Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers Page 17

  ‘But the girl’s neck was broken with huge force.’

  ‘Perhaps then we are looking for two murderers – a woman and a man.’

  ‘Perhaps we should be letting the police look for the murderers, Oscar.’

  ‘We can’t withdraw from the case now, Arthur. We are too steeped in blood. We are committed. We must go on.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Conan Doyle, sitting upright and bracing himself. ‘This is now a matter for the proper authorities.’

  ‘In this instance, Arthur,’ said Oscar, sitting up also, ‘we are the proper authorities. We are best placed to solve this crime. We are ahead of the game. The police won’t know where to start. They’ll have a million suspects to eliminate – all of London, in fact. We have just thirteen.’

  ‘Thirteen?’

  Oscar smiled. ‘Well, fifteen – if we include you and Professor Onofroff. Or sixteen, if we include Dvorak’s daughter.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ asked Doyle, rapping the table with his newspaper in exasperation.

  ‘I mean that the murder of Louisa Lavallois was carried out by someone who was in the ante-room to the royal box last night.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Conan Doyle.

  ‘Necessarily,’ said Oscar.

  ‘No,’ protested Doyle, leaning forward. ‘The girl’s body was discovered in the water closet in the vestibule. The murderer could have followed the girl from the auditorium into the vestibule, done the deed while we were in the ante-room, standing in Professor Onofroff’s absurd mind-reading circle, and then slipped back into the auditorium unnoticed.’

  ‘Except they did not do so. That is not what happened.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know. The murderer was in the ante-room last night – with us. The murderer was in our midst.’

  ‘You can be sure of that?’

  ‘I can be and I am.’

  ‘And what makes you so certain?’

  ‘This.’

  Oscar bent down and from the floor immediately beneath his chair picked up the small package that he had brought away from the theatre the evening before. He laid the parcel on the table before us and carefully unfolded the napkin wrapping to reveal its contents. There, lying between two cold lamb cutlets and three lobster claws, was a small oyster knife, its handle and blade covered in dried blood.

  57

  The Dark Penumbra

  From the notebook of Inspector Hugh Boone of Scotland Yard, Tuesday, 18 March 1890

  Important persons emerged from Empire Theatre of Varieties at 10.30 p.m. and departed in waiting brougham. Travelled in direction of Trafalgar Square, presumably towards Mall.

  Suspect emerged at 10.45 p.m. approx, with regular companions, plus bearded gentleman (Russian?) and young female. Hailed four-wheeler. HB followed in two-wheeler. Trailed to Langham Hotel, brief stop, then returned to Piccadilly (Café Royal).

  At 1 a.m. suspect returned to Chelsea – alone.

  58

  From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle

  Wednesday, 19 March 1890. Went with Oscar Wilde and Robert Sherard to see the Prince of Wales at twelve noon. We met in his study.

  HRH was affable, but more guarded than at our previous encounters – and the hospitality was more modest. Watkins, the prince’s page, offered coffee or sherry, and Tyrwhitt Wilson, the equerry, handed round cigars. HRH sat behind an ormolu writing desk while we stood ranged before him like errant schoolboys.

  ‘There’s no need to speak of last night,’ he began, as soon as the refreshments had been served and the cigars lit. He looked at each of us in turn as he spoke. ‘What occurred was a tragedy – of course it was. I knew Miss Lavallois a little and was fond of her, but she moved among an unsavoury crowd and these things happen. I had not seen her since I was last in Paris – a year ago. She was delightful, but some of her associates were not. I am afraid she mixed with a criminal fraternity. It would seem that her past caught up with her yesterday evening. I am sorry for it, but there’s nothing to be done.’

  He smiled a wintry smile before adding: ‘I see from the morning’s papers that her body was discovered in an alley off Leicester Square. I am grateful for that.’

  I wanted to speak. ‘With your permission, sir—’ I began, but the prince anticipated me.

  ‘I have no doubt the police will pursue their enquiries with their customary diligence,’ he said, still smiling wanly. ‘If I could be of assistance to them in any way, I would be, naturally, but in this instance I know nothing – nothing at all – and I cannot think that my intervention would serve any useful purpose.’

  ‘Quite the reverse,’ murmured the equerry.

  The prince slapped the palms of his hands on his writing desk to indicate that the subject was now closed. Pushing back his chair, he drew on his cigar. ‘Now, revenons à nos moutons, as the French like to say.’

  ‘Professor Onofroff,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the prince, seeming a touch disconcerted. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Thought transference – this trick of mind-reading is catching, Your Royal Highness,’ replied Oscar, with a modest bow.

  The Prince of Wales narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Besides,’ continued Oscar, ‘I see the note you have written on the desk before you, sir. It is upside down, but clear enough. Below the word “Lulu”, I see the name “Onofroff”.’

  The prince picked up the sheet of notepaper and screwed it into a ball.

  ‘Well done, Mr Wilde, but you can lay aside your Holmesian skills for the time being. I am most grateful to you – and to Dr Doyle – and to your friend [HRH never mastered Sherard’s name] – sincerely grateful – but I have decided not to pursue the matter of the Duchess of Albemarle’s death any further. I no longer require your “detective” services.’

  It was Oscar’s turn to appear disconcerted. ‘And this is as a consequence of Professor Onofroff’s reading?’ he asked.

  ‘In part, yes,’ replied the prince.

  ‘The professor has discovered the murderer?’

  The prince laughed. ‘No, but he has allayed my fears. He has put my mind at rest.’

  ‘May one ask what the professor has told you?’ persisted Oscar.

  ‘Not a great a deal,’ said the prince enigmatically, ‘but enough.’

  ‘Your Royal Highness is in a teasing mood today.’

  The Prince of Wales got to his feet and moved behind his chair. ‘I am in a mellow mood today, Mr Wilde – despite last night’s tragedy. And, yes, it is thanks to Professor Onofroff.’

  ‘Oh, sir,’ pleaded Oscar. ‘What did the professor uncover as he stood in our midst last night? What did he see through the miasmal mists of unconsciousness? What did his reading of our minds reveal?’

  ‘Not much detail, that’s for sure. His reading was interrupted, as you’ll recall. But he saw enough. He saw the dark penumbra.’

  ‘You tantalise us, sir. You must explain.’

  The prince’s equerry stirred uncomfortably.

  ‘There’s no “must” about it, Mr Wilde,’ said the prince reprovingly, ‘but I will try to explain, as best I can.’

  I saw Oscar blush. I had not seen him abashed before.

  The Prince of Wales drew heavily on his cigar. ‘I am no authority on what people now call “telepathy”,’ he said, exhaling a cloud of pale purple smoke as he spoke, ‘but this is my understanding of what Professor Onofroff was attempting to achieve last night. As you know, I had asked him to meet us to look into our minds. He asked me if I was seeking something in particular. I told him I was: guilt. He answered, “We are all guilty of something – I’ll see guilt everywhere.” But, I said to him, if you have a dozen men in a circle, and you look into each of their minds, will you see where the greatest guilt lies? He said, “I will. I will be guided by the dark penumbra. Those with the darkest secrets will be surrounded by the darkest shadows.”’

  The prince paused to draw on his cigar once mor
e.

  ‘And?’ I asked.

  ‘And so it proved,’ said the prince with finality.

  There was a moment’s silence before Oscar, quite quietly, enquired: ‘And may I ask, sir, which of us turns out to be the guiltiest party?’

  ‘Not you, Mr Wilde – you may be disappointed to discover. Nor, indeed, you, Dr Doyle. You are let off the hook, gentlemen, by virtue of your relative youth and the fact of not having beards.’

  ‘I have a moustache,’ I laughed nervously.

  ‘But as he stood within that circle last night and turned about while letting his eyelids close, in his mind’s eye Professor Onofroff claims to have seen the dark penumbra quite distinctly. It surrounded two men – older men – both men with full beards.’

  ‘Did he name them?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘He was unfamiliar with the names of most of the men in the circle – but he knew my name.’

  ‘And you, sir, were one of these two men surrounded by the dark penumbra?’ I asked.

  ‘Apparently so.’ The Prince of Wales smiled.

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘The composer, Monsieur Dvorak. Onofroff was not able to name him – he did not know his name – but he identified him. By his beard. By his age. And on account of his daughter.’

  ‘Did he name the daughter?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘No. The seance was too brief to establish any detail. As you know, it ended almost as it began. But what was clear to Onofroff was this: the two men in that circle with the guiltiest and darkest secrets were older men with beards and, in each case, the guilt – the secret – involved the man’s eldest child, a child grown to adulthood. Onofroff saw their silhouettes in his mind’s eye – each standing with its father. One was a daughter and one was a son.’

  ‘Dear God,’ I murmured. ‘Dvorak and his daughter …’

  ‘Calm yourself, Arthur. Incest is not the end of the world. In certain cultures – and some English counties – it’s considered perfectly acceptable. Monsieur Dvorak and his daughter are bohemians. They must be allowed a certain licence.’

  I turned on Oscar angrily. ‘This is no laughing matter,’ I protested. ‘Incest is against the laws of God and Nature. It is a criminal offence in this country – and for a reason.’

  ‘And Dvorak and his daughter are leaving the country tomorrow. Let them be. Let them go. He is a great composer and genius will have its way.’

  ‘I am appalled by this,’ I said. ‘Shocked. I liked the man.’

  ‘And Cleopatra loved her brother Ptolemy – and married him, as I recall. We cannot always choose whom we like and love, Arthur. If we avoided sinners at every turn, we would all lead very lonely lives.’

  ‘Incest is wrong,’ I repeated.

  ‘It’s inappropriate in Southsea, I grant you … but in Bohemia? They do things so differently on the continent.’

  Oscar turned from me to address the Prince of Wales.

  ‘I am sure His Royal Highness agrees. The Habsburgs, the Hohenzollerns, the Bourbons – but for a little light inbreeding, the royal families of Europe would have died out years ago.’

  Tyrwhitt Wilson stirred uneasily. Robert Sherard put out a hand to restrain our friend. But the prince appeared tolerably amused.

  ‘Mr Wilde, you forget yourself,’ he said. ‘Professor Onofroff made no specific allegation. We can but conjecture as to the nature of the guilt surrounding Monsieur Dvorak, and how and why it involves his daughter. Do not get carried away.’

  Oscar collected himself. ‘I stand reproved,’ he said, bowing his head to the prince. ‘I did indeed forget myself, sir,’ he went on, looking up once more and smiling. ‘I cannot believe that Professor Onofroff was anything but woefully wide of the mark when he suggested that Your Royal Highness was one of those surrounded by the dark penumbra. His mind’s eyesight must be failing him.’

  The prince chuckled. ‘You’re very generous, Mr Wilde, but no. Onofroff was clear. He recognised me by my beard – and he saw the silhouette of my grown son at my side.’

  Sherard spoke up. ‘Bram Stoker has a beard, sir. He, too, was in the circle.’

  ‘But does he have a son?’ asked the prince.

  ‘He does,’ said Oscar. ‘Noel Stoker – a charming child.’

  ‘And the son’s age?’

  ‘The boy is ten, I believe,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Exactly.’ The Prince of Wales held a match to a fresh cigar. ‘I have no problem with what Onofroff saw, gentlemen. I am not as innocent as my mother would have me be. Indeed, I am guilty of many things – I confess it. I’m clearly more guilty than most.’

  ‘Only by virtue of your age, sir,’ quipped Oscar, raising his glass of sherry in the prince’s direction. ‘You’ve had more opportunity.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely helpful, Mr Wilde, but I take your point. Monsieur Dvorak and I were the senior men in the circle last night. We are of an age. We were born two months apart. We’ve lived and loved and bear the scars. We have our guilty secrets. But whatever my sins, I know that I am not guilty of murder …’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Oscar, handing his glass to the prince’s page. ‘And you know, too, that Monsieur Dvorak was not in Grosvenor Square on the night of the Duchess of Albemarle’s death.’

  ‘Precisely so, Mr Wilde. Monsieur Dvorak was conducting a concert at the Royal Albert Hall last Thursday evening.’

  ‘And this,’ continued Oscar, warming to his theme, ‘explains Your Royal Highness’s sense of relief. If you and Monsieur Dvorak were the guiltiest men in that circle of thirteen, the two with the darkest secrets – and yet you did not murder the duchess and Monsieur Dvorak could not have done so, it follows that none of the others in the circle – all apparently less guilty men – could have committed the crime either.’

  ‘Quite so, Mr Wilde. We are all off the hook.’

  ‘Assuming Onofroff knows his business.’

  ‘He does,’ said the Prince of Wales with conviction.

  ‘His Royal Highness places a lot of faith in Professor Onofroff,’ murmured the prince’s equerry.

  ‘Tyrwhitt Wilson has his doubts,’ declared the prince, ‘but I don’t – so case closed, gentlemen. Sherlock Holmes may return to Baker Street. I thank you for your endeavours on my behalf, but no further investigation is required.’

  Evidently our audience was at an end. The prince’s page relieved us of our coffee cups and sherry glasses. The equerry moved towards the study door. In unison, we bowed.

  ‘Before we depart, Your Royal Highness,’ said Oscar obsequiously, ‘might I ask one final question? Who was it in the circle that you suspected of the crime?’

  ‘It’s irrelevant now,’ said the prince, resuming his seat at his desk.

  ‘Was it Lord Yarborough?’

  ‘Most certainly not,’ snapped the prince. ‘Good day, Mr Wilde.’

  Oscar persisted: ‘Was it the Duke of Albemarle? Was it the jealous husband? Did Your Royal Highness fear that His Grace had been driven to it by his wife’s repeated infidelity?’

  ‘The matter is closed, Mr Wilde. Let it go.’

  ‘Do you believe that the duchess died a natural death, sir?’

  ‘I believe that Lord Yarborough is right – and has been all along. Poor Helen died of a heart attack. The heart attack may have been provoked because she was indulging in some foul practice – playing some grotesque amatory game – but we do not need to concern ourselves with that. She had a weak heart. It failed her. She is dead now. Let her rest in peace. Good day, gentlemen.’

  Do I burn these notes or keep them?

  59

  From The Times, Wednesday, 19 March 1890

  The funeral of the late Duchess of Albemarle will not now take place on Thursday, 20 March, as previously announced. The funeral service for Her Grace will now be held on Saturday, 22 March, at twelve noon at St George’s, Hanover Square, London, W., and will be followed by private cremation. Further particulars are available from Messrs J. H. Kenyon, funeral direc
tors of Rochester Row, Westminster, London, SW.

  60

  From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

  We set off from Marlborough House in the four-wheeler that Oscar kept at his disposal all day. He is absurdly extravagant.

  ‘Why don’t we walk?’ suggested Conan Doyle. ‘Look at the sky. It’s a fine afternoon.’

  ‘Walk?’ expostulated Oscar, as though his friend had quite taken leave of his senses. ‘Look at the streets, Arthur – awash with horse manure.’

  ‘We can walk on the pavements.’

  ‘Awash with people! We’d need a street-sweeper to forge a path for us and he’d probably cost more than the brougham.’

  Brooking no further argument, Oscar instructed the coachman to take us up St James’s and along Piccadilly to the Café Royal.

  ‘We are meeting Rex LaSalle for lunch.’

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘A magnum of Perrier-Jouët ’82. It’s what we need to wash away the taste of His Royal Highness’s amontillado.’

  ‘I’m not drinking at lunchtime, Oscar.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘I’m resolved – absolutely. No alcohol during working hours. It’s one of my Lenten resolutions and I am sticking to it.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur. Good resolutions are useless attempts to interfere with scientific laws – as well you know. Their origin is pure vanity. Their result is absolutely nil. They give us, now and then, some of those luxurious sterile emotions that have a certain charm for the weak. That is all that can be said for them. They are simply cheques that men draw on a bank where they have no account. You will have a glass or three of the Perrier-Jouët at the Café Royal, mon ami. J’insiste.’

  At the Café Royal, Conan Doyle did indeed do as Oscar insisted – and did so without apparent regret. There is something compelling about Oscar. His charm is overwhelming. One does his bidding, whatever one’s resolve.