‘I got caught in a sudden downpour,’ he grumbled.
‘But worse than that,’ said Oscar, ‘you have just realised that you left your umbrella in the hackney carriage that brought you here …’
Conan Doyle stopped in his tracks and gazed at Oscar in astonishment. ‘How on earth did you know that?’ he asked.
Oscar smiled. ‘I saw you come in at the door just now, looking damp but relatively serene. Suddenly, your face clouded over as, frantically, you looked about you. What had you forgotten? It might have been your hat, but your hair is dry while your shoulders are sodden. It must be an umbrella—most likely your favourite umbrella, the special one with the fine ebony handle.’
‘It’s too early in the day for this, Oscar. Come, man, explain yourself. Have you seen me with the umbrella before?’
‘No,’ said Oscar, complacently, ‘but if you turn around, Arthur, and look behind you—standing at the desk, talking to the maître d’hôtel, is a London cabby holding a furled gentleman’s umbrella that bears a remarkable resemblance to the one I’ve just described.’
Instantly, Conan Doyle’s troubled face was wreathed in smiles. ‘Just tea and toast for me,’ he called as he strode off to reclaim his lost umbrella. We watched as he tipped the cabman and shook him warmly by the hand.
‘He’ll be telling him he’s the salt of the earth and the backbone of the Empire,’ said Oscar. ‘There’s no more decent fellow in England than Arthur Conan Doyle.’
When he returned to the table, the doctor was a man transformed. He was bubbling with delight. ‘Salt of the earth, that cabby,’ he said.
‘Where’s the umbrella now?’ I asked.
‘In the cloakroom, I hope, with my hat. The maître d’hôtel offered to look after it. We can trust him, can’t we?’
‘We can,’ said Oscar. ‘Franco comes from Lake Como.’
‘Excellent,’ said Doyle, surveying the breakfast table and reaching for the marmalade.
Oscar leant towards me to explain. ‘Arthur and his wife enjoyed a particularly happy holiday on the banks of Lake Como two summers ago.’
Doyle bit into his toast and, crumbs flying, exclaimed, ‘Oscar, you amaze me! Nothing passes you by.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Oscar, tapping his next cigarette against the back of his silver cigarette case, ‘but I did at least register the fact that the poor parrot’s body was cold—quite cold.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Doyle, mopping marmalade from his moustache, ‘to business. I was sorry to hear about the parrot. It was found at what time?’
‘At three o’clock,’ I said.
‘But it must have been dead for some while,’ said Oscar, ‘an hour and more, at least. And the feathers we found in the hallway were not shed by the unfortunate bird in flight. They were stripped from its body and wings and tail after death and deliberately flung about, hither and yon, like confetti.’
‘Bizarre,’ said Conan Doyle.
‘Brutish,’ said Oscar. ‘The poor creature’s blood had been smeared across the floor.’
‘In any particular pattern?’ asked Doyle.
‘No,’ said Oscar. ‘I looked. It appeared to have been done in haste, at random. Who would do such a thing?’
‘Whoever is working their way through our list of murder victims one by one?’ I suggested.
‘Possibly …’ said Oscar, drawing deeply on his cigarette and looking up into the leaves of the palm tree above him.
Conan Doyle shook his head and attacked another slice of toast. ‘Gilmour of the Yard is adamant that the death of Elizabeth Scott-Rivers was an unfortunate accident, is he not?’
‘He is,’ said Oscar, returning from his reverie. ‘And Lord Abergordon, our second “victim”, was an elderly gentleman who did not treat his body as a temple and appears to have died in his sleep to no one’s very great surprise.’
‘So,’ said Conan Doyle, wiping his moustache once more before laying down his napkin with a show of satisfaction and finality, ‘We have two chance deaths, easily explained, followed by one inexplicable and brutal murder … What next?’
‘Next on the list,’ said Oscar, producing it from his breast pocket, is a “Mr Sherlock Holmes”.’
‘Who on earth would want to murder “Sherlock Holmes”?’ I asked.
‘I do, for one,’ said Conan Doyle, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest, ‘And the sooner the better.’
Oscar pounced. ‘What, Arthur? What are you saying?’
‘I plan to do away with Sherlock Holmes myself.’
‘So it was you who put Holmes’s name into the bag on Sunday night?’
Doyle laughed. ‘No, certainly not. I did not wish to be party to your game, Oscar, as you know, but I freely admit it: as far as I’m concerned, Holmes’s days are numbered …’
‘But Holmes has been the making of you, Arthur,’ Oscar protested.
‘And he could be the undoing of me, too. I have so much else I want to write—romances, adventures, stories that delve into the future and the past. I have poetry to pen, dramas to create. I want to write my play for Henry Irving. One hundred years from now, do I want to be known simply as the man who invented Sherlock Holmes? I think not, Oscar. I plan to kill him in his prime. Indeed, it was on Sunday night that I decided how it might be done.‘
Oscar and I were now sitting forward, giving Conan Doyle our rapt attention. I had never known our Scottish friend be quite so passionate. ‘On Sunday, before dinner,’ he went on, ‘inspired no doubt by the prospect of your game, one of our guests asked me for my views on “the perfect murder” where to commit it and how? It’s a question that I have been asked before, so I had my answer ready. “On the White Cliffs of Dover,” I said. “Or at Beachy Head. Leastways, on a cliff-top somewhere, where, together, unobserved, the murderer and his intended victim can be taking a stroll. All the murderer has to do to achieve his end is seize the moment. When he is certain the coast is clear, with one sharp lunge, our murderer propels his unsuspecting victim over the cliff’s edge to meet his doom. It’s simple, it’s quick, it’s clean and it has several advantages—there are no witnesses, there is no murder weapon and it has all the appearance of an unfortunate accident.”‘
Conan Doyle was not a vain man, but it was evident that he was enjoying his moment ‘holding the floor’. Oscar was an appreciative audience. He picked a fleck of tobacco from his lower lip.
‘You spin a fine yarn, Dr Doyle,’ he said. ‘Pray continue.’
Conan Doyle smiled. ‘On Sunday night,’ he went on, ‘it was the word “accident”, I believe, that aroused the interest of your friend Bosie’s brother, Lord Drumlanrig. “A body going over the cliffs at Dover or Beachy Head doesn’t suggest an ‘accident’ to me,” he said. “Suicide perhaps, but not an accident. If you want to contrive an accident, you need to go to Switzerland.”‘
‘Ah,’ said Oscar, ‘Drumlanrig told you of his uncle.’
‘His namesake, Francis yes—killed in the Swiss Alps. He was with a party of friends, according to Drumlanrig, seasoned mountaineers mostly. They had successfully scaled a peak, somewhere between Zermatt and the Reichenbach Falls, and they were on their way down when the accident occurred. It was a fine day, clear and cloudless; the snow was settled; the conditions perfect for mountaineering. No one knows quite what happened. One moment, Francis Douglas was alive and well; the next, he was gone. He fell headlong into a deep ravine and was never seen again.’
‘His body was not found?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Arthur. ‘His older brother, the Marquess of Queensberry, came out from England to help lead the search. The unfortunate man’s gloves, his belt and one of his boots were found— but that was all.’
‘When was this?’ I asked.
‘Twenty-five years ago,’ said Oscar, ‘perhaps more.’
‘The point is,’ said Conan Doyle, reaching for the teapot, ‘Sherlock Holmes’s fate is sealed. When the time is ripe, I shall be taking my hero t
o Switzerland and tipping him headlong into an Alpine ravine. Holmes will take his final bow and then vanish without trace.’
‘What about his gloves and belt and boots?’ I asked.
Conan Doyle crunched on his toast. ‘I’ll have to think about those.’
Oscar was lighting another cigarette and signalling to the waiter for fresh supplies of tea and coffee. ‘And Arthur, you still maintain it was not you who named “Sherlock Holmes” as one of our victims on Sunday night?’
‘It was not me, I assure you, Oscar.’
‘Then who was it?’ I asked.
‘If you must know,’ said Conan Doyle quietly, ‘it was my guest—my young friend, Willie Hornung.’
‘What?’ cried Oscar, with a splutter of disbelief. ‘Sweet-natured Willie Hornung? Are you sure, Arthur?’
‘He told me so himself. He confessed it, turning crimson as he did so. He apologised profusely. He says that he is wildly envious of my creation.’
‘Envy is the ulcer of the soul,’ said Oscar, watching the plume of his cigarette smoke rise into the palm leaves above him. ‘Socrates teaches us that.’
‘Never mind Socrates,’ said Arthur, chuckling. ‘I told our Willie that, since he aspires to be a writer himself, all he has to do to wreak his vengeance on Sherlock Holmes is create a villainous character of his own to outwit the great detective. Bless the boy—I think he’s going to rise to the bait.’
‘“Rise to the bait …”‘ Oscar repeated the phrase reflectively. ‘Is that why the parrot was murdered, I wonder?‘
A tray of fresh coffee and tea appeared. The débris of breakfast was cleared away. Oscar’s ashtray was discreetly emptied. Clean cups were set before us. Oscar spread out the list of ‘victims’ on the table and from inside his silver cigarette case produced a small card-scorer’s pencil. ‘So,’ he said, marking the list as he spoke, ‘we know that the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney named Elizabeth Scott-Rivers as his intended victim—Daubeney confessed it at the time. We also know that it was Bosie who pronounced death upon the unfortunate Captain Flint. Bosie, like Daubeney, spilled the beans there and then. We know too, again from Bosie, that it was his brother, Francis, who named Lord Abergordon as his victim of choice—though we have yet to hear it from Drumlanrig’s own lips. And now, Arthur, you tell us that it is Willie Hornung who is responsible for naming “Sherlock Holmes”.‘
Oscar had marked a small cross by each of the first four names on the list. ‘What we really need to discover,’ said Conan Doyle, picking up the piece of paper and considering it closely, ‘is who named David McMuirtree. Four people in that room chose McMuirtree as the man to murder. Four!’
My throat was dry, but I spoke nonetheless. ‘I was one of the four,’ I confessed. As I said it, I sensed I was turning as crimson as Willie Hornung must have done.
‘You?’ queried Conan Doyle, putting down his cup abruptly.
‘Why, Robert?’ asked Oscar, looking at me wide-eyed in astonishment. ‘You told me you’d only met the man once before in your life. Why on earth should you choose David McMuirtree as a potential victim for murder?’
‘It was only a game, Oscar,’ I pleaded. ‘You said so yourself.’
‘Indeed,’ answered Oscar, ‘but why McMuirtree— even in sport?’
‘I had my reasons,’ I said.
‘Well?’ demanded Oscar, leaning towards me and extinguishing his latest cigarette with undisguised asperity. ‘What were they?’
‘I don’t wish to say, Oscar,’ I protested. ‘I really don’t.’
‘Come now, man,’ said Conan Doyle, ‘spit it out.’
‘Please excuse me,’ I said.
‘We won’t excuse you,’ said Oscar. He looked me directly in the eye and, suddenly, the anger in his brow evaporated and he smiled at me benignly.
‘You’re with friends, Robert. You can trust us. Indeed, you must.’
‘Very well,’ I said. And still I hesitated. ‘Very well … I chose McMuirtree as my murder victim because … because of something he said.’
‘“Something he said”?’ Oscar expostulated. ‘“Something he said”! When? Where? To whom?’
‘He said it to me when I met him briefly at Tite Street. He and Byrd had come to the house to meet Constance, to see the room in which they are to present their magic show. I happened to be there. That’s when he said it.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Something personal—and outrageous. It was unforgivable.’
‘He insulted you?’ asked Conan Doyle.
‘No, it was not about me.’
‘Was it about me?’ Oscar asked. ‘Was my reputation traduced yet again?’
‘No, Oscar, it was not about you.’ Again, I hesitated. They looked at me expectantly. Eventually, I said: ‘It was about Constance—or, rather, it was about her father.’
‘Ah,’ said Oscar, carefully folding his napkin, ‘the late Horace Lloyd QC.’
‘I’m afraid you’re talking in riddles, Robert,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘I’m lost. Please, simply explain what happened. Tell us what was said—precisely.’
‘Do as the doctor bids you, Robert,’ said Oscar, his eyes now focused on his napkin.
‘It was as they were preparing to depart. Byrd was downstairs in the hallway with Constance. I was still with McMuirtree in the drawing room. I said something about showing him out and he answered with a pleasantry of some kind. He said how delightful it was to meet Mrs Wilde and I nodded in agreement. Then he asked me how well I knew the Wildes. I said, “Well enough, thank you.” He said, “Mr Wilde is a remarkable man.” I answered, “Yes,” quite curtly, and tried to move him towards the door. I was finding his familiarity irksome. But he wouldn’t go. He stood his ground and, looking at me with a horrid smile upon his face, he said, “And Mrs Wilde seems very natural, given the circumstances.” I was outraged. I said, “What do you mean, sir?” He said, “Given what we know of her father.” I said, “Mrs Wilde’s father was a highly respected member of the bar.” “So I’ve heard,” said McMuirtree. “He was also notorious for exposing himself to young women in Temple Gardens. Didn’t you know?”‘
Conan Doyle shook his head in disbelief.
‘I wanted to horsewhip the blackguard there and then,’ I said. ‘Instead, I told him to get out of the house—and when I saw him again on Sunday night and we played that ludicrous game of yours, Oscar, I had no hesitation in choosing him as my murder victim. He’s a slanderer.’
‘McMuirtree’s many things, no doubt,’ said Oscar quietly, ‘but, in this instance, he’s no slanderer. Everything he told you is true.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I protested.
‘Nevertheless …’ said Oscar, smiling. He picked up his list of ‘victims ‘, folded it carefully and returned it to his pocket. ‘Poor Horace Lloyd,’ he said. ‘We all have our secrets.’
CHAPTER NINE
ANOTHER MYSTERY
Conan Doyle glanced about the dining room of the Cadogan Hotel. ‘Does Constance know?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Oscar, through a cloud of cigarette smoke, ‘I don’t believe she does. She was just a child at the time. She knows that her parents’ marriage was not especially happy, but, to date, she has been spared the details of her father’s peculiar peccadillo.’ He smiled at us wanly and took a sip of coffee.
‘I suppose,’ I asked, ‘there can be no doubt about the matter?’
‘I fear not,’ said Oscar, putting down his cup and reaching for the ashtray. ‘The scandal was the talk of the Inns of Court for several years. Horace Lloyd QC had chambers at Number One Brick Court— disrespectful young briefs had a lot of fun with that address. What was so remarkable about Lloyd’s behaviour was its brazenness. By all accounts, in broad daylight he would parade around Temple Gardens with his breeches unbuttoned and his aroused member on full display.’
‘Extraordinary,’ muttered Doyle.
‘Indeed,’ said Oscar, revealing his jagged teeth. ‘He was said to be magnif
icently endowed.’
Arthur was not amused. ‘I’m surprised he was not arrested,’ he said curtly.
‘He would have been,’ said Oscar. ‘He was about to be when a kindly colleague, a High Court judge, took him in hand—so to speak—and warned him off … Poor Horace Lloyd. He died shortly after.’
‘Of shame?’ asked Conan Doyle, not unkindly.
Oscar smiled. ‘Possibly, Arthur. Who knows? The death certificate spoke only of pulmonary problems. He was forty-six years of age—too young to die.’
Conan Doyle sighed and pushed away his tea cup. ‘What in heaven’s name would make a sane man behave in such a way?’ he asked. ‘He was a married man. He was a Queen’s Counsel. Think of the risks!’
‘Apparently, he told his friend the judge that the danger was half the excitement.’
A silence fell among us. It was broken by the arrival at Oscar’s side of a tall, lean figure in a frock coat, holding an envelope. ‘Ah,’ said Oscar, ‘my bill. I have no ready money, waiter. Would you put this to my account?’
‘Can’t do that, sir.’
‘Why not?’ protested Oscar.
‘Let me pay,’ volunteered Conan Doyle, reaching for his wallet.
‘No, Arthur, no!’ cried Oscar. ‘You are my guest. My credit is good here, I’m certain. Waiter, why can’t you put this to my account?’
‘Because, sir, this isn’t your bill and I’m not your waiter.’
‘What?’ snapped Oscar. He looked up sharply. ‘Wat!’ he exclaimed. For the first time, we all looked at the figure in the frock coat. It was Walter Sickert.
‘Nobody notices the waiter,’ said Wat, smiling down on us. ‘I know: I’ve been one. It’s the fate of the serving classes. No one looks the poor bloody staff in the eye. It’s the oldest rule in the book. That’s why you’ll find it’s usually the butler “what done it”—none of the witnesses can recollect what he looked like.’
‘What on earth are you doing here, Wat?’ asked Oscar, looking about him for a real waiter. The restaurant was now deserted. ‘Let’s get you a chair. What time is it? I think we might treat ourselves to a mid-morning bracer.’
Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death Page 9