2007 - Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders

by Gyles Brandreth

  “Why did Mr Fraser say he had searched for evidence when he had not?” asked Constance.

  “Why indeed?” asked Oscar.

  I thought it was most likely that Inspector Fraser felt that the body of Billy Wood was a figment of Oscar’s imagination and that he was disinclined to use scarce police resources in the pursuit of a phantom murderer, but I kept my thought to myself and said instead, “If we are to find the family of Billy Wood, where do we begin?”

  “At the roller-skating rink, if I’m not much mistaken,” said Oscar. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece—a trophy from his American lecture tour—struck the half-hour. “Come Robert, our carriage awaits.”

  Oscar had ordered a two-wheeler. It was waiting for us in the street below. Oscar thought nothing of keeping carriages waiting for him at all hours. He was wantonly extravagant. On hansom cabs and amusements—flowers, champagne, luncheon, dinner, supper and the rest—he could spend in a day what I might earn in a month. Even with the income that Constance brought with her to the marriage, and even when he was at the height of his powers, with two plays running simultaneously in the West End, Oscar lived beyond his means—dangerously so. At the time, I had no idea that his financial position was as fragile as it turned out to be. From the moment of his marriage, I took him to be a moderately wealthy man. Had I known the truth, I trust that I would not have permitted him to be as generous towards me as invariably he was. The first inkling I got of the parlous state of his affairs was some three years after this, at the time of his brilliant success with Lady’s Windermere’s Fan. From that play alone, in one year, he earned more than seven thousand pounds in royalties. That was the year I recall being told by Gertrude Simmonds, the boys’ governess, that ‘things were not so prosperous’ in Tite Street, that the butcher had ‘refused to send a joint until the account was settled’ and that ‘Mr Wilde himself had to drive round in a hansom to settle up’.

  However, there were no clouds apparent in the blue sky above Tite Street on the morning of 2 September 1889. Annie Marchant (bustling, busy Annie Marchant), the boys’ nursemaid, had brought her young charges out onto the pavement to bid their papa farewell. Oscar loved his boys. He kissed each of them fondly. To Cyril, who had turned four that summer, he said, “Take care of your mother, young man. The Yorkshire moors are perilous and a mother is a precious thing. You are granted only the one.”

  “Hush, Oscar,” said Constance, anxiously. “You will frighten him.”

  “No, my dear,” said Oscar, “these are wise children. Remember who their parents are.” He turned to Constance, who now had little Vyvyan in her arms, and kissed her gently on the forehead. He looked closely into Vyvyan’s round and smiling face and said solemnly, “Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentetn mortalia tangunt.”

  Vyvyan, who was not yet three, gurgled appreciatively and pulled his father’s nose. Oscar turned to me proudly. “Their English is developing slowly, but when it comes to Virgil these boys don’t miss a trick.”

  Laughing, we climbed aboard the two-wheeler. Constance, Annie Marchant and the two young children, all smiling, all so happy, waved us on our way.

  “Take care, Oscar,” Constance called out, as our driver (a dour sort) cracked his whip. “I will see you in a month, my darling. I will be back for your birthday, have no fear.”

  “With you as my wife, I have no fear,” said Oscar, blowing her a kiss.

  As the cab turned right from Tite Street into Christchurch Street on its way towards the King’s Road, Oscar, adjusting the cuffs of his lemon-coloured linen jacket—he was now properly dressed for the season—sat back and said, “I have a good wife, do I not?”

  “You do, Oscar,” I answered, with feeling.

  “And darling children?” he added.

  “Indeed,” I replied.

  “And we,” he said, suddenly clapping his hands together, “have the excitement of a new venture in hand. Ennui is the enemy, Robert! Adventure is the answer. We shall find the murderer of Billy Wood. If Conan Doyle’s friend cannot help me, Conan Doyle’s example can. Oscar Wilde masquerading as Sherlock Holmes: why not? A mask tells us so much more than a face…”

  It took us no more than ten minutes to reach our destination: the Dungannon Cottage Marble Rink at Knightsbridge. Yet another skating rink! London in the 1880s was awash with them. But the Dungannon was different. In the aftermath of Professor Gamgee’s success in transforming the floating swimming bath by Charing Cross Bridge into the ‘Floating Glaciarium’—an indoor rink that used ‘manufactured’ ice—another enterprising ‘professor of physical culture’, Colonel Henry Melville, had created a new marvel in Knightsbridge. His all-weather, all-year-round ice rink dispensed with ice altogether, offering skaters instead a ‘marble’ surface on which to skate—a surface, according to Colonel Melville, the smoothness of which was ‘unrivalled save by the clearest sheet of ice to be found within the Arctic circle’.

  “I did not know that you favoured roller skating as a sport, Oscar,” I said, laughing, as we entered the Dungannon’s crowded foyer.

  “I do not,” said Oscar, coldly, “but Billy Wood did and Gerard Bellotti does. It is Bellotti we have come to find.” He glanced towards me. “Did I mention Bellotti to you?”

  “You did, Oscar,” I said, “just the once. But you did not mention him to Conan Doyle or Inspector Fraser, I noticed.”

  “I am glad you noticed, Robert. A good detective notices everything.” His eyes were now scanning the crowd.

  “Might I ask,” I said, “why you didn’t mention his name to Fraser?”

  “If Inspector Fraser deigns to take an interest in the case, he will come across Mr Bellotti soon enough. He may even be familiar with him already. I imagine Gerard Bellotti is not unknown to the police.” Oscar’s gaze had moved from the rink and its surround to the refreshment tables adjacent to the bandstand. “There he is,” he cried suddenly, pointing his cane.

  Gerard Bellotti was not a prepossessing sight, nor did he have the appearance of a natural roller skater: he was grotesquely corpulent. Although he was seated a distance away, with his back to us, he was immediately remarkable, not only because of his fleshly bulk—he gave the impression of a toad that sits and blinks, yet never moves—but because of his gaudy apparel. He was wearing an orange checked suit that would have done credit to the first comedian at Collins’ Music Hall and on the top of his onion-shaped head of oily hair, which was tightly curled and dyed the colour of henna, he sported a battered straw boater.

  “Who is Gerard Bellotti?” I asked.

  “Not a man of refinement, I fear,” said Oscar, as we pushed our way through the crowd. It was midweek, but the Dungannon Cottage was packed. All human life was there (of a certain class, at least): courting couples, solitary loungers, mothers and grandmothers with children, servant-girls on holiday, young men bent on pleasure.

  “How do you know him?” I called above the din. The noise was oppressive. Everyone was shouting to be heard above the music of the band and the relentless low roar of roller skates on marble.

  “He works for Messrs O’Donovan & Brown of Ludgate Circus, London’s leading suppliers of domestic staff from the emerald isle,” Oscar called back. “Bellotti is one of their recruiting sergeants—he scouts for lads who might be suitable as bootblacks and page-boys. That’s what he does here.” Oscar paused and put his face close to my ear. “And, as a sideline, he runs an informal luncheon club for gentlemen.”

  “‘For gentlemen’?”

  Oscar laughed. “Well…Members of Parliament and the like. He offers cold cuts and companionship. He will supply an MP with a partner at cards—or an artist with a model. I know he has a marquess on his books—an amateur pugilist, who needs lads to wrestle with.”

  “Mr Bellotti sounds interesting,” I said, amused.

  “No,” replied Oscar, seriously, “Bellotti is complex, without being interesting.”

  We had reached his table. Bellotti neither looked up nor even turned to look at
us. As we sat down, with a pale plump hand he pushed away from him what appeared to be a cup of cold tea and spoke immediately. “Ah, Mr Wilde, how are you? I recognise your scent.” His voice was more melodious than I had expected, his accent more refined. “Canterbury Wood Violet, is it not? Always your favourite. Alsop & Quilter are still looking after you, I trust. And who is your friend? Is he in search of entertainment or employment?”

  “Neither,” said Oscar. “Mr Sherard and I have come to you in search of information.”

  “Indeed.”

  Oscar leant his cane against the table’s edge and then, discreetly, pushed a sovereign beneath Bellotti’s saucer. “When did you last see Billy Wood?” he asked.

  “Billy Wood? What a delightful boy. So bright, so breezy. One of your favourites, Mr Wilde—one of your enthusiasms.”

  “When did you last see him?” Oscar repeated the question.

  “Yesterday,” said Bellotti.

  Oscar leant towards him urgently. “Are you sure?”

  Bellotti pondered. “Perhaps the day before?” he said. “Yes, the day before. He came to one of the club lunches. We’re meeting in Little College Street now, you know. You must come, Mr Wilde. It is too long since we have had the pleasure of your company. He was in excellent form. Billy is always a delight. Why do you ask after him? Is he in trouble?”

  “I fear so,” said Oscar, bleakly.

  “Oh dear,” muttered Bellotti. “He’ll have run away then. They do. Am I right? Has he disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll have gone to his mother in Broadstairs. That’s what happens. That’s what they all do. In time of travail, they turn to their mothers.”

  “Do you happen to have her address?” asked Oscar.

  “The Castle, Harbour Street. The property does not quite live up to the address, but as seaside guest houses go, it has all the essential amenities. I stayed there two summers ago. That’s how I met young Billy Wood. He was waiting at table. I sensed at once you’d like him, Mr Wilde. I encouraged him to come to town, partly on your account.”

  “Thank you,” said Oscar, and we got to our feet. Bellotti did not move.

  As we pushed our way back through the crowd, I asked, “Is he blind?”

  “He may be,” said Oscar. “He appears to be. But I would not count upon it. With a man like Bellotti, you can never be quite sure of anything.”

  Back in the street, our two-wheeler was waiting. We were about to clamber aboard when, simultaneously, both Oscar and I lurched forward and let out an involuntary cry of pain. A blow, like the lash of a whip, had been struck across the backs of our calves. Oscar fell forward against the carriage. I turned around angrily. Standing immediately behind us was a small figure in a page-boy’s uniform. I was about to cuff the lad across the ear when I realised that our assailant was not a boy at all, but a dwarf. His body was diminutive but not misshapen; his large head was both unnatural and grotesque. His face was heavily lined; his skin was sallow and weather-beaten. There was a sneer on his lips and in his hands the cane that he had swiped across our legs to attract our attention. I saw at once that it was the swordstick that I had presented to Constance on her honeymoon, and I realised at once that Oscar must haw left it at Bellotti’s table.

  The dwarf held out the cane towards Oscar, who, recovering his balance, took it. To my astonishment, he then reached into his pocket and found a coin to give to the man. “For God’s sake, Oscar!” I protested.

  The dwarf grabbed the money and backed away, laughing at us contemptuously. Oscar climbed into the cab. “Pleasure and pain,” he said, “they’ve both to be paid for, one way or another.”

  “Did you know him?” I asked, as I followed Oscar into the two-wheeler.

  “He’s a creature of Bellotti’s,” he answered. “He is unpleasant, I grant you, but I pity him his deformity.”

  “What does he do for Bellotti?” I said.

  “His bidding,” Oscar replied, with a wan smile.

  “He is a nasty piece of work,” I said, rubbing my calves, which were still sore from the unwarranted assault.

  “It needs not a ghost come from the grave to tell us that, Robert. He is ugly and vicious, so put him out of your mind. The less said about life’s sores the better. Think happier thoughts. Think: tomorrow, we shall be going to Broadstairs and perhaps I shall buy you a boater when we are at the seaside…”

  The two-wheeler took us from Knightsbridge, down Piccadilly and through Soho towards my room on Gower Street. When we reached the side-street by Soho Square where, two nights before, I had seen Oscar with the young woman—the stranger with the disfigured face—abruptly my friend called to the cab to stop. “I will alight here,” he said. “You go on home, Robert. The fare is paid.”

  He climbed down from the carriage and turned to me.

  “Yes, Robert,” he said, “I have an assignation—in a slightly disreputable part of town. And you have curiosity. Both, I trust, will do us credit.”

  7

  3 September 1889

  What was Orcar’s assignation in that slightly disreputable part of town? He did not volunteer the information, and I did not press him for it.

  It is curious how men who are good friends, close friends, true friends, who may have been on the most intimate and familiar terms over any number of years, can nevertheless know next to nothing of one another’s love lives.

  I knew Oscar Wilde well, but I did not then know the secrets of his heart.

  In Paris, in the cloudless spring of 1883, when we first met, we dined together, time and again, at Foyot’s, at Voisin’s, at Paillard’s, at all the best tables; we strolled together, hour upon hour, through the gardens of the Tuileries, through the Palais du Louvre, along the banks of the Seine; we dined and we talked; we walked and we talked; and when we talked, we talked of everything beneath the sun and moon, of art and literature, of music and revolution, of life and death, and, yes, of love. But when we talked of love, I realise now, it was always in the abstract.

  Once, I told Oscar how at Oxford, when I was twenty (before I was sent down), I had visited a prostitute.

  Immediately, he reciprocated and told me how at Oxford, when he was twenty (before he won the Newdigate Prize), he, too, had visited a prostitute, but he told me no more of the experience than that. In Paris, memorably, we had been together at the Eden Music Hall on the night on which he met—and shared the bed—of the celebrated Marie Aguetant. Following that first encounter, I know that he called upon her more than once and later, after her brutal murder, I recall him saying, “I think of her often, Robert,” but what he thought of her—and why—he did not tell me.

  In London, in Soho, on occasion, I visited a brothel and enjoyed the dubious delights on offer there. Did Oscar also? Before his marriage, and after, several of his closest friends were actresses. Not all were ladies. He flirted with them outrageously. Did he lie with them also? He told me he loved Lillie Langtry ‘with a passion’—but said no more than that. He called her ‘Lil’; he kissed her upon the lips (I know; I saw it happen); but did he share her bed? I cannot tell. He loved Constance—of that I am certain—but did he love others too? Did he betray his wife with other women? And was the girl I had seen him with in Soho Square one such? And if he did, and if she was, was it truly betrayal? Or did he believe—as I did; as I do—that you can love more than one person and keep faith with both?

  Travelling with him, first class, on the train to Broadstairs, early in that September of 1889, he seemed to read my thoughts. We were alone in the carriage, seated opposite one another, and a silence had fallen between us. I was gazing at his tired eyes and wondering whom he had met the night before—and why—and what had passed between them. I was thinking of Constance, whom I loved, and of my promise to protect her. Did she have cause to be jealous? Could she depend on Oscar’s fidelity? And, if she could not, would the truth, if ever she learnt it, be very painful to her?

  I was in a kind of reverie, slowly turni
ng over these questions in my mind, when I realised that my friend was speaking to me.

  “Fidelity is overrated, Robert,” I heard him say. “It is loyalty that counts—and understanding.”

  “Indeed,” I murmured, unsure of where our conversation might be leading.

  “Take my mother, for example. Such a feeling as vulgar jealousy could take no hold on her.” I nodded, but said nothing. With Oscar, I often nodded and said nothing. “My mother was well aware of my father’s constant infidelities, but simply ignored them. Before my father died, he lay ill in bed for many days. And every morning a woman dressed in black, and closely veiled, used to come to our house in Merrion Square, in Dublin. Unhindered either by my mother or anyone else, she used to walk straight upstairs to my father’s bedroom, sit down at the head of his bed, and so remain there all day, without ever speaking a word or once raising her veil.

  “She took no notice of anybody in the room, and nobody paid any attention to her. Not one woman in a thousand would have tolerated her presence, but my mother allowed it, because she knew that my father loved this woman and felt that it must be a comfort to have her there by his dying bed. And I am sure that she did right not to judge that last happiness of a man who was about to die, and I am sure that my father understood her apparent indifference, understood that it was not because she did not love him that she permitted her rival’s presence, but because she loved him very much, and died with his heart full of gratitude and affection for her.”

  He smiled at me and brushed what might have been a tear from the corner of his eye. “We have mothers on the mind, do we not, Robert? It is understandable. We are on our way to meet the unfortunate mother of poor Billy Wood—a mother who has lost her child and does not yet know it.”