Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers
Page 4
‘My compliments to your new pastry chef, Your Royal Highness,’ said Oscar, as we departed. ‘He is just arrived from Madagascar?’
The prince laughed. ‘Who told you?’
‘No one,’ answered Oscar. ‘But Your Royal Highness’s cheese straws have a new flavour – suggesting a new pastry chef. And it’s a flavour I recognise. It is unique to a cinnamon from Madagascar.’
‘You are extraordinary, Oscar.’ The prince laughed. ‘Doyle is right. You can out-Holmes Holmes. Bring your genius to bear on this matter, Oscar, and I will be much obliged. The duchess was my friend. I owe her this much.’
13
From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle
Oscar is preposterous. As we climbed up into our coach and four he freely admitted the cheese-straw business was pure invention! Laughing until his pale cheeks turned pink, he declared: ‘The prince will have no more idea from whence his pastry chef comes than I do, but the party piece reassured him – made him feel that he did indeed have Holmes on the case. Appearance is everything. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. You know that, Arthur.’
I know no such thing. What I do know is that already I have grave concerns about this. Why will HRH not involve the police? He has nothing to fear from them, surely? And why was General Probyn not at our meeting? He is the prince’s private secretary. He is a man of long experience and sound judgement. He has bottom. And courage. His presence would have reassured me completely. His absence leaves me troubled.
The prince professes his concern for the late duchess. That I accept. They were close. But how close? Was their relationship as it should have been? Have Wilde and I been engaged to uncover the truth – or to assist in its suppression?
14
The Telephone Room
CERTIFICATE OF DEATH
Registration district: City of Westminster
Date and place of death: 14 March 1890, 40 Grosvenor Square, London W.
Name and surname: Helen Mary Alice ALBEMARLE
Sex: Female
Maiden surname of woman who has married: LASCELLES
Date and place of birth: 11 October 1859, Welwyn, Hertfordshire
Occupation and principal residence: Duchess, Albermarle House, Eastry, Kent
Cause of death: Heart failure
Signature of certifying doctor: Yarborough MB FRS
Date: 14 March 1890
15
From the notebooks of Robert Sherard
‘I had not appreciated that Lord Yarborough is a practising physician.’
Arthur Conan Doyle spoke sternly. He is little more than my age, but his greying temples, bristling moustache, military bearing and fierce, piercing eyes combine to lend him an authority that belies his years.
‘Lord Yarborough is many things,’ replied the Duke of Albemarle.
‘I know him by reputation,’ said Oscar. ‘He is versatile and unusually handsome, I believe.’
‘I know him slightly,’ continued Conan Doyle, ‘as a specialist in nervous disorders. Not as a medical practitioner, but as a mind doctor. He’s one of these modern men who like to call themselves “psychiatrists”.’
‘An ugly word,’ said the duke.
‘With beautiful origins,’ said Oscar. ‘It comes from the ancient Greek, psyche – the word for soul and breath and butterfly.’
The duke smiled at Oscar. ‘I did not know. I have little Latin and less Greek.’ He turned his attention back to Conan Doyle. ‘Lord Yarborough is an old friend. He was a guest at last evening’s reception. He stayed the night. We were fortunate that he was here.’
‘Indeed,’ answered Doyle, quietly.
We stood, the four of us, at the foot of the principal staircase in the main hallway at 40 Grosvenor Square, on the very spot where the Duke of Albemarle had stood the previous evening waiting to bid his royal guests farewell. The duke is sixty-five, of medium height, but well built, sturdy and broad-shouldered, with a round, red face, lined by wind rather than worry. His face reveals what the popular papers report: that he is a devotee of the outdoor life, a keen sportsman, one of those Englishmen who is only truly happy when he is riding to hounds.
He had found us by chance at the foot of the stairs. When the butler had admitted us to the hallway, we were advised that His Grace was resting and unable to receive callers. Oscar had pressed the servant to be so kind as to inform his master of our presence. The butler, pocketing the encouragement Oscar proffered, had made his way to the downstairs morning room. As the servant made his exit, the master appeared in the gallery above us. Oscar called up to him and the duke came down to meet us. He looked fatigued and ill-at-ease, dressed in heavy mourning.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Forgive me if I do not entertain you. It is a difficult time. You have heard the news?’
‘We have, Your Grace,’ said Oscar, gravely, ‘and we have come to extend our condolences in person.’
In silence, briefly and without ceremony, as though we were estate workers come to pay our respects, the duke shook hands with each of us in turn. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Thank you kindly. Good day.’ He turned to climb the stairs once more.
I made to depart, but Oscar and Conan Doyle, bolder spirits, stood their ground.
‘We have come from Marlborough House,’ said Oscar. The duke looked over his shoulder, surprised. ‘The Prince of Wales asked us to call upon you to extend his condolences in person.’
The duke’s brow furrowed. He held Oscar’s gaze. ‘But Sir Dighton Probyn has already called, Mr Wilde. He came on the prince’s instructions. He came at noon.’
I caught my breath. Conan Doyle blanched. Oscar did not bat an eyelid. ‘Quite so, Your Grace,’ he continued. ‘Sir Dighton Probyn’s visit was the formal one. Ours is more personal.’
‘Indeed?’ enquired the duke, turning to face Oscar directly.
‘His Royal Highness had hoped to speak to you by telephone,’ continued Oscar, ‘but found he was unable to do so.’
‘The telephone is out of order,’ said the duke.
‘His Royal Highness was anxious to offer you the services of one of the royal physicians.’
‘I’m obliged,’ replied the duke, ‘but there was no need. Lord Yarborough was already here.’
It was the mention of Lord Yarborough’s name that provoked Conan Doyle. The young Scottish doctor began to cross-examine the elderly English duke with a severity bordering on effrontery.
‘What does Lord Yarborough know of heart disease?’ he asked.
‘Lord Yarborough had been attending the duchess for some time. He understood her condition. He had warned me of the possibility of heart failure.’
‘Did you not seek a second opinion?’
‘I did not see the need. I know Lord Yarborough. I trust him. The duchess trusted him.’
‘Do not think me impertinent, Your Grace. I am a doctor – in general practice. Might I be permitted to see the body of the deceased?’
The Duke of Albemarle made no response. He gazed at Conan Doyle impassively. An insect buzzed about our heads. The silence in the hallway was heavy. Outside, in the street, there was the clatter of hooves on cobbles and the noise of a carriage trundling past.
Eventually the duke spoke. ‘Is that what the Prince of Wales would wish?’ he asked.
‘I believe so,’ said Conan Doyle. His tone was gentler now. ‘I understand Her Grace died during the night?’
‘Yes.’
‘At what time, do you know?’
‘I do not know. We keep separate quarters. I did not see her before she went to bed.’
‘She was discovered by her maid this morning?’
‘Yes,’ answered the duke, hesitating as he spoke. ‘Yes, by her maid …’
‘She was discovered by her maid in her bed?’
‘Yes.’ The duke faltered. ‘No. No, she was not.’ He looked directly at Conan Doyle. ‘I discovered her.’
‘In her bedroom?’
/> ‘No. No. I discovered her here – in the telephone room.’
The duke turned and looked in the direction of the corner doorway through which I had glimpsed the naked body of a young woman at midnight the night before.
‘The telephone room,’ repeated Conan Doyle. ‘She died in the telephone room?’ We all stood staring at the room’s closed door. ‘Why was she in the telephone room?’
‘She must have come down during the night – to make a call. Or to receive one.’
‘Where is her body now?’ asked Conan Doyle.
‘It has not been moved,’ answered the duke. ‘Lord Yarborough is returning with the undertakers. They are due at any moment.’
Conan Doyle took a small step towards the duke. ‘Might I see her, Your Grace?’
‘She is unclothed,’ replied the duke, covering his face with his hands. ‘She is dead.’
Conan Doyle pressed his hand on the duke’s shoulder. ‘It is quite in order. I am a medical man.’
16
From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle
The duke remained outside the room, in the hallway with Oscar and Sherard. He unlocked the door, barely opened it to allow me to slip inside and shut it immediately after me. ‘I must keep the door closed,’ he said. ‘Apart from Parker [the butler], the staff know nothing of this.’
The room itself was no more than a large cubicle, lit by a dim and flickering electric light. On the left of the door was a narrow wooden shelf on which stood the telephone apparatus. On the right was a tall wooden stool fixed to the wall. Perched upon the stool, leaning backwards into the corner, sat the half-naked body of the late Duchess of Albemarle.
It was a grotesque and pitiable sight. Beneath her velvet evening gown, the poor woman’s legs dangled down from the stool. I brushed against them as I leant forward to study her face. Her eyes were open wide, staring, petrified. Her skin was pale grey, the colour of paving stones. Mucus had dried around her nostrils. Her white lips were twisted – contorted in pain, as I have sometimes seen on the victims of sudden, violent heart seizure. Her bodice and chemise had been ripped from her, exposing her full breasts, horribly disfigured with scratch marks. I touched her left arm and her naked belly. Her body was cold as stone but no longer rock hard. Rigor mortis was beginning to ease. She had not died within the past twelve hours.
I did not linger in the airless room. The horror was very great and the smell from the body already noticeable. Before I left, I made to close the dead woman’s bulging, startled eyes. As I pressed my fingers against her eyelids to close them, her head lolled suddenly to the side and I saw some bloody marks upon her neck. They were of two sharp incisions, positioned below her earlobe, beneath her jaw, side by side, no more than an inch apart. The tears in the flesh were not wide – each was no more than an eighth of an inch in diameter – but they were deep. I took a matchstick from my pocket and carefully inserted it into each incision. The rupture was certainly deep enough to reach the jugular vein.
17
Notes written by Oscar Wilde on the back of the supper menu at Solferino’s restaurant in Rupert Street
When did the duchess die? Was she alive when Robert caught sight of her at midnight? Or was she already dead? Did Robert mistake the bloody marks on her neck for ruby earrings?
Why was she in the telephone room? What drew her there – in the course of her own reception, at its very height, with royalty present? If she was there to make use of the telephone, why was the telephone itself apparently untouched?
When did the duke discover her body? He says it was in the morning, at seven o’clock, when he went to use the telephone himself – but Robert saw the duke at the door of the telephone room at midnight. If his wife was missing at midnight – and the duke knew that she was: she failed to say goodbye to her guests – why did he not instigate a search for her then?
And once the body had been discovered, why was it left hidden in the telephone room? Lord Yarborough – a mind doctor, not a physician – examined her in the half-light and concluded at once that she had died of heart failure. Why? Why did he not order her body to be removed to the morgue and examined properly there?
Is Yarborough to be trusted? Is he to be believed? Why did he not examine the wounds upon her neck? In the gloom of the room, did he not see them? And what caused those wounds? Who caused them? How exactly did the duchess die? And why? Was it some unnatural horror? Was it murder? Was it suicide?
And which wine shall I take with my zabaglione? The Muscat de Lunel ’87 or the darker Moscato from Sardinia? So many questions. As the divine Sarah [Bernhardt] says of the Ten Commandments: ‘Zay are too many.’
18
From the diary of Rex LaSalle
To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. I live. And I rejoice that I am able to live as I do – freely, without fear and to the full. Tonight, Oscar came to my studio. Yes, I am now on intimate terms with Mr Oscar Wilde! He was alone. It was gone midnight. He had dined with a friend in Rupert Street. He had dined well. His cheeks were full of colour. His eyes sparkled. He sat on the edge of my bed and told me that he trusted me.
He took me into his confidence. He told me details of the death of the Duchess of Albemarle. He told me everything – so far as he knows it. Minutes before midnight, the duchess was alive and well. We saw her together across her crowded drawing room, entertaining her guests. At midnight, as the Prince of Wales departed, Oscar’s friend, standing in the gallery, overlooking the hallway, caught sight of the duchess for the final time. He glimpsed her through an open doorway – the doorway to the telephone room. The unfortunate lady was already dead, said Oscar. She must have been. She was quite still and Oscar’s friend saw stains of blood on her neck. At the time, he mistook them for ruby earrings.
It was the duke who discovered the duchess’s body – but exactly when is not yet clear. Oscar’s friend saw the duke at the door to the telephone room at midnight. He saw the duke open the door, remove a key from the inside lock and close the door. He did not see the duke enter the room or look within it. The duke claims to have come upon the body at seven o’clock this morning, when he went to make use of the telephone himself.
On discovering the tragedy, at once he alerted his butler, Parker, and his friend, Lord Yarborough – no one besides. Together the three men decided to leave the body in place – hidden in the locked telephone room – so as not to alarm the rest of the household. It was Parker’s idea to tell the world that the duchess’s body had been discovered in bed and by her maid. The maid is a simple-minded soul who can neither read nor write.
It was Lord Yarborough who signed the death certificate. He examined the dead woman as he found her and concluded that she had died of heart failure. Oscar does not believe it. Oscar told me – almost with relish, so it seemed to me – of the deep and bloody wounds in the duchess’s neck.
‘Are they the marks of a vampire?’ he asked.
‘I do not know,’ I answered. ‘I have not seen them.’
‘But you are a vampire, are you not, Rex? You told me that you were.’
I made no reply. I sat next to him on the bed and turned my head so that he might better admire my profile.
‘Who are you, Rex? What are you? What is your story? Will you tell me?’
As he laid his hand upon my knee, I turned back to him and smiled. As my lips parted to reveal the whiteness of my teeth and the sharpness of my fangs, he laughed and, throwing down his cigarette, made to kiss me.
Vermin in Grosvenor Square
19
Telegram delivered to Constance Wilde at 16 Tite Street, Chelsea, on Friday, 14 March 1890 at 10 p.m.
CONSISTENCY IS THE LAST REFUGE OF THE UNIMAGINATIVE. MY PLANS HAVE CHANGED. FORGIVE ME DEAREST WIFE. DINING AT SOLFERINO WITH ROBERT AND STAYING IN TOWN AT THE CLUB. LOVE ME FOR MY DEFECTS AS I LOVE YOU FOR YOUR PERFECTION. OSCAR
20
Letter from Arthur Conan Doyle to his wife, Louisa ‘Touie’ Cona
n Doyle
Langham Hotel,
London W.
14.iii.90
7 p.m.
Dearest Touie –
My own darling, forgive me. I shall not return to Southsea tomorrow as I had planned. I must stay in town until Tuesday now. All my arrangements have gone awry.
Today, as you know, I was due to travel to Muswell Hill to meet with the great Professor Charcot, to visit his clinic and to witness his experiments with hypnosis – but it was not to be. I was summoned instead to Marlborough House – for an audience with the Prince of Wales! You must not speak of it to anyone. I am bound to secrecy. I will explain all (or, at least, much) when I see you – in this matter, I may never be able to tell you everything.
I long to see you, Toodles. And Toodles Junior, too. Give my darling daughter a kiss. Give her one thousand! No, give her one hundred and keep the rest for yourself. No one deserves them more.
Ever your loving husband,
ACD
PS. Touie dearest – my heart is heavy tonight and for two reasons. I miss you. And I am troubled by the business in which I find myself involved. Oscar Wilde is my companion in this adventure. That is something. He is generous and a gentleman – and so witty. Today he said, ‘I like men who have a future and women who have a past.’ That is clever, is it not?
21
From the notebooks of Robert Sherard
It was mid-afternoon when we left the Duke of Albemarle. Parker, the butler, showed us out into the cool sunshine of Grosvenor Square.
‘Do you think the butler did it?’ mused Oscar, smiling, as we stepped into the street.
‘It was undoubtedly murder,’ said Conan Doyle, grimly. ‘We must go to the police.’