‘Can we find a quiet corner where you can tell me exactly what is going on?’ I pleaded.
‘We must secure our rooms first, Arthur. I need to bathe and change. I must smell like Guy Fawkes on Bonfire Night.’
He forged a path through the teeming crowd. He had the height and bulk – and presence – for the endeavour. I followed dutifully.
A moment later, as we stood at the reception desk, waiting to be attended to, across the foyer, at the foot of the main staircase, I noticed a man whose face and stance I recognised. He was engaged in conversation with Jimmy, the cockney bellboy. I tugged at Oscar’s sleeve. ‘Look,’ I hissed, ‘isn’t that the man who has been following you?’
My friend glanced across the foyer. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. He turned towards the man and raised a hand in benevolent greeting.
The man caught Oscar’s eye at once and waved back. Jimmy the bellboy grinned.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Oscar lightly, ‘That’s Major Ridout. You thought he had a military bearing and how right you were.’
‘You know him?’ I asked, amazed.
‘Only since yesterday – but you can trust him, Arthur. It turns out he is our friend.’
‘I am utterly confused, Oscar,’ I complained. ‘I really don’t know where I am with any of this.’
He laughed. ‘There’s nothing stable in the world, uproar’s your only music.’
I looked at him despairingly. He raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Play the game,’ he said.
‘Shelley?’ I volunteered.
He smiled. ‘Keats.’
We reached the front of the queue and collected our bedroom keys. ‘Your evening clothes have been pressed and laid out in your room, Mr Wilde,’ murmured the manager obsequiously, as he ushered us towards the lift.
We had adjacent rooms on the second floor. ‘I shall change and rest,’ said Oscar. ‘I must. You should rest, too, Arthur – the night may prove unruly.’ He turned the key in the lock of the door. ‘You have nothing to change into, I appreciate. I suppose one of the waiters might lend you something . . .’
‘No, thank you,’ I protested. ‘There are limits.’
He chuckled. ‘Very well – the dining room will be dimly lit, I’ve no doubt. The ladies prefer it. No one will notice your country costume.’
‘I’ve not come as a Morris Man, Oscar,’ I countered. ‘This is a perfectly respectable tweed suit. Besides, if Constance is of the party no one will notice the gentlemen anyway. She is looking very lovely.’
Oscar had pushed open his door. ‘You’re smitten with Constance now, eh?’ he said teasingly. ‘Have you forgotten little Olga already?’
‘No,’ I answered solemnly, ‘and, as you should know, Oscar, I believe I never shall.’
He stopped and looked at me kindly. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know full well.’
‘But I am glad she is not coming tonight. There’s only so much turbulence a man’s heart can take.’
‘Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.’
‘Keats?’
‘Shelley! Did they teach you nothing at Stonyhurst?’
We both laughed. From his jacket pocket he produced an envelope and handed it to me. ‘This is the new placement for our supper. We’re in the Winter Room. Martin’s our waiter. He should have the cards. Can you make sure it’s all in order? I must rest now. I am utterly exhausted.’
Oscar retreated into his room and I made my way into mine. I took off my boots and coat and lay on the bed. In the darkness, gazing blankly at the ceiling, my head filled with thoughts of Olga, of her energy, her youth, her laugh, her loveliness. As I closed my eyes, deliberately, I pushed her from my mind as a croupier sweeps the gambling chips off the green-baize table. I filled my head instead with the awful vision of Sir Freddie Bunbury and Festing Fitzmaurice, festooned with ribbons, being consumed by flames.
I reached the Winter Room, the private dining room where Oscar’s supper party was due to be held, well before eleven o’clock. It was, as Oscar had predicted, dimly lit, but the candles on the table and in the sconces on the walls all had crimson shades, so that a pink glow suffused the room. The rose tint of light and the sparkle of the polished silver and crystal glasses on the damask tablecloth produced the effect of a table set for a wedding breakfast in fairyland rather than a last supper on a day of death and desolation.
Martin, the waiter, was in fine form. ‘Mr Wilde’s changed the menu at least three times and I’ve no idea who is supposed to be sitting where.’
‘I have the table plan here,’ I said.
‘It’s still set for thirteen, is it, sir?’
‘It is,’ I said.
‘Thirteen’s an unlucky number, you know. I hope Mr Wilde knows what he’s doing.’
I echoed Martin’s sentiment as I wrote out the names of the guests and we set them in their places:
Oscar Wilde
Ivan Salazkin
Melville Macnaghten
Henry Labouchere MP
Walter Wellbeloved
Dr Rogerson
Alec Shand
Dr Gabriel
George R. Sims
Richard Mansfield
Arthur Conan Doyle
William Wilde
Constance Wilde
‘The room looks charming, Martin,’ cried Oscar, as he swept in a little before eleven, dressed in a bottle-green velvet evening suit, with a pale green tie and matching carnation in his buttonhole. He was newly shaven: his cheeks were pink. He had washed his hair: he had the look of Dionysus on the town. He crackled with energy and good humour. ‘It has been a horrid day, Arthur, but it will be a night to remember, I promise. I hope you are happy with the placement. By rights I should have put you between the doctors, but I thought you’d prefer to be next to Constance.’
‘That’s very thoughtful.’ I smiled.
‘She has to have Willie next to her because he’s here at her insistence and Willie’s next to Mansfield because Mansfield’s about the only man in London who’ll tolerate him.’
‘Willie is your brother, Oscar.’
‘I know. And we look so alike I insist he wears that preposterous beard so we don’t get mistaken for one another. We say all the same things, too, you know, but I do believe I say them first.’
‘I’m very happy with where I’m seated, Oscar,’ I said. ‘Now I am here, I am glad I came.’
‘Good,’ he said with satisfaction, walking around the table, inspecting each setting in turn. ‘You see, I’ve put George R. Sims on your right. He knows everybody and everything and he’s the best of fellows. You can tell him your whaling stories and he’ll be happy to hear them. Keep an eye on Alec Shand, will you? You met him at Sims’ party. You remember? He’s the handsome devil to whom Constance was once engaged – secretly, of course.’ He lifted one of the glasses by Shand’s setting and held it close to a candle. ‘This needs a polish, Martin,’ he commanded. ‘We all have our secrets,’ he continued happily. ‘Yes, Shand is very handsome and very clever, although I’m not entirely sure I trust him where the ladies are concerned.’
‘Why is he here?’ I asked.
‘Because he’s cracked the case, of course – though he doesn’t know it.’
‘Shand has cracked the case?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘Of course, you’ve not read his book. No wonder you’re confused.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, look, here they come.’
And suddenly, into the room, all at once the guests came: George R. Sims and Alec Shand and Henry Labouchere MP leading the parade, followed by Walter Wellbeloved, then Willie and Constance who arrived with Macnaghten – they had shared a four-wheeler from Tite Street, it seemed – and, bringing up the rear, the two asylum superintendents, looking a little stiff in their evening dress but beaming with goodwill. The horror of the day appeared to be unknown to these people, or to have been put aside. The party bubbled with anticipation.
‘Welcome one, welcome all,’ cooed Oscar, moving smoothly among his guest
s, shaking hands, pressing shoulders. The moment he saw me, Macnaghten broke away from Willie and Constance and took me warmly by the arm: ‘Congratulations, Dr Doyle. And thank you. Case closed – at last.’
‘A table, gentlemen,’ called Oscar, above the hubbub. ‘No standing on ceremony and no pre-prandial drinks. It’s simply supper and there’s a cheese soufflé to start us off, so it’s very much like one of George’s comedies – timing is everything. Kindly take your places. Martin will then serve the champagne.’
I showed Constance to her place. She was looking quite lovely in a simple midnight-blue evening dress with a collar of white lace.
‘Your husband loves you very much,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘Do you think so?’
‘He’s certainly jealous of the attention you receive from others. He has told me to keep a close eye on Alec Shand.’
‘Oscar is extraordinary, isn’t he?’ she said, looking up at me as she sat down. ‘His mood changes from hour to hour. This morning, after seeing that poor girl’s body, he was in despair – then at lunch with Willie he was in a fury – then, after the explosion, he was almost exultant – and now this . . .’ She turned back and surveyed the glittering table. ‘It’s like a first night!’
‘Yes,’ called Oscar from the head of the table, ‘but without the leading men.’
‘Who’s missing?’ cried Labouchere. ‘Bad form. It’s gone eleven. We’re ready for our soufflé.’
Oscar indicated the two empty places: ‘Salazkin and Mansfield.’
‘They’re performers,’ said George R. Sims. ‘It’s allowed.’
‘It’s expected,’ said Labouchere.
‘What time does the curtain come down at the Globe?’ asked someone.
‘Ten o’clock,’ said Willie, ‘just after.’
As he spoke, Richard Mansfield was at the door. He could only have been an actor. He was immaculately turned out in white tie and tails. His dark hair was slicked back with oil. His pale face shone like a Pierrot’s in the half-light. He struck a pose and held the moment until he had the room’s attention. ‘Forgive my lateness,’ he murmured silkily. ‘The ovation was somewhat sustained tonight.’
As he let his monocle fall from his eye, the room rewarded his entrance with a round of applause. ‘You are seated over there, Richard,’ instructed Oscar, pointing Mansfield towards his place. ‘You’re between your favourite critic and my new friend, Dr Gabriel. Dr Gabriel looks like Henry VIII, but he’s actually the superintendent of the Surrey County Lunatic Asylum. He has a thousand poor crazed creatures in his care, so he’s quite accustomed to meeting people who believe they are Napoleon!’
Mansfield laughed obligingly and shook both Gabriel and Willie Wilde by the hand as he took his seat. He looked over at Constance and blew a discreet kiss in her direction.
‘I should have introduced Dr Rogerson, as well. My apologies, Doctor. Dr Rogerson hails from the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum.’
‘The company you keep, Wilde . . .’ muttered Labouchere. He turned to Rogerson and shook his hand. ‘Good to meet you, sir. I know you do good work.’
‘Dr Rogerson was a friend of the late Prince Albert,’ Oscar continued, ‘and tutored Ellen Terry for her role as Ophelia.’
‘You’re very droll, Mr Wilde,’ said Rogerson amiably.
‘Or very drunk,’ said Willie Wilde.
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Ah,’ cried George R. Sims, ‘saved by the guest of honour.’ Ivan Salazkin had arrived.
Like Mansfield, he too struck a pose in the doorway. It was even more arresting because Salazkin was still dressed in his ringmaster’s costume: boots, britches, red frock coat, cape, silk top hat, wig and whiskers – the full fig. He held up his white-gloved hands: ‘A thousand apologies! It’s our last night. The lions, the tigers, the bears – they sense that we’re on the move again. They get restless. And the company – the clowns and the acrobats – they have to bid farewell to the lovers they have found in London.’ As he spoke, Salazkin’s eyes surveyed the room. When he saw me, he touched the brim of his top hat.
‘You’ve arrived,’ said Oscar, beckoning the ringmaster in to the room, ‘that’s what matters. And you’re sitting here beside me.’
Salazkin removed his hat and cape and handed them to the hovering Martin. ‘Would you give them to my man? He’s just outside in the vestibule.’
‘Do you want a moment to get changed?’ asked Oscar solicitously.
‘No, no,’ said Salazkin, taking his seat. ‘I’ve kept you all long enough.’
‘Well,’ said Oscar, beaming at his guest, ‘you are the star attraction. It’s good that you should look the part.’
Salazkin’s eye ran round the table once more. He nodded to each of us in turn. We murmured words of welcome. Oscar stood at the head of the table, gazing down at the Russian. ‘Shall I begin?’
‘By all means,’ said Salazkin softly.
Oscar glanced at his timepiece and picked up his champagne glass from the table. ‘We have the soufflé arriving momentarily, so I need to keep my opening remarks brief . . .’
‘Hear, hear!’ cried Labouchere and Willie Wilde in unison.
‘But, in lieu of grace, I do want to begin with a word of welcome – and a toast.’ He looked down the table. ‘Gentlemen – and Constance – may I say how lovely my wife looks?’
‘You may,’ declared Alec Shand, provoking a susurration of approval from all corners of the table.
Oscar smiled and paused to let the room settle once again.
‘A poet,’ he continued, ‘is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.’
‘Shelley?’ I muttered quietly.
‘Bravo!’ said Oscar, smiling. ‘But tonight this poet is in company and hoping to throw light onto darkness with his song. After we’ve eaten, I have a story to tell, a mystery to unravel . . .’
‘We all love a mystery,’ murmured George R. Sims.
‘We all love a soufflé,’ muttered Henry Labouchere.
‘But first I have a toast to propose to our guest of honour – Ivan Salazkin – Ivan the Terrible!’ We banged the table in assent.
‘Ivan has been bringing his Russian Circus to London for several years now. This much you know. And you know, too, I hope, that his is a circus without equal. You’ve been. You’ve taken your children, as I have mine. What Sarah Bernhardt is to beauty, what Irving is to Shakespeare, Salazkin is to circus! Whatever our American friend P. T. Barnum may claim, Ivan Salazkin’s Russian Circus is the Greatest Show on Earth.’
Oscar paused to allow a moment of applause.
I heard Willie Wilde mutter to Richard Mansfield: ‘Do you think Oscar’s on some sort of commission?’ Oscar heard him too and smiled. Willie went on, more loudly: ‘And I thought his reference to Irving in your presence, Mansfield, quite uncalled for.’
‘The true artist,’ Oscar continued, unabashed, ‘is a man who believes absolutely in himself, because he is absolutely himself. Watch Ivan Salazkin in command of everything that occurs in the three rings of his circus and you will see a true artist at the height of his powers.’
‘Well said, Oscar,’ rumbled George R. Sims, lifting his glass in readiness for the toast.
‘But what I want to share with you tonight is something even my friend George R. Sims may not know . . .’
‘Surely not!’
‘I did not know it myself until this past week. Ivan Salazkin is a friend to our country – a true friend.’
‘Hear, hear!’ growled Henry Labouchere, banging the table with the flat of his hand.
‘Labby leads the cheers,’ said Oscar, ‘because he is a member of parliament – and a senior one: he has the ear of the Foreign Office – and Labby knows more of this than any of us – and I have his permission to share what I now know with all of you. In this uncertain world, gentlemen, where the whiff of revolution is in the air and the possibility of terror lurks in the least expected places, the
government needs intelligence – information. And Ivan Salazkin is one of those who provide it. For several years now he has brought news from Russia, Germany, France to the United Kingdom. He has shared what he knows with our government and tonight we can salute him for his contribution to our national safety. Though his English is quite perfect, he is Russian, not British. He cannot receive any honour from the Sovereign, but he can receive thanks from some of her subjects. Can we raise our glasses, please, to our friend and guest of honour, Ivan Salazkin?’
With a cheer, we rose and held out our glasses towards the Russian ringmaster who half-stood and bowed his acknowledgement.
‘Well spoken, Wilde,’ said Labouchere. ‘You understand the niceties.’ As he resumed his seat, he put his hand on Salazkin’s shoulder. ‘You see, Ivan. You are appreciated by your peers.’
‘The soufflé is served,’ cried Oscar, looking to the door as Martin and a second waiter trooped in to the room bearing trays. Their arrival prompted even louder cheers than Oscar’s eloquent toast had done.
‘I’m confused,’ grumbled Willie Wilde, leaning across the table. ‘Is the man a spy?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Constance in a whisper. According to Oscar, Mr Salazkin is what the Foreign Office call “a friendly informer”. He collects nuggets of political gossip in the various capitals in which the circus performs and then shares them with Labby when he gets to London.’
‘In return for what?’ asked Willie.
‘Ease of passage, a laissez-passer for his animals, no awkward questions asked at customs, no local taxes exacted while he’s here, access to those in high places,’ I suggested, hazarding the answer.
‘Precisely,’ said Constance. ‘I don’t think he gets paid.’
‘How do we know he isn’t telling our secrets to the Germans and the Russians and the rest?’
Constance, giggling, leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered her voice still further. ‘Oh, Oscar’s quite sure he is!’
Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper Page 26