LANGHAM
That evening, I dined
alone in my room in Gower Street. In those days, I would often dine alone: usually
in my room, on bread and cheese or a cold sausage and half a beef tomato;
occasionally, across the way, at the Mermaid tavern in Chenies Street, on a
mutton chop with onion gravy, the Mermaid’s’ speciality ‘.
Oscar,
of course, rarely ate alone. That Tuesday evening, he and Lord Alfred Douglas
had abandoned their theatre plans and settled, instead, on a five-shilling
bottle of champagne at the Café Royal followed by a two-shilling supper at the
Florence Restaurant in Rupert Street.
‘There
were no nightcaps taken, Robert!’ Oscar called out the moment he saw me the
following morning. I arrived at the Langham Hotel promptly at nine o’clock and
found my friend seated alone at a round table set for three in one of the
darker corners of the hotel’s absurdly bosky Palm Court. He gestured to me to join
him and, without pausing to give or receive a greeting, continued: ‘I did as
you would have wished, Robert. I was a martyr to self-discipline and uxorial
responsibility. I resisted all of Bosie’s blandishments. He proposed whisky-and-soda
at the Albemarle. He suggested schnapps and ice cream at the Savoy. He even
tried to entice me with the promise of a pint of porter at the Empire,
Leicester Square. Still, I held firm. “Get thee behind me, Douglas!” I cried,
“I am going home.” And by half past ten, Robert, I was back in Tite Street.’
‘I am
glad to hear it.’
‘You
will be less glad when I tell you what I found there …’
‘My
God!’ I exclaimed, suddenly alarmed. ‘What? Tell me.’
‘I
found Edward Heron-Allen there.’
‘With
Constance?’ I shook my head. ‘The man knows no shame.’
Oscar
nodded solemnly. ‘You are right, Robert. He was still speaking of asparagus.’
Oscar sat back and burst out laughing. He unfurled his linen napkin with a
flourish. ‘I have ordered kidneys and poached eggs for us both. The beverages are
already present and correct.’
‘What
did you do with Heron-Allen?’ I asked, while my friend solicitously poured me a
cup of tea.
‘I sent
him packing—when I had thanked him for keeping my wife company. Edward
Heron-Allen adores Constance.’
‘I
know,’ I grumbled, ‘that’s why I don’t trust him.’
‘You
should, Robert. I do. We both care for Constance, don’t we? She is never safer
than when Edward Heron-Allen is there. He loves her. He would lay down his own
life to safeguard hers.’
‘I had
not thought of that,’ I said. ‘Nevertheless,’ I added, lowering my voice, ‘I
remain mistrustful.’ I leant towards Oscar and muttered, sotto voce: ‘The
man’s a self-confessed pornographer, is he not?’
Oscar
smiled and stirred his tea. ‘Given the word’s Greek roots,’ he answered,
lowering his voice to match mine, ‘a pornographer, strictly speaking, is
concerned with writing of harlots.
Heron-Allen’s
interests are far broader than that. The gross bodily appetites of men and
beasts, in all their rich variety, are Heron-Allen’s peculiar obsession. The
more unusual the practice the more intrigued is our Edward. I am certain he
does not speak of these matters to Constance, but the other night he introduced
me to a new word whose meaning you may guess at … “necrophilia”.’
‘Good
grief!’
Oscar
smiled. ‘That was Conan Doyle’s reaction exactly,’ he said out loud, looking up
and welcoming the arrival of a rack of toast at our table.
‘Where
is Conan Doyle?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure that he’s coming?’
‘That’s
what Nat told us.’
‘Nat?’
‘The
page-boy from the Cadogan you recall? He brought us word from Arthur yesterday
afternoon. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Oh,’ I
said, lamely. I was confused.
Oscar
looked at me with a gently supercilious raised eyebrow. ‘Yesterday afternoon,
Robert, when I realised that poor Captain Flint was the third of our “victims”
to be
That evening, I dined
alone in my room in Gower Street. In those days, I would often dine alone: usually
in my room, on bread and cheese or a cold sausage and half a beef tomato;
occasionally, across the way, at the Mermaid tavern in Chenies Street, on a
mutton chop with onion gravy, the Mermaid’s’ speciality ‘.
Oscar,
of course, rarely ate alone. That Tuesday evening, he and Lord Alfred Douglas
had abandoned their theatre plans and settled, instead, on a five-shilling
bottle of champagne at the Café Royal followed by a two-shilling supper at the
Florence Restaurant in Rupert Street.
‘There
were no nightcaps taken, Robert!’ Oscar called out the moment he saw me the
following morning. I arrived at the Langham Hotel promptly at nine o’clock and
found my friend seated alone at a round table set for three in one of the
darker corners of the hotel’s absurdly bosky Palm Court. He gestured to me to join
him and, without pausing to give or receive a greeting, continued: ‘I did as
you would have wished, Robert. I was a martyr to self-discipline and uxorial
responsibility. I resisted all of Bosie’s blandishments. He proposed whisky-and-soda
at the Albemarle. He suggested schnapps and ice cream at the Savoy. He even
tried to entice me with the promise of a pint of porter at the Empire,
Leicester Square. Still, I held firm. “Get thee behind me, Douglas!” I cried,
“I am going home.” And by half past ten, Robert, I was back in Tite Street.’
‘I am
glad to hear it.’
‘You
will be less glad when I tell you what I found there …’
‘My
God!’ I exclaimed, suddenly alarmed. ‘What? Tell me.’
‘I
found Edward Heron-Allen there.’
‘With
Constance?’ I shook my head. ‘The man knows no shame.’
Oscar
nodded solemnly. ‘You are right, Robert. He was still speaking of asparagus.’
Oscar sat back and burst out laughing. He unfurled his linen napkin with a
flourish. ‘I have ordered kidneys and poached eggs for us both. The beverages are
already present and correct.’
‘What
did you do with Heron-Allen?’ I asked, while my friend solicitously poured me a
cup of tea.
‘I sent
him packing—when I had thanked him for keeping my wife company. Edward
Heron-Allen adores Constance.’
‘I
know,’ I grumbled, ‘that’s why I don’t trust him.’
‘You
should, Robert. I do. We both care for Constance, don’t we? She is never safer
than when Edward Heron-Allen is there. He loves her. He would lay down his own
life to safeguard hers.’
‘I had
not thought of that,’ I said. ‘Nevertheless,’ I added, lowering my voice, ‘I
remain mistrustful.’ I leant towards Oscar and muttered, sotto voce: ‘The
man’s a self-confessed pornographer, is he not?’
Oscar
smiled and stirred his tea. ‘Given the word’s Greek roots,’ he answered,
lowering his voice to match mine, ‘a pornographer, strictly speaking, is
concerned with writing of harlots.
Heron-Allen’s
interests are far broader than that. The gross bodily appetites of men and
beasts, in all their rich variety, are Heron-Allen’s peculiar obsession. The
more unusual the practice the more intrigued is our Edward. I am certain he
does not speak of these matters to Constance, but the other night he introduced
me to a new word whose meaning you may guess at … “necrophilia”.’
‘Good
grief!’
Oscar
smiled. ‘That was Conan Doyle’s reaction exactly,’ he said out loud, looking up
and welcoming the arrival of a rack of toast at our table.
‘Where
is Conan Doyle?’ I asked. ‘Are you sure that he’s coming?’
‘That’s
what Nat told us.’
‘Nat?’
‘The
page-boy from the Cadogan you recall? He brought us word from Arthur yesterday
afternoon. That’s why we’re here.’
‘Oh,’ I
said, lamely. I was confused.
Oscar
looked at me with a gently supercilious raised eyebrow. ‘Yesterday afternoon,
Robert, when I realised that poor Captain Flint was the third of our “victims”
to be
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