Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery

by Gyles Brandreth

  During my final weeks at Wandsworth, because of the damage done to my ear when I had fallen in the prison chapel and my continuing bouts of dysentery, despite the protestations of Warder Braddle, I was transferred from my cell on B Wing to the prison infirmary. The infirmary comprised eight separate cells set around a guard-room that also served as the prison doctor’s surgery. There I had a mattress to my bed and food that I could stomach. By day, I still picked oakum, hour after hour, in solitary silence, but, by night, at last, I slept.

  I continued to have dreams, of course – fearful nightmares from which I would wake in a cold sweat, crying out in terror. It was one such that apparently woke me in the early hours of Monday, 18 November 1895. With what sounded like the clang of a mighty cathedral bell, the iron door of my cell burst wide open and there, silhouetted in the doorway, stood Thomas Braddle, his naked arms stretched out towards me, his face aflame.

  ‘I have returned, Wilde. You can’t escape me. I have been where it seems that you are going. I have been to Reading Gaol, by Reading town. It is a pit of shame. I’ve been there, Wilde. I have told them all about you. You’ll not escape me. I’ve made sure of that.’

  He shambled through the door and came, haltingly, towards my bed. ‘Look!’ he cried. He had thrown off his coat. He thrust his naked arms towards me. ‘Look!’

  I gazed on him in horror. He had the appearance of a man flayed alive. Over his whole body his skin glistened, raw and red. His flesh bubbled like a cauldron. I looked up at his pockmarked face: it was a mass of scarlet blisters. Mucus ran from his goblin’s nose. Bile, the colour of absinthe, spewed from his tiny mouth.

  ‘My lips burn,’ he cried. ‘My skin scalds me. My urine has turned to blood. You have done this to me, Wilde. You have infected me. You are diseased, Wilde. Curse you, man.’

  He raised his right arm to strike me. I saw that he had a bottle in his fist. I covered my face with my hands, but the threatened blow did not fall. The effort of the assault overwhelmed him. He slumped, suddenly and hard, onto the stone floor at the foot of my bed, the bottle smashing onto the ground beside him.

  This was not a dream. Within moments it was evident: Warder Thomas Braddle was dead.

  4

  20 November 1895

  Clapham Junction

  I stood inside my locked cell and listened. I stood, hunched against the door, with my ear adjacent to the spyhole. I dared not look through it.

  Rule 12. Every prisoner guilty of any of the following offences will subject himself to punishment: . . . Looking out, or attempting to look out, at window or door of a cell.

  Braddle was definitely dead. I heard the chaplain read a prayer.

  ‘Absolve, we beseech Thee, O Lord, the soul of Thy servant, Thomas Braddle, from every bond of sin, that being raised in the glory of the resurrection, he may be refreshed among the Saints and Elect.

  Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  I heard a rattle of keys and a door open and close. There were footsteps and murmurings and then two other voices spoke. It was the prison governor and the prison surgeon.

  ‘Was he found here?’

  ‘No, in the cell, with the prisoner. We pulled him out, but it was too late.’

  ‘He died as he fell?’

  ‘Or moments after. There was nothing to be done.’

  ‘By God, he’s a hideous sight.’

  ‘He was never very pretty,’ said the doctor quietly.

  The governor laughed. ‘Cause of death?’ he asked.

  ‘He had a weak heart.’

  ‘He looked so strong.’

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive. His heart was weak. His respiration was poor.’

  ‘But these foul eruptions on his skin – like boils . . . And the mucus . . . Revolting. His uniform’s covered in vomit.’

  A fourth voice spoke. It was farther off. ‘He complained of the colic, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said he had a pain in his abdomen, sir. As though his guts was on fire – that’s what he said. And his throat burnt – like a furnace.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked the surgeon.

  ‘Last night, sir – late.’

  ‘He wasn’t on duty yesterday?’ enquired the governor.

  ‘No, sir. It was his day off.’

  ‘But he’s in uniform.’

  ‘He’d been over to Reading, sir, for the day – to the gaol.’

  ‘A busman’s holiday.’ The governor appeared amused.

  ‘Gaoling was in his blood, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he got back late?’ asked the doctor. ‘How late? After midnight?’

  ‘Yes, sir. More like two or three, sir.’

  ‘You were on duty?’ asked the governor.

  ‘Yes, sir. I was on the main gate. He came, asking for the doctor.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘It was the middle of the night. And I think he’d been drinking, sir. He brewed his own. A strong brew. He wasn’t in a fit state, if you know what I mean. I told him to come up here to wait till morning. I thought he’d sleep it off.’

  ‘Did he look like this then?’

  ‘It was the middle of the night, sir. I couldn’t rightly see. He was in a bad way, but I thought it was the drink.’

  ‘Why didn’t you send him home to his wife?’ asked the governor.

  ‘He didn’t have a wife, sir. He lived alone – in digs by the station. He was a bit of a loner.’

  ‘He was a good officer,’ said the governor. ‘He knew his duty – and did it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He was a hard man,’ said the surgeon, ‘with a weak heart. They go suddenly.’

  ‘We’d better get him to the morgue,’ said the governor. ‘When will you do the post-mortem?’

  ‘At once. It’s best.’

  ‘What will you find, do you suppose?’

  ‘Not a great deal. He’s spewed up most of it.’

  The governor laughed. ‘Natural causes?’ he said.

  ‘No reason to doubt it. An abdominal rupture – a burst ulcer, most likely – some kind of intestinal explosion triggering a cardiac arrest. Certain men are inclined to produce ulcers.’

  ‘What kind of men?’ the governor asked. I sensed that he smiled as he spoke.

  ‘Hard men who live alone – and drink more than they should. And brew what they drink themselves.’

  ‘Ulcers – within and without. Not a pretty sight.’ The governor raised his voice. ‘Cover him up and take him to the morgue.’

  I heard feet moving. There must have been more men in the room than I had realised. I heard furniture being moved and grunts of effort as Braddle’s body was lifted up and shifted away.

  ‘I’ll speak with the prisoner now,’ said the governor. ‘It’s Wilde, isn’t it? Braddle’s “sodomite and malingerer”.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I don’t think he knows much. He was cowering on the bed when we arrived.’

  I moved quickly across the cell and stood by the far wall. I heard the keys turn in the locks to my door. I held my cap in my hand and cast my eyes to the ground.

  ‘Good day, Wilde,’ said the governor, stepping into my cell.

  I looked up and stood to attention. I said nothing. The prison governor looked about the cell. His eye caught sight of the shattered glass around my bed. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘Glass, sir. A broken bottle. Warder Braddle was holding it when he fell, sir.’

  ‘Why had he come into your cell, Wilde?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘You’ve no idea?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps he was looking for the doctor. This is the infirmary. Perhaps he needed to lie down. He was unwell – that’s evident.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did he speak to you, Wilde?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but . . .’ I hesitated.

  ‘But you don’t recall what he said?’

  ‘No, sir.’ />
  ‘Not a word?’

  I hesitated. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You were half asleep?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘As I supposed.’ With his foot the governor spread some of the shards of glass about the floor. ‘Warder Braddle did not like you, Wilde – we both know that. But he was a good man. He knew his duty and did it.’

  I said nothing. The governor looked at me, smiling. ‘Do you have any complaints to make against him, Wilde?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. It’s best not to speak ill of the dead.’ He nodded and turned to leave. ‘Clear up this glass before you take your breakfast. I am sorry your night was disturbed.’

  ‘May I ask a question, sir?’

  The governor turned back to look at me. ‘It’s not about Warder Braddle?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Ask your question.’

  ‘Am I to be transferred to Reading, sir?’

  ‘You are, Wilde. I assumed you knew that.’

  ‘I had heard something. I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Yes, Wilde, you are leaving us very shortly. I am sorry that Wandsworth has not suited you. Ours is a prison for men who are men – if you take my meaning.’ I said nothing. The governor smiled. ‘Do you know much about Reading, Wilde?’

  ‘I believe Jane Austen went to school there.’

  ‘Is that so? No doubt that is why Mr Haldane felt you’d be more comfortable there than here.’ He laughed. ‘Clear up the glass, Wilde – and don’t cut yourself. Good day.’

  ‘Good day, sir.’

  On Wednesday, 20 November 1895, I was transferred from Wandsworth Prison to Reading Gaol. Of all the days of my incarceration it was the most humiliating. I was taken by train. From two o’clock till half past two on that day I had to stand on the centre platform of Clapham Junction in convict dress, and handcuffed, for the world to look at. I had been removed from the prison infirmary at Wandsworth without a moment’s notice being given to me. Of all possible objects I was the most grotesque. When people saw me, they laughed. Each train as it came up swelled the audience. Nothing could exceed their amusement. That was, of course, before they knew who I was. As soon as they had been informed, they laughed still more. And one man chose to spit at me. For half an hour I stood there in the grey November rain surrounded by a jeering mob.

  For a year after that wretched afternoon I wept every day at the same hour and for the same space of time. That is not such a tragic thing as possibly it sounds. To those who are in prison tears are a part of every day’s experience. A day in prison on which one does not weep is a day on which one’s heart is hard, not a day on which one’s heart is happy.

  I had been naive to be elated by the prospect of Reading Gaol. Now that my tormentor Braddle was no more, what would Reading have that Wandsworth lacked? From the moment that I first saw the place, from the window of the railway carriage as the train drew in at Reading station, I felt a cold hand grip my very soul.

  Reading Gaol is built like a fortress. It has high stone walls, broad ramparts and tall turrets at each of its four corners. Its architecture would do credit to the imagination of the Brothers Grimm. It is a castle of despair.

  On arrival, I was escorted through the outer gates, across a courtyard, through more gates, into the main prison building, and then along an echoing corridor to the prison’s central hub: the inspection hall. Four wings of cell blocks radiated from the hub, like points on a compass, and from the inspection hall at the centre the warders could see the door of every one of the prison’s two hundred and fifty cells.

  On a dais at the centre of the hall, seated on his throne – a high-backed oak armchair – was the king of the castle, truly master of all he surveyed: the prison governor. His name was Lieutenant Colonel Henry Isaacson. I came to know him well. He had the eyes of a ferret, the body of an ape and the soul of a rat.

  I stood a yard in front of him, handcuffed and desolate. He leant towards me to address me confidentially. ‘Prison is for punishment, Wilde,’ he began. ‘I believe in the power of punishment. I believe in the discipline of discipline.’ He clasped his hands together and cracked his knuckles – noisily. It was a favourite trick of his. ‘I am proud that the Prison Commissioners have chosen Reading Gaol as the one most suitable for you to serve the remainder of your sentence in,’ he went on complacently. ‘I trust you will profit from your time here. Live by the Lord and abide by the rules and you’ll not go wrong. I am a stickler for the rules, Wilde. You should be clear about that.’

  He sat back and considered me with his small and beady eyes. I sensed at once that he did not like what he saw. The feeling was entirely reciprocal, of course, but I doubt that my eyes betrayed me: they were too full of tears.

  ‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘you will sleep in the infirmary. Tomorrow, the surgeon will see you. Then you will be taken to your cell. You will be on C Ward. Look to your right. There it is. You will be on the third floor, up on the gantry, there on the left – in the third cell. C.3.3. – that is where you will dwell while you are here. C.3.3. – that is how you will be known while you are here. C.3.3. – that is your name now, Wilde. You will answer to no other.’

  And I, my lord, I thought, I – Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde – am I to say nothing? I said nothing.

  ‘You will wear your number on your uniform at all times. When you are not in your cell, you will wear your cap at all times. You will remain silent at all times. You will not communicate in any manner whatsoever with any other prisoner. Should you attempt to do so, you will face the consequences.’

  The governor shifted his ungainly body in his chair and cracked his knuckles. I sensed the interview was coming to an end. ‘Warder Stokes will escort you to the bathhouse now. He will take you via the punishment block, C.3.3. All prisoners are taken there on the day of their arrival. The wise ones – and they are few, alas – never see the punishment block again.’ He nodded to one of the warders standing at my side. ‘The prisoner needs a haircut,’ he added.

  ‘Must it be cut?’ I cried. ‘You don’t know what it means to me.’

  The governor looked to Warder Stokes. ‘See to it.’

  In the bathhouse there was a mirror. When Warder Stokes had cut my hair, I caught sight of my shorn head in the looking glass. It was Humpty Dumpty gone to seed. I put on the hideous prison cap and screwed up my eyes to witness my reflection through the slitted eyeholes. I laughed – that I might not weep. The horror of prison life is the contrast between the grotesqueness of one’s aspect and the tragedy in one’s soul.

  In the infirmary cell that night – my first night at Reading Gaol – I lay half waking, half sleeping. In my mind’s eye, I saw Constance and our boys. I saw my darling wife as she was when I had first known her, with her slim figure and her violet eyes, with her heavy brown hair and her wonderful ivory hands – hands which drew music from the piano so sweet that the birds stopped singing to listen to her. And I saw our boys playing together in Kensington Gardens, chasing their wooden hoops, running, laughing, strong and free. But as I ran to join them, they vanished – and when I turned to look for them I found myself on the platform at Clapham Junction, standing in the rain, handcuffed, unable to move, surrounded by a jeering mob.

  I closed my eyes against the pain. In my head I heard the scrape of metal and the harsh clatter of the pulling back of bolts. My eyes opened as the blackness of the cell was broken. A small envelope of light shone in the middle distance. I saw eyes looking at me from behind the barred hatch in my cell door. They were the eyes of Warder Braddle.

  5

  21 November 1895

  Warder Stokes

  In the morning, at break of day, I was brought breakfast by Warder Stokes. He was a thin young man, with reddish hair and greenish eyes. He had broken teeth and a kindly, freckled face.

  ‘Why do you do this?’ I asked.

  ‘You mus
tn’t ask questions,’ he said, handing me my tin dish of oatmeal gruel.

  ‘You don’t belong here,’ I said. ‘Why do you do this? Tell me.’

  ‘I do this because my father did it. And his father before him.’

  ‘Is that your father’s uniform you’re wearing?’ I asked. ‘It’s not your own.’

  ‘How do you know?’ He looked at me suspiciously.

  ‘It is your father’s uniform.’

  ‘Are you some kind of detective? How do you know?’

  ‘It’s worn and shiny at the elbows. Some of the buttons are old and tarnished and some of the buttons are brand new. And it’s too big for you.’

  ‘Was you in the police?’ he asked sharply. ‘Are you a bent copper?’

  ‘I am a friend of the man who invented Sherlock Holmes,’ I said with some dignity. ‘Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘Eat your breakfast,’ ordered the warder, handing me a spoon.

  I smiled up at him. The simple fact of his youth and his freckled face had lifted my spirit. ‘So “turnkeys” come in families,’ I said, ‘like royal princes and barristers’ clerks.’

  ‘Eat,’ he replied. ‘And when you’ve eaten, clean the cell before chapel. Chapel muster’s at nine.’

  ‘Am I not to see the surgeon this morning?’ I asked.

  ‘The surgeon’s not well,’ said my youthful warder. ‘He will see you later – or tomorrow.’

  ‘The prison surgeon is unwell!’ I cried, choking on my gruel. For some reason, the notion amused me vastly. ‘Physician, heal thyself!’ I said.

  ‘Quiet!’ ordered Warder Stokes. ‘You must not speak.’

  ‘Physician heal thyself . . . It is a line from the Bible . . . That must be allowed – surely?’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘It’s from the Gospel according to St Luke, Chapter 4, Verse 23 . . . The governor would permit it, I am certain.’ I looked up at my freckled guard. ‘Do you read your Bible, Warder Stokes?’

  The young man made no reply.

  ‘Can you read?’ I asked. I felt the tears pricking at my eyes. ‘Let me teach you to read while I am here. Please God, let me do something useful.’