CHAPTER THREE.

THE GAME.

Byrd's dinner was exemplary. I noted down the wines in my journal especially: with the fish, an extraordinarily silky white Burgundy; with the beef, an 1888 Margaux so mellow that even Charles Brookfield conceded it had 'merit'. Absurdly, with the brandy, port and liqueurs, Oscar insisted that Byrd also serve a carafe of 'Vin Mariani', a curious concoction, the colour of dung, made from cheap Bordeaux wine treated with coca leaves.

'What's this?' Brookfield asked as Byrd offered him a gla.s.s.

'It's not compulsory,' said Oscar from his end of the table. He had the gift of being able to listen to several conversations simultaneously.

'But what is it?' insisted Brookfield. 'It looks disgusting.'

'It's a cordial favoured by His Holiness the Pope, 'Oscar explained.

'Well, we're not in Rome now,' said Brookfield, waving Byrd away and reaching for the port decanter.

'Nor in Oporto,' murmured Oscar. 'I asked Byrd to serve the Mariani in honour of Dr Doyle. I believe the beverage contains cocaine. I thought Arthur might care to introduce it to his friend, Sherlock Holmes.'

Conan Doyle laughed obligingly. 'I'd better try a gla.s.s then.'

'Her Majesty the Queen is apparently partial to it, also,' said Oscar.

'Never mind the wine, Wilde,' said Brookfield, turning his port gla.s.s slowly in his hand. 'What about this game of yours?'

'Oh yes, Oscar,' cried Bosie. 'Let's play the game!'

'Are you sure it's a good idea, Oscar?' asked Conan Doyle, leaning towards Oscar while casting his eyes in the direction of the 'delicate-minded' Willie Hornung.

Oscar addressed the table. 'Arthur has reservations about our game, gentlemen. Last month we played "Mistresses"-and the good doctor felt unable to partic.i.p.ate.'

'I did not feel it was seemly,' said Conan Doyle quietly.

'It was most unseemly, as I recall,' said Sickert. 'I think that was the idea.' He turned to his neighbour, McMuirtree, the boxer, to explain. 'Oscar invited us all to select the mistress of our choice. As I recall, he picked Joan of Arc.'

'What has this to do with Socrates?' enquired Brookfield, helping himself to a further libation of port.

'Socrates taught us that the greatest way to live with honour in this world is to be what we pretend to be.'

'I don't follow you,' said Brookfield.

'Oh, but you do, Charles,' said Oscar, 'in everything.

'Come on,' cried Bosie. 'Let's play the game!'

'Very well,' said Oscar. He looked towards Conan Doyle and whispered, with a kindly smile: 'It's only a game, Arthur.'

'Very well,' said Conan Doyle, nodding to Oscar and patting the back of Willie Hornung's hand by way of offering his young friend rea.s.surance. 'Half a gla.s.s of this Mariani wine of yours, Oscar, and I seem to be up for anything.'

'Good man,' said Oscar, getting to his feet. He stood quite steadily at the head of the table and, with an amused eye, surveyed the thirteen of us seated before him. '"Murder" is the name of our game this evening. It was Socrates who first suggested that death may be the greatest of all human blessings, and tonight, gentlemen, we are to visit that blessing upon the victims of our choice. Do I make myself clear?'

There was a general murmur of a.s.sent.

'Does everyone here have a pen or pencil about his person?' Oscar asked.

Brookfield muttered to his neighbour, 'We're in the schoolroom now, are we?'

Oscar went on: 'Mr Byrd will pa.s.s around the table presently and give each of you a slip of paper and, should you require it, a writing implement. Onto your blank slip of paper-unseen by your neighbours-you are invited to write down the name of the person or persons you would most like to murder.'

'I like this game,' boomed Bradford Pea.r.s.e. 'What's the name of the theatre critic on the Era?'

'When you have written down your victim's name,' Oscar continued, 'Byrd will pa.s.s around the table once more, collecting your slips of paper and placing them safely in this collection bag.' He held up a small plum-coloured velvet bag, the size of a hand. 'He will then, on my instruction, draw out the slips of paper, at random, one by one, and read out each name in turn. Our task then, gentlemen, will be to work out who wishes to murder whom.'

'And why,' suggested Charles Brookfield, licking the tip of his pencil.

'Indeed,' said Oscar. 'And why.'

'Will you be playing, too, Mr Chairman?' enquired Lord Drumlanrig. 'Are you allowed to choose a victim, also?'

'Naturally,' said Oscar, sitting down, taking his fountain pen out of his coat pocket and subscribing his victim's name to his slip of paper with the deliberation of a statesman signing an international treaty. 'There is nothing quite like an unexpected death for lifting the spirits.'

While we wrote the names of our proposed victims on the small slips of paper provided to us by Alphonse Byrd, a curious hush fell upon the room. I wrote down the name of my victim-of-choice instantly, without giving the matter much consideration. I then looked about the table and watched the others. Most appeared rapt in concentration, like students taking an exam by candlelight. Bosie was sucking on his pencil, apparently much amused by the thought of who was to be his victim. Bradford Pea.r.s.e, the actor, was contemplating whatever he had written with what seemed like wary satisfaction. Wat Sickert looked to me to be drawing a sketch of his victim. Like Bosie, Sickert was evidently amused by his choice of prey. Everyone-even the cynical and supercilious Brookfield and mild-mannered Willie Hornung gave the impression of total absorption in the task in hand. Only Arthur Conan Doyle looked disengaged. He held his pen, unopened, in his left hand and stared vacantly ahead of him, fixing his empty gaze between Lord Drumlanrig and Bram Stoker on the blank wall beyond.

'Suddenly it's quiet as a graveyard in here,' whispered McMuirtree.

'Oh,' said Sickert, smiling slyly, 'I can hear the Angel of Death flapping her wings.'

Oscar looked up. 'Nowhere is there more true feeling, and nowhere worse taste, than in a graveyard,' he said.

Bosie suppressed a giggle. 'That's very good, Oscar. Is it one of yours?'

Oscar was folding his slip of paper in two and placing it in the collection bag. 'It deserves to be,' he said, 'but it isn't, I'm afraid. I first heard it in Oxford years ago. At Balliol, more's the pity.' He held up the velvet bag for Byrd to take it from him. 'Are we all done?' he asked.

'We are,' boomed Bradford Pea.r.s.e.

'This is rather fun,' said Willie Hornung, polishing his pince-nez with a corner of his napkin.

'I'm glad you are having a happy evening, Willie,' said Oscar. 'Help yourself to another gla.s.s of Mariani wine.'

When Byrd had been around the table and each of us had placed his folded slip of paper into the collection bag, Oscar took a teaspoon and clinked it against the side of his brandy gla.s.s. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'the moment is upon us. If your gla.s.ses are all charged and your cigars are lit, we shall proceed with the game.' He turned to Byrd who was standing at his right shoulder. 'Mr Byrd, if you would be so kind, please draw the first slip from the bag and read out the name thereon inscribed.'

Byrd pulled back his cuff-as a magician might to show his audience nothing was concealed up his sleeve-and plunged his hand into the bag. He let us see his fingers rummaging about inside the bag and then, with a self-conscious flourish, pulled out a slip of paper and held it close to his eyes.

'This is fun,' repeated Willie Hornung, sitting forward in his place.

Oscar smiled at the young man and then looked up at Alphonse Byrd. 'Mr Byrd,' he said, 'be so kind, would you, as to read out the name of our first murder victim?'

Byrd scrutinised the paper in his hand and looked out across the room. The night manager of the Cadogan Hotel was not an impressive figure-he had the stooped shoulders and watery eyes of a man defeated by life-but he had once been a professional performer and in that brief moment, holding the slip of paper in one hand and his magician's bag in the other, he commanded our attention with an authority that even the great Robert-Houdin might have envied.

Oscar killed the moment. 'Byrd,' he snapped, 'we've heard the pin drop. Read out the name.'

Flinching momentarily, as though Oscar had suddenly struck him across the ear, Byrd did as he was bidden. 'The first victim is to be "Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers",' he announced.

The silence in the room that, a moment before, had been so expectant-exhilarating, almost-now became uncomfortable. Every one of us present was familiar with the name of Elizabeth Scott-Rivers. Miss Scott-Rivers was the unhappy bride-to-be abandoned a week before her wedding day by the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney, my particular guest at the Socrates Club dinner that night. She was the jilted maiden-an heiress and the only child of elderly parents who had predeceased her-who had gained the sympathy of the public, and the braying approbation of the press, when, in the High Court of Chancery, she had sued her former fiance for breach of promise, won her case and brought the wretched man to his knees and the brink of financial ruin.

'Well, well ...' said Oscar with a sigh. Conan Doyle put his fingers to his eyes and shook his head. George Daubeney was seated on my right. I rested my hand on his arm. 'Next!' commanded Oscar.

Suddenly, violently, Daubeney pulled his arm away from me and got to his feet, knocking over a gla.s.s of the absurd Mariani cordial in the process. 'I'm so sorry, gentlemen,' he blurted out. 'I don't know what I was thinking of. I despise the woman. I hate her. But I wish her no harm. I should not have introduced her name to this game like this. It was inexcusable. May G.o.d forgive me. May you forgive me. I have drunk too much.'

Oscar raised his right hand and held it aloft, like a bishop p.r.o.nouncing the blessing. 'Be seated, George. Calm yourself. You can't have had more than a gla.s.s.'

I put out my hand and took Daubeney's arm once more. I pulled him back into his chair. 'I'm a fool,' he muttered. 'A b.l.o.o.d.y idiot.'

'Come,' said Oscar briskly, 'let us go on. And please remember, gentlemen, that the aim of the game is for the rest of us to guess who has chosen whom as a victim, not for the putative perpetrator of the crime to offer an immediate confession.' Daubeney sat, in heavy silence, gazing disconsolately at his empty gla.s.s. 'Byrd,' said Oscar, 'draw out the next victim's name if you please.'

Byrd produced a second slip of paper from his bag and read out the name, this time with rather less ceremony. '"Lord Abergordon",' he said.

'Who?' asked Heron-Allen.

Byrd repeated the name: 'Lord Abergordon.'

'A curious choice,' said Oscar, taking a sip of brandy.

'Who is he?' asked Sickert.

'We neither know nor care,' boomed Bradford Pea.r.s.e.

'He's an elderly and obscure member of the government, I believe,' said Bram Stoker.

'He won't be much of a loss then,' said Heron-Allen, with a wry smile.

'Very droll, Edward,' murmured Oscar. 'You're getting the idea. Next, if you will, Mr Byrd-kindly maintain the momentum.'

Byrd produced the third slip of paper, and smiled, and read out the name: '"Captain Flint".'

'That's more like it,' said Oscar.

'Who's Captain Flint?' asked Willie Hornung.

'The hotel parrot,' said Bosie. 'He's the moth-eaten creature who sits in that cage by the porter's desk. He's impertinent and garrulous and deserves everything that's coming to him. I wanted to murder my father, of course, but Oscar said I couldn't, at least not on a Sunday, so I chose the parrot instead.'

Oscar turned to his handsome young friend and reprimanded him. 'Bosie, you have now spoilt what was a most excellent choice. The object of the game is not for you to reveal who is your intended victim. It is for the rest of us to guess.' He turned back to Byrd. 'On, man, on!'

Byrd produced a fourth slip of paper from the velvet bag and read out the name with a flourish. '"Mr Sherlock Holmes",' he said.

'That's much more like it!' cried Oscar.

'I agree,' said Conan Doyle.

'On, on, Byrd! Don't dawdle, man. Give us the next name.'

The night manager had the fifth slip ready. He looked at it and hesitated.

'Well?' said Oscar.

"Mr Bradford Pea.r.s.e",' said Byrd.

'Oh?' said Bradford Pea.r.s.e, with a shallow laugh.

'Someone here wants me out of the way ...'

A courteous rumble of dissent went round the table. Conan Doyle spoke up. 'This game is not amusing, Oscar,' he said.

'It's not the game that isn't amusing,' said Oscar smoothly. 'It was Pea.r.s.e's Fabian that failed to entertain-alas! It's a devil of a part. Several of the critics said poor Pea.r.s.e deserved to be shot ...'

Oscar smiled benignly at the unfortunate actor. 'It's only a game, Bradford,' he said gently. Pea.r.s.e nodded and shrugged his shoulders and reached for the decanter of brandy. Oscar turned back to the hotel night manager. 'Onward, Mr Byrd. We're almost halfway. Who is our next victim to be?'

Byrd had the next slip of paper already in his hand. '"Mr David McMuirtree",' he announced.

'Goodness me,' said Willie Hornung.

'This must stop, Oscar,' said Conan Doyle, sharply. 'Enough's enough. Mr Pea.r.s.e and Mr McMuirtree are our guests. They have come here to be entertained-not threatened with murder, even in jest.'

'I don't take it personally,' whispered McMuirtree from the far end of the table.

'Really?' murmured Charles Brookfield. He was seated directly facing McMuirtree. He looked him in the eye. 'What other way is there to take it?' he asked.

'As our chairman says,' answered McMuirtree, turning away from Brookfield and looking towards Oscar, 'it's only a game.'

'Thank you, Mr McMuirtree,' said Oscar, raising his brandy gla.s.s in the boxer's direction. 'We green-carnation men understand one another.'

Conan Doyle growled unhappily and shook his head. Oscar leant towards the good doctor.

'Don't look so serious, Arthur. Humanity takes itself far too seriously as it is. Seriousness is the world's original sin. If the cavemen had known how to laugh, history would have been very different and so much jollier. Come, Byrd, who's next?'

The night manager stood before us and plunged his hand into the bag once more. He produced another slip of paper.

'Read it out,' said Oscar.

'"Mr David McMuirtree",' said Byrd.

'Again?' asked Heron-Allen, seeming suddenly to wake from a reverie.

'Yes, sir,' said Byrd. 'Again.'