‘And wine was taken,’ added Conan Doyle, ‘somewhat too liberally.’
‘Indeed,’ said Oscar, smiling ruefully. ‘But what’s said when drunk was thought when sober. Did that last slip of paper really name “Mrs Oscar Wilde”?’
‘I fear so,’ said Doyle. ‘It was intended as a joke, of course, but it was a poor one.’
‘Could it not have been a slip of the pen?’ I suggested.
‘It could, I suppose,’ said Conan Doyle.
‘I don’t think we’ll mention it to Constance, do you?’ said Oscar.
‘I think we should all forget all about it,’ urged Conan Doyle, emphatically. ‘It was only a game, after all.’
When we reached Tite Street, the house was in darkness. The street was in darkness, too. It was one o’clock. The family was asleep and the staff—the three of them: Arthur, Oscar’s faithful butler, Mrs Ryan, the cook, and Gertrude Simmonds, the boys’ devoted governess—had retired for the night. Arthur had left the hallway gasolier lit low and put out candlesticks to light us to our beds. ‘You’re in my study, Robert, on the divan,’ said Oscar, ‘as befits a married man in the throes of a divorce. You’re in the guest-room, Arthur, on the second-best bed. I’m leaving it to Constance in my will, of course. Goodnight, gentlemen. Sleep well. Don’t brood on the events of the evening. They’re done. As Arthur says, it was only a game, after all.’
I slept profoundly. Absurdly, I eased myself towards sleep with playful thoughts of Constance Wilde. My marriage to Marthe was a dead and dreary thing so dead, so dreary I lacked the energy or interest even to pursue my divorce and my dalliances with Kaitlyn and Aniela, once so thrilling, had now run their course. I was thirty-one and in want of love. To think of Constance in terms of romance was utterly ridiculous, of course—she was four years my senior and had no eyes for any man but Oscar— and yet, by way of reverie, nothing more, to picture myself in her arms was something quite delicious.
I did not wake until ten o’clock in the morning. I found Oscar and Arthur, already breakfasted, dressed and shaved, seated in the Wildes’ white drawing room reading the morning papers. As I entered the sunlit room Oscar sighed from behind his copy of the Morning Post. ‘Tell me,’ he breathed, wearily, ‘why, oh why do I persist in reading this stuff? The newspapers of today chronicle with degrading avidity the sins of the second-rate, and with the conscientiousness of the illiterate give us accurate and prosaic details of the doings of people of absolutely no interest whatever. I must give them up.’
‘Good morning, Robert,’ said Conan Doyle, amiably, lowering his copy of The Times.
Oscar threw down his newspaper. ‘I need a hobby,’ he declared. ‘I must take up sculpture, like Arthur here. Good morning, Robert. Did you sleep well?’
‘Good morning, Oscar. Yes, thank you, very well.’
‘I hope you dreamt well. Dreaming is your hobby, I know.’
I laughed and looked about the room in the hope that there might be a pot of coffee somewhere to be found. ‘Is Constance about?’ I asked.
‘She and Gertrude Simmonds have taken the boys to Kensington Gardens. They have gone to feed the ducks. Everyone, it seems, has a useful hobby, but I.’
‘I’ll go in search of some coffee, if I may,’ I said.
‘Of course,’ said Oscar. ‘Mrs Ryan will boil you an egg as well. And Constance will be back shortly, I’m sure. But, remember, Robert: when you see her, not a word about last night, if you please. It was only a game, but my darling wife is a sensitive creature and I would not want to distress her for the world.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I shan’t say a word. But I still can’t help wondering which of our motley party would have thought of naming Constance like that, even in jest.’
‘Stop wondering,’ said Conan Doyle, sharply. ‘Forget all about it.’
‘I will,’ I said. ‘I have.’
‘Good,’ said Oscar, turning his head towards the window. ‘It is a golden day, is it not?’
As he spoke, and we followed his eye towards the sun-filled casement, the three of us were abruptly arrested in our thoughts by the sudden crack-crack-crack of what sounded like pistol shots.
‘Good God!’ cried Conan Doyle, leaping to his feet, ‘What’s that?’
The triple-crack sounded once more. The noise was louder than before. ‘It’s someone at the door,’ said Oscar, getting to his feet and moving cautiously towards the window. The furious rat-tat-tat continued. ‘It’s some lunatic gone berserk with the door knocker.’
‘Who is it?’ demanded Conan Doyle, joining Oscar at the window and peering down into the street.
‘I cannot tell,’ said Oscar. The knocking had stopped. ‘Either he’s gone or Arthur has let him in.’
There was a sudden commotion in the hallway downstairs: the sound of two men arguing. There was the noise of a momentary scuffle, followed by the fierce pounding of footsteps on the stairs and then, suddenly, in the drawing-room doorway, there appeared before us, in besmirched and dishevelled evening dress, the shambling figure of the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney. His hands were covered in blood.
‘Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers …’ he cried. ‘The woman that last night I said I wanted to murder … she is dead! She’s been burnt alive.’
CHAPTER FIVE
A DEATH IN CHEYNE WALK
‘Calm yourself, man,’ said Conan Doyle.
‘Did you do it?’ asked Oscar.
George Daubeney stumbled into the Wildes’ picture-perfect drawing room and collapsed upon a low chaise-longue. He buried his head in his bloodied hands and began to sob uncontrollably.
‘Control yourself, sir!‘ ordered Conan Doyle. The good Scottish doctor—who was no more than eighteen months my senior but always seemed to me to be older than my father stepped out onto the landing to where Oscar’s butler was hovering anxiously. ‘A bowl of boiling water, towels and soap, if you please,’ he said. ‘And perhaps Mrs Ryan could prepare some sweet tea?’
‘Shall I fetch the kitchen brandy as well, sir? ‘called the butler over his shoulder as he hurried downstairs in answer to Doyle’s clear command.
‘No, thank you, Arthur. I think alcohol has done enough damage for one night. If you can bring up my bag when you come, I’d be obliged. It’s by the hat-stand in the hallway.’
In the sun-filled drawing room, Oscar was seated in an armchair immediately facing the wretched Daubeney. The clergyman’s sobbing had given way to a low, pathetic whimper.
‘Did you do it?’ repeated Oscar. ‘Did you murder Miss Scott-Rivers?’
Daubeney lifted his head from his hands. His eyes were bulging, bloodshot, rimmed with tears. The irises were a dirty yellow, the colour of old straw. He looked directly at Oscar, but said nothing.
‘He’s in a state of shock,’ said Conan Doyle, returning to the room.
‘He’s not alone in that,’ said Oscar, quietly. Conan Doyle got down on his haunches and squatted by George Daubeney. ‘We’re going to clean you up, man, and you can tell us what’s occurred.’
Daubeney shook his head. ‘I do not know,’ he mumbled.
‘What don’t you know?’ asked Doyle.
‘I do not know what happened,’ said Daubeney, very slowly. He seemed to be in a kind of trance. He turned away from Arthur and gazed at Oscar, imploringly. ‘Help me,’ he whispered.
‘I can smell fresh smoke,’ said Doyle, sniffing at the man’s grubby apparel. ‘He’s been in a fire all right.’
‘She’s dead,’ whispered Daubeney. He was barely audible.
‘Did you do it?’ Oscar repeated the question for the third time.
‘Her face was gone, burnt clean away. Her hair was still alight.’
Oscar got up from his chair and paced towards the window. ‘We must get him out of here before Constance returns.’ He turned to me. ‘Where does he live?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said.
‘He’s your friend, Robert,’ Oscar snapped. ‘You brought him into our lives.’
‘I think he has a room in Wandsworth.’ I faltered. ‘I barely know him, Oscar.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Oscar, quickly. It was rare for him to show his temper. As a rule, his demeanour remained serene even at the most testing of times. ‘That was uncharitable of me, Robert. Unpardonable. His family have disowned him, I know—you told me. I do not ask you to do the same.’
‘I know very little of him,’ I protested.
‘Help me,’ bleated the hapless creature on the chaise-longue.
Arthur and Mrs Ryan came into the room. The butler, a towel thrown across his shoulder, was carrying a pail of steaming water and a bar of carbolic soap in one hand and Conan Doyle’s bag in the other. The housekeeper brought in a tray crowded with cups and saucers, jugs and pots, a biscuit barrel and a small decanter of cognac. ‘There’s sweet tea and coffee here,’ she said, ‘and some brandy—for medicinal purposes.’
‘There’s no need,’ said Conan Doyle.
‘The brandy’s for Mr Wilde,’ said Mrs Ryan crisply. She placed her tray on top of the grand piano. ‘Shall I leave you to look after yourselves, gentlemen?’
‘Indeed,’ said Oscar, beaming at his housekeeper. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ryan.’ As she left the drawing room, she smiled and dropped a curtsy towards her master. ‘There’s no need to mention this disturbance to Mrs Wilde when she returns,’ Oscar added. ‘Best not trouble her or the boys.
The butler followed the housekeeper out of the room. As he left us, I noticed that Oscar inclined his head towards him and brought his fingertips together as if offering his servant a silent salaam. I helped Oscar pour out the refreshments. He added a generous dash of cognac to my coffee and his own. I took a cup of sweetened tea over to George Daubeney. Conan Doyle had washed the man’s hands and face and was now applying tincture of iodine to the torn skin on his palms and wrists and arms. Daubeney winced. I held the tea cup to his lips. He drank from it slowly. I realised, looking into the man’s face closely for probably the first time, that Conan Doyle had been correct in his initial assessment: Daubeney had a weak mouth.
‘Tell us what has occurred, Daubeney,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘Take your time, but tell us everything. It may be necessary for us to call the police.’
‘The police will already be there,’ answered Daubeney, taking the tea cup from me and draining it in a long, slow gulp.
‘Where?’ asked Oscar.
‘At 27 Cheyne Walk her house.’
‘Is that where you’ve come from?’ asked Doyle.
‘Yes.’
A silence fell.
‘Well?’ said Oscar.
‘What happened?’ barked Conan Doyle. ‘For God’s sake, man, tell us what happened!’
Conan Doyle’s outburst produced the desired result. Daubeney handed his tea cup back to me and looked about the room, as if taking in his surroundings for the first time. ‘When I left you last night,’ he began, ‘I walked down to the embankment and along the water’s edge towards Wandsworth Bridge. There was no moon, but it was a fine night and when I reached her house I saw the light in her window.’
‘Whose window?’ asked Conan Doyle. ‘The window of Miss Scott-Rivers?’
‘Yes,’ said Daubeney, ‘Her drawing-room window.’
‘Had you gone with the intention of seeing her?’ asked Oscar.
‘No, not for a moment,’ he protested. He had not spoken so loudly before. His sudden vehemence was startling.
‘And yet,’ said Oscar calmly, ‘when you left the Cadogan Hotel, you said you had business to attend to?’
‘I was in drink,’ replied the man, casting his eyes to the ground.
‘You were not drunk,’ said Oscar. ‘I watched you during dinner, Mr Daubeney. You consumed two glasses of wine all evening, three at most.’
‘I did not murder her, Mr Wilde. You must believe me. That is why I have come here now. I need you to believe me.’
‘You told us all you wished to see her dead,’ said Oscar.
‘But I did not kill her.’
‘Yet she is dead, you tell us.’
Daubeney shuddered. ‘Burnt alive,’ he said, closing his eyes.
‘What happened?’ Conan Doyle demanded. ‘Pull yourself together, man.’
Daubeney opened his eyes and looked at Conan Doyle directly. ‘I reached her house. It’s on the embankment, fifty yards or so from the water’s edge. I saw the light in her window—in her drawing-room window, on the ground floor. Yes, I admit it. For a while, I did consider going up to the front door and ringing the doorbell, and attempting to gain admittance, but I did not do so. I swear to you, as God is my witness, I did not do so.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Oscar.
‘I sat in front of her house, on a wooden bench on the embankment overlooking the river Thames. I sat and I prayed. I prayed for her soul and for mine.’
‘And then?’
‘I fell asleep.’
‘You fell asleep?’ cried Conan Doyle. ‘For how long?’
‘I do not know. What awoke me was the shriek of the klaxon from the fire-boat on the river. I heard it. I came to. Then I saw the fire-boat steaming through the darkness towards the embankment. I turned about me and I saw the house … There were flames leaping from her window. The drawing room was ablaze. I ran towards the house. I ran up the front steps. I beat on the door. I climbed across the iron railings. That’s when I tore my coat. I climbed from the front steps up onto the ground-floor window ledge and beat my arms against the window-pane. The glass smashed. I fell forward and caught myself on the edge of the window frame. And then I saw her, lying by the fireplace, her face all burnt away, the flames dancing around her skull, burning the stubble of her hair as in a forest fire.’
Oscar was on his feet. ‘We must go there now.’
Conan Doyle was still crouching at Daubeney’s side. ‘What happened next? Did you go into the room?’
‘The flames beat me back,’ said Daubeney, hiding his face behind his fingers as if in shame. ‘I climbed back along the window ledge, and jumped over the area steps onto the pavement. I could hear the firemen by the embankment. They were coming ashore. I panicked. I ran away. I took refuge nearby—in All Saints church. I hid in the chapel of St Thomas More. I lay beneath the altar and I prayed for her soul and for mine. And, for a while, I think I slept. And when day came, and the church began to come to life, I crept out and made my way here.’ He turned towards Oscar. ‘I needed to see you, Mr Wilde. I needed you to know that whatever I said last night when playing that infernal game of yours, I did not murder Elizabeth. By all that’s holy, I swear to you I did not.’
Oscar said nothing.
‘Mr Daubeney,’ said Conan Doyle, getting to his feet. ‘Everything you have told us you must now tell to the police.
Daubeney looked at Oscar imploringly.
‘Dr Doyle is right,’ said Oscar. ‘There is no time to lose. The longer you take to report what you know to the proper authorities, the more suspicious your behaviour will appear to be.’
‘I am innocent,’ pleaded Daubeney, getting to his feet and turning desperately between Oscar and Conan Doyle.
‘I know,’ I said, ‘but do as my friends advise, George. It will be best.’
‘Our cab is here,’ said Oscar, looking out of the window. ‘Let us go to Scotland Yard by way of Cheyne Walk.’
Conan Doyle looked at Oscar with a puzzled expression. ‘A cab is here already?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Oscar. ‘A four-wheeler—as I ordered.’ He smiled and ushered us towards the door. ‘As your man Holmes would say, Arthur: “I have my methods”.’
Though the traffic was heavy, the journey from Tite Street to the Embankment took no more than a quarter of an hour. We travelled in silence. George Daubeney and I sat facing Oscar and Conan Doyle, our knees almost touching, but each of us apparently wrapped in his own thoughts. Arthur gazed intently out of the cab window, like a tourist visiting a fascinating foreign city for the first time. I sensed th
at the good doctor wanted to distance himself from the business in hand. Oscar, by contrast, seemed wholly absorbed by George Daubeney. He looked at him fixedly, studying first his face, then his hands, then his shoes and clothing, then his face once more. Daubeney had his eyes closed and his head bowed. His skin was pale and rough, like gravel. He had no beard to speak of. His nose was thin and pointed. His lips were virtually invisible, but his mouth was noticeable because of the beads of saliva visible at either edge. He was not a pretty sight.
When we reached our destination, our four-wheeler drew up alongside a small hose-cart. Two young firemen, with dirty faces, were leaning against it, smoking cigarettes and drinking tea from tin mugs. ‘These are good lads,’ said Oscar as we alighted.
We stood by our cab for a moment and surveyed the scene. The house itself, a tall, handsome, redbrick building, built in the first year of Queen Victoria’s reign, had evidently survived the fire. The damage done was all concentrated in the ground-floor drawing room, to the right of the front door. The window-panes were shattered: the window frames were burnt away. Even standing in the street, we could see that the walls of the room were blackened from floor to ceiling and the furnishings quite destroyed.
‘I have been here before,’ said Oscar, looking up at the house. ‘Bram Stoker lived here once upon a time.’
‘When was this?’ asked Conan Doyle.
‘Ten years ago, at least,’ said Oscar. ‘This house is no stranger to unexpected death. Bram told me how he rescued a drowning man from the river and carried him into the house and laid him on the dining-room table. The poor man failed to recover and Bram went in search of the police. He left the house and, moments later, Mrs Stoker, unaware of the drama, entered the dining room carrying a vase of freshly cut flowers destined for the sideboard. You may imagine her dismay at finding the body of a dead stranger lying on her dining-room table.’
Conan Doyle looked at George Daubeney. ‘How long had Miss Scott-Rivers been living here?’ he asked.
Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death Page 5