'Look at the list!' pleaded Oscar, waving his yellow kid gloves in the direction of the sheet of folded foolscap that was lying on the inspector's desk.

Gilmour stepped back and picked up Oscar's list of 'victims'. 'I have,' he said. 'I do.' His eyes scanned the paper. 'Elizabeth Scott-Rivers died in a fire caused by accident. That's the coroner's verdict. Lord Abergordon was an elderly gentleman who died in sleep. That's his doctor's opinion-and mine also. The actor, Bradford Pea.r.s.e, appears to have taken his own life. He was in debt; he was pursued by creditors; his spirit was low. The correspondence you've shown me confirms as much. He has thrown himself off Beachy Head. It's a common enough occurrence, alas.'

'What about the parrot?' asked Oscar. 'What about poor Captain Flint?'

'Killing wild birds is not yet a criminal offence in England,' replied Archy Gilmour.

'Indeed,' said Oscar, getting to his feet. 'Among a certain cla.s.s, it is a national pastime.'

Gilmour chuckled. 'I do feel for poor Captain Flint,' he said kindly, 'but there's nothing I can do.'

'You're a feeling fellow,' said Oscar shaking the inspector by the hand. 'You are a vegetarian, of course.'

The inspector looked suitably surprised. 'How do you know?'

'By looking at your teeth, Inspector. There's a tiny fleck of lettuce and a crumb of bread and b.u.t.ter on either side of your left incisor. Only a truly committed vegetarian would breakfast on a salad sandwich.'

Gilmour burst out laughing and pulled open his office door. 'You're a wonder, Mr Wilde-a prince of party tricks. You're your own detective. You don't need any help from me.'

'Oh, but I do, Inspector.' Oscar stood his ground as Gilmour hovered by the door. 'Look at the next name on that list of potential victims, Inspector ... Would you be so kind?'

Gilmour glanced at the paper once more. 'Mr David McMuirtree.'

'He's an interesting fellow,' said Oscar. 'A well-connected boxer. A fine figure of a man. He works at Astley's amphitheatre. Four people chose Mr McMuirtree as their "victim". I believe his life might be at risk, Inspector. I have come here to ask you to give him police protection.'

'We already do,' said Archy Gilmour. 'He's one of us, you see.'

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

AN APPOINTMENT IN BAKER STREET.

'I stand amazed,' said Oscar. 'David McMuirtree is a serving officer with the Metropolitan Police?'

'No longer,' said Gilmour, still holding open his office door and standing by it in evident antic.i.p.ation of our imminent departure. 'He was.'

Oscar put down his hat and gloves on the inspector's oak desk. 'When was this?' he asked.

'In the 'seventies,' answered Gilmour, running his tongue along his gums to clear the fleck of lettuce from his teeth. 'He joined up soon after leaving Ireland. It's no secret. He was the Metropolitan Police boxing champion for six years in a row. You'll find his name in gold letters on a board downstairs. You'll have pa.s.sed it in the entrance hall. With your eagle eyes, Mr Wilde, I'm surprised you missed it.'

'But he's not a policeman now?' persisted Oscar, still standing by the detective inspector's desk.

'No. He served ten years and then, rashly in my view, he decided to take his chance as a professional boxer. Joined the circuit-threw his hat into the ring, as it were. He's done well enough, I think. He's survived. But I don't believe he has enjoyed the success he had hoped for. Professional boxing's a dirty game, though it's getting cleaner, slowly, thanks to the likes of Lord Lonsdale and Lord Queensberry.'

'McMuirtree left the Metropolitan Police,' said Oscar reflectively, 'but I take it he did not lose touch?'

'Correct.'

'McMuirtree is a police informant.'

'He moves among all kinds and conditions of men,' replied Gilmour. 'He is intelligent. He is observant. We find him invaluable.'

'And you reward him for his efforts?'

'The labourer is worthy of his hire.'

Oscar retrieved his hat and gloves and turned to Inspector Gilmour and looked him directly in the eye. 'Tell me,' he asked, 'did McMuirtree come to the Cadogan club dinner as a spy?'

'Not at all. He went simply as the guest of your club secretary-Mr Byrd, is it not? I understand McMuirtree and Byrd have been friends for some years. "Fairground friends", you might say. McMuirtree was not at the Cadogan Hotel last Sunday on any business of ours. So far as I know, the Metropolitan Police has no special interest in any members of your club or in their guests.' Gilmour folded over Oscar's list of 'victims' and handed the paper back to him. 'Our man McMuirtree is not permanently on duty, though I like to think he is always on the qui vive. He has nothing to fear from your circle, Mr Wilde, but among the criminal community, certainly, he has enemies - enemies he has made on our behalf. We recognise our responsibility towards him. We keep a watchful eye on David McMuirtree. You can rest easy on that score, Mr Wilde.'

We bade the red-headed detective farewell and took our leave. As we pa.s.sed through the entrance hallway of Great Scotland Yard we paused to inspect the several honour boards hanging on the side wall adjacent to the stairs. Among the Met's sporting heroes we found McMuirtree's name without difficulty. As we regained the street, Oscar paused and adjusted his boater at a jaunty angle. He chuckled. 'We can rest easy, Robert. Gilmour of the Yard tells us so.' He tucked his arm into mine and glanced up towards the sunshine. 'A celebratory gla.s.s of Perrier Jouet is called for, I think, don't you? As we both know, a pa.s.sion for pleasure is the secret of remaining young.'

Together we stepped across the pavement and into Oscar's carriage. If he liked the look of a cabby-or his horse-my profligate friend thought nothing of keeping a particular brougham waiting on him all day-and all night, too. 'Albemarle Street, driver,' he commanded.

'What now?' I asked, as we settled back into the cab.

'Cheese straws, I think, with the champagne,' he replied, grinning at me wickedly. 'There's a new pastry chef at Brown's Hotel. His savoury sweetmeats are proving controversial among the older clientele. The boy needs our support.'

'What about the case?'

'You heard the inspector, Robert. Rest easy.'

I was surprised to find us going to Brown's. The hotel-founded by James Brown, Lord Byron's former valet-was not one of Oscar's regular haunts. He said he found the oak-panelling gloomy. On our arrival, therefore, I was doubly surprised to hear the hall-porter's effusive greeting of my friend: 'Back again, Mr Wilde? We can't keep you away.'

As he handed the man a shilling, I looked at Oscar enquiringly. 'I was here for breakfast, Robert-and to use the telephone. I have to say it is the most exciting device. It is going to change all our lives-especially if we are playwrights. Think if there'd been a telephone in Shakespeare's day-there'd have been no need for those long-winded and intrusive messengers.'

He led me through the hotel's entrance hall towards a large gla.s.s-fronted cabinet the size of a guardsman's sentry box. 'Look inside,' he said. 'There it is-the very apparatus from which Mr Graham Bell made the very first telephonic communication within the United Kingdom. When I'm in the West End, naturally, I come to Brown's to make all my calls. It is like going to the source of the Nile. I have an account.'

'And who were you calling this morning?' I asked, as we moved from the entrance hall into a somewhat dark and humid drawing room. An elderly waiter escorted us to a pair of leather armchairs, half hidden within a forest of potted palms. It was difficult to tell, but we appeared to be alone.

'A bottle of Perrier Jouet,' Oscar said to the waiter, 'preferably the 1880. And a dish, please, of Ma.s.simo's cheese straws.' He waited for the servant to leave before answering my question. 'I made two telephone calls this morning, Robert, both long-distance-which may explain why my voice is a little hoa.r.s.e. The telephone is not yet suited to the whispering of sweet nothings. First, I called the police station at Eastbourne. They were not overly helpful, but they had at least made contact with the coastguard. There is no news of Bradford Pea.r.s.e, alas-alive or dead. Next, I called South Norwood- the residence of Dr Arthur Conan Doyle.'

'And how was Arthur?'

'I cannot tell you. He would not come to the telephone. According to Mrs Doyle, he was in his shed, working on his sculpture and not to be disturbed. However, she a.s.sured me that he is expecting to join us at the theatre tomorrow night and he promises to be at the t.i.te Street fund-raiser on Sunday afternoon.'

'Are you still going ahead with it,' I asked, 'under the circ.u.mstances?'

'Of course!' he declared breezily. 'Why not?'

The elderly waiter arrived with our chilled champagne and Cheshire cheese straws. Happily, both fully lived up to their promise and Oscar's high expectation. As he sipped and nibbled, Oscar closed his eyes to savour the moment. When he opened them, he said: 'No civilised man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilised man ever knows what a pleasure is.' He replenished my gla.s.s. 'How was George Daubeney?' he asked.

'Last night? I didn't stay long with him,' I said. 'He was drunk, as you saw. I left him at Gatti's, in the hands of a chorus girl.'

'Yes,' said Oscar, slowly draining his gla.s.s and smiling. 'The Anglican clergy do have a weakness in that direction.'

I laughed. Oscar broke the last cheese straw in two and offered me the plate.

'Can we really "rest easy"?' I asked.

'McMuirtree, we are a.s.sured, is in safe hands.'

'And Constance?' I said. 'Is she in safe hands?'

'At present, I believe so.

'Is Edward Heron-Allen with her again today?' I enquired. I tried to ask the question coolly.

'He is,' said Oscar, brushing crumbs of pastry from his waistcoat onto the floor.

'Good G.o.d,' I exploded. 'Doesn't the man have a home of his own to go to?'

'He does,' said Oscar, 'and that is where his wife lives. He prefers to be at my house because that is where my wife lives. The peach-out-of-reach in the adjacent orchard is always more alluring than the apple on the ground in one's own.'

'Do you trust him, Oscar?'

'I trust Constance, Robert. Completely. But I also heard what McMuirtree said about her and Heron-Allen and as I listened I read between the lines. Others do not know my wife as well as we do, Robert. I appreciate that I must have a care for her reputation as well as for her safety. You will be pleased to hear that, in consequence, tonight I have cancelled both my dinner with Bram Stoker and my supper with Bosie Douglas. I am going home this evening, to read a bedtime fairy story to my children and then to dine a deux with Mrs Wilde. And after dinner, to please her, we shall play a game of piquet. There is one thing infinitely more pathetic than to have lost the woman one is in love with, and that is to have won her and found out that her favourite recreation is a game of piquet.'

'But you love Constance,' I protested. 'I know you do.'

'I love her, Robert, but I no longer find her quite so interesting as once I did.' He looked at me with wide and mournful eyes. 'It happens,' he said. He emptied the remainder of the Perrier Jouet into our gla.s.ses. 'And what are your plans for this evening, Mr Sherard?'

'I'm seeing Sickert,' I said. 'We're going to a music hall.'

'Gatti's?' he asked, smiling.

'I don't know. Wherever Wat fancies.'

'Don't let him lead you astray, Robert. Don't stay out too late. I shall be requiring your services tomorrow. As ever, I need you as my witness.'

'We are not abandoning the case then?'

'Far from it. Today we may rest easy. Tomorrow we quiz a would-be murderer-in Baker Street.'

'In Baker Street?' I laughed. 'At 221b?'

'No,' he said. 'At the other end of the thoroughfare, at Number 20. You can't miss it. Our appointment's for twelve noon.'

'I won't be late,' I said.

But I was. Wat Sickert and I had what's known as 'a night on the town'. From dusk to dawn we ricocheted across London with gay abandon. Wat hired a two-wheeler for us for the purpose-and equipped it with crystal gla.s.ses and a bucket of champagne. Wat was as wanton with his money as Oscar, although his means were far fewer. We took in the early show at Gatti's in the Arches-where I failed to spot George Daubeney's friend in the chorus and the late show at Collins's Music Hall on Islington Green-where Wat claimed to be 'hopelessly in love with the girl who plays G.o.diva'. (Her horse was real, but her hair was not.) We had lamb chops and boiled potatoes in Sydney's Supper House on the Strand and beer and wine and spirits (in which order I cannot remember) in a variety of restaurants and bars and public houses, from the Cafe Royal in Piccadilly Circus to the Olde Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street. And everywhere we went, Wat found a friend-a bar-maid or a flower-girl, an actress or an artist's model. He was easy with women in a way that I have never been. He was easy with life in a way that I have never dared to be. I noticed that night how he smoked his cigars the wrong way round-lighting that end which most people put in their mouths. He said that, with a Manila cigar, the smaller and more flavoursome leaves were always used at the narrow end. 'It's a shame not to enjoy them.' He claimed, too, that the cigar 'drew better' when puffed from the wider end.

'It's as they smoke them in the Philippines.'

At the end of the evening-when he had run out of cigars and the Cheshire Cheese was closing-Wat took me to a brothel in Maiden Lane.

'Why are we going here?' I asked.

'The address amuses me,' he said.

'But you're a married man, Wat. Is this right?'

'Oh, Robert,' he cried, 'this horrid Christian habit of inventing sins for everyone! I tell you, I don't understand it! I don't know what is meant by it! Let us all be happy. Let us allow a little elasticity in our domestic lives.'

Laughing suddenly, his arm around my shoulder, he marched me across the pavement and into the bordello. 'Robert, I'm bringing you here as much for your sake as for mine. This will do you good. There's no use you pining after Constance, Robert. Mrs Wilde is not to be had-for love nor money. You know it and that makes you sad. But when there's frustration in t.i.te Street there's consolation to be found in Maiden Lane. Solace and sweetness guaranteed-and five shillings top whack. You'll find no five-pound virgins here. These girls know their business. They won't disappoint. You'll like it, I promise.'

And, of course, at the time, I liked it-after a fashion. I was mad with desire. Wat was right about that. But on the morning after, while he awoke carefree, no doubt, I awoke with a headache and a familiar sense of ennui.

That Sat.u.r.day-7 May 1892, another 'bright day' according to my journal-I reached 20 Baker Street at one o'clock. I had no difficulty locating the address, but I was startled to find when I got there that it was a Turkish bath house. Its exterior appearance was deceptive. From the outside, the building looked like a Non-Conformist chapel in need of minor repairs; from within, it had the look of a caliph's palace in a Drury Lane pantomime. In the receiving room-a gold-and-green vestibule shaped like the inside of a giant beehive-I was greeted (if that's the word) by a pair of dwarfish attendants, ugly little men with yellow faces. Their heads appeared identical-they might have been twins-but their costumes could not have been more contrasting. One, the slightly taller of the two, wore a rough, brown serge suit and a grubby shirt, collarless and unb.u.t.toned. The other was kitted out in full theatrical fig, dressed not so much as Ali Baba as one of his forty thieves. As I entered, the man in the brown suit glanced at me and then disappeared behind a saffron-coloured curtain at the back of the room. His companion looked at me without apparent interest and said curtly: 'First cla.s.s or second? Three-and-six or half a crown?'

What tin I had I'd spent in Maiden Lane. 'I believe I'm expected,' I mumbled, not knowing what else to say. 'I'm joining Mr Wilde.'

The attendant grunted. 'Ah, so you's the "guest", is you?' His accent spoke more of the Old Kent Road than Old Baghdad. From a reed basket in the corner of the vestibule, he produced a linen towel and handed it to me. 'They'll be in the hot room by now. Down the stairs, fourth chamber on the left. Take yer time to get there or yer'll faint.' He laughed a little devil's laugh.

'Yer could faint anyway,' said a voice from behind the curtain. 'It's 160 degrees.'

I followed the attendant's advice and took my time. Beyond the vestibule, the building was as dark and dank and silent as a subterranean catacomb. In the first cla.s.s changing room, where I undressed, there appeared to be no more than half a dozen other piles of discarded clothes. In the first of the steam chambers-it was heated by a brick flue, about three feet high and nine inches wide, that ran along three sides of the room-I found myself seated opposite a silver-bearded and obese old man (Sir John Falstaff, naked) whom I'd have taken for dead had it not been for his snoring; in the second chamber I sat alone, sweating heavily, breathing with difficulty, admiring the exquisite Craven Dunhill tiling all about me, but wondering how and why these curious-and not inexpensive-metropolitan hothouses had become so widespread and so popular so suddenly.

At last, I made my way into the final chamber. The heat in the 'hot room' was overwhelming and the steam so thick and sticky that it took me several moments to see that this is where they were: Oscar and his two companions, seated, close together, naked, on a porcelain slab, like Shadrach, Meshack and Abednego in the fiery furnace.

'Is that you, Robert?' whispered Oscar, faintly.

'Enfin!'

'I'm so sorry-' I began. He interrupted me. 'Don't apologise, Robert. We haven't time. I'm wanting his lordship to confess before we all boil to death.'

Either side of Oscar Wilde sat Lord Alfred Douglas and Francis, Viscount Drumlanrig. Oscar lounged between them like a beached porpoise: his skin was grey, with odd patches of livid pink; his arms and shoulders were heavy; his chest and stomach were covered with unsightly fat. He had a towel draped across his knees. Oscar, aged thirty-seven, looked like an old tart en deshabille as drawn by Toulouse-Lautrec. The young men beside him, aged 21 and 24, looked like statues sculpted by Michelangelo. Their skin was white and smooth as alabaster. They were not handsome: they were beautiful.

'Why are we here?' I asked, bemused.

'Lord Drumlanrig is a director of the London and Provincial Turkish Bath Company. We are his guests, Robert. Apparently, this experience will do wonders for our health-cures the gout at a single sitting.'

'I thought we had come to cross-examine a potential murderer,' I said, sounding more irritable than I intended.

'We have. We are. Drumlanrig acknowledges that he chose the late Lord Abergordon as his "victim", but won't tell me why-nor if he did it.'

'Of course, I didn't "do it", Oscar,' replied Drumlanrig, closing his eyes and resting his head against the tiles behind him. 'And it's not just the gout that benefits from a Turkish bath. Dyspepsia, dropsy, scarlatina, impetigo ... you name it, we cure it.'

'Why?' persisted Oscar, 'why did you choose Abergordon as your "victim"?'

'Because he was an old b.o.o.by.'

'That's not reason enough, Francis.'