‘The words were not mine,’ said Oscar, coolly.
‘But your portrait was on the poster, Oscar, alongside a spray of lilies, a profusion of sunflowers and, as I remember, the prettiest full-breasted maiden you ever saw.’
‘Is this true, Oscar?’ I marvelled. ‘Did you give your blessing to “Madame Fontaine’s Bosom Beautifier”?’
‘It was some years ago,’ he said. ‘I think you were living in Paris at the time.’
‘Oh, yes, Robert,’ continued Daubeney, with lubricious relish, ‘Our Oscar is a noted connoisseur of the female form.’
‘My taste has become somewhat more refined with the passing years,’ said my friend lightly, feeling in his pocket for another Player’s Navy Cut.
Daubeney turned over the first print to reveal another. ‘So, Oscar, you prefer something less obvious nowadays, do you? More subtle, less obtrusive, more gamine. Is this more to your liking?’ The naked girl in the painting was standing on a sheath of red silk, wrapped in fur, gazing out to the artist. Her round breasts rested on her folded arms. ‘We are told her name is Helen Fourment. More than that we do not know.’
‘She was someone’s daughter,’ said Oscar, quietly, ‘someone’s sister …
Daubeney laughed. ‘But not yet someone’s wife. Look at her innocent face. Look at her mouth. She is a virgin you may be sure of that.’ He turned to the next print. ‘This is my favourite. I notice the cufflinks you are wearing, Oscar. I think this may prove to be a favourite with you, too.’
Oscar was wearing the enamel cuff-links that he had worn the day before, the ones that featured a miniature reproduction of Leonardo da Vinci’s painting, The Virgin of the Rocks. The Rubens print that George Daubeney now displayed was entitled The Origin of the Milky Way. It was a painting of the Virgin Mary offering her left breast to the Christ child. With his gloved hands, Daubeney held up the picture for Oscar to inspect more closely. ‘Feast your eyes upon the teat, my friend. It quite revives your faith, doesn’t it?’
Oscar drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Is this enthusiasm of yours, George, entirely seemly in a man of the cloth?’
‘God gave us seed that we might spill it, Oscar,’ replied the clergyman, almost in a whisper. He closed the portfolio and began to tie up the blue. ribbon. ‘If you have had satisfaction from The Virgin of the Rocks, I have other, similar cuff-links in stock. Just in from the Americas, I have The Virgin of Guadalupe …’
‘And the price?’ Oscar raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. ‘Five pounds, as ever?’
‘Indeed,’ said Daubeney, ‘and, as ever, the quality is guaranteed.’
Oscar paused and contemplated Daubeney. ‘I now know why you removed your cuff-links when you took refuge in the church on the morning after the fire in Cheyne Walk. It wasn’t because the cuff-links didn’t match. It was because you realised that you would shortly be interviewed by the police …’
Daubeney smiled at Oscar and with the tip of his tongue collected the flecks of moisture from either side of his mouth. ‘You noticed?’ he said. ‘Yes, I removed the cuff-links because I feared that they might send out the wrong signal. In my limited experience, the officers and men of the Metropolitan Police do not appreciate the subtleties of fine art in the way that we do.’
Oscar snapped shut his cigarette case and turned away from the shop counter to look about the room. ‘As it happens, George, what we’re in search of this afternoon is simply a book. Un Coeur simple, a short story, de Gustave Flaubert.’
Daubeney wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved quickly across the room. He stopped to scan a particular shelf. He ran his fingers alone the spines of assorted volumes. ‘Alas, Charles does not appear to have it.’ He turned to Oscar and shrugged. ‘I can offer you Madame Bovary. She had fine breasts.’
‘Is that a feature of the novel?’ asked Oscar, laughing.
‘It is when I read it,’ Daubeney replied.
‘We must go,’ Oscar announced, moving me briskly towards the door. ‘Doubtless we shall see you tonight, George—for McMuirtree’s bout.’
‘Of course. I am the padre. It requires my blessing.’
‘A tout à l’heure, then, mon ami. Give our regards to Monsieur Hirsch.’
Our sullen cabman was waiting where we had left him, at end of Beak Street, outside the Crown tavern. As we climbed aboard the two-wheeler, Oscar remarked: ‘At least we’ve learnt something this afternoon, Robert.’
‘And what is that?’ I asked.
‘That Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers was spared a great deal when the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney broke off their engagement.’
Oscar called up to the driver: ‘We failed to find a simple heart in Beak Street, cabby. We’re now on our way to the Ring of Death, by way of Gower Street and Tite Street, if you’d be so kind.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE QUEENSBERRY RULES
To our surprise, when we reached Astley’s Circus amphitheatre that evening, at a few minutes before eight o’clock, we discovered that the steel filings of London town had not been drawn irresistibly towards the magnet of the Ring of Death. The upper tiers of the amphitheatre were all closed and, on the ground floor of the auditorium, the seats around the boxing ring were, at best, a quarter filled.
In vain, we looked about for a familiar face. In due course, searching for the consolation of a drink, we found a handful of our friends clustered together at one end of the rear-stalls bar. Oscar, in a midnight-blue evening suit, with a simple red rose for a buttonhole, stood in the centre of the near-deserted room, his arms outstretched. ‘Where is everybody?’ he enquired.
‘At your play, Oscar,’ answered Charles Brookfield, amiably, ‘or possibly queuing along Shaftesbury Avenue in the hope of booking tickets for mine. We at least offer drama, after our fashion. What’s on offer here tonight is but a charade—a “demonstration bout”. It counts for nothing.’
‘Why are we here then?’ asked Oscar, gratefully accepting one of the beakers of cheap champagne being held out to us by Bram Stoker.
‘In Queensberry’s honour,’ said Brookfield. ‘The Marquess is a good man. We’re supporting him. Simple as that.’ He accepted one of Oscar’s cigarettes. ‘In a few weeks’ time, “Gentleman Jim Corbett” will take on “Boston Strong Boy John L. Sullivan” in the heavyweight boxing championship of the world—the first-ever title match prize-fight to be fought with padded gloves according to the Queensberry Rules. History will be made. This is the curtain-raiser—a chance for those who don’t know the Queensberry Rules, or still have their doubts about them, to see the rules in action.’ He glanced at his pocket watch. ‘This evening—somewhat later than advertised, by the look of it—your friend McMuirtree is going head-to-head with another old codger in a “friendly” to demonstrate “fair fighting, Queensberry-style”. McMuirtree claims he’ll pull no punches—but no blood will be spilt either, that I guarantee.’ Brookfield looked about the empty bar. With the corner of his left eye he winked at Oscar. ‘No blood: no crowds.’
‘Has anyone seen McMuirtree?’ I asked.
‘We all have,’ said Edward Heron-Allen. ‘He’s in his dressing room, holding court. Your friend, the Reverend Daubeney is in attendance, sprinkling him with holy water.’
‘Sickert’s there, too,’ added Bram Stoker, evidently much amused by the notion, ‘sketching the great man as he prepares himself for the ring.’ He topped up our champagne.
‘And Lord Queensberry?’ asked Oscar.
‘He’s there, as well,’ said Brookfield, smiling to himself while studying the plume of smoke rising from his cigarette. ‘Very much so.’
Stoker chuckled. ‘His lordship is a man obsessed. He keeps whispering his mantra into McMuirtree’s ear: “No wrestling, no hugging, nothing below the belt.”‘
We laughed. ‘As you know, Oscar,’ said Brookfield, looking up, ‘The Queensberry Rules are very clear about hugging and anything below the belt.’
Oscar smiled and took a sip of cham
pagne. ‘Were you a boxer at school, Charles?’ he asked.
‘Not really. Cricket was more my game. I rather fancied myself in “whites”.’
‘I always think that the postures adopted by those who play cricket are somewhat indecent,’ said Oscar lightly, dropping the butt of his cigarette into the dregs of his champagne. He touched my arm. ‘Let us go and wish McMuirtree well, Robert.’ He looked to Edward Heron-Allen. ‘Where did you find the great man’s court?’
‘Just behind us here,’ said Heron-Allen, indicating a painted brown door marked ‘Private’ to one side of the bar. ‘The dressing rooms are along the corridor to the left. McMuirtree’s is the first.’
We found it without difficulty. And in it, standing in the centre of the room, we found McMuirtree in high spirits, surrounded by a numerous and oddly assorted entourage. Inspector Gilmour of Scotland Yard was of the party; so were Arthur Conan Doyle and his young friend, Willie Hornung. The Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney was there, changed and shaved since we last we saw him, not sprinkling holy water, as reported, but apparently assisting the boy, Antipholus, who was standing immediately behind McMuirtree, on a three-legged wooden stool, applying oil of some kind to the boxer’s bare back and shoulders. On his hands McMuirtree wore large, ungainly, padded leather boxing gloves, bound tightly about his wrists with leather laces. The lacing was being tied for him, not quite by two handmaidens, but, on the left hand, by a young police officer, one of Gilmour’s men, dressed in the official uniform of the Metropolitan Police, and on the right, by Walter Sickert, dressed in what appeared to be his own version of the uniform of the Transylvanian national guard. ‘Tighter, gentlemen, please—tighter!’ commanded McMuirtree, laughing as he gave the order.
Crouched at the boxer’s feet was the ape-like figure of John Sholto Douglas, 8th Marquess of Queensberry. He was in full evening dress, but his appearance was anything but soigné. His face was red and covered in perspiration. His hands were black. He was squatting, seated uncomfortably on his haunches, holding McMuirtree’s right foot in his lap, examining the boxer’s boot much as a farmer inspects a horse’s shoe. ‘No boots with springs allowed,’ he muttered. ‘No kicking, gouging, butting, biting. No hugging. No blows below the belt.’
As we entered the dressing room and surveyed the scene, McMuirtree called to us: ‘Gentlemen, welcome. I’m still alive, you see.
Conan Doyle, Hornung, Gilmour, Sickert, all spoke a word of greeting. Lord Queensberry looked up at Oscar. ‘Are my sons with you?’
‘Not Lord Alfred, my lord,’ replied Oscar, pleasantly. ‘I understand he is dining with his mother. But Lord Drumlanrig hopes to be here, I know. He is a firm believer in the benefits of boxing—and of the Queensberry Rules.’ He bowed towards the semi-recumbent marquess. ‘Drumlanrig has been raising useful sums for the Earl’s Court Boys’ Club, I understand.’
‘Is Primrose with him?’
‘I do believe Lord Rosebery hopes to be here also, yes, sir.’
‘Good,’ grunted the Marquess, shifting his attention to McMuirtree’s other boot. ‘They can see how real men fight.’
Behind us, at the dressing-room door, a short man in a tall hat appeared. He carried a large hand-bell which he rang three times. ‘The fight’s to begin in ten minutes, gentlemen. Kindly clear the room. Only side-men and seconds to remain. The fight’s to begin in ten minutes. Kindly clear the room.’
Without debate, we did as we were told, wishing McMuirtree good fortune as we went.
‘Is Byrd not one of your supporters?’ Oscar asked as we took our leave.
‘No,’ answered the boxer, now running on the spot and jabbing the air with alternate fists. ‘Byrd’s on duty at the hotel tonight, but no matter—he’s seen me fight often enough. Lord Queensberry and Inspector Gilmour are kindly looking after my interests—I’m in safe hands.’
The entourage was gone. Oscar and I were the last of the visitors to leave. McMuirtree stopped running and stood, alone, between the police inspector and the marquess, towering above them, head erect, arms held out, glistening like a Roman gladiator. Oscar stood in the doorway facing him. ‘Good luck, my friend. I’ve no doubt tonight the better man will win.’
‘Thank you,’ rasped the boxer. ‘And by breakfast, Oscar, all your worries will be over. I will have survived and you’ll know for certain that it was only a game.’
We caught up at once with the rest of the party and made our way back, through the rear-stalls bar, to the auditorium. Francis Drumlanrig and Lord Rosebery had now arrived and were seated together, alone, in the centre of one of the rows McMuirtree had reserved for his guests. Oscar went at once to join them, taking Conan Doyle and Willie Hornung with him. I sat in the row immediately behind them, with George Daubeney, Walter Sickert and Edward Heron-Allen.
I did not like Edward Heron-Allen. He was too charming, too intelligent, too well- and widely read. Whatever the topic of conversation, Heron-Allen had an opinion to voice, an experience to share. When, in the row in front of us, Lord Rosebery, chatting to Conan Doyle, made a passing reference to Sherlock Holmes’s beloved Stradivarius, Heron-Allen leant forward to offer his own thoughts on the history of Italian violin-making, reminding us that he had himself been apprentice to George Charnot, ‘the greatest violin maker of our time’, and that his (Heron-Allen’ s) treatise, Violin Making As It Was and Is, was now in its fifth printing. When Wat Sickert remarked casually that we were having to wait so long for the boxing to begin that he regretted not having brought his library book with him, Heron-Allen immediately embarked on an account of the hours that he had been spending in the Bodleian Library in Oxford preparing his literal translation of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Medieval Persian, marine biology, meteorology, prostitution, prize-fighting—Edward Heron-Allen had something to say on them all. What was infuriating to me was the way in which his trick of turning every topic back to himself seemed so to amuse everyone else. Others found Heron-Allen immensely engaging it cannot be denied. And that some of what he had to say held a certain fascination cannot be denied either.
In the moments before the boxing began, the conversation turned to cock-fighting. Heron-Allen, inevitably, was an authority. In North Africa, apparently, he had lived with tribesmen who bred fighting birds—gamecocks, birds of prey and parrots. Heron-Allen had been taught how to cut the comb and wattle off a cock, how to hood the creature to keep it calm before a fight, and how to sharpen the natural spurs on each of its legs. In some cultures, in India and parts of Africa, he explained, birds were set to fight with ‘naked heels’, using only their natural spurs as weapons. In others, in Europe and America, the birds had manmade ‘gaffs’ or ‘cockspurs’—curved, sharp spikes, sometimes two and a half inches long—tied to their legs with leather bracelets. At his home in Chelsea, Heron-Allen told us, he had a prized collection of silver cockspurs from various lands.
‘None from England, I hope,’ said Conan Doyle.
‘One from Scotland,’ answered Heron-Allen, proudly. ‘Cock-fighting is still quite legal north of the border.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ responded the good doctor. ‘When Lord Rosebery and his party are returned to government, I trust they’ll put a stop to such barbarity.’
Rosebery smiled at Conan Doyle. ‘Yours to command, doctor.’
Eventually—perhaps thirty minutes after we had taken our seats the human bout began. The delay, we later learnt, had been caused by nothing more sinister than the late arrival of McMuirtree’s challenger. Alfred Diego (conceived in Lisbon, born on Merseyside) had travelled from Liverpool for the fight. On his home turf, Diego had a reputation: in London he was virtually unknown. Lord Queensberry—who knew British boxing as well as any man alive—had chosen Diego as a suitable opponent for McMuirtree on grounds of ‘fairness’. The two men were of comparable age and weight and build. Both were known as ‘clean fighters’, both had experience of fighting with gloves and both were said (and claimed) never to have been the loser in a prize-fight. The
bout in the Ring of Death was not, technically, a prize-fight, of course, but there was a purse attached to it nonetheless. Queensberry was paying each man a fee of £10 for his efforts, with a bonus of a further £10 to be awarded to the victor— on condition that, during the course of the fight, none of the Queensberry Rules was transgressed.
When the opponents appeared together in the ring for the first time, a low roar rumbled around the auditorium of Astley’s amphitheatre. When the bell sounded and the first round began, instinctively every man in the hall got to his feet.
‘It quickens the blood, does it not?’ said Lord Rosebery.
‘They’re an ill-assorted pair,’ remarked Oscar. ‘It’s Beauty and the Beast.’
Oscar had reason. The two fighters were well-matched in terms of height and size, but their physiognomies could not have been more different. McMuirtree’s features were well-proportioned; his eyes were clear and open; his skin was as smooth and unblemished as a girl’s. Diego, by contrast, had skin that appeared rough and grimy, like a warthog’s, and an ugly, bruised and battered face that looked as if it had been beaten about with a spade. For all that, as the sparring began, Diego looked to be the fitter and faster of the two.
For the first five rounds, McMuirtree barely moved as Diego danced about him nimbly. McMuirtree stood his ground well enough, but he kept his gloves close to his face, defensively, and on the few occasions when he threw a punch, always with his right hand, it landed wide of the mark.
Between each of the three-minute rounds, the fighters retreated to their corners for sixty seconds. While Gilmour wiped a sponge across McMuirtree’s face and Queensberry whispered instructions in his ear, Edward Heron-Allen gave us the benefit of his wisdom. ‘It’s going to be a long haul. I reckon our man’s pacing himself deliberately. We could be in for twenty rounds.’
Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death Page 22