Free Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death by Gyles Brandreth

and tapping him on the
knee, ‘Tell me why, just now, you were so interested in the dead woman’s eyes?’
    ‘I was
troubled by something George Daubeney said,’ he answered. ‘That’s all. This
morning, at Tite Street, your camarade de librairie—the Honourable the
Reverend—when, for the first time, he described to us seeing the body of
Elizabeth Scott-Rivers through the window of 27 Cheyne Walk, told us that her
face had been “all burnt away” …’
    ‘I
recall,’ I said.
    ‘But,
later,’ Oscar went on, ‘when we were at Cheyne Walk and Inspector Gilmour
described the position of Miss Scott-Rivers’s body and told us that the poor
woman’s eyes were most definitely closed, Daubeney then said that was his
recollection also.’
    ‘I
don’t think the discrepancy is significant,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘The man was
confused. He’d been through a traumatic experience.’
    ‘Indeed,’
said Oscar. ‘In any event, Archy Gilmour seems certain that foul play is not
involved—and Gilmour’s a good man. Reliable.’
    ‘Did
Gilmour say that a dozen women a year lose their lives in such-like fires?’
    ‘He
did,’ said Oscar, producing one of his favourite handkerchiefs from his pocket
(a white handkerchief with a strawberry-coloured border) and giving his nose a
stentorian blow. ‘He did indeed, but I think the figure may be even higher. Two
of my sisters died in such a fire, you know.’
    Conan
Doyle sat up and, with a furrowed brow, looked towards Oscar sympathetically.
‘I did not know,’ he said.
    ‘I did
not know you had two sisters, Oscar,’ I said. ‘I thought you had just the one.’
    ‘I had
three sisters,’ my friend replied, smiling gently and gazing out of the cab
window for a moment as if to bring the image of them to mind.
    Oscar
Wilde was a fabulist—and an Irishman.
    He
could tell a tale as only a Dubliner can. When it suited his mood, when he felt
inclined for a such a story, he would invent wholly imaginary friends and
relations for himself and describe them with such complete conviction and so
much circumstantial detail—that only the most diligent and determined
biographer would be able to sort out fact from fancy. I noticed that, often,
when indulging himself in this kind of invention, he produced a prop of some
kind to assist him in the story-telling. My suspicions were aroused by his strawberry-bordered
handkerchief. ‘Three sisters, Oscar? Is this true?’ I demanded.
    ‘Oh
yes,’ he said, turning to look at me, ‘Quite true. You have heard me speak
often of my little sister, Isola. She died when she was ten. I loved her
dearly. I keep a lock of her hair about me still. But I had two older sisters,
also—Emily and Mary Wilde. My papa was liberal in his favours. As a young man,
before he married my mother, he fathered three illegitimate children, a boy and
two girls. They were brought up as my uncle’s wards, but I knew them as
siblings not as cousins. And I loved them.’
    ‘And
the two girls were burnt to death?’ asked Conan Doyle, anxiously.
    ‘They
were,’ said Oscar. ‘I was seventeen at the time. They were twenty-two and
twenty-four and lovely as the day is long. One November night, they went
together to a ball in County Monaghan and Emily danced too near the fire. Her
dress caught light. Mary rushed to save her sister and the flames engulfed them
both. My father never recovered from the tragedy.’ Oscar smiled sadly and
looked me in the eye. ‘I trust you believe me, Robert.’
    ‘I do,’
I said.
    ‘They
were lovely and pleasant in their lives and in their death they were not
divided. And it’s because of them that I believe so passionately in the work of
the Rational Dress Society and encourage my darling Constance in her endeavours
in that regard.’
    Our
four-wheeler was in Tite Street and drawing up outside Number 16. ‘And speaking
of angels,’ cried Oscar, blowing his nose once more, ‘look who’s here!’
    On the
pavement outside the house