Oscar Wilde And The Ring Of Death Part 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

QUESTIONS, QUESTIONS.

At eleven o'clock that evening, my head aching from a surfeit of Algerian wine, I made my way into the smoking room of the Albemarle Club, 36 Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. To my surprise, Oscar was already there. He was standing by the fireplace, his right elbow resting gently on the oak mantelpiece, his right hand nursing a large gla.s.s of brandy. He was not alone. Seated in the low leather armchairs on either side of the fireplace were the Douglas brothers. Bosie, who appeared to be wearing tennis clothes, was lying back languidly, his arms flopping on to the floor, his head cast to one side, his eyes closed. Francis, Lord Drumlanrig, by contrast, was in evening dress, sitting forward on the edge of his chair, his face flushed and his eyes alert. He was gazing resolutely towards Oscar.

'You've not forgotten us,' cried my friend, as I arrived. 'We thought perhaps you had.' Oscar, I sensed at once, was in a teasing frame of mind.

'How was Oxford?' I asked, going to the sideboard and helping myself to a weak brandy and soda. 'Have you made progress?'

'Oxford,' said Oscar, who looked extraordinarily fresh given the lateness of the hour and the length of his day, 'was all that we dared hoped for. Our essay, I'm proud to tell you, Robert, was considered Alpha material. Socrates, Spinoza, Saint-Simon, Sappho- we brought them all into play and Bosie's tutor was suitably impressed. The dear old gentleman did not appear to notice that our references were chosen entirely for their alliterative allure. He chewed happily on his handkerchief throughout our reading and offered us each a gla.s.s of sherry at the end of it.'

'You read Bosie's essay out loud for him?'

'I wrote it; I read it; Bosie takes the credit. It is extraordinary what you can get away with if you try. I'm sure Sickert will have shared Whistler's maxim with you: "In art, nothing matters so long as you are bold." In my experience, that's true in life as well.'

Lord Drumlanrig was still gazing fixedly at Oscar. He was twenty-five years old. He was not as beautiful as his younger brother. Francis Drumlanrig had what Oscar called 'utilitarian good looks: they serve, they don't inspire'. The young aristocrat s.h.i.+fted further forward on his chair. 'If that's all, Oscar,' he said, somewhat awkwardly, 'I'll be on my way. I must look in on Lord Rosebery before midnight. I'm expected. Thanks for the drink.'

He got to his feet and offered Oscar his hand. Oscar took it and held it and turned to me. 'Francis kindly joined us after dinner,' he explained. 'I had some questions for him and he has answered them all-most helpfully. I have to say he submitted to my cross-examination with an extraordinarily good grace.' Oscar let go of the young man's hand. 'He blushes. He is embarra.s.sed. There is no need. I asked Lord Drumlanrig if he had met the late David McMuirtree on any occasion prior to the 1 May gathering of the Socrates Club. He acknowledged that he had just the once. It was a secret meeting, a brief encounter, an a.s.signation on Westminster Bridge-arranged by McMuirtree at McMuirtree's request.'

The young peer stood to attention, with his arms at his side, his cheeks burning, his eyes now firmly fixed on the empty fire grate.

Oscar went on: 'McMuirtree told Lord Drumlanrig that rumours were circulating-rumours of a most unsavoury nature, rumours suggesting that the older man was exerting an unnatural influence over the younger. As you know, Lord Drumlanrig is Lord Rosebery's political secretary. McMuirtree warned him that certain people-the Marquess of Queensberry among them-were saying that Lord Drumlanrig and Lord Rosebery were lovers.

'I denied any wrongdoing,' said Drumlanrig hoa.r.s.ely, still staring into the grate. 'I denied it absolutely.'

'He denied it absolutely,' repeated Oscar gently. 'He told McMuirtree not to meddle in matters that did not concern him. He told McMuirtree to mind his own his business. He told him so in no uncertain terms.'

'Did he threaten him?' I asked.

'Yes,' said Francis Drumlanrig, turning and looking at me with dark, bewildered eyes, 'I threatened him-in a manner of speaking. I threatened him, but I did not murder him.' He bent over and picked up a newspaper from the floor. 'I must go now, Oscar. Forgive me. Goodnight, Oscar. Goodnight, Sherard.'

'Well ...' I said, with a sigh, after Drumlanrig had gone. 'Well, well ...'

'Indeed,' said Oscar. 'There is much to ponder. And I imagine, Robert, there is also much to report. We've had busy days the both of us.' He drained his gla.s.s and put it on the mantelpiece. 'Let's to bed now. I'm sleeping at the club tonight. I'll pick you up in Gower Street at noon.' He put his arm around me and led me towards the door. 'Come, let's tiptoe out. We'll leave Bosie sleeping here. His triumph in Oxford has exhausted him.'

I was exhausted, too. And foolish. I reached my room in Gower Street as midnight struck and yet I did not put out my lamp until gone three in the morning. First, I allowed myself to be distracted by re-reading and attempting to draft a reply to yet another importunate letter from my estranged wife's solicitor; next, I decided to write up my journal while the events of the day were still relatively fresh in my mind; finally (and fatally!) I began to read a licentious volume George Daubeney had encouraged me to buy on one of our visits to the Librairie Francaise. When, eventually, sated with the absurd antics of the libidinous nuns and novices of the Couvent de la Concupiscence, I put the book aside and closed my eyes, I fell asleep almost at once. I was dead to the world for nigh on nine hours. It was Oscar who woke me, rat-tatting on the front door with his sword-stick.

I looked out of my window and waved down to him. He was dressed immaculately, wearing a dove-grey frock coat and lemon-yellow gloves. (He kept clothes in an a.s.sortment of London clubs and hotels.) He raised his black silk top hat to me and indicated the four-wheeler at the kerbside that awaited us. I threw on my clothes-the clothes I had worn the day before !-and ran down the stairs to join him.

'I've not had time to shave,' I apologised as I climbed into our carriage.

'No matter,' he said. 'We are going to a public house. Your appearance is exactly comme il faut.'

'I must look like a scarecrow,' I said, realising that I had not even brushed my hair, 'whereas you, Oscar, you look so ... civilised.'

He chuckled. 'With a high hat and a well-cut frock coat anybody, even an accountant, can look civilised.' He fingered the rosebud in the lapel of his coat. 'I am rather pleased, however, with my b.u.t.tonhole. This rose is named in honour of Saint Joan of Arc. Tomorrow is the thirteenth, her feast day. Today, this rosebud is white. Tomorrow, the flower will open and you will see petals as red as fire.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Tomorrow is the thirteenth,' I said. 'Friday the thirteenth.'

'Quite,' said Oscar. 'Unlucky for some.'

I turned and looked him this extraordinary, supremely intelligent, highly educated, profoundly civilised man. 'You really are deeply superst.i.tious, aren't you?'

'I take some of it with a pinch of salt,' he said.

I laughed.

He looked at me earnestly. 'The truth is: I love superst.i.tions, Robert. They are the colour element of thought and imagination. They are the opponents of common sense. Common sense is the enemy of romance. Leave us some unreality. Do not make us offensively sane.'

Our four-wheeler turned southwards into the Charing Cross Road. 'Where are we going now?' I asked.

'Nowhere very romantic, alas. To a public house in Wellington Street to have beer and sandwiches with Bram Stoker and Charles Brookfield. They are the last of our "witnesses".'

'What about George Daubeney?' I asked. 'Have you cross-examined the Honourable Reverend?'

'Not yet. He and I are having a tete-a-tete this afternoon-at his suggestion. He has something to show me. Something he tells me will please me greatly.'

'Am I invited, too?'

'No, Robert. Whatever he has to offer is, apparently, for my eyes only.'

'He's a curious sort of clergyman, isn't he?'

'Not at all,' cried Oscar. 'In my experience they're all obsessed with carnality and corruption. I think they regard it as their stock-in-trade. The bishops are often the worst.'

I was beginning to feel more awake. Oscar's banter was reviving me-and his quirkiness, his lightness of touch and his easy acceptance of the foibles of others were serving to remind me of why I found him to be the best company in the world.

As our four-wheeler trundled down Charing Cross Road towards the Strand, at his behest I gave Oscar a brief account of my encounters of the day before. When I'd done I said: 'I'm afraid I didn't make much progress, Oscar. I'm not in your league, alas. Nor that of Sherlock Holmes.

'Forget Holmes,' said Oscar genially. 'You covered the ground, and covered it well. I'm grateful.' He slapped me on the knee by way of congratulation.

'And you?' I asked.

'I made some progress, I believe,' he said lightly, looking out of the carriage window. Our four-wheeler had stopped momentarily: our horse appeared to have been distracted by a road-side water-trough. Oscar turned back to me. 'What did you make of young Drumlanrig?' he asked.

I hesitated.

'Go on,' he said.

'Can I follow Whistler's advice?' I asked. 'Can I be bold?'

He laughed. 'Are you going to tell me that Lord Drumlanrig is our murderer?'

'It's possible, is it not?' I said. 'They are a strange family the Douglases ... moody, headstrong, touched with madness ...'

'Indeed. "Douglas" in Gaelic means "dark water", you know. And "Nomen est omen" is my philosophy. But of all the members of the family I've encountered thus far, Francis Drumlanrig seems to me to be the least touched with madness, the most down-to-earth.'

'But Francis Drumlanrig chose his G.o.dfather, Lord Abergordon, as his victim-and Lord Abergordon is dead. By his own admission, Francis Drumlanrig threatened David McMuirtree-and David McMuirtree is dead'

Our carriage began to move once more. Oscar lit a cigarette and nodded to me as if to say, 'Go on.'

I went on, uncertain as to whether or not I should. 'Francis Drumlanrig,' I said slowly, 'is heir to the Marquess of Queensberry ... is he not?'

'He is.'

'But Francis is estranged from his father because his father does not much care for the kind of company the young man keeps. Lord Queensberry does not much care for the likes of Lord Rosebery and ...' I hesitated.

'... the likes of Oscar Wilde?'

'Yes,' I said. 'The Marquess of Queensberry does not approve of either of his sons' intimate a.s.sociation with Oscar Wilde. If Francis Drumlanrig were to rid the world of all the Wildes, would that not endear the young earl to his monster of a father?'

'Ingenious, Robert, as well as bold,' said Oscar, smiling at me benevolently.

Encouraged, I went on: 'Aside from the parrot, there were six people on the list of victims. Who else had a motive to murder at least four out of the six?'

Our four-wheeler was drawing to a halt. Oscar threw his cigarette to the floor and extinguished it under foot. 'Oh, Robert,' he cried, pus.h.i.+ng open the carriage door. 'Beware of dangerous a.s.sumptions!'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean: do not a.s.sume that anyone had a motive to murder more than one of the victims'

I helped my friend out of the four-wheeler. 'I do not follow you,' I said.

'Could our murderer not simply have had just one victim in mind-and be busy murdering all the rest simply to cover his traces, to cause confusion in his wake, to throw sand in our eyes?'

I stood with Oscar on the corner of Wellington Street and the Strand and looked up at the cloudless sky. I was perplexed.

Oscar paid off our cab and led the way into the saloon bar of the Duke of Wellington public house. 'Beer and sandwiches,' he murmured unhappily as we entered the crowded, smoke-filled room. We saw Bram Stoker at once. He was standing at the bar, looking towards the door, waiting for us. There was no sign of Charles Brookfield.

'He sends his apologies,' said Stoker, handing us each a pint pot of warm, dark ale.

'Does he?' asked Oscar, looking down at the beer with wide eyes and undisguised mistrust.

Stoker laughed. He was a big bear of a man. He was as tall as Oscar-six feet two inches at least- and quite as broad, but while Oscar seemed overweight and flabby, Stoker appeared well-built and strong. He was deep-chested and broad-shouldered. When he laughed, his whole frame shook. 'No, Oscar, you're right,' he growled through his laugh and, with the back of his nails, he scratched at his untidy red beard. 'Brookfield does not send his apologies. He's simply decided not to join us.'

Stoker picked up his pint pot and led us towards a boxed stall in a dark corner at the back of the room. Set out on a table within the stall were knives and forks, plates, wine gla.s.ses, napkins, one dish overflowing with cuts of cold meat, another piled high with portions of dressed crab and two open bottles of Alsatian wine. 'Take a pew, gentlemen,' said Stoker amiably. 'I've never thought of Oscar as much of a sandwich man.'

'By all that's wonderful,' purred Oscar gratefully, lowering his bulk onto one of the benches within the stall. 'My spirits soar. Thank you, Bram.'

Stoker struck a match and lit two candles in the centre of the table. He had bright blue eyes and ruddy farmer's cheeks. He smiled at me. 'Oscar and I go back a long way. His parents were very good to me in Dublin when I was a boy. Sir William Wilde was something of a hero of mine.'

'My father was an author and antiquarian as well as a medical man,' Oscar added by way of explanation.

'He was a great man, a good man, a strong man, 'said Stoker, filling our wine gla.s.ses, 'until the case broke him.'

'"The case"?' I queried. 'Was Sir William by way of being something of an amateur sleuth also?'

'No,' answered Oscar, smiling. 'Sir William was by way of being something of a professional ladies' man. "The case" was an unfortunate libel action. My father stood accused of having chloroformed and raped a female patient. It wasn't true, of course, but that he and the lady in the case had enjoyed an illicit, if consenting, relations.h.i.+p could not be denied. The case ruined him. Bram is correct. It "broke" him.'

'There's a lesson there for us all, gentlemen,' said Stoker, beaming across the table at us. 'Keep out of court at all costs. Cheers!'

We raised and clinked our gla.s.ses. 'Now,' said Oscar, helping himself to a portion of dressed crab,' explain to me why Brookfield is not here.'

'He has an aversion to you, Oscar-it's as simple as that. He is obsessed with you, but can't stand the sight of you at the same time! I imagine at the Socrates Club dinner, when we played that infernal game of yours, you were his intended victim. He is insanely jealous of you. We all are.' Stoker looked at me and winked. 'I have been ever since I was a young man.'

'This is balderdash, Bram,' said Oscar happily, helping himself to a further portion of dressed crab. 'Poppyc.o.c.k.' He looked at me. 'I'm the one who was insanely jealous. Stoker here stole my sweetheart-saw her, stole her, swept her off her feet.'

'I had the advantage of years, Oscar,' said Stoker.

'Yes,' replied Oscar, sniffing the wine with satisfaction, 'I have that consolation.' He took a sip of the Alsace and placed his gla.s.s back on the table. He leant towards me confidentially. 'Florrie Balcombe-Mrs Stoker-is very beautiful.'

'I know,' I said. 'I have been to first nights at the Lyceum. I have seen the gentlemen in the stalls and in the balconies standing on their seats to get a better view of her.'

'Constance Lloyd-Mrs Wilde-is very beautiful, too' said Bram Stoker, without affectation.

'Indeed,' I said, my cheeks suddenly reddening.

'Robert is a little in love with my wife,' murmured Oscar, gently patting the back of my hand.

'I'm not surprised,' said Bram Stoker. 'I imagine most men are.'

'And yet,' said Oscar, leaning back in the stall and lighting his first cigarette since we had taken our seats, 'one man wants to murder her.'

'It can't be so,' said Stoker. 'I won't believe it.'

'Yes, it is so,' said Oscar quietly. He leant forward towards our host: 'Who did you choose as your "victim", Bram, when we played my wretched game?'

'"Old Father Time",' answered Stoker, smiling. He tugged on his beard ruefully. 'I shall be forty-five this November.'

'And what is your "secret", my friend?'

'My secret? My secret is laughable. My secret is that in my heart I am still only twenty-five.'

'Oh,' said Oscar, draining his gla.s.s. 'In my heart I'm not yet nineteen.'

We finished the two bottles of Alsatian wine and ordered a third. We talked of youth and beauty, of fine wine and good food. Bram cautioned Oscar against a third helping of dressed crab. Dressed crab, he claimed, had led him to dream of vampires; we talked of Charles Brookfield's satire on Lady Windermere's Fan and of Walter Sickert's paintings of actresses en deshabillee; we talked of George Daubeney and house fires and women's undergarments-Bram's grandfather had been a manufacturer of ladies' stays. We talked of parrots and monkeys and murder-Bram had been given a pet monkey by W. S. Gilbert and spoke of an acquaintance of his [Sir Richard Burton (182 1-1890), translator of the Arabian Nights.] who admitted to murdering a stranger once, 'casually and without cause'. It was a wonderfully congenial lunch, and we touched on many topics peripheral to our 'case', but I was not sure how much solid progress we had made.

At three o'clock, however, standing once more on the corner of Wellington Street and the Strand, Oscar expressed himself well satisfied. Bram Stoker had returned to the Lyceum (to the rehearsals for Mr Irving's King Lear), having insisted on paying for our entertainment ('I got the girl, Oscar-you may have the dressed crab') and having agreed to be in attendance at the Cadogan Hotel the following evening for what he called 'the extraordinary extra gathering of the Socrates Club'.

'I hope you know what you're doing, Oscar, 'Bram called out merrily, as he strode away from us up the street towards the theatre. 'And have no fear ... I'll deliver Brookfield to the dinner for you-that much I promise.'

'What now, Oscar?' I asked.