Murder at the Palace
It was a glittering gathering: Oscar Wilde, Sherlock author Arthur Conan-Doyle, a bewitching panto actress – and a besotted Prince of Wales. But when the lights went out, a blood- curdling game began...
BROADCASTER and bestselling author Gyles Brandreth has written seven Victorian murder mysteries featuring Arthur Conan Doyle and Oscar Wilde as his detectives. Here, in a new adventure written especially for The Mail on Sunday, the Sherlock Holmes creator recalls how a festive party at Buckingham Palace ended with a gruesome discovery…
WHICH Christmas party do I remember best? Without quest i on, t hat of 1892. Why? Because it was at Buckingham Palace. And because of the murder, of course.
It was the night of Wednesday, December 21, the longest night of the year. I was 33, alone in London, and missing my wife. Because of her tuberculosis, on doctor’s orders the dear girl had been sent to Switzerland with our young son, to escape the bitter winter fogs – the notorious ‘pea-soupers’ – that so bedevilled the capital of the empire in those days. I was to join her and our boy on Christmas Eve, but meanwhile remained at home, at my desk by day, completing yet another of my Sherlock Holmes adventure stories, and by night looking, if not for adventure, at least for the distraction of agreeable company.
That evening I had accepted an invitation to dine with the celebrated wit and playwright Oscar Wilde. I did not know him well, but we had met now and then as fellow authors and I found his companionship amusing. People said he was the greatest talker of his time and it was true. He had a wonderful way with words, a brilliant mind, a charming manner and a generous heart. He was a few years older than me, taller, broader, larger in every way, with an extravagant dress sense that ensured he stood out in a crowd. Next to him, I always felt I was a bit of a dull stick.
I MET him, as arranged, at the Albemarle Club, off Piccadilly, and found him in the drawing room, standing with his back to the roaring log fire, dressed in a bottle-green velvet evening suit, sporting a pale green carnation in his buttonhole, holding a Turkish cigarette in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other.
‘It’s a Perrier-Jouet ’84, Arthur,’ he announced, nodding towards the ice bucket.
‘A fine vintage. Help yourself. I’ve ordered another bottle.’
His face was flushed: an impish smile played on his full lips. ‘Do I look like the Spirit of Christmas Present?’ he asked. ‘I hope so.’
‘You look a little tipsy, Oscar,’ I said, helping myself to a glass of the chilled champagne.
‘Ah, yes,’ he sighed contentedly. ‘I have discovered that alcohol taken in sufficient quantities produces all the effects of intoxication.’
‘Do we have time for a second bottle?’ I asked.
‘We do,’ he replied. ‘We are not due at the Palace until ten o’clock.’ ‘At the Palace?’ I queried. ‘I should have forewarned you, my friend, but the invitation only reached me an hour ago.’
He rested his champagne glass on the mantelpiece and produced a telegram from his pocket and waved it towards me. ‘We are commanded to dine with the Prince of Wales at ten o’clock at Buckingham Palace. An impromptu Christmas supper.’ ‘You know the Prince of Wales?’ ‘I do. He may be Queen Victoria’s son, but he has some quite eccentric friends. He’s a most delightful fellow and generously overlooks my republican sympathies – much as I do my best to overlook the fact that he is the Prince of Wales.’
‘And he has invited you to join him for a Christmas supper at Buckingham Palace?’ ‘He has invited you, too, Arthur.’ ‘ But he doesn’t know me,’ I protested.
‘ He knows Sherlock Holmes,’ answered Oscar. ‘ He admires Sherlock Holmes. He is eager to meet Holmes’s creator.’
‘ Will the Queen be there?’ I asked, somewhat confused by Oscar’s tidings.
‘ Oh no,’ answered my friend, pocketing the Royal telegram and lighting another cigarette from the still-lit tip of his last. ‘Her Majesty is an unhappy widow. She is spending Christmas, as ever, in mourning at Osborne House on the Isle of Wight.’
‘ Will t he Princess of Wales be there?’
‘No, no,’ replied Oscar, lowering his voice. ‘Princess Alexandra is an unhappy wife and she is prepar- ing for a solemn family Christmas at Sandringham. Her husband will join her on Christmas Eve, I believe, but tonight he will be playing the bachelor with a few like-minded souls. It should be a memorable party.’ And so it proved. We left the club at half-past nine and walked along Albemarle Street to find a cab on Piccadilly. The cold night air and a gentle gust of light snow served to sober up my friend. At the corner of the street, close by the cab rank, stood a clutch of dishevelled-looking carol-singers. We stopped to listen and when the leader of the band came round with his hat, Oscar, with the impetuous extravagance that was typical of him, pressed a silver sovereign on the man and said: ‘Go home, my friend, and light a fire. Christmas is the time for home and hearth.’
I had not been to Buckingham Palace before. The experience fully lived up to my expectations. As our four-wheeler swept through t he Palace gates, guardsmen saluted. There were flaming torch es on either side of the entrance portico and a huge candlelit Christmas tree welcomed us in the ground-floor vestibule.
The attendant foot men all appeared to know Oscar and murmured ‘Good evening, Mr Wilde’ at every opportunity. The Prince’s personal page was awaiting us at
the head of the principal staircase. ‘ Supper is being served in the Yellow Dining Room, gentlemen,’ he said in a hushed tone. ‘Please follow me. His Royal Highness is there already.’
‘We are late?’ exclaimed Oscar, anxiously.
‘No, you are on time, precisely!’ boomed a voice from the far end of the red-carpeted corridor. ‘The clock has just struck ten.’
The Prince of Wales stood at the open door of the Yellow Dining Room. He was both shorter and stouter than I had expected. He was 51 in 1892, but looked older. His reddish beard was heavily flecked with silver. There were heavy bags of grey flesh under his red-rimmed eyes. As we reached him, he stretched out both hands to Oscar. ‘Welcome, my dear fellow,’ he said warmly. ‘Merry Christmas!’
Oscar, towering above the Prince, clicked his heels and bowed his head. ‘Your Royal Highness,’ he murmured obsequiously, before turning towards me and continu- ing: ‘ May I present Dr Arthur Conan Doyle?’
‘Delighted to meet you, Dr Doyle.’ The Prince shook my hand and looked me keenly in the eye. ‘I am a great admirer of Sherlock Holmes. After supper we shall be playing a game in his honour – and yours. Do you know the game of Murder? It is a seasonal favourite in our house. You will have to play the detective, of course.’
I said nothing, but nodded my acquiescence.
‘Who is to play the murderer?’ asked Oscar, lightly.
‘That is for Dr Doyle to discover,’ chuckled the Prince. ‘Please make your way into the supper room and meet the suspects. There is another doctor among them – and other writers, too. I shall join you in a moment.’
‘I apologise if we have kept Your Royal Highness waiting,’ repeated Oscar.
‘You have not,’ said the Prince emphatically. ‘Miss Turner is yet to arrive.’
‘Miss Turner?’ enquired Oscar, surprised. ‘ Miss Ida Turner, t he principal boy from t he Drury Lane pantomime?’
‘The very same,’ answered the Prince. ‘ This is our Christmas supper and Prince Charming will be of the party.
‘I have only met her once, briefly, in her dressing room, in her boy’s attire, but I found her quite enchanting. She has promised to join us tonight dressed as a fairytale princess. I am certain she will not disappoint.’
He beamed. I was amused to see the glint i n his bloodshot eyes. ‘Now go in, gentlemen. You will know everybody.’
To my surprise, I did indeed know two of the six people standing around the Christmas tree at far end of the dining room.
Oscar knew them, too. They were Bram Stoker, then general manager at the Lyceum Theatre and later to become famous as the author of Dracula, and his beautiful wife, Florence Balcombe – who, in Dublin when they were young, had once been Oscar’s sweetheart. We smiled at them. They smiled at us.
‘Ah,’ chortled the white-bearded red-cheeked gentleman in the middle of the group, ‘ I see you already know two of our little party.’ He wore a crimson velvet evening jacket to rival Oscar’s and sported a sprig of mistletoe in his buttonhole. ‘I am Charles Harbord, 5th Baron Suffield, lord-in-waiting to His Royal Highness.’
He screwed his face into a grimace and looked the very image of Santa Claus in a children’s picture- book. ‘ Mr and Mrs Stoker, you already know. May I present the ladies?’ There were three of them standing in a row alongside him. ‘The Countess of Stechford, a much-valued friend of His Royal Highness.’ WE BOWED towards the handsome, flame- haired lady in her mid-40s who I knew it was said had been one of the Prince’s favourite mistresses. She smiled at us knowingly and inclined her head.
‘Dr Roberta De’ath,’ continued the lord-in-waiting, indicating the second and youngest of the trio – a slim, pretty, dark-haired woman who seemed to me to be no more than 25. ‘Dr De’ath, as you may know, is one of the first women to fully qualify as a doctor in the British Isles and certainly the first female to be appointed an apothecary to the Royal Household. She has only been with us for a matter of weeks, but, if I may say so, is already a firm favourite.’
‘A fine achievement, Dr De’ath,’ I said to the young woman, shaking her hand.
‘An amusing name,’ said Oscar, smiling.
‘And Lady Rogerson, I think you may also know,’ concluded the lord-in-waiting, presenting the last in the line: a tall, angular, thin-faced woman of indeterminate age but striking appearance. She was dressed from top to toe as a man.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Oscar, ‘Lady R – the poetess.’ ‘The poet,’ said the lady, crisply. ‘ And the princess,’ called out the Prince of Wales, as he led one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen across the room towards us. ‘Miss Ida Turner, ladies and gentlemen.’
The girl was so beautiful, with golden hair falling in thick curls on to her bare shoulders. She wore an ivory-coloured evening dress of crushed silk beaded with pearls, and curtsied to us as the Prince presented her proudly. ‘Isn’t she an enchantment?’ he purred.
The Countess of Stechford pursed her lips.
‘ And wearing, I see,’ she said tartly, ‘the gold and porcelain necklace the late Prince Albert gave as a Christmas present to the Queen not long before he died.’
‘ Yes, well, Mama can scarcely wear it now,’ growled the Prince of Wales. ‘It would be unbecoming at her great age. I have lent it to Miss Turner and, as we can see, it suits her admirably.’
Recovering his smile, the Prince looked around his motley group of guests. ‘ Let us take our places, ladies and gentlemen. Our simple Christmas supper is served.’
In its way, it was a simple supper: lobster bisque, followed by fillets of sole, followed by woodcock pie, followed by plum pudding with custard sauce. His Royal Highness ate greedily, introducing each course in turn.
‘The plum pudding is made to
the recipe of Signor Francatelli, my mother’s devoted chef. The custard sauce is German and was a favourite of my father’s.’
He laughed. ‘ I can’t stand all the Christmas trees he insisted on littering the place with – the dogs keep raising their legs to them – but his taste in custard couldn’t be faulted.’
There were ten of us at table and five footmen in attendance. The Prince sat at one end of the table, with Miss Turner and Mrs Stoker on either side of him. His old mistress, the Countess, was seated at the other end of the table, with Father Christmas (Lord Suffield, the lord-in-waiting) on her right and me on her left.
To my left sat the young female doctor and to her left sat Bram Stoker. Opposite them, between Florrie Stoker and Lord Suffield, sat Oscar and Lady Rogerson, the poet.
I heard Oscar ask her how she came to be acquainted with the Prince. ‘I won a prize for one of my poems,’ she explained, ‘ and was presented t o His Royal Highness at a gathering of the Royal Society of Literature. He appeared much taken by my masculine attire.’
She l ooked down t he t able towards the beautiful Miss Turner in her crushed silk gown and necklace of gleaming gold and sparkling porcelain, and added disdainfully: ‘I can’t see how that young lady could ever make a convincing principal boy. She is far too well endowed.’
Certainly, the young actress’s gently palpitating bosom was making its presence felt as she laughed prettily at every one of her Royal host’s remarks. He gave her all his attention – as did Bram Stoker, much to the evident irritation of Mrs Stoker, who sat scowling across the table from him.
Indeed, Bram and the Prince’s delight in the lady from Drury Lane was matched only by the palpable disapproval of most of the rest of Royal party.
‘It will all end in tears,’ muttered the Countess of Stechford, sourly. ‘Yet again,’ added Lord Suffield, now l ooking l ess l i ke Father Christmas and more like a disobliging old goblin.
It was an eccentric gathering, albeit a delicious meal (washed down by the finest wines: champagne, chablis and claret), served in a fabulous setting. The walls of the Yellow Dining Room were covered in Chinese silk. In the candlelight, shadows danced on the walls as the footmen went about their work. The table was covered in shimmering white damask. In the centre of the table, between the candelabra wrapped about with sprigs of holly and ivy, was a silver salver decorated with Christmas roses and piled high with what appeared to be a collection of elaborately painted and bejewelled Easter eggs. Lord Suffield saw me studying them.
‘No,’ he said, ‘they are not Easter eggs. They are Christmas presents. Eggs with enamel shells, encrusted with gold and studded with diamonds. Open them up and there are more jewels inside. They are made in Russia, in St Petersburg, by Monsieur Fabergé, the imperial jeweller, and given each Christmas to members of the British Royal Family by their Russian cousins. They are rather beautiful, are they not?’
Before I could reply, the Countess said, quite loudly: ‘ They’re very vulgar, in my opinion.’
A silence fell in the room and the clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight. The Prince of Wales turned to one of the footmen: ‘ Hawkins, kindly turn down the gasolier and extinguish all the candles in the room, save this one here. Then leave us – and do not return until we call you.’
The footman bowed and, with his colleagues, began to follow the Prince’ s orders. His Royal Highness looked around the table. ‘It is Christmastide, a season of goodwill towards all men and the time of the year when, after a Christmas supper with friends, we play games. I propose that we start with a game of Murder.’
‘Must we, Bertie?’ asked the Countess from her end of the table.
‘ You know you enjoy it, Countess,’ replied the Prince, narrowing his eyes. ‘You may get to play the Murderer this year.’
He reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a handful of small playing cards. ‘Nine cards,’ he announced, ‘the two to nine of hearts and the Knave. Whoever draws the Knave will be the Murderer.’ He shuffled the cards and passed them, face down, to his left.
‘Mrs Stoker,’ he instructed, ‘kindly take one card and pass on the rest.’ As the cards went around the table, the Prince continued: ‘Our new friend, Dr Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes, has kindly agreed to be the detective.’ A murmur of approval from my fellow guests greeted the news and then, a little unsteadily, the Prince got to his feet and blew out the lone lit candle on the table. In the sudden darkness, he announced: ‘Now, stay where you are or move where you will. Murder will out.’ We heard the scraping of a chair, the scuffle of footsteps and a sudden ear-piercing scream as a body fell heavily to the floor. For a brief moment, after we had heard the scream and the sound of a body falling to the floor, the room was quite still. No one moved. No one breathed a word. Then, in the darkness, the Prince of Wales laughed. ‘Well, that didn’ t take long. The murderer appears to have struck before we’d even got started.’ The Countess of Stechford snapped from her end of the table: ‘For God’s sake, give us some light, Bertie.’ The Prince, still chuckling, obeyed his mistress’s command. We heard his chair scrape back. We heard him fumbling in his pockets for a match. Around the table, the other men all did the same, so that, within seconds, five matches had been lit and the snuffed-out candles on the table were brought to life once more. It was then we saw the full horror of it. Sprawled on the rug at the foot of the Christmas tree was a woman’s body, her arms and legs spread wide like St Catherine on her wheel. In her left hand, she clutched a knife.