Oscar Wilde And The Ring Of Death Part 21

'Why are we here then?' asked Oscar, gratefully accepting one of the beakers of cheap champagne being held out to us by Bram Stoker.

'In Queensberry's honour,' said Brookfield. 'The Marquess is a good man. We're supporting him. Simple as that.' He accepted one of Oscar's cigarettes. 'In a few weeks' time, "Gentleman Jim Corbett" will take on "Boston Strong Boy John L. Sullivan" in the heavyweight boxing championship of the world-the first-ever t.i.tle match prize-fight to be fought with padded gloves according to the Queensberry Rules. History will be made. This is the curtain-raiser-a chance for those who don't know the Queensberry Rules, or still have their doubts about them, to see the rules in action.' He glanced at his pocket watch. 'This evening-somewhat later than advertised, by the look of it-your friend McMuirtree is going head-to-head with another old codger in a "friendly" to demonstrate "fair fighting, Queensberry-style". McMuirtree claims he'll pull no punches-but no blood will be spilt either, that I guarantee.' Brookfield looked about the empty bar. With the corner of his left eye he winked at Oscar. 'No blood: no crowds.'

'Has anyone seen McMuirtree?' I asked.

'We all have,' said Edward Heron-Allen. 'He's in his dressing room, holding court. Your friend, the Reverend Daubeney is in attendance, sprinkling him with holy water.'

'Sickert's there, too,' added Bram Stoker, evidently much amused by the notion, 'sketching the great man as he prepares himself for the ring.' He topped up our champagne.

'And Lord Queensberry?' asked Oscar.

'He's there, as well,' said Brookfield, smiling to himself while studying the plume of smoke rising from his cigarette. 'Very much so.'

Stoker chuckled. 'His lordship is a man obsessed. He keeps whispering his mantra into McMuirtree's ear: "No wrestling, no hugging, nothing below the belt."'

We laughed. 'As you know, Oscar,' said Brookfield, looking up, 'The Queensberry Rules are very clear about hugging and anything below the belt.'

Oscar smiled and took a sip of champagne. 'Were you a boxer at school, Charles?' he asked.

'Not really. Cricket was more my game. I rather fancied myself in "whites".'

'I always think that the postures adopted by those who play cricket are somewhat indecent,' said Oscar lightly, dropping the b.u.t.t of his cigarette into the dregs of his champagne. He touched my arm. 'Let us go and wish McMuirtree well, Robert.' He looked to Edward Heron-Allen. 'Where did you find the great man's court?'

'Just behind us here,' said Heron-Allen, indicating a painted brown door marked 'Private' to one side of the bar. 'The dressing rooms are along the corridor to the left. McMuirtree's is the first.'

We found it without difficulty. And in it, standing in the centre of the room, we found McMuirtree in high spirits, surrounded by a numerous and oddly a.s.sorted entourage. Inspector Gilmour of Scotland Yard was of the party; so were Arthur Conan Doyle and his young friend, Willie Hornung. The Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney was there, changed and shaved since we last we saw him, not sprinkling holy water, as reported, but apparently a.s.sisting the boy, Antipholus, who was standing immediately behind McMuirtree, on a three-legged wooden stool, applying oil of some kind to the boxer's bare back and shoulders. On his hands McMuirtree wore large, ungainly, padded leather boxing gloves, bound tightly about his wrists with leather laces. The lacing was being tied for him, not quite by two handmaidens, but, on the left hand, by a young police officer, one of Gilmour's men, dressed in the official uniform of the Metropolitan Police, and on the right, by Walter Sickert, dressed in what appeared to be his own version of the uniform of the Transylvanian national guard. 'Tighter, gentlemen, please-tighter!' commanded McMuirtree, laughing as he gave the order.

Crouched at the boxer's feet was the ape-like figure of John Sholto Douglas, 8th Marquess of Queensberry. He was in full evening dress, but his appearance was anything but soigne. His face was red and covered in perspiration. His hands were black. He was squatting, seated uncomfortably on his haunches, holding McMuirtree's right foot in his lap, examining the boxer's boot much as a farmer inspects a horse's shoe. 'No boots with springs allowed,' he muttered. 'No kicking, gouging, b.u.t.ting, biting. No hugging. No blows below the belt.'

As we entered the dressing room and surveyed the scene, McMuirtree called to us: 'Gentlemen, welcome. I'm still alive, you see.

Conan Doyle, Hornung, Gilmour, Sickert, all spoke a word of greeting. Lord Queensberry looked up at Oscar. 'Are my sons with you?'

'Not Lord Alfred, my lord,' replied Oscar, pleasantly. 'I understand he is dining with his mother. But Lord Drumlanrig hopes to be here, I know. He is a firm believer in the benefits of boxing-and of the Queensberry Rules.' He bowed towards the semi-rec.u.mbent marquess. 'Drumlanrig has been raising useful sums for the Earl's Court Boys' Club, I understand.'

'Is Primrose with him?'

'I do believe Lord Rosebery hopes to be here also, yes, sir.'

'Good,' grunted the Marquess, shifting his attention to McMuirtree's other boot. 'They can see how real men fight.'

Behind us, at the dressing-room door, a short man in a tall hat appeared. He carried a large hand-bell which he rang three times. 'The fight's to begin in ten minutes, gentlemen. Kindly clear the room. Only side-men and seconds to remain. The fight's to begin in ten minutes. Kindly clear the room.'

Without debate, we did as we were told, wishing McMuirtree good fortune as we went.

'Is Byrd not one of your supporters?' Oscar asked as we took our leave.

'No,' answered the boxer, now running on the spot and jabbing the air with alternate fists. 'Byrd's on duty at the hotel tonight, but no matter-he's seen me fight often enough. Lord Queensberry and Inspector Gilmour are kindly looking after my interests-I'm in safe hands.'

The entourage was gone. Oscar and I were the last of the visitors to leave. McMuirtree stopped running and stood, alone, between the police inspector and the marquess, towering above them, head erect, arms held out, glistening like a Roman gladiator. Oscar stood in the doorway facing him. 'Good luck, my friend. I've no doubt tonight the better man will win.'

'Thank you,' rasped the boxer. 'And by breakfast, Oscar, all your worries will be over. I will have survived and you'll know for certain that it was only a game.'

We caught up at once with the rest of the party and made our way back, through the rear-stalls bar, to the auditorium. Francis Drumlanrig and Lord Rosebery had now arrived and were seated together, alone, in the centre of one of the rows McMuirtree had reserved for his guests. Oscar went at once to join them, taking Conan Doyle and Willie Hornung with him. I sat in the row immediately behind them, with George Daubeney, Walter Sickert and Edward Heron-Allen.

I did not like Edward Heron-Allen. He was too charming, too intelligent, too well- and widely read. Whatever the topic of conversation, Heron-Allen had an opinion to voice, an experience to share. When, in the row in front of us, Lord Rosebery, chatting to Conan Doyle, made a pa.s.sing reference to Sherlock Holmes's beloved Stradivarius, Heron-Allen leant forward to offer his own thoughts on the history of Italian violin-making, reminding us that he had himself been apprentice to George Charnot, 'the greatest violin maker of our time', and that his (Heron-Allen' s) treatise, Violin Making As It Was and Is, was now in its fifth printing. When Wat Sickert remarked casually that we were having to wait so long for the boxing to begin that he regretted not having brought his library book with him, Heron-Allen immediately embarked on an account of the hours that he had been spending in the Bodleian Library in Oxford preparing his literal translation of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Medieval Persian, marine biology, meteorology, prost.i.tution, prize-fighting-Edward Heron-Allen had something to say on them all. What was infuriating to me was the way in which his trick of turning every topic back to himself seemed so to amuse everyone else. Others found Heron-Allen immensely engaging it cannot be denied. And that some of what he had to say held a certain fascination cannot be denied either.

In the moments before the boxing began, the conversation turned to c.o.c.k-fighting. Heron-Allen, inevitably, was an authority. In North Africa, apparently, he had lived with tribesmen who bred fighting birds-gamec.o.c.ks, birds of prey and parrots. Heron-Allen had been taught how to cut the comb and wattle off a c.o.c.k, how to hood the creature to keep it calm before a fight, and how to sharpen the natural spurs on each of its legs. In some cultures, in India and parts of Africa, he explained, birds were set to fight with 'naked heels', using only their natural spurs as weapons. In others, in Europe and America, the birds had manmade 'gaffs' or 'c.o.c.kspurs'-curved, sharp spikes, sometimes two and a half inches long-tied to their legs with leather bracelets. At his home in Chelsea, Heron-Allen told us, he had a prized collection of silver c.o.c.kspurs from various lands.

'None from England, I hope,' said Conan Doyle.

'One from Scotland,' answered Heron-Allen, proudly. 'c.o.c.k-fighting is still quite legal north of the border.'

'I'm sorry to hear it,' responded the good doctor. 'When Lord Rosebery and his party are returned to government, I trust they'll put a stop to such barbarity.'

Rosebery smiled at Conan Doyle. 'Yours to command, doctor.'

Eventually-perhaps thirty minutes after we had taken our seats the human bout began. The delay, we later learnt, had been caused by nothing more sinister than the late arrival of McMuirtree's challenger. Alfred Diego (conceived in Lisbon, born on Merseyside) had travelled from Liverpool for the fight. On his home turf, Diego had a reputation: in London he was virtually unknown. Lord Queensberry-who knew British boxing as well as any man alive-had chosen Diego as a suitable opponent for McMuirtree on grounds of 'fairness'. The two men were of comparable age and weight and build. Both were known as 'clean fighters', both had experience of fighting with gloves and both were said (and claimed) never to have been the loser in a prize-fight. The bout in the Ring of Death was not, technically, a prize-fight, of course, but there was a purse attached to it nonetheless. Queensberry was paying each man a fee of 10 for his efforts, with a bonus of a further 10 to be awarded to the victor- on condition that, during the course of the fight, none of the Queensberry Rules was transgressed.

When the opponents appeared together in the ring for the first time, a low roar rumbled around the auditorium of Astley's amphitheatre. When the bell sounded and the first round began, instinctively every man in the hall got to his feet.

'It quickens the blood, does it not?' said Lord Rosebery.

'They're an ill-a.s.sorted pair,' remarked Oscar. 'It's Beauty and the Beast.'

Oscar had reason. The two fighters were well-matched in terms of height and size, but their physiognomies could not have been more different. McMuirtree's features were well-proportioned; his eyes were clear and open; his skin was as smooth and unblemished as a girl's. Diego, by contrast, had skin that appeared rough and grimy, like a warthog's, and an ugly, bruised and battered face that looked as if it had been beaten about with a spade. For all that, as the sparring began, Diego looked to be the fitter and faster of the two.

For the first five rounds, McMuirtree barely moved as Diego danced about him nimbly. McMuirtree stood his ground well enough, but he kept his gloves close to his face, defensively, and on the few occasions when he threw a punch, always with his right hand, it landed wide of the mark.

Between each of the three-minute rounds, the fighters retreated to their corners for sixty seconds. While Gilmour wiped a sponge across McMuirtree's face and Queensberry whispered instructions in his ear, Edward Heron-Allen gave us the benefit of his wisdom. 'It's going to be a long haul. I reckon our man's pacing himself deliberately. We could be in for twenty rounds.'

'In real life,' said Wat Sickert, 'there's only one round. Most spontaneous fights last no more than ten seconds. The blow is struck, the blade goes in, a shot is fired-and it's over.'

'This is sport,' said Conan Doyle.

'No,' said Sickert, 'this is pantomime-Punch and Judy for grown-ups.'

The second five rounds were as lackl.u.s.tre as the first. Diego stayed on the offensive and did not appear to tire. He circled his opponent relentlessly, jabbing away at him, throwing punches high then low then high again in quick succession, forcing McMuirtree to retreat but still not managing to lay a glove on him.

'I see how Beauty retains her loveliness,' said Oscar. 'She keeps out of the sun. She lurks in the shadows, out of harm's way.'

'The crowd won't like it,' murmured Heron-Allen.

'Have patience,' said George Daubeney. 'Patience will be rewarded. Patience always is.'

In the fifteenth round Heron-Allen's prediction came true. The rumble of discontent began at the back of the hall with a single, angry cry: 'For G.o.d's sake, McMuirtree, start fighting!' The lone voice was joined at once by others close by, and then the cries spread, like rolling thunder, across the auditorium. Within moments, two hundred men were shouting in unison: 'Fight, fight, fight!'

Curiously, it was Diego-who, for almost an hour, had made all the running-who seemed spurred on by the jeers of the crowd. He moved in close on McMuirtree and instead of pounding his opponent from the front began to throw first a right, then a left hook towards his enemy's head. McMuirtree was now forced to duck and weave to avoid the blows. He kept his guard up at all times, but began to move about the ring more energetically, darting to left and right, forward and back, taunting an increasingly frenzied Diego to chase after him.

It was in the nineteenth round that the nature of the encounter changed decisively. As the referee called 'Round Nineteen' and the starting bell sounded, David McMuirtree, like a man suddenly possessed, sprang upon his opponent. He leapt towards him, jabbing at him with a powerful right fist. Taken off guard, Diego stumbled backwards and fell awkwardly against the ropes, tearing his ear as he fell. Incredibly, instead of going after him, McMuirtree now appeared to retreat, jumping backwards and pounding the empty air with shadow blows while seemingly waiting for his opponent to recover his strength and return to the fray. Diego rose to the bait and lurched towards his a.s.sailant with his fists insufficiently raised. As he got within striking distance, for a fraction of a second the scene froze and the hall fell silent as McMuirtree pulled his right arm back and then, with astounding force, landed a single punch in the very centre of Diego's misshapen face. The man's head jerked back, his blood sprayed the ring, his knees buckled. He fell slowly to the ground, like a collapsing tower.

He was down. 'Ten, nine, eight ...' called the referee. 'Seven, six, five ...' roared the crowd.

'Wait!' cried George Daubeney.

'Good G.o.d, he's getting up,' gasped Lord Rosebery.

'A little touch of Lazarus in the night,' murmured Oscar.

Alfred Diego was down, but he was not out. Far from it. As the referee called, 'Three, two, one ... the man, bloodied but resilient, pushed himself onto his knees and, throwing his head back, rose up quite steadily, seemingly laughing, as if defying McMuirtree to do his worst. In the event, McMuirtree did very little more that round. For the next sixty seconds, until the bell went, the two boxers circled one another warily, throwing and parrying punches without conviction, as if merely sparring to pa.s.s the time.

'Twenty rounds,' said Heron-Allen when the break came. 'What did I tell you?'

'Do you think this one will decide it?' I asked.

'Don't you?'

I looked at Lord Queensberry and Inspector Gilmour going about their business in McMuirtree's corner. The policeman was wiping the boxer's torso with a towel and squeezing a wet sponge around his mouth. The Marquess was on his haunches, whispering urgently into his champion's ear.

'My father will be impossible tonight,' muttered Lord Drumlanrig. 'When he's triumphed, he's unbearable.'

'Seconds out! Round Twenty!' called the referee.

The round did not last long. This time, Diego antic.i.p.ated McMuirtree's pounce and avoided it neatly, feinting to the left before jumping to the right, bringing McMuirtree on after him. Diego, however, held the advantage for only a moment. It was clear that he had given his all; he had nothing more to give: his legs could carry him no longer. The crowd sensed that the climax was upon us. 'Kill! Kill! Kill!' they thundered, stamping their feet and waving their fists, as McMuirtree moved lightly forward and, with alternate fists, began, almost methodically, to pound his opponent about the head.

'He's beating him senseless,' cried Oscar. 'This must be stopped.'

'It will be,' called Heron-Allen. 'Look at the blood.'

In the ring, suddenly, blood was everywhere. Both boxers were awash with blood. Blood was pouring from them onto the canvas. Still the crowd bayed for more: 'Kill! Kill! Kill! ', As the referee ran towards the combatants shouting 'Break! Break!', David McMuirtree delivered his final blows: a left jab, a straight right, a formidable left hook. Alfred Diego crumpled to the ground.

'It's over!' cried Oscar.

'Thank G.o.d,' muttered Conan Doyle.

George Daubeney broke away from us and ran down the gangway towards the ring.

In his corner at the ringside, I saw the Marquess of Queensberry, with his hands raised about his ears, dancing a victory jig.

Inside the ring, David McMuirtree stumbled away from Diego's body and turned triumphantly to face the crowd. His face was white, but his eyes blazed. He held up his arms in salute and as he did so we saw the horror of it. There was blood flowing freely from each of his wrists. It was streaming down his naked arms. As George Daubeney and the referee reached him, his eyes closed and he fell dead into their arms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

A CHARM BRACELET.

'I am certain that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor powers, nor princ.i.p.alities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of G.o.d in Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.'

The Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney, kneeling over the body of David McMuirtree, crossed himself with trembling, bloodied fingers and turned to look up at us. There were tears in his eyes. Daubeney and the referee had dragged McMuirtree's body from the auditorium to the dressing room. They had laid him on an overcoat on the floor.

'Is he dead?' asked Oscar.

'There was no time for the last rites,' said Daubeney.

'Is he dead?' repeated Oscar.

Arthur Conan Doyle was crouching by McMuirtree's head, feeling for the pulse in his neck. 'He's dead, I'm afraid, old man. There's no doubt about that.'

'I thought so,' said Oscar, quietly. 'One can always tell. When a man dies, his spirit vanishes. It never lingers. It is gone at once.'

'What in G.o.d's name has happened?' The Marquess of Queensberry, like a rampaging bull, burst into the dressing room. He had a whip in his hand. He cracked it again and again against the three-legged wooden stool that Antipholus had used when oiling the boxer two hours before and roared: 'In G.o.d's name, will someone tell me what has happened?'

'Something outwith the Queensberry Rules,' murmured Oscar. 'Your champion is dead, my lord.'

'He can't be!' cried Queensberry, swinging round in a circle like a dervish, holding out his whip as if to keep us all at bay.

'It seems he is, Lord Queensberry,' said Inspector Gilmour. He drew himself to attention as he spoke. 'I'm very sorry.'

'Sorry?' roared Queensberry. 'Sorry? I've never heard of such incompetence.'

'A man lies dead before us, my lord,' said Oscar quietly, 'and you talk of "incompetence"?'

'What else is it?' raged the Marquess. 'Gilmour said he had the building crawling with police officers in plain clothes. How has this happened?'

'I do not know,' said Inspector Gilmour, gravely. 'I do not know, but I intend to find out. McMuirtree was one of ours.'

'Yes,' growled Queensberry. 'So you told me. He pointed his whip towards McMuirtree's body laid out upon the floor. 'We can all see how you take care of your own.' He looked about the room angrily. 'Where's the referee gone?'

'He's gone to see Diego and his supporters,~ explained Daubeney, getting to his feet and backing away from the body on the floor. 'He felt he should.'

'Two of my men are with Diego,' said Inspector Gilmour. 'I will interview him as soon as he's recovered.'

Oscar shook his head. 'Alfred Diego has nothing to do with this sorry business.'

Conan Doyle had moved to the side of McMuirtree's body and was now kneeling on the edge of the overcoat inspecting the dead man's wrists and arms. 'This is the devil's work,' he muttered.

'I don't doubt it,' said Oscar, forcing himself to step closer.

'This is utterly grotesque,' continued Doyle, slowly unravelling the blood-soaked laces that had bound the boxing gloves to McMuirtree's wrists.

'Fiendishly ingenious by the look of it,' said Oscar grimly. He bent over the cadaver and through half-closed eyes peered closely at McMuirtree's lifeless arms. 'Like a martyr's wounds ... May G.o.d forgive whoever has done this terrible thing.'

'It is truly terrible,' said Conan Doyle, shaking his head. 'In all my experience, I've seen nothing like it.'