‘I’m glad of that,’ said Oscar. ‘You can be my eyes and ears while I’m away.’
‘Your eyes and ears?’ I repeated.
‘Yes, Robert,’ he answered solemnly, dipping a forkful of mackerel into the fried egg yolk. ‘There’s something rotten within the Compagnie La Grange. First, a dog dies and nobody cares. Then, a man dies and nobody cares. What is going on?’
‘Traquair took his own life, surely?’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ He put the piece of fish into his mouth and chewed on it, slowly.
‘The room was locked from the inside, Oscar.’
‘It seemed to be, certainly.’
‘But you found the key yourself — on the floor, by the divan.’
‘I did.’
I put aside my napkin and leant earnestly towards my friend. ‘I saw the scene with my own eyes, Oscar. It looked very much like suicide to me.’
Oscar finished his mouthful and mopped his lips. ‘In a theatre, “setting the scene” is what they do best. It looked very much like suicide to me, also. But was it? That’s all I’m asking.’
I took a sip of the yellow wine and contemplated my friend. ‘Do you honestly think that Traquair was murdered?’ I asked.
He shrugged and raised his own glass. He swirled the wine beneath his nostrils. He breathed in its bouquet. ‘The aroma of roses and passion fruit … A crisp Gewurztraminer is a perfect breakfast wine, don’t you agree?’
‘Do you honestly think that Traquair was murdered?’ I repeated.
‘The unfortunate Marie Antoinette was murdered, that’s for sure.’
‘But who would want to murder Traquair?’ I persisted. ‘What possible motive could anyone have for such a thing?’
Oscar laid down his glass. ‘Who would want to murder Traquair? You might, Robert — for a start.’
‘Me?’ I expostulated.
Oscar smiled. ‘You now have his job, after all.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Oscar.’ I laughed. ‘Me — murder Traquair? That’s impossible.’
‘Not impossible, Robert. Improbable, I grant you. We were together when he died; in a haze of absinthe, as I recall. But perhaps, as I slept at the table in the bar behind the theatre, you slipped out and did the dreadful deed.’
‘I did not murder Traquair,’ I insisted. ‘I barely knew the man—’
‘And how well do I know you, Robert?’ Oscar interrupted, sitting back and gazing at me appraisingly. ‘We met only two weeks ago!’
‘You cannot believe, surely—’
‘What am I to believe?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow. ‘By your own admission, you are living under an assumed name. You tell me that Wordsworth was your great-grandfather and that you shared a house with Victor Hugo as a boy. It all sounds a bit far-fetched. What am I to believe, Robert?’
‘But we are friends, Oscar!’ I cried. ‘Surely, we are friends.’
‘And Judas was Our Lord’s favourite apostle,’ he answered, picking up an oyster from the dish that lay between us.
I pushed my chair away from the table and got to my feet. ‘I protest, Oscar. I did not murder Washington Traquair.’
Oscar swallowed the oyster and waved his napkin at me, laughing. ‘Sit down, Robert. I’m teasing you. Sit down, boy.’ He leant across the table and placed an oyster on my plate. ‘I believe you, Robert. I trust you. That’s why I want you to be my eyes and ears while I’m away.’
I resumed my seat and took up the oyster. ‘How long will you be gone?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. He raised his wine glass towards me by way of reassurance. ‘I’ll write to you as soon as I know my plans. And you must wire me with anything suspicious that you see or hear. We’ll keep in touch.’
‘Why must you go so suddenly? Are you really going to meet Queen Victoria’s would-be assassin?’
‘Apparently so. George Palmer has said that he will arrange it and I am intrigued.’ He smiled at me. ‘I collect unusual people, as you know.’
I looked at him closely.
He lowered his eyes and laid his hand to rest on the biscuit tin at his side. ‘But you are right, Robert,’ he continued. ‘There is another, more pressing reason for my sudden departure. I have a duty to perform. I must see that my poor valet is buried in his native soil. I must return Traquair’s mortal remains to the United States of America.’
‘America—’
He raised a hand to silence me. ‘Traquair was an only child, Robert, an orphan, the son of slaves, the first free man in his family. We did not know each other well, but he trusted me — as I trust you. Because of me, he left the land of his birth and came to a foreign country to meet his death. I persuaded him. I’m to blame. The least I can do is see him safely home and ensure that he gets a decent burial.’
‘Couldn’t he get a decent burial here?’
Oscar shook his head and laughed. ‘In France? Traquair died in a theatre, Robert. You recall La Grange’s rebuke to me last night? It was justified. In France, in respectable France, the theatre is beyond the pale. In the eyes of the Church a theatre is the anteroom to hell! Even the great Molière died without sacrament, buried in the dead of night in the dismal corner of the cemetery reserved for unbaptised infants. What hope for Traquair, a mere dresser — and a blackamoor?’
I skewered a snail from out of its shell. ‘Isn’t Molière buried at Père Lachaise?’ I said.
‘Oh, now he is, yes, beneath a mighty monument. Now, pilgrims come to kiss his tomb.’ My friend chuckled softly and took a sip of wine. ‘There is no logic to hypocrisy.’
‘Did you not go to the police last night?’ I asked.
‘Dr Ferrand was adamant that nothing would be gained by doing so. Accidental death by gas poisoning is a common occurrence. And death by suicide is commonplace, too. In Paris, apparently, there are at least three suicides each day. In the winter months, according to Ferrand, four or more. We didn’t go to the police. The good doctor insisted that Traquair’s death would be of no interest to them. We went to the morgue.’ The waiter arrived to clear away the entrées. Oscar lit a cigarette. ‘It was a sobering experience.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve been. It’s open to the public.’
‘Did you go on a Saturday night? My dear, the crowds! And the noise! I had no idea that death could be so popular. The superintendent told me that they are thinking of introducing an admission charge.’
‘You met the superintendent?’
‘Oh, yes. Dr Ferrand knows all the bigwigs down at the morgue. We were given preferential treatment. As a personal favour to Ferrand, the superintendent’s deputy came to the Théâtre La Grange himself to oversee the removal of the body. He brought with him two of his ablest “corpse-men”, as they are called. They were discretion personified. While Edmond La Grange was merrily fretting and strutting his stuff upon the stage, in his dresser’s cubiculo the corpse-men were bundling poor Washington Traquair into a winding sheet. I watched them as they went about their business.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘You know?’ he asked. ‘I thought you were on the other side of the stage, watching La Grange.’
‘I was. I went into Traquair’s room later and recognised a trace of lily of the valley in the air. It’s your favourite fragrance, is it not?’
Oscar drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Excellent, Robert,’ he murmured. ‘You have the makings of a fine detective.’ He sat back and resumed his narrative. ‘I watched the corpse-men as they wrapped Traquair into the winding sheet and hoisted him on their shoulders. They carried him through the darkened wings and out of the stage door without attracting the least attention. You could commit any crime of your choosing in the wings of a theatre. When the performance is in progress all eyes are upon the stage.
‘Ferrand and I travelled to the morgue in the back of the body-cart with the two corpse-men and the bundle that was Traquair wedged between our feet. At the morgue, despite the lateness of the hour, the superintendent welcomed us in person
. He ordered that Traquair be stored in a side room, away from public gaze. He was a good-humoured, handsome man and a generous host. He took us to his office — a small room with an internal window that overlooked the main hall of the morgue — and gave us brandy, while we discussed what was to be done. Rather a fine brandy, a Coeur de Lion Calvados. I told him that I wanted to return Traquair to America. I told him that I felt duty-bound to do so. He said that, in principle, that would not present a problem — at least so far as the French authorities were concerned. Provided that I was ready, willing and able to accept custody of Traquair’s remains, he would happily sign the necessary papers.
‘And did he do so?’
‘Yes. There and then.’
‘And where is Traquair’s body now?’ I asked.
‘Here.’ Oscar tapped the biscuit tin that stood beside his wine glass on the table. ‘Traquair’s body was cremated at seven o’clock this morning. Because he was not a Catholic, there was no difficulty about him being cremated on a Sunday.’ With both hands Oscar lifted the biscuit tin and held it out towards me. ‘The ashes are still warm,’ he added, smiling, as the waiter arrived with the poulette de Racan rôtie entière.
11
A Mother’s Touch
Clutching a single capacious handbag in one hand and holding the biscuit tin containing Traquair’s remains under his arm with the other, Oscar left Paris for London by the two o’clock boat-train on Sunday, 18 February 1883. I accompanied him to the Gare du Nord and waved him on his way. As he stood at the window of his compartment, he looked down on me gazing up at him from the platform below. He ran his tongue across his teeth — it was a trick of his when he was emotionally engaged — and smiled and mouthed the words, ‘Au revoir’ . Our friendship was only a fortnight old, yet I knew that it would last a lifetime. I had made the acquaintance of several of the great figures of our time, but already I sensed that this was the most remarkable of them. He was just seven years my senior, yet he seemed to me to be as much a father as a friend. He was playful, yet he had authority. I wanted his respect as well as his affection.
‘I depend upon you, Robert,’ he called through the carriage window. ‘You’re my eyes and ears, remember.’ I could scarcely hear him above the station’s roar. ‘I’ll write. I’ll keep in touch, I promise.’ Gusts of black smoke swirled between us. ‘Take care, Robert!’
Guards shouted; whistles blew; the railway’s engine belched and rumbled; steam hissed; sparks flew; the train juddered to life; and he was gone.
He was as good as his word. On the morning after his departure I received a brief wire reporting his safe arrival in London. Within twenty-four hours I received a further, fuller telegram:
DEAR EYES AND EARS WHILE YOU SEARCH FOR THE CITY OF GOLD WHERE THE FLUTE PLAYER NEVER WEARIES AND THE SPRING NEVER FADES KINDLY ALSO SEEK OUT ULTIMATE SOURCE OF GAS LEADING TO DRESSERS ROOM. IS THERE A TAP OUTSIDE THE ROOM WHERE THE GAS MAY BE SWITCHED ON AND OFF AND IF SO WHERE IS THE TAP LOCATED?
Twenty-four hours later, I received another telegram:
QUESTIONS ARE NEVER INDISCREET. ANSWERS SOMETIMES ARE. IF I AM RIGHT IN THINKING THAT NEITHER OF THE TWINS WAS IN THE CAST OF LE CID ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON GENTLY ENQUIRE AS TO THEIR WHEREABOUTS DURING THE FATEFUL MATINEE.
And then one more:
REMEMBER THAT LOVE IS AN ILLUSION ROBERT AND NOT HALF AS USEFUL AS LOGIC. LOVE DOES NOT PROVE ANYTHING AND IS ALWAYS TELLING ONE THINGS THAT ARE NOT GOING TO HAPPEN OR MAKING ONE BELIEVE THINGS THAT ARE NOT TRUE. HOW IS MADEMOISELLE DE LA TOURBILLON?
Finally, on the Friday morning following Oscar’s return to England, a long letter arrived for me at my room in the rue de Beauce.
Oakley Street,
London SW
20.ii.83
Dear Robert,
How are you? Where are you? Is all as you would have it be? I have thought of you often these past forty-eight hours, wandering in violet valleys with your honey-coloured hair, pursuing our enquiries and Mademoiselle Gabrielle de la Tourbillon with equal zeal — and, I trust, with equal success. Do you yet have the answers to my questions? And has the matchless mademoiselle yet yielded to your charms? Tell me, cher ami. I need to know.
I have not written until now — it is midnight on Tuesday — because I have not had a moment in which to do so. Much has happened since we parted at the Gare du Nord. The train journey from Paris to Calais was painful. In my haste to pack, I failed to bring either Shakespeare or Virgil, pencil or pen, so that I could neither read a book nor write one. Hour upon hour, I stared out of the carriage window, marvelling at the dreariness of the French countryside, pitying the pastoral poets and reflecting on the fact that every great writer in history has been nourished and civilised by city life. Shakespeare wrote nothing but doggerel before he came to London and never penned a line after he left. When we reached Calais I attempted to buy a book, but none was to be found — not even for ready money. There were plenty of newspapers, of course, and thinking to distract myself during the Channel crossing, I bought every one that the news vendor had to offer. What a mistake! Regardless of the country of origin, every newspaper now chronicles with degrading avidity the sins of the second-rate, and with the conscientiousness of the illiterate gives us accurate and prosaic details of the doings of people of absolutely no interest whatever.
By the time I reached Dover, I was close to despair. In the customs hall at the harbour, I waited patiently until my turn came to present my bags for inspection and the customs officer enquired, “Ave you anything to declare?’ when I answered, without thinking, ‘Indeed I do. Journalism is unreadable and literature is not read. The age of the Philistine is upon us’ the wretched man, who had been about to put his chalk-mark upon my bag and wave me on my way, blinked and looked at me, uncomprehending. He turned and called to a colleague, ‘We’ve got a right one here.’ Within moments I was surrounded by a posse of fascinated customs officers: half a dozen red-faced men, one of whom — alas! — recognised me. ‘This is Mr h’Oscar Wilde, lads,’ he announced, ‘a proper Clown Joey. You must’ve ‘eard of ‘im. Making a mockery of us poor customs men is his favourite party piece.’
I protested — in vain. I apologised — to no avail. ‘Search his bags,’ ordered the officer. ‘Where are they?’ ‘I only have the one,’ I murmured, lamely, opening it for inspection. The man, with grubby hands, pulled out my shirts and ties and bottles of cologne and held them up to the mocking gaze of his fellow officers. When it was clear that my case contained no contraband, he turned his attention to the biscuit tin. ‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘Biscuits,’ I lied, ‘French biscuits.’ ‘Oh, French biscuits?’ he sneered. ‘We like a biscuit with our tea, don’t we, lads? Aren’t you going to offer them around, Mr Wilde?’ ‘They’re a present for my mother,’ I bleated, now holding the tin close to my chest. ‘I’m sure your mother would like you to share your French biscuits with your English friends,’ leered the man, leaning towards me and seizing the tin from out of my grasp. As I pleaded, ‘No, please, no!’ the customs officer prised open the lid of the biscuit tin, scattering Traquair’s ashes all about him as he did so.
It was more than an hour before I was released from the customs hall at Dover harbour. My persecutor-in-chief left his colleagues to their business as he marched me, in full and humiliating view of my fellow passengers, back along the line to what he called his ‘station’. It was like a station of the cross to me! ‘What are you hiding in ‘ere, Mr Wilde?’ he demanded, as his filthy fingers rummaged around in Traquair’s remains. ‘Nothing!’ I muttered pathetically. ‘So it seems,’ he grunted, eventually, taking his dirty, dusty, empty hand out of the ashes and wiping it on his coat sleeve. A gleam came into his eye. ‘Is it snuff?’ he enquired suddenly, taking a pinch of poor Traquair and applying a dash of ash to each of his nostrils. ‘No,’ I protested. He sniffed and peered suspiciously into the open tin. ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, as further inspiration struck. ‘Opium powder!’ He licked his forefinger and dipped it into the grey
ash as a child might into a bag of sherbet. He tasted poor Traquair’s mortal remains! I laugh that I may not weep — but I should weep, Robert. That I allowed this to happen! This was no way to treat a good and faithful servant.
Unsurprisingly, Traquair’s ashes were not to the customs officer’s taste. He produced a red hand kerchief from his pocket and dabbed his tongue and lips. He placed the open tin on his desk and looked me steadily in the eye. ‘What ‘ave you ‘ere, Mr Wilde? Come now, sir, I need an answer.
And, Robert, the gods graciously provided me with one. I looked back at my interlocutor, opened my mouth and heard myself saying, with impressive authority, ‘If you must know, I am newly returned from Naples. I have been on an expedition to Pompeii and Herculaneum. This ash is drawn from the crater of Mount Vesuvius itself. I am taking it to the British Museum. I have no doubt that Professor Plutarch in the Department of Antiquities will vouch for me.’
I was released at once. It seems people will believe anything, providing it is quite incredible.
When, eventually, I reached Victoria — several hours later than I should have done: inevitably my sojourn in the customs hall caused me to miss the on going boat-train — I deposited Traquair (or what was left of him; about four-fifths in fact) with my handbag in the station cloakroom. I did not think it prudent — or seemly — to continue carting the poor man’s remains about with me in a biscuit tin until I had fixed on some settled plan as to what their eventual destiny should be.
From Victoria I took a cab to Oakley Street where my darling mother did what mothers are supposed to do: she gave me shelter, she soothed my brow, she solved my problem! Lady Wilde is a remarkable woman, Robert. You will meet her one day and admire and love her as I do. She is all that Maman La Grange is not! She is selfless, youthful, spirited and full of high intelligence and bold imagination. I told her all that had befallen poor Traquair, and she asked if I had yet said a prayer for him. I confessed to her that I had not and she rebuked me. I told her that I wanted his ashes laid to rest on American soil, and she answered that it must and would be done. We’d find a way. I told her how I had left him in a biscuit tin in a handbag in the cloakroom at Victoria Station! ‘Victoria Station?’ she cried. (Oh, Robert, would that you had heard that cry! Bernhardt herself could not have swooped on the words to such imperious effect!) ‘Victoria Station! Oscar, how could you?’ ‘It was the Brighton Line,’ I pleaded, by way of mitigation. ‘The line is immaterial,’ she thundered, and then, suddenly, the clouds parted and a light dawned in her eyes and, getting to her feet, and turning to me with an undisguised note of triumph in her bearing, she concluded, ‘But the handbag suggests a solution, does it not?’
Oscar Wilde and the Dead Man's Smile Page 12
