'I imagine, Willie, that he did it on the spur of the moment, because the opportunity arose.' Oscar balanced a small dollop of tomato jelly on a slice of cuc.u.mber. 'I imagine, Willie, that he did it for any number of reasons ... to show off ... to amuse himself ... to upstage Alphonse Byrd-Byrd had scored rather well during the entertainment, after all ... I imagine, too, that he did it for the benefit of those of us who were there yesterday afternoon and had been here at the Cadogan Hotel last Sunday night. Perhaps he wanted to show his contempt for whomever it was had chosen him as a "victim" last Sunday night. He was defying them and their idle death threat. He was c.o.c.king a snook, as the saying goes.'

'He was certainly running a risk,' I said. 'It's his big fight tonight. He might easily have broken a limb taking that fall yesterday.'

Oscar chuckled. 'A short flight of stairs in t.i.te Street holds no terrors for "David and Goliath" McMuirtree, Robert. Besides, risk to a man like that is what a second bottle of this charming white Burgundy will be to us-part and parcel of a well-filled day.' Oscar waved a hopeful hand in the direction of the sommelier.

'No more wine for me, thank you, Oscar,' decreed Conan Doyle firmly. 'I'm on my way to the Strand magazine. I have an afternoon of heavy negotiations ahead of me.'

'Are you still planning to murder Sherlock Holmes?' I asked.

'In my head, in my heart, he's dead already,' answered Doyle, mopping his walrus moustache with his napkin. 'But in my bank book, he quivers and twitches still.' He sniffed and shook his shoulders as if he had suddenly been caught in a draught.

Hornung leant into the table and whispered conspiratorially: 'The Strand is offering Arthur a thousand pounds for a dozen stories.'

'Money isn't everything,' muttered Conan Doyle, embarra.s.sed by his young companion's revelation.

'Oh, but it is,' murmured Oscar, almost to himself. I said nothing. (For my short novel, Agatha's Quest, I had recently received from Trischler & Co. the grand sum of fifteen pounds and fifteen shillings.) 'Money, of course, is important,' Hornung added eagerly, 'but it is genius, surely, that we should aspire to?'

'No, no, no,' wailed Oscar, at the same time signalling to the sommelier that a second bottle of Le Montrachet was definitely overdue. 'Do not aspire to genius, Willie. The British public is wonderfully tolerant, but it has its limits. It forgives everything-except genius.'

We all laughed. Conan Doyle put down his napkin. 'You and the British seem to rub along well enough, Oscar. They love your play. They tolerate your eccentricities.'

'They despise my b.u.t.tonholes,' said Oscar, with a heavy sigh. 'As I walk down the street I see the pa.s.sers-by glancing at my left lapel and I know what they are thinking ...'

'All they are thinking, Oscar, is that their taste is not quite as your taste is,' said Conan Doyle, sitting back and grinning broadly at his friend. 'I mean to say, old man, look at you now. It's a beautiful May morning out there and you're sporting an overblown black tulip on your jacket. It looks like a dead crow.'

'It is in honour of Gustave Flaubert,' said Oscar, looking mournfully at the tulip. 'He died twelve years ago yesterday. He was a master. I revere him. And on the eighth of May every year I buy tulips in his honour. I remember him as he would wish to be remembered. Flaubert said, "Il est doux de songer que je servirai un jour a faire croitre des tulipes."' ['It is sweet to think that one day I will serve to grow tulips.']

'Yes,' chuckled Conan Doyle. 'He always was one for le mot juste.' The sommelier arrived with our second bottle of Le Montrachet. Doyle glanced at his pocket watch. 'Monsieur Flaubert, of course, did not have to contend with the editor of the Strand magazine. I must be on my way in a moment, Oscar. Might I be allowed a quick cup of coffee first- while you finish your wine and order your dessert? I must hear about your morning's endeavours before I take my leave. You've been questioning the staff here at the hotel, have you not?'

Oscar was tasting the new wine approvingly. He put down his gla.s.s and looked steadily at Conan Doyle. 'We have,' he said.

'And is there any vital point to which you would wish to draw my attention?'

'Merely, Arthur, to the curious incident of the parrot in the morning-in the hours immediately preceding its unfortunate demise.'

'From what I understand, the parrot did nothing in the morning.'

Oscar smiled his sly smile. 'That is the curious incident.'

Conan Doyle shook his head. 'I'm not sure I follow you.'

'Robert and I have been here since ten o'clock this morning,' explained Oscar. 'We have questioned every member of staff who was on duty at the hotel last Tuesday. The parrot was last seen alive and well, perched in his cage, shortly after breakfast. Nat, the page-boy and Nellie, one of the maids, will both testify to that. Thereafter, no one appears to have given poor Captain Flint any thought of any kind until his devastated body was discovered at three o'clock.'

'Is that so surprising?' asked Conan Doyle, dropping two sugar cubes lightly into his coffee.

'Captain Flint was a talkative creature,' said Oscar. '"Impertinent and garrulous", according to Bosie-that's why the dear boy wanted to murder him. Customarily, the Cadogan Hotel parrot made his presence felt. That morning, it seems, he did not do so. Curious, don't you think?'

'Not necessarily,' said Conan Doyle. 'An occasional visitor to the hotel, like Lord Alfred Douglas, would notice the parrot no doubt, but the staff, pa.s.sing through the hotel hallway all the time, might very well take his presence for granted. Was the hotel busy that morning?'

'Exceptionally busy-and short-staffed. Both the day manager and the a.s.sistant manager were indisposed, which is why Byrd was still on duty. According to the hotel register there were seven new arrivals during the course of the morning and, in the early afternoon, a party of fourteen American females was set to depart. All day, by all accounts, there was much coming and going through the hallway. The page-boy and the hall porter recognised a number of the regulars-Bram Stoker and Charles Brookfield were here for breakfast; Mrs Langtry was at her usual table, over there, for lunch; as you know, Constance and Edward Heron-Allen arrived a little before three.'

'Was the hallway deserted at any stage-even for a moment?'

'Oh, yes,' said Oscar, who now had a Kentish strawberry skewered on to the end of his dessert fork and was dipping it happily into his gla.s.s of wine. 'The hall porter acknowledged that he had frequently to leave his post to help bring down luggage for the American ladies. And, at regular intervals, Nat, the page-boy, was similarly engaged. The hallway was often empty. The front door was always open. The truth is: anyone with access to the hotel that morning could have had access to the parrot's cage. Anyone might have murdered Captain Flint.'

'Anyone might have done it ...'reflected Conan Doyle, turning his coffee spoon round in his fingers. 'Yes ... anyone might have had the means and the opportunity ... but who had the motive?' The doctor added another sugar cube to his cup. 'Who owned the parrot? Did he belong to the hotel?'

'No, he belonged to Alphonse Byrd. He came to the hotel with Byrd when the hotel opened. According to the hall porter, Byrd and the parrot were inseparable.'

'I can believe it,' said Willie Hornung eagerly. 'I kept a parrot when I was in Australia-"Captain Cook" I called him. Parrots are extraordinary creatures they are like people in many ways. They can converse, you know, and count. Captain Cook could count to ten. And they form strong attachments. They can be fiercely jealous.' Hornung stopped. Evidently he felt he had spoken out of turn. He gulped at his wine and muttered: 'Well, anyway, that was my experience in Australia.'

Oscar smiled at the nervous young man and laid his hand on his. 'When I look at the map,' he said, 'and see what an ugly country Australia is, I feel that I want to go there and see if it cannot be changed into a more beautiful form. Perhaps you will take me there one day, Willie? Would I feel at home in Sydney?'

'Gentlemen,' growled Conan Doyle, clearing his throat. 'Can we stick to the matter in hand? Byrd was fond of his parrot-'

'He adored the creature,' said Oscar emphatically, removing his hand from Willie Hornung's and looking Conan Doyle directly in the eye.

'Did Byrd have enemies?'

'Byrd has few friends, it seems, other than McMuirtree, but he has no known enemies. Those who work with him at the hotel appear to accept him for what he is-a cold fish. They don't warm to him, but they don't dislike him. They don't despise him, certainly. There is nothing to suggest that the unfortunate Captain Flint was slain by someone with a grudge against Mr Alphonse Byrd.'

'So the parrot's death remains a mystery,' said Conan Doyle with a short sigh. He took his pocket watch from his waistcoat. 'I must go,' he announced, pushing back his chair and getting briskly to his feet.

'I'll come with you,' said Willie Hornung, taking a final gulp of wine and pulling his napkin from his shirt. 'We can share a cab into town.'

Oscar and I got to our feet and shook hands with the good-hearted doctor and his young charge. My friend's vast circle of acquaintance included all types and conditions of men. Almost all of them were fascinating in their way, but with a number I felt distinctly uncomfortable. With Arthur Conan Doyle and Willie Hornung I always felt at ease.

'Will we be seeing you tonight?' Oscar called after them as they made their way towards the door. 'McMuirtree's bout begins at eight o'clock.'

Conan Doyle waved as he went. 'We have our tickets. We'll be there-without fail.'

When they had gone, and Oscar and I were seated once more, lingering over the last of Le Montrachet '65, I said to my friend: 'If McMuirtree survives tonight, if tomorrow morning he's still alive and well, will it all be over do you think? Will you feel the curse has been lifted?'

'I'll feel I can sleep more safely in my bed,' he answered slowly. 'And I'll feel that my dear wife can sleep more safely in hers. But I'll still ponder on the fate of Bradford Pea.r.s.e. Did he fall or was he pushed? And I'll still need to solve the riddle of Captain Flint-or else be obliged to give the wretched Brookfield thirteen guineas.' The yellow wine in his gla.s.s was now peppered with strawberry. Oscar gazed into it reflectively. 'Who killed the parrot, Robert? That is the question. Qui a tue le perroquet?' He reached for the bottle. It was empty. 'Flaubert kept a stuffed parrot on his desk to give him inspiration, did he not? I believe he used the parrot in Un Cur simple. I have not read the story. Have you? I must.' Suddenly he was galvanised. 'I shall! This very afternoon. Do you have a copy, Robert? I don't. We shall go to the French Bookshop in search of it. I shall get the bill and we shall go to Beak Street at once. Who knows, we might also find your friend the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney there, might we not? It's where you first met. The French Bookshop is one of his haunts, didn't you say?' He waved his napkin cheerily towards the head waiter. 'I look forward to telling our cabby that we are going to Beak Street in search of a simple heart. It will amuse him. Drink up, Robert. The game's afoot.'

The drive from Sloane Street to Beak Street took half an hour. It would have taken less long if, along the way, Oscar had not insisted on stopping at every tobacconist's shop until he found one that could supply him with a tin of Player's Navy Cut cigarettes. 'McMuirtree did me a great service introducing me to these, Robert. As he noted, they are not a gentleman's cigarette-but it's their very roughness that lends them their charm. It's what a man needs after lobster, strawberries and white Burgundy.'

Our cabman, who Oscar claimed was 'an old friend', gave not the least impression of knowing who Oscar was nor of understanding any of the array of quips, observations and reflections on Flaubert that Oscar lightly tossed his way. Whenever Oscar spoke, the man merely sniffed and sucked on his own cigarette. When we reached our destination and, with much ceremony, Oscar asked him to kindly wait for us and presented him with a silver sovereign by way of 'interim payment', the man gave a perfunctory nod and pocketed the sovereign as if it had been a sixpence.

The Librairie Francaise in Beak Street was a magnet for civilised souls in the London of the 1890s. From the outside it had the rea.s.suring air of a milliner's shop in a novel by Jane Austen, but behind the Regency shopfront with its enticing window of many panes, was a dimly lit smoke-filled emporium that smacked more of Paris or Ma.r.s.eilles (or even Athens or Algiers) than of Bath or Cheltenham Spa. As well as books and journals of every description (including quite a number a respectable writer might be loath to describe !), Monsieur Hirsch, the Frenchman who had opened the shop in 1889, stocked a rich a.s.sortment of Gallic luxuries that could not normally be obtained in London-French toiletries, French cigarettes, French cheeses, continental-style prophylactics, bottles of absinthe. 'Smell the corruption,' said Oscar as we pushed open the door and a little bell tinkled to signal our arrival.

Within the shop the air was close, heavy with incense. We closed the front door behind us and the bell rang again. We appeared to be only customers, but we were not alone.

'Good G.o.d!' cried Oscar in alarm as a ma.s.s of green and yellow feathers flew violently towards us. 'Is that a parrot?'

A small bird ricocheted about the crowded room, frantically hurling itself against walls and lamps and pictures. We cowered helplessly by the door. Eventually, the creature came to rest on top of a high bookshelf.

'It's a canary,' I said. 'One of a pair.'

Oscar peered up at it suspiciously. 'Known as "Edmond" and "Jules" no doubt.'

'Yes, as it happens. How on earth did you know?'

'I didn't. I guessed. We are in a French bookshop. That the owner should name his twin canaries in honour of the Brothers Goncourt is to be expected.'

I smiled. 'Monsieur Hirsch keeps a monkey as well.'

Oscar sighed. 'Does he dress it as a matelot? How depressing.'

'Bonjour, messieurs!' A familiar voice greeted us through the haze. It was the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney. He emerged, smiling, from behind a narrow beaded curtain at the far end of the shop. He was unshaven, his eyes were bloodshot, his mouth was thick with saliva, but he appeared in the best of humour. He was carrying an artist's portfolio tied together with blue ribbon. He laid it on the cluttered counter and took each of our hands warmly in his. 'This is an unexpected pleasure,' he said, wiping the edge of his lips with his thumb and forefinger, 'but a considerable one.' He was wearing white cotton evening gloves.

'What news of your inheritance, George?' asked Oscar, offering the clergyman one of his new cigarettes.

'Still encouraging, though not yet entirely settled.'

'We thought we might find you here,' I added, holding a match to light both his cigarette and Oscar's.

'What can I do for you? I'm minding the shop for Charles-for Monsieur Hirsch. He's out walking the monkey. It's Monday afternoon. It's very quiet. You're my first customers.'

Oscar's eye was fixed on the artist's portfolio. George Daubeney grinned.

'I've been exploring some of Charles's hidden treasures.' Gingerly, he undid the ribbon and pulled open the portfolio. 'Prints of masterpieces by Peter Paul Rubens. I know you appreciate an ample bosom, Oscar.'

We gazed down on a fine reproduction of Rubens' celebrated painting of Cimone and Efigenia. 'Delicious, aren't they?' gloated the clergyman, running his fingers across the ladies' sumptuous b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

'Does he?' I asked, surprised. 'Do you, Oscar? Do you "appreciate an ample bosom"?' Much amused, I looked enquiringly at my friend. His face betrayed nothing as he gazed in silence at the painting and drew slowly on his cigarette.

'Indeed he does,' continued Daubeney, gleefully. 'I recall the advertis.e.m.e.nts well-posters promoting "Madame Fontaine's Bosom Beautifier", endorsed by the "doctor of aesthetics" himself. "Just as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, just so sure will it enlarge and beautify the bosom."'

'The words were not mine,' said Oscar, coolly.

'But your portrait was on the poster, Oscar, alongside a spray of lilies, a profusion of sunflowers and, as I remember, the prettiest full-breasted maiden you ever saw.'

'Is this true, Oscar?' I marvelled. 'Did you give your blessing to "Madame Fontaine's Bosom Beautifier"?'

'It was some years ago,' he said. 'I think you were living in Paris at the time.'

'Oh, yes, Robert,' continued Daubeney, with lubricious relish, 'Our Oscar is a noted connoisseur of the female form.'

'My taste has become somewhat more refined with the pa.s.sing years,' said my friend lightly, feeling in his pocket for another Player's Navy Cut.

Daubeney turned over the first print to reveal another. 'So, Oscar, you prefer something less obvious nowadays, do you? More subtle, less obtrusive, more gamine. Is this more to your liking?' The naked girl in the painting was standing on a sheath of red silk, wrapped in fur, gazing out to the artist. Her round b.r.e.a.s.t.s rested on her folded arms. 'We are told her name is Helen Fourment. More than that we do not know.'

'She was someone's daughter,' said Oscar, quietly, 'someone's sister ...

Daubeney laughed. 'But not yet someone's wife. Look at her innocent face. Look at her mouth. She is a virgin you may be sure of that.' He turned to the next print. 'This is my favourite. I notice the cufflinks you are wearing, Oscar. I think this may prove to be a favourite with you, too.'

Oscar was wearing the enamel cuff-links that he had worn the day before, the ones that featured a miniature reproduction of Leonardo da Vinci's painting, The Virgin of the Rocks. The Rubens print that George Daubeney now displayed was ent.i.tled The Origin of the Milky Way. It was a painting of the Virgin Mary offering her left breast to the Christ child. With his gloved hands, Daubeney held up the picture for Oscar to inspect more closely. 'Feast your eyes upon the teat, my friend. It quite revives your faith, doesn't it?'

Oscar drew deeply on his cigarette. 'Is this enthusiasm of yours, George, entirely seemly in a man of the cloth?'

'G.o.d gave us seed that we might spill it, Oscar,' replied the clergyman, almost in a whisper. He closed the portfolio and began to tie up the blue. ribbon. 'If you have had satisfaction from The Virgin of the Rocks, I have other, similar cuff-links in stock. Just in from the Americas, I have The Virgin of Guadalupe ...'

'And the price?' Oscar raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. 'Five pounds, as ever?'

'Indeed,' said Daubeney, 'and, as ever, the quality is guaranteed.'

Oscar paused and contemplated Daubeney. 'I now know why you removed your cuff-links when you took refuge in the church on the morning after the fire in Cheyne Walk. It wasn't because the cuff-links didn't match. It was because you realised that you would shortly be interviewed by the police ...'

Daubeney smiled at Oscar and with the tip of his tongue collected the flecks of moisture from either side of his mouth. 'You noticed?' he said. 'Yes, I removed the cuff-links because I feared that they might send out the wrong signal. In my limited experience, the officers and men of the Metropolitan Police do not appreciate the subtleties of fine art in the way that we do.'

Oscar snapped shut his cigarette case and turned away from the shop counter to look about the room. 'As it happens, George, what we're in search of this afternoon is simply a book. Un Coeur simple, a short story, de Gustave Flaubert.'

Daubeney wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved quickly across the room. He stopped to scan a particular shelf. He ran his fingers alone the spines of a.s.sorted volumes. 'Alas, Charles does not appear to have it.' He turned to Oscar and shrugged. 'I can offer you Madame Bovary. She had fine b.r.e.a.s.t.s.'

'Is that a feature of the novel?' asked Oscar, laughing.

'It is when I read it,' Daubeney replied.

'We must go,' Oscar announced, moving me briskly towards the door. 'Doubtless we shall see you tonight, George-for McMuirtree's bout.'

'Of course. I am the padre. It requires my blessing.'

'A tout a l'heure, then, mon ami. Give our regards to Monsieur Hirsch.'

Our sullen cabman was waiting where we had left him, at end of Beak Street, outside the Crown tavern. As we climbed aboard the two-wheeler, Oscar remarked: 'At least we've learnt something this afternoon, Robert.'

'And what is that?' I asked.

'That Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers was spared a great deal when the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney broke off their engagement.'

Oscar called up to the driver: 'We failed to find a simple heart in Beak Street, cabby. We're now on our way to the Ring of Death, by way of Gower Street and t.i.te Street, if you'd be so kind.'

CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE QUEENSBERRY RULES.

To our surprise, when we reached Astley's Circus amphitheatre that evening, at a few minutes before eight o'clock, we discovered that the steel filings of London town had not been drawn irresistibly towards the magnet of the Ring of Death. The upper tiers of the amphitheatre were all closed and, on the ground floor of the auditorium, the seats around the boxing ring were, at best, a quarter filled.

In vain, we looked about for a familiar face. In due course, searching for the consolation of a drink, we found a handful of our friends cl.u.s.tered together at one end of the rear-stalls bar. Oscar, in a midnight-blue evening suit, with a simple red rose for a b.u.t.tonhole, stood in the centre of the near-deserted room, his arms outstretched. 'Where is everybody?' he enquired.

'At your play, Oscar,' answered Charles Brookfield, amiably, 'or possibly queuing along Shaftesbury Avenue in the hope of booking tickets for mine. We at least offer drama, after our fashion. What's on offer here tonight is but a charade-a "demonstration bout". It counts for nothing.'