‘Do you need me further?’ grunted Lord Queensberry, rubbing the back of his neck with his whip and taking a final look at McMuirtree’s body lying on the floor.
‘No, thank you, your lordship—you‘re free to go.’
‘But, Inspector,’ said Oscar, ‘surely you want to ask Lord Queensberry about the gloves?’
‘What about the gloves?’ asked Gilmour irritably.
‘Who gave McMuirtree the boxing gloves that he was wearing?’
‘I did,’ said Lord Queensberry. A week ago. They were brand new—as required by the Queensberry Rules.’
‘Did you inspect them before you gave them to McMuirtree?’
‘I did,’ said the Marquess. ‘They were in perfect condition. Made by Messrs Sims and Pittam, the best boxing gloves that money can buy.’
‘And you brought them here yourself, last Monday?’ The police inspector listened impatiently as Oscar pursued his line of questioning.
‘I did,’ said Lord Queensberry. ‘In that box.’ With his whip the Marquess pointed to an empty cardboard box that lay open on the floor in the corner of the room.
‘Did McMuirtree inspect the gloves?’
‘He did. He tried them on. He expressed himself well satisfied with them.’
‘Did he then wear them during his training?’
‘No. That would have been contrary to the rules. As far as I know, he left them here in that box until today.’
Gilmour was about to intervene, but Conan Doyle put his hand on the policeman’s arm to stop him. ‘And between last Monday and this evening,’ Oscar continued, ‘who in your view, Lord Queensberry, could have had access to this room and to that box?’
‘Anyone, so far as I know. At least, anyone who had access of any kind to the building. There are no locks on the dressing-room doors.’
Oscar smiled. ‘You noticed that?’
‘I notice a good deal, Mr Wilde. You’ll find that there’s more to me than some suppose.’
‘I don’t doubt it, my lord,’ said Oscar graciously. He stepped towards the dressing-room door and stood within the threshold. He turned and glanced from left to right along the corridor. He turned back and surveyed the room. ‘There are no locks on the dressing-room doors and the entrances to Astley’s Circus amphitheatre are many and varied.’
‘We’ve been watching them,’ said Inspector Gilmour sharply.
‘I’m sure you have, Inspector. McMuirtree was one of yours, after all. May I ask: at any one time, how many men did you have watching the building?’
Gilmour hesitated.
‘Well?’ said Oscar.
‘Two.’
‘There are six public entrances to this building, Inspector. Five of them are shut, except on performance days. One of them is open every day when the box office is open. There are, additionally, three tradesmen’s entrances. And there is a stage door leading to an interesting passageway that runs directly from the Thames embankment to the circus arena itself. Let us assume that the boy, Antipholus, who guards the stage door is not part of the conspiracy and that your two officers were not corrupt, that still leaves a multitude of entrances and opportunities for anyone who wished to do so to slip into the building and tamper with the gloves— assuming that it was not McMuirtree himself who did it … I agree, Inspector. You have work to do. We must not detain you. We will be on our way.
We nodded our goodbyes and left the circus at once. Outside, in the darkened street, as we stood on the kerb, we noticed, underneath a lamp-post, immediately facing us, on the other side of the road, leaning against the embankment parapet, a small, familiar figure in a shabby suit. The light shone brightly on his yellow face. As we waited to cross the road, a police growler trundled past and the little man scuttled into the darkness.
‘Is he watching us?’ I asked.
‘Watching,’ said Oscar grimly, ‘or waiting … Waiting for his moment to pounce.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
OSCAR’S GRID
On the following morning—the morning of Tuesday, 10 May 1892, when, according to my journal, the streets of London were ‘damp and dismal’ and the sky was ‘overcast and threatening ‘—I joined my friend Oscar Wilde in the oak-panelled dining room of the Cadogan Hotel at a little after half past ten. I had gone in answer to his urgent summons—a telegram that reached me in my room in Gower Street at nine o’clock:
COME TO THE CADOGAN AT ONCE. BRING
GALOSHES AND INSPIRATION. OSCAR.
I found my friend seated at a corner table, alone, the débris of breakfast all around him. In his right hand he held both a pencil and a lighted cigarette; in his left he nursed a glass of Portuguese Arinto wine. Before him lay a sheet of foolscap writing paper, densely covered with lines and dates and names and emendations.
As I approached, he looked up at me. His hair was well-brushed and he was freshly shaven, but there were ochre circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes. ‘Has it stopped raining?’ he asked, smiling at me gently and drawing slowly on his cigarette.
‘For the moment,’ I said. I sat down beside him and looked around the table for a coffee cup. ‘How are you this morning?’ I asked.
He closed his eyes and through his nostrils exhaled a long, slow, mistral of cigarette smoke. ‘I am exhausted, Robert, utterly.’ Still holding the cigarette and pencil, he picked up the coffee pot and poured me a cup. ‘I thought that breakfast might revive me. I ordered kippers. The folly of it, Robert! Kippers for breakfast are like cobblestones in a cathedral close—charming in prospect, deuced hard work when you get to them. I have spent an hour picking away at the tiny bones.’
‘What’s this?’ I asked, indicating his sheet of foolscap.
‘This is the reason for my summons, Robert. This is my grid.’
‘Your “grid”?’ I repeated, puzzled.
‘A new word to the language, Robert—a back-formation derived from the word “gridiron”. Since the fourteenth century the gridiron has served as a simple grate for broiling food upon. In the nineteenth century, the “grid” has become an essential tool of scholarship.’ He waved to the waiter to bring me a glass of wine. ‘You will recall, Robert, that in 1871 I was called to Trinity College, Dublin, where I won the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek and was elected to a Queen’s Scholarship. You will further recall that in 1874 I went up to Oxford, taking a scholarship at Magdalen College and, in 1876, I achieved First Class honours in Classical Moderations. Two years later I took a further First in Literae Humaniores and, in 1878, my university career came to a fitting climax when I read my Newdigate Prize Poem in the hallowed hall that is the Sheldonian Theatre.’ He paused as the waiter poured me a glass of Arinto and topped up his. Oscar sipped at the wine and then continued: ‘These scholastic accomplishments were something, Robert, to be sure—at least my mother felt so—but they were not enough, not nearly enough … I can dream dreams in Virgilian hexameters; I can translate Homer on sight; I can unravel Thucydides in the twinkling of an eye; but to get to grips with the case in hand, Robert—to begin to get to grips with it—I need a grid!’
‘Oscar’s Grid’
The ‘gridiron’ created by Oscar Wilde over
breakfast at the Cadogan Hotel on
Tuesday 10 May 1892
Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers
The Hon. the Rev. George Daubeney
Sunday 1 May death by fire
Lord Abergordon
Lord Drumlanrig
Monday 2 May death by natural causes
Captain Flint
Lord Alfred Douglas
Tuesday 3 May psittacicide
Sherlock Holmes
Willie Hornung
Wednesday 4 May
Bradford Pearse
?
Thursday 5 May murder or suicide?
David McMuirtree
Robert Sherard
Friday 6 May
David McMuirtree
Walter Sickert
Saturday 7 May
David McMuirt
ree
?
Sunday 8 May
David McMuirtree
?
Monday 9 May murder or suicide?
Old Father Time
?
Tuesday 10 May
Eros
David McMuirtree
Wednesday 11 May
A blank slip
OW and Arthur Conan Doyle?
Thursday 12 May
Mr Oscar Wilde
?
Friday 13 May
Mrs Oscar Wilde
?
Saturday 14 May
I obliged him with a chuckle. ‘So what exactly is this “grid”?’ I enquired.
‘It’s an ingenious network of uniformly spaced perpendicular and horizontal lines. It’s the sort of thing that Michelangelo or Galileo should have conceived centuries ago, but apparently failed to do so. In essence, it’s a device for ordering one’s thoughts. In this case to date, mine have been a jumble.’
‘And now?’
‘Now, at least,’ he said, passing me his sheet of foolscap, ‘I see the nature of the jumble. I have laid out what information we have within the grid.’
I studied his piece of paper. It was easy to read. Oscar’s manner was flamboyant; his speech was florid; but his handwriting was surprisingly neat. ‘And what does all this tell us?’
‘It tells us what we do not know, which is much— and it tells us, also, that some of what we know makes no sense.’
I looked at him, confused.
‘We know who was at the fateful meeting of the Socrates Club on the night of 1 May, but we do not yet know, in every instance, which diner chose which victim. We need to find out. This morning, before breakfast, I telephoned Arthur Conan Doyle.’
‘And how was he?’ I interjected.
‘In fine fettle. Never better. Convinced that Inspector Gilmour is right and that McMuirtree’s bizarre and bloody death has nothing to do with us. “Just an unlucky coincidence,” according to Arthur. It was not yet nine o’clock when I put through my telephone call. The good doctor had already completed his morning course of callisthenics and breakfasted sensibly, on porridge not on kippers. He told me that he was planning to spend the morning in his hut, moulding his damp clay while contemplating ways and means of doing away with Sherlock Holmes. He was as brim-full of good cheer as a choirboy at Christmas until I asked him a question about the night of 1 May …’
‘Ah,’ I murmured, leaning forward.
Oscar smiled at me. ‘You are a good audience, Robert. You will never lack friends.’
‘Well?’ I said. ‘What did you ask him?’
‘I asked Dr Doyle if he had chosen me as his particular “victim” on the night when we played that foolish game of “Murder”. He seemed taken aback by the question—quite shocked by the suggestion, in fact. “Why should I name you, Oscar?” he asked. “Why not?” I replied. “Willie Hornung named Sherlock Holmes as his victim,” I reminded him, “and Willie is your friend.” “Willie’s just a foolish boy,” said Arthur. “Was it you who named me, Arthur?” I repeated. “Certainly not,” he said. He said it quite indignantly. “Then who did you name?” I asked.’ Oscar paused and took another sip of wine. He swallowed it slowly and closed his eyes.
‘Well?’ I prompted him, impatiently.
Oscar opened his eyes and looked at me steadily. ‘“No one,” said Arthur. “I named no one.”‘
‘What on earth did he mean?’
‘“What do you mean, Arthur?” I asked him. “You named no one?” “I named no one,” repeated Arthur. “I did not wish to participate in the game, so I named no one. Mine was the blank piece of paper drawn from the bag.”‘
‘Ah …’ I said.
‘You may well say “Ah!”, Robert,’ Oscar smiled. ‘I said to Arthur on the telephone: “Yours cannot have been the blank piece of paper drawn from the bag, my friend.” “And why not, pray?” he asked. “Because, Arthur,” I explained, “the blank piece of paper drawn from the bag—it was mine.”‘
‘But, Oscar,’ I said cautiously, ‘I was at the dinner. I was watching you as we played the game. I’m sure I saw you writing a name on your slip of paper … I’m sure of it.’
‘The eye can deceive, Robert. You certainly saw me applying the nib of my pen to a slip of paper, but the nib was dry. I moved the pen across the paper, but I left no mark.’
‘Gracious me,’ I murmured, putting down my glass. ‘This means— ‘Yes,’ mused Oscar, lighting another cigarette, ‘just’ one blank slip of paper drawn from the bag, but two people claiming credit for it—and two people one likes to think one could trust. The glass darkens, Robert. The plot thickens. The mystery deepens. Despite my grid, I’m at a loss. Perhaps, like poor, doomed Holmes, I should resort to drugs or the violin as aids to inspiration. Do you keep cocaine in your rooms, Robert? Do you have a Stradivarius I might borrow?’
‘No,’ I answered, laughing. ‘The only musical instrument I own is a triangle. You’re welcome to that.’
‘A triangle? How wise, Robert—so much easier to pack.’
I smiled and looked down at his ‘grid’. ‘What is “psittacicide”?’ I asked.
‘“The killing of parrots”,’ he answered. ‘I grieve for your classical education, Robert. You are the great-grandson of William Wordsworth!’
I decided to rise above his banter. ‘The deaths in this case are certainly unusual,’ I remarked.
‘Are they not?’ he said, leaning forward. ‘Elizabeth Scott-Rivers is consumed by fire; Bradford Pearse is thrown to the waves; for David McMuirtree it is death by a thousand cuts … This is manslaughter on an apocalyptic scale.’
‘Lord Abergordon died in his sleep,’ I said, returning his sheet of foolscap to him.
‘So we are told.’ He drained his glass and extinguished his cigarette briskly. He waved towards the waiter for our bill. ‘How do you think the murderer plans to despatch me?’ he asked, smiling.
‘Do you truly believe your life is threatened, Oscar?’
‘You’ve seen the ugly little man with the sallow skin and the ferret’s eyes. He’s trailing me for a purpose, Robert—and it’s not a benign one. My life is threatened, without doubt … And Constance’s life, also. I have loved her. I owe her much. I married her. I must protect her now.’
‘Perhaps you should ask Gilmour to put a police guard on Tite Street,’ I suggested.
‘Not yet. Constance knows nothing of this still. I do not want to alarm her before I must. According to the logic of the grid, we should both be safe enough till Friday. These deaths occur sequentially and on the day appointed.’ He glanced down at his ‘grid’. ‘I am not surprised that Friday the thirteenth is destined as my doomsday.’ Smiling, he folded the sheet of paper and placed it carefully in his jacket pocket. ‘We have three days in which to solve the mystery, Robert. Three days in which to find our murderer.’ He pocketed his pencil and his cigarette case, wiped his lips with his napkin and tossed it lightly onto the table.
‘Can it be done?’ I asked, puzzled at how sanguine he seemed under the circumstances.
He got to his feet and straightened his waistcoat in a business-like fashion. ‘When you think what our Lord managed in three days at the end of Holy Week, I am full of hope, Robert. With your assistance, my friend, and with the aid of our grid, anything is possible. Come.’
I got to my feet. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘To meet the suspects, one by one. In turn, to interview each of those who attended the Socrates Club dinner—to learn his secret. We shall start here. I trust you have brought your notebook with you?’
In the entrance hallway of the Cadogan Hotel, we found young Nat, Oscar’s friend, the freckled pageboy.
‘We’re looking for Mr Byrd, Nat,’ said Oscar, slipping the lad a sixpenny piece. ‘Is he about?’
The boy glanced at the grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs. ‘He’ll still be in his bedroom, Mr Wilde, but he should be awake. Shall I take you?
’
The boy led us through a series of baize-covered doors, along a labyrinth of dark corridors to a narrow stone staircase at the very back of the building. ‘It’s seventy steps, Mr Wilde,’ said the boy solicitously, ‘Can you manage?’
‘I have no idea!’ exclaimed Oscar. ‘I have never attempted anything so hazardous before.’
In the event, Oscar climbed the stairs quite nimbly. At every landing, he paused and asked the boy a different question. What did Nat think of Mr Byrd? He liked him: Byrd was a magician and Nat liked that. Did Mr Byrd have many friends? Beyond Mr McMuirtree, none that Nat knew of. Mr Byrd kept himself very much to himself. How had the hotel night manager felt about Captain Flint? According to Nat, Mr Byrd thought the world of the parrot. ‘He loved that parrot, Mr Wilde—doted on it.’ Had the boy seen Mr Byrd on the previous evening? Yes, Mr Byrd was in and around the hotel all evening, as usual. ‘He was mostly in his office or in the lobby. I was on duty till ten, Mr Wilde, like normal. I’m sure Mr Byrd never left the building all night.’
When we reached the attic floor, Nat led us along a narrow uncarpeted corridor, where the ceiling was so low Oscar had to duck his head. There were unpainted, unvarnished pinewood doors on either side of the corridor and the only light came from a round window at the far end. ‘All the male live-in staff sleep up here,’ explained the boy. ‘I share with Billy, the other page-boy, and with Dan and Jonty, the two kitchen lads. We’re opposite Mr Byrd. He’s here.’ We had reached the last door in the corridor.
‘Thank you, Nat,’ said Oscar, producing another coin for the boy. ‘You have brought us to the summit. We’ll do our best to find our own way down.’
The boy took the coin in his left hand and, with his right, gave us a smart salute. With a grin, he then opened his left hand to reveal that the coin had disappeared. Next, he passed his right hand lightly over his head and held out his right palm to reveal Oscar’s coin lying on it.
Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death Page 24