by David Field
Ross managed a chuckle. ‘You have no idea, officer ... Sergeant Entwhistle, wasn’t it?’
‘Enright. But call me Jack, if it’s easier to remember.’
‘Very kind of you. I’m Robbie. And as I said, you have no idea how many of those responsible for the welfare of this nation share the same affliction as myself and Oscar.’
‘I heard a rumour about the Prime Minister,’ Jack admitted.
Ross nodded. ‘He’s not fully committed, of course, since he was married to that Rothschild heiress, and for a while there we half expected him to marry the Duchess of Albany once she was widowed. But then he fell in with Francis Douglas, and the two of them had a high old time until his father threatened to expose their relationship, Archie gave Francis the old heave-ho in order to add the Prime Ministership to his financial fortune, and poor old Francis died of grief.’
‘At the end of his own shotgun,’ Jack added.
Ross nodded. ‘I blame myself for ever introducing them, shortly before I introduced Oscar to Bosie. And that was the biggest mistake of my entire life, since Oscar fell for Bosie like a cartload of bricks, and I never got another look in.’
‘So you and Oscar were…’
‘Of course we were. It was impossible to be the way I am and not find Oscar irresistible. He’s so entrancing and mysterious, so gentle and caring, so — well, just so alluring. He’s like the flame that attracts the moth, and believe me he’s known many moths. But once Bosie came along, well, it was like I’d never existed.’
‘You’re testifying, as I understand it, to the relationship between Mr Wilde and Bosie Douglas. Are you doing so as a sort of jilted lover?’
‘How dare you! I love Oscar dearly, and always will. I’ve agreed to tell the court the truth about Oscar and Bosie because of the guilt I feel about Francis’s death — it’s the very least that I owe to his father. When Queensberry chose to expose what Oscar was up to with Bosie, he only did so because he dreaded another son finishing up like the previous one, in a spiral of despair and self-destruction because of the way Nature had dealt him out. The least I can do is to prevent the poor man going to prison for speaking the truth. And, of course, as I have no doubt you were about to cruelly remind me, by doing this I save myself from prosecution.’
‘I gather from what you’ve been telling me,’ Jack ventured as he sipped his tea, ‘that there was quite a group of you similarly inclined who formed a sort of social group. Would I be correct in thinking that?’
‘Yes indeed,’ Ross confirmed as he closed his eyes in reminiscence. ‘It began between Oscar and myself, then Bosie came on the scene, then there was a succession of pliant young men, some of whom I have to shamefully admit were not above seeking money. We would meet up for weekends, and sometimes longer, at Bosie’s country place in Surrey. He was already in a relationship with the writer George Ives, a hangover from his university days, and a man dedicated to bringing about changes in the law that persecutes those of our “persuasion”, shall we call it? Then there’s Reggie Turner, another of Oscar’s “Aesthete” friends, who also hangs around out of sheer adoration of the man.’
‘What was that group you just mentioned?’ Jack asked as he prepared to jot down another entry in his notebook, ‘And could you spell it please?’
Ross did as requested, before explaining further: ‘Aesthetes concentrate on beauty rather than functionality, artistic appeal rather than symbolic meaning. For example, our museums are full of Greek statues depicting nude male forms. You can either consider them, in a functional sense, as representing the Classical depiction of athletic prowess, or simply as depraved images of men’s private parts. An aesthete such as Oscar would value them simply as something beautiful in themselves, but you can easily see how such an approach might be misinterpreted as indicative of a perverted sexuality.’
‘As it is, in Mr Wilde’s case,’ Jack pointed out.
Ross treated him to a frown. ‘You just don’t understand, do you? If the statue in question were of a nude female child, would you not be offended if you admired it for its beauty, and were then denigrated as a pervert with a sexual preference for children?’
‘I take your point,’ Jack conceded, ‘but we’re drifting away from why I’m here. I need to know if any others in Mr Wilde’s circle of acquaintances, apart from those you’ve named, and whose names might come out during the trial, may prove to be inconveniently positioned in society.’
‘Are there any other screaming Mary-Annes in the Cabinet, you mean?’
‘Yes, if you care to put it that way.’
‘I can only speak from my own experience,’ Ross advised him, ‘and Roseberry would be the only one I could point a finger at. However, from time to time there were whispers of highly placed members of our straight-laced and pinch-mouthed Establishment being caught in police raids on “Molly Houses”. Presumably you’re familiar with those?’
‘Only too familiar,’ Jack confirmed with a grimace. ‘I was inside one only a few evenings ago — in the course of my duties, I hasten to add — and it turned my stomach.’
‘You have to believe me when I tell you that twittering mincers such as those are not representative of true homosexuals. It’s become quite the fashion to frequent these horrible places, in the same way that it was once the done thing to pay money to view the criminally insane inside Bedlam, and the freaks you are likely to encounter in Molly Houses are simply playing out their deranged fantasies. But those of us who have the misfortune to love another man truly and genuinely do not see them primarily as an object of lust. The physical aspect of their relationship flows from the genuine love that they cannot hold back — much like I imagine you feel for your wife.’
‘I understand what you’re telling me,’ Jack persisted, ‘but I’m told that many of the witnesses in Wilde’s trial against Queensberry will be male prostitutes, so one is bound to observe that perhaps the man upon who you lavish so much affection may have, at least on some occasions, resorted to less justifiable reasons for sexual activity. The concern of the authorities is that these “rent boys”, as I believe they have become known, may have sold their “services’, we may call them, to persons of high status, such as politicians, clergymen, lawyers — even senior police officers. How may I best go about discovering if that was the case?’
‘You might want to speak to a man called Alfred Taylor,’ Ross advised him. ‘He was another associate of Oscar’s, and Alfie’s particular interest was in dressing up as a woman and being brutally sodomised in a make-believe fantasy in which he was a woman alone in a room who was raped by an intruder. In order to be able to live out that fantasy, Alfie was obliged to resort to rent boys, and over the course of time he introduced some of them to Oscar, whose particular fantasy was seducing young boys of little to no education. Alfie would arrange for him to accost them in the street, then play the part that Oscar had allocated to them.’
‘And you believe that some of these young sexual actors may have been hired for other fantasies by people in high positions in society?’
‘I only say that it’s possible — you must make your own enquiries.’
‘Where will I find this Mr Taylor?’
‘He used to reside in Chelsea somewhere, but he was recently arrested, so he may have moved address.’
‘If he was recently arrested, I can easily obtain his address,’ Jack replied as he rose to his feet. ‘Thank you for the tea, and I’m sorry that I had to deal with matters that must be very distressing for you.’
‘Only to be expected,’ Ross assured him, ‘and my thanks for not being as brutally judgmental as most police officers I’ve encountered in the past. Not to mention that dreadful man Carson — you’d think I was a witness for the other side, the way he pitched into me.’
‘Unfortunate, I agree,’ Jack commiserated, ‘since I assume that you were the one who started this whole business off by alerting Queensberry to what was going on?’
‘No, that wasn’t me.’ R
oss smiled. ‘I shouldn’t gloat over something so grave, but I still resent Bosie for having stolen Oscar from me. And it was his own stupid patronising arrogance that led to the whole business being revealed.’
‘What happened?’ Jack enquired as he sat down again.
‘Bosie was playing the “Lord Bountiful” — one of his favourite poses — one day with a particularly odious male prostitute called West. In addition to paying his fee, Bosie gave him one of his old suits, without first checking the pockets. When West examined the pockets, he found some old love letters from Oscar to Bosie and set about blackmailing the two of them. He squeezed all he could out of them, then when they refused to pay anything for the final one, West passed it to another rent boy of his acquaintance, a disgusting, snivelling little Scot called Campbell. Campbell tried to get a twenty from the pair of them, and when Oscar sent a bully boy to rearrange his face, Campbell retaliated by giving the letter to an obnoxious blackmailer called Allen, who decided to send the letter to Queensberry, with a request for fifty pounds in exchange for keeping his mouth shut. I believe that Queensberry gave it to his counsel Carson when Wilde had him charged with criminal libel, and I imagine that it will feature in the forthcoming trial.’
Jack put his notebook back in his jacket pocket and stood up. ‘I think I’ll pay a call on a couple of rent boys.’
Chapter Eight
‘They told me you were coming, so I was able to get the information you need ahead of your arrival.’ Charlie Paterson smiled at Percy as he beckoned him into the office in which he sat behind a huge desk covered in charts, timetables, staff rosters and company circulars. On one wall of his office was a large, detailed map of the entire LNWR network, while the other wall consisted largely of windows that gave a commanding view of the island platforms below, with their ‘scissors crossings’ that had been such an inspired piece of engineering innovation when the new Rugby Station had opened ten years previously. ‘I trust that your journey up here was comfortable?’
Percy nodded. ‘I’m not a great fan of rail travel, but at least we were on time. I’m advised by those in the know that this isn’t necessarily a feature of all train journeys.’
‘It is most of the time on the London and North Western,’ Paterson replied proudly, ‘although not on the journey you were enquiring about. We experienced a ten minute delay that day.’
‘From what I was informed at Euston,’ Percy replied, ‘the train is scheduled for a ten minute delay anyway, while they change engine, footplate men and guard.’
‘Ah yes, but that’s allowed for in the schedules. This was an extra ten minutes,’ Paterson explained. ‘It’s all here in the guard’s report, although I’m not sure that it will assist in your search for an entire Pullman carriage.’
He handed over the handwritten document and Percy squinted at it, held it out at arm’s length, then pulled it closer, and finally gave up the unequal struggle. ‘My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and your guard’s handwriting leaves a lot to be desired.’
‘They aren’t employed for their copperplate script,’ Paterson explained, ‘but the gist of it is that the train was held up for an additional ten minutes because of a minor contretemps at the Telegraph Office. The guard would have been anxious to hand this in, then cross to another platform in order to take an “up” train back to Euston in order to end his shift. And this may be of interest to you, since it concerned the arrogant occupant of the Pullman carriage that went missing.’
‘Go on,’ Percy replied encouragingly.
Paterson’s face assumed a more concentrated expression as he replayed the incident from his memory. ‘I was called in to referee, as it happens. The man who was occupying the Pullman apparently alighted from the train as soon as it pulled up on the platform and headed for the Telegraph Office, which is down there on Platform One, and is provided for the convenience of the travelling public. Unfortunately for him it was the day before scheduled horse racing at Wolverhampton, and there was a long queue of customers who’d come in off the street to use the facility in order to contact their bookmakers once the early evening papers published the ‘form’ guide. When the man hadn’t returned to his carriage by its departure time, the guard went looking for him and there was something of a verbal conflict between the two of them. Your man was refusing to re-board his carriage until he managed to send his telegram and was threatening to sue the company if the train left without him.’
‘So how was the dilemma resolved?’ Percy asked with a smile.
‘When the matter was reported to me, I allowed him to use our telegraph facility here in the General Office.’
‘Do you by any chance keep a copy of the telegrams you send?’
‘Of course, it’s company regulations.’
‘Do you still have it?’
‘Probably, since it was only last month. If you’d like to wait down in the Buffet Restaurant, I’ll have it sent down to you. I assume that you haven’t had dinner yet, given the hour that you’d have left Euston, so take my pass, and it’ll entitle you to anything you like from the extensive list, free of charge and with the compliments of the company.’
‘I wish we had these at the Yard.’ Percy grinned as he accepted the card that was handed to him and headed off downstairs for a massive feed at someone else’s expense.
Twenty minutes later, halfway through the greatest amalgamation of sausages, mashed potato and carrots that he’d ever assembled, Percy heard his name being called and when he raised his hand in acknowledgement a uniformed porter scuttled over with a piece of paper in his hand. Percy thanked him and propped the copy of Stranmillis’s telegraph up against a sauce bottle as he continued eating while reading. He was highly skilled in this by dint of experience and if his wife Beattie ever sued for divorce on the ground of mental cruelty, this would be one of the irritating habits that she would cite.
His eyebrows rose as he read the cryptic communication.
Phadrig Ryan,
Ryan Industries,
37 Tavistock Street,
Covent Garden, London
All good. Bunbury goes on stage at Crewe as planned.
Dermy
After taking his time over his first free dinner for as long as he could remember, Percy strolled back upstairs to thank Charlie Paterson for his hospitality and to access the railway’s own telegraph office in order to send an instruction to Jack back in London. Before he descended the stairs one final time to await his return train, Percy had one remaining question.
‘From what you told me earlier, the train would have been ten minutes late leaving here on its way to Crewe. Would it have been possible for the locomotive driver to regain that lost time?’
‘Of course.’ Paterson smiled reassuringly. ‘Our timetables are as accurate and realistic as possible, but one of our continual failings — which we’re constantly seeking to redress — is the late running of some services. The standing instruction to all our drivers is therefore to make an effort to get ahead of time when they can, in order to counteract unforeseen delays.’
‘Such as important but belligerent customers refusing to re-board?’ Percy grinned.
‘That, certainly. But also hazards on the track, such as stray animals or broken down locomotives. And, regrettably, we get our fair share of suicides from people diving off the many road bridges that cross the line. Or simply walking out in front of a speeding express.’
‘If there is a hazard of some sort ahead of a train that’s in motion,’ Percy enquired, ‘how would you alert the driver to it?’
‘That’s what signals are for,’ he was advised. ‘The driver must obey all signals, and either slow down, or stop altogether, and the train won’t be driven into the hazard area until the signal’s changed.’
‘The driver will have no idea of what lies ahead?’
‘Not unless it’s obvious from his footplate, no.’
‘But he’ll obey the signal nevertheless?’
‘Of course. That’s
what he’s trained to do, and any driver ignoring a signal does so at his own peril, and that of his passengers. You only get to do that once on the LNW, trust me, and if you’re caught at it, it’s instant dismissal.’
‘Thank you again,’ Percy smiled appreciatively. ‘Both for the information and the best sausages I’ve tasted in years.’
Jack cursed quietly when Percy’s telegraph message was delivered to him, but since he was sitting in Records anyway, he may as well deal with it now, rather than have to return later. Percy wanted him get the full background on ‘Ryan Industries’.
The Yard didn’t just keep criminal records, it also kept copies of documents filed for company registration purposes, and within minutes of requesting the bulky file Jack was whistling quietly to himself and beginning to appreciate why his mother would have preferred him to pursue a career in commerce.
Ryan Industries had its fingers into everything, it seemed. It had recorded a very acceptable profit for the past few years and its Annual Report to Shareholders spoke of its plans to make even more as it bid for Government contracts for steel, iron ore, coal, road construction and bridge building, not to mention competitive applications to subcontract to the railways and shipyards. And now it seemed that they were planning to venture into something completely new for them — salt mining. Jack wasn’t interested in salt, except when it was sprinkled into the saucepan in which potatoes were being boiled, and so he put the company documents to one side with the intention of leaving them for Uncle Percy in his office upstairs and went back to the search for an address for Alfred Taylor.
He wasn’t hard to locate, given his undistinguished criminal history. Undistinguished, that is, in terms of the types of offence he committed. Here was no mass murderer, no highly skilled ‘peterman’ and no armed robber of banks. Just a rather grubby man in his late thirties who had a bad habit of being in the company when a Molly House was raided, or being named as the director of their operations whenever rent boys were intercepted as the result of previous clandestine observations of ‘known’ houses whose existence had been revealed to police by trade rivals.
