Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death by Gyles Brandreth

Author:Gyles Brandreth
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-08-27T17:00:28+00:00

I was surprised to find us going to Brown’s. The hotel—founded by James Brown, Lord Byron’s former valet—was not one of Oscar’s regular haunts. He said he found the oak-panelling gloomy. On our arrival, therefore, I was doubly surprised to hear the hall-porter’s effusive greeting of my friend: ‘Back again, Mr Wilde? We can’t keep you away.’

As he handed the man a shilling, I looked at Oscar enquiringly. ‘I was here for breakfast, Robert—and to use the telephone. I have to say it is the most exciting device. It is going to change all our lives-especially if we are playwrights. Think if there’d been a telephone in Shakespeare’s day—there’d have been no need for those long-winded and intrusive messengers.’

He led me through the hotel’s entrance hall towards a large glass-fronted cabinet the size of a guardsman’s sentry box. ‘Look inside,’ he said. ‘There it is—the very apparatus from which Mr Graham Bell made the very first telephonic communication within the United Kingdom. When I’m in the West End, naturally, I come to Brown’s to make all my calls. It is like going to the source of the Nile. I have an account.’

‘And who were you calling this morning?’ I asked, as we moved from the entrance hall into a somewhat dark and humid drawing room. An elderly waiter escorted us to a pair of leather armchairs, half hidden within a forest of potted palms. It was difficult to tell, but we appeared to be alone.

‘A bottle of Perrier Jouët,’ Oscar said to the waiter, ‘preferably the 1880. And a dish, please, of Massimo’s cheese straws.’ He waited for the servant to leave before answering my question. ‘I made two telephone calls this morning, Robert, both long-distance—which may explain why my voice is a little hoarse. The telephone is not yet suited to the whispering of sweet nothings. First, I called the police station at Eastbourne. They were not overly helpful, but they had at least made contact with the coastguard. There is no news of Bradford Pearse, alas—alive or dead. Next, I called South Norwood— the residence of Dr Arthur Conan Doyle.’

‘And how was Arthur?’

‘I cannot tell you. He would not come to the telephone. According to Mrs Doyle, he was in his shed, working on his sculpture and not to be disturbed. However, she assured me that he is expecting to join us at the theatre tomorrow night and he promises to be at the Tite Street fund-raiser on Sunday afternoon.’

‘Are you still going ahead with it,’ I asked, ‘under the circumstances?’

‘Of course!’ he declared breezily. ‘Why not?’

The elderly waiter arrived with our chilled champagne and Cheshire cheese straws. Happily, both fully lived up to their promise and Oscar’s high expectation. As he sipped and nibbled, Oscar closed his eyes to savour the moment. When he opened them, he said: ‘No civilised man ever regrets a pleasure, and no uncivilised man ever knows what a pleasure is.’ He replenished my glass. ‘How was George Daubeney?’ he asked.

‘Last night? I didn’t stay long with him,’ I said.

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