2007 - Oscar Wilde and the Candlelight Murders (32 page)

“How is this possible, Oscar?” I protested.

“We made it possible, Robert,” he said. “We gave Fraser his opportunity, I am ashamed to say.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“When you and I were idling in Bow Street, Robert, exchanging pleasantries with the cabman, making small-talk with Sir Augustus Harris, Fraser seized his moment. He went alone to O’Donnell’s cell, found the brute in a drunken stupor, removed his belt, strung it about his neck and, with the strength that the gods give to desperate men, hoisted his victim up against the wall and strapped the belt around the cell window’s iron bar. Aidan Fraser hanged Edward O’Donnell. O’Donnell was dead within three minutes, asphyxiated by his own vomit, strangled with his own belt.”

In the corner of the drawing room, Mrs O’Keefe emitted a small cry. At the time, I thought it a cry of anguish. Later I came to realise that it had been a murmur of appreciation. Mrs O’Keefe was a woman of feeling, but she was a woman of the theatre, too. Oscar had a way of telling a tale that was greatly to her liking.

“For O’Donnell there was no escape,” he said. “If it had not been last night, it would have been some other time. Aidan Fraser needed to contrive Edward O’Donnell’s apparent suicide. If O’Donnell had lived to stand trial for the murder of Billy Wood, too much would have been revealed, and—who knows?—a jury might well have found him guilty. On the other hand it might not. Inspector Fraser dared not take the risk. But if O’Donnell, charged with murder, took his own life, his suicide would be seen as an admission of guilt, an apparent confession from beyond the grave.”

Oscar paused to light a cigarette from one of the candles on the mantelpiece. He glanced towards Conan Doyle.

“So far, so elementary, eh, Arthur?” he said. “I had my doubts about Fraser from the start, of course. I was struck by his wonderful appearance, I was taken with his charming manner, but I was puzzled by him, also. Why was he so reluctant to investigate the case? Why did he not take me to task when I confessed to removing the ring from Billy Wood’s dead finger? Why did he tolerate my friend Sherard’s devotion to Miss Sutherland? You also had your doubts about your friend Fraser, did you not, Arthur?”

Conan Doyle was silent. He covered his mouth with his hand and buried his fingers in his walrus moustache.

Oscar went on, “Do you recall, Arthur, the line that I sent you from my story of
Dorian
Gray?”

“‘Nobody ever commits a crime without doing something stupid,”’ replied Conan Doyle.

“Exactly.” Oscar looked at Dr Doyle and smiled. “The line lacks the poetry of some of Sherlock Holmes’s axioms, but I hold to it. Aidan Fraser was shrewd in his choice of Edward O’Donnell as the putative murderer of Billy Wood. O’Donnell had a plausible motive: jealousy. O’Donnell had a vile reputation—as a drunkard and a brute. O’Donnell was capable of murder, all the world might acknowledge that. In choosing O’Donnell as the man to accuse, Fraser made a shrewd choice. In choosing Gerard Bellotti as his principal witness, he made a stupid one. He forgot that I knew Bellotti so much better than he did.”

“Poor Bellotti,” muttered Aston Upthorpe.

“Indeed,” said Oscar, “poor Bellotti—obese, half blind and murdered for something he never said.”

I let go of Veronica. “Murdered by whom?” I asked. “Not by Fraser. Bellotti died on Friday, surely, while we were in France?”

“No, Robert. Bellotti died on Friday morning, at Victoria underground station, moments before our train departed for Dover, from Victoria railway station. Gerard Bellotti and Aidan Fraser knew one another. They were friends—of a sort. They met on Friday morning by arrangement. They stood together, talking, at the edge of the underground station platform and, as a train approached, Fraser pushed Bellotti to his doom. It was easily done. To kill a man takes only a moment—if you have the courage. And how much courage was needed anyway? The deed was done on a crowded platform filled with smoke and steam. A score of men and women died on the twopenny tube in 1889. What would one more matter?”

On the far side of the room, Archy Gilmour stirred. “This is guesswork on your part, isn’t it, Mr Wilde?”

“It was, Inspector, but it is no longer. There was a witness to what happened: a dwarf, Bellotti’s misbegotten son. He was on the platform, too, keeping his distance, as he always did. He was not close enough to save his father, but he saw what happened—and, in the chaos that ensued, panic overcame him. Without his father, he was suddenly adrift. He didn’t know where to turn. He didn’t know what to do. So, poor, pathetic creature that he is, he went to Rochester, to the asylum where his simple-minded mother lives out her days. One of the lads whom I call my ‘spies’ went to find him there this morning. He brought the unfortunate wretch to Charing Cross to meet me this afternoon. Bellotti’s hapless son will confirm to you, Inspector, the time and place of his father’s demise. Aidan Fraser killed Gerard Bellotti on the underground platform at Victoria at around eight-forty on Friday morning last. Minutes later, at eight-forty-five, Fraser established his ‘alibi’ when, running for his life, he joined us above ground on the boat-train to Dover.”

Aston Upthorpe was seated with his head in his hands. He rubbed his eyes slowly and looked up at Oscar. “I don’t understand, Oscar. You say that Gerard Bellotti and this Aidan Fraser were friends. I knew Bellotti, as you did. I knew him better than you did. I tell you, Oscar, that in my hearing Bellotti never mentioned an Aidan Fraser—or any name like it.”

“Possibly not,” said Oscar, “but Bellotti knew Fraser nonetheless—and liked him. And trusted him. As you did, too, Aston…”

“I’ve drunk too much,” said Upthorpe, picking up John Gray’s glass and slowly draining it. “I’m lost.”

Oscar looked towards Conan Doyle once more. “Inspector Fraser’s stupid mistake was this. He told me that Gerard Bellotti had sworn to him that Edward O’Donnell and Drayton St Leonard were one and the same man. I knew that could never be. Bellotti would not have countenanced a common drunk like O’Donnell as a member of his luncheon club. Besides, when Robert and I questioned the other members of the club, they told us that Drayton St Leonard was young and handsome—and O’Donnell, coarse and life-worn, a man in his fifties, was hardly that.”

Conan Doyle now had both his hands on the back of Constance’s chair. He stood like a preacher in the pulpit reflecting on the lesson of the day. “You knew that O’Donnell could not be Drayton St Leonard…”

“Yes,” said Oscar, “and I knew that Bellotti would never have suggested that he was. It was an absurd invention on Fraser’s part—unnecessary, ruinous—and even as he spoke the lie he knew how stupid his mistake had been.”

“But having made Bellotti his false witness, Fraser than had no alternative but to silence him—”

“Precisely. Exactly so. I should have seen it at once, Arthur—as Holmes would have done! Instead, I allowed myself to be distracted. I neglected Gerard Bellotti in my eagerness to uncover the true identity of Drayton St Leonard. Drayton St Leonard, I sensed, was key to the case.”

“But, Oscar,” I interrupted, “Drayton St Leonard did not attend the luncheon club on the day of Billy’s murder. He wasn’t in Little College Street that day.”

“No, Robert, he wasn’t in Little College Street for lunch that day because he was in Cowley Street, around the corner, in an upstairs room, lighting candles, burning incense, preparing a bridal bed for Billy Wood…Drayton St Leonard met Billy Wood through Gerard Bellotti. Drayton St Leonard fell in love with Billy Wood. He worshipped him.”

Oscar lit a second cigarette, drew on it slowly and then passed it to Aston Upthorpe, who took it gratefully and smiled up at Oscar with red-rimmed eyes.

“But, Oscar,” I persisted, “Mr Upthorpe told us, Bellotti told us, Canon Courteney told us that Billy Wood, when he left Little College Street, at two o’clock that day, said openly, clearly and without equivocation, that he was on his way to meet his uncle.”

“Indeed!” Oscar replied, triumphantly. “Absolutely! That’s what he said—and it was true! Drayton St Leonard
was
his ‘uncle’!”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“The euphemism is an old one,” said Oscar, smiling. “We are all familiar with it, are we not, Mrs O’Keefe?” The good woman bobbed up and down with suppressed delight at being thus involved in Oscar’s narrative. “A young lady with a mature admirer will often describe the older man as her ‘uncle’. So it was with young Billy Wood and Mr Drayton St Leonard…And if, as they had planned, they had gone to France—as Billy told his mother they might do—doubtless they would have travelled as ‘uncle’ and ‘nephew’. It is more discreet. Even on the Continent, I understand, landladies and hoteliers prefer it that way. Drayton St Leonard was Billy Wood’s ‘uncle’…And Aidan Fraser was Drayton St Leonard. ‘Drayton St Leonard’ was Aidan Fraser’s
nom de guerre
.”

Oscar surveyed the room, his eyes glistening. He was revelling in the drama.

“When did you realise this, Oscar?” asked Conan Doyle.

“Within moments of his telling me that Bellotti had told him that O’Donnell was St Leonard. It was such a stupid lie—and, even as he uttered it, he knew it. That’s why he pressed me to come with him to Paris. He needed to keep me out of the way. He knew that I knew Bellotti and, given time, that I would speak to Bellotti and discover the truth.”

“But he got to Bellotti first,” said Conan Doyle.

“Yes,” said Oscar. “Fraser wanted me in Paris so that he could stall my investigation—and perhaps find out how much I knew. I agreed to go to Paris so that I could keep Fraser under observation. It never occurred to me that, between Thursday night and Friday morning, Fraser would contrive an encounter with Bellotti and murder him. It never occurred to me that Fraser would do something so irrational.”

“Why irrational?” asked Conan Doyle. “Fraser silenced Bellotti because Bellotti would not corroborate his lie.”

Oscar laughed. “It was a hopeless lie! And a pointless murder. Fraser killed Bellotti, but Bellotti’s death solved nothing. If ever O’Donnell had come to trial, one or other of the members of Bellotti’s little luncheon club would have come forward to tell the world that Edward O’Donnell was not Drayton St Leonard and never could have been. When that awful truth dawned on Fraser—and I think it came to him during our return journey from Paris—he knew that his only hope was to despatch O’Donnell and make it seem like suicide. He seized the moment the moment that he could.”

Oscar turned to the mantelpiece to find his glass. In the reflection, through the flickering candlelight, he caught my eye. He was my friend, but in that moment he seemed a stranger to me. “Mr Wilde,” said Archy Gilmour from across the room, “it is now seven o’clock.”

T
he clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour. “Fear not, Inspector,” said Oscar, smiling. “I will keep my word.” He turned to Mrs O’Keefe who stood attendant at the policeman’s side. “Mrs O, would you be so kind as to go into the street and have a word with Mrs Doyle and Mrs Wood? You will find them in the hansom outside the front door. Assure them they will be kept waiting no more than a quarter of an hour now, twenty minutes at most.”

“At most,” Gilmour echoed, sternly.

“Supply them with a cup of tea, would you, Mrs O? And, with the inspector’s permission, furnish his men with refreshment as well.”

The red-headed police inspector nodded curtly to Mrs O’Keefe, who bobbed up and down, then manoeuvred herself sideways and backwards out of the room. Sergeant Atkins secured the door after her departure.

“Mr Wilde,” said Gilmour crisply, “you have set out your case against Aidan Fraser, as we agreed—”

“And I will lead you to him within the hour, as I promised, Inspector. Indulge me a moment more, I pray you. We are nearly done.”

Both my hands were resting on Veronica’s shoulders.

Her head was bowed. I felt her body tremble as, silently, she began to sob.

“You weep, Miss Sutherland,” said Oscar, “and I know the reason why. Once upon a time, you loved Aidan Fraser—but that was long ago, before you learnt his secret, before you discovered that the true love of his life was ‘a slut of a boy’.”

Veronica looked up at Oscar with unconcealed contempt in her eyes. He gazed at her steadily as he spoke.

“The violence of your language in Paris yesterday morning rather gave the game away.”

Aston Upthorpe stirred and said softly, more to John Gray at his side than to Oscar who was standing directly above him: “I loved Billy Wood. I loved that boy.”

“I know,” said Oscar, kindly, “I know.” He returned his glass to the mantelpiece and looked at the policemen standing on the far side of the room. “Aidan Fraser killed Edward O’Donnell and Gerard Bellotti to keep his secret from the world. He killed them to keep a second secret, too, another’s secret. Aidan Fraser is a murderer: of that there is no doubt. But Aidan Fraser did not kill Billy Wood: of that there is no doubt, either.”

The silence was heavy in the room.

“So,” said Conan Doyle eventually, “it was the housekeeper?”

“Yes,” said Oscar, “it was the housekeeper. Even at the outset I suspected a woman’s involvement. When we went to the scene of the crime, it was so spotless. The floorboards were scrubbed—polished with beeswax, you’ll recall. This was woman’s work—and the work of a woman whom I met within moments of her having carried out the crime. Who was she? Susannah Wood, driven to murder her own child? Unlikely. Mrs O’Keefe? Impossible. She was newly arrived from Ireland—what would her motive have been? And then I thought, perhaps it is not a woman but a man with a woman’s ways…One of Bellotti’s crowd, obsessed with the boy, driven to madness, dressed
en travestie
?”

Arthur Conan Doyle shook his head and emitted a country doctor’s grunt of disbelief. Oscar looked at him, with a sly smile.

“Stranger things have happened, Arthur. Canon Courteney, I understand, conducts ‘marriages’ between men, and even Shakespeare—your beloved Shakespeare!—was not above using a plot device that turned on a boy playing a girl masquerading as a boy…”

“Mr Wilde!” Inspector Gilmour brought Oscar to order. “We are not in the theatre now. This is a murder investigation. We have indulged you sufficiently, I think.”