Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers Read online

  Conan Doyle said nothing.

  ‘I am of a different opinion – for what it’s worth. I do not believe that Professor Charcot is implicated in the death of the Duchess of Albemarle in any way whatsoever. Why should he be? He was in her house on the night she died, but so were a hundred others. So were you, Lord Yarborough. Could you have murdered her? In your research work, you cut up cadavers. You have a surgeon’s knife, I presume. You know how to use it, I am sure.’

  Oscar folded his arms across his chest as he contemplated Lord Yarborough.

  Lord Yarborough looked steadily at Oscar and appeared amused. ‘Do I look like a man with a capacity for murder?’ he asked.

  ‘In your head, yes,’ said Oscar. ‘In your heart, also.’

  ‘You flatter me.’

  ‘I intend to. Ruthlessness is essential in a man who seeks high achievement. You have the capacity for murder, my lord, but – forgive me – do you have the physique?’

  Lord Yarborough bridled slightly, but said nothing.

  ‘Helen Albemarle, despite the weakness of her heart, was a tall woman – and she was young. You have neither stature nor bulk nor youth at your command. If you had attacked her, she could have resisted you. Would you have been able to drag her into the telephone room at Grosvenor Square against her will? I doubt it. And would she have gone with you voluntarily in anticipation of a romantic encounter? I doubt that, also. You have confessed to us that you are not a ladies’ man. Helen Albemarle would have known that without you needing to tell her. Women have an instinct about these things.’

  Oscar unfolded his arms and smiled.

  ‘No, pace Dr Doyle, I do not think that you murdered the Duchess of Albemarle, Lord Yarborough.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it, Mr Wilde,’ said Lord Yarborough, bowing his head towards Oscar.

  Turning to the pony-trap, he opened the door to a container beneath the box seat, placed the white envelope inside the container and removed a pair of black driving gloves, which he began to pull on.

  ‘But you might have murdered Lulu Lavallois,’ said Oscar, still smiling. ‘She was quite petite and you had the means and the opportunity …’

  ‘But did I have the motive?’ asked Lord Yarborough, examining his gloved hands with apparent satisfaction.

  ‘I don’t think you did,’ said Oscar. ‘I don’t believe Mademoiselle Lavallois represented a threat to Professor Charcot. He is the Napoleon of neuroses after all, and she was nobody – an itinerant dancer, with a history of mental instability.’

  ‘But “charming titties”,’ added Lord Yarborough, reaching into the trap to retrieve the horsewhip.

  ‘There are worse epitaphs,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Personally,’ said Lord Yarborough, climbing up on to the box seat, ‘I think Dvorak did it. I was standing next to him in the circle. The man was sweating like a pig. His hands were trembling. His whole demeanour exuded guilt.’

  ‘You think he murdered the girl to create a diversion? To prevent Professor Onofroff from reading his mind and revealing his dark secret?’

  ‘Well, it’s a possibility, you must admit.’ Lord Yarborough looked down from the trap at Conan Doyle. ‘You are the writer of detective fiction, Dr Doyle. What do you think?’

  ‘I shall keep my thoughts to myself for the moment,’ replied Conan Doyle stiffly. ‘I believe I have displayed enough “excess of zeal” for one morning.’

  ‘That’s all one now,’ said Lord Yarborough pleasantly. Tugging at the pony’s reins, he released the brake on the trap. ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I must be about my business – if that is all?’

  ‘One last thing,’ said Oscar, looking back at the house, as in the distance the clock of St James’s, Muswell Hill, began to strike the hour. ‘I noticed that the letter that the lady pressed upon you just now is addressed to the Prince of Wales.’

  Lord Yarborough laughed.

  ‘You are very observant, Mr Wilde. Yes, it is a petition to the Prince of Wales. The lady knew him once. Harriet Mordaunt is her name. It’s a sad story. Her husband wanted to divorce her on the grounds of her adultery. He tried to implicate the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘I recall the story,’ said Oscar. ‘And the scandal. Why is Lady Mordaunt here?’

  ‘To avoid the case coming to court – and to spare the Prince of Wales – Harriet’s father declared his daughter mad. He had her put away – incarcerated. He had several other daughters. He needed to find them husbands. He felt he had no choice.’

  ‘Is she mad?’ asked Conan Doyle.

  ‘She wasn’t when she first came to the asylum. She feigned her madness then – to prove to the court officers that she was not fit to stand trial. She played the lunatic – throwing tantrums, breaking crockery, eating coal, crawling about on all fours, howling like a werewolf. It was pitiful to see her. But she was not mad then. That was twenty years ago. She is mad now, I fear. She has been locked away so long.’

  ‘And she petitions the Prince of Wales to intercede on her behalf? To secure her release?’

  ‘She believes the prince loves her still. She hopes that he will welcome her to Marlborough House and make an honest woman of her at last. It cannot be, of course. This is where she lives now. And this is where she will die.’

  ‘We are on our way to see His Royal Highness,’ said Oscar. ‘We have an appointment at noon. Shall we deliver the poor woman’s petition for you?’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ said Lord Yarborough. ‘I’ll destroy it later – as I have destroyed the others. The Prince of Wales has enough to worry him. I don’t think we need trouble him with this.’

  A Nest of Vipers

  76

  From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle

  Though the horse cantered much of the way, it took more than an hour for our four-wheeler to get us from Muswell Manor to Marlborough House. Heavily jostled and lightly bruised, with Oscar (the republican!) in a state of considerable agitation, we arrived for our appointment with the Prince of Wales fifteen minutes late.

  In the event, it mattered not a jot. His Royal Highness was also running late, having had some urgent and unexpected business to attend to. He sent his apologies, was grateful for our patience and hoped to be with us shortly.

  In truth, confided his page, HRH was in the process of changing his waistcoat and tie for luncheon. (He is notoriously fastidious about his clothes. According to Watkins, the prince changes costume as many as six times a day.)

  As we stood waiting in the main hallway, our hands clasped behind our backs, our heels clacking on the parquet flooring, Oscar chattering inconsequentially about the paintings all around us (Oscar prefers Watteau to Van Dyck: ‘Only an auctioneer can admire equally all schools of art’), we were joined by General Sir Dighton Probyn, principal private secretary to HRH and Comptroller of the Prince’s Household.

  He is a striking figure: tall, thin, spry, with aquiline features and a long white beard that give him the appearance of a goblin from a story by the Brothers Grimm. (They say that he keeps his beard so long to ensure that it hides his Victoria Cross on ceremonial occasions.) I was struck by how pleased I was to see him. I was more than pleased, I think: I was relieved. He is a good man – solid in a rackety world.

  ‘Sir Dighton,’ cried Oscar effusively, ‘I am surprised to see you. We were told you were at Sandringham – planting.’

  ‘I was,’ said the general. ‘And I will be again on Sunday. I’ve just come up to town to attend the Duchess of Albemarle’s funeral tomorrow. I shall be representing the prince. And the princess.’

  ‘I did not realise that the Princess of Wales knew the Duchess of Albemarle,’ said Oscar.

  ‘She didn’t, or only slightly, but she likes to make her presence felt on these occasions. It goes a little way towards stifling the gossip.’

  ‘His Royal Highness is not attending the funeral in person?’ I asked.

  ‘Royalties don’t do funerals as a rule – other than family. Saves a lot of
bother – deciding whose obsequies you favour and whose you don’t. His Highness is attending the duke’s reception tonight, of course, but that’s a private affair – behind closed doors. Not something for the court circular. You’ll be there, I take it?’

  ‘We will,’ answered Oscar.

  ‘A sorry business,’ said the general, shaking his head. ‘Best not dwelt upon. Draw a line, move on – that’s my policy. I’ve told His Royal Highness – and Tyrwhitt Wilson: nothing to be gained by further enquiry, in my view.’

  ‘Except, perhaps, the truth,’ said Oscar lightly.

  ‘In my experience, the truth can be a mixed blessing, Mr Wilde. Some stones are best left undisturbed.’

  ‘But which stones, Sir Dighton?’

  ‘Exactly. You never know until it’s too late.’

  The general twitched his beard, smiled benevolently and revealed a mouth of crooked yellow teeth. He nodded to each of us in turn.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen,’ he said.

  I felt as his gaze met mine that there was an understanding between us.

  ‘Good day, sir,’ I said.

  He waved a hand above his head as he departed, saying, ‘I am lunching with the Danish ambassador. We shall speak of the Princess of Wales. No problems with the truth there. She is all goodness and straight as a die – God bless her. See you anon, gentlemen. Good day.’

  As the general made his exit, Harry Tyrwhitt Wilson made his entrance.

  ‘Royal apologies, gentlemen.’

  He clicked his heels and bobbed his head. For a moment I thought he was about to twirl his waxed moustache.

  ‘His Highness is lunching with Baron de Rothschild and Baron Hirsch. As money may be on the menu, he felt he was perhaps too gaily caparisoned for the occasion. I’m sure you understand.’

  We murmured that we did – of course, we did – as the equerry led us along the corridors to the prince’s morning room. He walked briskly, with a spring in his step. Oscar struggled to keep pace and provided no commentary on the paintings and statuary as we passed them by.

  A footman and the prince’s page opened the doors to admit us to the royal presence.

  ‘Your Royal Highness,’ declared Tyrwhitt Wilson. ‘Mr Oscar Wilde, Dr Conan Doyle, Mr Robert Sherard.’

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said the Prince of Wales.

  He stood in front of the fireplace, dressed all in black – save for a white shirt, a silver necktie, a pearl tiepin, a dove-grey waistcoat and matching spats.

  ‘Please, come in. Be seated. No need to stand on ceremony. I’m afraid I’m running a little late today. I apologise.’

  He sat himself down on a Louis XV armchair and indicated that we should sit on the Knole settee facing him. We perched side by side on the settee, like a trio of errant schoolboys summoned before the beak. Immediately in front of us – in between the settee and the prince’s chair – stood a long, low, lacquered Chinese table. Apart from a large silver ashtray on which rested the prince’s half-smoked cigar, the table was bare. Oscar looked along it hopefully, smiled at the prince and raised his eyebrows. I feared he was about to enquire after cheese straws.

  The prince anticipated him.

  ‘Forgive me if I don’t offer you any refreshment, gentlemen. Time is of the essence, alas.’ He returned Oscar’s smile. ‘And I mustn’t keep you. Mr Wilde, you are clearly on your way to a picnic.’

  ‘We are just returned from Muswell Hill,’ answered Oscar, apparently puzzled.

  ‘You look as if you are dressed for Margate,’ said the prince playfully. ‘Yellow and pink I always think of as seaside colours.’

  Abashed (as he only ever is with royalty), Oscar glanced down at his apparel and muttered awkwardly, ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘I will come straight to the point, gentlemen,’ said the Prince of Wales, picking up his cigar and drawing on it slowly as he glanced about the room.

  The page and footman had withdrawn. The equerry stood a yard or so to his right, at the far side of the fireplace, his head half bowed, his hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘We are alone. We are among friends. I know that I can speak in confidence.’

  He paused while we murmured our assent.

  ‘A week ago,’ he continued, ‘in the immediate aftermath of the event, I asked you to make some enquiries into the circumstances surrounding the tragic death of the Duchess of Albemarle. I now think that was a mistake. I regret that I troubled you, gentlemen.’

  ‘It was no trouble, sir—’ Oscar began.

  ‘Allow me to finish, Mr Wilde. I have made up my mind on this matter. Lord Yarborough has given us his settled opinion as to what occurred. I see no reason to question his conclusions. He was the late duchess’s medical adviser and her confidant. I know him and I trust him. Nothing is to be gained by further enquiry.’

  ‘But Your Royal Highness—’

  ‘No, Mr Wilde. Let it rest now. It is the duchess’s funeral tomorrow. Let her rest in peace. Let the duke get on with his life – and let us get on with ours.’

  ‘If you insist—’

  ‘I don’t insist: I command, Mr Wilde. It is the prerogative of princes.’

  ‘And Mademoiselle Lavallois?’ persisted Oscar.

  ‘I have read the newspapers,’ said the prince, stubbing out his cigar in the silver ashtray. ‘Tyrwhitt Wilson brought them to my attention. It appears that the poor girl was the victim of her erstwhile employer. I understand that the police in France are on the case. I trust that they will bring the man to justice – in due course.’

  Oscar said nothing, but cast his eyes down towards his knees. I sensed our audience was at an end. I touched Sherard on the elbow and together we made to move.

  ‘One final point, gentleman – and this is key. This is why I have asked you here today. I know you are all authors – and authors of distinction.’

  The prince turned towards Robert Sherard for the first time.

  ‘I seem to recall that Mr Wilde introduced you, Mr Sherard, as his recording angel – his Dr Watson.’

  Sherard smiled and lowered his eyes.

  ‘Well, I don’t think we need a record of any of this business, do we, gentlemen? I don’t want to see any of this in print – not in my lifetime, not for a hundred years after. Is that understood?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said at once.

  ‘Is that agreed, gentlemen? Do I have your word on the matter?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Robert Sherard.

  ‘Yes, Your Royal Highness,’ said Oscar quite distinctly.

  The Prince of Wales clapped his hands.

  ‘I’m glad. I’m grateful. The likes of Lord Henry Stanley are determined to bring about a republican party. We don’t want to give any grist to their mill. The Queen will die one day and she will need an unsullied successor. And when I go, and I may not long outlast Her Majesty, Prince Eddy will be king. We must protect him – from himself and from the prying and pernicious press. The worst of the so-called gentlemen of Fleet Street are no better than vermin. They’d bring down the monarchy if they could.’

  We were silent. The prince had said it all: there was nothing left to say.

  From his waistcoat pocket, His Highness produced his half-hunter and checked the time. As he did so, there was a knock on the morning-room door. The prince looked up as Watkins, his page, entered the room and came towards his master. He was carrying what appeared to be a large basket of flowers – a wicker trug filled to overflowing with early-flowering white lilac. The fragrance of the flowers was sweet and almost overwhelming.

  ‘This is charming,’ declared the prince. ‘Lilac is a favourite with the Princess of Wales. I am sorry she is not here.’

  The page placed the basket on the table in front of His Highness.

  ‘With the compliments of Mr Wilde, sir.’

  Oscar looked up in surprise. ‘No, sadly not. I cannot take the credit.’

  ‘That’s what I understood from the florist’s boy,’ said the page stoutly.
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br />   ‘Alas, no,’ protested Oscar. ‘Would that they were.’

  ‘No matter,’ said the prince. ‘They’re charming.’

  He pulled a stem of lilac from the basket to admire it and to breathe in the scent. As he held the soft white petals to his nose, from the woody stalk at the base of the lilac stem something fell on to his lap – and slithered towards his knee.

  The prince looked down, perturbed, and then, pushing back his chair, struggled to his feet.

  ‘What in God’s name—’

  ‘It’s a snake,’ cried Oscar, rising from the settee and stepping away from the table in alarm.

  The creature – about a foot in length, thick and scaly, black and tan in colouring, with a triangular-shaped head and slit-shaped eyes – fell from the prince’s lap on to the floor. It twisted its head from side to side and slithered beneath the table.

  ‘God Almighty!’ cried the prince.

  The page pulled the remainder of the lilac blossom from the basket to reveal a swarm of snakes – five or six of them at least, coiled and curled, one over another, intertwined, writhing, wriggling, twisting, turning. One had its large head held up towards the light, its jaws wide open, its fangs bared.

  ‘It’s a nest of vipers,’ said the page.

  ‘So I see,’ said the Prince of Wales.

  77

  Letter from Bram Stoker to his wife, Florence, delivered by messenger at 6 p.m. on Friday, 21 March 1890

  Lyceum Theatre,

  Strand,

  London

  Friday afternoon

  BE SURE TO READ THIS BEFORE SETTING OFF FOR THE THEATRE TONIGHT

  Florrie, dearest –

  I shall expect you here at 7.30 p.m. – 7.40 p.m. at the very latest. It is Macbeth again (I am sorry) but we have a new Macduff (young Mr Ringwold), a new Banquo (Mr Trewin) and an impressive new effect for the Weird Sisters’ cauldron (real flames – despite the best endeavours of the London County Council) – and the Chief is anxious that I see it all from out front to assess the paying customers’ reactions. (While you are looking at the stage I shall be gazing at the stalls!)