The clock above the door began to strike the hour. Archy Gilmour and Roger Ferris got to their feet and positioned themselves at either side of Alphonse Byrd. Oscar looked along the table and smiled.

'It's midnight,' said Inspector Gilmour.

'Yes,' answered Oscar, quietly, 'midnight ... And it seems I'm still alive.'

Arthur Conan Doyle pushed his chair back from the table. 'Are you surprised?'

Oscar laughed. 'Not entirely, Arthur-but Mr Byrd may be.' Gilmour and Ferris took the impa.s.sive Byrd by the arms and pulled him to his feet. He offered no resistance. His face betrayed no feeling.

'I believe,' said Oscar, 'that Mr Byrd hoped that by now I, too, would be dead or dying. He did not choose me as his murder victim, but once McMuirtree had been successfully despatched, I think he saw no reason why I should not be next.'

The policemen pulled Byrd's arms roughly behind his back. From his coat pocket, Ferris produced a pair of handcuffs and slipped them over the prisoner's wrists.

'As he sees it,' Oscar went on, 'life has not been kind to Alphonse Byrd. I have not been kind to him. I have a beauty in my life that makes his ugly. I've snubbed him, taken him for granted-treated him as a servant when, in fact, he's a scholar and gentleman ...'

'But Alphonse Byrd is not a gentleman. Nat, the page-boy at this hotel, he's a gentleman. Antipholus, the black boy from the circus-he's a gentleman. Brian Fletcher, a young actor we encountered on our way to Beachy Head now he's a gentlemen! But Alphonse Byrd ... what's he? He is as most murderers and bullies are: a funny little man, a whey-faced nondescript n.o.body-riddled with resentments, the victim of a million imagined slights. He's neither a gentleman nor, indeed, a scholar.'

'We'll take him with us now, Mr Wilde,' said Archy Gilmour, pulling Byrd away from the table and pushing him towards the door.

Oscar continued speaking. He would not be stopped. 'Byrd told me that he had spent a term at Oxford, but I knew at once that it was a lie. I asked him which was his college-and he answered, simply, "New." No man who has been to New College ever calls it "New".

Gilmour and Ferris stood with Alphonse Byrd by the dining-room door. 'Goodnight, gentlemen,' grunted Gilmour. 'We'll be in touch with those of you from whom we'll need statements.'

'I think you'll need this,' said Oscar, waving the silver hip flask in the detective inspector's direction.

'What's that?'

'Evidence, I imagine,' said Oscar lightly. 'It contains the wine that Mr Byrd poured into my gla.s.s tonight. It contains the second gla.s.s of that wine, to be precise. I allowed Daubeney to drink the first before I realised that it had been adulterated.'

'What are you saying, Mr Wilde?' asked Inspector Gilmour impatiently.

'I'm saying that while Byrd may not be a scholar, he nonetheless appreciates a cla.s.sical allusion. As I am the founder of the Socrates Club, and he is the secretary, he thought it appropriate that I should die as Socrates did. Mr Byrd sought to murder me tonight with the juice of a plant from his allotment conium maculatum: poison hemlock. I'll not be pressing charges, however. I only drank a drop.'

'What about Daubeney?' asked Conan Doyle, getting to his feet and moving towards the door. 'I'd better see him.'

'Yes, Doctor,' said Oscar. 'Perhaps you had- though I doubt that he's in mortal danger. I tasted the wine-there was not enough poison in it to kill a man. Our club secretary is one of those sad creatures who never get anything completely right. It's even possible that McMuirtree would have survived his ordeal in the Ring of Death if Daubeney hadn't been on hand to push the blades deeper into the boxer's severed wrists. Poor, pathetic Alphonse Byrd. Take him away. He lacks the immortal spark.'

Gilmour and Ferris bundled Byrd out of the room. Conan Doyle followed them, calling on Willie Hornung to accompany him. 'Better do as I'm told,' said the young man, pushing his spectacles up his nose and waving to the room as he went. 'What a night, Oscar! I'll not forget it. Thank you!'

Oscar stood alone at the head of the table, his arms hanging loosely at his side. He was only thirty-seven, but, suddenly, he seemed quite old washed-out, washed-up. His face, that, moments before, had been so alive and full of colour as he told his tale, was ashen. As he looked about the room he appeared confused: his eyes flickered, his eyelids drooped. As he reached into his cigarette case I noticed that his fingers shook.

'What a night, indeed,' chortled Edward Heron-Allen, stepping forward and shaking Oscar warmly by the hand. 'You're extraordinary, my friend-a phenomenon ...'

'He writes plays too, you know,' said Bosie Douglas, adjusting Oscar's tie proprietorially. 'For a pre-Raphaelite, he's quite the Renaissance man!'

'Congratulations, Oscar,' said Lord Drumlanrig. 'A tour de force. You should have gone to the Bar. Why didn't you? Have you considered politics? I mean it. Rosebery wants men like you.'

Oscar smiled wanly. 'A politician ...' he began-and then he stopped. 'And I am wary of lawyers,' he said. For a moment, I saw fear in his eyes. I sensed him searching for an aphorism that did not come.

'We are staying with our mother tonight, Oscar,' said Bosie, leaning forward and kissing Oscar lightly on the cheek. 'I'll see you tomorrow. Lunch at the Cafe Royal as we agreed?'

'Of course,' said Oscar. 'One o'clock.'

'Good night, Oscar,' said Lord Drumlanrig.

'And if you see Papa,' added Bosie as he pulled his brother with him towards the door, 'shoot him for me, won't you? I don't think I dare murder him myself with you on the case.'

Oscar smiled and watched the two young men link arms and go on their way.

'Quite brilliant, Oscar,' boomed Bram Stoker, putting a comfortable hand on his friend's shoulder. 'Drumlanrig was spot-on. It was indeed a tour de force. You out-Irvinged Irving.' He looked into Oscar's face and smiled. 'No wonder you're drained. Go home now and have a hot tub and a hot toddy. That's what the Guv'nor does. Works every time.'

Charles Brookfield stood at Bram Stoker's side. He was holding a cheque for thirteen guineas. 'Here you are, Oscar,' he said. 'I believe this is what I owe you.'

'Thank you,' said Oscar, inclining his head towards Brookfield. He took the cheque, examined it, folded it and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He looked directly into Brookfield's eyes. 'And what did you think, Charles?'

'What do you mean?' asked Brookfield.

'What did you think?' repeated Oscar.

'Of you? Just now?'

'Yes,' said Oscar. 'Of me just now.'

'Since you ask, Oscar,' answered Brookfield, slowly, weighing his words as he spoke, 'Since you ask ... I thought it was rather like your speech at the opening of Lady Windermere-brilliant in its way, but wrong-ill-judged ... just a touch self-regarding, just a touch too much. Your arrogance, Oscar, will be your undoing.'

'Don't listen to Brookie, Oscar,' cried Bram Stoker. 'He isn't Irish. He doesn't always understand. You were brilliant, my friend-quite brilliant. There's no other word. And you restored Pea.r.s.e to us! How about that?'

Bradford Pea.r.s.e and Wat Sickert were standing together by the doorway. Sickert was holding a cigar, resting an elegant right elbow on Pea.r.s.e's broad left shoulder. 'We're going to the Arts Club,' he announced, 'now to celebrate the prodigal's return.'

Bradford Pea.r.s.e nudged Sickert playfully. 'Will there be entertainment, Wat? Will some of your models be joining us, eh?' The barrel-chested actor roared with delight at the prospect and punched the air. 'Thank you, Oscar,' he cried exuberantly. 'Thank you, dear friend. It's so good to be back. The lighthouse was delightful, but the amenities were limited.'

'Are you going to grow another beard, Brad?' asked Bram Stoker, moving to the door, taking Charles Brookfield with him. 'These pink cheeks of yours are quite disconcerting.'

'I thought a moustache this time-like Sickert's here. What do think? I've played the old sea-salt long enough. I thought I'd try my luck as a young buck about town.'

'You don't want to play any more waiters,' said Charles Brookfield drily. 'You won't get the notices.'

'I'm an ac-taw,' said Pea.r.s.e happily, 'I play whatever comes my way.'

'Are you coming our way, Oscar?' called Sickert as the group gathered at the dining-room door. 'Are you up for a nightcap?'

'No, I'm taking Bram's advice. It's late. I'm for my bed. Robert will walk me home.'

'Good man,' said Bram Stoker, acknowledging Oscar with a small salute.

'Goodnight, gentlemen,' said Oscar, raising his hand to his friends.

'Goodnight, Oscar.' 'Goodnight, Oscar.' 'Goodnight, Robert.' 'Goodnight, Oscar well done!'

As the foursome left the room, waving and hallooing as they departed, Wat Sickert lingered. He turned briefly and looked towards Oscar with pleading eyes.

'Have no fear, Wat,' said Oscar gently. 'It's fine. Go now. I know you didn't touch the girl.'

Oscar and I walked back to t.i.te Street together, arm in arm. The air was still. The night sky was clear. In the black roof of the world the stars shone bright. As we walked, Oscar regained much of his energy. As we crossed Sloane Square into the King's Road and a dog-cart came hurtling out of the darkness and missed us by an inch or two, Oscar began to laugh in a way that I had not heard him laugh for a month or more. It was an easy laugh, happy and unforced. 'I have survived,' he chuckled. 'I have lived through Friday the thirteenth, Robert, and not been murdered after all!'

On the far side of the square, when we had reached the safety of the pavement, I asked him: 'Who was it who chose you as their murder victim, Oscar? Do you know?'

'It was Edward Heron-Allen,' he said, still chuckling. 'He confessed it when he brought me his prized c.o.c.kspur. He said that if I was dead, he could marry Constance. I told him if I was dead, you would marry Constance!'

I laughed. 'Did you really, Oscar?' The notion was absurd, but, even so, to hear it spoken out loud pleased me very much.

'I did-but I'm not dead and you shan't. And Mrs Heron-Allen is alive and well and no doubt offering young Edward wifely consolation as we speak.'

We had stopped beneath a street lamp. In the pale and yellow gaslight I could see that Oscar was smiling. He seemed happy once again. He lit a cigarette-the last of his Player's Navy Cut.

'You know,' I remarked, 'for a time, I thought that Heron-Allen might be the murderer?'

Oscar threw his match into the gutter. 'I thought you were convinced that it was young Drumlanrig?'

'I was-later. I was absolutely certain of it.'

Contentedly, we resumed our walk, arm in arm once more. 'The things one feels absolutely certain about,' he said, 'are never true.'

As we turned left, into the first of the little alleys leading towards t.i.te Street, I paused for a moment and asked: 'If it was Heron-Allen who named you as his victim, who was it who named Constance as theirs?'

'Can you not guess?' he asked, walking on. 'It was Charles Brookfield, I am afraid.'

'Brookfield?'

'Indeed.'

'Did he tell you?'

'No-my grid told me. By a process of elimination. It can only have been Brookfield.'

'Brookfield wanted to murder Constance?' I said, appalled.

'It was only a game, Robert,' said Oscar. 'No doubt Brookfield wished to put my wife out of the misery of being married to me.' He spoke without rancour. He sounded almost amused by the idea. 'He is a curious character, our Mr Brookfield ...'

'Indeed,' I said, tartly.

'Do you think that he was right about my performance tonight?' he asked, glancing up at the sky as he spoke. He did not wait for my reply. 'I think that perhaps he was,' he said.

Suddenly, as we reached the corner of t.i.te Street, he burst out laughing again. 'You know that, at first, I believed that Brookfield was our murderer. It was Mrs Robinson who pointed me in his direction. When she examined the map of my hand, she said: "Where this brook abuts this field, Mr Wilde, I see a whirlpool and it worries me" ... I a.s.sumed that my hand was telling her that "Brookfield" would prove my nemesis!'

'And was it not?'

'I think not,' said Oscar, laughing quietly. 'Mrs Robinson is paid a guinea a reading. She must say something. At our party, she met Mr and Mrs Brooke, the Rajah and Ranee of Sarawak, and Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper, the eccentric poetesses jointly known as "Michael Field". Mrs Robinson slipped their names into her reading of my palm- and I heard what I wanted to hear, not what she was telling me.'

'Are you sure?' I asked. 'I thought that you put your trust in Mrs Robinson.'

'I do. I have done. And, no doubt, I will again. But I must remember that fortune-telling is allied to the world of entertainment. It's sometimes difficult to tell the truth from the trickery ... Leastways, Brookfield was not our murderer.'

'But he despises you, Oscar.'

'Does he not have cause? I snub him. I reprove him for wearing gloves indoors. At dinner, I have him seated below the salt.'

'Brookfield despises you and yet he can't keep away from you. He's like a moth about a flame. He despises you not because you snub him, but because he envies you.'

'Ah,' said Oscar, smiling. 'Is that it?'

'It is,' I said, emphatically.

We had reached 16 t.i.te Street. Oscar had his key in the door. 'Beware of envy, Robert,' he said, looking at me earnestly. 'Look what envy did to Byrd ... Look what envy's done to Brookfield ... Envy is the ulcer of the soul.'

'"Envy is the ulcer of the soul",' I repeated. 'That's brilliant, Oscar-one of your best. I've noted it in my journal, have no fear.'

'But have you given credit where it's due? It was Socrates who said it first. Socrates-known just by the one name, you note. Socrates, I think we can agree, has joined the ranks of the immortals.' He turned the key in the lock. 'What will become of us, I wonder, Robert? Will we join the ranks of the immortals? What will be our destiny?'

He sighed and pushed open his front door. The house was silent, but not unwelcoming. There, set on the small side table in the hallway, beneath a flickering gas lamp, was a Chinese malacca tray. And on the tray were two champagne gla.s.ses, an ice bucket, a chilled bottle of Perrier Jouet and a note in Constance's round, firm hand: Bravo, Oscar-best of husbands, best of men.

Oscar's eyes were full of tears. He looked at me and smiled. 'I'm not inclined towards a hot toddy- whatever that may be. But a gla.s.s of champagne before bed, Robert ... isn't that the way to end the day?'

POSTSCRIPT.

'What will become of us, I wonder, Robert? What will be our destiny?'

The world knows what became of Oscar Wilde. After the triumphs of 1893 came the trials of 1895 and disgrace, imprisonment and exile. Constance died in Genoa in 1898. Oscar died in Paris in 1900. He was forty-six. As he said, 'My cradle was rocked by the Fates.'

The world knows, too, what became of Arthur Conan Doyle. Thanks to Sherlock Holmes, he found fame and fortune around the world. Thanks to his manifold qualities-his integrity, his courage, and his service to his country during the Boer War he found honour, too. He was knighted by King Edward VII in 1902.

Thanks to Conan Doyle, young Willie Hornung found fortune, also. At Arthur's suggestion, Willie created a best-selling character to rival Sherlock Holmes-a professional confidence trickster and jewel thief named Raffles, 'the amateur cracksman'. And, thanks again to Arthur, Willie Hornung found love as well. In 1893, Willie married Conan Doyle's younger sister, Connie, and he named his first-born 'Arthur Oscar' in honour of the two men he most admired: his brother-in-law and Oscar Wilde. 'Nomen est omen,' he said at the child's christening.

Bram Stoker, having created Dracula, died in 1912. Willie Hornung died in 1921. Arthur Conan Doyle died in 1930. Walter Sickert and EdwardHeron-Allen are living still. Wat is now one of the grand old men of English art and Edward is best known, I suppose, for his scurrilous novel, The Cheetah Girl. Bosie is alive still, too. We meet now and again, when I'm in England, and talk of old times and drink vintage champagne in Oscar's honour.

Bosie married. I never much cared for his wife. (I don't believe that he did, either!) His brother, Francis Drumlanrig, died in 1894, aged twenty-seven-shot dead while out hunting in Somerset. Was it an accident? Or suicide? Or murder? No one knows for sure. To the last, his father, the Marquess of Queensberry, remained convinced that Drumlanrig and Lord Rosebery were lovers. It was Queenberry's great obsession. And to Queensberry's great disgust, in the same year that his son died, Lord Rosebery succeeded as prime minister.

Rosebery kept faith with his promise to Arthur Conan Doyle. His administration outlawed c.o.c.k-fighting in Scotland. And, in his turn, in the same year, 1894, Bram Stoker kept faith with Conan Doyle. He persuaded Henry Irving to produce and star in a play by Conan Doyle. The piece was called A Story of Waterloo. It was the last of the great actor's great successes.

Henry Irving, however, could not be persuaded to play the part of Sherlock Holmes on the stage. The first actor to portray Holmes in the theatre was Charles Brookfield. Yes, it's true.

Brookfield maintained his obsessive interest in Oscar as the years went by. In the early months of 1895 it was Charles Brookfield who supplied the police with the names and addresses of several of the disreputable young men who, at his trial, gave evidence against Oscar Wilde. And on the evening of 25 May 1895-the day on which, at the Old Bailey, Oscar was found guilty of gross indecency and sentenced to two years' imprisonment with hard labour-Charles Brookfield and the Marquess of Queensberry organised a gala party to celebrate the verdict. They shared the cost of it. Brookfield contributed thirteen guineas.

GYLES BRANDRETH.

Gyles Brandreth was born on 8 March 1948 in Germany, where, in the aftermath of the Second World War, his father, Charles Brandreth, was serving as a legal officer with the Allied Control Commission and counted among his colleagues H. Montgomery Hyde, who, in 1948, published the first full account of the trials of Oscar Wilde. In 1974, at the Oxford Theatre Festival, Gyles Brandreth produced the first stage version of The Trials of Oscar Wilde, with Tom Baker as Wilde, and, in 2000, he edited the transcripts of the trials for an audio production starring Martin Jarvis.

Gyles Brandreth was educated at the Lycee Francais de Londres, at Betteshanger School in Kent, and at Bedales School in Hampshire.