Oscar Wilde And The Ring Of Death Part 23

'It tells us what we do not know, which is much- and it tells us, also, that some of what we know makes no sense.'

I looked at him, confused.

'We know who was at the fateful meeting of the Socrates Club on the night of 1 May, but we do not yet know, in every instance, which diner chose which victim. We need to find out. This morning, before breakfast, I telephoned Arthur Conan Doyle.'

'And how was he?' I interjected.

'In fine fettle. Never better. Convinced that Inspector Gilmour is right and that McMuirtree's bizarre and b.l.o.o.d.y death has nothing to do with us. "Just an unlucky coincidence," according to Arthur. It was not yet nine o'clock when I put through my telephone call. The good doctor had already completed his morning course of callisthenics and breakfasted sensibly, on porridge not on kippers. He told me that he was planning to spend the morning in his hut, moulding his damp clay while contemplating ways and means of doing away with Sherlock Holmes. He was as brim-full of good cheer as a choirboy at Christmas until I asked him a question about the night of 1 May ...'

'Ah,' I murmured, leaning forward.

Oscar smiled at me. 'You are a good audience, Robert. You will never lack friends.'

'Well?' I said. 'What did you ask him?'

'I asked Dr Doyle if he had chosen me as his particular "victim" on the night when we played that foolish game of "Murder". He seemed taken aback by the question-quite shocked by the suggestion, in fact. "Why should I name you, Oscar?" he asked. "Why not?" I replied. "Willie Hornung named Sherlock Holmes as his victim," I reminded him, "and Willie is your friend." "Willie's just a foolish boy," said Arthur. "Was it you who named me, Arthur?" I repeated. "Certainly not," he said. He said it quite indignantly. "Then who did you name?" I asked.' Oscar paused and took another sip of wine. He swallowed it slowly and closed his eyes.

'Well?' I prompted him, impatiently.

Oscar opened his eyes and looked at me steadily. '"No one," said Arthur. "I named no one."'

'What on earth did he mean?'

'"What do you mean, Arthur?" I asked him. "You named no one?" "I named no one," repeated Arthur. "I did not wish to partic.i.p.ate in the game, so I named no one. Mine was the blank piece of paper drawn from the bag."'

'Ah ...' I said.

'You may well say "Ah!", Robert,' Oscar smiled. 'I said to Arthur on the telephone: "Yours cannot have been the blank piece of paper drawn from the bag, my friend." "And why not, pray?" he asked. "Because, Arthur," I explained, "the blank piece of paper drawn from the bag-it was mine."'

'But, Oscar,' I said cautiously, 'I was at the dinner. I was watching you as we played the game. I'm sure I saw you writing a name on your slip of paper ... I'm sure of it.'

'The eye can deceive, Robert. You certainly saw me applying the nib of my pen to a slip of paper, but the nib was dry. I moved the pen across the paper, but I left no mark.'

'Gracious me,' I murmured, putting down my gla.s.s. 'This means- 'Yes,' mused Oscar, lighting another cigarette, 'just' one blank slip of paper drawn from the bag, but two people claiming credit for it-and two people one likes to think one could trust. The gla.s.s darkens, Robert. The plot thickens. The mystery deepens. Despite my grid, I'm at a loss. Perhaps, like poor, doomed Holmes, I should resort to drugs or the violin as aids to inspiration. Do you keep cocaine in your rooms, Robert? Do you have a Stradivarius I might borrow?'

'No,' I answered, laughing. 'The only musical instrument I own is a triangle. You're welcome to that.'

'A triangle? How wise, Robert-so much easier to pack.'

I smiled and looked down at his 'grid'. 'What is "psittacicide"?' I asked.

'"The killing of parrots",' he answered. 'I grieve for your cla.s.sical education, Robert. You are the great-grandson of William Wordsworth!'

I decided to rise above his banter. 'The deaths in this case are certainly unusual,' I remarked.

'Are they not?' he said, leaning forward. 'Elizabeth Scott-Rivers is consumed by fire; Bradford Pea.r.s.e is thrown to the waves; for David McMuirtree it is death by a thousand cuts ... This is manslaughter on an apocalyptic scale.'

'Lord Abergordon died in his sleep,' I said, returning his sheet of foolscap to him.

'So we are told.' He drained his gla.s.s and extinguished his cigarette briskly. He waved towards the waiter for our bill. 'How do you think the murderer plans to despatch me?' he asked, smiling.

'Do you truly believe your life is threatened, Oscar?'

'You've seen the ugly little man with the sallow skin and the ferret's eyes. He's trailing me for a purpose, Robert-and it's not a benign one. My life is threatened, without doubt ... And Constance's life, also. I have loved her. I owe her much. I married her. I must protect her now.'

'Perhaps you should ask Gilmour to put a police guard on t.i.te Street,' I suggested.

'Not yet. Constance knows nothing of this still. I do not want to alarm her before I must. According to the logic of the grid, we should both be safe enough till Friday. These deaths occur sequentially and on the day appointed.' He glanced down at his 'grid'. 'I am not surprised that Friday the thirteenth is destined as my doomsday.' Smiling, he folded the sheet of paper and placed it carefully in his jacket pocket. 'We have three days in which to solve the mystery, Robert. Three days in which to find our murderer.' He pocketed his pencil and his cigarette case, wiped his lips with his napkin and tossed it lightly onto the table.

'Can it be done?' I asked, puzzled at how sanguine he seemed under the circ.u.mstances.

He got to his feet and straightened his waistcoat in a business-like fas.h.i.+on. 'When you think what our Lord managed in three days at the end of Holy Week, I am full of hope, Robert. With your a.s.sistance, my friend, and with the aid of our grid, anything is possible. Come.'

I got to my feet. 'Where are we going?' I asked.

'To meet the suspects, one by one. In turn, to interview each of those who attended the Socrates Club dinner-to learn his secret. We shall start here. I trust you have brought your notebook with you?'

In the entrance hallway of the Cadogan Hotel, we found young Nat, Oscar's friend, the freckled pageboy.

'We're looking for Mr Byrd, Nat,' said Oscar, slipping the lad a sixpenny piece. 'Is he about?'

The boy glanced at the grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs. 'He'll still be in his bedroom, Mr Wilde, but he should be awake. Shall I take you?'

The boy led us through a series of baize-covered doors, along a labyrinth of dark corridors to a narrow stone staircase at the very back of the building. 'It's seventy steps, Mr Wilde,' said the boy solicitously, 'Can you manage?'

'I have no idea!' exclaimed Oscar. 'I have never attempted anything so hazardous before.'

In the event, Oscar climbed the stairs quite nimbly. At every landing, he paused and asked the boy a different question. What did Nat think of Mr Byrd? He liked him: Byrd was a magician and Nat liked that. Did Mr Byrd have many friends? Beyond Mr McMuirtree, none that Nat knew of. Mr Byrd kept himself very much to himself. How had the hotel night manager felt about Captain Flint? According to Nat, Mr Byrd thought the world of the parrot. 'He loved that parrot, Mr Wilde-doted on it.' Had the boy seen Mr Byrd on the previous evening? Yes, Mr Byrd was in and around the hotel all evening, as usual. 'He was mostly in his office or in the lobby. I was on duty till ten, Mr Wilde, like normal. I'm sure Mr Byrd never left the building all night.'

When we reached the attic floor, Nat led us along a narrow uncarpeted corridor, where the ceiling was so low Oscar had to duck his head. There were unpainted, unvarnished pinewood doors on either side of the corridor and the only light came from a round window at the far end. 'All the male live-in staff sleep up here,' explained the boy. 'I share with Billy, the other page-boy, and with Dan and Jonty, the two kitchen lads. We're opposite Mr Byrd. He's here.' We had reached the last door in the corridor.

'Thank you, Nat,' said Oscar, producing another coin for the boy. 'You have brought us to the summit. We'll do our best to find our own way down.'

The boy took the coin in his left hand and, with his right, gave us a smart salute. With a grin, he then opened his left hand to reveal that the coin had disappeared. Next, he pa.s.sed his right hand lightly over his head and held out his right palm to reveal Oscar's coin lying on it.

'Bravo!' I said.

'How old are you now, lad?' asked Oscar.

'Fifteen, sir,' said the boy, 'sixteen nearly.'

'Romeo's age a perfect age. Stick with it, Nat. The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. You understand that, don't you?'

'I don't understand a word you say, Mr Wilde, but I know it's good stuff.'

The boy scampered off down the corridor and Oscar, smiling, knocked on Byrd's bedroom door.

'Come!' called a voice from within.

We entered the room. It was dark and uncomfortably hot. There was an unsavoury stench in the air, the odour of sweat and sour milk. 'You do not lock your door, Mr Byrd?' asked Oscar.

'I have nothing to fear, I hope,' said Byrd. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, clothed but unshaven. He did not stir as we came into the room. He sat as he was, his narrow shoulders slumped forward, his cadaverous head bowed low. A gas lamp glowed dismally on the bedside table.

'You have heard the news?' Oscar enquired.

Byrd nodded. His hands were clasped together on his lap. Between them he appeared to be kneading a small piece of coloured cloth, pressing it and turning it between his clenched right fist and his cupped left palm. 'Yes,' he said, barely above a whisper, 'I have heard the news. Mr Sickert and Mr Brookfield came to the hotel late last night. Not to see me, of course. They came by for a nightcap, that's all. But when they were leaving they pa.s.sed me in the hallway. They told me what had happened.'

'I am sorry,' said Oscar.

'McMuirtree was my friend,' said Byrd, looking up at us for the first time. In the dim light I saw the anguish in his eyes.

'Had you known him long?' asked Oscar.

'Twenty years,' said Byrd. 'Half a lifetime. We met at the crossroads.' Slowly he turned his head and looked about the room, as if he were seeing it for the first time. I followed his gaze. The room was crowded with boxes, trunks and cases, the stage properties and paraphernalia from his magic show. A silence fell.

'The crossroads?' repeated Oscar, eventually.

'The crossroads,' answered Byrd sharply, 'where McMuirtree, half-a-gentleman, took the high road to fame and fortune, and I took the low road that led to where you find me now.'

'Ah,' said Oscar. 'You were a gentleman ... I did not realise.'

'Did you not?' said Byrd, looking directly at Oscar. 'My father was a gentleman, a merchant, from Liverpool. My mother was a lady. She died soon after I was born. My father died on my eighteenth birthday. He shot himself. He owned a s.h.i.+p and he lost it in the China seas. When his s.h.i.+p went down, his fortune sank with it. A merchant without means ceases to be a gentleman. I was at the university at the time, Mr Wilde-your university, where you won all those prizes.'

'I did not know,' said Oscar. 'What college were you at? I was at Magdalen.'

'I know,' said Byrd, looking down at his hands once more. 'I was at New.'

'Ah,' said Oscar amiably. He turned to me. 'What was your college, Robert?'

'I was at New College, too,' I said.

'I thought so.'

'And I did not complete my degree either,' I added.

'I did not complete my first term,' said Byrd. 'I left Oxford within a fortnight of my father's death. I took to the road. I followed in the footsteps of my childhood heroes-Maskelyne and Cooke, the great illusionists. My father had taken me to see them perform at the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly. I marvelled at all that they did. I wanted to be like them. I went to work for them. I was apprenticed to them for two years. They taught me my craft.'

'You learnt it well,' I said.

'I learnt the craft of it. I mastered the tricks. My technique was impressive, but according to John Maskelyne, I lacked "the immortal spark". I did not ,,engage" the audience.'

'You did not look them in the eye,' suggested Oscar.

'Precisely,' replied Byrd, staring steadily at Oscar. 'Exactly so. I lacked the courage. According to John Maskelyne, to be a great illusionist requires daring and what he called "panache". I had neither.'

'But David McMuirtree had both ... enough for two?'

Byrd gave a hollow laugh. 'You appear to know my story, Mr Wilde.'

'I guess at it, that's all,' said Oscar kindly.

'McMuirtree came to work for Maskelyne and Cooke as well. We were of an age, but he was everything that I was not. He was strong; he was handsome; he could engage the crowd. I was the better magician, but he was the bigger man. We completed our apprentices.h.i.+p with Maskelyne and Cooke and took to the road ourselves.'

'As "McMuirtree and Byrd"?'

'Exactly so.'

'And did you prosper?' Oscar enquired.

'We might have done. Thanks to Mr Maskelyne, we had contacts. We got bookings. We were at the bottom of the bill, of course, because we were young and unknown, but we had prospects. We might have prospered, given time. But McMuirtree was impatient-and easily distracted. He took up boxing. He saw it as a more certain path to glory. And then, of a sudden, almost on a whim, he joined the Metropolitan Police. They gave him opportunities to box and a steady income.'

'He abandoned you?'

'He went his own way, but we kept in touch. We never lost touch.'

'But you abandoned the stage?' asked Oscar.

'Without McMuirtree, I had little choice. John Maskelyne was right, Mr Wilde. I lacked courage and panache. And I was not tall enough to join the Metropolitan Police.' He looked up at us both and grimaced and opened his fingers to let a handful of green feathers flutter to the ground.

'Poor Captain Flint,' said Oscar.

Byrd leant forward and carefully picked up each of the tiny feathers. There were thirteen of them in all.

'Where is your parrot now?' asked Oscar.

'I have laid him to rest,' said Byrd.

I looked about the room, wondering in which box or trunk or magician's cabinet the unhappy hotel manager had placed the mortal remains of his feathered friend.

'Not here,' he said, with a dry laugh. 'At my allotment by Brompton Cemetery.'

Oscar looked surprised. 'You have an allotment, Mr Byrd?'

'A small one. Gardening is my only pleasure now. I work nights here at the hotel so that by day I can dig my patch of earth. I lead a simple life, Mr Wilde. "Having the fewest wants, I am nearest to the G.o.ds."'

Oscar smiled. 'I recognise the line.' He looked down at Alphonse Byrd and s.h.i.+fted the weight between his feet. 'And speaking of Socrates, Mr Byrd, let me come to the point and then Mr Sherard and I can leave you in peace. At our club dinner the other Sunday, during my foolish game, you will recall that it was Lord Alfred Douglas who named Captain Flint as his intended victim?' Byrd nodded, but said nothing. Oscar continued: 'I am certain that Lord Alfred meant the bird no serious harm. It was just one of his less happy jokes-and for it, and on his behalf, I apologise. So the question remains: who do you think killed the parrot, Mr Byrd?'

Byrd gazed down at the feathers in his hand. 'Who would do such a thing?' he murmured. 'I have no idea. None whatsoever. A monster, that's for certain.'

Oscar pressed him. 'You have no idea, Mr Byrd?'

'None at all. None.'

'And who do you think might have killed David McMuirtree?' asked Oscar.

'Oh,' answered Byrd, without hesitation, 'I'm certain the police will be able to tell you that.'

'Really?' countered Oscar.