Oscar Wilde And The Ring Of Death Part 22

Queensberry had calmed himself and was standing, whip in hand, arms akimbo, gazing down at the blood-drenched body on the floor. 'I admired this man. He was almost like a son to me. He was better than the sons I've got. He was blessed with a natural n.o.bility. He was proper fighting man, fit and strong. And he had intelligence and guile. He could pace himself-that's rare. He was a decent man, too-clean-living. That's rarer still.'

Archy Gilmour crouched down beside Arthur Doyle. The policeman was by several years the older of the two, but he did not seem it. With his light red hair and fair, freckled, anxious face, he looked like a young actor playing the part of a detective inspector for the very first time. He tried to speak with authority, but sounded merely bewildered. 'Well, Doctor?' he enquired.

'It is as horrific as it appears to be, Inspector,' Doyle replied, carefully turning back the leather wrist-band of one of McMuirtree's boxing gloves to reveal a two-inch-long jagged blade. He tugged at the wrist band with his fingers and tore apart the sodden leather, exposing a second blade-smaller than the first-and then a third, and then a fourth. 'Do you see?'

'I don't see,' growled Queensberry. 'What is the meaning of this?'

'It's very simple,' said Oscar. 'Someone has sewn a series of tiny blades-jagged, sharp and lethal into the leather lining of the wrist-bands of McMuirtree's gloves. During the fight, over time, as McMuirtree began to sweat and the laces loosened, with the movement of his wrists the blades cut through the lining ... The more he punched, the harder he punched, eventually the blades cut through the veins in his wrists as well.'

'Not just the veins,' said Conan Doyle. 'He might have survived that. The arteries were cut, too- sliced through.' With his forefinger the doctor indicated each side of McMuirtree's bloodied wrist. 'On both hands, both the radial and the ulnar arteries have been severed.'

'Is that why there is so much blood?' asked the red-haired policeman, contemplating McMuirtree's arms and chest and legs all covered in gore.

'Yes,' said Conan Doyle. 'It's the quant.i.ty of blood that he lost-and the speed at which he lost it-that killed him.'

'The wretched man was streaming blood,' said Oscar. 'Look at Daubeney. He's covered in it now.'

We all turned to look at the Reverend George. He had carried McMuirtree from the ring and brought him to the dressing room. He stood before us now, like Banquo's murderer, his hands and shirt-front glistening with the dead man's blood.

Edward Heron-Allen was standing just behind Daubeney, by the gas lamp in the corner of the room. 'Forgive me for speaking,' he said, a little too loudly, 'but my uncle was a surgeon and I always understood that a single cut across a healthy artery is not dangerous because an artery-unlike a vein- has an in-built muscle that contracts to staunch the blood.'

'Indeed,' said Conan Doyle, studying Heron-Allen with interest. 'That is correct. On its own a single, clean cut across the wrist might not prove fatal-as many a half-hearted suicide has learnt.'

'And whoever did this knew that much also,' said Oscar, lowering himself with difficulty onto his knees and squinting at the wrist-bands of McMuirtree's boxing gloves. 'Hence the multiplicity of blades and the variety of angles.'

'Yes,' said Conan Doyle in a business-like way, sitting back and scratching his moustache. 'The blood vessels in this case have been sliced repeatedly, and-more to the point-sliced vertically as well as diagonally.'

'Would he not have felt the pain?' I asked.

'No,' answered the doctor, shaking his head, 'not in the heat of battle.'

'A man can lose a leg in the heat of battle and not notice it,' said Lord Queensberry, curtly.

'With your permission, Inspector ...' Oscar, still on his knees, leant forward over McMuirtree's body and, with his right thumb and forefinger, picked out one of the tiny blades and held it up. It was no more than three-quarters of an inch long and an eighth of an inch wide. As he lifted it off the fringe of the glove, we saw that it was attached to a second blade by a slender piece of thread. The second blade was tied to a third, the third to a fourth, and so on. Oscar held the chain of little blades aloft. There were seven of them in all.

'It looks like a charm bracelet,' said Heron-Allen.

Oscar looked at his wife's friend without his customary, indulgent smile. 'Of a sort, Edward,' he said coldly.

'He's been ... murdered?' asked the Marquess of Queensberry falteringly, as though the truth were only just dawning upon him.

'Or he's taken his own life,' suggested Oscar.

The police inspector looked up at Oscar, incredulous. He held his hand out over the boxer's b.l.o.o.d.y corpse. 'Like this?' he demanded.

'You were in the room, Inspector, when he put on the gloves. One of your men helped lace them up for him, as I recall-a.s.sisted by Wat Sickert. I distinctly recollect McMuirtree asking you to pull the laces tighter. He made a point of it. Perhaps Mr Heron-Allen is right: perhaps to David McMuirtree these were charm bracelets of a kind. Perhaps he sought a public death ...'

'As a form of absolution?' asked the Reverend George.

'Exactly,' answered Oscar. 'A public suicide-on a stage, in an arena, within "the Ring of Death" ...'

'This is absurd, Oscar,' said Conan Doyle.

'McMuirtree was not a man for suicide,' barked Lord Queensberry.

'In certain circ.u.mstances, is not suicide allowable, my lord? Laudable, even ... Nay, in certain circ.u.mstances, heroic?' He paused and looked about the room. 'There is something heroic in this b.l.o.o.d.y scene, is there not?'

'No,' answered Conan Doyle abruptly. 'Sometimes, Oscar, you go too far.'

Oscar began to struggle to his feet. He seemed almost to be laughing to himself. As I helped him up, he squeezed my arm.

'I agree with Dr Doyle,' said Inspector Gilmour. 'Suicide is out of the question. We were all with McMuirtree before the fight. He was evidently in the best of spirits. He did not appear in the least to be a man who was about to take his own life.'

'The same could be said of Bradford Pea.r.s.e,' said Oscar.

'Why should McMuirtree take his own life, Mr Wilde?'

'Why should Bradford Pea.r.s.e, Inspector?'

'Who is Bradford Pea.r.s.e?' demanded Lord Queensberry. 'What's he to do with it? What's his involvement?'

'None, my lord,' said the police inspector quickly. 'He is a friend of Mr Wilde's. He has nothing to do with this matter.'

'Are you certain?' asked Oscar, raising an eyebrow.

'I am certain, Mr Wilde. I am certain that David McMuirtree has been murdered-and that his tragic and untimely death has nothing to do with you or any of your friends, nothing to do with your dinner or your foolish game.'

'What's this all about?' grumbled Lord Queensberry impatiently, beating the side of his own thigh with his whip.

'Nothing, your lordship,' said the police inspector. 'I simply want Mr Wilde to understand that David McMuirtree has been murdered because he was one of us-because he was on the side of law and order. David McMuirtree was a police informer. Such men are necessary. Such men are brave. They put their lives at risk and sometimes they pay the price. McMuirtree had enemies-hardened criminals, evil men who sought to kill him for what he was, for what he knew.'

'These hardened criminals of yours are blessed with wonderfully theatrical imaginations, Inspector,' said Oscar mockingly. 'You might expect a police informer to be beaten to death with a cudgel, or knifed in a dark alley, or even shot as he was alighting from a carriage-but to be killed, as McMuirtree has been killed, by a pair of deadly bracelets sewn inside his boxing gloves suggests a band of desperadoes that is-to say the least of it-a little out of the ordinary.'

'If you will forgive me, Mr Wilde,' said the police inspector, 'we have work to do.' He looked around the room, widening his eyes and clearing his throat. He held his hands out, palms open, as if to sweep us from the room. 'I'd be grateful if Dr Doyle could remain until the police surgeon arrives, but, otherwise, gentlemen, you are free to depart. Thank you for your a.s.sistance.'

'Do you need me further?' grunted Lord Queensberry, rubbing the back of his neck with his whip and taking a final look at McMuirtree's body lying on the floor.

'No, thank you, your lordship-you're free to go.'

'But, Inspector,' said Oscar, 'surely you want to ask Lord Queensberry about the gloves?'

'What about the gloves?' asked Gilmour irritably.

'Who gave McMuirtree the boxing gloves that he was wearing?'

'I did,' said Lord Queensberry. A week ago. They were brand new-as required by the Queensberry Rules.'

'Did you inspect them before you gave them to McMuirtree?'

'I did,' said the Marquess. 'They were in perfect condition. Made by Messrs Sims and Pittam, the best boxing gloves that money can buy.'

'And you brought them here yourself, last Monday?' The police inspector listened impatiently as Oscar pursued his line of questioning.

'I did,' said Lord Queensberry. 'In that box.' With his whip the Marquess pointed to an empty cardboard box that lay open on the floor in the corner of the room.

'Did McMuirtree inspect the gloves?'

'He did. He tried them on. He expressed himself well satisfied with them.'

'Did he then wear them during his training?'

'No. That would have been contrary to the rules. As far as I know, he left them here in that box until today.'

Gilmour was about to intervene, but Conan Doyle put his hand on the policeman's arm to stop him. 'And between last Monday and this evening,' Oscar continued, 'who in your view, Lord Queensberry, could have had access to this room and to that box?'

'Anyone, so far as I know. At least, anyone who had access of any kind to the building. There are no locks on the dressing-room doors.'

Oscar smiled. 'You noticed that?'

'I notice a good deal, Mr Wilde. You'll find that there's more to me than some suppose.'

'I don't doubt it, my lord,' said Oscar graciously. He stepped towards the dressing-room door and stood within the threshold. He turned and glanced from left to right along the corridor. He turned back and surveyed the room. 'There are no locks on the dressing-room doors and the entrances to Astley's Circus amphitheatre are many and varied.'

'We've been watching them,' said Inspector Gilmour sharply.

'I'm sure you have, Inspector. McMuirtree was one of yours, after all. May I ask: at any one time, how many men did you have watching the building?'

Gilmour hesitated.

'Well?' said Oscar.

'Two.'

'There are six public entrances to this building, Inspector. Five of them are shut, except on performance days. One of them is open every day when the box office is open. There are, additionally, three tradesmen's entrances. And there is a stage door leading to an interesting pa.s.sageway that runs directly from the Thames embankment to the circus arena itself. Let us a.s.sume that the boy, Antipholus, who guards the stage door is not part of the conspiracy and that your two officers were not corrupt, that still leaves a mult.i.tude of entrances and opportunities for anyone who wished to do so to slip into the building and tamper with the gloves- a.s.suming that it was not McMuirtree himself who did it ... I agree, Inspector. You have work to do. We must not detain you. We will be on our way.

We nodded our goodbyes and left the circus at once. Outside, in the darkened street, as we stood on the kerb, we noticed, underneath a lamp-post, immediately facing us, on the other side of the road, leaning against the embankment parapet, a small, familiar figure in a shabby suit. The light shone brightly on his yellow face. As we waited to cross the road, a police growler trundled past and the little man scuttled into the darkness.

'Is he watching us?' I asked.

'Watching,' said Oscar grimly, 'or waiting ... Waiting for his moment to pounce.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

OSCAR'S GRID On the following morning-the morning of Tuesday, 10 May 1892, when, according to my journal, the streets of London were 'damp and dismal' and the sky was 'overcast and threatening '-I joined my friend Oscar Wilde in the oak-panelled dining room of the Cadogan Hotel at a little after half past ten. I had gone in answer to his urgent summons-a telegram that reached me in my room in Gower Street at nine o'clock: COME TO THE CADOGAN AT ONCE. BRING.

GALOSHES AND INSPIRATION. OSCAR.

I found my friend seated at a corner table, alone, the debris of breakfast all around him. In his right hand he held both a pencil and a lighted cigarette; in his left he nursed a gla.s.s of Portuguese Arinto wine. Before him lay a sheet of foolscap writing paper, densely covered with lines and dates and names and emendations.

As I approached, he looked up at me. His hair was well-brushed and he was freshly shaven, but there were ochre circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes. 'Has it stopped raining?' he asked, smiling at me gently and drawing slowly on his cigarette.

'For the moment,' I said. I sat down beside him and looked around the table for a coffee cup. 'How are you this morning?' I asked.

He closed his eyes and through his nostrils exhaled a long, slow, mistral of cigarette smoke. 'I am exhausted, Robert, utterly.' Still holding the cigarette and pencil, he picked up the coffee pot and poured me a cup. 'I thought that breakfast might revive me. I ordered kippers. The folly of it, Robert! Kippers for breakfast are like cobblestones in a cathedral close-charming in prospect, deuced hard work when you get to them. I have spent an hour picking away at the tiny bones.'

'What's this?' I asked, indicating his sheet of foolscap.

'This is the reason for my summons, Robert. This is my grid.'

'Your "grid"?' I repeated, puzzled.

'A new word to the language, Robert-a back-formation derived from the word "gridiron". Since the fourteenth century the gridiron has served as a simple grate for broiling food upon. In the nineteenth century, the "grid" has become an essential tool of scholarship.' He waved to the waiter to bring me a gla.s.s of wine. 'You will recall, Robert, that in 1871 I was called to Trinity College, Dublin, where I won the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek and was elected to a Queen's Scholarship. You will further recall that in 1874 I went up to Oxford, taking a scholarship at Magdalen College and, in 1876, I achieved First Cla.s.s honours in Cla.s.sical Moderations. Two years later I took a further First in Literae Humaniores and, in 1878, my university career came to a fitting climax when I read my Newdigate Prize Poem in the hallowed hall that is the Sheldonian Theatre.' He paused as the waiter poured me a gla.s.s of Arinto and topped up his. Oscar sipped at the wine and then continued: 'These scholastic accomplishments were something, Robert, to be sure-at least my mother felt so-but they were not enough, not nearly enough ... I can dream dreams in Virgilian hexameters; I can translate Homer on sight; I can unravel Thucydides in the twinkling of an eye; but to get to grips with the case in hand, Robert-to begin to get to grips with it-I need a grid!'

'Oscar's Grid'

The 'gridiron' created by Oscar Wilde over breakfast at the Cadogan Hotel on Tuesday 10 May 1892 Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers The Hon. the Rev. George Daubeney Sunday 1 May death by fire Lord Abergordon Lord Drumlanrig Monday 2 May death by natural causes Captain Flint Lord Alfred Douglas Tuesday 3 May psittacicide Sherlock Holmes Willie Hornung Wednesday 4 May Bradford Pea.r.s.e ?.

Thursday 5 May murder or suicide?

David McMuirtree Robert Sherard Friday 6 May David McMuirtree Walter Sickert Sat.u.r.day 7 May David McMuirtree ?.

Sunday 8 May David McMuirtree ?.

Monday 9 May murder or suicide?

Old Father Time ?.

Tuesday 10 May Eros David McMuirtree Wednesday 11 May A blank slip OW and Arthur Conan Doyle?

Thursday 12 May Mr Oscar Wilde ?.

Friday 13 May Mrs Oscar Wilde ?.

Sat.u.r.day 14 May I obliged him with a chuckle. 'So what exactly is this "grid"?' I enquired.

'It's an ingenious network of uniformly s.p.a.ced perpendicular and horizontal lines. It's the sort of thing that Michelangelo or Galileo should have conceived centuries ago, but apparently failed to do so. In essence, it's a device for ordering one's thoughts. In this case to date, mine have been a jumble.'

'And now?'

'Now, at least,' he said, pa.s.sing me his sheet of foolscap, 'I see the nature of the jumble. I have laid out what information we have within the grid.'

I studied his piece of paper. It was easy to read. Oscar's manner was flamboyant; his speech was florid; but his handwriting was surprisingly neat. 'And what does all this tell us?'