Oscar Wilde And The Ring Of Death Part 9

'He would have been,' said Oscar. 'He was about to be when a kindly colleague, a High Court judge, took him in hand-so to speak-and warned him off ... Poor Horace Lloyd. He died shortly after.'

'Of shame?' asked Conan Doyle, not unkindly.

Oscar smiled. 'Possibly, Arthur. Who knows? The death certificate spoke only of pulmonary problems. He was forty-six years of age-too young to die.'

Conan Doyle sighed and pushed away his tea cup. 'What in heaven's name would make a sane man behave in such a way?' he asked. 'He was a married man. He was a Queen's Counsel. Think of the risks!'

'Apparently, he told his friend the judge that the danger was half the excitement.'

A silence fell among us. It was broken by the arrival at Oscar's side of a tall, lean figure in a frock coat, holding an envelope. 'Ah,' said Oscar, 'my bill. I have no ready money, waiter. Would you put this to my account?'

'Can't do that, sir.'

'Why not?' protested Oscar.

'Let me pay,' volunteered Conan Doyle, reaching for his wallet.

'No, Arthur, no!' cried Oscar. 'You are my guest. My credit is good here, I'm certain. Waiter, why can't you put this to my account?'

'Because, sir, this isn't your bill and I'm not your waiter.'

'What?' snapped Oscar. He looked up sharply. 'Wat!' he exclaimed. For the first time, we all looked at the figure in the frock coat. It was Walter Sickert.

'n.o.body notices the waiter,' said Wat, smiling down on us. 'I know: I've been one. It's the fate of the serving cla.s.ses. No one looks the poor b.l.o.o.d.y staff in the eye. It's the oldest rule in the book. That's why you'll find it's usually the butler "what done it"-none of the witnesses can recollect what he looked like.'

'What on earth are you doing here, Wat?' asked Oscar, looking about him for a real waiter. The restaurant was now deserted. 'Let's get you a chair. What time is it? I think we might treat ourselves to a mid-morning bracer.'

Sickert pulled up a chair from an adjacent table and sat astride it like a mounted hussar. (His absurd moustachios did give him the look of a comic-opera hero.) 'I'll stay a minute, but I mustn't linger. I'm on my way to Eastbourne.'

'To Eastbourne?' exclaimed Oscar. 'Eastbourne-on-Sea? You'll certainly need a drink.'

A young waiter was now at our table. Oscar inspected the lad. 'What is your name, young man?'

'Dino,' said the waiter.

'Dino,' said Oscar solemnly, 'my friend has just told us that he is on his way to Eastbourne-on-Sea. This calls, I think, for something a little special. A bottle of your 1884 Scharzhofberger, perhaps?'

'Right away, sir,' said the boy. 'And four hock gla.s.ses?' Oscar nodded approvingly. The waiter smiled and turned smartly on his heels.

Conan Doyle cleared his throat and tugged at his waistcoat. 'I can't linger, I'm afraid,' he said.

'Stay a moment,' said Oscar. 'Stay at least until we've discovered why Wat is on his way to Eastbourne.'

'This is why,' said Sickert, leaning forward over the back of his chair and waving in the air the envelope that a moment ago Oscar had taken for his bill. 'This is why I'm here. This letter reached me this morning-from Eastbourne. I felt I should share it with you. I went to t.i.te Street and Constance told me that you were here, so here I am.'

'Go on,' said Oscar. 'What is it?'

Walter Sickert opened the small envelope and produced from it a single sheet of notepaper covered, on both sides, in an unruly scrawl. 'It's a note from Bradford Pea.r.s.e-the actor. You recall: my guest on Sunday night.'

'We recall,' said Conan Doyle, eyeing Sickert carefully.

'His was the fifth name on the list of murder victims,' I added.

'Thank you for reminding us, Robert,' said Oscar, archly.

'I liked him,' said Conan Doyle.

'Everyone does,' said Sickert. 'He's the best of fellows.'

'Well,' said Oscar, 'what does he say?'

'It's a "thank you" letter,' explained Sickert, holding the note out in front of him, 'But there's something about it that perturbs me.'

'Read it to us,' said Conan Doyle. He smiled at Sickert. 'If you don't mind.'

Sickert read the letter. He read it simply, without dramatic emphasis.

Tuesday 3 May. Eastbourne My dear Wat, Sunday night was memorable-fine food, fine wines, fine friends. Thank you for your hospitality. Thank you for remembering me. I hope you always will! I shall not forget you or your kindness(es) to me-come what may. To be candid, I don't know what the future holds for me. I'm being pursued and I'm fearful.

I'm in Eastbourne this week. At the Devonshire Park. Come and see the piece- Wednesday night would suit. Bring Wilde. The play is so bad I think it might amuse him. It was an honour to meet him again, of course. He is wise as well as wonderful. Inspiring, in fact. I liked Conan Doyle too-and his shy young friend with the name no one will remember. Hornbeam was it? Chas. Brookfield was as obnoxious as ever. I neither like nor trust him. I never have. Who is to be trusted these days? You are, of course, old friend. Thank you for that.

Come and see me if you can spare the time. I'm frightened, to be honest with you. Come and see me.

Ever yours, Bradford Pea.r.s.e Sickert pa.s.sed the letter, and the envelope, to Conan Doyle.

'What train are you catching?' asked Oscar.

'The three o'clock from Victoria,' said Sickert.

'We'll come with you,' said Oscar.

'I cannot, I'm afraid,' said Conan Doyle, pushing back his chair. 'I have domestic obligations. The doctor is calling to see my wife this afternoon and I need to be on parade.' He got to his feet. 'But I think that you and Robert should definitely go, Oscar- and I think, too, that, with Wat's permission, you should share this letter with Inspector Gilmour at Scotland Yard.' He handed the note to Oscar.

'You think Pea.r.s.e may be in danger?' I asked.

'He clearly believes so,' replied Conan Doyle. He looked quite grave. 'I liked Mr Pea.r.s.e-very much.'

He glanced at his timepiece. 'I must go-forgive me. Will you keep me informed, Oscar? Thank you for breakfast. Gentlemen.' He bowed to us and went on his way.

Oscar called after him: 'Don't forget your umbrella, Arthur-and don't murder Holmes too soon!'

Conan Doyle turned back and laughed and waved towards us genially. As he departed, he pa.s.sed Dino, the boy waiter, arriving with our wine. He stopped the lad and spoke to him.

'What did Mr Doyle say to you, Dino?' Oscar asked when the young waiter reached us and was uncorking the bottle.

'He told me to take good care of you, sir.'

Oscar chuckled. 'Did he indeed?'

'Yes, sir,' said the boy, sniffing the cork with the air of a seasoned sommelier. He can't have been much older than the wine: he looked fifteen, sixteen at the most.

'Tell me, Dino,' said Oscar, taking a sip of the Scharzhofberger and rolling it around his mouth a little noisily. 'What exactly did Mr Doyle say to you? What were his actual words, Dino?'

'Since you ask, sir,' said the boy, pulling a face as he filled our gla.s.ses, 'His actual words was, "Only the one bottle-they've work to do."'

Oscar banged the table with delight. 'I knew it! 'he cried. 'You can depend on Arthur! And he is right, of course. We do indeed have work to do and I'm glad of it. As Arthur knows, work is the best antidote to sorrow.'

'Are you feeling melancholy, Oscar?' asked Sickert. 'You don't look it. You don't seem it.'

'We all have our secrets, Walter,' said Oscar, emptying his gla.s.s in a single draught and handing the young waiter a second shiny shilling. 'There are no exceptions to the rule ...' He swivelled in his chair and held his empty gla.s.s out in the direction of the doorway to the dining room. 'Look at those two.'

There, hovering at the entrance to the Langham Hotel Palm Court, stood Charles Brookfield and Bram Stoker. They were wearing outdoor coats and anxious faces. Stoker was shaking his head as Brookfield surveyed the room.

'I agree: they do look furtive,' chuckled Wat Sickert.

'There'll be a lady in the case, I warrant,' exclaimed Oscar, waving his napkin in the direction of the door.

The boy waiter was refilling our gla.s.ses. 'Dino,' said Oscar, 'ask those two gentlemen to come and join us, would you?'

The waiter brought Brookfield and Stoker to our table.

'Good morning,' said Stoker genially.

'We can't stay,' said Brookfield. 'We have an appointment.'

'With a lady?' Oscar conjectured, with a smile.

'An actress,' said Stoker. 'Brookfield has an emergency on his hands. He's lost his leading lady. I've agreed to help him find another. We're due to meet Miss Tilvert at eleven.'

'She'll be late, I'm afraid,' said Oscar. 'Take off your coats, gentlemen. You've time for a gla.s.s, that's certain.'

'Do you know Miss Tilvert then?' asked Brookfield, looking about the room.

'No,' replied Oscar smoothly, 'but I know the type. Have some Scharzhofberger, Charles. It'll settle your nerves.'

'We're not stopping long ourselves,' added Sickert. 'We're off to Eastbourne.'

'Eastbourne,' echoed Stoker, pulling up a chair and smiling as Dino poured him a gla.s.s of the German wine. 'I love Eastbourne. Eastbourne has style.' He raised his gla.s.s towards Oscar. 'The town's entirely owned by the Duke of Devonshire, you know.'

'It's not His Grace we're visiting,' said Oscar. 'It's Bradford Pea.r.s.e. He's in a play at the Devonshire Park. We're going to see it.'

Brookfield, who remained standing, waved away the gla.s.s of wine that Dino was offering him, and looked down at Oscar. 'You're going to Eastbourne to see a play? It must be frightfully good.'

'On the contrary,' answered Oscar, breathing out a long plume of grey-blue cigarette smoke as he spoke, 'Bradford Pea.r.s.e tells us that the play is frightfully bad-truly atrocious. It seems it could hardly be worse. That's why I'm determined not to miss it. I do enjoy excess in everything.'

'You're very funny, Oscar,' said Brookfield quietly.

'Give Pea.r.s.e my best,' said Stoker with enthusiasm, savouring his wine. 'He's a fine fellow and a good actor-and the unlikeliest candidate for murder you could imagine. I don't know why anyone picked him as a victim when we played that game of yours, Oscar. Bradford Pea.r.s.e hasn't an enemy in the world. I'd stake my life on it.'

'What about his creditors?' asked Charles Brookfield, with a little sniff, folding his arms across his chest.

'I don't know about his creditors,' said Bram Stoker, holding out his gla.s.s for a refill, 'but I happen to know his p.a.w.nbrokers and they speak very highly of him.'

'I imagine they know him exceptionally well,' said Brookfield, smiling.

'There's no truer friend than an honest p.a.w.nbroker,' said Oscar.

'Agreed!' said Stoker. 'I use Ashman in the Strand. Capital fellow. Who do you go to, Oscar?'

'The same. A good man. Ten years ago, when I was in desperate straits, I took him my most prized possession-my Berkeley Gold Medal-and he gave me thirteen guineas for it. Thirteen guineas! I said, "Mr Ashman, I don't think it's worth five pounds." He said, "Mr Wilde, I know about this medal. In my day, I was a Greek scholar, too. You won this when you were at Trinity College, Dublin, did you not? It is the college's highest cla.s.sical award. To you it must be beyond price. I have thirteen guineas in my safe this morning. I am happy to give you thirteen guineas for your medal."'

'What a wonderful story,' said Bram Stoker.

'Ashman is a scholar and a gentleman,' said Oscar.

'And a Jew,' added Charles Brookfield.

'Indeed,' said Oscar, smiling, 'I find that so many of the best people are.'

'Have you seen the paper this morning?' asked Wat Sickert, deftly changing the subject. 'There's a paragraph about the Cadogan Hotel parrot. Apparently, the poor creature was done to death yesterday, in the hotel hallway, in broad daylight. Can you believe it?'

'The parrot is dead?' said Charles Brookfield. 'I'd not heard that.'

'How strange,' said Bram Stoker. 'Brookfield and I took breakfast there yesterday. The parrot was fine, as far as I recall.'

'Who would do such a thing?' asked Sickert. 'It was a messy business, according to the paper- blood and feathers everywhere.'

Charles Brookfield smiled. 'Perhaps it was one of your vampires, Bram?' he suggested. 'Bram's obsessed with vampires, aren't you? I think it comes from working for Irving, the old blood-sucker.'

'It could have been a vampire bat,' suggested Oscar, lightly.

'In Knightsbridge?' exclaimed Brookfield.

'Sloane Street,' Oscar corrected him.

'The notion's ludicrous,' said Brookfield scornfully.

'Unlikely, I agree,' said Oscar benignly, 'but not beyond the realms of possibility. There's a breed of South American bat-the desmodontidae-that subsists on blood, and preys on birds and beasts and humans.

'How do you know this, Oscar?' asked Stoker.

'I went to Oxford as well as Trinity College, Dublin. Poor Captain Flint was a South American parrot. Perhaps he was ravaged by a South American vampire bat?'

'Do you think that's likely?' asked Bram Stoker, draining his gla.s.s.

'No,' answered Oscar, shaking his head. 'Frankly, [do not.'

'Then who killed the parrot, Oscar?' asked Charles Brookfield. 'Do tell us.'