Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers Page 3

  Oscar, gratified, bowed low. ‘Goodnight, sweet prince!’ he responded.

  We watched the royal party descend the stairs. Awaiting them, on either side of the front door, were two short lines of servants: to the left, representatives of the Albemarle household, headed by the butler; to the right, the prince’s valet, two royal footmen and a young police constable in uniform. Alone, in the middle of the hallway, stood the Duke of Albemarle. He appeared fretful and looked up the stairway anxiously as the heir apparent moved towards him.

  ‘No duchess?’ enquired the prince.

  ‘I have lost her!’ laughed the duke awkwardly.

  ‘No matter,’ said the prince graciously. ‘It has been a splendid evening. You will thank her for me, won’t you, Albemarle?’

  ‘I will indeed, sir. Thank you for honouring us with your presence.’

  The duke bowed to each prince in turn, shook hands with Sir Dighton Probyn and Tyrwhitt Wilson, and accompanied the royal party out of the front door and into Grosvenor Square. We heard the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels as the princely carriages departed.

  Oscar stood back, lighting a cigarette, while I remained in the gallery, looking down into the hallway. The Duke of Albemarle returned from the street and, as the front door was closed behind him, stood still for a moment, covering his face with his hands. He took a long, deep breath, as if both to calm himself and to gather his forces. He then turned enquiringly towards his butler who simply shook his head. The duke nodded and the butler went about his business.

  The servants in the hallway began to scatter. The guests on the first floor began to emerge on to the gallery. I remained where I was for a moment longer, gazing down over the wooden balustrade, watching the duke below. Turning to his right, he stepped quickly and lightly across the hall towards a doorway in the corner. Without pause, he opened the door and, fumbling for a moment, removed the key from the inside lock. He then closed the door and immediately locked it from the outside. I saw him tuck the key into his waistcoat pocket.

  I saw something else as well. Inside the door, immediately within it, I saw – only for a moment, but clearly, unmistakably – the standing figure of a young woman, her torso naked.

  ‘Where’s Rex?’ asked Oscar, resting his right hand on my shoulder.

  ‘He has gone,’ I answered. ‘He was complaining of a headache.’

  Marlborough House

  8

  Telegram delivered to Oscar Wilde at 16 Tite Street, Chelsea, on Friday, 14 March 1890 at 8.15 a.m.

  A CERTAIN PERSON URGENTLY REQUESTS AND REQUIRES YOUR PRESENCE AT TWELVE NOON TODAY FRIDAY AT SARAH CHURCHILL RESIDENCE. BRING ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE WITH YOU. TELL NO ONE. STRICTEST CONFIDENCE ESSENTIAL. SINCERELY OWL

  9

  Note from Oscar Wilde to Arthur Conan Doyle, delivered by hansom cab to the Langham Hotel at 9.15 a.m.

  16 Tite Street

  14.iii.90

  Good morning, Arthur –

  I trust you are still at your porridge and have not left for Southsea. If there is to be an outbreak of measles on the south coast, it must wait until tomorrow.

  We have received a royal summons for today. You and I are commanded to attend upon the Prince of Wales at 12 noon. I will collect you at your hotel at 11.30 a.m. I do not know the nature of our business with HRH, but I conjecture – and I have fears. Robert Sherard – though not summoned – will come with us. If it is as terrible as I think it may be, he is a witness. For the time being, we are not to speak of this to anyone.

  Ever yours,

  Oscar

  10

  From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle

  What do I make of Oscar’s friend, Sherard? He is pleasant enough, but there is something about the fellow that isn’t quite right.

  He is the son of a clergyman, the grandson of an earl and the great-grandson of William Wordsworth, but shows no sense of family pride. He went to a good school (Queen Elizabeth College, Guernsey) and a better university (Oxford), but failed to take his degree. He has travelled widely and boasts of his acquaintance with the likes of Emile Zola and Guy de Maupassant, but lives in a garret in Gower Street, earning his crust from cheap journalism.

  Is he to be trusted? He has a weak face and a poor handshake. Is he a wrong ’un? Or simply one of those men destined never quite to hit his stride? Oscar I trust completely – he is a gentleman to the marrow – and his wife is an enchantment – but there is no denying that some of their circle leave me cold.

  11

  From the diary of Rex LaSalle

  I did not sleep last night. I took the air. I needed it. When I left Grosvenor Square, as a black cat – an alpine lynx – why not? – I walked west until dawn. I took my time. The moon was full and my heart was heavy. I crossed the river at Hammersmith and went on, over Barn Elms, to Mortlake. I shall sleep here. I shall sleep alone. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society is one’s own.

  12

  From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

  I slept at Tite Street, on the divan in Oscar’s writing room. Mrs Wilde (who grows ever lovelier in my eyes) served what she termed a ‘boys’ breakfast’ – poached eggs, bacon, grilled lamb chops and fried potatoes. Because her own boys were at the table – Vyvyan is just four and Cyril not yet six – we spoke not a word of the previous night’s proceedings. As we feasted, Oscar, at his most gay, entertained his little ones with outlandish tales of faithless mermaids and dwarfish princes.

  At eleven o’clock, a four-wheeler called to collect us from the door and drove us across town, in bright sunshine, to the Langham Hotel by Regent’s Park. The smell of spring and straw were in the air. As we turned into Portland Place, Oscar said, ‘Arthur will be on the pavement waiting for us, scrubbed and polished, eyes gleaming, moustache bristling. He is a good man.’

  He was. He is. I like him.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ asked the doctor eagerly, as he climbed aboard. He perched on the carriage seat facing us. Oscar passed him the telegram he had received. Conan Doyle inspected it carefully.

  ‘“A certain person” is the Prince of Wales?’

  ‘I am assuming so,’ said Oscar.

  ‘And the Sarah Churchill residence?’

  ‘Marlborough House. Sarah Churchill was the first Duchess of Marlborough. It was built for her.’

  ‘And who on earth is “Owl”?’

  ‘“Owl” I take to be Tyrwhitt Wilson, the prince’s equerry.’

  Conan Doyle raised an eyebrow.

  ‘“Tyrwhitt-tyrwhoo”,’ said Oscar, raising an eyebrow of his own. ‘A schoolboy nickname. I am merely guessing. You know these English gentlemen – they never really leave their prep schools.’

  Conan Doyle laughed and handed the telegram back to Oscar, who folded it neatly into his pocket book.

  ‘But why the coded summons?’ asked Doyle. ‘Why the need for secrecy?’

  ‘His Royal Highness fears a scandal. His mother does not like them.’

  ‘Will the Duchess of Albemarle’s death provoke a scandal?’

  ‘It might.’ Oscar turned to me and lightly flicked his lilac gloves across my knuckles. ‘Robert, tell Arthur what you saw last night – after the prince had gone, when you were looking down into the hallway from the gallery.’

  I told my story, as simply and briefly as I could. As I told it, Conan Doyle tugged furiously at his walrus moustache.

  ‘Was she stark naked?’ he asked.

  ‘I saw only her torso.’

  ‘Was she wearing nothing?’

  ‘A tiara, I think, and ruby earrings.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘No. The door was open only for a moment. I caught merely the briefest glimpse. I could not tell you whether she was alive or dead.’

  ‘Was it the duchess?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was young. Her skin was white as snow. It might have been.’

  ‘I don’t recall the duchess wearing ruby earrings,’ remarked Oscar, pe
ering out on to the street, ‘but I’m a man and men don’t notice such things.’

  Conan Doyle shook his head in disbelief. Our carriage was pulling off Pall Mall and into the forecourt of Marlborough House.

  ‘Last night I thought little of it,’ continued Oscar, straightening his waistcoat before adjusting his buttonhole, ‘horseplay in Mayfair, nothing more. Now I am less certain. And more anxious. We shall see.’

  Oscar is a big man: more than six feet in height and well fleshed. He affects torpor and proclaims a disdain for exercise, but he is more alert, stronger and more agile than his detractors imagine. He jumped down from the four-wheeler with ease.

  Harry Tyrwhitt Wilson awaited us inside the grey stone portico. He, too, is tall, but spare, thin as a whippet, with a long, mournful greyhound’s face and an absurd waxed moustache that gives him the look of a comic villain in an Italian opera. As we climbed the steps towards him, Oscar whispered me a warning: ‘Take care. He may not be the fool he seems.’

  Tyrwhitt Wilson greeted us with easy courtesy and, if he was surprised to find me of the party, he did not show it. ‘Robert Harborough Sherard, is it not?’ he said affably as he shook my hand. ‘I’ve been looking you up. Your father has a different name.’

  ‘We had a falling out.’

  ‘Say no more. I’ve not spoken with my papa in years. It’s cost me a fortune.’

  The equerry led us swiftly through the house, through mirrored doors, across hallways, along corridors, around corners, past chambers and ante-chambers, stairways, vestibules and drawing rooms. The house is a maze – and a wonderland. The chandeliers come from Venice, the tapestries from Gobelin, the taste from the Princess of Wales. We passed scarlet-coated footmen in powdered wigs at every turn and half-familiar paintings on every wall. Oscar named the artists as we sped by: ‘Lely, Laguerre, Vanbrugh, Rubens, Gentileschi if I’m not mistaken …’

  ‘You rarely are, Mr Wilde,’ said Tyrwhitt Wilson, laughing. ‘I think we’ll find His Royal Highness is in the Chinese Drawing Room.’

  As he spoke, a page (a Nubian in a dark-blue coat with golden buttons) pushed open the final doorway and admitted us to the royal presence.

  It took a moment to discern the heir apparent.

  The Prince of Wales was half hidden, lurking between a bust by Canova and a potted palm. His mouth was full. He held a substantial silver goblet in one hand and a cheese straw the size of a large cigar in the other.

  ‘You have caught me unawares,’ he mumbled, padding towards us. His genial smile revealed pastry trapped between his teeth. ‘My secret is out. They call me Tum-Tum. And now you discover why. I take it as a term of endearment.’ He chuckled, then sniffed and inspected us as we stood, bowing before him. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he declared. ‘I am grateful for your prompt attendance.’

  Suddenly his brow furrowed. He looked at me and, grunting softly, raised a wary eyebrow.

  Tyrwhitt Wilson spoke up at once. ‘May I present Mr Robert Harborough Sherard, Your Royal Highness? I believe his father was the Anglican chaplain on the island of Guernsey, when last you were there, sir. He was presented.’

  ‘Was he?’ muttered the prince.

  ‘Mr Sherard is my confidential secretary, sir,’ said Oscar soothingly. ‘My equerry, you might say. And my recording angel.’ Oscar glanced in the direction of Conan Doyle. ‘My Dr Watson.’

  ‘Your Dr Watson, eh?’ repeated the prince, turning to cast a nod in the direction of the two footmen who, mysteriously, had emerged from behind a Chinese screen, bearing trays laden with refreshment. ‘That’s apropos – though I want no record kept of any of this.’ The prince looked back at us with a gimlet eye. ‘Is that understood, gentlemen?’

  ‘Without question, sir,’ said Oscar, raising his beaker of champagne as if drinking a loyal toast. ‘We are your liegemen and true.’

  ‘You are an Irishman, Oscar, and a republican,’ said the prince, laughing.

  ‘Not at Marlborough House, sir,’ purred Oscar ingratiatingly.

  ‘I am happy to hear it. I am happy to have you here. I am grateful. I need your help, gentlemen. I have a case for you.’

  ‘A case?’ queried Oscar.

  ‘Well – how shall I put it? I have some enquiries I’d be grateful if you might make on my behalf. Discreetly.’ The prince smiled.

  Arthur Conan Doyle cleared his throat. ‘Sherlock Holmes is a figment of my imagination, Your Royal Highness.’

  ‘Of course, I know that, Doyle. But, last night, you were telling me how you and Wilde had recently unravelled a mystery together. Is that not correct?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered the good doctor, hesitantly. ‘But—’

  ‘Well, now I have another for you. That’s all. It may amount to nothing.’

  ‘We are at Your Royal Highness’s service,’ said Oscar emphatically.

  ‘Indeed,’ muttered Conan Doyle, with noticeably less conviction.

  The Prince of Wales turned to the Scottish doctor. ‘Do you not have time for this, Doyle? You told me last night that your medical practice is not very absorbing.’

  ‘It is not, sir,’ said Conan Doyle, quietly.

  ‘It’s in Southsea, sir,’ said Oscar, by way of explanation.

  ‘Southsea,’ echoed the prince. ‘I have been there. They looked fit enough to me.’

  ‘They are,’ said Conan Doyle, rallying. ‘That is the problem.’

  We laughed and then fell silent. The prince waited for the footmen to replenish our champagne and leave the room. ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, when they were gone, ‘to business.’

  We stood in a loose circle – the fat prince, the lean equerry, the anxious doctor, the ebullient poet and I: a motley fairy ring – and waited. Silence descended once more.

  ‘Where to begin?’ asked the prince, eventually.

  ‘At the beginning?’ suggested Conan Doyle.

  ‘No,’ said Oscar softly. ‘The beginning is where we will end, I imagine.’ I noticed the prince glance towards Oscar. ‘Let us start with last evening,’ Oscar continued, returning the prince’s gaze. ‘I take it the matter in hand concerns the late Duchess of Albemarle?’

  ‘It does,’ said the prince, with a small sigh, ‘most certainly. Poor Helen.’ He wiped some crumbs of pastry from his beard. ‘It does indeed concern the duchess – and her untimely death.’ He looked into our faces. ‘Have you seen what the newspapers are saying this morning?’

  ‘They are saying that foul play is not suspected,’ said Conan Doyle.

  ‘Exactly,’ declared the prince, clapping the palm of his left hand against the knuckles of his right. ‘And why are they saying that? For the very reason that foul play is suspected. Or if it isn’t, they want it to be.’

  ‘Journalism justifies its own existence by the great Darwinian principle of the survival of the vulgarest,’ said Oscar, draining his goblet of champagne. ‘The leading articles in our newspapers offer nothing but prejudice, stupidity, cant and twaddle – leaving the news reports to concentrate on scandal and scurrility. The very phrase “foul play is not suspected” is designed to arouse suspicion.’

  ‘Precisely, Oscar.’

  ‘And in this instance, sir,’ asked Conan Doyle, looking earnestly into the now-troubled face of the Prince of Wales, ‘do you suspect foul play?’

  ‘I cannot answer that question, Dr Doyle. I am perplexed. I need to know more. I learnt of the duchess’s death only three hours ago. The duke sent round a brief note containing the terrible news, but he did little more than provide the bare facts. I tried to contact him by telephone – to speak with him directly, to learn more and to extend my condolences. They have a telephone in Grosvenor Square. The duke is proud of it. But there was no reply. As matters stand, I know no more than you do.’

  ‘Possibly less,’ murmured Oscar, almost imperceptibly, glancing in my direction. I made to speak. Oscar shook his head.

  The prince broke from the circle, smacking his hand against his fist once more. ‘Gentlemen,
’ he said, ‘I would be grateful if you would call at Grosvenor Square and discover what you can.’ He nodded towards his equerry. ‘Harry cannot go. The press men know him – and know how he arranges my affairs. His presence would certainly arouse suspicion. Yours will not.’

  ‘What about the police?’ suggested Conan Doyle.

  The prince turned on the doctor in amazement. ‘Good grief, man, what are you suggesting? This is a delicate matter. It calls for finesse and discretion, not the horny hands and hobnail boots of the lads from Scotland Yard.’

  Oscar intervened, resting a hand on Conan Doyle’s sleeve while offering the prince a gentle bow. ‘We will call on the duke to extend our condolences,’ he said smoothly, ‘and we will discover what we can. It may be nothing.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the prince, taking his hunter from his waistcoat pocket and inspecting the hour. ‘It may be nothing. We can hope for that.’

  He paused and adjusted the small pink rose that adorned his buttonhole. (As a gentleman of fashion, the Prince of Wales is even more fastidious than Mr Oscar Wilde.) Peering down at the dish of cheese straws that now sat upon a side table, he selected a large one.

  ‘And yet she is dead,’ he mused, ‘and she ought not to be.’ He looked back towards us. ‘I will be candid with you, gentlemen. I am troubled. In his note to me, the duke spoke of his wife’s enfeebled heart. I knew the duchess well. She never spoke to me of such a thing and we talked of her health on more than one occasion.’

  Harry Tyrwhitt Wilson had moved towards the doorway. Evidently, our audience was at an end. Stepping backwards, slowly, we bowed our way out of the royal presence.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ said the prince, waving his cheese straw at us by way of farewell.