Oscar Wilde And The Ring Of Death Part 3

'Pull out another one,' commanded Oscar. 'Let's get on with it.'

'What number is this?' asked Bosie.

'This is the eighth, Lord Alfred,' said Byrd, holding the next piece of paper in front of him.

'Whose name is it this time?' asked Oscar.

'It is the same name, I am afraid,' said Byrd. '"Mr David McMuirtree".

'Stop this, Oscar,' protested Conan Doyle. 'Stop this now!'

'No,' rasped McMuirtree. 'I'm not put out, I a.s.sure you. It really does not matter.'

'Quite right, Mr McMuirtree,' said Oscar, 'Nothing that actually occurs is of the smallest importance.' He delivered the aphorism lightly (it was one of his favourites), but I was watching him as he spoke and I saw the anxiety in his eyes. 'Come, Byrd, continue,' he said crisply. 'We are nearly there. Three of us seem inclined to murder Mr McMuirtree. Let's see if there is to be a fourth. Draw out the next name, if you will.'

Byrd did as he was asked. He held the slip closer to his eyes and paused.

'Well?' asked Bosie.

'"Mr David McMuirtree",' said Byrd once again.

'"Ask not for whom the bell tolls ..." 'murmured Oscar, furrowing his brow and raising his gla.s.s once more in the direction of McMuirtree. 'Let's have the next one, Byrd,' he added. 'We're too steeped in blood to turn back now. I'm sure McMuirtree agrees.

McMuirtree inclined his head towards Oscar and smiled.

'It's decent of you to be so obliging,' said Conan Doyle.

'Who's next?' said Oscar.

Byrd drew another slip of paper from his bag.

McMuirtree, from the far end of the table, looked towards him and enquired quietly, 'Well?'

'The next victim is "Old Father Time", announced Mr Byrd.

'That's more like it,' said Bram Stoker, gently banging the table with the flat of his hand to indicate his approval.

'Not so exciting though,' said Bosie. 'Perhaps I should have named my father, after all.' He turned to his brother, seated on his left. Lord Drumlanrig was lighting a cigar. 'Why didn't you choose our father as your victim, Francis? You loathe him as much as I do and you stand to gain more from the inheritance.'

'Lord Drumlanrig may well have selected the Marquess of Queensberry as his victim, Bosie,' said Oscar, placing his fingers lightly on the back of his young friend's right hand. 'Byrd still has three names to reveal.' He turned back to the club secretary. 'Who's next?'

Byrd was ready, slip of paper in hand. 'The next victim is "Eros",' he announced.

'Eros?' asked Willie Hornung, putting down his gla.s.s of Vin Mariani and looking about the table with a bright-eyed innocence that was endearing. 'Does Eros count? He is a mythical Greek G.o.d, isn't he?'

'If you can murder Time,' said Oscar, 'I imagine you can destroy a myth. In fact, I know men who have done both. I think Eros is a permissible victim within the rules of the game, Willie. Continue, Byrd.'

'Yes,' said Brookfield, who now appeared quite bloated with drink. 'Let's have done with it. Who's next for the chop?'

Alphonse Byrd felt inside the bag and pulled out a slip of paper. He held it to his eyes and looked puzzled. He turned it over and examined it more closely. 'It's blank, Mr Wilde,' he said, pa.s.sing the paper to Oscar.

Oscar held it lightly between his thumb and forefinger. 'So it is, Byrd. Nothing will come of nothing. Next, please!'

'This is the penultimate slip of paper, I believe,' said Byrd.

'Get on with it!' jeered Brookfield.

The club secretary cleared his throat before reading out the name: "'Mr Oscar Wilde".'

There was laughter around the table. Stoker banged his right hand repeatedly on the cigar box to show his approval. Even Conan Doyle smiled. Oscar acknowledged the mocking ovation with a seated bow. 'I suppose it was inevitable,' he muttered, 'though I'm sorry that my name should have been the thirteenth to be drawn. Come, Mr Byrd, let's name the final victim and be done.'

Byrd, who was now standing at the side of the table, behind Willie Hornung and Conan Doyle, put his hand into his small velvet bag for the final time. He drew out the paper and looked at it. He sniffed and brushed the back of his knuckles against his mouth.

'Come on, man,' cried Brookfield from his corner.' What does it say?'

'It says, "Mr Oscar Wilde",' said Byrd. He spoke quietly and then shook his head and placed the paper and the bag on the table and looked towards Oscar. 'I'm sorry, Mr Wilde.'

'Goodness,' cried Oscar, grinning. 'I'm almost as unpopular as McMuirtree. I'm not sure whether to be gratified or appalled.'

'Welcome to the club, Mr Wilde,' said McMuirtree, with a husky laugh.

'It's only a game,' grunted Bradford Pea.r.s.e.

'Indeed,' said Oscar, amiably.

Arthur Conan Doyle was leaning across Edward Heron-Allen, holding the last of the slips of paper Byrd had drawn from the bag. He peered at it intently. 'It's not a game any more,' he said.

'It's only a joke, Arthur,' said Bosie through a cloud of cigar smoke. 'Oscar can take a joke.'

'I think the joke is over,' said Conan Doyle, getting to his feet. He moved to the head of the table and, putting his arm over Oscar's shoulder, held the slip of paper out before him. 'The name of this last "victim" ... the name that's written here ... Look at it carefully, Oscar. What does it say?'

Oscar studied the piece of paper that Conan Doyle held before him and read the words: '"Mrs Oscar Wilde".'

CHAPTER FOUR.

'WE LIVE AND LEARN'

Young Willie Hornung filled the silence that had fallen in the private dining room at the Cadogan Hotel. 'Who would want to murder Mrs Wilde?' he asked.

'No one in their right mind,' said Bram Stoker, 'even in jest.' The Irishman stubbed out his cigar on a side-plate and pushed his chair away from the dining-room table. He got to his feet and looked about the room, scratching his beard. 'The game's gone sour,' he said.

'I agree,' said Conan Doyle. He looked sternly around at all of us. 'I don't know about the rest of you, gentlemen, but I'm for my bed.'

Everyone began to move.

'No, gentlemen, no!' Oscar protested. 'We must get to the bottom of this.'

'Not tonight, Oscar,' said Stoker, firmly.

'I insist,' said Oscar. 'I'm the club chairman.'

'But I'm the older animal, Oscar,' Stoker growled, 'and I've had enough excitement for one evening. Mr Irving is embarking on King Lear in the morning. First day of rehearsals. Lear can't rely on his daughters, but the Guv'nor likes to think he can rely on me. It's late, Oscar, and, whatever you say, I'm for turning in.'

'We all are,' chimed Wat Sickert, from the far end the table. He, too, was on his feet. 'The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve,' he said softly. He leant over the dining table, licked the palm of his left hand and cupped it and used it as a snuffer to extinguish the guttering candles that were set in a circle around what once had been Lillie Langtry's favourite epergne. The room was plunged into sepulchral gloom. The only source of light was a pair of gasoliers above the fireplace. ''Tis almost fairy-time,' he said. He turned to Bradford Pea.r.s.e. 'Come, Brad, you can be my guest a while longer and stay the night at my place. I'll see you don't get murdered in your sleep.'

Pea.r.s.e laughed. I noticed he was sweating. He had a large white handkerchief in his hand and he used it to wipe the perspiration from his face and neck and brow. 'I'm ready,' he said.

Sickert leant across his friend to shake Bram Stoker by the hand. 'Goodnight, Bram,' he said warmly. 'Give my respects to Irving.'

'I will.'

'If ever he needs a portrait ...'

'We know where to find you, Wat,' replied Stoker, genially. He peered across the darkened table towards Conan Doyle, who was a.s.sisting Oscar to his feet. 'Goodnight, Arthur. Give us a week or three to get Lear out of the traps-the Guv'nor has lumbered himself with a plump Cordelia and a troublesome Fool and then I'll get you in for an hour and you can tell him all about your play. I think he can be persuaded ...'

'Is Arthur writing plays now?' muttered Oscar in a mock-grumble. 'Perhaps I should consider opening a medical practice?'

'Goodnight, Mr Chairman,' said Stoker. 'The night has been unruly, but memorable. Thank you. And thank you, Byrd, for the feast. We've eaten like princes, as usual. Goodnight all, Come, Brookfield- we'll share a cab.'

Charles Brookfield, his long, handsome face flushed with wine, was already standing by the door. He held himself unnaturally erect: he was deep in drink. 'Goodnight, gentlemen,' he called to the room. 'My play is ent.i.tled The Poet and the Puppets. It opens on the nineteenth of the month. Your attendance will do me honour.'

As Stoker took Brookfield by the arm and escorted him from the room, Oscar shook his head and murmured, 'Ambition is the last refuge of the failure.'

'Goodnight, Oscar,' said Lord Drumlanrig. 'Thank you for your hospitality.'

'Bonne nuit, mon cher,' Bosie called to Oscar, pulling his brother with him towards the door.

'Goodnight, gentlemen,' said Oscar. 'Will I see you tomorrow, Bosie?'

'Murderers permitting,' said Bosie, with a laugh, giving the room a playful farewell wave.

Oscar watched the Douglas brothers depart. 'Bosie is wonderfully amusing, is he not?' he said to n.o.body in particular.

The remaining members of the party were now exchanging farewells and moving towards the door. McMuirtree was a.s.sisting Byrd in clearing the decanters and dead wine bottles from the table onto a large butler's tray on the sideboard. Willie Hornung was telling Conan Doyle that he had had a 'capital evening', 'tip-top', one of the best he'd ever known. Edward Heron-Allen, I realised, had already slipped away, apparently unnoticed. I turned to say goodnight to the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney and saw that he, alone of the party, was seated still. The poor fellow-my special guest! was slumped in his place, gazing vacantly into the middle distance.

'Come, George,' I said, 'let's get you a cab.'

Daubeney slowly turned his weary, pock-marked face towards me and, with an effort, pushed his chair away from the table. He started to get to his feet, but, as he did so, lurched forward, stumbled and fell onto his knees, clutching at my legs for support. 'Forgive me, Robert,' he slurred. He put his hands back onto the table's edge as I helped him pull himself up again. 'I have drunk too much,' he mumbled.

'But only from the well of unhappiness,' said Oscar, who was still standing at the head of the table nursing his empty brandy gla.s.s.

'Do you want a bed at the hotel?' asked Byrd. 'We can find you a room.'

Daubeney looked up at the night manager and smiled bleakly. 'Thank you,' he said. 'You are kind, but I have business to attend to. I will be on my way.'

'Are you sure, George?' I asked.

'I can walk home,' he said. 'It's not far. The fresh air will do me good.'

He shook me by the hand and bowed towards Oscar and the others and took his leave.

'He is an unfortunate creature,' said Oscar. 'There is something infinitely pathetic about other people's tragedies.'

Oscar handed his empty brandy gla.s.s to Alphonse Byrd. 'Thank you, Mr Secretary Byrd,' he said, with a self-conscious half-smile upon his lips. He looked at Byrd's a.s.sociate, David McMuirtree, and bobbed his head in the bald boxer's direction.' A pleasure to have made your acquaintance, sir. Four of those seated at this table tonight chose you as their murder victim. I wonder why?'

'I'm a prize-fighter and the son of a footman,' said McMuirtree in his curious croaking voice. 'I had no right to be here. I do not belong.'

'Certainly you are far too well-dressed to pa.s.s for an English gentleman,' said Oscar, smiling.

'Am I?' whispered McMuirtree.

'Indeed,' said Oscar. 'Your shoes are very s.h.i.+ny. But it was probably that charming green carnation in your b.u.t.tonhole that sealed your fate. You have physical strength, personal beauty, an interesting history and exquisite taste, Mr McMuirtree. No wonder people took an instant dislike to you.'

McMuirtree laughed.

'Goodnight, sir,' said Oscar, 'I trust we shall meet again. Perhaps, one day, I shall have the pleasure of seeing you fight.' Oscar shook McMuirtree's hand and continued holding it for a moment. 'At which fairground are you to be found at present?'

'I'm at Astley's Circus for the summer,' answered the boxer genially, looking Oscar steadily in the eye. 'There's a bout on Monday week you might enjoy, Mr Wilde. I'll send you tickets.'

'Thank you,' said Oscar. 'Thank you very much. I should like that.' He called to the club secretary: 'We like your friend, Byrd. Well done. Goodnight.' He turned to the rest of us: 'Arthur, Willie, Robert, come. Let's run the gauntlet of that fearful parrot and find ourselves a cab.'

In fact, the parrot was silent as we crossed the darkened front hall of the Cadogan Hotel. Its cage was shrouded in a huge embroidered shawl. We were fortunate, too, when we reached the street. Two empty cabs were waiting on the rank at the corner of Sloane Street and Knightsbridge.

'Mr Sickert is a fascinating character,' said Willie Hornung eagerly. 'He told me tonight that "Knightsbridge" is the only word in the English language that features six consonants in succession.'

Conan Doyle chuckled. 'Well, I never ... You live and learn.'

'And then, of course, you die and forget it all,' said Oscar, quietly.

We saw young Hornung into the first cab and waved him on his way towards his digs in Bayswater. As he departed, he looked out of the two-wheeler towards us and called cheerily: 'I'll not forget tonight. Thank you so much!'

'What a delightful young man,' said Oscar, as Willie Hornung's cab disappeared into the darkness. 'The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. I have a feeling that our Willie will be a boy for ever.'

'He's a good lad,' said Conan Doyle.

'He has a good friend,' said Oscar, putting his hand on Arthur's shoulder. 'You'll stay the night in t.i.te Street, won't you? It's too late to make the pilgrimage to Norwood.'

The three of us climbed aboard the second cab and, as Oscar settled back into his seat, he flicked his gloves lightly across Doyle's knees and said, 'I'm loath to admit it, dear Doctor, but you were right: that game was a mistake. There were strangers in our midst ...'

'And wine was taken,' added Conan Doyle, 'somewhat too liberally.'

'Indeed,' said Oscar, smiling ruefully. 'But what's said when drunk was thought when sober. Did that last slip of paper really name "Mrs Oscar Wilde"?'