Oscar Wilde And The Ring Of Death Part 10

'I can't.'

Brookfield looked about the table. 'Oscar sees himself as something of an amateur sleuth-the Sherlock Holmes of t.i.te Street. Isn't that right, Oscar?'

'I don't know about that,' Oscar answered, widening his eyes and revealing his teeth, 'but I'm certainly an admirer of Holmes's powers of observation and deduction. Thanks to them, for what it's worth, Charles, I can tell that you left home in something of a hurry this morning.'

Brookfield raised an eyebrow. 'And how can you tell that, Oscar?'

'By looking at you, Charles. Your waistcoat's done up with one b.u.t.ton adrift, the underside of your chin is not thoroughly shaved and your boots are unevenly shined. You're short of funds: your cuffs are frayed. You have no valet: you clean your own shoes and this morning you spent more time shining your left shoe than your right.'

Charles Brookfield looked steadily at Oscar and clapped his hands together slowly in a show of mock-applause. 'Very good, Oscar. Very good. So who killed the parrot?'

Oscar returned Brookfield's gaze, but said nothing.

'Come on, Oscar,' jeered Brookfield. 'Rise to the challenge, old boy. Who killed the parrot? If, before my first night, you can prove beyond reasonable doubt who it was killed that parrot I'll give you ...'

'What will you give me, Charles?' asked Oscar.

'I'll give you ...' Brookfield hesitated and then leant forward and looked Oscar directly in the eye. 'I'll give you ... thirteen guineas.'

'Very well, Charles,' said Oscar, smiling. 'I accept your challenge.'

CHAPTER TEN.

MURDER MOST FOUL.

We caught the three o'clock train to Eastbourne with only seconds to spare. Bustling along the platform, as whistles blew and steam swirled about us, we must have made a curious sight. Oscar, in a crimson cape and white fedora, led the way, striding forward, head held high, like a papal legate hurrying to an international conference. Wat Sickert paced anxiously beside him, the attendant major domo, in his black frock coat and pinstripe trousers, his waxed moustaches as shiny as his stove-pipe hat. I brought up the rear, the humble, b.u.mbling clerk, scurrying breathlessly to catch up with my masters. I was only last, and out of breath, because, as we arrived at Victoria, Oscar had despatched me to buy all the newspapers.

We travelled First Cla.s.s, thanks to Lady Windermere; we had a compartment to ourselves; and exactly as we reached it and fell back into our seats, the final whistle blew and the train began to judder out of the station. 'We made it!' gasped Sickert, pushing his hat to the back of his head and wiping the perspiration from his forehead with a huge, crumpled, paint-stained handkerchief.

'Did you doubt it?' asked Oscar, carefully removing his own headpiece and caressing the felt fondly as he placed it on the empty seat beside him.

'I most certainly did, Oscar. I thought you and Brookfield were all set to have a duel in Portland Place. What is the matter between you and Brookfield?'

'He does not like me.'

'That's evident-but why?'

'Envy,' I chipped in, sitting forward and recovering my breath. 'Brookfield envies Oscar.'

Sickert laughed. 'We all envy Oscar! I've envied Oscar since I was a little boy. Just because I envy him I don't go about making snide remarks at his expense, do I? I don't put on a play whose sole purpose is to lampoon and belittle him. I don't issue preposterous challenges to him for no apparent reason. There's more to it than common-or-garden envy, that's for sure.'

'Once upon a time,' said Oscar, unclasping his cape and letting it fall from his shoulders, 'I gave Charles Brookfield cause for offence.'

'Ah!' grunted Sickert, stuffing his handkerchief into his trouser pocket, 'I thought so. What did you do?'

'It was in New York, some years ago. I was on my lecture tour. He was appearing in a play. We met at a tea party. He was wearing gloves. It was an indoor tea party. A gentleman never wears gloves at tea. I told him so-publicly. He has not forgiven me.'

Oscar was reaching inside his jacket pocket for his cigarette case. We looked at him expectantly. He found a cigarette-one of his Turkish ones-and put it to his lips. He said nothing.

'Is that it?' asked Sickert.

'It is enough, I think,' he replied, lighting a match. 'I wounded Brookfield's pride. I humiliated him-in America, in front of strangers. I spoke without thinking. It was wrong of me and I regret it.' He turned away from us and looked out of the carriage window as the railway cottages of south London flashed past. 'Watch your thoughts, they become words,' he said. 'Watch your words, they become actions. Watch your actions, they become habits. Watch your habits, they become character. Watch your character, it becomes your destiny.'

'Do you think you'll discover who killed the parrot?' I asked.

Oscar turned round and grinned. 'It'll cost me thirteen guineas if I don't! Hand round the newspapers, Robert. We've work to do.'

I had perhaps a dozen newspapers in my bundle. I divided them up and handed them round. 'What are we looking for?' I asked.

'Anything that's relevant,' said Oscar. 'Further and better particulars of the fire in Cheyne Walk; statements from Inspector Gilmour of the Yard; obituaries of Lord Abergordon; reports of South American vampire bats having escaped from Regent's Park zoo ...'

'You were not serious about the vampire bats, were you?' asked Sickert, spreading out the Evening Chronicle on his knees.

Oscar did not answer the question. His nose was buried deep in the pages of the Daily Graphic. 'Look, gentlemen,' he announced, with satisfaction. 'We already have something ... a photograph of the late Lord Abergordon, Under-Secretary of State for War, on his way to the Epsom Down races with his longstanding friend, the Marquess of Queensberry ...'

'Is this significant?' asked Sickert.

'Possibly ... According to the Graphic's graphic correspondent the two n.o.ble lords shared "a pa.s.sionate interest" in all things sporting- "racing, hunting, shooting, boxing, mountaineering ..." And how about this?' Oscar rustled the newspaper with delight. 'It appears that their lordships first met as young men back in 1865, "at the time of the tragic death of Lord Queensberry's younger brother, Francis ... Lord Abergordon was a member of the same fateful Alpine expedition as Lord Francis Douglas, but happily survived the mountain-side catastrophe ..."'

'Is this significant?' repeated Sickert, putting aside the Evening Chronicle.

'Probably not,' said Oscar, lowering the newspaper and smiling at Wat Sickert, 'but it's intriguing, you'll allow ... In 1865, Lord Francis Douglas dies in a mountaineering accident and Lord Abergordon happens to be there. In 1892, the next Francis Douglas Lord Drumlanrig, Abergordon's G.o.dson-says he'd like to see Abergordon dead and within forty-eight hours he is ...'

'Drumlanrig named Abergordon as his "murder victim", did he?' asked Sickert. 'I didn't know.'

'Yes,' said Oscar, 'according to Bosie. We've yet to talk to Francis himself.'

'But it doesn't mean to say he did it-it doesn't make him a murderer.'

'Of course not.'

'You'll recall,' said Sickert, brushing dust from his trousers with the back of his hand, 'that a year or two ago I was chased through the backstreets of King's Cross by a posse of prost.i.tutes all crying "Jack the Ripper!" after me.'

'I recall,' said Oscar. 'You told me.'

'And I'm not Jack the Ripper,' protested Sickert.

'I know,' said Oscar.

'All I'm saying,' said Sickert, 'is that one shouldn't jump to conclusions on the flimsiest of circ.u.mstantial evidence.'

'I agree completely,' cried Oscar. 'I don't; I haven't; I wouldn't; I won't-I a.s.sure you.' He waved the newspaper in the air. 'I'm just intrigued by the coincidence, that's all ...'

Sickert sniffed and twitched his moustaches and looked out of the window. We were pa.s.sing through Paddock Wood. The platform was deserted.

'You never told me, Wat,' Oscar continued, smiling wickedly, 'why it was that you were wandering the back-streets of King's Cross in the middle of the night? Was the danger half the excitement?'

Wat turned back from the window to look Oscar in the eye. 'It was not the middle of the night: it was midnight. I am an English painter: I was looking for English subjects to paint. I had been sketching at a music hall in Somers Town. I got lost on my way home ...'

'Were you dressed as you are dressed now?'

'Possibly,' said Sickert. 'This is a favourite coat of mine. It was winter. I wore a cape as well.'

'And the hat? And those moustaches?' Oscar chuckled. 'No wonder the King's Cross chapter of the daughters of joy found your appearance alarming! I'm surprised they didn't mistake you for one of Bram's vampires.' I laughed. Sickert managed a flicker of a smile. Oscar leant forward and put his hand on his friend's knee. 'n.o.body believes that you are Jack the Ripper, Wat. And I don't believe that Bosie's brother murdered Lord Abergordon. What's more, Scotland Yard a.s.sure us that Miss Scott-Rivers's death was accidental, Mr Sherlock Holmes appears to be safe in the hands of Conan Doyle, and I've no doubt that when we reach Eastbourne we will find Bradford Pea.r.s.e equally safe and sound-in good health, in good heart and ready to tell us his secret.'

'His secret?' queried Sickert, recovering his composure. 'He didn't say anything about a secret.'

'We all have our secrets, Wat,' said Oscar, smiling. 'I have mine. You have yours. Bradford Pea.r.s.e has his. He confessed as much in his letter.'

'Did he?' said Sickert, clearly perplexed. 'He told me he was frightened. He made no mention of any secret.'

'Are you sure?' asked Oscar. He reached into his inside pocket and produced Pea.r.s.e's letter. He opened it and pa.s.sed it across to Wat. 'Read the final paragraph again.'

Sickert turned to the end of the letter and looked closely at Pea.r.s.e's scrawl. He read the conclusion slowly and out loud: '"Come and see me if you can spare the time. I'm frightened to be honest with you."' He looked at Oscar. 'It seems pretty clear to me. The man is frightened. He says so.'

Oscar retrieved the letter and examined it once more. 'I wonder ...' he said, reflectively, '... Pea.r.s.e's lack of precision when it comes to punctuation leaves scope for ambiguity, I fear. I may be mistaken, but I took it that your friend's final sentence was an admission that he is fearful of telling you the truth. He is saying, "Wat, I'm frightened to be honest with you" is he not?'

We reached Eastbourne Station at a little after half past six. The train ran late. There was a points failure at Polegate. The recently built Devonshire Park Theatre-the jewel in Eastbourne's already well-studded theatrical crown-was situated to the southwest of the town, a tidy walk from the town centre but only a stone's throw from the sea. We arrived at the stage door, at the rear of the theatre, at a minute after seven. We stood in the street, in fading light, addressing the stage doorkeeper through a small square grille cut into the stage door at about head height. From what little we could see and hear of him, he was a lugubrious old codger, who hailed from Lancashire and gave the impression of having spent a lifetime working in the theatre, loathing every minute of it. 'No visitors before the show,' he grunted, without so much as glancing in our direction. He was implacable, moved by neither Wat's pleading nor, more remarkably, by the rattle of Oscar's shiny shillings. 'No visitors,' he repeated.

'Is Mr Pea.r.s.e definitely in the theatre?' Oscar asked, his face pressed against the grille. The doorman did not answer. We could hear him slurping a beverage of some kind. He belched slowly as Oscar repeated the question. 'Is Mr Pea.r.s.e definitely in the theatre? We need to know.'

'He'd better be,' grunted the doorman, 'or who else are they going to murder in the fourth act?'

As we abandoned the stage door and made our way around the building towards the box office at front of the theatre, Oscar shook his head and sighed. 'As you will be aware, gentlemen, I have made it my life's work to entertain the working cla.s.ses, enrage the middle cla.s.ses and fascinate the aristocracy-but I do believe I've just met my match. Accrington 'Arry here is in a cla.s.s of his own, beyond my reach.'

We secured three seats for the evening's entertainment without difficulty. Murder Most Foul, 'a modern melodrama in the old tradition', had failed to draw the town. Oscar had hoped to be seated in the mid-stalls for the performance, but Mr Standen Triggs, the theatre manager, who chanced to be on duty, proved himself to be one of nature's aristocrats by recognising Oscar the instant we entered the foyer and being evidently, obsessively, utterly fascinated by him. Mr Triggs was quite overwhelmed by the honour of having so great a man of letters as Mr Wilde in his theatre and insisted, consequently, that our party be seated in the royal box, as his personal guests, with his humble self in awed attendance all evening. From the moment we arrived at the Devonshire Park to the moment we departed three hours later, I don't believe Triggs took his eyes off Oscar once. He gazed upon him, fixated, as though Oscar were the Queen of Sheba.

Triggs, as bonh.o.m.ous and voluble as his stage doorkeeper was dour and taciturn, held a certain fascination himself. He was a small man in his mid-fifties, dapper in his dress, dainty in his movements. His diminutive head was quite extraordinary: it was round like a radish and separated from his shoulders by a long, thin, stalk-like neck. As he spoke, it bobbed from side to side like a child's toy. He was virtually bald; his cheeks were pink and smooth, almost velvety; his nose was small but sharply pointed, with a red tip that looked as if it had been applied by means of theatrical make-up; his watery red-rimmed eyes were perfectly round and disconcertingly protuberant. While he spoke repeatedly of the 'great unbridled joy' he felt at our presence, he seemed all evening to be on the brink of emotional collapse. His hands shook; sweat trickled down his face and neck in a constant stream; time and again his bulging eyes filled to overflowing with heavy tears.

Before the performance and during each of three long intervals he entertained us in his office and talked incessantly. His exuberance and enthusiasm were both comical and touching. He served us a warm and peculiarly unpleasant Alsatian wine. 'Excellent, is it not?' he asked, crying and laughing as he spoke. He sang the praises of everybody and everything. His theatre, only eight years old, was 'probably, possibly-no, certainly' the finest Italianate theatre outside of Italy. His employers-the Devonshire Park and Baths Company-were, 'without question', the fairest, the most decent you could hope to work for, and, while he had not yet met the new Duke, nor indeed the new Duke's new d.u.c.h.ess, he had heard only good things of them- 'only very good things, very good things indeed'. And as for our friend Bradford Pea.r.s.e ... 'Ever an Eastbourne favourite ... Is there a better provincial player of his generation and particular build? I think not. Is there a more popular man of the theatre- present company excepted? I know not.'

'Pea.r.s.e is well-liked by his colleagues?' asked Oscar, whose own eyes now seemed to be watering (possibly on account of the wine).

'He hasn't an enemy in the world,' declared Mr Triggs. 'Indeed,' he added, leaning towards Oscar confidentially, 'so liked and respected-and trusted-is your Mr Pea.r.s.e that we allow him a privilege allowed to no other player on the touring circuit ...'

Oscar raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

'We permit him to stay on the premises overnight. It's against all the rules.'

'He sleeps here?' asks Sickert.

'Yes,' answered Triggs, still not taking his eyes off Oscar. 'Bradford Pea.r.s.e is customarily short of funds, but he'll never be short of friends. When he's appearing at the Devonshire Park Theatre we allow him to use his dressing room as his digs.'

'Your stage doorman permits this?' murmured Oscar in amazement.

Mr Standen Triggs nodded solemnly, wiping his eyes the while. 'Such is the standing of Bradford Pea.r.s.e in his chosen profession,' he said.

It cannot be pretended that the professional standing of Mr Bradford Pea.r.s.e was much enhanced by his appearance in Murder Most Foul.

'This is not bad enough to be good,' Oscar whispered to me as the house lamps were dimmed for the final act. 'The word "tosh" was coined, I believe, in the year 1528.1 have long wondered why. Now I know. This play is tedious twaddle. No wonder Mr Triggs is yawning at the back of the box. I do hope friend Pea.r.s.e is murdered sooner rather than later.'

It was not to be. The last act of Murder Most Foul was the longest-or, at least, so it seemed. In the drama, Pea.r.s.e played the part of a cruel husband and father, a ship's captain, who neglects his wife and family when he is at sea and beats and brutalises them without remorse whenever he returns home. In the final moments of the play, his wife decides she can endure his cruelty no longer and, using a pistol she has stolen from a pa.s.sing stranger-a character from the complex subplot: a Peruvian cattle rustler if I remember right!-she shoots her husband in the back as, in a drunken rage, holding a bull-whip, he turns away from her, his hand raised to beat their misshapen, cowering, blind, consumptive daughter ...

It was Oscar who said, famously, 'One must have a heart of stone to read of the death of Little Nell without laughing.' During the final moments of Murder Most Foul I noticed my friend leaning over the edge of the royal box at the Devonshire Park Theatre with his teeth clamped around his knuckles.

Sickert, seated immediately behind Oscar, hissed: 'What if the gun is loaded?'

Oscar stifled a sn.i.g.g.e.r. 'If it is, we can shoot the author.'

Sickert persisted: 'Someone threatened Bradford's life. If he's to die, tonight's the night ...'

Oscar turned to Sickert. 'Hush, man. Let him die in peace.'

As Oscar spoke, on stage the gun exploded. The burst of noise was shocking. From the spa.r.s.ely filled auditorium, there were cries of 'No!'

From the back of the box, a freshly roused Standen Triggs muttered, 'Realistic, eh?'

On stage, the actress playing Pea.r.s.e's wife dropped the smoking pistol to the ground and covered her eyes in anguish; the young girl playing Pea.r.s.e's daughter looked, wild-eyed, towards her mother and let forth a piercing scream; and Bradford Pea.r.s.e himself, centre-stage, swung about to face the audience. His chest and hands were crimson with blood; his eyes were closed, his face contorted. He staggered, first to the left, next to the right; suddenly, he stumbled forwards, towards the footlights; for a moment it seemed he might fall into the orchestra pit; instead, with arms suddenly outstretched, he stepped abruptly back and collapsed, like a dead-weight, onto the floor.

The curtain fell.

'Worth waiting for, eh?' exclaimed Mr Standen Triggs, leaping to his feet to lead the standing ovation.

We stood, too, and cheered and gazed down into the near-empty auditorium and saw that others were also standing to offer their applause.

After several moments-the applause was beginning to falter-the stage curtain rose once more. There, behind the footlights, in line, side by side, hand in hand, heads held high, ready to take their call, were all the members of the cast of Murder Most Foul bar one. Bradford Pea.r.s.e was nowhere to be seen.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

'I FEAR THE WORST'

'He's milking it,' chuckled Mr Standen Triggs. 'He'll make his entrance on the second call.'

'I wonder,' murmured Oscar.

The curtain fell and rose again. Still there was no sign of Bradford Pea.r.s.e. As she took her bow, the leading lady had her eyes cast towards the wings.