Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death by Gyles Brandreth Read Free Book Online

sleep.’
    Pearse
laughed. I noticed he was sweating. He had a large white handkerchief in his
hand and he used it to wipe the perspiration from his face and neck and brow.
‘I’m ready,’ he said.
    Sickert
leant across his friend to shake Bram Stoker by the hand. ‘Goodnight, Bram,’ he
said warmly. ‘Give my respects to Irving.’
    ‘I
will.’
    ‘If
ever he needs a portrait …’
    ‘We
know where to find you, Wat,’ replied Stoker, genially. He peered across the
darkened table towards Conan Doyle, who was assisting Oscar to his feet.
‘Goodnight, Arthur. Give us a week or three to get Lear out of the
traps—the Guv’nor has lumbered himself with a plump Cordelia and a troublesome
Fool and then I’ll get you in for an hour and you can tell him all about your
play. I think he can be persuaded …’
    ‘Is
Arthur writing plays now?’ muttered Oscar in a mock-grumble. ‘Perhaps I should
consider opening a medical practice?’
    ‘Goodnight,
Mr Chairman,’ said Stoker. ‘The night has been unruly, but memorable. Thank
you. And thank you, Byrd, for the feast. We’ve eaten like princes, as usual.
Goodnight all, Come, Brookfield— we’ll share a cab.’
    Charles
Brookfield, his long, handsome face flushed with wine, was already standing by
the door. He held himself unnaturally erect: he was deep in drink. ‘Goodnight,
gentlemen,’ he called to the room. ‘My play is entitled The Poet and the
Puppets. It opens on the nineteenth of the month. Your attendance will do
me honour.’
    As
Stoker took Brookfield by the arm and escorted him from the room, Oscar shook
his head and murmured, ‘Ambition is the last refuge of the failure.’
    ‘Goodnight,
Oscar,’ said Lord Drumlanrig. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’
    ‘Bonne
nuit, mon cher,’ Bosie called to Oscar, pulling his
brother with him towards the door.
    ‘Goodnight,
gentlemen,’ said Oscar. ‘Will I see you tomorrow, Bosie?’
    ‘Murderers
permitting,’ said Bosie, with a laugh, giving the room a playful farewell wave.
    Oscar
watched the Douglas brothers depart. ‘Bosie is wonderfully amusing, is he not?’
he said to nobody in particular.
    The
remaining members of the party were now exchanging farewells and moving towards
the door. McMuirtree was assisting Byrd in clearing the decanters and dead wine
bottles from the table onto a large butler’s tray on the sideboard. Willie
Hornung was telling Conan Doyle that he had had a ‘capital evening’, ‘tip-top’,
one of the best he’d ever known. Edward Heron-Allen, I realised, had already
slipped away, apparently unnoticed. I turned to say goodnight to the Hon. the
Reverend George Daubeney and saw that he, alone of the party, was seated still.
The poor fellow—my special guest! was slumped in his place, gazing vacantly
into the middle distance.
    ‘Come,
George,’ I said, ‘let’s get you a cab.’
    Daubeney
slowly turned his weary, pock-marked face towards me and, with an effort,
pushed his chair away from the table. He started to get to his feet, but, as he
did so, lurched forward, stumbled and fell onto his knees, clutching at my legs
for support. ‘Forgive me, Robert,’ he slurred. He put his hands back onto the
table’s edge as I helped him pull himself up again. ‘I have drunk too much,’ he
mumbled.
    ‘But
only from the well of unhappiness,’ said Oscar, who was still standing at the
head of the table nursing his empty brandy glass.
    ‘Do you
want a bed at the hotel?’ asked Byrd. ‘We can find you a room.’
    Daubeney
looked up at the night manager and smiled bleakly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You
are kind, but I have business to attend to. I will be on my way.’
    ‘Are
you sure, George?’ I asked.
    ‘I can
walk home,’ he said. ‘It’s not far. The fresh air will do me good.’
    He
shook me by the hand and bowed towards Oscar and the others and took his leave.
    ‘He is
an unfortunate creature,’ said Oscar. ‘There is something infinitely pathetic
about