Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death

by Gyles Brandreth

‘The question is,’ said Willie Hornung eagerly, leaning forward and lighting his cigarette from Oscar’s, ‘Did George Daubeney commit the second murder on the list? Did Daubeney murder Lord Abergordon? If Daubeney was a chaplain at the House of Commons he must have had access to the House of Lords.’

  Oscar chuckled and rested his hand on Hornung’s. ‘No, Willie. For once, I believe the medical men may have got it right. Lord Abergordon was an elderly gentleman who died in his sleep—of natural causes. He was not murdered.’

  ‘But McMuirtree was murdered,’ said Heron-Allen emphatically, tapping the table with a clenched fist. ‘There’s no doubt of that. We were there. Daubeney was there. Did George Daubeney murder David McMuirtree?’

  ‘No!‘ cried Inspector Gilmour. He snapped his pencil as he spoke. ‘No,’ he repeated, more calmly, ‘I don’t believe there’s any question of that.’

  ‘The inspector is right,’ said Oscar, soothingly. ‘Daubeney did not murder McMuirtree. He had reason to, perhaps. McMuirtree may have known something of Daubeney’s secret life. McMuirtree made it his business to know all about the secret lives of others. And Daubeney was certainly with McMuirtree at the last. As Edward says, we saw him there, in the dressing room, with McMuirtree’s blood on his hands. Daubeney may have pressed the blades deeper into the dying man’s wrists, but he did not place them there. Daubeney was not McMuirtree’s murderer.’

  Willie Hornung puffed at his cigarette. ‘Did he at least murder Bradford Pearse?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said the waiter seated on Oscar’s right. ‘No, George Daubeney did not murder Bradford Pearse. ‘The man’s voice was deep and low; mellow, friendly, and oddly familiar. ‘Nobody murdered me, I’m happy to say.’

  ‘Good God!’ cried Bram Stoker.

  ‘By all that’s wonderful,’ called out Wat Sickert, throwing down his cigar and getting to his feet. He moved around the table with his arms outstretched. ‘My friend!‘ he cried. ‘My Lazarus!’

  Bradford Pearse got to his feet and acknowledged the applause that swept around the table. He embraced Wat Sickert like a long-lost brother.

  ‘And you’ve been here all evening,’ roared Bram Stoker, ‘you’ve ladled out our soup, you’ve carved our roast, you’ve poured our wine …

  Bradford Pearse broke from Sickert’s embrace and looked down the table. ‘It’s true what they say, Bram nobody notices the bloody waiter!’

  ‘Well, well,’ muttered Conan Doyle, pocketing his watch once more. ‘South Norwood will have to wait. Tell us your story, Brad. What happened? Unfold your tale.’

  ‘It’s a tale told by an idiot,’ said Pearse, his arm still around Wat Sickert’s shoulder. ‘I’ve been a fool, Arthur—a bloody fool.’ He broke from the artist and looked around the table and bowed apologetically towards us all. ‘I own it, gentlemen. I’ve been a fool to myself—and to my friends.’

  Wat Sickert drew a chair from the side of the room and perched himself on it, between Oscar and Bradford Pearse. ‘Don’t apologise, Brad,’ said Sickert warmly. ‘We’re glad to see you—even without your beard.’

  ‘I do apologise,’ said Pearse, seating himself once more. ‘I have caused my friends unnecessary anxiety.’

  ‘What happened, man?’ repeated Conan Doyle, leaning forward and looking the actor directly in the eye.

  ‘My story’s easily told,’ answered Pearse. He sat upright in his chair, his broad shoulders held well back. ‘That night, when we played Oscar’s game, I chose myself as my own victim. I did it partly for amusement’s sake—and partly because, that night, at least, I did indeed want to be shot of Bradford Pearse. I was engulfed by money worries, gentlemen—engulfed. Indebtedness is the actor’s lot, I know. I’m accustomed to it and, as a rule, I take it in my stride—I have good friends; and Mr Ashman is a most sympathetic pawnbroker but that night I felt quite overwhelmed.’ He looked in turn towards Oscar and Wat Sickert and clutched each of them by the hand. ‘Those who’ve had money worries will understand completely.’ He looked, not unkindly, towards the Douglas brothers and smiled. ‘Those who have not, will not understand at all.’ He took a deep breath and rubbed his face with his thick-fingered hands. Without his beard he seemed much younger than he had done before.

  ‘The morning after our dinner here I travelled to Eastbourne to appear in a play—Murder Most Foul, an absurd farrago known in the business as Play Most Atrocious. We opened in Eastbourne on Monday night to a limited and profoundly ungrateful audience. On Tuesday afternoon, I sat in my dressing room at the Devonshire Park Theatre, despairing of my desultory and debt-ridden life while reading a borrowed copy of the evening newspaper. In that newspaper, the Eastbourne Gazette, I read, on successive pages, of the deaths of the heiress, Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers, and of the government minister, Lord Abergordon. Suddenly my plan was hatched! I would follow them to the grave. I, too, could be one of the Socrates Club “victims”. If Bradford Pearse died, would not his debts die with him? It all seemed so obvious. It all seemed so easy. I would disappear overnight—over Beachy Head!’ He pointed dramatically to Conan Doyle. ‘Beachy Head was your idea, Arthur—I owe Beachy Head to you!’

  Conan Doyle laughed and stroked his moustache. ‘So, it’s all my fault, is it?’

  ‘No,’ rumbled Bradford Pearse, pressing his palms against the table. ‘The folly was all mine. I thought with one bound I could be free. I thought I could do away with Bradford Pearse—and start again, in America! My plan was to begin a new life—with a new name—in a New World.’ He looked around the table once again. His eyes were shining. ‘It’s something we’ve all dreamt of, haven’t we?’

  Oscar was gently tapping a Player’s Navy Cut against the lid of his cigarette case. ‘Only the truly desperate cross the Atlantic Ocean,’ he sniffed. ‘If one had enough money to go to America, of course, one would not go.’

  Bradford Pearse looked at Oscar and burst out laughing. ‘Inevitably, my plan failed. I was foiled— as I might have guessed I would be—-by the gentleman on my left here.’

  Oscar smiled and lit his cigarette. ‘Perhaps, Brad, you had forgotten that I’m a man of the theatre myself. I write plays. I’m at home with melodrama. I’m familiar with farce. Your scheme had elements of both. It was, I fear, too wildly theatrical to be in the least bit convincing. Because you’re an actor you require an audience. You wanted to be seen to disappear so you lured Sickert and me to Eastbourne by means of a deliberately ambiguous letter. Then, on stage, during the curtain-call, you contrived to vanish before our very eyes. You left a message for us in your dressing room—the single word “Farewel” scrawled in make-up on a looking glass! To heighten the drama, to suggest you fled in haste, you left the word uncompleted … But clearly you had not left in haste. You had packed your bags and taken all your most prized possessions with you.’

  ‘I left my Gladstone bag at the cliff’s edge,’ protested Pearse.

  ‘Yes,’ said Oscar, shaking his finger at Pearse by way of mock reproof. ‘You left your bag for us to find and in it you left sufficient material for us to know that it was indeed your bag. There was your script, a host of unwanted bills, some inconsequential correspondence, but as I examined the bag I sensed at once that it was nothing more than a stage effect, a mere theatrical “property”. The bag contained nothing that you truly valued—no personal correspondence, no diary, no precious pawnbrokers’ receipts, no make-up tin. To a travelling actor, his make-up tin is his most cherished possession. You’d not abandoned yours. I knew you were not dead, Brad. I knew you’d simply gone to ground.’

  ‘You’re brilliant, Oscar! Fabulous!’ cried Bradford Pearse, his eyes ablaze.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Oscar, ‘but not brave. Fabulous? Perhaps—but also flawed. I have a weakness for beauty, as you know—and a dread of ugliness that’s beyond irrational. And because of them, Brad, I did not discover you in your hiding place when first I should have done.’

  ‘You’re losing them, Oscar!’ called Lord Alfred Douglas, leaning bac
k in his chair and moving his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue.

  ‘We’re not all of us familiar with the peculiarities of the Wilde aesthetic code,’ added Charles Brookfield tartly.

  Oscar sat forward, extinguishing his cigarette. ‘Bradford took refuge in the Belle Tout Lighthouse at Seven Sisters point, a mile or so from Beachy Head. It’s an ugly edifice and its guardian—a man of good heart, I’m sure—is a lighthouse keeper of peculiarly disgusting aspect. On the day of Bradford’s disappearance, I visited the lighthouse—with Wat Sickert and Robert Sherard here. I realise now that the figure that we glimpsed in an upstairs window was Bradford Pearse—newly shaved. At the time, I chose not to linger at the lighthouse. The keeper was so ugly he was a grotesque: diminutive, monocular, misshapen—that I turned away from him as quickly as I could. I was wrong to do so. On that occasion, I was the fool. Today, I returned to the Belle Tout Lighthouse. As I expected, I found Brad there and I brought him back here with me.’

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ said Bradford Pearse warmly, stretching out his left arm and resting a large hand on Oscar’s shoulder.

  ‘And what about your money worries?’ enquired Bram Stoker, with a furrowed brow.

  ‘Let the world slide, let the world go!’ cried Wat Sickert, reaching for his wine glass. ‘If I can’t pay, why I can owe—and death makes one the high and low!’

  Bradford Pearse looked across the table at Bram Stoker. ‘They’ve been sorted,’ he said. ‘By a generous benefactor.’

  ‘They were not that great,’ said Oscar. ‘They just seemed so.’

  ‘Oscar has cleared my debts,’ said Bradford Pearse. ‘He’s given me a cheque for thirteen guineas.’

  ‘I’m expecting a modest windfall,’ said Oscar, smiling.

  Sickert was on his feet. ‘Be merry, friends,’ he cried. ‘Let’s drink to the prodigal’s return, gentlemen. Be upstanding. Are your glasses charged? I give you: Bradford Pearse!’

  We got to our feet and raised our glasses to the barrel-chested actor who stood before us with shining eyes.

  ‘Your health, Bradford,’ said Oscar, draining his glass.

  ‘And yours, Oscar, my dear good friend.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTEEN GUINEAS

  ‘Now I’m on my feet, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle firmly, ‘I must be on my way. We can’t all let the world slide. I’ve business to attend to in the morning.’ He held his Hunter out towards the guttering candles. ‘It’s nearly midnight, way past my bedtime.’

  ‘Stay till twelve, Arthur,’ said Oscar, coming round the table to his friend and placing his hands on either side of the good doctor’s shoulders. ‘That’s all I ask. Stay till the clock strikes. At least see if I manage to live out the day.’

  ‘You’ll live out the day, Oscar,’ Conan Doyle laughed. ‘You’ll live for ever.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ cried Oscar, confronting his friend with an open palm. ‘The life-line stops abruptly. Mrs Robinson has seen untold horrors in my unhappy hand.’

  Conan Doyle pushed Oscar’s hand away. ‘You should not put your faith in fortune tellers, Oscar,’ he said earnestly. He breathed deeply and raised his shoulders and looked about the table, nodding his farewell to the rest of the company. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen,’ he murmured.

  All but the police officers and Alphonse Byrd had resumed their seats. Bradford Pearse and Wat Sickert had taken charge of the drinks and were circulating decanters of port, madeira and brandy around the table. Bosie Douglas was lighting another of Wat’s cigars. Charles Brookfield was scribbling a note to himself in a pocket-book. At the sideboard, Byrd was preparing dishes of fresh fruit and a tray of English cheeses.

  ‘We must be on our way, too, Mr Wilde,’ announced Inspector Gilmour. ‘Duty calls. We must see Daubeney to his cell.’

  ‘You promised to stay until midnight, Inspector,’ said Oscar. ‘You promised.’

  ‘I think you’re quite safe now, Mr Wilde,’ answered the policeman, with a chuckle. ‘I don’t think you’re about to be murdered in our midst.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ asked Oscar, raising an eyebrow. ‘I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir,’ said Inspector Ferris crisply, offering Oscar an outstretched hand.

  Oscar ignored the policeman’s proffered hand and made his way back to his place at the head of the dining table. ‘You promised to remain until midnight, gentlemen,’ repeated Oscar. ‘I’d be obliged to you both if you would keep your word.’

  ‘And you can’t go, Dr Doyle,’ cried Lord Alfred Douglas,‘ or we’ll be thirteen at table again!’

  The two police inspectors returned to their seats in silence. Shaking his head wearily, Arthur Conan Doyle pocketed his watch, straightened his waistcoat and sat down in his place once more.

  Alphonse Byrd laid the fruit dishes and cheese on the table and returned to his seat between Charles Brookfield and Archy Gilmour. Simultaneously, four of the table’s candles flared for a moment and abruptly died. The smoke-filled room darkened and fell silent.

  ‘Thank you for your indulgence, gentlemen,’ said Oscar quietly. ‘I’ll be brief. I’ll cease upon the midnight hour, I promise you.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle, drumming his fingers lightly on the table in front him. ‘What more have you to tell us?’

  ‘The truth about David McMuirtree,’ said Oscar simply.

  ‘We know all about McMuirtree, Mr Wilde,’ said Archy Gilmour. ‘Remember—he was one of ours.’

  ‘You know much about McMuirtree, Inspector, but I suspect not all.’ Oscar called down the table to Alphonse Byrd, who sat facing him. ‘Do you have your watch with you, Byrd? What time do you make it—precisely?’

  The club secretary replied: ‘I don’t have a timepiece on me, Mr Wilde, but I can see the clock on the wall behind you well enough. It’s ten to midnight, exactly.’

  ‘Keep me in order, would you, Byrd? Let me know when my allotted time is drawing to a close.’

  ‘As you please, Mr Wilde,’ said Byrd, bringing the tips of his fingers together and resting them against his lips. His beady eyes narrowed. Steadfastly he gazed at Oscar. I let my own eyes roam around the table. Every man there was looking directly and intently towards our host. Once again, Oscar Wilde held us in his thrall.

  ‘I sometimes think,’ he began, examining the plume of smoke that slowly rose from his cigarette as he spoke, ‘that God, in creating man, somewhat overestimated His ability. David McMuirtree was blessed with many of the Almighty’s greatest gifts. He was born in Dublin, for a start. He had a keen mind and an easy charm. He had physical strength, physical courage and—after a fashion—physical beauty, too. As a personality, he had individuality— originality even. As a boxer, he possessed power and prowess. But as a man, he had a singular failing. He lacked all feeling. He cared for no one but himself.

  ‘David McMuirtree was, in turn, as we know, a magician‘s assistant, a magician, a fairground entertainer, a policeman, a champion boxer and a police informer. He was also—by instinct and by calling—a pitiless and indiscriminate blackmailer.’

  Archy Gilmour shifted in his chair. ‘Are you sure of that, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Oscar lightly, drawing on his cigarette. ‘He could not help himself. He showed his true colours to my friend Robert Sherard on the first occasion that they met—repeating to him a sad and sordid story concerning my wife’s father … He sought to frighten my friend Lord Drumlanrig here by inviting him onto Westminster Bridge to pour poison into his ear …’

  ‘Primrose-scented poison, was it?’ murmured Charles Brookfield.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Oscar, ‘it was. The more outrageous the rumour, the readier McMuirtree was to peddle it. He knew everything about everybody. He knew more about me than I knew myself! And he used what he knew, at first to charm and then to terrify.

  ‘McMuirtree was a man who used other men, who exploited their weaknesses for his own profit—and
his own pleasure. And in his life he used no one man more cruelly than the unhappy creature who sits facing me now the night manager of this hotel, our club secretary, my time-keeper, Mr Alphonse Byrd.’

  The eyes of the room turned and fell on the cadaverous figure of Alphonse Byrd, hunched forward at the foot of the table, his fingers, joined as if in prayer, pressed tightly to his lips. He remained as he was, staring fixedly at Oscar, motionless.

  ‘It was Byrd, of course, who murdered David McMuirtree. Byrd, who’d been born a gentleman, but never lived as one. Byrd, the skilled magician who lacked what the great John Maskelyne termed “the immortal spark”. Byrd, who’d been McMuirtree’s friend and partner, until McMuirtree abandoned him to pursue his own career. Byrd, the “gentleman”, who, from first to last, was humiliated by “half-a-gentleman”.

  ‘When they were young, David McMuirtree used Alphonse Byrd—casually, carelessly, without consideration. Twenty years later, Byrd—night manager at a fashionable hotel and privy to the secrets that come the way of all night managers-was being used by McMuirtree still, when it pleased him, as a means of useful introductions, as a source of helpful hearsay.

  ‘In time, the worm turned—as it is wont to do.

  ‘When, in this room on that fateful Sunday night, we played my foolish game of “Murder”, Alphonse Byrd named David McMuirtree as his victim of choice—of course he did.

  ‘And when, as club secretary, collecting the slips of paper from around the table, Byrd discovered that two others had also chosen McMuirtree as their murder victim, an idea began to form in his mind … If others despised McMuirtree … If others wished to see him dead …

  ‘Byrd collected the slips from around the table. He placed them in his little magic bag. And as he did so, he saw that two of the slips were blank. On the spur of the moment—as no more than a whim—he decided to take a risk. As, to the assembled company, he read out the names on the slips of paper—not necessarily in the order in which he drew them from the bag: sleight-of-hand is part of Byrd’s stock in-trade—he decided to announce that the second blank slip of paper was, in fact, another—a fourth!—that named McMuirtree. Byrd sought to suggest that McMuirtree—his friend—was a man surrounded by enemies …’