Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers Page 26

  The Chief is in fine form and Ellen Terry has never been more extraordinary (in her magenta wig and that dress: the ‘beetle shell’ one that Sargent painted) – and it is the Bard’s briefest tragedy, so I believe (and hope and pray) that you will find it to be A Good and Memorable Evening. And, after the play and a moment with HI (one drink at most, I promise), I shall be taking you to supper at Rules. I have reserved our usual table.

  You do remember that Constance Wilde is joining us, don’t you? I invited them both, of course, but Oscar cannot come. He is impossible. Poor Constance believes that her husband is in Paris. That is what he has told her. In fact, he is London.

  Indeed, he was in this very room with me not half an hour ago! He barged in, demanding sandwiches – and a bottle of hock – and a sober suit of clothes. He arrived dressed for a boating party on the Isis – a sand-coloured summer suit and a pink bow-tie! He explained that he was on his way to pay his last respects to the late Duchess of Albemarle and consequently required something more suitable for a man in mourning. I raided the wardrobe and furnished him with the chaplain’s costume from The Lady of Lyons. It was a surprisingly good fit. (Oscar is now stouter even than I am. You chose the right man, Florrie dearest.)

  Oscar arrived with his weak-chinned friend, Robert Sherard, and the admirable Arthur Conan Doyle in tow. All three appeared to be in a state of shock – the only one who talked any sense was Conan Doyle.

  They had come directly here from Marlborough House. There they were closeted with the Prince of Wales – in his study or morning room or some such – when an elaborate basket of flowers was delivered to HRH. Hidden within the basket, lurking beneath the flowers, was a living nest of vipers! Would you believe it? I would not have done – except that Conan Doyle is a steady man – a prose man, not a poet – and swears it was so. He said he recognised the reptiles at once – Vipera aspis, long-fanged and deadly poisonous. Thankfully, no one was hurt. Only one of the snakes escaped from the basket and it was quickly retrieved by Doyle and a page and the prince’s equerry – using a silver ashtray, a brass poker and fire tongs! They then took the basket to the kitchens and drowned the creatures in boiling water.

  Naturally, we are to speak of this to nobody. Doyle thinks it may be the work of Fenians. Oscar is inclined to think it the endeavour of a lone lunatic.

  He is particularly concerned because the youth who delivered the basket to the door of Marlborough House – dressed as a florist’s boy – mentioned Oscar’s name, saying the flowers were a gift for the prince from Mr Wilde. That is why they were carried into the royal presence without delay.

  I have since had my own unhappy thought about the episode – which I will share with you, my dearest, but only you.

  I saw Prince Eddy again on Wednesday night – at ‘The Bar of Gold’. I went on Vampire Club business, though none was done. The young prince is in a bad way. He talked, as he often does, of how his father despises and mistrusts him – he claims his father believes he might indeed be Jack the Ripper and has set police spies on him. It’s nonsense: we know that. I have no doubt the Prince of Wales loves his son as much as we love ours – but Prince Eddy is quite mad at times, especially as the opium leaves him – and I have a fear that this ‘nest of vipers’ could be some hideous practical joke of his.

  Come what may, Florrie, you are to speak of none of this tonight. Not a word. Not a hint. Dear Constance is in the dark – and must remain so. It is not for us to reveal to her her husband’s true nature. She will find out soon enough, poor girl – we can be sure of that. Genius he may be, charmer he is, but, as always, lovely wife of mine, I am so grateful you chose not to marry him.

  No later than 7.40 p.m. – please.

  Bram

  PS. Wear my mother’s diamonds tonight. You know, don’t you, what the people call you – what the newspapers call you? You know, don’t you, that this evening, before the curtain rises, when you step into our box at the theatre, all eyes will be upon you? In the dress circle they will lean over the balcony’s edge for a better view. Up in the gallery they will stand on their benches to catch a glimpse of you. You are ‘Florrie Balcombe Stoker, the prettiest woman in England’. I am so proud that you are mine.

  78

  Letter from Professor August Onofroff sent to Oscar Wilde, care of Arthur Conan Doyle at the Langham Hotel, London W.

  Empire Theatre,

  Leicester Square,

  London

  20 March 1890

  My dear Wilde,

  Thank you most kindly for your letter and your most generous comments. It was a dark night, ending in great tragedy, but I am nonetheless very grateful to you and to His Royal Highness for my engagement. To perform ‘by royal command’ is a great honour and one I will not forget. You may rest assured that Mr Wilson gave me my fee, as agreed, at the conclusion of the evening. There is nothing outstanding.

  Now, to your two questions.

  1. What did I learn from the seance? The simple answer is: not nearly so much as I would have wished. We were interrupted even as we started. However, we started well – thanks in no small measure to your ingenious ruse. Some would accuse us of ‘trickery’ – revealing to me beforehand what words you and His Royal Highness planned to write upon your cards was perhaps not wholly ‘ethical’! – but I believe that the trick was justified. It gave others in the room confidence. It disarmed the sceptical. It inclined them to suspend their disbelief and ‘open up’ more quickly and more freely than they might otherwise have done. In short, it made them more immediately susceptible to my powers.

  As a consequence, even as we started and I looked around the circle, no mind was entirely closed off to me. What did I see? Surrounding each and every head I saw the yellow cloud of moral turpitude. There was no exception, I am afraid – not one. (This does not mean that every individual in the group is already guilty, but it does mean that each one will fall from grace in the fullness of time.)

  The darkest penumbra surrounded the two oldest men in the circle and what I saw, in the brief moment available to me, involved, in each case, the man’s oldest child. As to the green aureole of death – it seemed to me to be at its sharpest and most vivid around the head of young Prince Albert Victor. More than that, I cannot tell you.

  2. Could a subject under hypnosis be persuaded to commit suicide? I think not – at least not against his or her will. One hundred years ago, in the heyday of Franz Anton Mesmer, it was believed that the hypnotist was possessed of ‘animal magnetism’ and, as a consequence, that his subjects were drawn by an irresistible force to obey his commands.

  We think differently now. Today, we recognise that the skilled hypnotist can place a susceptible subject in a trance and that, in that trance, the subject will be open to suggestion – but only to suggestion, not to command.

  For example, as an hypnotist (and I am not one of the best; mind-reading is my gift) I might be able to murder you, my dear Wilde, by persuading you to drink a glass of wine that (unbeknown to you) happened to contain poison, but I doubt that I could persuade you to shoot yourself – let alone slit your own throat. Unless, of course, you were already so inclined.

  This last possibility is why there is talk in Parliament just now of introducing legislation to control the conduct of hypnotists and so protect the unsuspecting and the vulnerable. Faced with a subject already inclined to self-harm or suicide through madness or melancholy, an unscrupulous hypnotist might indeed be able to induce that subject to a fatal act.

  I trust that this is helpful.

  If I can be of further assistance, do not hesitate to write to me. And please be assured of my complete discretion at all times. As I told His Royal Highness on Tuesday night, everything that passes between us is entirely confidential and, so far as I am concerned, will for ever remain so.

  Yours most sincerely,

  A. Onofroff

  79

  From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

  In the carriage taking us from the La
ngham Hotel to 40 Grosvenor Square, Oscar read out to us the letter he had received from Professor Onofroff.

  Conan Doyle greeted it with considerable excitement. ‘Onofroff is telling us that Yarborough could have induced both the Duchess of Albemarle and Mademoiselle Lavallois to take their own lives.’

  Oscar smiled. ‘Onofroff is also telling us that around each of our heads he has seen the yellow cloud of moral turpitude. That includes your head, Arthur. You may not have fallen from grace yet, my friend, but, according to Onofroff, it is only a matter of time.’

  Oscar was in a playful frame of mind. With his tongue he moved his Turkish cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. Winking at me, he passed me the letter to inspect.

  ‘What do you say, Robert?’

  ‘I say the man’s a charlatan. He can no more read minds than I can read Sanskrit. On Tuesday night a woman was murdered within a few feet of him and, for all his professed psychic powers, he failed to “sense” the tragedy taking place in our very midst. There was a murderer in the room – almost within arm’s length – and all the great Onofroff registered were yellow clouds and dark penumbra.’

  ‘Do not forget the green aureole of death, Robert. He registered that, also.’

  Conan Doyle was not amused. ‘Never mind your joshing, gentlemen. Whether the man can read minds is neither here nor there. What he says about the power of the hypnotist over the vulnerable has to be taken seriously.’

  ‘Does it?’ I asked. ‘The man is a music-hall turn, Arthur.’

  Conan Doyle pulled the letter from my grasp.

  ‘Whatever he is, what he says here rings true.’

  He sat forward on his seat and addressed us with a passion that defied mockery.

  ‘We know that a strong will can, simply by virtue of its strength, take possession of a weaker one, even at a distance, and can regulate the impulses and actions of its owner. Napoleon proved that across Europe. Henry Irving proves it night after night from the stage of the Lyceum. A powerful personality – by force of personality – can move men to action and to tears. Combine such a force of personality with the art of the hypnotist and what villainy cannot be achieved?’

  ‘Lord Yarborough is neither Napoleon nor Irving,’ said Oscar, holding out his cigarette and tipping the ash into his cupped hand.

  ‘No, but he is nonetheless a man of achievement and ambition – a small man with a considerable personality, a strong will, iron determination and high intelligence. And he is a hypnotist. What he wants, he gets – by fair means or foul. To make progress with his research into the nature of hysteria he must explore both the behaviour and the anatomy of his patients. He needs them alive and he needs them dead. By the very nature of their illness, his patients are vulnerable – prone to hysteria and to melancholy, to wild heights of excitement and terrible sloughs of despond. Yarborough does not need to murder them with his own hands. He has only to hypnotise them at their most vulnerable and induce them to terrible acts of self-immolation. The Duchess of Albemarle was Yarborough’s patient. Under hypnosis, he could do with her as he pleased.’

  ‘Could he persuade her to take her own life and subsequently dispose of the instrument with which she committed the fateful act?’ asked Oscar, smiling. ‘And could he persuade Lulu Lavallois, first, to kill herself and, then, post-mortem, to hide the instrument of death on the supper table in the adjoining room?’

  ‘Besides,’ I added, ‘Mademoiselle Lavallois was not Lord Yarborough’s patient.’

  ‘So he tells us,’ snapped Conan Doyle, ‘but she was Charcot’s. That we know.’

  Our four-wheeler was now drawing up outside 40 Grosvenor Square. Conan Doyle looked out of the carriage window.

  ‘There he is,’ he cried.

  Lord Yarborough was standing on the top step, awaiting admittance to the house. He looked down at our carriage and, recognising us, waved.

  ‘And look over here, gentlemen,’ said Oscar, directing our attention to the other side of the street.

  A lone figure in a dishevelled raincoat stood lurking by the gates to the garden square.

  ‘It’s your old acquaintance from the Dover train, Arthur – the fellow whose sinister appearance so caught your fancy: the man with the twisted lip. All our chickens are coming home to roost.’

  ‘This is Where it Ends’

  80

  From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle

  Following the hideous business of drowning the viperadae in the kitchens at Marlborough House, we took Oscar’s four-wheeler across Trafalgar Square and down the Strand to the Lyceum Theatre.

  ‘In the aftermath of those vile snakes, we need the security of known relationships,’ said Oscar. ‘We need the comfort of friends. And we need food and drink. And I need a change of clothing. Bram Stoker can supply all these.’

  Bram did. He is the best of men. His easy companionability repaired our tattered nerves. He sent out for beer and sandwiches – and two bottles of hock, at Oscar’s insistence. And, from the Lyceum wardrobe, he supplied Oscar with a sober set of clothes suitable for the Albemarle wake. (It was a costume for an eighteenth-century clergyman, but the cut and style fitted Oscar uncannily.)

  We spent almost two hours with Bram – telling him our news and hearing his, talking of this and that and nothing in particular – and felt much the better for it.

  From the Lyceum we drove back up the Strand, across Trafalgar Square once more, up the Haymarket and along Regent Street to the Langham Hotel. There, in my bathroom (two shillings extra, but worth every penny), Sherard shaved and I changed my tie, while Oscar looked through his post – there were letters and telegrams awaiting him, sent care of me – and admired himself (inordinately!) in the looking-glass.

  At six o’clock we set off for our final destination of the day: 40 Grosvenor Square.

  ‘We are going back to where it all began,’ I said, as we climbed aboard the four-wheeler, ‘only eight days ago.’

  ‘It began a day or two before that, I think,’ said Oscar.

  ‘The Albemarle reception was on Thursday the thirteenth of March – a week ago last night,’ I said.

  ‘But the wedding anniversary of the Prince and Princess of Wales was three days before – on Monday the tenth of March.’

  ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘Possibly – if I am correct and it is love and loss that lie at the heart of our murder mystery.’

  Oscar sat back in the carriage, clutching his correspondence to his chest and smiling enigmatically.

  ‘You have received fresh intelligence, Oscar?’ asked Sherard.

  ‘I have – and it includes an interesting letter from the great Professor Onofroff. I wrote to him on Wednesday with a couple of queries. He has been good enough to reply by return of post.’

  Oscar read out Onofroff’s letter – and I pounced upon it. Onofroff confirmed what I had already considered possible: that a subject prone to suicide could be induced to suicide under hypnosis.

  When we reached 40 Grosvenor Square, we found Lord Yarborough standing on the doorstep. As we alighted from our carriage, Oscar hissed to me: ‘Be civil to him – for the moment.’

  Oscar paused to give instructions (and further emolument) to the coachman – the long-suffering fellow had been held at Oscar’s disposal since the crack of dawn – while Robert Sherard and I climbed the steps together.

  Yarborough boomed effusively: ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. How was the Prince of Wales? Did you get to him on time? Did you get your cheese straws? I rode to town in the pony and trap just now – not a good idea.’

  I said nothing, leaving Sherard to mumble inoffensive replies on our behalf. I nodded briefly to Yarborough and then stood on the doorstep, looking back over my shoulder, beyond the four-wheeler, to the half-familiar figure that stood watching us from across the street. I saw that Yarborough had noticed him, too.

  ‘Have you rung the bell?’ called Oscar, as he climbed the steps to join us.

  ‘I have,�
�� answered Yarborough cheerfully, ‘twice.’

  As he spoke, the front door was opened. The scene that greeted us was not what we had expected.

  The Prince of Wales was standing in the centre of the hallway, at the foot of the main staircase. He was dressed in full mourning and his face was as grey as his beard. In his left hand he held a folded handkerchief. With his right he clasped the hand of the Duke of Albemarle.

  ‘She was a remarkable young woman,’ we heard him say. ‘So full of life. I offer you my heartfelt condolences, Duke. She was my special friend.’

  ‘Are we late?’ murmured Oscar.

  ‘No,’ whispered the butler. ‘His Royal Highness was early. He was anxious about the possibility of photographers.’

  Also standing in the hallway, next to his father, equally ashen-faced and in full mourning, was Prince Albert Victor and, beside him, ranged to the right of the staircase in a solemn row, were General Sir Dighton Probyn, Harry Tyrwhitt Wilson and Frank Watkins, the Prince of Wales’s page.

  Just beyond the page, standing alone, with his head bowed and his hands held behind his back, was Oscar’s young friend, Rex LaSalle.

  To the left of the staircase, ranged behind the duke and providing a counterbalance to the royal party, stood the indoor staff of Albemarle household. As personal maid to the late duchess, little Nellie Atkins, weeping silently, had pride of place at the front of the line.

  ‘Shall we view the body?’

  ‘Thank you, Duke,’ said the Prince of Wales. ‘I should like to pay Helen my last respects.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the duke quietly. ‘Parker will lead the way.’

  The butler moved from his station by the front door to the centre of the hallway. He bowed low to both the duke and the Prince of Wales and then, sharply, turned his back on them and, in the manner of a mace-bearer marching before a lord mayor, led the procession out of the hallway, along the corridor to the left of the main staircase into the ground-floor morning room where lay the coffin of the late Duchess of Albemarle.