Free Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death by Gyles Brandreth Page B

sometimes think I spend more time at your
home, my friend, than you do.’
    Oscar
rose above my chiding. ‘This coming Sunday,’ he said, resuming our walk, ‘tea
in Tite Street will outclass anything dear Cesari at the Savoy has to offer. We
shall be furnishing our guests with hock and seltzer, Robert, perfumed teas,
iced coffees, cucumber sandwiches, lemon tartlets, Madeira cake and, on the
side, a little magic. Mrs Ryan is looking after the comestibles and Mr Byrd is
taking care of the magic. You are invited, mon ami, but it’ll cost you a
pound at the door, I’m afraid.’
    ‘I
shall come,’ I said, wondering at once how I was going to raise the necessary
funds. ‘The cause is just. I had no idea there was so much danger associated with
women’s clothing.’
    ‘This
is not in aid of the Rational Dress Society, Robert. On Sunday we are
soliciting support for the Earl’s Court Boys’ Club. They want a boxing ring and
Bosie has asked me to pay for it! His father is the president of the Boys’ Club
and Bosie, when not wanting to murder the Marquess, is anxious to ingratiate
himself with him. I am doing what I can to help.’
    As we
approached the Cadogan Hotel, we found a party of young ladies clustered on the
front step. ‘How wan they look!’ exclaimed Oscar in hushed tones. ‘I imagine
they are Americans starting out on the Grand Tour. American ladies on leaving
their native land adopt the appearance of chronic ill-health under the
impression that it is a form of European refinement.’
    ‘You
are very droll, Oscar,’ I whispered as we were about to plunge through the
assembly of pale young women.
    ‘And
adroit, I like to think,’ said Oscar, suddenly taking my right elbow and
steering me away from the hotel entrance. ‘Down here!’ he commanded. Adjacent
to the hotel’s front steps was a narrow gate set into iron railings. Beyond the
gate were steep stone steps leading down to the hotel’s kitchens. ‘Lay on,
Macduff!’ hissed Oscar. ‘This way we will avoid the Yankee maidens and the
yabbering parrot.’
    For a
man who was undoubtedly overweight and professed an abhorrence of all forms of
exercise, Oscar Wilde was surprisingly nimble. I led the way down the steps and
he followed, not so much steadying himself with a hand on my shoulder as
propelling me on my way. Evidently, Byrd was expecting us and, through the
basement window, must have seen our feet descending. When we reached the
kitchen door, he was standing at it. He bobbed his head smartly towards Oscar,
as an equerry might to a prince, and said, ‘Welcome, Mr Wilde. We have
everything ready.’
    ‘Good
day, Byrd,’ said Oscar, responding to Byrd’s bow with a curious twitch of his
nostrils. ‘Do I smell smoke?’ he muttered.
    ‘This
way, gentlemen,’ said Byrd.
    I
sniffed the air. I detected a trace of something, but I said nothing.
    Byrd
led us through the hotel’s vast, dark and deserted kitchen, along a wide,
high-ceilinged corridor to a cavernous pantry beyond. It was a room without
windows, dimly lit by oil lamps. There, seated at the end of a long, narrow,
deal table that ran the length of the room, was David McMuirtree, the boxer,
Byrd’s friend and guest from the night before. On the table before him was a
coil of rope, a candle in a holder and an assortment of jam jars half filled
with variously coloured liquids. In his hand McMuirtree was holding a fiercely
burning taper: its blue-green flame shot several inches into the air. As we
entered the room, abruptly McMuirtree dropped the taper into one of the jam
jars. The flame hissed and sizzled as it died.
    ‘Ah,’
said Oscar, glancing at Byrd, ‘the source of the smoke …’
    David
McMuirtree stood to greet us. The man’s appearance quite took us off our guard.
He was completely naked from the waist up and his broad, hairless chest and
long, muscular arms glistened with oil. He smiled at us, and bobbed his head
just as Byrd had done, and said, ‘Good afternoon,