He turned back towards me and said eagerly, ‘We must. We have no choice – though, as Constance may have told you, the guest list has been somewhat modified.’
‘You told me. Olga is not coming.’
‘Nor Mr Dodgson. He declined. Nor Mrs Mathers. She is summoned to a séance in Paddington – for ready money. Quite understandable. And, of course, Sir Freddie Bunbury will not be there.’
‘Bunbury is not coming?’
Oscar looked at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘Bunbury is dead.’
‘What?’
‘Bunbury is quite exploded.’
‘I do not follow you, Oscar. Explain, man.’
‘The explosion – that was Bunbury. He took his own life – and Festing’s. Did Constance not tell you?’
‘No,’ I answered, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘That was the explosion in Paradise Walk?’
‘Yes. And now they are at peace – with Lady Bunbury and Prince Eddy. It’s what they wanted. I thought something of the sort might occur, but not today – tomorrow. That’s why I felt is so essential to have Freddie at the supper tonight. I sensed his life might depend on it. I thought to save him from himself.’
‘I am confused, Oscar – utterly confused.’
‘Tomorrow, Arthur, is the fourteenth of January – the anniversary of Prince Eddy’s death. Last week when we had that dreadful “picnic lunch” with Freddie and Festing, Freddie told us they were nearing their end, did he not? He even told us they hoped to go out with a bang? I should learn to take my friends more literally. I see now it was his little joke. He had it all planned out. And I believe he was so insistent we should be there because, somehow, he wanted to share their secret. He thought I might understand – and I believe I do.’
‘Bunbury has taken his own life – and murdered Festing Fitzmaurice in the process?’
‘Two heinous crimes, according to English law – but at times “the law is a ass, a idiot”.’ Oscar lit a second cigarette from the embers of his first and smiled at me. ‘As you know, Arthur, I’ve not much time for Dickens as rule, but in this instance he gets it right.’
‘I marvel at your composure, Oscar. Your friends are dead and you are almost making light of it?’
‘A moment ago, Arthur, you were telling me I was overwrought. You really must settle on a single diagnosis.’
I laughed despairingly. Oscar shook his head. ‘I am sanguine about Bunbury and Fitzmaurice,’ he went on, ‘because both were old men. One had lost his wife, the other his wits. There was nothing of worth left for them in this world. They were ready for the next.’
‘What does Macnaghten make of it all?’ I asked.
‘He’s all excitement. Here’s a crime he could solve at a stroke. I arrived on the scene at the very moment he did. The pigsty was ablaze.’
‘The pigsty?’
‘That’s where the explosion occurred. In one of the stalls. Bunbury and Fitzmaurice tied together with ribbons – mortars strapped to their chests ignited by fireworks.’
‘Good God.’
‘Macnaghten recognised the modus operandi straight away. He’d first seen primitive mortars like these used by the natives in the land riots in India when he was there. It seems there are combustible chemicals of some sort lurking in animal manure—’
‘Ammonium nitrate,’ I said.
‘That’s it. Ammonium nitrate. You’re the man of science, Arthur. Macnaghten likes to think he is, too. Well, combine a distillation of this ammonium nitrate with a little gunpowder and – boom! Indian rioters, Fenians, anarchists, fading courtiers . . . they’re all using it, apparently.’
‘I marvel that Bunbury knew how.’
‘He was a soldier once upon a time. But, of course, that was many years ago and his home-made mortar wasn’t up to much. Macnaghten reckons the shock of the explosion knocked them out and the fumes from the fire asphyxiated them. It was quite a small blaze. The pig escaped, I’m glad to say. And now Macnaghten is merry as a grig because he believes we have found Jack the Ripper.’
‘What?’ I exclaimed, now utterly confounded.
‘Yes, Macnaghten is crying “case solved”. He may be a gentleman, Arthur, but he’s also a fool. He’s misunderstood everything. I don’t know why he wasted all those years managing his father’s tea estates in Bengal. The man was born to be a policeman.’
35
A true friend
The Langham was one of several London hotels where Oscar kept a set of evening clothes in case ‘by chance’ he’d need them.
It was eight o’clock when we arrived and, as we did, much of fashionable London appeared to be criss-crossing the hotel foyer, bustling this way and that like elegant ants, coming from dinner, going to dinner, racing to the theatre or the concert hall, collecting coats and hats and wraps and furs, demanding hansom cabs, pondering whether or not to take umbrellas in case of rain. ‘It’s chaos here,’ cried Oscar happily, as we surveyed the throng.
‘Can we find a quiet corner where you can tell me exactly what is going on?’ I pleaded.
‘We must secure our rooms first, Arthur. I need to bathe and change. I must smell like Guy Fawkes on Bonfire Night.’
He forged a path through the teeming crowd. He had the height and bulk – and presence – for the endeavour. I followed dutifully.
A moment later, as we stood at the reception desk, waiting to be attended to, across the foyer, at the foot of the main staircase, I noticed a man whose face and stance I recognised. He was engaged in conversation with Jimmy, the cockney bellboy. I tugged at Oscar’s sleeve. ‘Look,’ I hissed, ‘isn’t that the man who has been following you?’
My friend glanced across the foyer. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. He turned towards the man and raised a hand in benevolent greeting.
The man caught Oscar’s eye at once and waved back. Jimmy the bellboy grinned.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Oscar lightly, ‘That’s Major Ridout. You thought he had a military bearing and how right you were.’
‘You know him?’ I asked, amazed.
‘Only since yesterday – but you can trust him, Arthur. It turns out he is our friend.’
‘I am utterly confused, Oscar,’ I complained. ‘I really don’t know where I am with any of this.’
He laughed. ‘There’s nothing stable in the world, uproar’s your only music.’
I looked at him despairingly. He raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Play the game,’ he said.
‘Shelley?’ I volunteered.
He smiled. ‘Keats.’
We reached the front of the queue and collected our bedroom keys. ‘Your evening clothes have been pressed and laid out in your room, Mr Wilde,’ murmured the manager obsequiously, as he ushered us towards the lift.
We had adjacent rooms on the second floor. ‘I shall change and rest,’ said Oscar. ‘I must. You should rest, too, Arthur – the night may prove unruly.’ He turned the key in the lock of the door. ‘You have nothing to change into, I appreciate. I suppose one of the waiters might lend you something . . . ’
‘No, thank you,’ I protested. ‘There are limits.’
He chuckled. ‘Very well – the dining room will be dimly lit, I’ve no doubt. The ladies prefer it. No one will notice your country costume.’
‘I’ve not come as a Morris Man, Oscar,’ I countered. ‘This is a perfectly respectable tweed suit. Besides, if Constance is of the party no one will notice the gentlemen anyway. She is looking very lovely.’
Oscar had pushed open his door. ‘You’re smitten with Constance now, eh?’ he said teasingly. ‘Have you forgotten little Olga already?’
‘No,’ I answered solemnly, ‘and, as you should know, Oscar, I believe I never shall.’
He stopped and looked at me kindly. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know full well.’
‘But I am glad she is not coming tonight. There’s only so much turbulence a man’s heart can take.’
‘Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.’
&n
bsp; ‘Keats?’
‘Shelley! Did they teach you nothing at Stonyhurst?’
We both laughed. From his jacket pocket he produced an envelope and handed it to me. ‘This is the new placement for our supper. We’re in the Winter Room. Martin’s our waiter. He should have the cards. Can you make sure it’s all in order? I must rest now. I am utterly exhausted.’
Oscar retreated into his room and I made my way into mine. I took off my boots and coat and lay on the bed. In the darkness, gazing blankly at the ceiling, my head filled with thoughts of Olga, of her energy, her youth, her laugh, her loveliness. As I closed my eyes, deliberately, I pushed her from my mind as a croupier sweeps the gambling chips off the green-baize table. I filled my head instead with the awful vision of Sir Freddie Bunbury and Festing Fitzmaurice, festooned with ribbons, being consumed by flames.
I reached the Winter Room, the private dining room where Oscar’s supper party was due to be held, well before eleven o’clock. It was, as Oscar had predicted, dimly lit, but the candles on the table and in the sconces on the walls all had crimson shades, so that a pink glow suffused the room. The rose tint of light and the sparkle of the polished silver and crystal glasses on the damask tablecloth produced the effect of a table set for a wedding breakfast in fairyland rather than a last supper on a day of death and desolation.
Martin, the waiter, was in fine form. ‘Mr Wilde’s changed the menu at least three times and I’ve no idea who is supposed to be sitting where.’
‘I have the table plan here,’ I said.
‘It’s still set for thirteen, is it, sir?’
‘It is,’ I said.
‘Thirteen’s an unlucky number, you know. I hope Mr Wilde knows what he’s doing.’
I echoed Martin’s sentiment as I wrote out the names of the guests and we set them in their places:
‘The room looks charming, Martin,’ cried Oscar, as he swept in a little before eleven, dressed in a bottle-green velvet evening suit, with a pale green tie and matching carnation in his buttonhole. He was newly shaven: his cheeks were pink. He had washed his hair: he had the look of Dionysus on the town. He crackled with energy and good humour. ‘It has been a horrid day, Arthur, but it will be a night to remember, I promise. I hope you are happy with the placement. By rights I should have put you between the doctors, but I thought you’d prefer to be next to Constance.’
‘That’s very thoughtful.’ I smiled.
‘She has to have Willie next to her because he’s here at her insistence and Willie’s next to Mansfield because Mansfield’s about the only man in London who’ll tolerate him.’
‘Willie is your brother, Oscar.’
‘I know. And we look so alike I insist he wears that preposterous beard so we don’t get mistaken for one another. We say all the same things, too, you know, but I do believe I say them first.’
‘I’m very happy with where I’m seated, Oscar,’ I said. ‘Now I am here, I am glad I came.’
‘Good,’ he said with satisfaction, walking around the table, inspecting each setting in turn. ‘You see, I’ve put George R. Sims on your right. He knows everybody and everything and he’s the best of fellows. You can tell him your whaling stories and he’ll be happy to hear them. Keep an eye on Alec Shand, will you? You met him at Sims’ party. You remember? He’s the handsome devil to whom Constance was once engaged – secretly, of course.’ He lifted one of the glasses by Shand’s setting and held it close to a candle. ‘This needs a polish, Martin,’ he commanded. ‘We all have our secrets,’ he continued happily. ‘Yes, Shand is very handsome and very clever, although I’m not entirely sure I trust him where the ladies are concerned.’
‘Why is he here?’ I asked.
‘Because he’s cracked the case, of course – though he doesn’t know it.’
‘Shand has cracked the case?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘Of course, you’ve not read his book. No wonder you’re confused.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, look, here they come.’
And suddenly, into the room, all at once the guests came: George R. Sims and Alec Shand and Henry Labouchere MP leading the parade, followed by Walter Wellbeloved, then Willie and Constance who arrived with Macnaghten – they had shared a four-wheeler from Tite Street, it seemed – and, bringing up the rear, the two asylum superintendents, looking a little stiff in their evening dress but beaming with goodwill. The horror of the day appeared to be unknown to these people, or to have been put aside. The party bubbled with anticipation.
‘Welcome one, welcome all,’ cooed Oscar, moving smoothly among his guests, shaking hands, pressing shoulders. The moment he saw me, Macnaghten broke away from Willie and Constance and took me warmly by the arm: ‘Congratulations, Dr Doyle. And thank you. Case closed – at last.’
‘A table, gentlemen,’ called Oscar, above the hubbub. ‘No standing on ceremony and no pre-prandial drinks. It’s simply supper and there’s a cheese soufflé to start us off, so it’s very much like one of George’s comedies – timing is everything. Kindly take your places. Martin will then serve the champagne.’
I showed Constance to her place. She was looking quite lovely in a simple midnight-blue evening dress with a collar of white lace.
‘Your husband loves you very much,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘Do you think so?’
‘He’s certainly jealous of the attention you receive from others. He has told me to keep a close eye on Alec Shand.’
‘Oscar is extraordinary, isn’t he?’ she said, looking up at me as she sat down. ‘His mood changes from hour to hour. This morning, after seeing that poor girl’s body, he was in despair – then at lunch with Willie he was in a fury – then, after the explosion, he was almost exultant – and now this . . . ’ She turned back and surveyed the glittering table. ‘It’s like a first night!’
‘Yes,’ called Oscar from the head of the table, ‘but without the leading men.’
‘Who’s missing?’ cried Labouchere. ‘Bad form. It’s gone eleven. We’re ready for our soufflé.’
Oscar indicated the two empty places: ‘Salazkin and Mansfield.’
‘They’re performers,’ said George R. Sims. ‘It’s allowed.’
‘It’s expected,’ said Labouchere.
‘What time does the curtain come down at the Globe?’ asked someone.
‘Ten o’clock,’ said Willie, ‘just after.’
As he spoke, Richard Mansfield was at the door. He could only have been an actor. He was immaculately turned out in white tie and tails. His dark hair was slicked back with oil. His pale face shone like a Pierrot’s in the half-light. He struck a pose and held the moment until he had the room’s attention. ‘Forgive my lateness,’ he murmured silkily. ‘The ovation was somewhat sustained tonight.’
As he let his monocle fall from his eye, the room rewarded his entrance with a round of applause. ‘You are seated over there, Richard,’ instructed Oscar, pointing Mansfield towards his place. ‘You’re between your favourite critic and my new friend, Dr Gabriel. Dr Gabriel looks like Henry VIII, but he’s actually the superintendent of the Surrey County Lunatic Asylum. He has a thousand poor crazed creatures in his care, so he’s quite accustomed to meeting people who believe they are Napoleon!’
Mansfield laughed obligingly and shook both Gabriel and Willie Wilde by the hand as he took his seat. He looked over at Constance and blew a discreet kiss in her direction.
‘I should have introduced Dr Rogerson, as well. My apologies, Doctor. Dr Rogerson hails from the Colney Hatch Lunatic Asylum.’
‘The company you keep, Wilde . . . ’ muttered Labouchere. He turned to Rogerson and shook his hand. ‘Good to meet you, sir. I know you do good work.’
‘Dr Rogerson was a friend of the late Prince Albert,’ Oscar continued, ‘and tutored Ellen Terry for her role as Ophelia.’
‘You’re very droll, Mr Wilde,’ said Rogerson amiably.
‘Or very drunk,’ said Willie Wilde.
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Ah,’ cried
George R. Sims, ‘saved by the guest of honour.’ Ivan Salazkin had arrived.
Like Mansfield, he too struck a pose in the doorway. It was even more arresting because Salazkin was still dressed in his ringmaster’s costume: boots, britches, red frock coat, cape, silk top hat, wig and whiskers – the full fig. He held up his white-gloved hands: ‘A thousand apologies! It’s our last night. The lions, the tigers, the bears – they sense that we’re on the move again. They get restless. And the company – the clowns and the acrobats – they have to bid farewell to the lovers they have found in London.’ As he spoke, Salazkin’s eyes surveyed the room. When he saw me, he touched the brim of his top hat.
‘You’ve arrived,’ said Oscar, beckoning the ringmaster in to the room, ‘that’s what matters. And you’re sitting here beside me.’
Salazkin removed his hat and cape and handed them to the hovering Martin. ‘Would you give them to my man? He’s just outside in the vestibule.’
‘Do you want a moment to get changed?’ asked Oscar solicitously.
‘No, no,’ said Salazkin, taking his seat. ‘I’ve kept you all long enough.’
‘Well,’ said Oscar, beaming at his guest, ‘you are the star attraction. It’s good that you should look the part.’
Salazkin’s eye ran round the table once more. He nodded to each of us in turn. We murmured words of welcome. Oscar stood at the head of the table, gazing down at the Russian. ‘Shall I begin?’
‘By all means,’ said Salazkin softly.
Oscar glanced at his timepiece and picked up his champagne glass from the table. ‘We have the soufflé arriving momentarily, so I need to keep my opening remarks brief . . . ’
‘Hear, hear!’ cried Labouchere and Willie Wilde in unison.
‘But, in lieu of grace, I do want to begin with a word of welcome – and a toast.’ He looked down the table. ‘Gentlemen – and Constance – may I say how lovely my wife looks?’
‘You may,’ declared Alec Shand, provoking a susurration of approval from all corners of the table.
[Oscar Wilde 07] - Jack the Ripper: Case Closed Page 26
