Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery Read Online Free Page A

wants to know about your time in prison.’
‘The world’s a huge thing.’
‘Yes, and would pay handsomely to read your story, Mr Melmoth.’
‘The world can read my poem.’
‘I think you’ll find that prose is better paid.’
‘Ah, so it’s about money?’ The large man sat back and laughed. He lit a cigarette and gestured with it towards the champagne bottles. ‘This is all about money. Finding me, tracking me down, plying me with Perrier-Jouët . . .’
‘It’s about telling your story, Mr Melmoth – in your own words, in your own way.’
‘And sharing the proceeds with you, Dr Quilp?’
‘I’ll be your scribe, if you’ll allow me.’
‘I can put pen to paper myself, you know.’
‘But will you?’
Melmoth drew slowly on his cigarette and smiled. ‘You are right, Dr Quilp. Left to my own devices, I might not. I never put off until tomorrow what I can put off until the day after.’
‘And if you do, you’ll do it in the form of a “prose poem” or a verse drama or—’
‘Some such overwritten nonsense.’ Melmoth completed Quilp’s sentence, laughing. ‘You appear familiar with my work, dear Doctor. Did you not enjoy The Duchess of Padua ?’
‘If we’re to reach the widest audience, Mr Melmoth, we need something that the widest audience can readily comprehend. We need a human story simply told. That is where I hope to be able to assist you.’
‘A human story!’ The large man quivered with amusement. He reached for the second bottle of champagne and replenished his glass. ‘So, Dr Quilp, it turns out that you are not so much an apothecary as a journalist.’
‘I am a writer, Mr Melmoth. If you will tell it to me, I will record your story in plain English – that is all.’
‘I am an artist, Dr Quilp. Art should always remain mysterious. Artists, like gods, must never leave their pedestals.’
‘Two years ago, Mr Melmoth, you fell from yours.’
A lone seagull screeched in the sky. Melmoth, smiling, contemplated his glass and, suddenly, his eyes were filled with tears. ‘Yes, passing strange, was it not? How did I let that happen?’ He turned away from the table and looked towards the archway where the mongrel was still playing among the old newspapers and cabbage leaves. ‘The gods had given me almost everything, Dr Quilp – as I think you know. I had genius, a distinguished name, high social position, brilliancy, intellectual daring. I made art a philosophy, and philosophy an art. I altered the minds of men and the colour of things. There was nothing I said or did that did not make people wonder. I awoke the imagination of my country so that it created myth and legend around me. I summed up all systems in a phrase and all existence in an epigram.’
‘And then you were brought to the Old Bailey,’ replied Quilp. ‘And put on trial. And found guilty of gross indecency. And imprisoned. We don’t need high-flown phrases for any of that, Mr Melmoth.’
‘Is that what you are after?’ asked Melmoth, turning back sharply. ‘The story of my foul crimes and misdemeanours – the lurid details of my lewd offences recounted in language that’s anything but high-flown?’
Quilp laughed awkwardly. ‘No. The details of your offences would be far too scandalous. No publisher – beyond the backstreets of Paris – would be able to print any of that.’
‘But you want the story of my downfall, don’t you? The story of the downfall of Oscar Wilde. You must have Oscar Wilde in the title!’
Dr Quilp widened his eyes, but said nothing.
‘There,’ continued the large man, drawing slowly on his cigarette, ‘I have dared to speak the name . . . I am allowed to do so. It was once mine. No longer. I am Sebastian Melmoth now.’
Quilp felt inside his jacket pocket. He produced a pen and a chequebook. Carefully, he laid them on the table, one upon the other. ‘Mr Melmoth, I want the story of your time in prison – nothing more and nothing less. I want the story of what it was like, of those