Oscar Wilde And The Ring Of Death Part 25

'There's nothing sadder than an unloved garden,' said Heron-Allen.

Vyvyan ran up to his mother holding a handful of weeds and gra.s.ses. 'I've picked a posy for you, Mama,' he announced, bowing low and presenting his mother with his little bunch of greenery.

'Thank you, my darling,' said Constance, moved by her child's offering and bending down to kiss the little boy. 'Perhaps Uncle Edward can tell us what you've picked for me.'

Constance handed the green posy to Heron-Allen, who examined it carefully.

'There are herbs here, as well as weeds,' he said approvingly. 'Well done, G.o.dson.' He knelt down beside the boy and, like a good teacher, took him through each leaf in turn. 'This, I think, is wild carrot. This, believe it or not, is the leaf of a parsnip. You can eat the parsnip, but you can't eat the leaf. This leaf you can eat, however. It's delicious.' He bit into the curly sprig of vegetation. 'It's called parsley.'

'Correctly known as "petroselinum",' added Oscar, bringing Cyril over to join in the lesson. 'We Wildes are all cla.s.sicists, Edward. My boys have been Latin scholars ab ovo.'

Heron-Allen laughed obligingly. 'Well,' he went on, 'this then, I think, is conium maculatum. It's a pretty flower, but you mustn't eat it.' He pulled out the smooth green stem and threw it onto the bank. 'But this one-which isn't quite so pretty-is really delicious.' He held the delicate leaf beneath Vyvyan's nose and scratched it. 'Can you smell it? It's very good for you. It's foeniculum vulgare.'

'Common fennel?' I guessed.

'Indeed,' said Heron-Allen, getting to his feet.

'Beloved of the Persians also. They call it "raaziyaan".'

On the return journey to t.i.te Street, Constance walked ahead pus.h.i.+ng Cyril in the chariot, with Heron-Allen, with Vyvyan back on his shoulders, at her side. Each time they crossed a road I felt an absurd pang of jealousy as the young solicitor put out his hand to touch and steady Constance's slender arm.

As we walked, Oscar and I smoked our cigarettes, but said very little. As we turned into t.i.te Street itself, Oscar paused. 'There's much to be done between now and Friday, Robert. We know who killed the parrot, don't we?'

'Do we?' I asked.

He smiled. 'I think we do ... But who killed David McMuirtree? That's the question. And why? And the blades that slashed the poor man's wrists ... were they c.o.c.kspurs?'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

QUESTIONS.

At the end of the afternoon Edward Heron-Allen went on his way. The family gathered at the front door of 16 t.i.te Street to wave him off. Oscar embraced his young friend warmly; the two boys threw their arms around his legs to try to prevent him from taking his leave; I watched Constance tenderly stroke his ear and cheek as she kissed him goodbye.

'I must go, too,' I said, when Constance had taken the children upstairs for their bathtime and fairy stories.

'A gla.s.s of champagne before you go?' suggested Oscar. He went to the end of the corridor and called down towards the kitchen: 'Arthur!' He took me into his red-and-yellow study on the ground floor. The floor was cluttered with untidy heaps of papers and tottering piles of books. Like an overweight frog hopping between lily-pads, Oscar negotiated his way across the room towards his celebrated writing desk-the desk at which Thomas Carlyle had written his History of the French Revolution. 'Look at this,' he said.

'What is it?'

Between his thumb and forefinger he held up a tiny curved object that looked like the clipping of a fingernail encased in silver. 'It is a Mexican c.o.c.kspur-according to Heron-Allen. It's the pride of his collection, apparently. He brought it over this morning. He thought I'd be intrigued to see it.' He handed me the miniature blade. 'Take care,' he said. 'It's razor-sharp.'

I examined the s.h.i.+ny c.o.c.kspur carefully-it was highly polished: it gleamed-and returned it to Oscar who placed it back upon the desk. 'So many questions, Robert,' he murmured. 'So many questions and so little time.'

'If this is a race against time, Oscar,' I said, lowering my voice, 'if you truly believe that your life could be threatened on Friday, is your visit to Oxford tomorrow essential?'

'It is,' he said, not looking at me but picking up a book from the top of one of the piles and leafing through it. 'And not just for Bosie's sake.'

'Who killed the parrot, Oscar?' I asked. He said nothing, but carried on reading. 'Who killed the parrot?' I hissed.

He looked up at me. 'You're beginning to sound like Charles Brookfield, Robert.'

'But if you know, Oscar, you must tell me.'

He laughed. 'Now you're beginning to sound like Bosie. You must write your own essay, Robert: test the evidence yourself, Robert; make your own deductions; come to your own conclusion.'

'Ah ...' I said, smiling, leaning back and folding my arms across my chest. 'You don't know for certain, do you?'

He snapped shut his book. 'You are right, Robert. I think I know, but I am not certain. I am not at all certain. As Socrates reminds us, true knowledge exists in knowing that we know nothing. The jigsaw is still a jumble. There are secrets still waiting to be found out.'

Arthur the butler arrived with the Perrier Jouet.

He placed the champagne tray on the side-table by the study door and bowed towards his master. Oscar bowed back.

'Pour the wine, Robert. We need to empty the bottle and clear our heads. Do you have your pencil and notebook handy?'

As we drank the sparkling wine-it was wonderfully crisp and cool: 'as pure and yellow as a May moonbeam,' said Oscar-I took a note of my friend's instructions. While he was to be in Oxford, I was to remain in London. I was to return to Byrd at the Cadogan Hotel and reserve the private room there for a dinner on Friday night. Oscar told me to instruct Byrd to invite all those who had been present at the Socrates Club gathering on Sunday 1 May to return to the Cadogan for a special dinner-'a commemorative dinner'-on the evening of the thirteenth. 'Tell Byrd there will be fourteen for dinner, as before. Tell him I want the same menu as before and the same wines.'

'And the same seating plan?' I asked.

'Not exactly,' he said. 'You can tell Byrd that I shall look after the placement. And, Robert, you can contact Inspector Gilmour at Scotland Yard and ask him if he might be free to join us. Ask him to bring a fellow officer as his guest.'

'You want the police at the dinner?'

'Yes,' he said, looking into his champagne somewhat dreamily. 'Without David McMuirtree and poor Bradford Pea.r.s.e, we'll be two short at table.'

He stepped carefully between the lily-pads of books and papers and stood gazing out of the window onto t.i.te Street. 'And while you're with Gilmour, try to find out what progress he is making in rounding up the "notorious villains" he suspects of McMuirtree's murder. And see if he's had any news from Eastbourne-from either the police there or the coastguards.'

I emptied my gla.s.s and returned it to the tray. 'I shall be busy,' I said, pocketing my pencil and notebook.

'I hope so,' he replied, turning to me and smiling. 'And, if you've time, perhaps you could call on more of our witnesses. We've not interviewed young Willie Hornung. We've not heard all that Wat Sickert has to say.'

'Will they have "secrets", Oscar?'

'They will have secrets, Robert-that is certain. Whether their secrets are relevant to the case in hand-that is the only issue.' He looked back out of the window. 'And here is your two-wheeler,' he announced, 'on cue.'

'I didn't order a two-wheeler,' I said, surprised.

'I know,' he answered, beaming at me. 'I did. It's my treat.'

'When did you order it, Oscar?' I asked suspiciously.

'Just now,' he said.

'Just now?' I repeated, bemused.

'Yes,' he said. 'Just now.'

I looked at him. The wine had given colour to his cheeks. He appeared suddenly exultant.

'When Arthur brought in our champagne,' he explained, 'I gave him the signal. It's an arrangement we have. I bring my hands together by way of a salaam. If I bring together the four fingers of each hand it means that I require him to go out into the street and find me a four-wheeler. If a two-wheeler is required, in my salaam I just press together the tips of two fingers from each hand.' He bowed towards me and brought his hands together by way of demonstration. 'I knew that you needed to get home after we had had our drink. I thought you might appreciate a cab. That's all.'

'You are extraordinary, Oscar.'

'I like to think so,' he said happily. 'And you are a good friend, Robert-although you do need to learn to be a little more observant.' From his jacket pocket he produced his green snakeskin wallet (it was his favourite) and extracted three pound notes. He held them out towards me. 'Your expenses for tomorrow, my friend. Don't protest. You have very little money and I have plenty. If I don't give it away now, it will merely be stolen from me in the fullness of time.'

'Thank you,' I said. 'I'll keep a note of what I spend.'

'Don't! For G.o.d's sake, don't!' He sounded quite alarmed at the prospect. He put his arm about me as he walked with me towards the door. 'You're not a bank clerk, Robert. You're not a bookkeeper. You're a published poet, the great-grandson of a laureate. You of all people should know that ordinary riches count for nothing. Ordinary riches can be stolen from a man. Real riches cannot. In the treasury-house of your soul there are infinitely precious things that may not be taken from you.'

I looked at his flushed face and smiled. 'Have I heard that somewhere before, Oscar?'

'Did we drink the champagne too quickly?' he asked, kissing me on the forehead. 'Goodbye, Robert.' He waved me on my way. 'If I get back in time tomorrow night, we'll take a nightcap at the Albemarle. Shall we say ten o'clock-eleven at the latest? Meanwhile, bonne chance, mon brave!' As I stepped into the waiting two-wheeler, he called out: 'I don't think Heron-Allen's our man, do you?'

I did not know what to think. I did not know where to begin my thinking. Oscar made a fine detective because, though he was a poet, he was also a cla.s.sicist. His way with words was elaborate and ornate, flowery and full of fanciful flourishes, but his way of thinking was precise. He was not just a spinner of fine phrases: his understanding of grammar and syntax was profound. He had a poet's imagination, a painter's eye, an actor's ear and a scholar's nose for detail and capacity for close a.n.a.lysis. On the following morning-the morning of Wednesday 11 May 1892-I was grateful that, at least, I had a written note of his instructions.

I did exactly as he had bid me. I began the day by taking a cab to the Cadogan Hotel in Sloane Street. I saw Byrd and asked him to make the necessary arrangements for the Socrates Club dinner on Friday night. He a.s.sured me he would be happy to oblige. From the hotel, I telephoned Arthur Conan Doyle and, from him, got the details of where I might expect to find his young friend, Willie Hornung. From Sloane Street I took another cab to Fleet Street and found Hornung, in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves and pince-nez, sitting in the darkest corner of the ill-lit bas.e.m.e.nt offices of a 'popular publication' of which I had never heard.

Hornung, it transpired, was the recently appointed a.s.sistant editor of the Gentlewoman: An Ill.u.s.trated Weekly Journal for Gentlewomen. The poor fellow, perched on a high stool, inky pen in hand, managed to look distraught and despairing at the same time. 'I can't stop to talk,' he said, putting down his pen and running his hands anxiously through his thick fair hair. 'I have to finish an article about chewing-gum by lunchtime. Chewing-gum! I ask you! They say it's all the rage in America and that over here by Christmas every forward-thinking gentlewoman will be chewing Mr Wrigley's extraordinary sweetmeat. I just don't believe it but the editor insists. He's an ogre. I wish I'd taken the job on Forget-Me-Not. That's another women's weekly, but it's mostly pictorial. I would only have had to write captions for photographs. Arthur said I should go for this job-so I did. But I'm not enjoying it, I can tell you. I'm not enjoying it a bit.'

I stood for a few minutes with the unhappy youth in his desultory corner, consoling him with the thought that Oscar had served his time as editor of a women's magazine, while plying the poor boy with questions about the night of 1 May and pressing him to reveal to me his 'secrets'. He said he remembered very little about the Socrates Club dinner. He had been 'rather overwhelmed' by the occasion. He did recall that Bradford Pea.r.s.e, who sat opposite him during dinner, appeared to have drunk a great deal and he recollected what he described as 'an unhappy exchange' between Charles Brookfield and Arthur Conan Doyle.

'Can you remember what was said?' I asked.

'Arthur was saying that he thought that Oscar had missed his vocation, that Oscar-had he so chosen-could have become a private consulting detective quite as brilliant and perceptive as Sherlock Holmes. Brookfield scoffed and said, "Oscar Wilde as a detective is a preposterous notion. Indeed, Oscar Wilde as a person is a preposterous notion. Oscar Wilde is a charlatan."'

'He said this at dinner?'

'After dinner, as we were preparing to leave. I imagine he was drunk.'

'Did Conan Doyle rebuke him?'

'Arthur was very calm, very dignified. He said. "Mr Brookfield, history will show you that the so-called charlatan is always the pioneer. From the astrologer came the astronomer, from the alchemist the chemist, from the mesmerist the experimental psychologist. The quack of yesterday is the professor of tomorrow. Mr Wilde is by no means preposterous. He is merely ahead of his time."'

'And what did Brookfield say to that?'

'"That's a very pretty speech, I'm sure, sir, but it don't change my opinion of Mr Oscar Wilde."'

As he spoke, Hornung kept looking over his shoulder as if fearing the imminent arrival of the monstrous editor he was employed to a.s.sist. 'Forgive me, Robert,' he said. 'I must get back to my chewing-gum.'

'And what about your "secret"?' I asked. 'Oscar says everybody has a "secret". What's yours?'

Hornung laughed nervously and pushed his pince-nez up his nose. 'Oscar already knows mine. It's my name ...'

'Your name?'

'I call myself William-everyone knows me as Willie-but that's not my first name.'

'And that's your secret?'

'Yes,' he said, running his hands through his hair again.

'And what is your first name?' I asked.

'Ernest,' he said. 'My name is Ernest. Oscar seemed to think that was very funny indeed.'

I left Hornung and walked in the spring suns.h.i.+ne from Fleet Street to the Strand, down Savoy Hill to the Embankment, past Gatti's in the Arches (George Daubeney and Wat Sickert's favourite music hall), past Charing Cross railway station, to Scotland Yard. Inspector Gilmour was not in his office and not expected back before dusk. He was out on a case- in the East End', on the trail of some 'notorious villains'-and his deputy and his deputy's deputy were both with him. According to the desk sergeant, an amiable officer of riper years, I could expect 'progress in the matter of the McMuirtree murder any minute now-certainly within the week'. I left Gilmour a note, signed on Oscar's behalf, inviting him to come to dinner at the Cadogan Hotel on Friday night, at half past seven, bringing one of his deputies with him.

From Scotland Yard I walked on towards Westminster Bridge where I picked up another cab and travelled on to the King's Road, to the Chelsea Arts Club. I found Walter Sickert in the club mess room, the large studio at the back of the building, sitting alone with a plate of ham and pickled onions and a bottle of Algerian wine. He was reading a letter when I arrived. He looked up at me with tears in his sea-green eyes.

'Get yourself a gla.s.s,' he said, pus.h.i.+ng his bottle of wine towards me. 'I am reading a letter from a friend of mine in Paris. He knew Van Gogh-the Dutch artist who killed himself.'

I poured myself a gla.s.s of wine.

'Van Gogh's paintings are so full of life, so full of suns.h.i.+ne and colour, and yet the poor man was so wretched in this world that he killed himself.' He waved the letter he was holding in my direction. 'Do you know what Van Gogh's dying words were? "La tristesse durera toujours ."'

'"The sadness will last forever," 'I translated.

'No,' said Sickert, raising his gla.s.s to his lips. '"The sadness will never go away." There's a difference ...' He skewered a pickled onion with his fork. 'Do you think Bradford Pea.r.s.e felt like that?'

'Have you had any news of Pea.r.s.e?' I asked.

'None,' he said. 'Has Oscar?'

'I don't believe so.'

Sickert blew his nose on a huge blue handkerchief and nodded towards the small, torn buff-coloured envelope that lay beneath his letter on the table. 'Oscar sent me a wire. He said you might drop by. Oscar's a good man-a touch absurd, of course, but fundamentally good.'

I smiled. It was amusing to hear Wat Sickert, with his outsized bow-tie, his yellow spats and waxed moustache, describe Oscar as 'a touch absurd'.

Sickert went on: 'I have known Oscar since I was a boy. He used to come on holiday with us, you know. He was wonderful to my mother when my father died. Mother was inconsolable-until Oscar came to call. He talked to her of my father with such sweetness, such gentle humour. He taught her how to laugh once more.' He wiped more tears from his eyes and waved the empty wine bottle in the air in the hope of attracting a waiter's attention. 'Of course, some people can't abide Oscar-think he's the most dreadful bore. Wasn't it you who told me that Victor Hugo actually fell asleep during one of dear Oscar's wittiest set-pieces?'

I laughed. 'It was.' The waiter arrived with a fresh bottle. 'Of course,' I added, 'Monsieur Hugo was very old at the time.'

Sickert recharged our gla.s.ses. 'Let us drink to Oscar,' he said. 'He's a great man. And a darling. And a good friend, too. He's going to unravel the secret of these mysterious deaths, you mark my words. Who killed the parrot? Who pushed poor Bradford Pea.r.s.e to his doom? Who slashed the boxer's wrists? I've no idea-none at all!-but Oscar will uncover the truth, I know it. He has a genius for this kind of thing.'

I took one of the pickled onions from Sickert's plate. 'Gilmour of the Yard is also on the case,' I said.

Sickert put down his gla.s.s dramatically, splas.h.i.+ng wine onto the table. 'Forget Gilmour of the Yard,' he expostulated. 'Oscar will do it-alone, unaided. Two artists sit side by side painting the same subject. Only one of the paintings works. Whistler taught me that. Whistler used to say that "the bogey of success only sits on one palette". Oscar will do it single-handed.' He laughed and poured more wine into his gla.s.s. 'Which is fortunate as, sadly, I have no help to offer. No useful recollections, no helpful apercus. I must drink up and return to my studio. What are you doing this afternoon, Robert? I am discovering the delights of a new model this afternoon. I am spending the rest of the day with skin that's quite unblemished, with tiny ankles, lissom thighs, a slim waist and b.r.e.a.s.t.s so firm and small that they might be a boy's ... Have you ever painted a virgin, Robert?'

'No,' I said, 'I'm not an artist.'

'Or slept with one?' he added, waving his gla.s.s in the air. 'It amounts to the same thing.'