Oscar Wilde And The Ring Of Death Part 18

Without looking back, Brookfield marched through the theatre's swing doors and out into St James's. We watched him go.

'Why make an enemy of him, Oscar?' I asked.

'Because I cannot make him my friend, Robert.'

The theatre foyer was now deserted. A pale young man in evening dress-the theatre's a.s.sistant manager-was working his way up the staircase, turning down the gas lamps one by one. Suddenly, from behind us, two silent women in shabby coats appeared. For an instant, I took them for Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper unexpectedly returned in a new disguise. In fact, they were cleaning women. One, equipped with a mop and bucket, set to work at once on the Sienna marble floor. The other, with a heavy broom, began briskly to brush each tread of the Indian carpet on the stairs.

'Look at them,' whispered Oscar. 'How plain they are! How ugly! And yet quite young. Industry is the root of all ugliness.

'Come, Oscar,' I said, taking my friend by the arm. 'We must go.'

'What for?' he cried. 'To drink champagne while they toil and labour here?' He felt inside his trouser pocket and, from it, produced two brand-new five-pound notes. He unfolded them.

'Don't be absurd, Oscar,' I hissed. 'That's three months' wages.'

'What's absurd is that we can afford everything, Robert, and all they can afford is self-denial.' He went over to each of the women and presented her with a five-pound note. Both looked at him, in silence, utterly bemused. 'With the compliments of Lady Windermere,' he said. 'Goodnight, ladies. Thank you.'

The pavement outside the St James's Theatre was clear. Across the street, Charles Brookfield was standing alone, with his back to us, looking into the window of the wine merchant, Demery & Holland.

'Did you happen to catch sight of his "friend"?' Oscar asked.

'On the stairs just now? The man in the brown suit?'

'Yes-an ugly little man with a sallow complexion and ferret's eyes.'

'I think he's employed at that Turkish bath in Baker Street,' I said.

'Really?' said Oscar. 'You surprise me.' We watched Brookfield walk on alone up St James's towards Piccadilly. 'Whoever he is, he seems a curious companion for a man of Brookfield's refinement.'

A pair of two-wheelers trundled past.

'Has Constance gone home?' I asked.

'She has-with the Brookes and Heron-Allen.' Oscar glanced at me and smiled. 'I shall be going home myself tonight,' he said.

I smiled too. 'I'm glad to hear it, Oscar.'

'It is necessary, I think.'

'Are you very anxious for her safety?'

'No, not yet-at least, not while McMuirtree's living. No, Robert, you'll be amused by this ... I'm going home tonight because of something one of my boys said.'

I found a match to light his cigarette. 'Out of the mouths of babes ...'

'Indeed. I was telling them stories last night of little boys who were naughty and made their mother cry, and what dreadful things would happen to them unless they became better-and what do you think one of them answered? Cyril asked me what punishment should be reserved for naughty papas who did not come home till the early morning, and made their mothers cry far more!'

I laughed. 'Wise child. Shall I hail you a cab, Oscar?'

'Not quite yet,' he said, taking my arm and steering me away from St James's into King Street. 'We have an appointment at the stage door.'

'Now?' I asked. 'Won't the actors have gone home?'

'They will. It's not them we've come to see.'

'It's me!' hissed a voice in the darkness.

There was a street lamp nearby and a lighted gas lamp on the wall by the stage door, but I could see no one. 'It's me!' hissed the voice once more. 'Down here.'

I looked and then I saw his eyes s.h.i.+ning in the gloom. It was Antipholus, the black boy from Astley's Circus. He was hidden in the doorway, crouching on the ground. As we approached, he sprang to his feet and saluted Oscar.

'How now my little tightrope-walker? What news on the Rialto? Where's Mr McMuirtree been since your last report?'

The boy stood smartly to attention. 'At the Ring of Death all afternoon, sir-training, training hard, working up a sweat. Lord Queensberry came by and stayed for half an hour. Then Mr McMuirtree bathed and dressed and took a cab across town to the Cadogan Hotel.'

'You followed him?'

'I followed him.'

'How?' I asked. 'Not in a cab, surely?'

The lad giggled. 'No, sir! On my bicycle. I held on to the back of Mr McMuirtree's cab and was pulled along, all the way, door to door.'

'And were you seen?'

'Not by Mr McMuirtree, sir. I hope I know my business.'

'What happened at the Cadogan?' asked Oscar.

'He went in with an a.s.sortment of coloured boxes.'

'Stage properties, I expect,' said Oscar, 'for tomorrow's entertainment.'

'Then he came out again and took the same cab back to Astley's. The round trip cost him two s.h.i.+llings.'

'And then?' asked Oscar.

'And then, when he should have changed and come here to the theatre as you'd told me to expect, Mr Wilde, he met up with the Reverend George instead.'

'Is that what you call him?' I asked. 'Do you like the Reverend George?'

'Well enough, sir. He's our padre. He's a bit sweet on Bertha, but you know what clergymen are. He tips like a gentleman anyway.'

'And what did Mr McMuirtree and the reverend gentleman do?'

'They went off together-to The Bucket of Blood.'

'The Bucket of Blood?' I queried.

Oscar laughed. 'The Lamb and Flag in Rose Street, Robert. You really have led a very sheltered life.'

'Why is it called The Bucket of Blood?' I asked. My friend gave me a pitying look. 'Because of the bare-knuckle fighting that goes on there- professional fights, for money, but strictly non-Queensberry Rules.' He turned back to the boy. 'How long were they there?'

'All evening. Till just now. I watched the Reverend George go on his way and then I followed Mr McMuirtree back to his digs behind the circus. I heard the key turn in his lock. I watched the window. I saw the candles put out. He should be safe enough till morning, Mr Wilde-unless, of course, he's murdered in his sleep.'

'Thank you, Antipholus,' said Oscar, handing him a coin. 'Here's your s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+lling.'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

'MADAME LA GUILLOTINE'

David McMuirtree was not murdered in his sleep. Indeed, when next we saw him-on Sunday afternoon in t.i.te Street for Oscar's fund-raiser-he was brim-full of life. He crackled with energy. Nominally, he was there merely to play his part in the entertainment as Alphonse Byrd's illusionist's a.s.sistant, but his bearing and demeanour were hardly those of a humble hired hand. While Byrd, all dressed in black, stood at the far end of the Wildes' crowded first-floor drawing room, silently guarding his magician's table like an undertaker in attendance on a coffin, McMuirtree, also dressed in black, moved easily among the throng, nodding here, smiling there, like the son of the family welcoming distant relations to the wake. McMuirtree was noticeable because of his commanding height and fine physique. He was memorable because of his shaven head, warm blue-black eyes and curious, rasping speaking voice.

'He's very striking,' remarked Willie Hornung, standing by the fireplace, tucking in to a fruit sorbet while surveying the scene.

'He is an odd mixture,' I said. 'I can't fathom him. He has the build of a prize-fighter-'

'And the manners of a Don Juan,' added Conan Doyle, scratching his moustache with the stem of his pipe. 'I'd watch him.'

'We're all going to,' said Walter Sickert, smiling slyly. 'He's the star attraction.'

'Not today,' I ventured. 'Tomorrow, maybe, at Astley's Circus when he has this gala bout to display the merits of the Queensberry Rules. But today, I think, he's somewhat further down the bill. He's the magician's a.s.sistant.'

'He's the one we'll watch all the same,' said Sickert, helping himself to a second iced cream from the sideboard. 'I'm a connoisseur of the halls. McMuirtree has what it takes.'

Conan Doyle sniffed and lifted himself up and down on his toes. 'Do you think so? I wonder.'

'I don't,' said Sickert. 'We're talking about the man for a reason-there's something about his presence that compels our attention.'

'Yes,' harrumphed Doyle. 'His c.o.c.kiness.'

Willie Hornung laughed and pushed his pince-nez further up his nose the better to observe McMuirtree's progress.

Sickert waved his dessert spoon in the air. 'I've seen him fight-just the once. And I've met him- just the once, when I sat next to him at dinner last Sunday. I barely know him, but he's made his mark on me. Why? Because, in his way, he's an artist-in the ring and out of it.'

'He's not a very subtle artist, is he?' I said. McMuirtree, as I spoke, was being greeted by our hostess. He raised Constance's hand to his lips as though they were old friends.

'Always remember Whistler's golden rule, Robert-"In art, nothing matters so long as you are bold."'

If David McMuirtree was a star attraction that afternoon, he was not without compet.i.tion. For a start, he had the Wilde boys to contend with. Oscar and Constance had decked out their sons in fancy dress. They were in orange and green velvet suits, with frilly s.h.i.+rts and buckled shoes. Cyril was costumed as Little Lord Fauntleroy and his younger brother, Vyvyan, because of his naturally curly hair, was dressed to represent the little boy in Sir John Millais's famous painting, Bubbles. The boys themselves, as they explained to everyone who stopped to admire and pet them, would much have preferred to come dressed in their matching sailor suits (made of real naval cloth with lanyards with real knives at the end of them), 'but this is what Papa wanted and this is Papa's party'.

In terms of his own apparel, 'Papa' had certainly taken note of Whistler's golden rule. The colour of Oscar's frock coat and trousers was ultramarine blue; his waistcoat was of gold brocade; his tie was crimson; his b.u.t.tonhole was a columbine flower set against a fan of cymbalaria leaves. The 'tout ensemble', he explained, was inspired by his cufflinks-'they came to me from Wat Sickert ... They are exquisite, are they not? He won't tell me where he found them ... We all have our secrets.'

The cuff-links were enamel, exquisite and extraordinary. They each featured a near-perfect miniature reproduction of Leonardo da Vinci's painting, The Virgin of the Rocks. As Oscar explained, his eyes filling with tears as he did so, the colour of his frock coat matched the colour of the Madonna's mantle; his waistcoat was inspired by the Christ child's swaddling clothes; his tie was of the same hew as the angel Uriel's cloak; and his b.u.t.tonhole included plants depicted in the painting-'columbine to symbolise the holy spirit and cymbalaria representing constancy.'

Conan Doyle sucked hard on his pipe as Oscar held his cuff up to his friend for closer inspection. 'I'm not sure that I approve, Oscar,' he grumbled.

'And why not?' asked Oscar.

'I'm not sure that I know,' muttered Doyle. 'It doesn't seem quite right, that's all.'

'When's the magic starting, Papa?' Little Lord Fauntleroy was tugging at his father's sleeve.

'Now!' said Oscar. 'This very minute!' And he gathered up his sons and led them to the end of the room where Alphonse Byrd and David McMuirtree were standing waiting to begin their performance. The audience-there were some thirty of us in all-found chairs or stools to sit on, or leant against the piano or the mantelpiece. Constance sat on a sofa near the performers, with her friend, Margaret Brooke, and Mrs Robinson, the clairvoyant, on either side of her, and Charles Brooke and Edward Heron-Allen perched on the sofa's arms. Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper, in immaculate gentlemen's evening dress, sat cross-legged on the floor at the front of the crowd, with Bosie and Lord Drumlanrig and Vyvyan and Cyril at their side. At the last moment, as the clock on the landing struck five, Arthur, the butler, Mrs Ryan, the cook, and Gertrude Simmonds, the boys' governess, crept in at the door to watch the show.

Unbidden, the room settled, and Oscar spoke. His voice was low-we had almost to strain to hear him-and in his eyes there were still the remnants of tears. 'Once upon a time,' he began, 'there was a magnet ... and in its close neighbourhood were some steel filings.'

'He's going to tell a story!' cried Cyril.

'Hus.h.!.+' said Constance lifting her finger to her lips.

Oscar raised his voice a little. 'One day two or three little filings felt a sudden desire to go and visit the magnet, and they began to talk of what a pleasant thing it would be to do. Other filings nearby overheard their conversation and they, too, became infected with the same desire. Still others joined them, till at last all the filings began to discuss the matter, and more and more their vague desire grew into an impulse. "Why not go today?" said some of them; but others were of the opinion that it would be better to wait until tomorrow ... Meanwhile, without their having noticed it, they had been involuntarily moving nearer to the magnet, which lay there quite still, apparently taking no heed of them.'

Oscar reached into his pocket for his silver cigarette case. 'And so they went on,' he continued, his eyes darting about the room as he spoke, 'all the time insensibly drawing nearer to their neighbour ... And the more they talked, the more they felt the impulse growing stronger, till the more impatient ones declared that they would go that day, whatever the rest did. Some were even heard to say that it was their duty to visit the magnet, and that they ought to have gone long ago. And while they talked, they moved nearer and nearer, without realising that they had moved. Then, at last, the impatient ones prevailed, and, with one irresistible impulse, the whole body cried out, "There is no use waiting, we will go today. We will go now. We will go at once." And then in one unanimous ma.s.s they swept along, and in another moment were clinging fast to the magnet on every side. Then the magnet smiled-for the steel filings had no doubt at all but that they were paying that visit of their own free will.'

Oscar paused, and looked about the room, and smiled, and lit his cigarette.

'Bravo, Papa!' called Little Lord Fauntleroy, leading the applause.

Conan Doyle, sucking on his pipe, leant over to Wat Sickert and murmured: 'Who did you say was the "star attraction"?'

Oscar bowed his head briefly, then threw it back, drew slowly on his cigarette and, through a cloud of pale grey smoke which he did nothing to wave away, went on: 'What has drawn you here today, ladies and gentlemen, is your generous impulse. Together, this afternoon, we have raised more than thirty pounds for the benefit of the Earl's Court Boys' Club. Thanks to you, these lads-rough boys, working-cla.s.s boys, street urchins some of them will be able to acquire discipline, fitness and skill by learning to box in a proper boxing ring, with real boxing clubs and according to the Queensberry Rules!' This time it was Drumlanrig and Conan Doyle who led the applause.

'Discipline, fitness and skill ...' repeated Oscar, revealing his teeth in a mischievous grin. 'They're what's wanted in Earl's Court, to be sure. Here in Chelsea, naturally, we incline more to indulgence, indolence and idleness.'

'You're wicked, Oscar!' hissed Miss Cooper.

'That's why we love him,' murmured Lord Alfred Douglas at her side.

Oscar moved towards the mantelpiece. 'Iced champagne and Russian caviar are to be served shortly,' he announced. 'But, first ...' He held out his arm towards the arena he had just vacated: 'The entertainment!'

'Yes! Yes!' cried Cyril and Vyvyan simultaneously.

'Ladies and gentlemen, would you please welcome this afternoon's master of magic and prince of illusion, late of the Victoria Music Hall, Solihull, sometime toast of the West Midlands circuit, now darling of the Cadogan Hotel pantry, Mr Alphonse Byrd, together with his able a.s.sistant, the David and Goliath of Astley's Circus, Mr David McMuirtree!'

Oscar raised both hands above his head and clapped them together loudly as Byrd, alone, stepped from the corner of the room and took a bow. He was thin and pale and, for an entertainer, disconcertingly solemn. When he bowed, he bowed low, letting his arms hang forward so that his fingers almost touched the ground. The crown of his head was bald and mottled, and what little hair he had was white and wispy. He stayed bent forward, sustaining his bow for longer than was comfortable, and then, suddenly, as the applause subsided, he stood up abruptly, stretching his arms out wide-and, as he did so, two huge bouquets of brightly coloured paper flowers appeared in either hand! As we gasped and laughed and cheered, Byrd stepped towards Constance and carefully laid both bouquets on her lap like a mourner placing floral tributes on a grave.

His entertainment lasted half an hour. His skill was considerable. Effortlessly, without emotion, with barely any commentary, and with minimal a.s.sistance from McMuirtree, he made playing cards vanish and top hats disappear. From an empty cardboard box-which he pierced repeatedly with a rapier-he produced a violin. He transformed oranges into lemons, lemons into billiard b.a.l.l.s and a furled umbrella into a union flag. Oscar especially liked it when he turned a jug of water into a carafe of wine. 'Always a favourite,' he murmured.

The climax of the entertainment involved neither snake-charming nor fire-eating, as I had hoped. Constance had vetoed both. Instead it was a celebration of what Oscar described gleefully as 'the worst excesses of the French revolution'.

'Finally,' said Alphonse Byrd, 'or should I say "finalement"?'-it was the only hint of humour in his entire presentation-'may I introduce "Madame La Guillotine"? It is her birthday. Let us wish her well.'