The second installment in the Oscar Wilde mystery series couldn't be more intelligent or delightful. Wilde is surrounded by Arthur Conan Doyle, Bram Stoker, and Walter Sickert; his Dr. Watson is artist Robert Sherard. Bill Wallis’s narration—spirited and authentic to the time and place—adds to the fun. Wilde and his entourage play a game called “Murder,” in which they each name a person (sometimes each other) whom they would like to see killed. Soon some on the list begin to die. It's up to Wilde to discover the murderer before Mrs. Wilde becomes a victim. The wit is charming, food descriptions luscious, and "being there" when Wilde’s LADY WINDERMERE’S FAN premieres adds to the conviviality. Happily, additional titles are forthcoming. S.G.B. © AudioFile 2012, Portland, Maine
I see murder in this unhappy hand...
When Mrs. Robinson, palmist to the Prince of Wales, reads Oscar Wilde's hand, she cannot know what she has predicted. Nor can Oscar know what he has set in motion when, that same evening, he proposes a game of “murder” in which each of his Sunday Supper Club guests must write down those whom they would like to kill. The fourteen “victims” begin to die mysteriously, one by one, and in the order in which their names were drawn from the bag. With growing horror Wilde and his confidants, Robert Sherard and Arthur Conan Doyle, realize that one of their guests that evening must be the murderer. In a race against time, Wilde will need all his powers of deduction and knowledge of human behavior before he himself-the thirteenth name on the list-becomes the killer's next victim.
I see murder in this unhappy hand...
When Mrs. Robinson, palmist to the Prince of Wales, reads Oscar Wilde's hand, she cannot know what she has predicted. Nor can Oscar know what he has set in motion when, that same evening, he proposes a game of “murder” in which each of his Sunday Supper Club guests must write down those whom they would like to kill. The fourteen “victims” begin to die mysteriously, one by one, and in the order in which their names were drawn from the bag. With growing horror Wilde and his confidants, Robert Sherard and Arthur Conan Doyle, realize that one of their guests that evening must be the murderer. In a race against time, Wilde will need all his powers of deduction and knowledge of human behavior before he himself-the thirteenth name on the list-becomes the killer's next victim.
Oscar Wilde and a Game Called Murder
Narrated by Bill Wallis
Gyles BrandrethUnabridged — 11 hours, 57 minutes
Oscar Wilde and a Game Called Murder
Narrated by Bill Wallis
Gyles BrandrethUnabridged — 11 hours, 57 minutes
Overview
I see murder in this unhappy hand...
When Mrs. Robinson, palmist to the Prince of Wales, reads Oscar Wilde's hand, she cannot know what she has predicted. Nor can Oscar know what he has set in motion when, that same evening, he proposes a game of “murder” in which each of his Sunday Supper Club guests must write down those whom they would like to kill. The fourteen “victims” begin to die mysteriously, one by one, and in the order in which their names were drawn from the bag. With growing horror Wilde and his confidants, Robert Sherard and Arthur Conan Doyle, realize that one of their guests that evening must be the murderer. In a race against time, Wilde will need all his powers of deduction and knowledge of human behavior before he himself-the thirteenth name on the list-becomes the killer's next victim.
Editorial Reviews
In British author Brandreth's impressive second Oscar Wilde mystery (after 2007's Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance), the aesthete and playwright proves himself a brilliant and insightful sleuth. At a May 1892 meeting of the Socrates Club, a group founded by Wilde and including such luminaries as Arthur Conan Doyle and Bram Stoker, the members play "murder," a game that involves writing the name of a "victim" on a piece of paper and trying to guess who chose whom and why. The amusement sours in the face of certain selections in poor taste, like Mrs. Oscar Wilde. Real murders follow, starting with the horrific death by fire of the ex-fiancée of one of the participants, a disgraced minister. As in Nicholas Meyer's second Sherlock Holmes pastiche, The West End Horror, such real-life figures as Doyle or Stoker can be easily eliminated as the killer, but there are enough other suspects to keep the reader guessing at the solution of this intricate whodunit. (Sept.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved."One of the most enjoyable crime series around."
Life fatally imitates a Wildean divertissement. With the theatrical triumph of Lady Windermere's Fan and his infatuation with Lord Alfred "Bosie" Douglas in full flower, Oscar Wilde possesses a joie de vivre that's palpable, according to his confidant and biographer Robert Sherard, whose plummy voice tells the story. His circle of intimates includes some of the era's brightest artistic lights: Arthur Conan Doyle, Bram Stoker and Walter Sickert (whom several later parties, including Patricia Cornwell, have pegged as Jack the Ripper). Wilde enlists these and a few others for the Socrates Club. At their dinner meeting, he introduces a provocative game in which each of the 14 gentlemen anonymously identifies the person he would most like to murder. Names of the would-be victims are written on little slips of paper, drawn from a hat and read aloud. It's all very harmless and entertaining until the Reverend George Daubeney's proposed victim, Elizabeth Scott-Rivers, is found burned to death. Even before the coroner has ruled her demise a death by misadventure, the inquisitive Wilde is probing. As in Oscar Wilde and a Death of No Importance (2008), he enlists the assistance of Doyle, who ironically plays Watson to the playwright's Holmes. Potential rough waters in his romance with Bosie and additional murders add spice. A delicious bagatelle, frothier and more imaginative than its predecessor. Agent: Ed Victor/Ed Victor Ltd
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940169862799 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Blackstone Audio, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 03/01/2012 |
| Series: | Oscar Wilde , #2 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
Read an Excerpt
The Fortune-Teller
It was Sunday, 1 May 1892, a cold day, though the sun was bright. I recall in particular the way in which a brilliant shaft of afternoon sunlight filtered through the first-floor front window of No. 16 Tite Street, Chelsea — the London home of Oscar and Constance Wilde — and perfectly illuminated two figures sitting close together at a small table, apparently holding hands.
I stood alone, by the window, watching them. One was a woman, a widow, in her early forties, with a pleasing figure, well-held, and a narrow, kindly face — a little lined, but not care-worn — and large, knowing eyes. She was dressed all in black silk, and on her head, which she held high, she wore a turban of black velvet featuring a single, startling, silver-and-turquoise peacock's feather. The colour of the feather matched the colour of her hair.
The other figure seated at the table was quite as striking. He was a large man, aged thirty-seven, tall, over-fleshed, with a fine head of thick deep-chestnut hair, large, slightly drooping eyes, and full lips that opened to reveal a wide mouth crowded with ungainly teeth. His skin was pale and pasty, blotched with freckles. He was dressed in a sand-coloured linen suit of his own design. At his neck, he sported a loose-fitting linen tie of Lincoln green and, in his button-hole, a fresh amaryllis, the colour of coral.
The woman was Mrs. Robinson, clairvoyant to the Prince of Wales among others. The man was Oscar Wilde, poet and playwright, and literary sensation of the age.
Slowly, with gloved fingers, Mrs. Robinson caressed Oscar Wilde's right hand. Repeatedly, she brushed the side of herlittle finger across his palm. With her right thumb and forefinger she took each of his fingers in turn and, gently, pulled it straight. For a long while she gazed intently at his open hand, saying nothing. Eventually, she lifted his palm to her cheek and held it there. She sighed and closed her eyes and murmured, "I see a sudden death in this unhappy hand. A cruel death, unexpected and unnatural. Is it murder? Is it suicide?"
"Or is it the palmist trying to earn her guinea by adding a touch of melodrama to her reading?" Oscar withdrew his hand from Mrs. Robinson's tender grasp and slapped it on the table, with a barking laugh.
"You go too far, dear lady," he exclaimed. "This is a tea party, and the Thane of Cawdor is not expected. There are children present. You are here to entertain the guests, Mrs. Robinson, not terrify them."
Mrs. Robinson tilted her birdlike head to one side and smiled. "I see what I see," she said, without rancour.
Oscar was smiling also. He turned from the table and looked beyond the pool of sunlight to a young man of military bearing who was standing alone, like me, a yard away, observing the scene. "Come to my rescue, Arthur," he called. "Mrs. Robinson has seen 'a sudden death' in my 'unhappy hand.' You're a medical man. I need a second opinion."
Arthur Conan Doyle was then three weeks away from his thirty-third birthday and already something of a national hero. His "Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" in the Strand magazine were a sensation throughout the land. Doyle himself, in appearance, was more Watson than Holmes. He was a handsome fellow, sturdy and broad-shouldered, with a hearty handshake, beady eyes, and a genial smile that he kept hidden beneath a formidable walrus moustache. He was the best of men, and a true friend to Oscar, in good times and bad.
"I'm no longer practising medicine, Oscar, as you know," he said, moving towards the window table, "but if you want my honest opinion, you should steer well clear of this kind of tomfoolery. It can be dangerous. It leads you know not where." He bowed a little stiffly towards Mrs. Robinson. "No offence intended, madam," he said.
"None taken," she replied, graciously. "The creator of Sherlock Holmes can do no wrong in my eyes."
Doyle's cheeks turned scarlet. He blushed readily. "You are too kind," he mumbled awkwardly.
"You are too ridiculous, Arthur. Pay no attention to him, Mrs. R. He's all over the place. I'm not surprised. He's moved to South Norwood — wherever that may be."
"It's not far," Doyle protested.
"It's a world away, Arthur, and you know it. That's why you were late."
"I was late because I was completing something."
"Your sculpture. Yes, I know. Sculpture is your new enthusiasm."
Conan Doyle stood back from the table. "How do you know that?" he exclaimed. "I have mentioned it to no one — to no one at all."
"Oh, come now, Arthur," said Oscar, getting to his feet, smiling and inclining his head to Mrs. Robinson as he left the table. "I heard you telling my wife about the spacious hut at the end of your new garden and the happy hours you are intending to spend there, 'in the cold and the damp.' Only a sculptor loves a cold, damp room: it's ideal for keeping his clay moist."
"You amaze me, Oscar."
"Mrs. Robinson would have uncovered your secret, too — by the simple expedient of examining your fingernails. Look at them, Arthur. They give the whole game away!"
"You are extraordinary, Oscar. I marvel at you. You know that I plan to include you in one of my stories — as Sherlock Holmes's older brother?"
"Yes, you have told me — he is to be obese and indolent, as I recall. I'm flattered."
Conan Doyle laughed and slapped Oscar on the shoulder with disconcerting force. "I'm glad I came to your party, my friend," he said, "despite the company you keep."
"It is not my party, Arthur. It is Constance's party. The guests are all alarmingly respectable and the cause is undeniably just."
The party — for about forty guests, men, women, and children — was a fund-raiser in aid of one of Constance Wilde's favourite charities, the Rational Dress Society. The organization, inspired by the example of Amelia Bloomer in the United States, was dedicated to promoting fashions for women that did not "deform the body or endanger it." The Society believed that no woman should be forced to endure the discomfort and risk to health of overly tight-laced and restrictive corsetry, nor be obliged to wear, in total, more than seven pounds of undergarments. Constance spoke poignantly of the plight of so many women — scores of them each year: young and old, serving girls and ladies of rank — who were either maimed or burned to death when their voluminous skirts, petticoats, and underpinnings accidentally caught on a candle or brushed by a hearth and were set alight.
Oscar and Arthur stood together looking about the room. Conan Doyle leant forward, resting his hands on the back of one of the Wildes' black-and-white bamboo chairs. "The cause is indeed a good one," he said. "Rest assured: I have subscribed." He smiled at Oscar, adding, "I remain to be convinced, however, about the complete respectability of the guests. For example, who are those two?" He nodded towards the piano.
"Ah," said Oscar, "Miss Bradley and Miss Cooper."
"They look like chimney-sweeps."
"Yes," said Oscar, squinting at the ladies. "They do appear to have come en travestie. I think the costumes are deliberate. They probably wanted to bring us luck. They are not chimney-sweeps by trade. They are poetesses. Or, rather, I should say, 'they are a poet.' They write together, under a single name. They call themselves 'Michael Field.'"
"I observed them in the hallway, smoking cigarettes, and kissing one another, upon the lips."
"Extraordinary," said Oscar, shaking his head wanly, "especially when you consider the amount of influenza sweeping through Chelsea this spring."
"And what about the unhealthy-looking gentleman over there? He has the appearance of a dope-fiend, Oscar."
"George Daubeney?" exclaimed Oscar. "The Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney? He's a clergyman, Arthur, and the son of an earl."
"Is he, now?" replied Doyle, chuckling. "Why do I recognise the name?"
"It has been in all the papers, alas. The Reverend George was sued for breach of promise. It was a messy business. He lost the case and his entire fortune with it."
"He has a weak mouth," said Conan Doyle.
"And a stern father who declines to bail him out, I'm afraid. I like him, however. He is assistant chaplain at the House of Commons and part-time padre to Astley's Circus on the south side of Westminster Bridge."
"No wonder you like him, Oscar! You cannot resist the improbable."
Now it was Oscar's turn to chuckle. He touched Conan Doyle on the elbow and invited his friend to scan the room. "Look about you, Arthur. You are a man who has seen the world, the best and worst of it. You have journeyed to the Arctic in a whaler. You have lived in Southsea out of season. You are familiar with all types and conditions of men. Consider the assorted individuals gathered in this drawing-room this afternoon and tell me which one of them, to you, looks to be the most incontrovertibly 'respectable.'"
Doyle was entertained by the challenge. He stepped back and stood, arms akimbo, fists on hips. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes and, slowly, carefully, surveyed the scene before him. Constance had gathered a motley crowd to her charitable tea party. "What precisely am I looking for, Oscar?"
"The acme of respectability," said Oscar. "The face, the figure, the demeanour, the look that says to you: 'This chap is sound, no doubt about it.'"
"Mm," growled Doyle, taking in the faces around him, turn by turn. "They all look a bit doubtful, don't they?" He looked beyond where George Daubeney was standing, to the doorway, where Charles Brooke, the English Rajah of Sarawak and a particular friend of Constance, was holding court. "Brooke has the look of a leader about him, doesn't he? I know him slightly. He's sound. He's a gentleman."
Oscar raised his forefinger and waved it admonishingly. "No, no, Arthur. Don't tell me about people you already know. I want you to make a judgement entirely on appearance. Look about this room and pick out the one person who strikes you as having about him an air of absolute respectability."
"I have him!" cried Doyle triumphantly. "There!" He indicated a sandy-haired young man of medium build and medium height who was standing with Constance Wilde at the far end of the room. Constance's older boy, Cyril, nearly seven years old, was at her side with his arms clasped around her skirt. Her younger son, Vyvyan, then five and a half, was seated happily on the young man's shoulders, tugging at his hair.
"He's your man, Oscar," said Conan Doyle. "He's easy with children — and children are easy with him. That's a good sign."
"He is Vyvyan's godfather," said Oscar.
"I'm not surprised. You chose well. He has the air of a thoroughly dependable fellow. What's his name?"
"Edward Heron-Allen," said Oscar.
"A sound name," said Conan Doyle, with satisfaction.
"Indeed," said Oscar, smiling.
"A respectable name."
"Certainly."
"And his profession, Oscar? He's a professional man — you can tell at a glance."
"He is a solicitor. And the son of a solicitor."
"Of course he is. I might have guessed. Look at his open face — it's a face you can trust. It's the face of a good-hearted, clean-living, respectable young man. How old is he? Do you know?"
"About thirty, I imagine."
"And how old is the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney, may I ask?"
"About the same, I suppose."
"But Daubeney," said Doyle, his eyes darting from Oscar to Constance, "looks ten years the older of the two, does he not? Daubeney's face, I fear, speaks of a life of dissipation. My man's face speaks of the Great Outdoors. He has colour in his cheeks. His jaw is clean-cut, his eyes sparkle, his conscience is clear."
"My, my, Arthur, you are taken with him."
Conan Doyle laughed. "I'm only doing as you asked, Oscar — judging by appearance. Edward Heron-Allen's appearance is wholly reassuring. You cannot deny it. Look at his suit."
"The tailoring is unexceptional."
"Precisely. The man is not a dandy. He is a gentleman. His suit is sober: it's exactly the sort of suit you'd expect a solicitor to wear on a Sunday. And his tie, I think, tells us he went to Harrow."
"He did indeed," said Oscar, grinning broadly, "and played cricket for the First XI."
Conan Doyle caught sight of Oscar's wide and wicked smile and, suddenly, began to beat his own forehead with a clenched fist. "Oh, Oscar, Oscar," he growled ruefully, "have I taken your bait? Have I fallen headlong into an elephant trap? Are you about to reveal to me that my supposed model of respectability is in fact the greatest bounder in the room?"
"No," said Oscar, lightly. "Not at all. But we all have our secrets, Arthur, do we not?"
"What's his? Has he embezzled all his clients' money?"
"He is in love with Constance."
"Your wife?"
"My wife."
Conan Doyle looked concerned. He was a loyal and conscientious husband. His own young wife, Louisa, known as "Touie," was a victim of tuberculosis. Doyle went out and about without her, but she was never far from his thoughts. He tugged at his moustache. "This fellow, Heron-Allen, being in love with your wife, Oscar — does it trouble you?"
"No," said Oscar, "not at all."
"And Mrs. Wilde?" asked Doyle. "How does she feel?"
"It does not trouble Mrs. Wilde." Oscar smiled. "Mrs. Heron-Allen, however, may find it a touch perturbing."
"Ah," said Arthur, frowning, "the fellow's married, is he? He doesn't look like a married man."
"I agree with you there, Arthur. He looks totally carefree, does he not?"
"He looks quite ordinary to me," said Conan Doyle. "That's why I picked him when you started me off on this absurd game. I shouldn't have indulged you, Oscar."
"Edward Heron-Allen is anything but ordinary, Arthur. He cultivates asparagus. He makes violins. He speaks fluent Persian. And he is a world authority on necrophilia, bestiality, pederasty, and the trafficking of child prostitutes."
"Good grief." Arthur Conan Doyle blanched and gazed towards Edward Heron-Allen in horror. The young solicitor was lifting Vyvyan Wilde from his shoulders. He kissed the top of the boy's head as he lowered him safely to the ground. "Good grief," repeated Conan Doyle.
"I've seated you next to him at dinner, Arthur. You'll find him fascinating. He's another chiromancer — like Mrs. Robinson. Let him read your palm between courses and he'll advise you whether to plump for the lamb or the beef."
"I'm speechless, Oscar," said Conan Doyle, still staring fixedly in the direction of Edward Heron-Allen and Constance Wilde. "I'm quite lost for words."
"No matter," said Oscar blithely. "Heron-Allen can do the talking. He has a great deal to say and you'll find all of it's worth hearing."
"Are you serious, Oscar?" Doyle protested. "Is that man really joining us for dinner?"
Oscar chuckled. "Why not? He looks respectable enough to me. In fact, he's my particular guest tonight. Sherard here is bringing the Hon. the Reverend George Daubeney. Who is your guest to be?"
Conan Doyle was now blowing his nose noisily on a large, red handkerchief. "Willie...Willie Hornung," he said, hesitating to name the name. "You don't know him. He's a young journalist, an excellent fellow, one of the sweetest-natured and most delicate-minded men I ever knew."
"Hornung...Willie Hornung." Oscar rolled the name around his mouth, as though it was an unfamiliar wine.
Doyle returned his handkerchief to his pocket and looked Oscar in the eye. "Perhaps I should advise Hornung to stay away. Willie's not what you'd call a man of the world."
"Don't be absurd, Arthur. How old is he?"
"I don't know. Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?"
"Keats was dead at twenty-six, Arthur. It'll do Mr. Hornung good to live a little dangerously, take life as he finds it. It's the possibility of the pearl or the poison in the oyster that make the prospect of opening it so enticing. Besides, we have to have him or we'll be thirteen at table."
"Is Lord Alfred Douglas coming?"
"Bosie? Of course." Oscar threw his head back and brushed his hands through his hair. "Bosie is coming, very much so. And he's bringing his older brother, Francis, with him. You'll like Lord Drumlanrig, Arthur. He's about the same age as your young friend Hornung, and sweet-natured, too. I'm all for feasting with panthers, but it's good to have a few delicate-minded lambs at the trough as well. One can have too much of a bad thing." He looked around the room. "Where is Bosie? He should be here by now."
The Wildes' drawing-room was beginning to empty. Katherine Bradley and Edith Cooper, the poetesses dressed as chimney-sweeps, were standing by the doorway blowing kisses towards Oscar. Miss Bradley, the taller of the two, had taken a huge bulrush out of a vase by the fireplace. She called to Oscar: "I'm stealing this, dearest one. I hope you don't mind. Moses and Rebecca Salaman are coming to supper. This will make them feel so at home." Oscar nodded obligingly. Charles Brooke, the Rajah of Sarawak, was handing Constance a cheque and grandiloquently saluting her for her charitable endeavours on behalf of humankind in general and the Rational Dress Society in particular. His wife, Margaret, a plain and patient woman, was pulling at his arm. "Will he ever stop talking?" she asked.
"Only if we start listening," answered Constance, with a kindly laugh, kissing her friend on the cheek. "Thank you both for coming. And thank you, Charles, for your generosity. Everyone has been so kind, so good."
"It's you, Mrs. Wilde," said Edward Heron-Allen, stepping towards his hostess and lifting her hand to his lips. "You inspire us."
Conan Doyle spluttered into his red handkerchief and whispered to Oscar, "The man's intolerable."
"You inspire our devotion," Heron-Allen continued, still holding Constance's hand and looking into her eyes. "We love you. It's as simple as that."
"We love Oscar, too," said a voice from the landing. "But that's more complicated, of course."
"Ah," said Oscar, clapping his hands, "Bosie is upon us."
Lord Alfred Douglas appeared in the doorway of the Wildes' drawing-room and held his pose. Bosie was an arrestingly good-looking boy. I use the word "boy" advisedly. He was twenty-one at the time, but he looked no more than a child. Indeed, he told me that, later that same summer, a society matron was quite put out when she invited him to her children's tea party and discovered her mistake. Even at thirty-one, people would enquire whether he was still at school. Oscar used to say, "Bosie contained the very essence of youth. He never lost it. That is why I loved him."
Oscar did indeed love Lord Alfred Douglas and made no bones about it. Slender as a reed, with a well-proportioned face, gently curling hair the colour of ripe corn, and the complexion of a white peach, Bosie was an Adonis — even Conan Doyle and I could not deny that. Oscar loved him for his looks. He loved him for his intellect also. Bosie had a good mind, a ready wit — he liked to claim credit for originating some of Oscar's choicest quips — and a way with words and language that I envied. He was intelligent, but indolent. When he left Oxford the following year, he left without a degree. (As I had done. As Shelley and Swinburne did, too. Bosie's poetry may not rank alongside theirs, but, nonetheless, the best of it has stood the test of time.)
Oscar Wilde also loved Lord Alfred Douglas because of who he was. Though he made wry remarks to suggest otherwise, Oscar was a snob. He liked a title. He was pleased to be on "chatting terms" with the Prince of Wales. He was happy that his acquaintance encompassed at least a dozen dukes. And he was charmed to find that Bosie Douglas (with his perfect profile and manners to match) was the third son of an eighth marquess — albeit a marquess with a reputation.
Even in 1892, Bosie's father, John Sholto Douglas, eighth Marquess of Queensberry, was notorious. Ill-favoured, squat, hot-tempered, aggressive, Lord Queensberry was a brute, a bully, a spendthrift, and a womanizer. His one strength was that he was fearless. His one unsullied claim to fame was that, with a university friend, John Graham Chambers, he had codified the rules of conduct for the sport of boxing. He was himself a lightweight boxer of tenacity and skill. He was also a daring and determined jockey (he rode his own horses in the Grand National) and a huntsman noted for ruthlessness in the field. He carried his riding whip with him at all times. He was said to use it with equal ease on his horses, his dogs, and his women. In 1887, Lady Queensberry, the mother of his five children, divorced him on the grounds of his adultery.
Bosie despised his father and adored his mother. In Bosie's eyes, Sybil Queensberry could do no wrong. "My father has given me nothing," he said. "My mother has given me everything, including my name." Lady Queensberry had called him "Boysie' when he was a baby. Oscar called him "my own dear boy' from the moment they met, early in the summer of 1891. They became firm friends almost at once. By the summer of 1892, they were near inseparable. Where Oscar went, Bosie came, too. I liked him. Constance liked him also. Conan Doyle had his reservations.
As he stood, posed, in the drawing-room doorway, with his head thrown to one side, like a martyred saint upon a cross, Bosie looked straight towards Constance. "Mrs. Wilde," he cried, "peccavi. I have missed your party and I didn't want to miss it for the world. Will you forgive me?" From behind his back he produced a small bunch of primroses tied together with blue ribbon. He stepped forward and presented them to her.
She kissed him, as she might have done a child, and said, "What a sweet thought, Bosie. Thank you. I'm glad you're here. I'm sure Oscar was getting anxious."
Bosie, nodding to Edward Heron-Allen, went over to Oscar and Conan Doyle. I moved from my station by the window to join them. "I apologise, Oscar," said the young Adonis, furrowing his brow. "I've had a damnable afternoon. Arguing about money with my father. He's been through £400,000, you know, and won't advance me fifty. The man's a monster. I'd like to murder him."
Arthur Conan Doyle raised an eyebrow and sucked on his moustache.
"I mean it," said Bosie seriously. "I'd like to murder him, in cold blood."
"Well, you can't, Bosie," said Oscar, "leastways, not tonight."
"Why not?" demanded Bosie petulantly.
"It's Sunday, Bosie," said Oscar, "and a gentleman never murders his father on a Sunday. You should know that. Did they teach you nothing at Winchester? Besides, it's the first Sunday in the month and we are going to dinner at the Cadogan. You can't have forgotten, surely?"
Copyright © 2008 by Gyles Brandreth
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