Oscar Wilde And The Ring Of Death Part 24

'David McMuirtree worked for the police. He was a police informer. He will have been killed by a member of the criminal fraternity bent on revenge. Of that I'm certain. His life always hung by a thread. He knew it.'

'Is that why, at the Socrates Club dinner, when we played the game of "Murder", you named your friend as your victim of choice?'

Byrd looked up at Oscar and laughed. It was an easy laugh. 'How did you know that, Mr Wilde?'

'I did not know it, Mr Byrd.'

'It was a joke, that's all. It was a joke that he appreciated. I told him about it afterwards. He often joked about the possibility of being murdered. It did not seem to trouble him.'

'He had courage and panache,' said Oscar.

'"Nothing can harm a good man, either in life or after death",' said Byrd, taking a deep breath and closing his hands around his parrot's feathers.

'Ah,' said Oscar, 'Socrates once again.' He turned to me and nodded, indicating that it was time for us to leave.

'I was a cla.s.sicist once, Mr Wilde,' said Alphonse Byrd, not stirring from his bed.

'Indeed,' said Oscar, bowing towards him. 'And a gentleman.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

EVER THUS.

'What now?' I asked as we came down the steps of the Cadogan Hotel onto Sloane Street.

There was colour in Oscar's cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes. He stood for a moment considering his next move and then announced: 'We turn left, I think.'

He took my arm and steered me in the direction of Knightsbridge. At the very moment that he did so, there was a sudden, sharp, crashing sound behind us. We turned abruptly and saw, smashed into pieces on the pavement immediately behind us, the remains of a large black slate that had fallen from the roof of the hotel. In silence, we looked up at the building. On every floor the windows were all shut. No curtains twitched. A pair of pigeons hovered about the rooftop and landed on the chimney stack.

'Let us go to the police,' I said urgently.

Oscar laughed. 'Because of a loose tile on a hotel roof? That was an accident, Robert ...'

'You might have been killed.'

'But I wasn't,' he said calmly. 'And nor were you.'

'Let us go to the police,' I repeated.

'All in good time,' he said. 'I need to visit the post office first. I have telegrams to send to Oxford, to Eastbourne, to Bosie and to Constance.'

'To Constance?' I queried, as he took my arm once more and steered me in the direction of his choosing. 'I thought we were lunching with Constance in t.i.te Street?'

'We are,' said Oscar, happily. 'My telegram will arrive after luncheon. It will show her that we antic.i.p.ated how grateful we would be.' His arm was linked through mine. His large head was erect and held back (he liked his chestnut hair to catch the breeze), but his sloping eyes glanced down towards me and he smiled. 'When Constance and I first met, Robert, we telegraphed each other twice a day-at least !-and at a moment's notice I rushed back from the uttermost parts of the earth to see her for an hour and do all the foolish things that wise lovers do. Romance lives by repet.i.tion. Do you think that if I behave once more as once I did, I will feel once more for her as once I felt?'

I did not answer him. What could I say?

As we reached the corner of Knightsbridge and Brompton Road and paused at the kerbside, Oscar took his arm from mine and reached for his cigarette case. 'What did you make of friend Byrd?' he asked, offering me a cigarette.

'He struck me as being a somewhat pathetic creature,' I answered.

'Indeed.' He struck a match and cupped his hands around the flame. He lit my cigarette. 'But I was intrigued to find that the great John Maskelyne had been among his mentors.'

'Is Maskelyne one of your heroes, Oscar?' I asked, drawing on my cigarette without much satisfaction. It was a Player's Navy Cut and more to Oscar's taste than mine.

'As a master of theatrical illusion,' said Oscar, 'Maskelyne has no equal.' There was a gap in the traffic and he stepped out into the road. I followed him. 'Of course,' he added, laughing, as he steered us between an omnibus and a milk float, 'if he was to be run over in the street tomorrow, who knows how he might be remembered?'

'I don't follow you, Oscar,' I said.

'Maskelyne is world famous now for his bag of tricks, for his conjuring and his feats of levitation-but what will posterity make of him?' We had reached the safety of the pavement opposite. 'I reckon John Maskelyne's lasting claim to fame will rest on his one non-theatrical invention: the lock for the public convenience which requires a penny coin to operate.'

'Good grief,' I exclaimed, dropping my cigarette into the gutter. 'Did Maskelyne invent that?'

'He did,' said Oscar, 'and the euphemism "spend a penny" that goes with it. I am a poet and a playwright who has spent a lifetime spinning words, Robert, and yet, were Ito live for a thousand years, I doubt very much that I could come up with a phrase destined to be half so famous! Alas, we cannot choose the nature of our own immortality.'

I chuckled. 'I wonder how you will be remembered, Oscar?'

We had reached the crowded doorway of the Knightsbridge post office. Oscar paused. Customers brushed past us as they went about their business. 'For my downfall,' he said, smiling gently. 'In my end will be the beginning of my notoriety. I am certain of that. I always have been.' He held his open palm up in front of me. 'Mrs Robinson has seen it in this unhappy hand.' Oscar spoke often of the prospect of his premature demise and usually did so with melodramatic relish. 'If I should be murdered at the end of this week, Robert, I will be known for all time as the playwright who died on Friday the thirteenth. I will be the Kit Marlowe of the nineteenth century, remembered as much for the manner of my death as the matter of my life.'

'You're not going to be murdered on Friday,' I insisted.

As I spoke-as I uttered the very words 'You're not going to be murdered on Friday'-a man's arm pushed between me and my friend and I saw the silver barrel of a gun suddenly pointed at Oscar's chest. My heart stopped. My head reeled. 'For G.o.d's sake,' I cried without thinking, grabbing the hand that held the pistol and wrenching it up into the air.

'Hold on, old boy!' cried Bosie Douglas, shrieking with laughter and pulling himself free of me. 'It's not loaded.'

I stepped back and looked in appalled amazement at the beautiful young man who stood before us. He was wearing white cricket flannels, a pea-green blazer, a yellow boater and a broad and ridiculous grin. He embraced Oscar, kissing him on the cheek, while holding out his open palm towards me. Within his palm nestled the most remarkable firearm I had ever seen. It was no larger than a cigarette case: the chamber for the cartridges was circular, silver, and embossed like a snail's sh.e.l.l; the single barrel of the gun was no longer or wider than a finger. 'Beautiful, isn't she?' purred Bosie. 'She's French. Made by a Monsieur Turbiaux in Paris. Apparently her muzzle velocity is pitiful, but what do I care? I shall only be using her once-at very close range. My dear papa won't feel a thing ... But, then, has he ever?'

'Put it away, Bosie,' cautioned Oscar, turning away from the young aristocrat and shading his eyes with the backs of his hands. 'You are making an exhibition of yourself.'

Lord Alfred Douglas laughed, kissed the barrel of the little palm pistol and slipped it into his blazer pocket. 'I've just wasted a shilling sending you a wire, Oscar,' he said, stepping away from the doorway of the post office and looking disdainfully at the members of the public who were staring at him open-mouthed in astonishment. 'I have to go to Oxford tomorrow. My tutor is demanding my presence. He says that if I fail to appear in his rooms by twelve noon, essay in hand, I shall be sent down.'

'And what has this to do with me?' asked Oscar warily, raising an eyebrow.

'I want you to come with me to Oxford tomorrow, Oscar. You can write my essay for me on the train.'

'Don't be absurd, Bosie.'

'Don't be unkind, Oscar. Please. It doesn't need to be a very long essay. Or very good. Just a page or two on "The Evolution of the Moral Idea". I've not the first notion of where to begin. You'll do it so beautifully, Oscar, so charmingly. Please, Oscar, cher ami. My whole academic future depends on it.'

Oscar looked at the young man and sighed. He pushed the boy's boater to the back of his head so that a heavy flop of fair hair fell across his right eye. 'Lord Alfred Douglas, you are utterly ridiculous. You will not be sent down from the university for failing to produce an essay on time. You might be for parading in the streets of London in possession of a firearm with intent to kill. However ...' He smiled and shook his head wearily. 'For your own protection, therefore,' he continued, 'and for no other reason, I will accompany you to Oxford tomorrow.'

Alfred Douglas clapped his hands together and cheered. 'Thank you, old fellow. Thank you! And the essay?'

'We shall work at it on the train together.'

The young man punched his older friend affectionately on the shoulder. 'You're the business, Oscar. You're the best.'

'And now, Bosie,' said Oscar, firmly, 'when I have despatched my telegrams, I trust you will join us for luncheon in t.i.te Street.'

'No,' said the boy at once, 'I can't. I'm sorry. I'm lunching with Mama. I promised. We're celebrating Father's latest humiliation.' He glanced at his timepiece and grimaced. 'I must go. I'm late.' Suddenly he looked at us both and grinned excitedly. 'Of course, last night you were there! At the Ring of Death-in at the kill. Apparently, there was blood all over the shop. The papers are full of it. Poor McMuirtree murdered even though he played by the Queensberry Rules!' He brought his boater forward onto his head. 'You must tell me all about it tomorrow, Oscar. Write the essay tonight, old man, then we can talk on the train. That'll be so much more fun. "The Evolution of the Moral Idea"-a thousand words will do it. Nine o'clock at Paddington. The usual Oxford platform. Will you get the tickets? Bless you, Oscar. Goodbye, Robert.'

He shook my hand. He embraced Oscar. And he was gone. With Lord Alfred Douglas it was ever thus.

Oscar went into the post office to send his telegrams. I found a news vendor and bought a selection of the early editions of the evening papers. All featured the mysterious murder at Astley's Circus on the front page and most did so in lurid detail. The Standard described McMuirtree as 'a well-known figure in boxing circles who, it now transpires, led a double life as a police informant'. The Evening News reported that Inspector Gilmour of Scotland Yard already had a number of potential suspects in his sights,' notorious villains bent upon destroying Mr McMuirtree because of what he knew'. On an inside page, the Star carried photographs of some of the distinguished audience who had witnessed the tragic events of the night before, including the Marquess of Queensberry, the Earl of Rosebery, Dr Arthur Conan Doyle and Mr Oscar Wilde.

In the cab to t.i.te Street, as we scanned the press, and Oscar clucked and tutted at what he read, I suggested that, perhaps, we should try to keep the papers away from Constance.

'The prose style is appalling, Robert, I agree,' Oscar answered, shaking his head despairingly. 'We must protect my lamb as best we can. She is quite sensitive.'

'Be serious, Oscar.'

He looked at me and smiled. 'We can hardly keep last night's ma.s.sacre a secret, Robert. McMuirtree was a guest in our house two days ago. His sudden death-the horrific manner of his murder-the servants will be speaking of little else ... But I agree-there is still no need to tell Constance about the Socrates Club dinner and my foolish game and its deadly consequences ...'

'Should we not warn her, if her life is in danger?'

'To what purpose? In my experience, a worry shared is a worry doubled. In any event, I believe she is safe enough till Friday.'

At t.i.te Street, Arthur the butler greeted us at the front door. 'I was sorry to hear about Mr McMuirtree, sir. Nasty business.'

'Indeed, Arthur. Very nasty. Is Mrs Wilde about?'

'She is upstairs, sir. Luncheon will be served in fifteen minutes.'

We made our way upstairs. Oscar went on to the second floor, 'to spend a penny', he said archly, and to find his wife. I let myself into the first-floor drawing room. It was my favourite room at t.i.te Street. It was, by the standards of the time, extraordinarily uncluttered. The white wallpapered walls were hung with etchings by James Whistler and Mortimer Menpes. The unique ceiling was Whistler's work as well: it featured an awning of peac.o.c.k feathers! I made my way over to the painted grand piano that stood in the corner of the room and looked out onto the Wildes' small and somewhat barren back garden. As I stood by the window I was overcome by a curious sensation ... I felt I was being observed by an unseen power; I became conscious of an invisible 'presence' nearby.

I turned and looked about the room. There was no one there. I turned back and gazed out of the window once more. Again I felt a hidden 'presence'. I looked down towards the floor. My eyes followed the painted white skirting board to the fringed edge of the white velour curtains that framed the window. Beneath the curtain's fringe I saw a pair of feet in leather ankle boots.

Appalled, unthinking, I pulled back the curtain and grabbed the figure lurking there. I took him by the throat and threw him to his knees. Then I saw who it was. I barked at him: 'What the devil are you doing here?'

Slowly, Edward Heron-Allen got to his feet, dusting down his trousers and adjusting his collar. 'Steady on, old boy,' he said. 'This ain't your house, you know.'

I looked at the man and felt my gorge rise with loathing. He was so at ease with himself, so self-a.s.sured, so complacent.

'What the deuce were you doing behind that curtain?' I demanded.

'Waiting for Constance,' he said lightly.

He made me burn with rage. 'Waiting for Constance?' I repeated angrily.

'We were playing a game of hide-and-seek. We play games together. It's quite natural. It's what brothers and sisters do.'

'You are not Mrs Wilde's brother,' I hissed at him.

'Would that I were,' he said. 'I love her as a man should love his sister-easily, without complication.'

'I don't understand you,' I said.

'I see that,' said Heron-Allen. 'You love Constance, too-but your love is tinged with guilt. You don't love her as a brother. You love her as a man loves a woman-you love her with desire in your heart, with l.u.s.t in your eyes. And that's not easy for you because you love Oscar also and Constance is Oscar's ever-faithful wife.'

'I don't know what you're saying.'

'It matters not,' said Heron-Allen. 'l.u.s.t and love are particular interests of mine, that's all.'

'Along with violin-making, c.o.c.k-fighting and the forbidden literature of Persia,' I added, making no attempt to conceal my contempt.

'In the matter of the no-man's-land between l.u.s.t and love, we can learn much from the Persians,' he said, moving past me towards the mirror that hung above the fireplace. He peered into the looking gla.s.s. With delicate hands he adjusted his hair. With his tongue he moistened his forefinger and carefully pushed back each of his eyebrows. 'In matters of carnality, other cultures have much to teach us. I have studied b.e.s.t.i.a.lity, you know-congress between man and beast. And necrophilia. Where l.u.s.t ends and love begins ... it's all very intriguing.'

'And is this the sort of stuff with which you edify Mrs Wilde,' I asked, 'when you two are playing your "games" together?'

'No,' he laughed. 'Of course not. Mrs Wilde and I are friends-true friends. That's all. My wife has been away for a month, visiting her sister and her sister's new-born baby. Oscar is always otherwise engaged. Constance and I have made time for each other because we take delight in each other's company. We play together and are happier because of it. In England only children are allowed to play. That is a pity.'

Suddenly, the drawing-room door was opened. It was Constance, looking as lovely as I had ever seen her. 'Is this where you two have been hiding?' she chided. 'Luncheon is served. Come now. Oscar is growing impatient.'

Over lunch-pea soup, griddled lamb chops, and blackcurrant-and-apple pie-I said very little. Edward Heron-Allen said a great deal. Oscar, drinking white Burgundy, and Constance, drinking lemonade, looked on him with unaffected admiration as though he were a favourite child, an infant prodigy. The range of his interests was certainly extraordinary and the depth of his erudition undoubtedly impressive. In fairness, I could not fault him either on grounds of decorum or discretion. We talked of McMuirtree's murder, inevitably, but Heron-Allen glossed over the most horrific details of the boxer's death and went out of his way to steer the conversation towards sunnier topics: the beauty and intelligence of the Wilde children, the origins of the English eating apple, the subtlety of Mozart's late violin sonatas, the absurdity of the new paintings at the Royal Academy, the prospects for Mr Irving's King Lear, Oscar's continuing triumph at the St James's.

After lunch, Constance invited Heron-Allen to join her and her boys for a walk in Hyde Park. To my astonishment, Oscar (who regarded a stroll down Piccadilly as a two-mile hike and a two-mile hike as an utter impossibility) proposed that he and I should join them.

'Oscar,' exclaimed his wife, as amazed as I was, 'what on earth has come over you?'

'Don't I say in my play that health is the primary duty of life?' Oscar answered, getting to his feet and breathing deeply while placing his fingers lightly across his diaphragm. 'I think a post-prandial perambulation will be most invigorating.' He exhaled slowly and then, apparently exhausted, began to feel in his jacket pocket for his cigarette case. 'But you may be right, my dear-going as far as the park might be overdoing it. Perhaps we could just amble up the road to Brompton Cemetery?'

'Take the boys to a graveyard, Oscar?' said Constance, furrowing her brow. 'Something has come over you!'

'Not the graveyard,' said Oscar quickly. 'The allotments to the south of the graveyard.'

'Do you have allotments nearby?' asked Heron-Allen with enthusiasm. 'I should love to see your allotments.'

Together, Oscar and I burst out laughing.

'What is so funny, gentlemen?' Constance enquired reprovingly.

Oscar spluttered: 'Edward saying he'd love to see our allotments ... I believe he means it.'

'I do,' said Edward Heron-Allen, seriously. 'The development of urban horticulture is a particular interest of mine.'

It took us no more than half an hour to reach the small plot of allotments to the south side of Brompton Cemetery. Oscar and Heron-Allen led the way, with Oscar proudly pushing his older son, Cyril, along the street in a child's chariot while Heron-Allen carried his G.o.dson, Vyvyan, on his shoulders. Constance and I followed behind them, arm in arm. It was a delightful walk. Heron-Allen was right: when Constance held my arm tight as we crossed the road my feelings towards her were indeed tinged with guilt.

The allotments, when we found them, were an unimpressive sight: ten small plots of ground, each no more than fifteen feet square, all overgrown, all unkempt. 'These do not look much loved,' said Heron-Allen sadly, lifting his G.o.dson to the ground. The two Wilde boys scampered around the allotments happily, jumping across the beds, sniffing at what flowers there were, pulling at the greenery. Almost at once, at the edge of the allotments, by the railings that bordered the cemetery, the boys discovered a small mound of newly turned earth and began to poke at it with small sticks of wood. 'Is this a sand-castle, Papa?' asked Cyril.

'No,' said Oscar, 'I think it is a parrot's grave.'

Constance did not hear him. She was talking with Heron-Allen. 'It's all a bit sad, is it not?' she said.