Oscar Wilde and the Nest of Vipers (33 page)

Oscar broke away and stepped back to admire the lady. ‘Isn’t she wonderful?’

‘Isn’t he ridiculous?’ growled the actress.

Her voice was deep and warm: she appeared to laugh as she spoke. She surveyed the trio of young men standing crowded in her doorway.

‘Who are these people, Oscar? I can see that they are young and handsome.’ She moved towards us. ‘Robert I recognise. Robert I remember. But who is this?’ She put out her hand to Conan Doyle. ‘Is this an intrepid hunter newly returned from the Amazon jungle? He has the mark of the hero about him.’

‘This is Arthur Conan Doyle,’ said Oscar.

‘I know him. I know his name. I know his work.
Micah Clarke
is quite possibly my favourite novel.’

Conan Doyle blushed and, shifting from foot to foot with pleasure, attempted to click his heels as he bowed to the actress.

‘He is a gentleman – with the loveliest moustache I have seen in my entire life. I want to marry him, Oscar. I want to marry him at once.’

‘He is already married, Lillie.’

‘The best ones always are.’ She sighed. ‘How is dear Constance?’ she asked. ‘As patient as ever?’ Without waiting for Oscar’s reply, she turned to me: ‘You are not married, are you, sir? You are far too young – and far too pale.’

‘This is Mr Rex LaSalle,’ said Oscar as Mrs Langtry took me gently by the hand.

She looked up at me and paused, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to one side.

‘I know you, too. I know your name. Have we not met before? Are we not old friends?’

‘We have not met before, Mrs Langtry.’

‘Are you sure? LaSalle – it’s an old Jersey name. You come from Jersey?’

‘Yes.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘Is that all? I’m sure I knew you when you were a little boy. My father was Dean of Jersey.’

‘I know.’

‘We lived in St Saviour, at the old rectory, and your family lived in St Saviour, too. I remember. I remember you as a little boy, with corn-yellow hair and sea-green eyes – Reginald LaSalle.’

‘That was my brother,’ I said. ‘He died.’

She squealed with distress and let the shawl fall from her shoulders as she took me in her arms. ‘Of course,’ she cried, ‘in the fire. Your parents were killed, too. My poor, dear boy.’

‘It was a long time ago – twenty years.’

‘And Rex has risen phoenix-like from the ashes,’ said Oscar. ‘He’s an actor now – and an artist – and a vampire.’

‘By all that’s wonderful,’ cried Mrs Langtry, stepping back to gaze at me in rapture. ‘I shall marry him, too. To be a vampire’s bride: is that not every woman’s dream?’ She turned to Oscar. ‘Now, I’m glad you came, Oscar. I adore your friends. I want to marry them all.’

Oscar looked about the little dressing room. ‘No tea? No scones?’

‘No Mrs Adler,’ said Mrs Langtry sadly. ‘My maid is not well. Matinée day and I’m having to make do and mend on my own. Sit, gentlemen, sit. I’ll brew the tea myself.’

Side by side, Conan Doyle, Sherard and I perched ourselves along Mrs Langtry’s velvet-covered chaise longue while Oscar and the actress crouched down by the hearth and fussed over the kettle and the teapot.

‘Why are you here, Oscar?’ she asked. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’

‘We wanted to talk to you about the Prince of Wales,’ wheezed Oscar. (He was not comfortable on his haunches.)

‘Oh!’ cried Mrs Langtry with delight. ‘Is there gossip? Is there news? Has Daisy Brooke fallen from grace at last? You know
everything,
Oscar.’

‘I do not know the Prince of Wales so well as you, Lillie.’

‘Perhaps not.’ She snapped shut the malacca tea caddy and held it up for us to admire. ‘This was one of His Highness’s many gifts.’

‘He was generous.’

‘We were close.’

‘None closer.’

Unsteadily, Oscar poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot. The task done, he struggled to his feet and, motioning towards the chaise longue with his head, whispered hoarsely to his friend: ‘They know your secret, Lillie.’

Mrs Langtry rocked on her heels with laughter. ‘Everyone knows my secret, Oscar. And I don’t care. I never did.’ Taking the teapot and rotating it gently,
she stood up and came towards us
. ‘We
never did. The prince had a handsome house built for me in Bournemouth – the Red House,
our
house – and in the dining hall, below the minstrels’ gallery, in letters large as life, we had written along the wall: “They say – What say they? – Let them say.” We cared not a jot for what the world thought. We were so happy. We were so in love.’

‘Did you meet when the prince first came to Jersey?’ I asked.

She looked quite puzzled. ‘When was that? The prince in Jersey? I don’t remember that.’

‘In January 1863.’

‘I was ten, Mr LaSalle! I did not meet the Prince of Wales in 1863.’

She laughed, handed me a cup and saucer and poured me my tea.

‘We met years later, in London, when I was twenty-four – at least. And married to Mr Langtry. I was safe.’

‘But sensational,’ added Oscar. He was now at Mrs Langtry’s side, holding a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. ‘Beauty – with brains.’

‘I’m not sure about that, Oscar, but I do know that I was fearless. I was not awed by the prince – in any way at all. I believe that’s what he most liked about me.’

‘And what did you most like about him?’ I asked.

‘Everything – except the stench of his cigars.’ She laughed. ‘He is a fine man, kind as well as generous. We are still friends, if not so close as once we were. I love him still.’

She steadied her hand as she poured Conan Doyle his tea. ‘I hope you are not shocked by my chatter, Mr Doyle. You are very quiet.’

‘Arthur is the kind of fellow you want in the orchestra stalls, Lillie,’ said Oscar. ‘He is a perfect gentleman. He never speaks when the leading lady is in full flood and centre stage.’

Conan Doyle smiled as Oscar dropped three lumps of sugar into his tea.

‘And Arthur,’ continued Oscar, ‘is both newly married and
happily
married and may find some of your story a little disconcerting.’

‘Oh!’ cried Mrs Langtry, returning the teapot to the hearth. ‘To be happily married is my life’s ambition. I shall keep on marrying until I am.’

Through the laughter, I heard myself asking: ‘Mrs Langtry, did you ever meet the Princess of Wales?’

As I put the question I thought it shocking – uncalled for, unmannerly. Mrs Langtry, however, appeared not the least discomfited.

‘I know the Princess of Wales. I have met her. I like her very much. I admire her beauty greatly. And her good works.’

‘And her forbearance,’ added Oscar, stirring his tea.

‘The princess is a woman of the world. She is wise to the ways of men. She has a father. She has brothers. She knows what these creatures are. Men – they are all the same.’

‘All of them?’ asked Conan Doyle, breaking his silence.

‘In my experience,’ said Mrs Langtry. She went over to the doctor and gently ran the backs of her fingers down his cheek. ‘Perhaps you will be the one exception.’

Doyle blushed. ‘I hope so,’ he murmured.

‘I hope so, too,’ said Mrs Langtry, kindly.

‘Did the princess know of your friendship with the prince?’ I asked.

‘You are very bold, Mr LaSalle, but yes. Yes, she did – and she looked the other way. She did not wish to cause a scandal. It is scandal, Mr LaSalle, that does the damage. Oscar’s father was brought low by scandal. So was mine. My father was driven out of Jersey because of all the talk.’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘I’m sure you do. People love to gossip. A hundred years from now, if people are still speaking of me it won’t be because of my Rosalind – it will be because I was once a prince’s paramour.’

Oscar smiled. ‘There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about and that is not being talked about.’

‘As you say, Oscar,’ Mrs Langtry said, laughing, ‘so often. You are shameless in the way you repeat your own lines.’

‘I like to give the public what they want.’

‘And what do
you
want, Oscar? Why are you here?’

Mrs Langtry put down her teacup among the combs, brushes and powder puffs on her crowded dressing table and, going over to her old friend, placed her arms about his neck. I reflected that I had never before encountered a woman so intent on seducing every man she met.

‘I am here to ask you a simple question. It is a serious question and I want you to think about it carefully before you give me your answer.’

‘Very well,’ she said, pulling his face close to hers and kissing him lightly on the lips. ‘What is your question, Oscar?’

‘It is this, Lillie. You know the Prince of Wales.’

‘I do.’

‘You know him well.’

‘I do.’

‘Do you think there are any circumstances in which His Royal Highness – either alone or in concert with others – would be capable of murder?’

She let her arms fall to her side and stepped back, looking at Oscar in amazement.

‘No, Oscar, no.’ She laughed. ‘The question is absurd. The notion is absurd.’

‘Think carefully, Lillie—’

‘I do not need to think. I know the man. He has his faults, God knows. He is vain, greedy, restless, short-tempered, wilful, spoilt. He is obsessed with his appearance. He is self-indulgent beyond belief. He stinks of cigar smoke. But he is not a murderer. He is not capable of murder. He hasn’t the courage.’

‘To eliminate an enemy—’

‘He would not think of anyone as his “enemy”. He is too self-regarding, too self-absorbed.’

‘To avoid a scandal—’

‘He is the Prince of Wales. He has no need to murder anyone to avoid a scandal. He can simply walk away. That’s what he does. When there’s trouble afoot, he simply walks away. The Prince of Wales has not, will not, could not murder anyone.’

Oscar took Mrs Langtry by the hand and kissed it. ‘I think you have made your point, Lillie dear.’

She held Oscar’s palm against her cheek and added playfully: ‘Prince Albert Victor, on the other hand …’

‘What?’ asked Oscar, his brows suddenly furrowed. ‘What are you saying, you minx?’

‘I’m saying nothing – nothing at all.’

‘You are saying something of great moment,’ said Conan Doyle, getting up from the chaise longue.

‘No, I’m not. I don’t mean to be. I’m just remembering something. The Prince of Wales has a weakness for fortune-tellers – as I do … as Oscar does. And ten years ago, when our
affaire
was at its height, the prince and I visited a clairvoyant together. She lived in Mount Street, as I recall. She gazed into her crystal ball, she studied our palms, she felt the bumps upon our heads, and looked into our secret souls by means of tarot cards.’

‘And what did she foretell?’ asked Conan Doyle.

‘Nothing but good fortune and long life for both of us!’

‘I know the woman,’ cried Oscar. ‘Mrs Mountjoy – the mountebank of Mount Street. She tells you only what you want to hear.’

Mrs Langtry laughed. ‘Exactly so. When the prince expressed his amused surprise that our prospects should be so uniformly golden, the good lady agreed to look again and dig a little deeper. She shuffled her tarot cards and invited His Highness to turn over three more himself – which he did. The cards featured the Page of Swords, the Devil and the Hanged Man. “What do these mean?” asked the prince. “They mean a great deal,” said the clairvoyant. “They tell us that one day your eldest son may find himself in league with the devil and accused of murder.” We took it as a joke, of course.’

Upper Swandam Lane