Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers by Gyles Brandreth Page B

manner of marvels are possible. The duchess may indeed have been attacked by a vampire – or by a man who believed he was a vampire – or by a man pretending to be a vampire. Or the wounds in her neck could have been self-inflicted to give the impression of a vampiric attack – or they may have nothing to do with vampires at all … Who knows?’
    I turned my head towards him. In the darkness I could barely discern his profile, but I felt the warmth of his breath, his face was so close to mine.
    ‘Oscar,’ I said, ‘do you recall that on the night of the duchess’s death, I asked you whether you had ever tasted blood, fresh blood, human blood, and you said that you had not?’
    ‘I do recall it, Rex,’ he answered, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘It is not a conversation one is likely to forget.’
    ‘When I told you that I had tasted blood, and would taste blood again that very night, you asked me whose blood it was that I would taste.’
    ‘I did. I remember it well.’
    ‘And, pointing towards our hostess, across the crowded room, I told you that it would be hers.’
    ‘I have not forgotten.’ I sensed that his face was turned towards mine, but I could not see it in the gloom.
    ‘May I ask you something, Oscar?’
    ‘Anything.’
    ‘Since that night, since the duchess’s death, why have you not questioned me about any of this? You have told me about the enquiries you are making, about your interviews with the Prince of Wales and Lord Yarborough and the duke, but you have not cross-examined me. Why not?’
    ‘There is no need. You did not taste the duchess’s blood that night.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘Because, from the moment you spoke of doing so until the moment my friend Sherard caught sight of the duchess’s dead body within the telephone room, you did not leave my side.’
    ‘That is so.’
    ‘Besides, as I told you last night, whatever you are, you are not a vampire.’
    ‘And how can you be so certain of that?’
    ‘Because a true vampire, as every folklorist knows, has an aversion to roses – and you, my dear Rex, do not.’
    I felt his hand reach for my coat and lightly touch the buttonhole he had given me. I felt his mouth as it placed a gentle kiss upon my cheek.
    I have him in my grasp.

37
Letter from Bram Stoker to his wife, Florence, delivered by messenger at 9 a.m. on Monday, 17 March 1890

    Lyceum Theatre,
    Strand,
    London
    3 a.m.
    Florrie –
    I am just in from the expedition to Mortlake. I am log-tired, but wide awake! We have rehearsals starting at ten in the morning (sharp – you know what the old man’s like), so I shall kip down here and get what sleep I can.
    I will give you a full account of our moonlit picnic among the gravestones when I see you. Suffice to say, Oscar and his young ‘vampire’ friend – a pale-faced Adonis by the name of Rex LaSalle – were in their element, and entered wholeheartedly into the spirit of the occasion, while the other two – Robert Sherard and Arthur Conan Doyle (good man) – were more circumspect.
    At the finish, Doyle, I think, was frankly shocked. I had my reservations too. As you know, I go because the notion of the ‘Vampire Club’ amuses me and because there are true scholars there as well as rogues and vagabonds. (And royalty. Our patron was in attendance tonight – memorably so.) I believe that I learn something every time that I attend, but perhaps now I have enough research – the time has come to write the wretched book!
    I will send this note to you by messenger at daybreak. The clock on St Clement Danes has just struck three. I trust you are sleeping sweetly, beloved one. May the blessed St Patrick watch over us both.
    Bram

38
From the journal of Arthur Conan Doyle

    I travelled out to Mortlake with Bram Stoker (Irving’s man of business) and Robert Sherard.
    South of the river, our cabman lost his bearings. Twice, he had to stop to ask the way: first at a public house in Barnes, and then, half a mile