Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death

by Gyles Brandreth

  ‘Discipline, fitness and skill …’ repeated Oscar, revealing his teeth in a mischievous grin. ‘They’re what’s wanted in Earl’s Court, to be sure. Here in Chelsea, naturally, we incline more to indulgence, indolence and idleness.’

  ‘You’re wicked, Oscar!’ hissed Miss Cooper.

  ‘That’s why we love him,’ murmured Lord Alfred Douglas at her side.

  Oscar moved towards the mantelpiece. ‘Iced champagne and Russian caviar are to be served shortly,’ he announced. ‘But, first …’ He held out his arm towards the arena he had just vacated: ‘The entertainment!’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ cried Cyril and Vyvyan simultaneously.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, would you please welcome this afternoon’s master of magic and prince of illusion, late of the Victoria Music Hall, Solihull, sometime toast of the West Midlands circuit, now darling of the Cadogan Hotel pantry, Mr Alphonse Byrd, together with his able assistant, the David and Goliath of Astley’s Circus, Mr David McMuirtree!’

  Oscar raised both hands above his head and clapped them together loudly as Byrd, alone, stepped from the corner of the room and took a bow. He was thin and pale and, for an entertainer, disconcertingly solemn. When he bowed, he bowed low, letting his arms hang forward so that his fingers almost touched the ground. The crown of his head was bald and mottled, and what little hair he had was white and wispy. He stayed bent forward, sustaining his bow for longer than was comfortable, and then, suddenly, as the applause subsided, he stood up abruptly, stretching his arms out wide—and, as he did so, two huge bouquets of brightly coloured paper flowers appeared in either hand! As we gasped and laughed and cheered, Byrd stepped towards Constance and carefully laid both bouquets on her lap like a mourner placing floral tributes on a grave.

  His entertainment lasted half an hour. His skill was considerable. Effortlessly, without emotion, with barely any commentary, and with minimal assistance from McMuirtree, he made playing cards vanish and top hats disappear. From an empty cardboard box—which he pierced repeatedly with a rapier—he produced a violin. He transformed oranges into lemons, lemons into billiard balls and a furled umbrella into a union flag. Oscar especially liked it when he turned a jug of water into a carafe of wine. ‘Always a favourite,’ he murmured.

  The climax of the entertainment involved neither snake-charming nor fire-eating, as I had hoped. Constance had vetoed both. Instead it was a celebration of what Oscar described gleefully as ‘the worst excesses of the French revolution’.

  ‘Finally,’ said Alphonse Byrd, ‘or should I say “finalement”?’—it was the only hint of humour in his entire presentation—’may I introduce “Madame La Guillotine”? It is her birthday. Let us wish her well.’

  As Byrd spoke, McMuirtree stepped forward carrying a tall and weighty object, draped in a black silk sheet. It was about five foot high and two feet wide, a little smaller than a cheval mirror. With a flourish, he pulled away the sheet and revealed what appeared to be an exact replica of a guillotine. The Wilde boys squealed with pleasure. Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper giggled. The other ladies in the room all gasped.

  ‘This instrument of execution,’ said Byrd, unflinching, ‘was first used in the streets of Paris-in the Place de Grève, to be precise—one hundred years ago this week. Our model is smaller than the French original, but it’s quite solid—the beams are made of Welsh pine, the blade is made of Sheffield steel, the block is English oak—and it works well enough … See!’

  From a basket beneath the magician’s table McMuirtree produced a large white cabbage and held it high in the air, on the points of his fingers, for all to see. He passed the cabbage to Byrd, who took it, and felt its weight, and laid it on the execution block, lowering a narrow wooden beam shaped like an ox’s halter onto the vegetable to secure it in position. Then, with some ceremony, the magician untied the thin rope that held the blade in place at the top of the guillotine. He held the rope taut so that the blade did not move. ‘Watch,’ he whispered softly, closing his own eyes and turning his head away from the scene. He paused. He took a long, deep breath and held it. ‘Now!’ he cried, with a sudden, terrifying vehemence, releasing the rope and letting the blade fall. It came down at once—sharply, swiftly, silently—and landed with a small thud on the oak block. The cabbage fell to the floor, cleanly cut in two.

  The room was silent. Alphonse Byrd opened his eyes and looked on what he saw with satisfaction. McMuirtree bent down and recovered the two halves of the cabbage. He held them aloft in either hand and bowed.

  For the first time that afternoon, Alphonse Byrd smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Your present attention is even more welcome than your former applause.’ He looked at the apparatus at his side. ‘Our guillotine appears to be in working order,’ he continued. ‘It is time now to put it properly to the test. One hundred years ago, in Paris in the late spring of 1792, a gentleman by the name of Nicolas Jacques Pelletier was the first man to lose his head to the blade of Madame La Guillotine. One hundred years on, in London in the late spring of 1892, do we have a volunteer brave enough to follow in his footsteps?’

  ‘Yes!’ called Little Lord Fauntleroy, jumping to his feet and waving his hand in the air.

  ‘No—please!’ gasped Constance Wilde, reaching forward towards her boy. Together Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper pulled Cyril back onto the floor.

  ‘Why not?’ the little fellow demanded furiously. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Mrs Wilde is right,’ said Byrd. ‘This is not a game for little boys.

  ‘I shall be seven on the fifth of June!’ cried Cyril.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Byrd solemnly, ‘I think we require the services of a slightly older gentleman for this assignment.’ He looked about the room with darting eyes. ‘Who would like to place his head upon the block?’

  From the fireplace, Willie Hornung stirred. He raised an arm and said amiably: ‘I’ll give it a go.’ With a quick hand on the shoulder, Conan Doyle held his young friend back. No one else moved.

  Byrd turned slowly towards McMuirtree. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘in that case I must ask my assistant to assist.’ McMuirtree smiled and began to remove his jacket. Byrd turned back to the guillotine and raised the blade and secured it afresh at its departure point. He produced a silk handkerchief from his pocket and brushed the shards of cabbage from the cutting edge. He lifted the wooden halter that had held the cabbage in place and invited McMuirtree, who had now removed his tie and collar and shirt stud, to lay his neck upon the block.

  The boxer, still smiling, knelt down behind the guillotine. With his large brown hands he gripped the sides of the block, leant forward and put his head in place. He turned his face upward and stared out towards the audience. Byrd brought the wooden halter down around his neck to pinion him.

  ‘Is this suitable for a children’s party?’ demanded Conan Doyle from his position by the fireplace.

  ‘Yes!’ cried Cyril Wilde, clapping his hands with glee. Vyvyan had crawled across Miss Cooper and was now lying across his mother’s lap.

  ‘We’re nearly done,’ said Byrd. ‘In a moment, our revels will be ended. The decapitation itself takes no more than one thirtieth of a second.’

  ‘How does he know?’ Bosie giggled.

  Alphonse Byrd looked down at David McMuirtree. ‘Are you ready, sir?’ he asked. ‘Are you prepared for what’s to come?’

  ‘I am,’ rasped McMuirtree.

  ‘Do you wish for a blindfold?’

  ‘No, I do not.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Byrd quietly. ‘The moment of execution is upon us.’ He turned to the guillotine and solemnly untied the rope. With one hand he held it taut. With the other he reached out to the blade and lightly ran his forefinger along its edge. He winced and sharply drew in his breath. He held his finger out towards the room. A pin-prick of purple blood bubbled into a drop. He put the finger into his mouth and for a moment held it there. Then, as he had done before, he closed his eyes and turned his head away. ‘Watch,’ he whispered softly
. ‘Watch closely.’

  McMuirtree lowered his head. We could no longer see his eyes, but at the very apex of his cranium, within a shallow indentation, clearly visible, a pulse beat steadily. Byrd stood motionless. We waited. There was no sound but of Oscar drawing on his cigarette.

  ‘Now!’ cried Byrd, with a vehemence even fiercer than before. He let go the rope and the blade fell. It fell, crashing down to the oak block in an instant.

  There were cries of alarm and disbelief from every corner of the room.

  ‘What’s happened, Oscar?’ hissed Sickert.

  ‘Is he dead?’ asked Cyril Wilde expectantly.

  ‘It’s only a game!’ called Oscar.

  ‘Indeed!’ cried Alphonse Byrd, smiling for a second time.

  The blade had apparently passed through McMuirtree’s body—you could see it clearly on either side of his neck—but he was not dead. Far from it. Slowly, he raised his head and opened his eyes wide. He smiled and, in his rasping voice, declared: ‘It seems I have survived.’

  As McMuirtree spoke, Byrd set to work, swiftly raising the blade, lifting the wooden halter and releasing his assistant from the guillotine. The boxer rose to his feet at once and, stepping round the deadly apparatus, took his place immediately at Byrd’s side. Together they bowed. Suddenly the drawing room at 16 Tite Street was filled with laughter and applause.

  ‘How did you do it?’ demanded Cyril, running towards the two men open-mouthed with admiration.

  ‘Congratulations gentlemen,’ said Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper getting to their feet.

  Constance called over to the butler. ‘Arthur, we are ready for our champagne now.’

  ‘I think we need it,’ said Edward Heron-Allen.

  ‘I think we deserve it!’ said Margaret Brooke. ‘My nerves are all a-jangle.’

  Her husband wiped his large red face with his handkerchief and chuckled: ‘I’m not sure whether my charitable donation should be larger or smaller because of this.’

  Mrs Ryan and Gertrude Simmonds were already passing through the room carrying dishes piled high with inch-long wafers shaped like tiny rowing-boats, each wafer filled with a spoonful of black caviar.

  Oscar went forward and shook both of the entertainers warmly by the hand. ‘Mr Byrd, Mr McMuirtree,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I doubt that Mr Irving himself could have commanded the room more brilliantly.’

  ‘How did they do it, Papa?’ asked Cyril, tugging at his father’s ultramarine frock coat.

  ‘We must not let daylight in on magic,’ replied his father.

  ‘Why not, Papa?’

  ‘Because a secret that was beautiful becomes banal when it’s revealed.’

  The boy, unconvinced, set about examining the guillotine as Byrd and McMuirtree began to dismantle it. ‘Look, Papa,’ he cried, excitedly, ‘the magician’s finger is still bleeding.’

  ‘Only a little,’ said Byrd, tying a handkerchief around it.

  ‘Mr Byrd takes risks for his art,’ explained Oscar. ‘All artists must.’ Oscar smiled at McMuirtree who was wrapping the guillotine blade in a baize cloth. ‘I’m relieved you survived your ordeal, Mr McMuirtree.’

  The boxer laughed and looked Oscar steadily in the eye. ‘And if I survive until midnight tomorrow, Mr Wilde, I think we can consider the case closed.’

  ‘Can I keep the cabbage?’ asked Cyril, lifting up one half of it and holding it close to his chest.

  ‘You may,’ said McMuirtree, ‘if your father will allow it.’

  Oscar sighed. ‘I try to set an example. I wear a columbine in my buttonhole inspired by Leonardo’s Virgin of the Rocks, and my son craves half a cabbage salvaged from the guillotine … What is to be done?’

  ‘Is that a “yes”, Papa?’ enquired the little boy and, assuming that it was, without waiting for an answer, he ran off to find his mother to show her his trophy.

  The butler stood at Oscar’s side with a tray of champagne.

  ‘A drink, gentlemen? You’ve earned it.’

  McMuirtree was about to take a glass, but Byrd stopped him. ‘I think not, Mr Wilde. It’s not really our place, is it? We’ll just gather up our bits and pieces and be on our way.’

  ‘As you please,’ said Oscar. He dismissed the butler with a nod and a smile, bringing his fingertips together in a silent salaam. Oscar turned back to Byrd and McMuirtree. ‘I’m in your debt, gentlemen. I’ll call at the Cadogan tomorrow and we can sort out the crinkle.’

  The entertainers continued packing up their paraphernalia as Oscar set about working the room. He found me nearby, at the piano, scoffing caviar, and having my hand ‘read’ by Mrs Robinson.

  ‘Do you see murder also in Robert’s palm, Mrs R?’ he asked teasingly.

  The lady, who was seated on the piano stool, tilted her head to one side and looked up at him. ‘No, Mr Wilde,’ she said firmly. ‘We are each unique. Every hand is different. In Mr Sherard’s hand I see no sudden death, no murder—but much matrimony!’

  ‘I am hoping to be divorced, Mrs Robinson,’ I said softly.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ replied the lady soothingly, ‘but you’ll be married again—twice more.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ I cried.

  ‘You may not want to believe it,’ she said, ‘but it’s clearly written. Look …’ She held open my palm. ‘Your life-line flows long and strong—from here to here and cutting across it, as you can see, are tiny sets of parallel lines, like bridges. Each bridge represents a marriage. Along your life-line there are three …’ She looked up and smiled at me. She turned to Oscar and took his right hand and turned it over and laid his palm next to mine. ‘Now, when we consider Mr Wilde’s life-line, what do we see? It’s deeper than yours, wider—the river flows faster, the currents are deeper and more powerful …’

  ‘And how many little bridges cut across my life?’ Oscar enquired, leaning forward the better to see his hand.

  ‘Just the one,’ she answered. ‘Here.’ I saw the tiny parallel lines she spoke of.

  ‘And where is this “sudden death” you say you saw in my unhappy hand?’

  ‘There,’ said Mrs Robinson letting her pointed fingernail rest on a concentrated confusion of tiny lines that were undoubtedly evident in Oscar’s palm—and as certainly absent from mine.

  ‘Your hand is the map of your life, Mr Wilde,’ explained the fortune teller, running her fingers lightly across my friend’s palm. ‘I look down onto your hand and I see a landscape laid out before me— with hills and valleys, dense forests and open fields, and flowing through them the principal river—your life-line—with, running into it, tributaries, so many of them—smaller rivers, streams, rivulets, brooks and gullies, each one representing a different current in your life. Where this brook abuts this field, Mr Wilde, I see a whirlpool … and it worries me.

  ‘“Where this brook abuts this field …”’ repeated Oscar. ‘Do you choose your words with care, Madam?’

  ‘I hope so,’ replied the lady, ‘but I work more with pictures than with words. The lines of your hand form shapes. I see the landscape of your life, but I see also pictures of many of God’s creatures hidden there. And each picture tells its story. Look at the base of Mr Sherard’s ring finger and what do you see?’

  I peered closely at my own hand. ‘A triangle?’ I suggested.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘And another triangle set across it?’ I ventured.

  ‘I see a starfish, Mr Sherard,’ she said.

  ‘And what does a starfish signify?’

  ‘An island, usually.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I was brought up on the island of Guernsey …

  ‘Yes,’ jeered Oscar, ‘and I was brought up on the island of Ireland, but I see no starfish at the base of my ring finger.’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Robinson, lifting Oscar’s palm close to her eyes, ‘but there’s a creature drawn there nonetheless—a bird.’ She held Oscar’s hand towards me. ‘It’s as clear as day, is it not?’

  ‘
A bird?’ exclaimed Oscar. ‘A bird, you say? Is it a parrot?’

  Mrs Robinson laughed and pushed Oscar’s hand back towards him. ‘Don’t be absurd, Mr Wilde. It looks nothing like a parrot. Look at the long legs, look at the elongated bill … a heron, perhaps?’

  Alphonse Byrd and David McMuirtree brushed past, carrying their stage properties. Edward Heron-Allen followed them, with Cyril on his shoulders. Little Lord Fauntleroy was still clutching his half-cabbage to his chest. ‘We’re on our way, Mr Wilde,’ said Byrd. ‘Apparently you ordered a four-wheeler for us—much obliged.’

  ‘Excuse me, dear lady,’ said Oscar, extricating his hand from Mrs Robinson’s. ‘I must just see these gentlemen to their carriage.’

  We followed them to the landing where Constance was standing talking with Conan Doyle and young Willie Hornung. ‘Thank you for a quite wonderful entertainment, gentlemen,’ she said.

  Alphonse Byrd simply nodded his skull-like head and said, ‘Good day, Mrs Wilde,’ but David McMuirtree put down his cases and prepared to take his hostess’s hand. As he did so, as he was bending forward towards Constance, quite suddenly, he clutched desperately at his own chest, turned away from her and fell headlong down the stairs.

  We stood transfixed. Cyril, on Heron-Allen’s shoulders, cried out in alarm and let go of the cabbage, which tumbled down the stairs in McMuirtree’s wake. As it reached the foot of the stairs and rolled towards the boxer’s body, Oscar, peering over the banister, laughed and began to clap his hands. He looked back towards his son. ‘Don’t worry, my boy,’ he said. ‘It’s only a game.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE VIRGIN OF GUADALUPE

  ‘But how on earth did you know that he was playing a game, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘Are we to be friends, Mr Hornung? We have only been acquainted for a week and a day, I know, but already we are lunching together on a Monday. And, Mr Hornung, just as a lady never wear diamonds in the country and a gentlemen never wears brown shoes in town, so it is that two gentlemen never take luncheon together on a Monday unless they see true friendship in prospect.’ Oscar raised his glass of Le Montrachet 1865 in Willie Hornung’s direction. ‘If we are to be friends, Willie, and I think that we are, my name to you is Oscar …’