Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers by Gyles Brandreth Read Free Book Online Page B

wounds upon her body?’
    ‘Dr Doyle described them to you?’
    ‘He did. In detail.’
    ‘They are something else altogether.’
    ‘I do not understand.’
    ‘You do not need to, Mr Wilde. The Duchess of Albemarle died of a heart attack.’
    ‘But the bloody wounds, my lord? The tears upon her body? The cuts upon her neck?’
    ‘They are something else. They did not kill her. Those wounds are irrelevant, Mr Wilde. The duchess died because her heart gave way.’
    ‘How can they be irrelevant, my lord?’
    ‘They are not the cause of death.’
    ‘How can you be so certain? Did you examine the wounds?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did you examine them closely?’
    ‘No, not closely. There was no need. I knew the duchess. I knew her secrets.’
    ‘What do you mean, my lord?’
    ‘It does not matter, Mr Wilde.’
    Oscar drew deeply upon his cigarette. Dusk was now falling about us.
    ‘The wounds the duchess sustained,’ he asked, ‘they were sustained before her death?’
    ‘I imagine so,’ replied Lord Yarborough, his eyes narrowing. ‘Shortly before.’
    ‘They were not self-inflicted?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Who caused them?’
    ‘I do not care to speculate.’
    ‘Why not, my lord?’
    ‘Because no good or useful purpose can be served by such speculation, Mr Wilde.’
    ‘But could not the infliction of the wounds have provoked the heart attack?’
    Lord Yarborough – for the first time – hesitated. ‘That is possible,’ he said.
    ‘Then the duchess’s attacker is her murderer!’ exclaimed Oscar.
    ‘No, Mr Wilde. No. You do not understand.’
    ‘Quite so, my lord,’ cried Oscar, despairingly. ‘I do not understand.’
    ‘Then I will explain the matter to you as simply as I can,’ said Lord Yarborough.
    He spoke quietly now, almost in a whisper. Oscar and I gathered round him in the gloom. He stood, looking up at us, his eyes imploring us to understand.
    ‘When I have told you what I have to tell you, we will not speak of it again. It is a matter of some delicacy. I am concerned to protect the late duchess’s reputation, not for her sake but for the sake of the duke. I was the duchess’s physician. I am the duke’s friend.’
    ‘Did the duke inflict those wounds?’ I asked.
    ‘Oh no,’ answered Yarborough, ‘but he knew of them – or others like them.’
    ‘Ah,’ murmured Oscar. ‘I begin to understand. The danger was half the excitement.’
    ‘Indeed, Mr Wilde. And the danger was very great indeed.’
    I was lost. ‘I do not understand you, gentlemen,’ I confessed.
    Lord Yarborough looked directly at me. ‘The duchess was one of those unhappy women who become the victims of base carnal desires, unnatural appetites that they cannot control. My mother was such a one. It is a form of madness.’
    ‘It is love gone mad,’ said Oscar.
    ‘The duchess sought satisfaction where she could – with whom she could – when she could. She gave her body to any man who chose to take it – she gave it willingly. She told me so.’
    ‘This is horrible,’ I said.
    ‘It is not uncommon,’ said Lord Yarborough, breaking away from our group and looking back towards the house. ‘At the Charcot Clinic in Muswell Hill – it is my clinic, but, with permission, it bears Professor Charcot’s name: we use his methods – we have other women similarly afflicted. We treat the hysteria with hypnosis. I had hopes that the duchess would submit to treatment. She could not be persuaded.’
    ‘And the man who was with her in the telephone room last night?’
    ‘It could have been anyone – a servant, a guest at the reception, you or me, Mr Wilde – it would not have mattered. The duchess, overwhelmed with desire, overcome by lust, wished to be taken – and taken violently. She was. If it had not happened last evening, it would havehappened some other time. If it had not been one man, it would have been another. Whoever the man was, he was not a murderer. Pursuing him will serve no purpose. Bringing this