by David Field
The character called ‘Algernon’ was explaining to his friend ‘Jack’ that whenever he wished to avoid an unwanted social engagement, he invented an invalid friend elsewhere in the country whom he had to visit as a matter of urgency. That make-believe friend was called ‘Bunbury’, and suddenly Percy was all ears, since this was the man mentioned in Stranmillis’s telegram to Ryan — the man who was schedule to go ‘on stage’ at Crewe.
Not only did this tie in with the suggestion that a fictitious character was somehow being deployed in the Stranmillis disappearance, but it further confirmed some sort of link between Stranmillis and the play currently being rehearsed, which had been playing to capacity houses ever since it opened several weeks ago. Had Stranmillis seen the play, and adapted one of its plot lines to suit his own purpose, or was he familiar with the play anyway because of a deeper relationship with its author Wilde?
‘Who are you, and why didn’t you come on the same evening as the other theatre critics?’ the man in charge demanded as he glared down at Percy, having only just become aware of his presence in the stalls while the cast had been sent grumbling away for a short break. ‘This is only a lighting rehearsal, and half the cast are still in mufti, so you won’t get the proper effect.’
Mentally thanking the man for accepting his assumed persona, Percy launched into the rest of his prepared explanation. ‘I’m from out of town, and I normally cover trials, executions and other delights. But my niece thought I might like to do a piece on this excellent new play that’s taken the West End by storm, and I’m so impressed by what I’m experiencing this morning that I’d be delighted to take up her suggestion. I don’t suppose Mr Wilde’s here this morning? I’d rather like a quote from him.’
‘He’s otherwise occupied, with his lawyers,’ the man explained. ‘He normally directs, but on this happy occasion he’s left that bed of nails to me. As you will have seen for yourself, if you’ve been here since we started, when teacher’s away the children have a habit of playing awkward. I’m Vernon Treston, Stage Manager. And who, pray tell, is your theatre critic niece with such excellent taste?’
‘She’s no theatre critic,’ Percy replied artlessly, ‘just a wardrobe mistress for one of London’s most highly regarded amateur groups.’
‘Is she by any chance looking for a job?’
‘Not so far as I’m aware, given the extent of her other engagements. But I’ll enquire, if you wish.’
‘Please do — particularly if she can sew as well,’ Treston replied. ‘Now please feel free to watch the rest of the rehearsal, if I can drag the children back from whichever coffee house they’re currently posing in.’
Two hours later Percy was enjoying a free midday meal of chicken salad in the upstairs rooms above the architectural practice in Holborn that was home to Jack’s sister Lucy. Lucy smiled as she poured the wine.
‘You’re famous for never dropping in unless you want something, Uncle, so let’s get that over with, shall we, then I can enjoy my dinner? And before you ask, I’m not posing as another corpse for you.’
‘Far from it,’ Percy assured her with one of his winning smiles. ‘But you are still interested in the theatre, are you not?’
‘What mother of three wouldn’t welcome the chance to pretend that she’s the Queen of Egypt, or Joan of Arc, or Lady Macbeth? We employ a nanny, obviously, but even so …’
‘I presume you’ve heard of Oscar Wilde?’
‘Of course I’ve heard of Oscar Wilde — he’s the talk of the entire West End at present, and not just among theatrical types. Isn’t he up on charges of buggery or something? Is that why you’re here? If so, I can’t imagine how a mother of three with wrinkles to match might interest him sufficiently to let drop some important piece of information on an adjacent pillow. Is he really what they say he is?’
‘That will fall to be determined in a trial that starts on Wednesday. In the meantime the company that’s putting on this play which is all the rage is short of a wardrobe mistress, it seems. Might you be interested?’
‘Who do I have to kill? Are you really able to offer me such an important role backstage in the biggest runaway success that the St James Theatre has ever known?’
‘Not me, but the Stage Manager who’s currently running the show while Mr Wilde is otherwise engaged in what promises to be the legal sensation of the decade. All you have to do is go up there and sound as if it’s all a bit of a bore between more exciting engagements. You also have to claim needlework skills that you don’t possess.’
‘You’re about to drag Esther into another of your investigations as well, aren’t you?’ Lucy said accusingly. ‘I’m not sure that she’d be willing, after every other time you’ve nearly got her killed. And what does Jack have to say about it?’
‘I haven’t told him that bit yet, but it wouldn’t be the first time that four members of the Enright family worked on the same case. You did say you’d be prepared to kill in order to get backstage on this runaway success story at the St James Theatre.’
‘When would I need to start, and how long will it take? And have you no concept of how difficult it is for a mother of three to have any life of her own?’
‘You have a nanny, do you not? And a fulltime, live-in one, what’s more. Esther has to rely on her upstairs neighbour.’
‘Even if I agree, I’ll need a lot more background information. How will I acquire that?’
‘Here, tomorrow afternoon at three, at a family tea party.’
Lucy treated him to a look of veiled suspicion. ‘Why don’t you get Mother to do the catering? Then you’ll have the entire family involved.’
Percy smiled. ‘In my time I’ve done some dangerous things. I’ve come face to face with mass murderers, faced a screaming mob in the street, and dived into the Thames to rescue a suicide. But even I’m not brave enough to involve your mother in something that might require her to descend off her high pedestal and wallow in the real world. Tomorrow at three, then.’
‘I’ve spent half the day looking for you!’ Jack complained as he finally cornered Percy in the communal tea room on the third floor of the Yard’s extensive Whitehall premises. ‘Where have you been this time?’
‘Having dinner with Lucy.’
‘I think I’ve solved the case.’
‘Which case would that be?’ Percy said dismissively. ‘We’re working on two at once, remember.’
‘Yours, being the generous person that I am. I think I know where to look for the Stranmillis railway coach.’
‘In a sidings near Holyhead?’
‘No, in a salt mine in Cheshire. With a branch line from the main railway just west of Crewe.’
‘Too good to be true,’ Percy muttered.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Jack grinned, ‘but here’s my evidence.’
He handed Percy the company prospectus for Stranmillis’s latest business venture, and Percy whistled softly as he skimmed it.
‘Well done, Jack. When I go back up there I’ll take a close look at this salt mine at Beeston. But in the meantime I have to arrange a tea party for your sister.’
Jack burst out laughing, then stopped when he realised that Percy wasn’t. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’
‘Have you ever known me refuse free food? Esther’s also invited, so I suppose you’d better come along too.’
‘Shouldn’t we be working? Tomorrow’s my last free day before the trial that you want me to attend.’
‘We will be working, trust me. All of us. Tell Esther that Alice Bridges may be required to babysit until well into the evening. And for the foreseeable future, during whatever hours the St James Theatre keeps.’
‘You’re planning on having her conduct discreet enquiries among Wilde’s theatrical company?’
‘Indeed. You’re not the only one who’s making progress, and I believe I may have identified the person who helped Stranmillis disappear.’
‘One of Wilde’s cast?’
‘Quite p
ossibly, if we can find him. That’ll be Lucy and Esther’s job.’
‘You’ve got Lucy involved as well?’ Jack enquired with raised eyebrows. ‘She swore “never again” after that dreadful business in Wiltshire.’
‘That was then, and she’s just as bored sitting at home as Esther no doubt is. So this time we employ them both.’
‘By “we”, you mean that I’ll get the blame if either of them finds themselves in danger?’
‘Trust me, Jack my boy, I’ve met this lot they’ll be mixing with, and the only danger they’ll be courting will be that of dying of laughter. Now go home. In fact, take tomorrow morning off as well — just make sure that you and Esther are at Lucy’s by three tomorrow afternoon.’
‘So what’s the big secret you’re about to reveal to us, Uncle?’ Lucy asked as the maid backed out through the sitting room door, having laid out the sandwiches, cakes and tea on the table around which the four of them sat.
Percy helped himself to several salmon sandwiches, as he kept it brief.
‘Jack and I are working on two separate enquiries, which I am more convinced by the day are linked in some way. The first concerns the trial that begins at the Old Bailey tomorrow, which Jack will be observing on our behalf, in case something comes out in evidence linking Oscar Wilde with some leading figures in this model of Christian propriety that we call English society. I, at the same time, will be sampling the delights of the London and North Western Railway network in the search for a missing peer of the realm called Lord Stranmillis. Esther knows all about these investigations, so she can fill you in on the details.’
‘So why are we needed at the theatre?’ Esther asked as she selected an ‘angel on horseback’ cream cake and bit into it with happy memories.
‘Because,’ Percy explained, ‘I believe that his Lordship’s disappearance was made possible only with the assistance of a member of Wilde’s cast. We need to identify him, find him, bring him in and question him severely.’
‘You mean he’s missing?’ Lucy said.
Percy sighed. ‘Why else would we be looking for him? He may be using the name “Bunbury”, by the way.’
‘How can he be missing halfway through the play’s run?’ Lucy asked suspiciously, ‘or is his part currently being taken by an understudy?’
‘He is the understudy,’ Percy explained, ‘or at least he was. May I take it that the role consists of what it sounds like? That he’s not actually required during a performance?’
‘That’s right,’ Lucy confirmed with a smile, glad to be making a contribution. ‘The role of a male understudy is to learn all the male parts in a play and be prepared to step on stage if a principal actor falls ill or something. It’s a most demanding job, but is regarded as the lowest of the low by the cast members. However, it’s how many actors who’re famous today first made their way in the profession. But what makes you think that this understudy was in some way involved in this disappearance you’re investigating?’
‘Because,’ Percy replied with a self-satisfied smirk, ‘his missing Lordship seems to have employed someone to pretend to be him when stepping on board an overnight boat to Dublin. This suggests that he had connections with an actor — in fact, given Mr Wilde’s alleged sexual tastes, that connection may have been more than theatrical.’
Lucy grimaced. ‘But you want us to learn all we can about this missing understudy? What’s his name, by the way?’
‘That’s your first task,’ Percy explained. ‘But when the train from which Lord Stranmillis made his escape stopped at Rugby, he sent a telegram back to an associate in London confirming, in so many words, that his substitute would be “going on stage”, as he put it, at Crewe. He also called him “Bunbury”, which is probably not his real name.’
‘Why am I required?’ Esther asked.
Percy nodded towards Lucy as he cleared the latest sandwich from his mouth, having transferred his preference to roast beef and pickle.
‘Your sister-in-law can’t sew, and from what I overheard during the rehearsal that I dropped in on, the stage costumes are getting a bit ragged. Lucy, I’ll need you to find out if “Bunbury”, as I suggest we call him, took any costumes with him. Male or female.’
‘Why female?’
Percy smiled condescendingly. ‘Best if I don’t answer that question. But there’s no better disguise for a man than women’s clothing, is there?’
‘Depends on the man,’ Esther observed with a chuckle. ‘In some cases the beard might be a bit of a giveaway.’
Jack decided that it was time he spoke. ‘In the meantime, I’ll have a front row seat at the trial that starts tomorrow.’
‘Something else we must prepare ourselves for,’ Percy advised them, ‘is that if Mr Oscar Wilde’s leisure activities are fully revealed for what we know them to have been, then his play may not be running for much longer, so please don’t lose any time in getting the information we need.’
‘What’s this trial all about anyway?’ Lucy asked.
‘A man called the Marquess of Queensberry allegedly libelled Wilde by calling him a sodomite. That’s...’
‘Yes, thank you, Jack, I know what one of those is,’ Lucy interjected.
Jack continued unabashed, ‘Well, Wilde claims that he isn’t, and has brought this action against Queensberry. The lawyer for Queensberry who first got us involved in this business has lined up a whole platoon of Mary-Annes to prove that Queensberry was right. It promises to be quite a show.’
‘Which reminds me, Jack,’ Percy interjected. ‘Best get an early night and be first in the queue for the public gallery in the Bailey. Otherwise you won’t get a seat, since half the nation’s newspaper vultures will be there.’
‘Don’t I get a reserved seat?’
Percy shook his head. ‘The Old Bailey isn’t a restaurant. Mind you, it’s about to become a theatre.’
Chapter Eleven
Jack yawned for the tenth time and ruefully recalled having slipped from Esther’s comforting warmth before the sun had even threatened to rise over the rooftops of Shoreditch to their east. At least the early morning bus had been half empty as it rattled southwards down Farringdon Street and deposited him where it met Newgate Street, leaving him with a stiff walk through the mist of an April early morning to the Old Bailey, in order to join the already lengthening queue for a seat in the public gallery. Squeezed between a fat lady who smelled of cooking fat and an intense looking old man who reeked of pipe smoke far worse than Uncle Percy’s, Jack was wondering whether it had all been worth it. Nevertheless, he extracted his notebook and pencil and tried to look the part as the lawyers began to drift in down below him and take their places at the bar table.
Queensberry looked to be the last word in outraged dignity as he squeezed into the dock of the old courtroom and waved his hand for Edward Carson to leave his seat in order to take last-minute instructions. They were engaged in an animated conversation that was almost audible above the murmurs of anticipation and the general clatter of latecomers taking their seats. Then the door behind the bench opened and out walked a pompous looking individual who demanded that everyone rise, which they did to the best of their ability, given the cramped confinement into which they had been squeezed by the ushers who had done their best to accommodate everyone in the queue that began outside and stretched in a long line up the flimsy internal staircase to the public gallery.
Mr Justice Collins took his seat on the bench in a flurry of red robes, the matter of ‘Wilde v Queensberry’ was called, the charge was read out, and Edward Carson, on behalf of Queensberry, asked that a plea of ‘Not Guilty’ be entered and announced that his client’s defence would be that of justification in the public interest. The judge nodded.
‘Very well. Sir Edward?’
Sir Edward Clarke rose to his ponderous feet to outline the case for Wilde. He was an elderly gentleman who seemed to carry all the cares and tribulations of his long professional life on his gowned shoulders and whose lengt
hy greying side-whiskers trembled with the vibration created by the tremulous voice that intoned the opening address for Wilde.
‘May it please you, my Lord, gentlemen of the jury. You have heard the charge against the defendant, which is that he published a false and malicious libel in regard to Mr. Oscar Wilde. That libel was published in the form of a card left by Lord Queensberry at a club to which Mr. Oscar Wilde belonged. It was a visiting card of Lord Queensberry’s, with his name printed upon it, and it had written upon it certain words which formed the libel complained of. On that card his lordship wrote: “Oscar Wilde posing as a sodomite.”
‘Of course, it is a matter of serious moment that such a libel as that which Lord Queensberry wrote upon that card should in any way be connected with a gentleman who has borne a high reputation in this country. You will appreciate that the leaving of such a card openly with the porter of a club is a matter likely to gravely affect the position of the person as to whom that injurious suggestion was made.
‘The defendant has said that the statement is true and that it is for the public benefit that the statement was made, and he has given particulars in the plea of matters which he has alleged, to show that the statement is true in regard to Mr. Oscar Wilde. The plea has not been read to you, gentlemen. There is no allegation in the plea that Mr. Oscar Wilde has been guilty of the offence of which I have spoken, but there is a series of accusations in it mentioning the names of persons, and it is said with regard to those persons that Mr. Wilde solicited them to commit with him the grave offence, and that he has been guilty with each and all of them of indecent practices.
‘Mr. Oscar Wilde is a gentleman, thirty-nine years of age, the son of Sir William Wilde, a very distinguished Irish surgeon and oculist, who did great public service as chairman of the Census Committee in Ireland. Mr. Oscar Wilde went in the first instance to Trinity College, Dublin, where he greatly distinguished himself for classical knowledge, earning some of the conspicuous rewards which are given to its students by that distinguished University. In 1884 he had the good fortune to marry a daughter of the late Mr. Horace Lloyd, Q.C., and from that day to the present he has lived with his wife, who has borne him two children, at Tite Street, Chelsea. He is a member of the Albemarle Club.
