‘There’s no Lady Abergordon,’ said Bosie, ‘and never has been. The old boy died without issue and without kin. So condolences are not in order either. Brother Francis stands to cop the lot.’
‘What?’ cried Oscar. ‘Your brother stands to inherit Abergordon’s estate?’
‘Down to the last ten thousand acres!’ Bosie looked at Sickert who was still vainly waving his bottle in the air. ‘I agree with you, Wat. I could use a drink.’
Oscar got to his feet as, at last, the club steward— an unhappy Creole who had been given his notice the night before—arrived at the table with a suppressed curse and a fresh bottle of wine. ‘We shall leave you to your drinking, gentlemen, ‘murmured Oscar. ‘Some of us have responsibilities.’
I got to my feet as well. I liked Wat Sickert (everybody liked Wat Sickert: he was like Oscar in that regard) and, on the whole, I found Bosie’s wayward charm diverting, but I’d fallen out of the habit of being my own man. If Oscar wanted my company, he had it—whether I had lunched or not. Somehow, without noticing quite when or how it had happened, I had become Oscar’s creature. Unbidden, I did his bidding.
As my friend moved towards the door, I joined him. Discreetly, he pressed a florin into the waiting hand of the unhappy Creole. With a flourish he turned to wave farewell to our companions. Bosie was already refilling his glass. ‘See you at seven o’clock at the theatre, Bosie,’ he called. ‘Bring your brother if he’s free—he can buy us supper.’ Sickert was lighting a little clay pipe. ‘Thank you for luncheon, Wat. It was fun. I think Monsieur Day-gas’s Women at their Toilette is my favourite. Good day! We’ll see you on Sunday.’
He chuckled as we made our way through the club billiard room and down the stairs into the street. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘Back to the Cadogan,’ he said. ‘Constance is meeting Byrd and McMuirtree at three to review their proposed programme for Sunday’s entertainment. I don’t want her natural delicacy of feeling to stand in the way of some of their more lurid and melodramatic effects.’
By cab we reached the hotel in a matter of minutes. The scene that greeted us there was not so much lurid and melodramatic as pitiful and grotesque. The hotel reception area—an oak-panelled hallway no more than twenty feet square—was awash with a sea of small green feathers. The feathers were everywhere: on the tiled floor, on the steps to the landing, on the porter’s desk, inside the umbrella stand, trapped among the lilies in the vase on the window ledge, floating on the surface of the water of the ornamental fish-tank that stood at the foot of the stairs—everywhere. As we pushed open the front door on our way into the hallway, the sudden gust of breeze we brought with us lifted the feathers from the floor like a sheet being shaken out above a mattress. As the feathers settled to the ground again, we saw that the floor itself was smeared with blood from side to side and end to end.
‘What is the meaning of this horror?’ I gasped.
‘Who would have thought that one small bird could have so many feathers?’ said Oscar, shaking his head sadly as he gazed about him.
As we stood on the threshold of the hallway, transfixed, a young kitchen maid—a girl of fourteen or fifteen, with ruddy cheeks and tears in her eyes— emerged from the alcove beneath the staircase facing us. She was carrying a metal bucket and a mop and was followed by a freckled young lad in uniform— one of the hotel page-boys—bearing a dust-sheet and dustpan and brush. The boy and Oscar appeared to know one another.
‘Sorry business, Mr Wilde,’ said the lad.
‘Indeed, Nat,’ said Oscar. ‘A very sorry business. Poor Captain Flint. Is the manager in?’
‘No,’ answered the boy. ‘He’s off sick. Mr Byrd’s on duty. He’s in the office.’
Gingerly, like boys crossing a stream on stepping-stones, we tiptoed across the scene of carnage and turned off the hallway into a darkened corridor. ‘It’s here,’ said Oscar. He knew his way around the Cadogan. The manager’s office had, until lately, been Lillie Langtry’s ground-floor sitting room. The door to the room was open. We entered without ceremony. There, standing, grouped together around the manager’s desk in the centre of the room, were David McMuirtree, Edward Heron-Allen and Constance Wilde. Seated at the desk facing them, was Alphonse Byrd, ashen-faced and trembling. He looked a broken man. On the desk before him, spread out on the blotting-pad like a specimen awaiting dissection, were the mangled remains of the hotel parrot. The pitiful wings, like stripped branches of a fir tree, were spread wide. The pathetic head hung from the body by a single band of bloody tissue. The bird’s eye, like a fish-eye, stared blindly up at us.
No one spoke. Oscar crossed the room and went straight to the desk. He leant forward and, to my astonishment, laid his right hand against the bird’s cadaver. Tenderly, he held it there.
‘The poor creature’s stone-cold,’ he said.
‘Does that signify?’ asked Heron-Allen.
‘It does,’ said Oscar, quietly. ‘It does. Most certainly.’
‘This is terrible,’ said Constance, stepping towards her husband and linking her arm through his.
Oscar smiled at his wife and asked, ‘When did you get here?’
‘Two minutes ago,’ she said.
‘Five at most,’ said Heron-Allen. ‘Constance and I had lunch together—as you know—and she kindly asked me to accompany her here to see Mr Byrd’s projected magic show. We arrived at three.’
‘The appointment was for three o’clock,’ said McMuirtree, huskily. ‘We all arrived together—’
‘To find this!’ exclaimed Alphonse Byrd, covering his face with his still-trembling hands.
‘You came from outside the building?’ Oscar asked. The three standing figures all nodded.
‘I was upstairs,’ whispered Byrd. ‘As the hallway clock struck three, I came down and found the horror that you see—exactly as you see it. The blood and feathers in the hallway, the parrot’s body on my desk…’
‘Where was the hall porter?’
‘Both porters were on the second floor, collecting the trunks belonging to the American party. We have a group of young ladies from New England departing this afternoon.’
‘Did any of them see anything?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Byrd. ‘I doubt it. I walked through the hallway at ten to three: it was deserted: all was well. I came down again at three o’clock to find …’ He turned away from us, his head in his hands.
‘Well,’ said Oscar, with a shrug, ‘We came for family magic and we find macabre melodrama instead. I think we should leave Mr Byrd to his sorrow and postpone our business to another day.’ He looked towards Constance and Heron-Allen and smiled at them reassuringly. ‘I’ll just check that the coast is clear,’ he added, excusing himself from the room.
We waited for him in silence. McMuirtree stood, his arms folded across his chest, gazing bleakly at the mutilated bird. Heron-Allen moved closer to Constance and touched her on the arm. Within a minute, Oscar had returned. ‘Your admirable staff have cleared away the worst of the carnage, Byrd,’ he said, briskly. ‘I see you have a hip flask on your desk. I trust it’s filled with something fortifying. I suggest you take a nip. You’ve had a shock. We all have.’ He nodded towards David McMuirtree. ‘If you’ll excuse us, we’ll take our leave.’ He offered Constance his arm and led her and Heron-Allen and me out of the room. As he reached the door he paused and turned back and looked once more at the dead parrot spread out on the desk. ‘Poor Captain Flint,’ he said.
As he turned again to depart, David McMuirtree called out, ‘Mr Wilde, what would you advise— should this incident be reported to the police?’
Byrd looked up and said at once, ‘No! No—it will be bad for business.’
‘I agree,’ said Oscar. ‘There’s no need to trouble the police. What can they do?’
When we had regained the street, and moved some yards away from the hotel, walking south along Sloane Street towards Sloane Square, Oscar put his arm around Constance’s shoulder and said,
‘You have had a most unpleasant experience, my dear. I am sorry.’
‘It was horrible, was it not?’ said Constance. ‘Who would do such a thing? And why?’
‘To comprehend cruelty is almost as difficult as to understand love,’ he said, stopping in the street and leaning towards her and kissing her tenderly on the forehead. ‘What time is it, Robert?’ he asked me.
I looked at my watch. ‘Half past three,’ I said.
Oscar turned to Heron-Allen. ‘Edward, would you do me a favour? Would you escort my wife back to Tite Street and sit with her while Mrs Ryan provides you both with a pot of tea and the consoling comfort of crumpets?’
‘It’s far too warm for crumpets, Oscar,’ Constance protested.
‘Alliteration is no respecter of seasons, my dear,’ he said.
Constance laughed, while Heron-Allen pulled himself up in the manly manner of a well-bred young gentleman, clicked his heels together, and said, ‘I should be happy to escort Mrs Wilde home and honoured to take tea with her. We shall not talk of the unpleasantness of the past hour, I promise.’
‘Good,’ said Oscar. ‘Thank you.’ He looked at his wife and kissed her on the forehead once more. ‘Take care, Constance. You are in safe hands. I’ll try not to be too late tonight.’
We watched as Constance and Heron-Allen made their way away from us. We stood in silence looking after them. I thought that they might turn and wave to us, but they did not. I saw Heron-Allen give his arm to Constance and, as she took it, I felt an absurd pang of jealousy. When I was confident they were out of earshot, I said to Oscar, ‘Should you not be with your wife this afternoon?’
‘Do you think that Heron-Allen is untrustworthy?’ asked Oscar, looking puzzled. ‘He is a solicitor. I agree, that’s worrisome. He’s handsome, too.’
‘That’s not what I mean at all, Oscar,’ I said, now flustered and knowing that I had taken on an unattractive, hectoring manner.
‘What do you mean then?’ he enquired.
‘I mean that you have not told Constance of the game that we played on Sunday night.’
‘Indeed not.’
‘She does not know that she was named as a potential murder victim.’
‘Of course not.’
‘She may be in danger, Oscar. Your wife is on the list of those chosen as potential victims of murder— and you are going to the theatre yet again with Lord Alfred Douglas!’
‘You don’t need to remind me of the list, Robert. I have the list,’ he said, suddenly producing a sheet of notepaper from his coat pocket and waving it before me. ‘I am familiar with the list and I see from the list that Constance’s name is the last on it—just after my name !—and those of Eros and Old Father Time! Do not get over-exercised about the list, Robert. Sunday’s game was just a game.’
‘Was it?’ I asked sharply. ‘On each of the three days since we played this so-called game each of the first three names on the list of “victims” has died. Is it “just a game”?’
‘Who is next on the list?’ Oscar asked, unfolding the sheet of notepaper.
‘Sherlock Holmes, I believe.’
‘Sherlock Holmes it is,’ he said, scanning the paper, and, as he said it, the page-boy from the Cadogan Hotel came running along the pavement towards us. Oscar smiled. ‘Well, Nat?’ he asked. ‘What’s the answer?’
‘It’s “Yes”, Mr Wilde—in every particular.’
‘Excellent,’ said Oscar. ‘Thank you.’ He handed the boy sixpence. ‘Spend it all at once, Nat,’ he added. ‘It’s the only way.’ The lad laughed and, pocketing the sixpence, ran back to the hotel.
Oscar turned to me with a look of quiet satisfaction. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Conan Doyle will meet us in the morning, Robert. He has accepted my invitation to breakfast at the Langham Hotel at nine o’clock. We’ll see him then—assuming he survives the night.’
‘Oscar’s Game’
The ‘murder victims’ —in the order in which the names were drawn from the bag at the Socrates Club dinner, Sunday 1 May 1892
1. Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers
2. Lord Abergordon
3. Captain Flint, the Cadogan Hotel parrot
4. Mr Sherlock Holmes
5. Mr Bradford Pearse
6. David McMuirtree
7. David McMuirtree
8. David McMuirtree
9. David McMuirtree
10. Old Father Time
11. Eros
12. A blank slip was drawn
13. Mr Oscar Wilde
14. Mrs Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER EIGHT
BREAKFAST AT THE LANGHAM
That evening, I dined alone in my room in Gower Street. In those days, I would often dine alone: usually in my room, on bread and cheese or a cold sausage and half a beef tomato; occasionally, across the way, at the Mermaid tavern in Chenies Street, on a mutton chop with onion gravy, the Mermaid’s’ speciality ‘.
Oscar, of course, rarely ate alone. That Tuesday evening, he and Lord Alfred Douglas had abandoned their theatre plans and settled, instead, on a five-shilling bottle of champagne at the Café Royal followed by a two-shilling supper at the Florence Restaurant in Rupert Street.
‘There were no nightcaps taken, Robert!’ Oscar called out the moment he saw me the following morning. I arrived at the Langham Hotel promptly at nine o’clock and found my friend seated alone at a round table set for three in one of the darker corners of the hotel’s absurdly bosky Palm Court. He gestured to me to join him and, without pausing to give or receive a greeting, continued: ‘I did as you would have wished, Robert. I was a martyr to self-discipline and uxorial responsibility. I resisted all of Bosie’s blandishments. He proposed whisky-and-soda at the Albemarle. He suggested schnapps and ice cream at the Savoy. He even tried to entice me with the promise of a pint of porter at the Empire, Leicester Square. Still, I held firm. “Get thee behind me, Douglas!” I cried, “I am going home.” And by half past ten, Robert, I was back in Tite Street.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘You will be less glad when I tell you what I found there …’
‘My God!’ I exclaimed, suddenly alarmed. ‘What? Tell me.’
‘I found Edward Heron-Allen there.’
‘With Constance?’ I shook my head. ‘The man knows no shame.’
Oscar nodded solemnly. ‘You are right, Robert. He was still speaking of asparagus.’ Oscar sat back and burst out laughing. He unfurled his linen napkin with a flourish. ‘I have ordered kidneys and poached eggs for us both. The beverages are already present and correct.’
‘What did you do with Heron-Allen?’ I asked, while my friend solicitously poured me a cup of tea.
‘I sent him packing—when I had thanked him for keeping my wife company. Edward Heron-Allen adores Constance.’
‘I know,’ I grumbled, ‘that’s why I don’t trust him.’
‘You should, Robert. I do. We both care for Constance, don’t we? She is never safer than when Edward Heron-Allen is there. He loves her. He would lay down his own life to safeguard hers.’
‘I had not thought of that,’ I said. ‘Nevertheless,’ I added, lowering my voice, ‘I remain mistrustful.’ I leant towards Oscar and muttered, sotto voce: ‘The man’s a self-confessed pornographer, is he not?’
Oscar smiled and stirred his tea. ‘Given the word’s Greek roots,’ he answered, lowering his voice to match mine, ‘a pornographer, strictly speaking, is concerned with writing of harlots.
Heron-Allen’s interests are far broader than that. The gross bodily appetites of men and beasts, in all their rich variety, are Heron-Allen’s peculiar obsession. The more unusual the practice the more intrigued is our Edward. I am certain he does not speak of these matters to Constance, but the other night he introduced me to a new word whose meaning you may guess at … “necrophilia”.’
‘Good grief!’
Oscar smiled. ‘That was Conan Doyle’s reaction exactly,’ he said out loud, looking up and welcoming the arriv
al of a rack of toast at our table.
‘Where is Conan Doyle?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure that he’s coming?’
‘That’s what Nat told us.’
‘Nat?’
‘The page-boy from the Cadogan you recall? He brought us word from Arthur yesterday afternoon. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Oh,’ I said, lamely. I was confused.
Oscar looked at me with a gently supercilious raised eyebrow. ‘Yesterday afternoon, Robert, when I realised that poor Captain Flint was the third of our “victims” to be found dead since Sunday night and that Sherlock Holmes was the next name on the list, I thought we should take the precaution of meeting up with Arthur to discuss the situation. Just before we left the Cadogan, I found Nat and asked him to convey my message to Arthur. Just after we left the Cadogan, Nat found us in the street and brought us the good doctor’s reply.’
‘Was Arthur in the hotel at the time then?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Oscar. ‘Arthur was in South Norwood.’
I fell silent for a moment. ‘I can’t fathom it, Oscar. If Arthur was in South Norwood and the boy was at the Cadogan Hotel—how on earth did they communicate?’
‘By telephone!’ said my friend, triumphantly.
I was amazed. ‘Does Conan Doyle have a telephone—in South Norwood?’
‘Nowhere is a telephone more necessary than in South Norwood, Robert.’ Oscar smiled his sly smile. He scraped his butter knife noisily across his toast. ‘Arthur has had a telephone installed because he is a medical man. Doctors get priority, apparently. But soon, I’m told, we shall all be linked by telephone— the length and breadth of the land. The telephone is about to revolutionise both the art of conversation and the science of detection. I am thinking of having one installed in Tite Street.’
‘Do you know how to use a telephone, Oscar?’
‘Not yet, but I have children, Robert. They will teach me.’
I laughed and, as I did so, glanced up to see coming towards our table, simultaneously, side by side, our waiter, bearing our kidneys and poached eggs, and Arthur Conan Doyle, looking distinctly flustered and bedraggled.
Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death Page 8