Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death Read online

  OSCAR WILDE

  AND THE RING

  OF DEATH

  Gyles Brandreth

  To Merlin and Emma

  Would you like to know the great drama of my life?

  It is that I have put my genius into my life …

  I have put only my talent into my works.

  Oscar Wilde (1854—1900)

  PREFACE

  My name is Robert Sherard and I was a friend of Oscar Wilde. We met first in Paris in 1883. He was then twenty-eight and already famous—as a writer, wit and raconteur, as the pre-eminent ‘personality’ of his day. I was twenty-two, a would-be journalist, an aspiring poet, and quite unknown. We met for the last time in 1900, again in Paris, not long before his untimely death. During the seventeen years of our friendship I kept a journal of our times together. We were not lovers, but I knew Oscar well. Few, I believe, knew him better. In 1884, I was the first whom Oscar entertained after his marriage to Constance Lloyd. In 1895, I was the first to visit him in Wandsworth Gaol following his imprisonment. In 1902, I became his first biographer.

  When I wrote that first account of Oscar’s life I told his story as best I could. I told the truth and nothing but the truth—but the whole truth I did not tell. Not long before his death, I had confessed to Oscar that I planned to write of him after he was gone. He said: ‘Don’t tell them everything—not yet! When you write of me, don’t speak of murder. Leave that a while.’ I have left it—until now. I am writing this in September 1939. I am old and the world is on the brink of war once more. My time will soon be up, but before I go I have one last task remaining—to tell everything that I know of Oscar Wilde, poet, playwright, friend, detective …

  In De Profundis, my friend did me great honour. He described me as ‘the bravest and most chivalrous of all brilliant beings’. Oscar Wilde was always good to me and I ask you to believe me when I tell you that in the pages that follow I have tried my utmost to be true to him.

  RHS

  Dieppe, France

  September 1939

  Regard your good name as the richest jewel that you can possibly be possessed of—for credit is like fire: when once you have kindled it you may easily preserve it, but if you once extinguish it, you will find it an arduous task to rekindle it again. The way to gain a good reputation is to endeavour to be what you desire to appear.

  Socrates (c.470—399 BC)

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE FORTUNE TELLER

  It was Sunday 1 May 1892, a cold day, though the sun was bright. I recall in particular the way in which a brilliant shaft of afternoon sunlight filtered through the first-floor front window of Number 16 Tite Street, Chelsea—the London home of Oscar and Constance Wilde—and perfectly illuminated two figures sitting close together at a small table, apparently holding hands.

  I stood alone, by the window, watching them. One was a woman, a widow, in her early forties, with a pleasing figure, well-held, and a narrow, kindly face—a little lined, but not care-worn—and large, knowing eyes. She was dressed all in black silk and on her head, which she held high, she wore a turban of black velvet featuring a single, startling, silver and turquoise peacock’s feather. The colour of the feather matched the colour of her hair.

  The other figure seated at the table was quite as striking. He was a large man, aged thirty-seven, tall, over-fleshed, with a fine head of thick deep-chestnut hair, large, slightly drooping eyes, and full lips that opened to reveal a wide mouth crowded with ungainly teeth. His skin was pale and pasty, blotched with freckles. He was dressed in a sand-coloured linen suit of his own design. At his neck, he sported a loose-fitting linen tie of Lincoln green and, in his buttonhole, a fresh amaryllis, the colour of coral.

  The woman was Mrs Robinson, clairvoyant to the Prince of Wales among others. The man was Oscar Wilde, poet and playwright, and literary sensation of the age.

  Slowly, with gloved fingers, Mrs Robinson caressed Oscar Wilde’s right hand. Repeatedly, she brushed the side of her little finger across his palm. With her right thumb and forefinger she took each of his fingers in turn and, gently, pulled it straight. For a long while, she gazed intently at his open hand, saying nothing. Eventually, she lifted his palm to her cheek and held it there. She sighed and closed her eyes and murmured, ‘I see a sudden death in this unhappy hand. A cruel death, unexpected and unnatural. Is it murder? Is it suicide?’

  ‘Or is it the palmist trying to earn her guinea by adding a touch of melodrama to her reading?’ Oscar withdrew his hand from Mrs Robinson’s tender grasp and slapped it on the table, with a barking laugh. ‘You go too far, dear lady,’ he exclaimed. ‘This is a tea party and the Thane of Cawdor is not expected. There are children present. You are here to entertain the guests, Mrs Robinson, not terrify them.’

  Mrs Robinson tilted her bird-like head to one side and smiled. ‘I see what I see,’ she said, without rancour.

  Oscar was smiling also. He turned from the table and looked beyond the pool of sunlight to a young man of military bearing who was standing alone, like me, a yard away, observing the scene. ‘Come to my rescue, Arthur,’ he called. ‘Mrs Robinson has seen “a sudden death” in my “unhappy hand”. You’re a medical man. I need a second opinion.’

  Arthur Conan Doyle was then three weeks away from his thirty-third birthday and already something of a national hero. His Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Strand magazine were a sensation throughout the land. Doyle himself, in appearance, was more Watson than Holmes. He was a handsome fellow, sturdy and broad-shouldered, with a hearty handshake, beady eyes and a genial smile that he kept hidden beneath a formidable walrus moustache. He was the best of men, and a true friend to Oscar, in good times and bad.

  ‘I’m no longer practising medicine, Oscar, as you know,’ he said, moving towards the window table, ‘but if you want my honest opinion, you should steer well clear of this kind of tomfoolery. It can be dangerous. It leads you know not where.’ He bowed a little stiffly towards Mrs Robinson. ‘No offence intended, Madam,’ he said.

  ‘None taken,’ she replied, graciously. ‘The creator of Sherlock Holmes can do no wrong in my eyes.

  Doyle’s cheeks turned scarlet. He blushed readily. ‘You are too kind,’ he mumbled awkwardly.

  ‘You are too ridiculous, Arthur. Pay no attention to him, Mrs R. He’s all over the place. I’m not surprised. He’s moved to South Norwood— wherever that may be.’

  ‘It’s not far,’ Doyle protested.

  ‘It’s a world away, Arthur, and you know it. That’s why you were late.’

  ‘I was late because I was completing something.’

  ‘Your sculpture. Yes, I know. Sculpture is your new enthusiasm.’

  Conan Doyle stood back from the table. ‘How do you know that?’ he exclaimed. ‘I have mentioned it to no one—to no one at all.’

  ‘Oh, come now, Arthur,’ said Oscar, getting to his feet, smiling and inclining his head to Mrs Robinson as he left the table. ‘I heard you telling my wife about the spacious hut at the end of your new garden and the happy hours you are intending to spend there, “in the cold and the damp”. Only a sculptor loves a cold, damp room: it’s ideal for keeping his clay moist.’

  ‘You amaze me, Oscar.’

  ‘Mrs Robinson would have uncovered your secret too—by the simple expedient of examining your fingernails. Look at them, Arthur. They give the whole game away!’

  ‘You are extraordinary, Oscar. I marvel at you. You know that I plan to include you in one of my stories as Sherlock Holmes’s older brother?’

  ‘Yes, you have told me—he is to be obese and indolent, as I recall. I’m flattered.’

  Conan Doyle laughed and slapped Oscar on the should
er with disconcerting force. ‘I’m glad I came to your party, my friend,’ he said, ‘despite the company you keep.’

  ‘It is not my party, Arthur. It is Constance’s party. The guests are all alarmingly respectable and the cause is undeniably just.’

  The party—for about forty guests, men, women and children—was a fund-raiser in aid of one of Constance Wilde‘s favourite charities, the Rational Dress Society. The organisation, inspired by the example of Amelia Bloomer in the United States, was dedicated to promoting fashions for women that did not ‘deform the body or endanger it’. The Society believed that no woman should be forced to endure the discomfort and risk to health of overly tight-laced and restrictive corsetry nor be obliged to wear, in total, more than seven pounds of undergarments. Constance spoke poignantly of the plight of so many women—scores of them each year: young and old, serving girls and ladies of rank—who were either maimed or burnt to death when their voluminous skirts, petticoats and underpinnings accidentally caught on a candle or brushed by a hearth and were set alight.

  Oscar and Arthur stood together looking about the room. Conan Doyle leant forward, resting his hands on the back of one of the Wildes’ black-and-white bamboo chairs. ‘The cause is indeed a good one,’ he said. ‘Rest assured: I have subscribed.’ He smiled at Oscar, adding, ‘I remain to be convinced, however, about the complete respectability of the guests. For example, who are those two?’ He nodded towards the piano.

  ‘Ah,’ said Oscar, ‘Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper.’

  ‘They look like chimney—sweeps.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oscar, squinting at the ladies. ‘They do appear to have come en travestie. I think the costumes are deliberate. They probably wanted to bring us luck. They are not chimney-sweeps by trade. They are poetesses. Or, rather, I should say, “they are a poet”. They write together, under a single name. They call themselves “Michael Field”.’

  ‘I observed them in the hallway, smoking cigarettes, and kissing one another, upon the lips.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said Oscar, shaking his head wanly, ‘especially when you consider the amount of influenza sweeping through Chelsea this spring.’

  ‘And what about the unhealthy-looking gentleman over there? He has the appearance of a dope-fiend, Oscar.’

  ‘George Daubeney?’ exclaimed Oscar. ‘The Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney? He’s a clergyman, Arthur, and the son of an earl.’

  ‘Is he now?’ replied Doyle, chuckling. ‘Why do I recognise the name?’

  ‘It has been in all the papers, alas. The Reverend George was sued for breach of promise. It was a messy business. He lost the case and his entire fortune with it.’

  ‘He has a weak mouth,’ said Conan Doyle.

  ‘And a stern father who declines to bail him out, I’m afraid. I like him, however. He is assistant chaplain at the House of Commons and part-time padre to Astley’s Circus on the south side of Westminster Bridge.

  ‘No wonder you like him, Oscar! You cannot resist the improbable.’

  Now it was Oscar’s turn to chuckle. He touched Conan Doyle on the elbow and invited his friend to scan the room. ‘Look about you, Arthur. You are a man who has seen the world, the best and worst of it. You have journeyed to the Arctic in a whaler. You have lived in Southsea out of season. You are familiar with all types and conditions of men. Consider the assorted individuals gathered in this drawing room this afternoon and tell me which one of them, to you, looks to be the most incontrovertibly “respectable”.’

  Doyle was entertained by the challenge. He stepped back and stood, arms akimbo, fists on hips. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes and, slowly, carefully, surveyed the scene before him. Constance had gathered a motley crowd to her charitable tea party. ‘What precisely am I looking for, Oscar?’

  ‘The acme of respectability,’ said Oscar. ‘The face, the figure, the demeanour, the look that says to you: “This chap is sound, no doubt about it.”‘

  ‘Mm,’ growled Doyle, taking in the faces around him, turn by turn. ‘They all look a bit doubtful, don’t they?’ He looked beyond where George Daubeney was standing, to the doorway, where Charles Brooke, the English Rajah of Sarawak and a particular friend of Constance, was holding court. ‘Brooke has the look of a leader about him, doesn’t he? I know him slightly. He’s sound. He’s a gentleman.’

  Oscar raised his forefinger and waved it admonishingly. ‘No, no, Arthur. Don’t tell me about people you already know. I want you to make a judgement entirely on appearance. Look about this room and pick out the one person who strikes you as having about him an air of absolute respectability.’

  ‘I have him!’ cried Doyle triumphantly. ‘There! ‘He indicated a sandy-haired young man of medium build and medium height who was standing with Constance Wilde at the far end of the room. Constance’s older boy Cyril, nearly seven years old, was at her side with his arms clasped around her skirt. Her younger son, Vyvyan, then five and a half, was seated happily on the young man’s shoulders tugging at his hair.

  ‘He’s your man, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘He’s easy with children—and children are easy with him. That’s a good sign.’

  ‘He is Vyvyan’s godfather,’ said Oscar.

  ‘I’m not surprised. You chose well. He has the air of a thoroughly dependable fellow. What’s his name?’

  ‘Edward Heron-Allen,’ said Oscar.

  ‘A sound name,’ said Conan Doyle, with satisfaction.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Oscar, smiling.

  ‘A respectable name.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘And his profession, Oscar? He’s a professional man—you can tell at a glance.’

  ‘He is a solicitor. And the son of a solicitor.’

  ‘Of course he is. I might have guessed. Look at his open face—it’s a face you can trust. It’s the face of a good-hearted, clean-living, respectable young man. How old is he? Do you know?’

  ‘About thirty, I imagine.’

  ‘And how old is the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney, may I ask?’

  ‘About the same, I suppose.’

  ‘But Daubeney,’ said Doyle, his eyes darting from Oscar to Constance, ‘looks ten years the older of the two, does he not? Daubeney’s face, I fear, speaks of a life of dissipation. My man’s face speaks of The Great Outdoors. He has colour in his cheeks. His jaw is clean-cut, his eyes sparkle, his conscience is clear.’

  ‘My, my, Arthur, you are taken with him.’

  Conan Doyle laughed. ‘I’m only doing as you asked, Oscar judging by appearance. Edward Heron-Allen’s appearance is wholly reassuring. You cannot deny it. Look at his suit.’

  ‘The tailoring is unexceptional.’

  ‘Precisely. The man is not a dandy. He is a gentleman. His suit is sober: it’s exactly the sort of suit you’d expect a solicitor to wear on a Sunday. And his tie, I think, tells us he went to Harrow.’

  ‘He did indeed,’ said Oscar, grinning broadly, ‘and played cricket for the First XI.’

  Conan Doyle caught sight of Oscar’s wide and wicked smile and, suddenly, began to beat his own forehead with a clenched fist. ‘Oh, Oscar, Oscar,’ he growled ruefully, ‘have I taken your bait? Have I fallen headlong into an elephant trap? Are you about to reveal to me that my supposed model of respectability is in fact the greatest bounder in the room?’

  ‘No,’ said Oscar, lightly. ‘Not at all. But we all have our secrets, Arthur, do we not?’

  ‘What’s his? Has he embezzled all his clients’ money?’

  ‘He is in love with Constance.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘My wife.’

  Conan Doyle looked concerned. He was a loyal and conscientious husband. His own young wife, Louisa, known as ‘Touie’, was a victim of tuberculosis. Doyle went out and about without her, but she was never far from his thoughts. He tugged at his moustache. ‘This fellow, Heron-Allen, being in love with your wife, Oscar—does it trouble you?’

  ‘No,’ said Oscar, ‘not at all.’


  ‘And Mrs Wilde?’ asked Doyle. ‘How does she feel?’

  ‘It does not trouble Mrs Wilde.’ Oscar smiled. ‘Mrs Heron-Allen, however, may find it a touch perturbing.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Doyle, frowning, ‘the fellow’s married, is he? He doesn’t look like a married man.’

  ‘I agree with you there, Arthur. He looks totally carefree, does he not?’

  ‘He looks quite ordinary to me,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘That’s why I picked him when you started me off on this absurd game. I shouldn’t have indulged you, Oscar.’

  ‘Edward Heron-Allen is anything but ordinary, Arthur. He cultivates asparagus. He makes violins. He speaks fluent Persian. And he is a world authority on necrophilia, bestiality, pederasty, and the trafficking of child prostitutes.’

  ‘Good grief!’ Arthur Conan Doyle blanched and gazed towards Edward Heron-Allen in horror. The young solicitor was lifting Vyvyan Wilde from his shoulders. He kissed the top of the boy’s head as he lowered him safely to the ground. ‘Good grief,’ repeated Conan Doyle.

  ‘I’ve seated you next to him at dinner, Arthur. You’ll find him fascinating. He’s another chiromancer—like Mrs Robinson. Let him read your palm between courses and he’ll advise you whether to plump for the lamb or the beef.’

  ‘I’m speechless, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle, still staring fixedly in the direction of Edward Heron-Allen and Constance Wilde. ‘I’m quite lost for words.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Oscar blithely. ‘Heron-Allen can do the talking. He has a great deal to say and you’ll find all of it’s worth hearing.’

  ‘Are you serious, Oscar?’ Doyle protested. ‘Is that man really joining us for dinner?’

  Oscar chuckled. ‘Why not? He looks respectable enough to me. In fact, he’s my particular guest tonight. Sherard here is bringing the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney. Who is your guest to be?’

  Conan Doyle was now blowing his nose noisily on a large, red handkerchief. ‘Willie … Willie Hornung,’ he said, hesitating to name the name. ‘You don’t know him. He’s a young journalist, an excellent fellow, one of the sweetest-natured and most delicate-minded men I ever knew.’