2007 - Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders

by Gyles Brandreth

  His demeanour was far from reassuring, however. “Oscar, Robert,” he mumbled awkwardly, by way of greeting, as we entered.

  Oscar’s ebullience would not be checked. Oscar, when most anxious, often appeared least so. “You are looking very serious, Arthur,” he said, reprovingly.

  “I have serious matters to relate,” Fraser interjected. “I felt it would be best if Arthur were here—since he is a friend to us both.” He gestured towards a quartet of upright armchairs that were arranged either side of the fireplace. “Gentlemen, let me get to the point. Please be seated.”

  We did as we were bidden. The armchairs were French and uncomfortable. The atmosphere in the room was uncomfortable too, airless and oddly musty for the time of year. Fraser talked directly to Oscar, occasionally glancing towards Conan Doyle for encouragement. Not once did he look in my direction.

  “I have asked you here,” he began, smiling for the first time since our arrival, “precisely because you are a friend of Arthur’s. He is an admirer of yours, Mr Wilde—as am I, of course. The truth is, I have a warning I need to give to you—and a piece of advice.”

  Oscar smiled too. “I have found people are very fond of giving to others what they most need themselves,” he said, removing his gloves and laying them neatly on the walnut side table that stood beside his chair. “It is what I call the depths of generosity.”

  Conan Doyle leant forward and said to Oscar earnestly, “Listen to Aidan, Oscar. Be guided by him.”

  With a raised eyebrow, Oscar inclined his head towards Fraser and said, “I am listening.”

  Fraser was calmer now. His nervousness was gone. He smiled again, revealing his extraordinary white teeth, and said, with some of his old charm, “Thank you. And thank you for calling on me here today. And thank you, too, for being patient these past few weeks. I have not been in touch with you before for a reason, and the reason is this…” He paused and with a delicate thumb and forefinger lightly pinched his lips, looking briefly towards Conan Doyle who nodded to him to go on. “Mr Wilde,” he asked, “are you familiar with the address, 19 Cleveland Street?”

  “No,” said Oscar.

  “It’s between Regent’s Park and Oxford Street—”

  “I am aware of the location of the street,” said Oscar. “You asked whether I was familiar with the address. I am not.”

  Fraser persisted. “You are familiar with Lord Henry Somerset?” he enquired.

  “I know whom you mean,” said Oscar. “He is the son of the Duke of Beaufort. I have read his poetry. I have reviewed it. He has nothing to say and says it.”

  “You have met?”

  “Possibly. He lives in Florence, does he not?”

  “He fled to Florence—to avoid a public scandal.”

  Oscar sighed and with his right hand lightly brushed his trouser leg. “Scandals used to lend charm, or at least interest, to a man. Now they crush him.”

  Fraser continued, “A scandal involving a young man by the name of Harry Smith.”

  “That I do not recall,” said Oscar, emphatically.

  “Do you know Lord Henry’s younger brother, Lord Arthur Somerset?”

  “‘Podge’?” said Oscar. “I know Podge a little. He is an equerry to the Prince of Wales.”

  “And an habitue of 19 Cleveland Street.”

  “Who?” exclaimed Oscar. “The Prince of Wales?”

  “No, Mr Wilde, not the Prince of Wales, though it is possible that his son, Prince Albert Victor, may be.”

  Oscar laughed. “Prince Eddy? You surprise me.”

  Fraser pounced. “So you do know 19 Cleveland Street and what goes on there!”

  “I do not know 19 Cleveland Street,” cried Oscar, slapping his hand on the table. “I have no idea what goes on there. I have no idea what you are talking about. I have no idea what you are driving at. You are talking in riddles, Inspector. I am still listening, but I am confused.”

  Conan Doyle shifted in his chair and said, “Go back to the beginning, Aidan.”

  Oscar glanced in my direction and murmured, sotto voce, “Yes, with a fairy tale, the beginning is always the best place to start.”

  “Very well,” said Fraser. “Three months ago, on 15 July to be exact, in the course of a routine investigation into a series of petty thefts alleged to have taken place at the Central Telegraph Office, one of my constables interviewed a fifteen-year-old telegraph boy by the name of Charles Swinscow.”

  “I do not know him,” said Oscar, lightly.

  “I am glad to hear it. At the time of the interview, this boy was found to have eighteen shillings in his pocket—four times his weekly wage. When accused of stealing the money, Swinscow denied it. He claimed he had ‘earned’ it. When pressed as to how he had earned it, Swinscow said he was paid it for ‘going to bed with a gentleman’. When asked who this ‘gentleman’ was, he said he did not know his name. When asked where the incident had occurred, he said 19 Cleveland Street.”

  Oscar leant towards Fraser and enquired, exasperation in his voice, “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because a scandal is about to break, Mr Wilde,” Fraser replied, coolly, “and several of those involved are known to you. Lord Arthur Somerset—”

  “I have met him, he is an acquaintance.”

  “Lord Euston—”

  “I know the name.”

  “Prince Eddy—”

  Oscar smiled. “I know his father. With the growth of the empire, so many do.”

  “There are to be arrests,” said Fraser.

  Oscar burst out laughing. “You are arresting the eldest son of the heir apparent?” he jeered.

  “No,” said Fraser, solemnly. He paused. “Too big a fish would break the line,” he said, as if in explanation. “But tomorrow,” he continued, “a warrant will be issued for the arrest of Lord Arthur Somerset. Lord Arthur knows it. He will leave the country tonight, by the boat-train. And it is his, escape from justice that will cause the public scandal. Over the past six weeks, we have kept 19 Cleveland Street under constant surveillance. It is a resort for sodomites. It is a male brothel. It is a den of iniquity.”

  “It is appalling, I agree,” said Oscar, leaning back in his chair with hands outstretched, “but what has it to do with me? What has it to do with Billy Wood?”

  Conan Doyle turned towards him. “Do you not see, Oscar?”

  Oscar looked at his friend. “I do not see, Arthur, I do not see at all,” he said. “All I see, all I know, is that a murder took place at 23 Cowley Street—a brutal murder—which for some reason, unknown to me, the police refuse to investigate.”

  Inspector Fraser burst out, “Do you not realise why, man?”

  “No,” said Oscar, calmly, “I do not. To be candid, Inspector, I am perplexed. There is much here that I do not understand. You told me, for example—in a telegram—that you had sent a policeman to 23 Cowley Street to investigate the scene of the crime, when, self-evidently, you had not. You lied to me, Inspector.”

  “I lied, Mr Wilde, to protect you.”

  “To protect me? Why?”

  “Do you not understand? If I had so much as begun an official investigation, having embarked upon it, I could not have stopped it—wherever it might have led.”

  “You do not need to protect me, Inspector. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Are you sure, Mr Wilde? Number 23 Cowley Street and 19 Cleveland Street—were they not both, equally, dens of iniquity, houses of corruption? And Billy Wood—whatever has become of him—was he not, like Harry Smith and Charles Swinscow, a lad who sold his body for money, an unfortunate boy caught up in a vicious and degrading trade?”

  Oscar got to his feet, gazed for a moment at his own reflection in the looking-glass above the fireplace, liked what he saw, and then—having deliberately run his finger along the mantelpiece as if to inspect it for dust—turned round and, with his back to the fireplace, deliberately addressed Aidan Fraser and Arthur Conan Doyle.

  “Gentlemen,”
he said, “I thank you for your kind intentions, however misplaced. You have meant well, I can see. But let me assure you both of one thing: my conscience is clear. When I called at 23 Cowley Street on 31 August last, I went on business that was entirely honourable. I went, by appointment, to meet a friend, but my friend was detained elsewhere—and instead of finding my friend there, as I had expected, I found, to my astonishment and horror, the body of poor Billy Wood.”

  “Your friend?” asked Fraser. “Is this another young man? May we know his name?”

  “You are too quick to jump to conclusions, Inspector. As it happens, my friend is a young lady, but you do not need to know her name. She has no bearing on the case. She did not visit 23 Cowley Street that day. Do not concern yourself with her, Inspector. Concern yourself with Billy Wood—”

  Conan Doyle interrupted, “But Billy Wood—”

  Oscar turned sharply towards him, “Yes, Arthur, I loved Billy Wood. I loved him because he was young and open, carefree and full of joy. I loved him, too, because he had a talent that was rare—a talent that I was proud to nurture. I loved him as I might have loved a younger brother or a son. I give you my word of honour as a gentleman that in my relationship with Billy Wood there was nothing sordid, nothing immoral, nothing corrupt or underhand.” He paused for a moment and then put his hand out towards Conan Doyle. “I trust you will accept my assurance on this matter.”

  At once, the good doctor sprang to his feet and shook Oscar heartily by the hand. “I accept your assurance—unreservedly.”

  Oscar, rescuing his hand from Doyle’s crippling grasp, turned back to Fraser who remained seated and impassive. “And you, Inspector?”

  “I do not know what to say.”

  “Come, Aidan,” exclaimed Conan Doyle, “Wilde is a gentleman—he would not deceive us. Take him at his word.” Fraser folded his arms across his chest and looked towards the empty fireplace. The doctor placed his hand on the detective’s shoulder. “We have done as you felt we should, Aidan,” he said. “We have raised the issue; we have cleared the air.”

  Fraser did not appear convinced. Suddenly, Oscar laughed, leant towards him and said, “Inspector—Aidan—I shall call you Aidan, for we must be friends—I have only just realised why you are in this unpleasant mood. The pickle you had with your cheese at lunch has disagreed with you!”

  Startled, the detective sat back and stared at Oscar. Oscar pressed home his advantage. “You have been irritable and harassed all day, have you not? I believe I know the reason. It has nothing to do with us—and everything to do with a lady. You are expecting a lady to call, are you not? Her visit is causing you some apprehension. She is a strong-willed woman—a lady, I would hazard, who is sufficiently close to you to feel able to reprimand you for your slovenly bachelor habits.”

  Fraser gazed at Oscar, with deep suspicion in his eyes. “How on earth do you know this?”

  Oscar shrugged his shoulders lightly. “Why else, just before Arthur arrived, would you have removed the vase of fading lilies from this side table and hurriedly begun to dust the mantelpiece?”

  “Have you been spying on me?” snapped Fraser. “Explain yourself, please.”

  Conan Doyle rubbed his hands together with glee. “No, no,” he chortled, quite his usual self once more, “Oscar has been playing at Sherlock Holmes again. How did you do it, Oscar? Tell us.”

  “Look at the cuffs of your shirt, Aidan,” said Oscar with a teasing smile. Fraser raised his hands, warily, and examined his shirt-cuffs. “On the inside of the left cuff what do you see? A small greasy smear that is a combination of dark brown and pale orange in colour, suggesting a right-handed man who has prepared himself a Cheshire cheese and pickle sandwich in something of a hurry. Look at the inside of both cuffs and what do you see? A dusting of rust-coloured speckles. What is it? Rust? No, the dusting is too delicate. Pepper perhaps? Or saffron? Or, look, what have we here on this side table?—a sprinkling of pollen from the stamens of overblown lilies…Aidan is leading a bachelor existence, alone, unattended. It is several days since he has been into his drawing room. Today, however, he has visitors and must prepare the room for them. Naturally, were his visitors merely men, he would not rush to clear away a vase of dead flowers. He is a man himself; he knows other men never notice these things. No, Aidan is expecting a lady to visit him—possibly the lady who brought him the flowers and arranged them for him on her last visit.”

  Conan Doyle turned eagerly to Fraser and enquired, “Is he correct?”

  Fraser dropped his hands and smiled his perfect smile. “In every particular,” he said. “You are a remarkable man, Mr Wilde.”

  “‘Oscar’, Aidan—we must be friends.”

  “Oscar,” said the police inspector, getting to his feet and offering Oscar his open hand, “I accept all that you say—of course I do. I warn you, nonetheless, that you are fishing in dangerous waters. I advise you, nonetheless, to pursue the matter no further. And I tell you again what I have told you already: I can do nothing whatever to assist you without a body.”

  Conan Doyle sucked on his empty pipe and said dryly, “With Oscar’s powers of observation and detection I have little doubt that, if he chooses, he can solve the mystery, with or without the assistance of Scotland Yard.”

  “Possibly,” said Fraser, still with his hand in Oscar’s, still fixing him with his eye, “but at what cost?”

  “And to whom?” asked Oscar, returning the inspector’s gaze.

  Suddenly, sharply, the front doorbell rang and the tableau by the fireplace broke up.

  “Ah,” said Oscar smoothly, “the lady in the case.”

  Inspector Fraser moved quickly towards the door to the hallway.

  Oscar went on, “I am sure she is a beauty. I believe she has red hair.”

  Fraser stopped by the door and stared at Oscar with what seemed to me to be fearful eyes. But his laughter belied his look. “How on earth do you know that?”

  From his left waistcoat pocket Oscar pulled out a long strand of fair red hair. He held it aloft between his thumb and forefinger, displaying it to the room as if he were a magician holding out a coloured silk handkerchief before transforming it into a silver-topped cane or a bunch of paper flowers.

  “I found this on the coatstand when I was hanging up my hat. Given the length, I took it to be a lady’s. I imagine it came from the hat she wore on her last visit here.”

  The doorbell rang once more. Fraser stepped quickly into the hallway and opened the front door wide. When his visitor had removed her hat and placed it next to Oscar’s on the coatstand, Fraser brought her immediately into the drawing room. The lady he admitted was indeed a considerable beauty, and her hair was Titian red. “Gentleman,” he said, “may I present my fiancée, Miss Veronica Sutherland?”

  11

  Veronica Sutherland

  I have to confess that Aidan Fraser’s fiancée stole my heart the moment I set eyes upon her. She had a presence that was compelling and a look that took my breath away. Her face was long and lean, yet full of life. Her green eyes were huge and accentuated by the strength of her eyebrows land her aquiline nose. It was a face you would not forget. It was a face that I felt I already knew—and, at the moment of our meeting, I told her so.

  As Aidan Fraser presented her to me and I shook her hand for the first time, I found myself saying, quite absurdly, “I know we have not met before, Miss Sutherland, yet I feel that we have because your face puts me in mind of my favourite painting—”

  “Oh!” cried Oscar in a mock-wail. “Robert is in love again!”

  Veronica Sutherland squeezed my hand, laughed and said, “How thrilling! Which painting? Do tell me!”

  “Well,” I stammered, “several as a matter of fact.”

  “Robert!” called Oscar. “You go too far!”

  “All by the same artist,” I said, stumbling on. “All by Millais—Sir John Millais. Do you know his work? You have the exact look of his favourite model—his sister-in-law, Sophi
e Gray.”

  “Good God,” said Oscar, taking a step towards Miss Sutherland. “You are right, Robert. The resemblance is uncanny.”

  “Really?” said Miss Sutherland. “I must see this Sophie Gray. Is she beautiful?”

  “She is fascinating,” I said, not knowing quite what I was saying, “entrancing, extraordinary.”

  “You shall see her,” said Oscar. “I shall arrange it. Sir John’s studio is not far from here. Robert will take you—won’t you, Robert?”

  “Indeed.”

  “With Aidan’s permission, of course.”

  Miss Sutherland turned to her fiancé. “Who are these wonderful people, Aidan? Where did you find them? Why have you not introduced me to them before? All your usual friends are so dull—except for Dr Doyle, of course. I am always happy to see him.”

  She had let go of my hand and was now giving her full attention to Conan Doyle. She had put her arm through his and, with her head to one side, with her enormous eyes she was gazing intently at his smiling face.

  I looked around the room and saw that, thanks to her, each of us—including Fraser—was now smiling. Billy Wood, O’Donnell, Bellotti, Cowley Street, Cleveland Street: all had been forgotten. Veronica Sutherland had burst into Fraser’s drawing room like a gust of fresh air. There was an energy about her that was irresistible. We were invigorated by her presence—and held by it, too. She had a natural authority that belied her years and her gender. She was younger than each of us (she was just twenty-four), yet she was in command of us all.

  Still linking arms with Conan Doyle, she glanced about her and said, “Aidan, fiancé, husband-to-be: no flowers? No refreshments? No tea for our guests? What have you been thinking of?”

  She sighed a theatrical sigh, broke away from Conan Doyle, threw down the book that had been tucked under her arm and, shaking her head of glorious red hair, swept out of the room, crying, “Can men do nothing for themselves?”