Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers

by Gyles Brandreth

  31

  From the notebook of Inspector Hugh Boone of Scotland Yard, Saturday, 15 March 1890

  Sordid business. I feel it in my bones. I sense it. I know it. But, as yet, I cannot prove it.

  Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

  32

  From the diary of Rex LaSalle

  Oscar sent a hansom cab to collect me from my room and take me to Simpson’s-in-the-Strand. I tried to tip the cabman, but the fellow said: ‘You don’t have to, guv. Mr Wilde has already taken care of that.’

  I found Oscar at what he called his ‘favourite table’, in the corner, at the back of the main dining room on the ground floor. The room was hot and crowded, brightly lit (with electric light), filled with cigar smoke and hearty diners – the Saturday-night, mutton-chop brigade.

  Oscar, in a silk evening jacket of midnight blue, seemed to be a creature from another planet. He was seated alone, reading. Before him, propped against an upturned drinking glass, was his open book. Next to it stood a saucer of champagne. His elbows were resting lightly on the table, his arms held out to either side of him. In his right hand, between his ring and middle fingers, loosely, he held a lighted cigarette. In his left hand, between his thumb and index finger, he grasped the stem of a crimson-coloured rose.

  As I sat down beside him, he looked up with hooded, mischievous eyes and smiled. ‘I am having Tacitus and a glass of Perrier-Jouët,’ he said, as if our conversation was already in mid-flow. ‘You are having this.’

  He handed me the rose. I slipped it into my buttonhole and thanked him. He closed his book and let his eyes wander over me appraisingly.

  ‘I like the knot in your tie,’ he said. ‘A well-tied tie is the first serious step in life.’

  I apologised for my appearance. ‘I have not changed for dinner. I—’

  ‘Hush,’ he silenced me. ‘I knew that you would not. I knew that you could not. You have only one dress shirt and you wore it to the reception in Grosvenor Square two nights ago. It has not yet been laundered. I understand. You need not worry. You have nothing, but you look everything. What more could one desire?’

  He put his hand on mine and told me that he was a little drunk and not at all hungry. He had been to Marlborough House, he explained, for High Tea, ‘a curious feast that included every delight – except for tea itself, of course’.

  He ordered me a dozen oysters and told me that we would have to sit together in silence because all that had passed between him and the Prince of Wales that afternoon was confidential and of ‘a most delicate nature’. When the oysters were served, Oscar guzzled half of them himself and commanded a dozen more. When the first bottle of Perrier-Jouët was finished, he ordered a second and proceeded to tell me everything that had passed between him and the Prince of Wales.

  I asked him whether the death of the Duchess of Albemarle had affected the prince. He told me that it had. Profoundly. I asked him whether the prince knew the details of how the duchess had died. He told me that he did and that the horror of the assault upon her – the incisions in her neck, the cuts upon her breasts – had distressed him very deeply.

  I asked him to tell me about the wounds.

  He said that he had not seen them himself. He said that it was his friend, Dr Doyle, who had examined the duchess’s body.

  I asked him whether Dr Doyle had described the incisions to him.

  Yes, he said, he had. There were just two incisions, no more than an inch apart. They were to the woman’s neck, to one side of her neck, just below her ear. They were not wide, but they were deep.

  Had they killed her?

  Dr Doyle had inserted a matchstick into each incision. In the doctor’s estimation, the ruptures were deep enough to reach the jugular vein.

  ‘And was there much blood?’ I asked.

  ‘The doctor did not mention blood.’

  ‘Or vampires?’ I smiled.

  Oscar returned my smile and said, ‘But you were with me at the time of the murder, Rex.’

  I laughed. ‘Does the Prince of Wales have any idea who might have done this terrible thing?’ I asked.

  ‘The prince believes that it may be the duke. He was seen closing the door to the telephone room at midnight.’

  ‘And why would the Duke of Albemarle wish to murder his young wife?’

  ‘We do not yet know,’ said Oscar. ‘We are commissioned by His Royal Highness to make further enquiries.’

  ‘Could it be,’ I wondered out loud, ‘that the duchess had taken a lover and that the duke was driven mad by jealousy?’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ said Oscar, his smile broadening.‘ That is the usual story. Othello is my least favourite among Shakespeare’s plays, but I am all too familiar with the green-eyed monster and his capacity for driving sane men mad.’

  ‘And the late duchess’s lover then? What of him?’

  ‘Lord Yarborough – Fellow of the Royal Society, friend to the duke, physician to the duchess – suggests that Her Grace may have been on an intimate footing with a number of admirers – men from all walks of life.’

  ‘Did the Prince of Wales tell you that he is generally counted among them?’

  ‘No, he did not,’ said Oscar.

  ‘It’s common knowledge,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps that is why I did not know,’ he answered.

  ‘It was in the newspapers.’

  ‘That explains my ignorance entirely.’

  When we had had our fill of oysters and champagne, I helped Oscar to his feet. The heat of the room was overpowering. I held my friend by the arm and walked him slowly to the door. As we passed among the tables, certain diners looked up at us. Some smiled or nodded to Oscar in recognition; others simply stared.

  Twice Oscar paused as we made our progress. He halted by a table at which an earnest young man was raising a young lady’s hand to his lips and, gazing down at them both, remarked, ‘A kiss may ruin a human life.’ And at the doorway, as the head waiter wished us goodnight, Oscar produced a silver crown from his waistcoat pocket to press into the man’s hand and told him: ‘I have made an important discovery tonight, Edward. It is that alcohol, taken in sufficient quantities, produces all the effects of intoxication.’

  When we reached the Strand, the street was busy, the pavement teeming with theatre-goers returning home and revellers still hungry for adventure, the gentry and the great unwashed, jostling with old soldiers selling matches, gypsy women plying sprigs of heather and ladies of the night touting for trade. I proposed a stroll down Savoy Hill to take the air and to watch the reflection of the moon in the high tide upon the Thames. Oscar was not for walking anywhere.

  ‘Let’s take a cab back to your room,’ he said. ‘I need a glass of wine and a cigarette. I have a question I want to ask you.’

  Once we were back in Soho and Oscar was reclining on my bed, a glass of the roughest vino bianco in one hand, his favourite Turkish cigarette in the other, I said to him, ‘Well, my friend, ask me your question.’

  He looked at me through half-closed eyes. ‘Why did you tell me that you are a vampire?’

  ‘To amuse you. To intrigue you. To entice you, I suppose. And because I am.’

  ‘But you are not,’ he protested. ‘I know that, Rex. You are exceptional, but you are not a vampire. You are something quite else.’ As he said it, his eyelids closed and his breathing deepened.

  I took the wine glass and the cigarette from his grasp, loosened his collar, unbuttoned his waistcoat and let him sleep. As I write this, it is nearly dawn and he is sleeping still.

  33

  From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle

  Saturday, 15 March 1890. An extraordinary day. Every encounter has been memorable.

  Breakfast with Oscar Wilde and Bram Stoker at the Savoy. (Stoker is Henry Irving’s man of business and an authority on vampirism, it seems. He referred to Irving as ‘the old blood-sucker’, which I thought interesting.)

  A chance conversation here at the Langham with the composer, Anto
nin Dvorak. He is not at all happy with the hotel. They will not let him share his suite with his daughter. He has had to put her up in one of the servants’ rooms, at a cost of 5s 6d a day. I told Dvorak how much I admire his 8th Symphony (the G Minor). He said, ‘Yes, it my simplest work and consequently dearly loved by the English.’

  High Tea at Marlborough House with the Prince of Wales. The meal was gargantuan: there was so much on offer that none of it really pleased. A simple dish of tea and some Aberdonian oatcakes would have done me nicely. Neither was to be had. Wilde and his friend Sherard were also of the party, but of what passed between us and the prince I can write very little, alas. We are sworn to secrecy. I must be discreet – even to my own journal. Suffice to say, we were summoned to assist HRH with some ‘enquiries’ of a delicate nature.

  This much I think I can record, however, because the nub of it is already in the public domain. When we left HRH, his equerry, Tyrwhitt Wilson, escorted us to our brougham by way of the equerries’ sitting room. He said, ‘I want to show you something,’ and bade us follow him to a desk in the corner of the room. Unlocking the drawer of the desk, he produced from it a small leather attaché case. From the case he took a bulging paper folder, which he laid on the desk and opened out before us. It contained a mass of newspaper cuttings.

  ‘None of this makes happy reading,’ he said. ‘These are newspaper reports of divorce cases.’ He leafed through the cuttings and picked out one. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘read this. It relates to Sir Charles Mordaunt’s petition for divorce. Sir Charles was unsuccessful, but you may recall the case. The Prince of Wales was forced into the witness box to deny adultery.’ He handed the cutting to me. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Study it. It is from Reynolds’ Newspaper – a publication read by half a million Englishmen each week.’

  This is the cutting:

  If the Prince of Wales is an accomplice in bringing dishonour to the homestead of an English gentleman, if he has assisted in rendering an honourable man miserable for life; if unbridled sensuality and lust have led him to violate the laws of honour and hospitality – then such a man, placed in the position he is, should not only be expelled from decent society, but is utterly unfit and unworthy to rule over this country.

  ‘One day soon,’ said Tyrwhitt Wilson, ‘the Prince of Wales will be king. We must avoid another scandal – at all costs.’

  And for the last of today’s memorable encounters, I give you Dr Henry Jekyll and Mr Edward Hyde! In person. In the bar of the Langham Hotel. In the handsome form of Mr Richard Mansfield, the actor, who plays both roles in the stage version of Stevenson’s fine story. I saw it twice when it came to the Lyceum. I have seen Mansfield play Richard III as well. He rivals Irving. The Americans reckon him greater than Irving. Certainly, he is more versatile. I have seen him in Gilbert and Sullivan too!

  Tonight I scarcely recognised him. On stage, he is magnificent. In person, he is next to nothing. You’d think him a bank clerk in pince-nez. We were seated together at the bar, side by side, each nursing a whisky and water, and fell into conversation by chance. Mansfield heard the barman mention my name and turned to me.

  ‘You are Arthur Conan Doyle?’ he enquired. ‘The Arthur Conan Doyle? The creator of Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘The same,’ I said.

  The dear fellow told me that he has read all my work. He declared that after Stevenson and Shakespeare, I am his favourite author! He looked forward, he said, to the day when he might play Sherlock Holmes upon the stage.

  Overwhelmed by all this, I mumbled an apology for not recognising him at once.

  He said, ‘Do not apologise. Nobody recognises me off stage. I am content with that. I am two people, after all. On stage, I have authority. I am bold, brave, daring – in complete command of all I survey. Off stage, I am as you see me now – an unassuming chap, somewhat shy and retiring, a little fearful of the world, to tell the truth. The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde is not a fairy tale, in my opinion. It is a story that grips the imagination because it speaks of a terrible truth. In varying degrees, we are all of us leading double lives, are we not?’

  ‘We All Have Secrets’

  34

  From Reynolds’s Newspaper, Sunday, 16 March 1890

  The funeral of the Duchess of Albemarle is to take place at St George’s, Hanover Square, London, W., on Thursday next, 20 March, at eleven o’clock. The duchess, noted for her beauty and charitable endeavour, died in the early hours of Friday morning.

  Despite speculation in certain quarters, an inquest into the duchess’s untimely death is not expected. The Metropolitan Police Commissioner at Scotland Yard has confirmed that foul play is not suspected and the duchess’s physician, Lord Yarborough, MD, FRS, has issued a statement indicating that his patient died as the consequence of a long-established heart condition, ‘possibly exacerbated by her arduous duties as a liberal and generous hostess’.

  On Thursday last, at their mansion in Grosvenor Square, the Duke and Duchess of Albemarle gave an evening reception for 200 notabilities connected with the arts and sciences. The guest of honour on that occasion was HRH the Prince of Wales.

  It is not yet known whether the heir apparent will be among the mourners at the duchess’s funeral on Thursday, but we think it likely. The young Duchess of Albemarle had the distinction of being a favourite with the Prince of Wales, much as Lady Mordaunt, Madame Bernhardt, Miss Chamberlayne, and Mrs Langtry, among others, had been before her.

  35

  From the notebooks of Robert Sherard

  This morning (Sunday, 16 March), as arranged, I went to Tite Street at nine o’clock to take breakfast with Oscar. He was not there. Constance (looking ever lovelier) welcomed me sweetly. She said, ‘Oscar often stays away. He needs his freedom. I understand.’ She spoke without any bitterness. She has a generous heart and the gentlest of smiles. We spent the morning together, reading, while her boys played upstairs in the nursery.

  At eleven o’clock Oscar appeared. He was unshaven and bleary-eyed, but in the highest of high spirits.

  ‘I have just driven through the park,’ he announced, ‘and watched some young lads riding their bicycles around the lake. There is nothing like youth. The middle-aged are mortgaged to Life. The old are in life’s lumber room. But youth is the Lord of Life.’ He kissed Constance tenderly on the forehead. ‘To win back my youth there is nothing I wouldn’t do – except take exercise, get up early or be a useful member of the community.’

  As we laughed, he caressed his wife’s temples and then untied and tied again the blue ribbon in her hair. ‘My wife is not so slim now as she was in younger and happier days – I blame our boys for that – but her face has all the intelligence and beauty of the young Apollo, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I do,’ I said, as Constance blushed and, playfully, pushed her husband away from her.

  Oscar stood square before us, stretching. ‘I must shave and bathe, before putting on my lilac shirt and heliotrope tie. Spring is sprung and we have work to do, Robert. The Duke of Albemarle is granting us an interview on his return from church at half past twelve.’

  ‘It is still Lent, my darling heart,’ said Constance anxiously, ‘and the Albemarle household will now be in mourning – do you think the heliotrope tie quite seemly?’

  At 12.30 p.m., Oscar, cleanly shaven and dressed in a black velvet suit, white linen shirt and loose-fitting black silk tie, rang the bell at 40 Grosvenor Square. The front door swung open immediately.

  ‘His Grace is expecting you, gentlemen,’ said Parker, the butler, bowing slightly. ‘Please follow me.’

  He led us across the hallway, to the left of the grand staircase, towards the downstairs morning room. As I glanced back at the closed door to the telephone room, he added, ‘I understand that when you have seen His Grace you wish also to see me.’

  ‘We would be much obliged,’ said Oscar genially.

  We found the Duke of Albemarle standing alone, with his back to us, gazing out of the window int
o the garden. ‘The daffodils are early this year,’ he said. ‘Helen so loved the daffodils.’

  He spun round on his heels and stepped briskly towards us, extending a firm hand to each of us in turn. He is sixty-five, a big man, with thick and wiry silver hair and a farmer’s face: broad and red and honest. He was dressed in full mourning, but he appeared fresh and bristling with energy. His manners are impeccable; his welcome was cordial.

  ‘Your Grace did not go to church, I see,’ said Oscar, raising an eyebrow. ‘And you breakfasted late.’

  The duke smiled. ‘You have spent too much time with your friend Conan Doyle, Mr Wilde. You are trying to out-Holmes Holmes. But you are correct, of course. I rose later than I should. I have neglected my devotions and only just left the breakfast table. How did you know? Did Parker tell you?’

  ‘Your butler is the soul of discretion, you may be sure of that. No. The perfect line of your trousers suggests that Your Grace has not been down on his knees and at prayer since they were pressed, while the breadcrumbs on your cuff indicate a slice of toast recently enjoyed.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Wilde,’ said the duke. He looked at Oscar with amused approval. ‘I have received a note from the Prince of Wales asking me to co-operate with the enquiries you are making on his behalf. I am happy to oblige. I can well understand why His Royal Highness is ready to trust you as his new-found consulting detective.’

  Oscar smiled. ‘Because I have an eye for detail?’

  ‘No. Because you are a man of the world, Mr Wilde. And you understand the prince.’

  ‘I know His Royal Highness only very slightly,’ Oscar protested. He did not protest strongly; he was flattered by the duke’s suggestion. ‘We met some years ago – as mutual friends of Mrs Langtry.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the duke. ‘The Prince of Wales and Mrs Langtry were very close once upon a time.’