November 1895–May 1897
Oscar Wilde, Prisoner C.3.3.
Eric Ryder, Prisoner C.3.1.
Achindra Acala Luck, Prisoner C.3.2.
Joseph Smith, Prisoner C.3.4.
Sebastian Atitis-Snake, Prisoner C.3.5.
Tom Lewis, Prisoner E.1.1.
Charles Thomas Wooldridge, prisoner
executed on 7 July 1896
Richard Prince, Prisoner A.2.11.
Constance Wilde
Colonel H. B. Isaacson, Governor of Reading Gaol
until July 1896
Major J. O. Nelson, Governor of Reading Gaol
from July 1896
The Reverend M. T. Friend, Chaplain of
Reading Gaol
Dr O. C. Maurice, Surgeon at Reading Gaol
Warder Braddle
Warder Stokes
Warder Martin
Wardress from E Ward
Prologue
London, 25 May 1895
From the Star, final edition
OSCAR WILDE GUILTY
Sentenced to 2 years’ hard labour
Jubilant scenes in street
At the end of a four-day trial at the Old Bailey, Oscar Wilde, the celebrated playwright, was tonight found guilty on seven counts of gross indecency and sentenced to two years’ imprisonment with hard labour.
Addressing the court, the trial judge, Mr Justice Wills, 77, declared, ‘It is the worst case I have ever tried.’ The judge said it was impossible to doubt that Wilde, 40, had been at the centre of ‘a circle of extensive corruption of the most hideous kind among young men’. Passing the severest sentence allowed by law, he said, ‘In my judgement it is totally inadequate for such a case as this.’
In the dock, the guilty man was seen to sway as sentence was passed and called out to the judge, ‘And I? May I say nothing, my lord?’ Mr Justice Wills gestured to the warders standing at the side of the dock to take the prisoner away. Wilde, white-faced, appeared to stagger before being escorted to his cell beneath the courtroom. He was then taken to Newgate Prison near by, where the warrant authorising his detention was prepared, and later, by prison van, to Pentonville Prison in north London.
Outside the Old Bailey, the news of the guilty verdict was greeted with scenes of jubilation. There was loud applause and cheering from the crowd that had gathered and, when the detail of the sentence reached them, a small group of street women danced a jig in the gutter, one of them shouting, ‘Two years is too good for ’im.’ Another provoked laughter saying, ‘’E’ll ’ave ’is ’air cut regular now.’
It is understood that Wilde’s most recent comedy, The Importance of Being Earnest, will continue to play at the St James’s Theatre, but that the author’s name will be removed immediately from the playbills and programmes in deference to the sensibilities of audience members.
Constance Wilde, 36, the unfortunate wife of the guilty man, was not in court to witness her husband’s ruin. It is believed that the authoress and her two sons, aged nine and eight, are now travelling on the Continent.
‘NAPOLEON’ POISONER NOT INSANE
Life sentence for attempted murder
At Reading Assizes today the man who claimed that he had attempted to murder his wife under the delusion that he was the Emperor Napoleon of France, and that she was the Empress Josephine and had been unfaithful to him, failed in his plea of Not Guilty on grounds of insanity and was sentenced to life imprisonment.
Throughout his four-day trial, Sebastian Atitis-Snake, 37, an unemployed chef of Palmer Road, Reading, addressed the court in broken French and stood with his right hand tucked into his waistcoat in the manner of the late Emperor. Passing sentence, Mr Justice Crawford, 69, told the accused, ‘You have attempted to make a mockery of your own trial in the hope of confusing the jury. You have failed. The gentlemen of the jury are not fools and you are not insane. It is clear, from both the police evidence and from the expert medical witnesses we have heard, that you are, at best, what is termed, in common parlance, a “confidence trickster”, and, at worst, a cold-hearted and calculating would-be killer.’
The judge said that there was no evidence of any kind that Mrs Atitis-Snake had been guilty of adultery. ‘By all accounts your poor wife is an entirely blameless young woman. Her only misfortune was to meet you when she was just eighteen years of age and recently orphaned. She had a little fortune, amounting to £5,000, but no family and few friends. You were fifteen years her senior and, doubtless, by means of telling her a string of the fantastical falsehoods that appear to be your stock-in-trade, you persuaded her to marry you. Having secured her fortune, you quickly tired of her youth and beauty and decided to dispose of her. You attempted to murder this innocent creature by serving her a dish of poisonous mushrooms – disguised as what you termed an ‘omelette de campagne’. Had you killed her, you would have been charged with murder and would now be facing the death penalty. As it is, the poor woman lies in a coma in a nursing home. As I understand it, there is hope, at least, that one day she may recover. Her future is uncertain. Yours is not. The sentence of the court is that you be imprisoned for the rest of your natural life and be kept to hard labour.’
THE QUEEN’S BIRTHDAY
Her Majesty honours Henry Irving
Her Majesty Queen Victoria has marked her seventy-sixth birthday by conferring a knighthood on the actor, Henry Irving, 57. Sir Henry, as he will now be known, is the nation’s most celebrated Shakespearean player and the manager of London’s Lyceum Theatre. He is the first actor in the history of the theatre to receive such an honour and today professed himself ‘truly humbled’ by Her Majesty’s recognition. ‘This is a mighty day for actors everywhere,’ he said. ‘May it be long remembered.’
Introduction
Dieppe, France, 24 June 1897
It was six o’clock in the evening, but the bright summer sun still stood high in the sky.
On the pavement outside the Café Suisse, in the shade beneath the blue-and-white striped awning, at a round table covered with a red-and-white checked cloth, a large man sat on a small chair nursing an empty glass. He had been seated there for an hour – for two, perhaps. At five o’clock, with narrowed eyes – hooded but amused – he had scrutinised the passengers from the paddle steamer – the Victoria from Newhaven – as, bags and baggage in hand, porters in tow, they had trooped by on their way from the quayside into the town. He had raised his straw boater to one of them. The man he had thought he recognised had not caught his eye.
Now the parade had passed and the hubbub had subsided. Apart from the retreating figure of the curé, a bustling black beetle in a biretta, the street was deserted. From the docks he could hear the faint rumble of barrow wheels on cobblestones and the occasional cry of a stevedore. Near by, beneath the stone archway alongside the café, a stray dog yapped, rolling over and over in a pile of newspapers and cabbage leaves – the detritus of market day.
The man had a large, long, well-fleshed face: a prominent nose; full lips; uneven, yellow teeth; a pasty, putty-like complexion; lank, thinning, auburn hair. He was smoking a Turkish cigarette and gazing vacantly ahead of him. He wore a cream-coloured linen suit, a white shirt and a loosely tied bottle-green cravat. There was a button missing on his jacket and he had no money in his pocket, but he looked not uncontented. When the curé (whom he knew) had paused at his table to wish him a good afternoon, they had exchanged a few pleasantries (in French) and, with some ceremony, the large man had raised his glass to the priest – and drained it. Now he was ready for another drink.
As he turned round to look for the waiter, he saw instead a smiling stranger emerging from the café, coming directly towards him with outstretched arms. The beaming individual – a pale-faced man of middling years and middling height, slightly built and sandy-haired, bespectacled and smartly dressed – was carrying a pair of wine glasses in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.
‘Is this a mirage or a miracle?’ murmured the large man, throwing
the butt of his cigarette into the street.
‘It’s a Perrier-Jouët ’92,’ answered the stranger, turning the bottle in his hand to show off the label. He glanced back, over his shoulder, towards the café. ‘The boy is bringing out some ice.’ With a little flourish, the stranger placed the champagne and the glasses on the table, pulled down his shirt-cuffs, pushed his spectacles up his nose and inclined his head in a small bow. Abruptly, he brought his heels together so that they clicked. ‘May I join you, sir?’ he asked.
‘I should be utterly appalled if you did not.’
The stranger laughed and drew up a chair. He sat down. He moved, the large man noticed, with a dancer’s grace. The wine was already uncorked. With studied concentration, the stranger filled both glasses to the brim and handed one to the large man, who gazed upon the pale gold bubbles with evident delight.
‘This is my favourite drink in all the world,’ he said.
‘I know,’ replied the stranger. ‘A second bottle is being chilled. I thought we might enjoy it later with a little lobster mayonnaise.’
The large man closed his eyes and, with one hand, brought the champagne to his lips. The other hand he rested gently on the stranger’s arm. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, as he took a second draught.
‘The pleasure – and the honour – are both mine. I am glad to have found you. It has not been easy.’
The large man opened his eyes and looked directly at the stranger. The man wore a thin moustache and a tiny beard. As a rule, he was mistrustful of those who covered their faces with hair – what did they have to hide? But these facial adornments were barely discernible – and the cold yellow wine was wonderful. ‘You have been looking for me?’ he enquired, pleasantly.
‘Yes, and now that I have found you I hope that you are behaving very well.’
‘I am feeling very well,’ replied the large man, narrowing his eyes.
‘That is not quite the same thing. In fact, the two things rarely go together.’
The stranger’s voice was soft. He had the accent of a gentleman, but there was something unnatural about his way of speaking – affected, almost effeminate. And his skin appeared to be covered with a thin coating of powder. ‘Are you an actor?’ asked the large man. ‘Do I know you?’
‘I am an apothecary,’ replied the stranger. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a small visiting card. He passed it across the table.
The large man took the card and brought it close to his eyes. ‘Your name is Dr Quilp? And you are an apothecary?’
‘And a writer – among other things.’
‘I am a writer also,’ responded the large man, still studying the stranger’s card. ‘That’s all I am, alas. I have a friend who is a medical man as well as a writer – Arthur Conan Doyle. You know who I mean, of course?’
‘The creator of Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Exactly. Dr Conan Doyle and I have shared the odd adventure over the years and he has instructed me in the Holmesian Science of Deduction and Analysis. He has taught me some of the great man’s tricks. He has impressed on me the importance of observation and the significance of detail.’ Smiling, the large man returned the stranger’s visiting card. ‘I have to say, Dr Quilp, that your hands are rougher than those one would expect to find upon an apothecary.’
‘I have my father’s hands,’ replied the stranger, smoothly. He pocketed the card and then spread out his fingers on the table and gazed down at them. ‘My father was a blacksmith.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She was a lady,’ said Dr Quilp, simply.
The large man took another sip of champagne and contemplated his host. ‘You clearly know me, sir. But do I know you? You seem familiar to me, but I am not sure why. Have we met before?’
‘You have seen me, I think – watching you.’
‘Watching me?’
‘Observing you. I wanted to make sure that it really was you. I did not want to approach the wrong person.’
‘And cause embarrassment?’
‘Your appearance might have changed.’
‘It has changed.’
‘And photographs can be deceptive.’
‘Not only photographs . . .’ The large man tilted his head to one side as he considered his new-found friend. ‘For how long have you been “observing” me, Dr Quilp?’
‘I have been here in Dieppe since the beginning of the week. I arrived on the day of your children’s party.’
‘My little fête in honour of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee? Fifteen children came, you know. I had only invited twelve – the garden at my lodgings is so small. And I hate crowds.’
‘It seemed a very jolly party.’
‘It was the happiest party of my life. We had strawberries and cream, apricots, chocolates, cakes and sirop de grenadine. I promised every child a present and they all wanted musical instruments – tin trumpets and accordions. We sang songs and played games – and they danced for me.’
‘I know. I was watching from the roadway.’
‘It was you, was it?’ said the large man, emptying his glass. ‘I saw you. I thought it was a policeman in plain clothes. I am glad it was only you.’
‘It was a happy gathering.’
‘It was perfect. At seven o’clock, as the children departed, I gave each one a little basket with bonbons in it and a little cake, frosted pink and specially inscribed: “Jubilé de la Reine Victoria”. As they went on their way, they all cried out: “Vive la Reine d’Angleterre! Vive Monsieur Melmoth!”’
‘I know,’ said Dr Quilp. ‘That’s how I learnt your new name.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the large man, ‘my name.’ He sat forward and felt in his coat pocket. ‘I have a card also. It is very like yours. Almost identical, in fact.’ After a moment’s rummaging, he produced his calling card and handed it across the table. He inclined his head. ‘Sebastian Melmoth, at your service.’
Dr Quilp smiled. ‘It is a fine name.’
‘Inspired by a fine novel – Melmoth the Wanderer. The novel was written by my great-uncle by marriage on my mother’s side, so it’s a family name in a way. I know Melmoth’s a mouthful, but it feels appropriate – don’t you agree?’
‘I meant that Sebastian is a fine name.’
‘Sebastian is a beautiful name. It is my favourite Christian name – for saints and sinners.’
The boy from the café had arrived at the table bearing an ice-bucket and a fresh bottle of champagne. Dr Quilp refilled their glasses. ‘I collect Sebastians,’ continued Monsieur Melmoth, ‘– of all kinds. I knew a murderer called Sebastian once.’
‘Tell me about him,’ said Dr Quilp, raising his glass to his companion. ‘I love tales of murder.’
‘Don’t we all?’ replied Melmoth, raising his glass also. ‘There’s the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it . . . according to my friend, Conan Doyle.’
‘Tell me about this murderer named Sebastian,’ insisted Dr Quilp.
‘He was but one of the murderers I’ve known. I have been in prison for the past two years. I take it that you knew that, Dr Quilp?’
‘Yes,’ replied Quilp, lowering his eyes. ‘I did know that.’
‘In politics one meets charlatans. In prison one meets murderers. I met several. Sebastian Atitis-Snake was one. I liked his name – every element of it. Charles Wooldridge was another. I am writing a poem about Wooldridge.’
‘About the murder he committed?’
‘About the day he died. He was hanged in Reading Gaol – a year ago, when I was there.’
‘Tell me your story, Mr Melmoth.’
‘You appear to know my story, Dr Quilp.’
‘I know what I have read.’
‘And what you have researched? I sense you have been assiduous in your researches.’
‘I want to know about your time in prison. The world wants to know about your time in
prison.’
‘The world’s a huge thing.’
‘Yes, and would pay handsomely to read your story, Mr Melmoth.’
‘The world can read my poem.’
‘I think you’ll find that prose is better paid.’
‘Ah, so it’s about money?’ The large man sat back and laughed. He lit a cigarette and gestured with it towards the champagne bottles. ‘This is all about money. Finding me, tracking me down, plying me with Perrier-Jouët . . .’
‘It’s about telling your story, Mr Melmoth – in your own words, in your own way.’
‘And sharing the proceeds with you, Dr Quilp?’
‘I’ll be your scribe, if you’ll allow me.’
‘I can put pen to paper myself, you know.’
‘But will you?’
Melmoth drew slowly on his cigarette and smiled. ‘You are right, Dr Quilp. Left to my own devices, I might not. I never put off until tomorrow what I can put off until the day after.’
‘And if you do, you’ll do it in the form of a “prose poem” or a verse drama or—’
‘Some such overwritten nonsense.’ Melmoth completed Quilp’s sentence, laughing. ‘You appear familiar with my work, dear Doctor. Did you not enjoy The Duchess of Padua?’
‘If we’re to reach the widest audience, Mr Melmoth, we need something that the widest audience can readily comprehend. We need a human story simply told. That is where I hope to be able to assist you.’
‘A human story!’ The large man quivered with amusement. He reached for the second bottle of champagne and replenished his glass. ‘So, Dr Quilp, it turns out that you are not so much an apothecary as a journalist.’
‘I am a writer, Mr Melmoth. If you will tell it to me, I will record your story in plain English – that is all.’
‘I am an artist, Dr Quilp. Art should always remain mysterious. Artists, like gods, must never leave their pedestals.’
‘Two years ago, Mr Melmoth, you fell from yours.’
A lone seagull screeched in the sky. Melmoth, smiling, contemplated his glass and, suddenly, his eyes were filled with tears. ‘Yes, passing strange, was it not? How did I let that happen?’ He turned away from the table and looked towards the archway where the mongrel was still playing among the old newspapers and cabbage leaves. ‘The gods had given me almost everything, Dr Quilp – as I think you know. I had genius, a distinguished name, high social position, brilliancy, intellectual daring. I made art a philosophy, and philosophy an art. I altered the minds of men and the colour of things. There was nothing I said or did that did not make people wonder. I awoke the imagination of my country so that it created myth and legend around me. I summed up all systems in a phrase and all existence in an epigram.’
Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery Page 2
