‘She bought the house two years ago,’ said Daubeney, ‘when her parents died.’
‘And who stands to inherit?’ enquired Oscar, leading our party towards the house.
‘During our engagement,’ said Daubeney, ‘she made a will in my favour, but I imagine, under the circumstances, she will have changed it.’
As we climbed the front steps, there were shards of glass beneath our feet. ‘Careful,’ said Conan Doyle.
Oscar peered over the iron railings into the area below. ‘There is glass everywhere,’ he said.
‘Aye,’ said a booming voice at the window, ‘but not for long. We’ll have this cleared up in a jiffy. We’re almost through.’ The voice belonged to a large, red-headed, red-faced Scotsman. He wore a tweed overcoat with the collar turned up. He must have been in his mid-forties, but he looked much younger. Life had not yet got the better of him. He had merry brown eyes, a broad smile on his lips and a pencil behind his right ear. ‘What brings you here, Mr Wilde?’ he enquired, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head to one side.
‘By all that’s wonderful,’ cried Oscar, ‘Inspector Archy Gilmour!’ The police inspector and Oscar were old acquaintances. Gilmour was now the senior detective at the Criminal Investigations Department of the Metropolitan Police. His path and Oscar’s had crossed on several previous occasions. Gilmour had met me, too, though he did not appear to remember it. Inevitably, he recognised Conan Doyle and, when he opened the front door of 27 Cheyne Walk to us, it was Doyle whose hand he shook first. ‘I’ve just read “The Red-Headed League”, Dr Doyle. It’s your masterpiece. Where you get your ideas from—it’s beyond me.’ He looked up at the clear blue sky, narrowed his eyes and sniffed the air. ‘It’s a bright, crisp morning, ideal for a walk by the river, gentlemen, I agree, but what brings you to this particular doorstep, I wonder? Was it your notion, by any chance, Mr Wilde?’
Oscar smiled. He claimed it as axiomatic that redheaded men over forty were not to be trusted, but he allowed Archy Gilmour as the lone exception to his rule. ‘We’re here,’ said Oscar, ‘with this gentleman— the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney.’
‘Ah,’ said Gilmour, shaking Daubeney’s hand, ‘the sometime fiancé of Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers. I read about the case.’ His manner changed. He paused and took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid that I have bad news—’ he began.
‘We know,’ Oscar interrupted. ‘Miss Scott-Rivers is dead. That is why we are here. Mr Daubeney was outside the house when the fire broke out.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Gilmour, ‘So this is our runaway witness! The firemen spotted him climbing down from the window ledge as they came ashore.’ Gilmour looked at Daubeney. ‘I’m glad you’ve returned, sir. We’ll need to take a statement from you.’
‘I understand,’ said Daubeney, lowering his eyes.
‘He’s fearful,’ said Oscar. ‘The circumstances are somewhat delicate.’
‘Aye,’ said Gilmour, still looking towards Daubeney. ‘As I recall, Miss Scott-Rivers successfully sued you for breach of promise and secured substantial damages.’
‘Everything I possess,’ said Daubeney quietly. ‘I had loved her once, so much. I came to hate her. But I would not for the world have wished her life to end like this.’ He raised his head and looked towards the burnt-out windows and shuddered.
‘Indeed not,’ said Gilmour. ‘It was a horrible death. A terrible accident.’
‘An accident, you think?’ enquired Oscar, gently.
‘There’s little doubt of that, Mr Wilde,’ Gilmour answered. ‘She was alone in the house. It was a Sunday night and both the servants were away. The front door was locked and securely bolted from the inside. So was the garden door at the rear of the house. So was the basement door at the foot of the area steps. She had locked herself in for the night. And then, tragically, before retiring to bed, in her drawing room, she stood too near the fire … her dress caught light and the flames engulfed her. It happens all too often. In London, last year, a dozen women died just like this.’
‘I can believe it,’ said Oscar. ‘May we visit the scene of devastation?’ he asked.
‘There’s nothing to see,’ said Gilmour. ‘The room’s burnt out. Look.’ He directed our gaze through the front window to the interior of the room. The walls were blackened with smoke. What once had been furniture was reduced to assorted piles of smouldering black ash. ‘It was a miracle the fire brigade arrived when they did or the conflagration might have spread to the rest of the house.’
‘Do we know who raised the alarm?’ asked Conan Doyle.
‘No one,’ said Gilmour. ‘By blessed chance one of the Met’s floating fire-engines was steaming back to Southwark Bridge after a night’s patrol and the captain spotted the flames in the window and put ashore.’
‘Where was the body found?’ asked Oscar, holding on to the railings and standing on his toes in an attempt to get a better view inside the room.
‘Immediately in front of the fireplace,’ said Gilmour, ‘on the hearth.’
‘Where is it now?’ asked Conan Doyle.
‘On its way to the morgue at Millbank.’
‘Was the poor woman lying on her front or back?’ asked Oscar, still straining to get a fuller view of the room.
‘On her back,’ said Gilmour. ‘Her head and neck were lying across the fender.’
‘Were her eyes open or closed?’ asked Oscar.
‘Closed,’ said Gilmour.
Oscar stepped back and released his hold on the railings. He turned to George Daubeney. ‘Does this accord with your recollection, George?’
‘It does,’ said Daubeney slowly, ‘in every particular. Hell is a place of fire. It was a hell-hole. That is why I ran away.’ He lowered his eyes once more. ‘I am ashamed of my conduct. I did not behave as a gentleman should.’
‘Well,’ said Gilmour genially, ‘so long as you are ready to make a statement now, that’s what matters. We’ll do it at Scotland Yard, if you don’t mind. Sergeant Rossiter will escort you.’ He indicated the uniformed police officer who was just emerging from a police growler drawn up alongside Oscar’s cab. ‘We won’t detain you long.’
‘And we won’t detain you further, Inspector,’ said Oscar, shaking Gilmour by the hand. ‘It has been good to see you once again, even under such unhappy circumstances.’
We all shook hands and made our ways down the steps to the waiting carriages. As he broke from our group to join the sergeant by the growler, Daubeney looked at us beseechingly and, with his thumb and forefinger wiping the moisture away from his lips, murmured, ‘I apologise, gentlemen, for involving you in this matter in any way. I am so sorry.’
I said, ‘We’ll see you soon, George. Have a care now.’
Conan Doyle nodded towards him and muttered a brief ‘Good day, sir’. Oscar simply raised a hand and waved the unfortunate clergyman farewell.
Daubeney climbed into the police growler with Sergeant Rossiter. Inspector Gilmour crossed the pavement towards our four-wheeler and watched us clamber aboard. As he was stepping into the cab, Oscar paused and turned back towards Gilmour and called out to him. ‘Inspector, her eyes were closed, you say … Are you certain of that?’
‘Without a doubt, Mr Wilde,’ the inspector called back. ‘We have a photograph.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘PLAYING WITH FIRE’
As we settled back into our cab and began the return journey to Oscar’s house in Tite Street, Conan Doyle tugged at his thick walrus moustache and said, reflectively, ‘I don’t know what to make of Daubeney, do you?’
‘Where did you meet him, Robert?’ Oscar asked.
‘At the French bookshop,’ I replied, ‘in Beak Street.’
‘Oh?’ remarked Conan Doyle abruptly.
Oscar laughed. ‘Arthur, you are a Scot with the soul of an Englishman. Anything remotely Frenchified and you’re suspicious.
Conan Doyle smiled. ‘Touché!’ he said.
‘What was he buying?’ Oscar enquire
d.
‘He was browsing,’ I said. ‘We fell into conversation. I don’t why it should have been so, but I was somewhat taken aback to see a man of the cloth in a French bookshop.’
‘Did he initiate the conversation?’ Oscar asked.
I thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think he did. He struck me as likeable, but lonely.’
‘Indeed,’ said Oscar. ‘He is sad and of a nervous disposition. And, apparently, easily distracted. I noticed last night that his cuff-links did not match.’
‘Really?’ exclaimed Conan Doyle. ‘I’m surprised I didn’t notice that when I was tending to his hands this morning.’
‘He was not wearing the cuff-links this morning,’ said Oscar.
Our cab turned from Cheyne Walk into Royal Hospital Road. As we passed the ancient Apothecaries’ Garden on our right, Oscar looked out of the window and remarked: ‘Do either of you know this remarkable garden? It contains plants and herbs that can cure every ailment known to man.’
It was Dr Doyle’s turn to laugh. ‘Every one, Oscar?’
‘So an apothecary told me. Or, rather, so an apothecary told Edward Heron-Allen, who told Constance, who told me. Heron-Allen and Constance occasionally take a walk together though the garden in winter.’
‘Is that wise?’ asked Conan Doyle. ‘Is that safe?’
‘They wear galoshes,’ said Oscar, with a grin.
‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ protested Doyle, flushing a little, and moving uncomfortably from one buttock to the other. ‘You told me yourself the man is infatuated with your wife and—as he admitted to me over dinner on Sunday night—he has some quite peculiar interests …
‘He is a world authority on asparagus,’ said Oscar, happily. ‘As far as Edward Heron-Allen and I are concerned, it is our mutual admiration for my wife that unites us. As far as Edward and Constance are concerned, it is their shared love of botany that binds them.’
I intervened to change the subject. When Oscar spoke teasingly of Constance, I felt uncomfortable. ‘Oscar,’ I asked leaning forward and tapping him on the knee, ‘Tell me why, just now, you were so interested in the dead woman’s eyes?’
‘I was troubled by something George Daubeney said,’ he answered. ‘That’s all. This morning, at Tite Street, your camarade de librairie—the Honourable the Reverend—when, for the first time, he described to us seeing the body of Elizabeth Scott-Rivers through the window of 27 Cheyne Walk, told us that her face had been “all burnt away” …’
‘I recall,’ I said.
‘But, later,’ Oscar went on, ‘when we were at Cheyne Walk and Inspector Gilmour described the position of Miss Scott-Rivers’s body and told us that the poor woman’s eyes were most definitely closed, Daubeney then said that was his recollection also.’
‘I don’t think the discrepancy is significant,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘The man was confused. He’d been through a traumatic experience.’
‘Indeed,’ said Oscar. ‘In any event, Archy Gilmour seems certain that foul play is not involved—and Gilmour’s a good man. Reliable.’
‘Did Gilmour say that a dozen women a year lose their lives in such-like fires?’
‘He did,’ said Oscar, producing one of his favourite handkerchiefs from his pocket (a white handkerchief with a strawberry-coloured border) and giving his nose a stentorian blow. ‘He did indeed, but I think the figure may be even higher. Two of my sisters died in such a fire, you know.’
Conan Doyle sat up and, with a furrowed brow, looked towards Oscar sympathetically. ‘I did not know,’ he said.
‘I did not know you had two sisters, Oscar,’ I said. ‘I thought you had just the one.’
‘I had three sisters,’ my friend replied, smiling gently and gazing out of the cab window for a moment as if to bring the image of them to mind.
Oscar Wilde was a fabulist—and an Irishman.
He could tell a tale as only a Dubliner can. When it suited his mood, when he felt inclined for a such a story, he would invent wholly imaginary friends and relations for himself and describe them with such complete conviction and so much circumstantial detail—that only the most diligent and determined biographer would be able to sort out fact from fancy. I noticed that, often, when indulging himself in this kind of invention, he produced a prop of some kind to assist him in the story-telling. My suspicions were aroused by his strawberry-bordered handkerchief. ‘Three sisters, Oscar? Is this true?’ I demanded.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, turning to look at me, ‘Quite true. You have heard me speak often of my little sister, Isola. She died when she was ten. I loved her dearly. I keep a lock of her hair about me still. But I had two older sisters, also—Emily and Mary Wilde. My papa was liberal in his favours. As a young man, before he married my mother, he fathered three illegitimate children, a boy and two girls. They were brought up as my uncle’s wards, but I knew them as siblings not as cousins. And I loved them.’
‘And the two girls were burnt to death?’ asked Conan Doyle, anxiously.
‘They were,’ said Oscar. ‘I was seventeen at the time. They were twenty-two and twenty-four and lovely as the day is long. One November night, they went together to a ball in County Monaghan and Emily danced too near the fire. Her dress caught light. Mary rushed to save her sister and the flames engulfed them both. My father never recovered from the tragedy.’ Oscar smiled sadly and looked me in the eye. ‘I trust you believe me, Robert.’
‘I do,’ I said.
‘They were lovely and pleasant in their lives and in their death they were not divided. And it’s because of them that I believe so passionately in the work of the Rational Dress Society and encourage my darling Constance in her endeavours in that regard.’
Our four-wheeler was in Tite Street and drawing up outside Number 16. ‘And speaking of angels,’ cried Oscar, blowing his nose once more, ‘look who’s here!’
On the pavement outside the house stood Constance Wilde. She looked as pretty as a picture, in a summer dress of cowslip yellow decorated and fringed with ribbons of eggshell blue. On her head she wore a straw boater with, tucked into the band, a sprig of fresh myrtle. In her way, Constance’s dress sense was as arresting as Oscar’s—less flamboyant, certainly, but just as original. Her boys were disappearing through the front door with their governess, Gertrude Simmonds. As we clambered from our carriage, Oscar murmured, ‘Not a word of this morning’s adventure, gentlemen—not a word.’
‘Welcome home,’ said Constance gaily, looking up at her husband with loving eyes. ‘Robert, Arthur—you have timed this well. Luncheon is about to be served.’
Arthur protested that, alas, he could not stay. ‘South Norwood—my desk—my wife—my daughter—they all call!’ He declared that he must collect his case and be gone immediately. He was sure that, in any event, he had outstayed his welcome already.
Oscar pressed the good doctor to remain, but Arthur was obdurate. Oscar turned to me. ‘You will not abandon us, Robert?’ he pleaded. I protested that I, too, had a novel that called, but I did so with less conviction and Oscar was very pressing. I felt that my friend wanted me to remain for lunch, not so much because he was hungry for my company, but because he no longer wished to be left alone with his wife.
Arthur departed for South Norwood and I stayed for lunch. It was an excellent lunch—watercress soup, followed by grilled turbot, with cold apple pie and hot custard for pudding and, throughout it, Oscar was charmingly on song. He spoke of everything and anything—except for the events of the night before and the drama of the morning. As a special treat, young Cyril, a month away from his seventh birthday, was allowed into the dining room to eat with us. Cyril was a delightful child, with bright, inquisitive eyes and impeccable manners. He did not speak much, but he listened intently and, when he did give utterance, his contributions to the general conversation were memorable. At one point, he turned to Oscar and enquired of his father, ‘Papa, do you ever dream?’
‘Why, of course, my darling,’ Oscar
replied. ‘It is the first duty of a gentleman to dream.’
‘And what do you dream of?’ asked Cyril.
‘What do I dream of?’ answered Oscar. ‘Oh, I dream of dragons with gold and silver scales, and scarlet flames coming out of their mouths, of eagles with eyes made of diamonds that can see over the whole world at once, of lions with yellow manes and voices like thunder, of elephants with little houses on their backs, of tigers and zebras with barred and spotted coats …’ Eventually, Oscar’s stream of imaginings ran dry and he turned to his son and asked: ‘But tell me, what do you dream of, Cyril?’
‘I dream of pigs,’ said the boy.
Over lunch that day we laughed a good deal. It was a fine feast and a happy one. When we had eaten, Constance took Cyril off for his afternoon rest, and Oscar and I took a leisurely stroll up Sloane Street, back to the Cadogan Hotel.
‘Why are we returning so soon to the scene of the crime?’ I asked.
‘There has been no “crime” as yet,’ said Oscar, emphatically, ‘merely an unfortunate coincidence. We are returning to the Cadogan to meet up with Alphonse Byrd. Next Sunday, at Tite Street, Constance and I are hosting another charity fund-raiser and Byrd has kindly agreed to provide the entertainment—assisted, I believe, by his friend McMuirtree.’
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘that explains why I encountered them both at Tite Street the other afternoon. Constance introduced me, but did not tell me exactly why they were there.’
‘When was this?’ asked Oscar, stopping mid-stride. ‘I don’t recall meeting McMuirtree before last night.’
‘You were not there, Oscar,’ I explained. ‘You were at the Savoy, I believe, taking tea with Bosie and his brother. I sometimes think I spend more time at your home, my friend, than you do.’
Oscar rose above my chiding. ‘This coming Sunday,’ he said, resuming our walk, ‘tea in Tite Street will outclass anything dear Cesari at the Savoy has to offer. We shall be furnishing our guests with hock and seltzer, Robert, perfumed teas, iced coffees, cucumber sandwiches, lemon tartlets, Madeira cake and, on the side, a little magic. Mrs Ryan is looking after the comestibles and Mr Byrd is taking care of the magic. You are invited, mon ami, but it’ll cost you a pound at the door, I’m afraid.’
Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death Page 6