Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (19 page)

As he passed him, the old priest rested his hand on Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar looked up at him and smiled.

‘I have no problem with pleasure,’ said the priest.

‘Do you pursue vampires for pleasure, Father?’ Oscar asked.

‘No,’ said the priest seriously. ‘I regard the pursuit of vampires as a painful duty.’

‘And Your Royal Highness? What brings you to the pursuit of vampires?’

‘Porphyria,’ answered the prince. ‘The disease of vampires.’

‘Ah,’ exclaimed Oscar, ‘of course.’ A sudden look of anguish clouded his face. ‘I should have realised. Porphyria – the disease of vampires … and of royalty.’

‘Of Prussian royalty,’ said Prince Eddy sharply. ‘Of Hanoverian kings and princes.’

‘And Stuart queens?’ asked Oscar. ‘Was Mary Queen of Scots not a victim also?’

‘I’ve heard it said,’ answered the prince. ‘But there’s no proof.’

‘What’s “porphyria”?’ asked Frank Watkins, pulling his chair closer to the table and putting a hand out towards Oscar who was lighting another of his Turkish cigarettes.

‘The word is Greek,’ answered Oscar, throwing a
cigarette down the table towards the boy, ‘as so often the best words are. It means the colour purple. Porphyria is a disease of the blood that drives men mad.’

‘My great-great-grandfather, King George III, died of it. In our family, it is known as “the purple secret”.’

‘The faces of victims turn purple during an attack. Their faeces turn purple. Their urine runs purple.’ Oscar leant forward to light Frank Watkins’s cigarette.

‘And no one knows the cause – or the cure,’ said the prince.

‘And vampires have this porphyria, do they?’ asked the page-boy, puffing happily on his cigarette.

‘Or could it be the other way around?’ pondered Oscar. ‘Could it be that in a world of ignorance and fear, victims of porphyria are mistaken for vampires?’ He looked at the page-boy. ‘You should know, Frank, that some people say that the vampire – like the werewolf and the unicorn – is no more than a myth.’

‘But you believe in vampires, don’t you, Mr Wilde?’ asked the boy.

‘I am a romantic, Frank. I believe in dragons and mermaids, too. I believe in Pegasus, the flying horse, and Pan, the god of shepherds. And when I am visiting Marlborough House or Buckingham Palace I am even ready to believe in the Divine Right of Kings.’

‘I believe in vampires,’ said the boy earnestly.

Oscar laughed. ‘You are quite right. It is a good rule. Believe in anything, provided that it is quite incredible. To know the truth, one must imagine a myriad of falsehoods.’

‘If I have porphyria,’ said Prince Albert Victor, ‘I will go mad – like George III.’

The boy, ignoring the prince, looked eagerly at Oscar. ‘You’ve met a vampire, haven’t you, Mr Wilde?’

‘I have a friend who claims to be one, but he’s not.’

‘Is that the young man who was with you tonight?’ asked Father Callaghan.

‘Yes,’ said Oscar. ‘He is beautiful, is he not? Rex LaSalle is his name.’

‘I recognised him,’ said Father Callaghan. ‘I have met him before. I am not sure where – perhaps at a meeting of the Vampire Club. I did not speak to him tonight. Where is he now?’

‘Vanished into thin air,’ said Oscar. ‘When it was all over I looked for him, but he’d gone.’

‘Rex LaSalle?’ said Prince Eddy. ‘I know him. I met him at the Duchess of Albemarle’s reception. He introduced himself. He broke through Dighton Probyn’s ring of defences and introduced himself! He was the only amusing man I met that night. Sir Dighton holed me up in a corner with the President of the Royal Society – the dullest man in Christendom.’

‘I saw you there that night, Your Royal Highness,’ said Oscar, smiling. ‘Whenever I caught sight of you, far from being holed up in a corner, you were centre stage, entertaining the ladies.’

‘Was I?’ said the prince. ‘I don’t recall. Apart from your friend, it was a tedious evening. Full of grey old men and drab young women. Why were you there, Mr Wilde?’

‘Because I was asked,’ said Oscar. ‘Why were you there, sir?’

The prince laughed. ‘Because I was commanded. My father took me. He insisted. I had no choice. It was my
“duty”. I am being schooled for a life of “duty” – broken in, readied for an eternity of small-talk and ribboncutting.’

‘There is more to it than that,’ said Father Callaghan soothingly.

‘So my father tells me. I am being groomed for greatness – according to Papa. Soon I am to get a dukedom – did you know? I am to be Duke of Clarence.’

‘Congratulations.’ The priest rested his open palm on the prince’s clenched fist. The prince pulled his hand away.

‘It’s a title with a ring to it,’ said Oscar.

‘And a history, Mr Wilde. I know that.’ The prince got to his feet and moved impatiently towards the window, where he stood with his back to us. ‘Am I, too, destined to end my days done to death in a butt of malmsey?’

‘There may be worse ways to go,’ said Oscar, sipping his cup of sacramental wine.

‘Am I to be drowned like the runt of the litter?’

‘You are the eldest son,’ said Father Callaghan, ‘and your father loves you.’

‘My mother loves me,’ said the prince.

‘Your father loves you,’ repeated the priest.

‘Does he? When all I do is disappoint him? In the navy, in the army, at Cambridge – I failed. I couldn’t cut the mustard. That’s all I do – fail. And disappoint. And bring disgrace and scandal on the family. Papa is obsessed with scandal – and what the Queen will think.’ He turned his head towards Oscar and looked at him unflinchingly. ‘That, I assume, is why he has involved you in this Albemarle business, Mr Wilde –
my father wants to discover the truth so that he can suppress it.’

Oscar put down his cup of wine and returned the prince’s gaze. ‘Your Royal Highness knows about my informal “investigations” then?’

‘I do. Owl told me. He tells me things. And how are these “investigations” proceeding? What is the mystery?’

‘How did the duchess die? That is the question.’

‘I thought it was a heart attack.’

‘It may prove to be more complicated than that.’

‘So she was not found in bed by her maid in the morning?’

‘No. She was found at midnight, half naked, with blood upon her torso and deep wounds in her neck.’

The prince began to laugh. ‘Are you going to tell me that the Duchess of Albemarle was the victim of a vampire, Mr Wilde? Is that it? Is that what you suspect?’

Oscar said nothing. The prince’s bitter laughter turned to quiet fury.

‘Or do you have something more sinister in mind? Do tell me. Do you know that imagining one is a vampire is a symptom of porphyria? Taking on the characteristics of a vampire is a part of the madness of porphyria – did you know that? Has my father asked you to investigate me? Is that why you are here, Mr Wilde? My father is always ready to believe the worst of me. Two years ago, when the whispering started that I was Jack the Ripper – God save the mark – my father was ready to believe it. Does he now think I murdered Helen Albemarle?’

‘Did you?’ asked Oscar.

The prince turned away to regain his composure. Having calmed himself, he stood by the little window
peering out at the coming dawn. ‘It’s getting light,’ he said eventually.

‘Was the Duchess of Albemarle your mistress, Your Royal Highness? You were of an age.’

‘I will not say another word.’ He turned back towards the room and smiled. ‘I must not make Frank jealous.’

Frank Watkins was asleep, seated at the parlour table with his head resting on his folded arms. Gently, the prince ruffled the boy’s copper-coloured hair.

‘It’s time to go, Frank. We’re no longer wanted here.’

Muswell Manor

42
Postcard from Arthur Conan Doyle to his wife, Louisa
‘Touie’ Conan Doyle, postmarked Monday, 17 March 1890, London W., 10 a.m.

A late night at Mortlake – searching for vampires! An unsatisfactory and unsavoury experience.

A good breakfast at the hotel this morning. I shared a table with James Tissot, a French painter, who told me an extraordinary story that has the makings of a novel – or possibly an adventure for one S. Holmes.

Now setting off for the clinic at Muswell Hill. This time tomorrow, I shall be home – God willing. Three cheers and amen to that.

I miss you, Touie.

Your ACD

43
Letter from Constance Wilde to her mother-in-law, Lady Wilde

16 Tite Street, Chelsea

17.iii.90

Dear Mother,

At last, I am sending you the copy of my book of fairy stories. I promised to send it to you weeks ago, I know, but so much has been happening here, that, I confess, I clean forgot! I only remembered this morning when I realised that it is St Patrick’s Day and my mind went back to the good old days in Dublin. Do you miss them very much?

The stories are all the ones that my dear grandmother (Mama Mary) used to tell me when I was a girl. ‘Puss in Boots’ and ‘Jack the Giant-Killer’ are the two my boys like the best. I know, of course, that my stories are not so original as Oscar’s, nor so exquisitely written (your son is a genius), but I think that for little people they are less alarming. Oscar can be quite alarming at times.

Last Sunday, my friend Lady Sandhurst came to tea – do you know her? She is the best of women and one of the leading lights of the London Missionary Society – and when Cyril asked, ‘What are missionaries, Papa?’ Oscar replied, ‘Missionaries, my boy, are the divinely provided food for destitute and under-fed cannibals. Whenever they are on the brink of starvation, Heaven, in its infinite mercy, sends them a nice plump missionary.’ Lady Sandhurst (who is quite plump herself) was profoundly shocked.

I love Oscar so much. He is as wise and witty as he is kind – and he is the kindest man there ever was. He has garlanded me with daisy chains and I am bound to him with hoops of steel. We are more than man and wife – we are the best of friends. People think it extraordinary that Oscar should have chosen to marry me. I think so too. I am very blessed and so very happy.