Heron-Allen. ‘Edward, would you do me a favour? Would you escort my
wife back to Tite Street and sit with her while Mrs Ryan provides you both with
a pot of tea and the consoling comfort of crumpets?’
‘It’s
far too warm for crumpets, Oscar,’ Constance protested.
‘Alliteration
is no respecter of seasons, my dear,’ he said.
Constance
laughed, while Heron-Allen pulled himself up in the manly manner of a well-bred
young gentleman, clicked his heels together, and said, ‘I should be happy to
escort Mrs Wilde home and honoured to take tea with her. We shall not talk of
the unpleasantness of the past hour, I promise.’
‘Good,’
said Oscar. ‘Thank you.’ He looked at his wife and kissed her on the forehead
once more. ‘Take care, Constance. You are in safe hands. I’ll try not to be too
late tonight.’
We
watched as Constance and Heron-Allen made their way away from us. We stood in
silence looking after them. I thought that they might turn and wave to us, but
they did not. I saw Heron-Allen give his arm to Constance and, as she took it,
I felt an absurd pang of jealousy. When I was confident they were out of
earshot, I said to Oscar, ‘Should you not be with your wife this afternoon?’
‘Do you
think that Heron-Allen is untrustworthy?’ asked Oscar, looking puzzled. ‘He is
a solicitor. I agree, that’s worrisome. He’s handsome, too.’
‘That’s
not what I mean at all, Oscar,’ I said, now flustered and knowing that I had
taken on an unattractive, hectoring manner.
‘What
do you mean then?’ he enquired.
‘I mean
that you have not told Constance of the game that we played on Sunday night.’
‘Indeed
not.’
‘She
does not know that she was named as a potential murder victim.’
‘Of
course not.’
‘She
may be in danger, Oscar. Your wife is on the list of those chosen as potential
victims of murder— and you are going to the theatre yet again with Lord Alfred
Douglas!’
‘You
don’t need to remind me of the list, Robert. I have the list,’ he said,
suddenly producing a sheet of notepaper from his coat pocket and waving it
before me. ‘I am familiar with the list and I see from the list that
Constance’s name is the last on it—just after my name !—and those of Eros and
Old Father Time! Do not get over-exercised about the list, Robert. Sunday’s
game was just a game.’
‘Was
it?’ I asked sharply. ‘On each of the three days since we played this so-called
game each of the first three names on the list of “victims” has died. Is it
“just a game”?’
‘Who is
next on the list?’ Oscar asked, unfolding the sheet of notepaper.
‘Sherlock
Holmes, I believe.’
‘Sherlock
Holmes it is,’ he said, scanning the paper, and, as he said it, the page-boy
from the Cadogan Hotel came running along the pavement towards us. Oscar
smiled. ‘Well, Nat?’ he asked. ‘What’s the answer?’
‘It’s
“Yes”, Mr Wilde—in every particular.’
‘Excellent,’
said Oscar. ‘Thank you.’ He handed the boy sixpence. ‘Spend it all at once,
Nat,’ he added. ‘It’s the only way.’ The lad laughed and, pocketing the
sixpence, ran back to the hotel.
Oscar
turned to me with a look of quiet satisfaction. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Conan
Doyle will meet us in the morning, Robert. He has accepted my invitation to
breakfast at the Langham Hotel at nine o’clock. We’ll see him then—assuming he
survives the night.’
‘Oscar’s
Game’
The
‘murder victims’ —in the order in which the names were drawn from the bag at
the Socrates Club dinner, Sunday 1 May 1892
1.
Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers
2.
Lord Abergordon
3.
Captain Flint, the Cadogan Hotel parrot
4.
Mr Sherlock Holmes
5. Mr Bradford Pearse
6.
David McMuirtree
7.
David McMuirtree
8.
David McMuirtree
9.
David McMuirtree
10.
Old Father Time
11.
Eros
12. A
blank slip was drawn
13.
Mr Oscar Wilde
14.
Mrs Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER EIGHT
BREAKFAST AT THE
wife back to Tite Street and sit with her while Mrs Ryan provides you both with
a pot of tea and the consoling comfort of crumpets?’
‘It’s
far too warm for crumpets, Oscar,’ Constance protested.
‘Alliteration
is no respecter of seasons, my dear,’ he said.
Constance
laughed, while Heron-Allen pulled himself up in the manly manner of a well-bred
young gentleman, clicked his heels together, and said, ‘I should be happy to
escort Mrs Wilde home and honoured to take tea with her. We shall not talk of
the unpleasantness of the past hour, I promise.’
‘Good,’
said Oscar. ‘Thank you.’ He looked at his wife and kissed her on the forehead
once more. ‘Take care, Constance. You are in safe hands. I’ll try not to be too
late tonight.’
We
watched as Constance and Heron-Allen made their way away from us. We stood in
silence looking after them. I thought that they might turn and wave to us, but
they did not. I saw Heron-Allen give his arm to Constance and, as she took it,
I felt an absurd pang of jealousy. When I was confident they were out of
earshot, I said to Oscar, ‘Should you not be with your wife this afternoon?’
‘Do you
think that Heron-Allen is untrustworthy?’ asked Oscar, looking puzzled. ‘He is
a solicitor. I agree, that’s worrisome. He’s handsome, too.’
‘That’s
not what I mean at all, Oscar,’ I said, now flustered and knowing that I had
taken on an unattractive, hectoring manner.
‘What
do you mean then?’ he enquired.
‘I mean
that you have not told Constance of the game that we played on Sunday night.’
‘Indeed
not.’
‘She
does not know that she was named as a potential murder victim.’
‘Of
course not.’
‘She
may be in danger, Oscar. Your wife is on the list of those chosen as potential
victims of murder— and you are going to the theatre yet again with Lord Alfred
Douglas!’
‘You
don’t need to remind me of the list, Robert. I have the list,’ he said,
suddenly producing a sheet of notepaper from his coat pocket and waving it
before me. ‘I am familiar with the list and I see from the list that
Constance’s name is the last on it—just after my name !—and those of Eros and
Old Father Time! Do not get over-exercised about the list, Robert. Sunday’s
game was just a game.’
‘Was
it?’ I asked sharply. ‘On each of the three days since we played this so-called
game each of the first three names on the list of “victims” has died. Is it
“just a game”?’
‘Who is
next on the list?’ Oscar asked, unfolding the sheet of notepaper.
‘Sherlock
Holmes, I believe.’
‘Sherlock
Holmes it is,’ he said, scanning the paper, and, as he said it, the page-boy
from the Cadogan Hotel came running along the pavement towards us. Oscar
smiled. ‘Well, Nat?’ he asked. ‘What’s the answer?’
‘It’s
“Yes”, Mr Wilde—in every particular.’
‘Excellent,’
said Oscar. ‘Thank you.’ He handed the boy sixpence. ‘Spend it all at once,
Nat,’ he added. ‘It’s the only way.’ The lad laughed and, pocketing the
sixpence, ran back to the hotel.
Oscar
turned to me with a look of quiet satisfaction. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Conan
Doyle will meet us in the morning, Robert. He has accepted my invitation to
breakfast at the Langham Hotel at nine o’clock. We’ll see him then—assuming he
survives the night.’
‘Oscar’s
Game’
The
‘murder victims’ —in the order in which the names were drawn from the bag at
the Socrates Club dinner, Sunday 1 May 1892
1.
Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers
2.
Lord Abergordon
3.
Captain Flint, the Cadogan Hotel parrot
4.
Mr Sherlock Holmes
5. Mr Bradford Pearse
6.
David McMuirtree
7.
David McMuirtree
8.
David McMuirtree
9.
David McMuirtree
10.
Old Father Time
11.
Eros
12. A
blank slip was drawn
13.
Mr Oscar Wilde
14.
Mrs Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER EIGHT
BREAKFAST AT THE
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