dances, took her hand in mine and raised it to my lips. When I told her my name and that I was a poet, she giggled, kissed me on the nose and said, ‘I like you. You’re different.’
That night I bought her a bottle of champagne – Perrier-Jouët, Oscar’s favourite. On the next night I bought her dinner – grilled lobster at Soufflot on the boulevard St Michel. On the third night we became lovers. She made me pay her.
‘My heart you get for free. My breasts cost two sous apiece. I hope you think they’re worth it.’
She was worth every penny that I spent on her that spring and summer, but I am proud to say that I gave her more than mere money and tales of my past adventures. I gave Jane Avril her name.
Her real name was Jeanne Richepin, but she was anxious to change it. She wanted a memorable ‘stage name’ because she knew in her bones that she was destined to be a famous dancer. She also needed a new soubriquet because, once she had made her fortune, she did not want her mother – who had abused her and whom she despised – pursuing her to claim a share of it. We chose ‘Jane’ together because – in my honour – she wanted an English version of her first name, and we chose ‘Avril’ because it was then April, the month of promise.
From April to September 1885, Jane and I were inseparable. She brought me only happiness: she was easy, carefree, uncomplicated – and funny. When we made love, she laughed, told jokes and chattered – I had known nothing like that before. We were good companions and happy lovers and, when our lust subsided, we remained friends.
We are close friends to this day. And today – Thursday, 20 March 1890 – I took Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle to meet her. She is now the principal attraction at the Moulin Rouge, the vast, new cabaret on the boulevard de Clichy, by place Pigalle. She no longer dances the polka. The cancan is her speciality these days – and it is the dance that has made her and the Moulin Rouge famous.
She is not so pretty as once she was. Her long face is more drawn; her eyes have lost their sparkle; and her chestnut-brown hair – once so fine – is now coarse and the reddish-brown colour of henna. The glow of girlhood has gone (she is twenty-two), but her wonderful laugh and her sense of mischief remain.
We found her, as expected, at the Café Gump, just opposite the Moulin Rouge, sitting at a pavement table, drinking coffee and smoking a small Algerian cigar. She wore a red velvet coat, with black fur trimmings, and a bonnet piled high with ostrich feathers.
‘Robert!’ she cried as soon as she saw me. ‘I miss you more and I love you more with every passing day. How are you? You look terrible.’
‘I have not slept,’ I explained. ‘Not a wink.’
I introduced her to Oscar and Conan Doyle.
‘We have not slept. We came over on the night train.’
‘You are all unshaven and exhausted.’
She laughed, inspecting us with amused eyes and pointing to the three empty chairs around the table.
‘Be seated, gentlemen. I will get you breakfast. You are weak with hunger.’ She reached out for Oscar’s hand. ‘Monsieur Wilde, you are quite green.’
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‘The English Channel was in Gallic mood last night,’ said Oscar, closing his eyes as he slumped down on to the chair at her side.
She called out to the waiter who was standing in the doorway of the café.
‘A calvados for Monsieur Wilde – and coffee. And ham and eggs – and bread. These are my friends. Look after them well.’
She turned to Conan Doyle. ‘I like your moustache, Monsieur. Your moustache tells me that you are a good man – brave and strong. I have often told Robert that he should grow a moustache. It would suit him.’ She blew a kiss to me across the table. ‘I miss you every day, Robert,’ she said. ‘And every night.’
Conan Doyle coughed awkwardly before attempting a gallant response to Jane’s compliment. He spoke in adequate French, but haltingly.
‘May I say that you are even more beautiful, Mademoiselle, than Mr Sherard had led us to believe. I am sorry we are not able to stay in Paris long enough to witness your celebrated cancan.’
‘I will dance for you any time, Monsieur,’ she replied, taking both Conan Doyle’s hands in hers and gazing steadily into his red-rimmed eyes. She glanced towards me. ‘You must grow a moustache like this, Robert. I have never known anything so seductive.’
Conan Doyle flushed scarlet instantly.
‘We have business to attend to, Jane,’ I said, as the waiter arrived with a pot of coffee and a bottle of apple brandy.
‘I know,’ she answered, opening the bottle and pouring Oscar a libation. ‘I got your telegram, Robert. Look, I am here – and I have barely slept either. I was dancing until two – but I am at your service, always.’
She dispensed our drinks and gave us coffee while the waiter brought us plates of ham and scrambled eggs.
‘You said you wanted to talk to me about Lulu Lavallois. Apart from you, Robert, she is my dearest friend. We are like sisters. But she never writes. Has she had a triumph in England? What is her news? How is she?’
Oscar sat up and opened his eyes. ‘She is dead, Mademoiselle. Did Robert not tell you?’
‘Dead?’
Jane Avril put her hands to her face, rocked back in her seat and wailed. Her cry was pitiful.
‘Dead? She cannot be dead.’
‘She is dead, Mademoiselle,’ repeated Oscar. ‘I am sorry that we bring you such dreadful news.’
‘I am so sorry,’ I bleated. ‘I did not wish to put it in a telegram.’
Arthur Conan Doyle was now crouching at Jane’s side, with one arm around her shoulders and the other holding a small bottle of smelling salts to her mouth and nose. ‘Breathe deeply, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘And slowly. Take your time.’
‘How did she die?’ gulped Jane. ‘Why did she not write? What was her sickness?’
‘She was murdered,’ said Oscar. ‘In cold blood, in London, on Tuesday night. That is why we are here.’
It was a full half-hour before Jane had recovered sufficiently to answer our questions. Our scrambled eggs had turned cold; the ham was left untouched. Only the calvados served its purpose. We all took some and the waiter brought us more.
Eventually, once Oscar had outlined the circumstances of the murder, and when Conan Doyle had calmed and soothed Jane to the best of his ability, the poor girl said she was ready to tell us whatever we might want to know. Drying her eyes with clenched fists, and throwing back her head to face us, she said, with startling vehemence: ‘I will do anything to help you – anything.’
‘Why would anyone wish to murder Lulu Lavallois?’ asked Oscar simply. ‘That’s what we need to know.’
‘And because you were her best friend,’ I added, ‘you will know her secrets.’
‘Lulu had no secrets,’ cried Jane. ‘She was all goodness.’
‘We all have secrets,’ said Oscar.
Conan Doyle rested his hands on Jane’s and, leaning in towards her, almost as if to exclude Oscar and me from the conversation, asked her a series of questions in his imperfect, awkward French. He spoke softly, gently, as if trying to coax information from a sickly child.
Did Mademoiselle Lavallois have enemies in France?
No, none at all – everyone who knew her loved her.
Did she have family?
None that Jane had ever met – Lulu was an only child: she had never known her father; she had run away from her mother as soon as she was able; it was, said Jane, ‘the usual story’.
When Jane had last seen her, did Mademoiselle Lavallois seem anxious, fearful or frightened in any way?
No, far from it – she seemed as happy as a lark. In fact, Jane had never known her happier.
Had Monsieur Oller, the owner of the Moulin Rouge, resented Lulu’s departure?
Oh no, quite the reverse – Monsieur Oller had been more than content to see her go: Les Ballets Fantastiques had paid the Moulin Rouge a handsome fee for releasing Lulu from her contract.
As I sensed Conan Doyle struggling with his next question, I asked it for him. ‘Did Lulu have lovers?’
Jane laughed. ‘We all have lovers. Love is our life. Love is our trade. Love is what we do.’ She regarded Conan Doyle seriously. ‘Yes, Lulu had lovers – many lovers.’
‘Was there one in particular?’ I asked.
Jane smiled and looked at me kindly. ‘No, my friend, she did not have a “Robert”. She shared her favours, but not her heart.’ She returned her gaze to Conan Doyle. ‘She had many lovers, Doctor – and, no doubt, numbered doctors among them. And lawyers and bankers and soldiers and sailors. And artists – and even artisans. And villains, too. In our line of business, we meet all kinds and conditions of men. Some are generous, some are less so. Some are good and some our bad. We learn to look after ourselves.’
‘And could Mademoiselle Lavallois look after herself?’
‘Yes,’ said Jane, raising her brandy glass, as if offering a toast in memory of her friend. ‘Lulu was strong – and brave. She was fearless – and funny. She had only friends.’
She drank from her glass, then stared bleakly into it. ‘Who could do this terrible thing?’
‘One of just a dozen people,’ said Oscar.
He sat forward as he spoke and breathed deeply, smiling directly at Jane Avril and narrowing his eyes to study her. The tinge of green had left his cheeks. His complexion had regained its customary yellow pallor – what he called ‘the colour of cheap white burgundy’. His lips were purple and full. Oscar was himself again.
‘My dear,’ he said, in his impeccable French, ‘talk of Monsieur Oller and Lulu’s litany of lovers is neither here nor there. Whatever anyone tells you, whatever you may read in the newspaper, your friend was murdered in a cubicle attached to the ante-room to the royal box at the Empire Theatre of Varieties in London’s Leicester Square. She was murdered by one person or, possibly, two. Whoever killed her left the murder weapon behind – in the ante-room, half hidden in a tray of sandwiches. There are just twelve suspects. There can be no others. I have the twelve names here.’
From inside his coat, Oscar produced a small pocket notebook, which he opened and laid flat upon the table.
‘Here is a circle of names. One of these men murdered your friend.’
The names were written in pencil in Oscar’s neat hand and arranged on the page as we had been standing on Tuesday night at the moment when Louisa Lavallois’s body was discovered.
‘There are fourteen names here,’ said Jane Avril, looking at the notebook.
‘Yes,’ said Oscar. ‘As you can see, mine is one of them and I know that I did not commit the murder. I think it unlikely that Professor Onofroff did, either. He is a mind-reader by calling – an elderly gentleman and quite frail. But, more to the point, he was standing in the centre of the circle conducting the seance – so that all eyes were constantly upon him. And even as the circle was forming, as we were milling to and fro, the professor was the focus of attention. Because we were concentrating on the professor, we paid little regard to one another.’
‘Lulu was murdered during
a seance?’ asked Jane.
‘Moments before it began, I think,’ said Oscar. ‘I imagine that Mademoiselle Lavallois arrived in the vestibule adjacent to the room where we were all standing just as Professor Onofroff was calling us to order and as the gas lights were lowered. I surmise that the murderer alone noticed her arrival. He saw her step into the cubicle to powder her nose and he seized his moment. He slipped away from the crowd and followed her into the cubicle. He committed the crime and returned to the circle – all unheeded. It was the work of moments. They say most murders are completed in fewer than ten seconds.’
Jane shuddered. ‘What do you want of me?’ she asked.
‘I want you to consider these names,’ said Oscar. ‘I want to know if any of these names rings a bell of any kind – triggers a memory or a thought that might lead us somewhere useful. I want you to tell me if you recollect Lulu Lavallois ever mentioning any of these gentlemen. One of these men is her murderer.’
Jane considered Oscar’s notebook, then looked up at him and smiled. ‘Well, I know it is not Robert – and I am sure it is not Dr Doyle.’
Oscar smiled also. ‘Moustaches can be cruelly deceptive,’ he said. ‘Remember that a smooth-faced man has nothing to hide behind.’
Conan Doyle cleared his throat and scowled. ‘This is a serious business, Oscar,’ he muttered in English.
‘Let us assume Arthur and Robert are innocent,’ continued Oscar in French, ‘at least, for the time being.’
He leant forward towards his notebook and placed his finger on the page.
‘Let me take you through the names, Mademoiselle, one by one. Let us start here, at the bottom. Antonin Dvorak. Does that name mean anything to you?’
Jane stared intently at Oscar’s notebook. ‘No,’ she answered.
‘Think carefully,’ said Oscar.
Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers Page 21