Drumlanrig turned his head towards Oscar and opened his eyes. They were pale blue. 'If you must know, Oscar ...'

'I must know.'

'If you must know ...'

'My wife's life may depend on it,' said Oscar earnestly.

Drumlanrig's brow furrowed. 'I can't see how that can be. I really cannot.'

'Trust me.'

'Trust him,' said Bosie.

'Very well,' said Drumlanrig, sitting upright and covering himself with his towel. 'I did not murder Andrew Abergordon, but I wished him dead and- G.o.d forgive me-I am truly glad that he is gone. He made my life a h.e.l.l.'

'I thought he was your G.o.dfather,' said Oscar.

'He was-and as my G.o.dfather he saw himself as the guardian of my moral welfare. He convinced himself that I had fallen into evil ways, "descended", as he put it, "into the pit of degradation".'

'What did he mean?' asked Oscar, wide-eyed.

'He accused me of committing unnatural acts with other men. And he accused my friend and patron, Lord Rosebery, of being my corrupter. Lord Abergordon told my father-and G.o.d knows who else-that I had committed the act of sodomy with the Earl of Rosebery.'

'With Primrose?' said Oscar.

I laughed. I could not help myself. 'Lord Rosebery is known as "Primrose"?' I spluttered.

'It is his family name,' said Oscar, smiling. 'Names, as you know, Robert, are everything.' Oscar turned back to Francis Drumlanrig. 'And were Lord Abergordon's accusations justified? Is that why you wished to see him dead?'

Drumlanrig got suddenly to his feet and turned towards Oscar. 'In no way were they justified. In no way whatsoever! They were vile calumnies-ruinous to my reputation.' He covered his face with his hands.

'And to that of Lord Rosebery,' said Oscar quietly.

'Indeed,' muttered Drumlanrig, now picking up his towel and wrapping it about his waist. 'Of course. Utterly ruinous-to us both. Abergordon was destroying our lives with his wretched lies-his vile calumnies, filthy falsehoods.'

'Methinks you do protest too much, Frankie,' whispered Bosie, his pretty head tilted to one side.

'I must protest,' cried Drumlanrig. 'It's all very well for you to talk about love among men, Bosie. You can apostrophise the virtues of Greek love for all you like-you want to be a poet! I want to be a politician. Lord Rosebery wants to be prime minister. Different rules apply.' The young viscount turned back towards Oscar. 'Yes, I wanted Abergordon silenced. I prayed that he might die. I wished it. I willed it. But I did not murder him.'

'Why did you go to Eastbourne on Thursday?' asked Oscar, sitting up and mopping his face with his towel.

'To Eastbourne-on Thursday?'

'To Eastbourne on Thursday.'

'If you must know ...'

'I must know.'

'I went to Eastbourne on Thursday,' said Drumlanrig, 'to see the Duke of Devonshire-to talk politics. He has a house there. He invited me to dine. I am Lord Rosebery's secretary. By the autumn we shall have a Liberal government again. Mr Gladstone will be prime minister once more, no doubt. But even Mr Gladstone cannot go on for ever. When he goes, if the Duke of Devonshire does not succeed him, the Earl of Rosebery might.'

Oscar began to struggle to his feet. Bosie and I a.s.sisted him. He wrapped his towel around his waist and found another to throw across his shoulder. He beamed at us benevolently. 'I look like Caesar, do I not?' he asked. We laughed. He put a hand out and touched Francis Drumlanrig on the arm. 'Primrose Rosebery is much older than you, I think?'

'He is forty-five-forty-five today, as it happens. 7 May is his birthday.'

'And you love him? And he loves you?'

'I admire him above all other men. He is a great man. And he ... he seems to value me. He is recently widowed. He is lonely. We spend much time together. We love one another as two men may.'

'Bring him to the theatre tonight, will you? If he's free, bring him to my play at the St James's. It can be his birthday treat.'

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

A FULL HOUSE.

That Sat.u.r.day night the St James's Theatre was filled to capacity-as it had been on each and every night since 20 February 1892. My friend's play was a triumph from the moment it opened.

I must have been to the theatre a thousand times during the course of my life, but, truly, I cannot recall an evening more memorable-more sensational-than the first night of Lady Windermere's Fan. Indeed, I doubt that any one who was there on that occasion will have forgotten the experience: the humour and humanity of the play, the surprise of it (none of us had known what to expect), the glittering nature of the audience (le tout monde was in attendance), and the scandal-the outrage-caused by Oscar's curtain speech. When the play ended and there were cries of 'Author! 'from the circle and the stalls, Oscar stepped lightly from the wings and walked nonchalantly onto the stage. He stood behind the footlights and slowly surveyed the auditorium. In his b.u.t.tonhole he wore a green carnation; in his mauve-gloved hand he held a lighted cigarette. The audience fell silent. Oscar held the moment. Languidly, he drew on his cigarette. Eventually, he spoke. 'Ladies and gentlemen, it is perhaps not very proper of me to smoke in front of you, but ... perhaps it is not very proper of you to disturb me when I am smoking! I have enjoyed this evening immensely. The actors have given us a charming rendering of a delightful play, and your appreciation has been most intelligent. I congratulate you on the great success of your performance, which persuades me that you think almost as highly of the play as I do myself.'

At that first performance Oscar had supplied several of us with green carnations to wear as b.u.t.tonholes. He arranged for just one member of the cast to wear one as well. 'What does it mean, Oscar?' I asked. 'What's the significance of the green carnation?'

'It means nothing, Robert, nothing whatsoever. And that's just what n.o.body will guess ...'

For the performance on 7 May, Oscar had reserved all fourteen of the theatre's private boxes for his special guests. The evening was intended as a 'thank you' for those friends who had supported Constance's fund-raiser on behalf of the Rational Dress Society and had promised to support Oscar's in aid of the Earl's Court Boys' Club. Our host had arranged for green carnations to be left in each box for the gentlemen to wear. (Not all the gentlemen obliged. 'Not really my style, old fellow,' said Conan Doyle.) At the last minute, I was despatched by Oscar to Covent Garden market to buy small bunches of primroses to present to each of the ladies in honour of Lord Rosebery's birthday. The ladies were charmed and Primrose Rosebery professed himself 'sincerely touched by the gesture-candidly, a little overwhelmed'.

Lord Rosebery and Lord Drumlanrig sat with Oscar and Bosie in the royal box. In the box next door sat Charles and Margaret Brooke, the white Rajah and Ranee of Sarawak, with Constance and the ever-attentive Edward Heron-Allen. ('Mrs Heron-Allen was invited, I a.s.sure you,' said Oscar.

'So was Mrs Conan Doyle. And Mrs Stoker. And Mrs Sickert, too. They are none of them coming. They are all indisposed. Whatever you do to make your fortune, Robert, don't try inventing a cure for the headache. There's no market for it.') I was seated-with Wat Sickert and Bram Stoker- on the other side of the auditorium, in the box directly facing Constance and her friends. I had never seen Constance looking lovelier. She wore the dress that she wore on each of the many evenings that she went to see Lady Windermere's Fan. It was a talisman. She had worn it on that propitious first night and Constance was as superst.i.tious as her husband. It was a dress of blue brocade, with slashed sleeves and a long bodice decorated with pearls and antique silk. The dress was grand, inspired, apparently, by the court dresses of the reign of Charles I, but Constance wore it with great simplicity. Sickert caught sight of me gazing longingly upon her and rounded on me.

'You're a fool to yourself, Sherard,' he said. 'The more you pine, the unhappier you'll become. She has eyes for no one but Oscar. That idiot Heron-Allen fawns on her day and night and she won't so much as let the back of her hand graze his. Look elsewhere, man-while you've still got your sanity.' He handed me his opera gla.s.ses and invited me to scan the auditorium. 'Tell me who you fancy,' he said, 'and I'll give you the odds.'

Stung by his reproof, I took Wat's opera gla.s.ses and used them to look about the theatre. Certainly, there were some handsome women on parade. There were some oddities, too. In one of the smaller boxes on the upper tier were Oscar's friends, Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper, the Sapphic poetesses who wrote together under the name of 'Michael Field'.

'What on earth have they come as?' I asked Sickert, handing him back the gla.s.ses.

The artist peered up at the eccentric ladies. 'Tyrolean goatherds, I'm sorry to say ... And they appear to be having a detrimental effect on the neighbourhood. It's a full house and the most sought-after ticket in town, but the box next door to theirs is empty.'

The empty box was the box Oscar had reserved for David McMuirtree.

As the house lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up the overture (it was the overture to Mozart's Il Seraglio), Sickert murmured to me: 'No news today of Bradford Pea.r.s.e?'

'None that I've heard.'

'Is it true then?' whispered Stoker from the back of the box. 'The word on the street is that he's topped himself-jumped off Beachy Head. Driven to it by his creditors. When you saw him in Eastbourne, how was he?'

'We saw the play. We didn't see Pea.r.s.e. He disappeared before we got to him.'

'I can't believe he'd kill himself,' whispered Stoker. 'Not Pea.r.s.e. Do you think he could have been murdered, poor devil?'

The curtain of the St James's Theatre rose on the sunlit morning room of Lord Windermere's establishment in Carlton House Terrace. The setting was an elegant one (Mr H. P. Hall at his most deft) and provoked a nice round of appreciative applause.

During the interval, Oscar's guests were bidden to join him for refreshments at one end of the crush room at the rear of the circle. The crowd was considerable. I pushed and shoved my way through it to reach my friend. I wanted to alert him to the fact of McMuirtree's absence, but when I reached him, before I could speak, he silenced me.

'I am aware of the situation,' he said, handing me a saucer of champagne. 'Rest easy, Robert. May I present the Earl of Rosebery? It's his lordship's birthday, you know.'

I bowed to the great man who smiled at me with deeply hooded eyes. He was a practised politician: at once he made me feel that we were intimates. 'Isn't the play a joy?' he said. 'Everyone is loving it. And yet young Drumlanrig tells me the critics were divided.'

'Yes,' said Oscar, complacently. 'When the critics divide, the public unites.'

'Indeed, Mr Wilde,' Lord Rosebery continued, chuckling and looking at the mult.i.tude around him. 'It's a wonderful turn-out. That's what amazes me. The pit and the galleries are as full as the stalls and the boxes. Who are all these people?'

'That's easy,' said Oscar. 'They're servants.'

'What do you mean?' asked Rosebery.

'What I say. Servants listen to conversations in drawing rooms and dining rooms. They hear people discussing my play; their curiosity is aroused; and so they fill the theatre. You can see they are servants by their perfect manners.'

'You are a very funny man, Mr Wilde,' said Lord Rosebery. 'The play is to be published, I hope?'

'In due course. My ideal edition is five hundred copies as birthday presents for particular friends, six for the general public and one for the American market.'

The bell rang to signal the commencement of the second act. I bowed once more to his lordship; he gave me once more his politician's smile. As I took my leave, I whispered to Oscar as discreetly as I could: 'You know that McMuirtree's not here?'

Oscar answered, smiling, not lowering his voice at all: 'I have my eye on him nonetheless. Enjoy the play, Robert. Let us meet after the performance at the stage door.'

When I got back to my box I found Sickert and Stoker still shaking their heads over the fate of poor Bradford Pea.r.s.e, repeating-yet again!-that, of all men, Pea.r.s.e was the one man without an enemy in the world.

'Where have you been?' asked Sickert. 'Not chasing Mrs Wilde, I hope.' He handed me his opera gla.s.ses. 'Take a look in the gallery-at the far end on the left-the young mulatto with the sequins in her hair. Isn't she just your type?'

To indulge him, I took Sickert's gla.s.ses and inspected the girl. She was indeed most appealing: Sickert had a practised eye.

'And, see,' added Sickert, 'the Tyrolean goatherds are no longer alone. The neighbouring box has been filled.'

I turned the gla.s.ses in the direction of what had been the empty box and saw a tall man in evening dress standing to one side of it looking down into the auditorium. It was not McMuirtree. 'I know him,' I said.

Sickert and Stoker squinted up towards the G.o.ds. 'We all know him,' said Bram Stoker, waving towards the distant figure. 'It's Charles Brookfield.'

'He's not here as Oscar's guest.'

'Possibly not,' said Stoker, 'but he's here all the same. He's obsessed with Oscar. He's obsessed with this play. He's putting on his own parody of it, you know. It opens in a fortnight and I imagine we're all invited.'

'Now if someone had murdered Charles Brookfield,' said Wat Sickert, as the house lights faded, 'I shouldn't have been at all surprised.'

When the performance was over, the ovation was extraordinary. Oscar had written a crowd-pleaser, no doubt about it. On this occasion, the author resisted the temptation to take a call from the stage, but, as the audience cheered on, he stood at the front of the royal box and, with a regal wave and head thrown back, silently acknowledged their approbation. And as the audience departed, he stood at the top of the theatre's main staircase, leaning against the bra.s.s banister, receiving-as no more than his due-the plaudits of strangers and the thanks of friends.

'Thank you! Thank you, Mr Wilde! I must have a birthday more often,' called Lord Rosebery as he and the Douglas boys slipped past. 'Bravo, Oscar! I'm running for my train,' cried Conan Doyle, speeding on his way. 'I'm sorry Touie missed it. More tomorrow, old man.'

Few lingered, because it was late and, in any event, most of Oscar's friends who were guests that evening were also invited to the following afternoon's fund-raiser.

'There's no such thing as a free four-acter, 'chortled Charles Brooke, squeezing Oscar's shoulder as he pa.s.sed.

'This is our Wilde weekend!' chorused Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper blowing kisses towards their host across the crowd.

'They really have come as Tyrolean goatherds,' I whispered to Sickert.

'At least they spared us the Lederhosen,' he whispered back.

When the crush had evaporated and I had bidden Sickert and Stoker goodnight, I went to join Oscar on the stairs. As I approached, I noticed Charles Brookfield, on the far side of the stairway. He was standing talking to a diminutive man who was dressed not in evening clothes but in a brown serge suit. Oscar noticed him too.

'Charles! Charles!' he called. Brookfield began to slip quietly down the marble steps, eyes forward. 'Charles!' cried Oscar. 'Don't run away.'

The actor stopped and looked about him, affecting not to know the direction from which he was being summoned.

'Charles!' Oscar called out again. 'Good evening!'

'Ah! Oscar!' Brookfield made his way over to where Oscar and I were now standing. 'I didn't see you there. I was on my way to the cloakroom.'

'I don't think so,' said Oscar. 'It's too warm a night for a coat.'

'Always playing the detective, eh, Oscar?' said Brookfield, c.o.c.king an eyebrow. 'Who killed the parrot at the Cadogan Hotel last Tuesday morning? That's what I want to know.'

'How did you enjoy the play at the St James's Theatre this Sat.u.r.day night?' answered Oscar. 'That's what I want to know.'

'Come to The Poet and the Puppets, Oscar, and you'll find out. Come to the opening-on the nineteenth. I'm sending you tickets. You'll have an amusing evening, I think. And no speech from the author at the end of it-that I guarantee.'

'You did not approve of my speech on the opening night of Lady Windermere?'

'I was not alone,' said Brookfield, drily.

'Was it the tone or the content that met with your displeasure?' asked Oscar. 'Or my lighted cigarette?'

'All three.'

'You're an old-fashioned thing, Brookfield. You think you're as modern as tomorrow, but in fact you're mired in everything that's yesterday. Yes, the old-fashioned idea was indeed that the dramatist should appear at the end of the play and merely thank his kind friends for their patronage and presence. I'm glad to say that I have altered all that. The artist cannot be degraded into the servant of the public. While I have always recognised the cultural appreciation that actors and audiences have shown for my work, I have equally recognised that humility is for the hypocrite, modesty for the incompetent. a.s.sertion is at once the duty and the privilege of the artist.'

'Thank you for that, Oscar,' said Brookfield, nodding his head. 'Most enlightening.'

'Not at all, Charles.'

'Goodnight, Oscar.' Brookfield turned and descended the now empty staircase, waving a hand in the air as he went. 'But don't forget our challenge ... Who killed the parrot? That's the question. There's thirteen guineas riding on it, as I recall.'

'Goodnight Charles,' called Oscar. 'I trust you'll find the cloakroom hasn't closed.'