Conan Doyle glanced around the room. The tables nearest ours were all unoccupied. We had our privacy. ‘Begin at the beginning,’ he suggested. ‘Begin with the gifted and beautiful twin children, Agnès and Bernard La Grange.’ He helped himself to a slice of lemon and ginger sponge and looked up slyly at our mutual friend. ‘They were not La Grange’s children, after all?’
‘Bravo, Arthur! The twins were not La Grange’s children, after all.’ Oscar dropped two lumps of sugar into his teacup with a little flourish. ‘Their father was not their father and their mother was not their mother.’ As he stirred his tea, he glanced in my direction. ‘Your eyes are downcast, Robert.’
‘I am confused,’ I said.
‘And a little hurt, I think. You have taken great care in writing up your account of my adventures in America and Paris. At my behest, you kept copious notes at the time. Over the years, we have discussed the details in extenso. But now, suddenly, you sense that I have not always taken you into my full confidence and you feel betrayed.’
‘Not betrayed,’ I said quickly. ‘That’s too strong a word.’ I looked up at him. ‘Disappointed, perhaps.’
My friend rested his hand on mine. ‘Forgive me, good friend,’ he continued, speaking gently in that delicate, lilting way of his. ‘I have been remiss, but consider what I am, Robert, and try to understand. I am a story-teller and a playwright. I need to keep my readers turning the page until the last; I want my audience on the edge of their seats until the curtain falls. I must have my dénouement. Don’t begrudge me my element of surprise.’
I laughed. And I forgave him: he was irresistible. ‘I begrudge you nothing, Oscar,’ I said, now taking some sponge cake for myself, ‘but I’m confused nonetheless. I thought that their mother had died at the time that the twins were born.’
‘Alys Lenoir, the wife of Edmond La Grange, did indeed die soon after the twins were born. She took her own life — as you tell us in your fine narrative. But the twins were not her children and Alys Lenoir could not live with the lie of pretending that they were. She could not live with herself, having failed to provide the great La Grange with any heirs.’
‘The twins were not her children?’ I repeated. ‘But she was half Indian, from Pondicherry. The twins looked like her.’
‘No,’ said Oscar. ‘The twins looked like beautiful young people with Indian blood because that is what they were, but Alys Lenoir was not their mother. Their mother was a maid, a servant-girl from Goa. I have met her, as it happens.’
‘What?’ I gasped.
‘From Goa?’ murmured Conan Doyle. ‘An Indian girl from Portuguese Goa …’ He banged the table with his teaspoon. ‘Carlos Branco was Portuguese, wasn’t he? This girl worked for the family of Carlos Branco?’
‘She did, Arthur. Well done.’ Oscar beamed upon the creator of Sherlock Holmes, who rewarded himself with a look of quiet satisfaction and a slice of cherry cake. Oscar continued: ‘Branco was enchanted by the girl. Branco seduced her. Men, being men, do these things. She was a servant, and not much more than a child, and easily seduced. And when Branco’s friend and employer, Edmond La Grange, was desperate to find a woman who could give him children, Branco proposed his little, simple-minded Goan serving-girl for the purpose. La Grange took her, gratefully. She was the answer to his prayers. Where else in Paris could he have found a girl of Indian blood to be the mother of his children? She fell pregnant at once and when the twins were born, La Grange presented them to his wife as their children — her children, La Grange children, ready-made. The Goan girl supplied the great La Grange with his heirs and Carlos Branco secured his position as La Grange’s “leading character man” for life. To La Grange the La Grange inheritance was everything — and he knew his secret was safe with Carlos Branco. Branco was his creature.’
‘What happened to the Goan girl?’ asked Arthur.
‘La Grange instructed Branco to dispose of her, and Branco did as he was told. Branco always did as he was told. Branco lived in awe of La Grange — and in fear of him. For all his bluff and bluster, Branco was a weak man. Strong actors often are.’
From my coat pocket I produced my notebook. I turned its pages, trying to gather together the strands of Oscar’s story. ‘You are telling us that the twins were not fathered by Edmond La Grange: they were fathered by Carlos Branco. And that the Goan girl was already pregnant by Branco when she was taken by La Grange.’
‘Exactly so.’
‘And the world knew none of this, Oscar? No one suspected?’
‘Why should they? Alys Lenoir was dead and Branco said not a word. Why would he? He was ashamed of what he had done. The twins had the look of their supposed half-Indian mother because they were part-Indian, too. And they appeared to have some of the talent of their famous father, Edmond La Grange, because they were the children of another fine actor —Carlos Branco.’
Conan Doyle flicked some crumbs of cake off his heavy moustache. ‘When did La Grange discover the truth?’
‘Not for twenty years: not until the day of the first run-through of the La Grange production of Hamlet. It was, in Sarah Bernhardt’s estimation, “the perfect Hamlet”, you’ll recall. Branco watched Agnès and Bernard in rehearsal: they were magnificent, and they were his children! They had genius, and it was genius that belonged to him and not La Grange! He could bear to keep silent no longer. He revealed his secret — not to the world, but to La Grange, and to the children, Agnès and Bernard. He did it not to hurt, but to undeceive. He did it because he was so proud. And he was glad that he had done it. On the first night of Hamlet, he told Robert:
“I am happier than I have ever been.”‘
Conan Doyle’s fingers were spread out on top the manuscript that lay on the table before him. ‘Carlos Branco told the twins that he was their true father. Did he tell them about the Goan girl? Did he tell them who their true mother had been?’
‘I cannot be sure,’ said Oscar, ‘but I think not.’ He glanced towards Doyle’s fingers on the manuscript. ‘You’ll recall from Robert’s splendid narrative — chapter twenty-two, I think — that Bernard, on learning of Agnès’s supposed suicide, said, “It’s in the blood.” Bernard believed that he and his sister were the children of Alys Lenoir.’
Oscar leant forward, resting his elbows on the table and bringing the tips of his fingers together in front of his chin. ‘Carlos Branco wanted to share his pride in his children while continuing to hide his shame in the matter of the Goan girl.’ He glanced towards me. ‘Robert and I arrived on the scene at the moment of revelation — or just after it. We came towards La Grange’s dressing room and heard voices raised within. We heard a woman sobbing — whether with tears of sorrow or of laughter we could not tell. We heard Carlos Branco declare, “Mais en fin!” — we were certain of that.’
‘“Mais en fin!” — “But at last!”‘ I translated.
Arthur lifted his hand from the manuscript and raised it as though he were a schoolboy anxious to make a point in class. ‘Branco was Portuguese,’ he volunteered. ‘How accurate was his French accent? Could he have been saying, “Mes enfants!” — “My children!”?’
‘He could,’ answered Oscar, smiling. ‘It was one or the other, for sure.’ Oscar lifted his cup of sweet tea and raised it in Dr Doyle’s direction. He took a sip, before continuing: ‘When we arrived at his dressing-room door La Grange seemed perturbed, distraught, but he recovered himself at once. “Old Polonius here has had some novel ideas,” he told us. “We’ve been taking them on board.”‘ Oscar looked towards me. ‘Do you recall the four faces in the dressing room that afternoon, Robert? They were not easy to interpret. We sensed the presence of mixed emotions, but who was feeling what — and why — we could not tell.’
‘A secret should be kept a secret,’ murmured Conan Doyle, now picking up crumbs from his plate with his forefinger. ‘Once it is no longer a secret, it becomes a serpent — it goes where it will.’
‘So it would seem, Arthur,’ replied Oscar, smiling at our Scottish f
riend’s gnomic utterance. ‘Branco’s revelation shocked La Grange, angered and confused him. He struck his friend’s name from the visitors’ book at his hide-away in the rue de la Pierre Levée. What Branco had told him had turned his world upside down. But, in one respect, at least, Branco’s startling revelation gave La Grange a freedom that had not been his before. Edmond and Agnès were indeed drawn to one another — but Dr Blanche was right. They were “good Catholics”: for each of them, as for most of us, incest would have been a temptation too far. The old man had lusted after the young woman, as old men will, and the girl had loved the older man, as sometimes happens. It had been a futile attraction, they knew that. But if Edmond La Grange and Agnès were not father and daughter …’
Oscar lowered his eyes discreetly as Conan Doyle widened his and breathed: ‘They could become lovers. There was now no taboo.’
‘Exactly,’ declared Oscar, looking up and smiling. ‘And so it came to pass.’
Conan Doyle found a napkin with which to wipe his lips. ‘My, my,’ he murmured.
‘But the ecstasy did not last long,’ Oscar continued blithely. ‘That’s ecstasy’s way, alas. Agnès was excited to have Edmond as her lover and was ready to share her joy with the world. “I’m free at last,” she said when we all had supper at Le Chat Noir. But La Grange was not so certain. He was wary of the girl’s emotional instability, alarmed by her devotion and conscious that his desire for her was unlikely to stand the test of time. Love might last, but lust rarely does. There was no future for them as father and daughter — nor as man and mistress. A mistress needs to be like Gabrielle de la Tourbillon — a woman of the world who knows the rules. Agnès, young and vulnerable, and passionately in love with him, could only bring brief enchantment. Ultimately, it was doomed. Her love for him made public could well bring down the mighty house of La Grange. The great actor was keenly aware of his profession’s vulnerability to the wrong kind of scandal; he made that very clear to us in an unexpected outburst in his dressing room. When it came to his calling, Edmond La Grange was a passionate man. But, as a character, he was “a cold fish”. Sarah Bernhardt, who knew him well, told us so. Edmond La Grange quickly realised that this lovesick child would prove more trouble than she was worth. She must be disposed of. She was.’
Conan Doyle’s brow was deeply furrowed. He was contemplating a further slice of lemon and ginger sponge.
‘And Bernard?’ I asked.
‘What of Bernard?’ answered Oscar derisively. ‘He was not La Grange’s son. We heard him say it — more than once. “What do I care for Edmond La Grange?” And we heard La Grange publicly repudiate his so-called son — had we but realised it. At the dress rehearsal, when La Grange told Bernard that it did not matter which wig he wore as Hamlet and Maman bleated about the “La Grange tradition”, Edmond declared: “The tradition is dead — forget it.”
‘To La Grange, Bernard was now another man’s bastard — the old fool Polonius’s bastard — and too dissolute, too fond of laudanum. To have such a creature pretending to be the next La Grange: it was not to be endured. Nor to be risked. Might not Bernard reveal the truth of his paternity? La Grange decided to rid himself of Bernard too. What did he care for either of these young people? They were not his children. They were impostors. And, as actors, were they so extraordinary? Were they really any better than the understudies? Wasn’t it the name “La Grange” that had given them their special allure?’
Conan Doyle was cutting his slice of cake into squares the size of postage stamps. ‘So you are telling us that Edmond La Grange killed Agnès and Bernard,’ he ruminated.
‘Not with his own hands. He had them killed. He was a man accustomed to giving orders — and to having them obeyed.’
Conan Doyle looked up sharply. ‘Who killed them then?’
‘The same person who killed the wretched dog and poor Traquair,’ said Oscar quietly. ‘A creature who did La Grange’s bidding — and did it in his style.’
‘Back to the elements,’ murmured Conan Doyle. ‘Earth, air, water, fire.’
‘Yes,’ said Oscar, with a sudden burst of energy. ‘The use of the elements gave a pattern to the murders. It was both a poetic idea and theatrical: typical of La Grange. Commit four murders and commit each one involving a different element. Epicurus was fascinated by the four elements. To La Grange Epicurus was a hero. But La Grange could not have committed the murders himself—’
‘Why do you say that?’ interrupted Conan Doyle.
‘Because Robert and I were in the room with La Grange at the moment that young Bernard was killed. We were La Grange’s incidental alibi. He might have been the instigator of the fire that consumed the boy, but he could not have lit the match. He must have had an accomplice, but who could that accomplice be? His mother? Unlikely. She was an old woman — mad enough, certainly, but not capable. Gabrielle de la Tourbillon? Possibly. She was La Grange’s mistress — his creature, in her way — but she did not strike me as a murderer.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it, Oscar,’ I muttered. My skin was burning, but I do not think that Conan Doyle noticed.
‘And could La Grange have trusted her?’ continued Oscar. ‘Would he have done so? I think not.’ Oscar reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. ‘Besides, these murders did not strike me as being woman’s work. A woman could certainly have struck the dog and buried it alive; a woman could have struck the match that lit the flames that devoured Bernard. But could a woman have tipped Agnès into the tank of water and held down her head until she drowned? Could a woman have asphyxiated Washington Traquair, held the pillow across his face until he died?’
I interrupted Oscar’s flow. ‘Traquair was killed by gas poisoning, surely?’
‘So it seemed,’ said Oscar, lighting his cigarette. ‘Gas was escaping into his room, certainly, but not, I think, enough to kill a man. I believe that poor Traquair was smothered as he slept and that the gas jet was then turned on above his divan to give the impression that he had taken his own life.’
‘This was a man’s doing …’ I began, and then I faltered.
‘And a man who was present when we burst into Traquair’s cubicle,’ Oscar continued. ‘He had locked the door to the dresser’s room from the outside once he had murdered him. He returned the key to the room by dropping it on the floor by the divan when we broke our way into the room and discovered poor Traquair’s body.’
‘Richard Marais?’ I suggested.
‘It might have been. It was Marais who made the cack-handed attempts on my life: attempting to drop a weight onto me from the theatre’s fly-gallery; attempting to drown me in the water-trough in the boulevard du Temple. I think that Marais meant to scare me, not to kill me. He wanted me to go away. He was concerned that I might reveal his fraud to his master — but his master knew about it all along. Marais was a petty villain and not quite so deaf as he pretended, but he had a redeeming feature.’
Conan Doyle, examining a small square of cake, chuckled. ‘He was a dog lover. He was devoted to Maman’s wretched poodles. He was unlikely to have been the butcher of Marie Antoinette.’
‘Bravo, once more, dear doctor! It was not Marais.’
Conan Doyle laid his knife across his plate and pushed temptation to one side. He looked up towards Oscar and smiled. ‘Eliminate all other factors, and the one that remains must be the truth,’ he said. ‘It was the American. It must be. It was Eddie Garstrang, the gambler.’
Oscar sat back and, for a moment, let his eyes stray about the tea-room. We were the only customers remaining. At the far end of the room, at the cake counter, two waitresses stood together gossiping. Oscar drew slowly on his cigarette and watched the thin plumes of pale purple smoke as they rose from his nostrils and filtered into the air above us. ‘Bravo, again, Arthur,’ he said eventually. ‘Bravo, indeed.’ He continued, almost languidly:
‘In certain respects, Garstrang was the most fascinating man of all the unusual men I met during that extraordinary year. We were no
t destined to be friends, yet, from our first encounter, I sensed we had much in common. Garstrang observed his life even as he lived it. He was an outsider, as I know I am. He was a risk-taker, as I hope I am. He wanted fame and fortune, as I know I do. He was ready to hazard everything on a single throw of the dice — regardless of the consequences. I like to think that I would have the courage to do the same.’
Oscar leant across the table and put his face close to Doyle’s. ‘In Colorado, Garstrang played cards with Edmond La Grange and he lost, as you recall. He went on playing — and losing — long after he had anything left to lose. He played cards with Edmond La Grange until La Grange owned him — lock, stock and barrel.’ Oscar held out his cigarette and contemplated the length of it. ‘The barrel was not insignificant: La Grange, a fine shot himself, was entertained by the notion of having an outstanding marksman as part of his entourage.’
Conan Doyle chuckled. He was holding his new pipe in his hand (it had been his Christmas present from his little girl), and poking at the unlit tobacco leaves with a matchstick. He looked up at Oscar and smiled. ‘So La Grange struck a deal with Eddie Garstrang — yes? He could clear his debt, he could buy back his freedom, in easy stages.’
‘Yes, Arthur, in four easy stages. All Garstrang had to do was kill to order — four times — and then he would be free to leave La Grange’s service, his debt repaid, his fortune restored. To make the game more amusing — for both men — La Grange introduced the conceit of the “elemental murders”: death by earth, air, water and fire.’
‘Why was the dog killed first, Oscar?’ I asked. ‘What harm did the dog ever do to anyone?’
‘The killing of Maman’s dog was just an amusebouche, Robert, a preliminary entertainment designed by La Grange to put Garstrang to the test. The dog’s death was neither here nor there. As La Grange knew, no one would care about the dog, except perhaps for Maman and Richard Marais — and Edmond La Grange cared little enough for them.’
Conan Doyle set down his pipe. His moustache twitched. ‘Was not La Grange devoted to his mother?’ he asked. Arthur was touchingly devoted to his.
Oscar Wilde and the Dead Man's Smile Page 29
