29–30 JANUARY 1890
Within what seemed like moments—and can, in fact, have been no more than five or six minutes—Oscar and I were back in the two-wheeler being driven along the Strand. My heart was palpitating still, but Oscar—save for a row of tell-tale beads of perspiration across his brow—gave no outward sign of inner turmoil. It was in his nature to remain calm in a crisis. The perspiration was induced by exertion, not anxiety. Oscar Wilde was a man who could—and did—endure with apparent equanimity cat-calls from a hostile audience, jibes and jeers from an ignorant mob, even his own arrest and imprisonment. The more turbulent the tempest, the more serene he seemed.
From his coat pocket he took out his presentation copy of Conan Doyle’s The Sign of Four. He turned it over carefully in his hands. Idly, he leafed through the pages. “Holmes is right, Robert. His maxim holds. Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
“You know the truth of this?” I asked. I was more confused than ever. The hideous image of O’Donnell’s dangling corpse filled my mind’s eye.
“I believe so,” he said soothingly, caressing Doyle’s book and giving me that half-smile that was—to me, at least—the sure sign that he had just conceived a thought that particularly pleased him. “I believe so, Robert, but I must put it to the test…That I’ll do tomorrow…And then we’re done. Case closed.” He returned the book to his coat pocket.
“Case closed.” Those were the words Aidan Fraser had used, repeatedly, as he had bustled us out of Cell One at Bow Street Police Station a few minutes before. At the moment of the grim discovery of O’Donnell’s body, when Oscar had exclaimed, “The fault is mine—I am guilty of this,” the inspector had turned on him angrily and hissed, “Don’t be an idiot, Wilde. The man has taken his own life. By his suicide he has confessed his guilt. Case closed.”
Bewildered, appalled by the sight that confronted us, stupidly I exclaimed, “We must call the police!”
“We are the police!” barked Fraser. “Get a grip, man. The brute is dead, that’s all. Case closed.”
The sergeant was still holding up the paraffin lamp towards the face of the dead man. Oscar was gazing directly at the bulging, sightless eyes. He seemed transfixed. “No time for lamentation now,” he murmured. (It was one of his favourite lines.)
“My apologies, Sherard,” said Fraser, recovering his composure. “I am shocked as you are. It is a dreadful thing, though perhaps to be expected.”
“Yes,” whispered Oscar, “it was to be expected.”
“Forgive me, Oscar,” said Fraser. “I will not mention your presence here when I write my report. It is not relevant in any event…Now you must go. I should not have brought you here in the first place. It was wrong of me. But you pressed me—and you have seen what you have seen. Now go. Go at once—and leave us to do our duty.”
Sergeant Ritter stood immobile with the lamp still held high illuminating the dead body. “Escort these gentlemen to their cab, Ritter,” Fraser instructed him. “And retrieve my travelling case while you’re about it. I’ll not be going home till late tonight.” Ritter came back across the cell towards us. As he stepped nearer, holding the lamp aloft, O’Donnell’s body vanished into the gloom and the white light fell onto Fraser’s face. “Make haste, man. I’ll wait here to guard the body. On your return bring a knife. We’ll cut him down together. Bring the constable with you, too. Now go. Go!”
Neither Oscar nor I spoke. “Good-night, gentlemen,” said Fraser as we turned to depart. “I will see you tomorrow—at six, as we arranged. Good-night now. I am sorry you have had to witness this, but at least it’s over. The horror is all done. Case closed.”
Sergeant Ritter—saying nothing, though wheezing with every step—led us back along the dank, pestilential passageway to the tomb-like police-station entrance and out into the lively London street beyond. We left Aidan Fraser in darkness with the dead body of Edward O’Donnell.
“I think I shall go to church tomorrow,” Oscar announced, peering out of the cab window as we passed the entrance to the Savoy Theatre and Hotel. The pavement was crowded with noisy playgoers—braying toffs in evening dress, chattering suburbanites in their Sunday best, emerging, evidently well-satisfied, from a performance of The Gondoliers.
“To pray for the souls of the departed?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, “and to light a candle to St. Bathild—and to St. Aidan of Ferns. Monday is his feast day, remember.”
“I remember.”
“‘Feast days—and temptation,’ Robert. That’s what it’s all been about.”
“So you tell me, Oscar—though, for the life of me, I can’t see why.”
“You will, Robert, you will.” He smiled at me benevolently. “St. Aidan is another of our blessed Irish saints. There is a bronze reliquary in which his bones are on display in a side-chapel in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin. Tomorrow I shall pay his spirit my respects in St. Patrick’s, Soho Square. It’s a new church, but a fine one.”
“It’s a Catholic church, Oscar. Are you looking to Rome for salvation?” I asked, bemused at the turn our conversation was taking.
“No, not yet.” He laughed. “But John Gray is. He is taking instruction at St. Patrick’s. He speaks highly of the priest-in-charge. And of the aura of spirituality that pervades there. He says it’s largely due to the incense they use. He claims it’s the richest incense in London and that the young thurifer at St. Patrick’s spreads it about the church with evangelical zeal.” Oscar clenched his fists one above the other as though grasping the chain of a thurible and, suiting the action to the word, casting his eyes towards heaven, wafted imaginary frankincense about the back of the cab with gay abandon.
I laughed—and then thought back to the grotesque visage of Edward O’Donnell hanging in the police cell half-a-mile away and marvelled at Oscar’s capacity for turning from tragedy to comedy in what seemed no more than the twinkling of an eye.
Our cab had reached the Haymarket. The West End was busy with Saturday-night revellers. Our progress was slow. Oscar had commanded the driver to take us to Albemarle Street. He had proposed a nightcap. Now he changed his mind.
“Forgive me, Robert,” he said, “I am suddenly weary—and mindful of the hour. You have your journal to write and I must pen a letter to Susannah Wood. I might yet catch the midnight post.” He called up to the cabman, “On to Gower Street, driver—by way of Soho Square. We’ll drop off my friend, then you can take me on to Chelsea, to Tite Street—if you please.”
His mention of Soho Square triggered a memory, but even as it came into my mind, Oscar anticipated it. (Perhaps Mrs. O’Keefe was right: perhaps he was a mind-reader.) “The man who assaulted me that night in Soho Square,” he said, “—the night when John Gray came to my rescue—you recall?”
“I’ll not forget John Gray’s sailor-suit,” I answered. “I’ll not forget that night—or the days that followed.”
“You were convinced that my assailant was Edward O’Donnell, were you not?”
“Yes,” I said, “though you denied it.”
“And doubtless you thought that the man who followed us in Albemarle Street was O’Donnell, too?”
“You know I did.”
“It was not O’Donnell.”
“Very well,” I said, “but if it was not O’Donnell, who was it?”
“I will tell you tomorrow, Robert. I think we have both had enough excitement for one day.”
It was early—not yet eleven o’clock—when we parted that Saturday night. It was late the following morning—gone noon, nearer one o’clock—when next I heard from Oscar. I was in my room, lying on my bed, unshaven, reading, when the door-bell rang. It was a boy from the telegraph office with a wire from my friend: URGENT. MEET ME AT THE CORNER OF COWLEY STREET AT 3:15 PM. NOT BEFORE. OSCAR.
I reached Westminster at three o’clock. It was Sunday, 30 January 1890, and spring was in the air. The London fog had lifted; the sky was egg-shell blue; the soft white clouds would have warmed my great-grandfather’s heart. I wandered into the garden adjacent to the House of Lords (searching in vain for a host of golden daffodils!) and strolled there idly until I heard the clock on Big Ben strike the quarter. I crossed the road and made my way along Great College Street. I had a spring in my step. I was warmed by the sunshine; I was exhilarated by the prospect of meeting Oscar and discovering what his telegram portended; I was conscious that I was twenty-eight and glad to be alive. (When I had arrived home at Gower Street the night before, I had found a letter awaiting me from Kaitlyn: she was in London once more, she hoped to see me—“so much,” she said, “so much!” She had underlined the words.)
I found Oscar part-way down Great College Street, at the turning into Cowley Street, standing by a cab—a two-wheeler—talking with the cabman. He was wearing his bottle-green overcoat with the astrakhan collar and carrying his black malacca cane. He greeted me warmly. He looked well. There was a sparkle in his eye. “I know I am unseasonably dressed, Robert—but, unlike you, I left the house at dawn. This gallant cabman has been my Sancho Panza since break of day.” From his coat pocket he produced a coin and passed it to the driver. He fished into his pocket again and this time produced two lumps of sugar. He held them out on the flat of his hand and proffered them to the cabman’s horse. “When England becomes a republic, Robert, and I am emperor, this horse—my faithful Rosinante—will be among the first to be appointed senator. She is what none of our current legislators appears to be—hard-working, discreet, and aware of her limitations!”
“You are on song today,” I remarked.
“I have been to early mass,” he said. “I am refreshed.”
“Your prayers were answered?”
“Prayers must never be answered, Robert! If prayers are answered, they cease to be prayers and become correspondence…”
“But the priest-in-charge was all that you had hoped for?”
“He had a fine profile, certainly, but remember, Robert, it is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.” He called up to the cabman. “What time is it?”
The cab-driver had a clock with a face the size of a saucer tied with string to the side of his seat. He peered down at it. “Now? Twenty-two minutes past, sir.”
“Thank you, cabby,” said Oscar. “Three minutes to go.”
“And where are we going?” I asked.
“Can you not guess?”
“To 23 Cowley Street, I assume.”
“Yes,” he said, suddenly in earnest. “Yes, we are to revisit the scene of the crime.”
“Why?”
“To put the truth to the test—as I promised.”
There was nothing playful about his manner now. “What time is it, cabby?”
“Twenty-five past, sir—just on.”
“Come, Robert. Let us see what we shall see. You shall be the witness.” He called up to the cabman: “We’ll not be long—ten minutes perhaps, fifteen at most. I thank you for your patience. Come the republic, you’ll have your reward!” The cabman touched his cap and nodded obligingly. The horse bared its teeth and offered up a snort of appreciation. Oscar tucked his arm into mine. “Come, Robert, we have reached what I believe our friend Holmes would call ‘the end-game.’” We had turned into Cowley Street. It looked so pleasant: ordered and peaceful, flooded with pale sunlight. We were standing in the middle of the cobbled roadway, facing No. 23. “Hush!” he whispered. “Do not speak. Look!” With his cane he pointed to the window on the first floor. “The sun is shining, but the curtains are drawn. Come. Say nothing. Come.”
We crossed the street and stepped up to the doorway. Oscar stood for a moment gazing at the lintel above the door. “Are we to ring?” I asked.
“Hush, Robert. Speak not a word.” He put his left forefinger to my lips. “I have Bellotti’s key, as you will recall, but we may not need it…” He spread out his hand and gently pushed at the front-door. Slowly, noiselessly, it swung open. “As you see,” he whispered. “Come.”
Now with his finger held to his own lips, he led me across the threshold. We stood for a moment in the entrance hallway. The house was silent: dust danced in the shaft of sunlight that shone through the window above the doorway onto the stairs ahead. Carefully, Oscar closed the front door behind us and, with an inclination of his head, indicated that I should go forward and start to mount the narrow staircase to the first floor. With every step, the boards beneath my feet cracked like rifle shots echoing round a valley, and, behind me, as he climbed, Oscar’s heavy breathing became more rapid and more loud. “We’ll wake the dead,” I thought, but I said nothing. At the top of the stairs, on the uncarpeted landing, we stood together, silently, side by side.
The door facing us—the door to the room where, five months before, Oscar had discovered the body of Billy Wood—was closed. We listened and heard nothing. We stood quite still as Oscar caught his breath. I looked at my friend and smiled. He returned my smile and handed me his cane. With both hands he swept back his thick and wavy chestnut hair. He took a deep breath and then, lightly, almost delicately, he knocked at the door and, without waiting for an answer, opened it wide.
The room was hot as a furnace and fragrant with incense. We stood in the doorway, adjusting our eyes to the gloom. By the light of half-a-dozen candles, we saw, stretched out on the floor before us, the naked body of a young man. The young man was John Gray. And standing over him, by his head, was a second man. He was naked, also. It was Aidan Fraser. He held an open razor in his hand.
At our entrance, John Gray rolled over and reached beyond the candles for his clothes. Aidan Fraser threw down the razor and turned towards us with outstretched, supplicating arms. “Oscar,” he cried, “this is not as it seems. Let me explain! For pity’s sake, let me explain!”
“There is no need,” said Oscar. “I understand, Aidan. I understand it all.”
Oscar put his hand on my arm and drew me gently from the room. “Come, Robert, let us reclaim our cab. We have seen all we need to see.” He pulled the door shut behind him and, silently, led me down the stairs.