The Art of Murder

Chapter 20

To Mrs Sonia Thomson 13 October 1888 So, when was it that I stopped searching for the thing that is not there, the thing Christians call a 'soul'? When was it that I started to treat human beings as playthings… materials for my work? I have one special individual to thank for that revelation, a most singular man, and I think, dear lady, I should explain how he crossed my path.

My little experiment to see what life would bring me as an actor in all my daily actions proved remarkable. People flocked to me, men and women. I seemed to be irresistible, and my life at the University became a whirlwind of socialising. So much so, in fact, it was a minor miracle that when it came to scholarly concerns I managed to appease my professors at all.

I was quick to learn that the best fun was to be had from mixing with those for whom three years at Oxford was a time in which to indulge their every whim. There were two types who fitted this bill. The less interesting of the two were the genuine artists, the poets, painters and philosophers who ignored most conventions, kept within few bounds and believed they were on a mission to experience 'real life' in order to fuel their artistic ambitions. They could be entertaining, but they were strangely predictable. Nevertheless through them I grew close to two Oxford legends, William Morris and Edward Burne-Jones. They were each in their fifties when I was introduced to them and had already gained the status of gods within the artistic community. They spent little time in Oxford except that each of them delivered a special annual lecture at the Faculty of Arts. I found both men surprisingly open to the ideas of youth, and, again, perhaps it was down to my talent as an actor and mimic, but they took to me.

The other group were the immensely wealthy sons of the aristocracy, children of stalwarts of the House of Lords, themselves future peers. These young men whored, gambled, drank and took every drug known with complete abandon, as though their wealth made them immortal and immune from bodily corruption… the fools! They acted the way they did not from any high ideals or aesthetic imperatives, but simply to have a good time before having to submit to a more conventional existence. The problem about associating with these types was that one needed money to do so.

I circumvented this initially by sponging off others. I used my considerable charm and thespian talents to wheedle my way into the cliques that seemed to be the most high-living. But even my charisma has its bounds, and eventually I was forced to find money from somewhere. Father provided me with an annual allowance, which, as you may imagine, was pitifully meagre. To fund my escapades, I found gainful employment as a Society artist. I was in my final year at Oxford and had something of a reputation as an up-and-coming young painter. I even managed to procure a letter of recommendation from Morris himself. What wealthy businessman or lady of leisure could resist?

It was an altogether loathsome experience. The women were, without exception, pampered snobs gone to seed. The worst aspect to it was the sexual opportunism I was obliged to endure. Perhaps one in three of the gracious ladies would proposition me at some point, and I would find it a challenge to keep myself from vomiting over them. Needless to say, such experiences did nothing but exaggerate my hatred for everyone alive.

Ironically, it was through the artists rather than the fun-loving aristos that I met the man who would set me on the correct path. That man was Magnus Oglebee. No, you probably have not heard of him, my dear lady, but then very few have. He was something of an enigma by intent. He guarded his privacy jealously and trusted only a select few. But when he did place his trust in you, you felt very special.

It was Burne-Jones who invited me to Oglebee's soiree in May 1888. Oglebee held these events at irregular intervals and only the elite of Oxford were welcome. As you may imagine, I was delighted. The party was at Oglebee's mansion close to Boars Hill, outside the city. It was a cab ride there, and I arrived just as the sun was setting over the Neo-Gothic towers of the enigma's grand home, Clancy Hall.

It was a magnificent house, set in splendid gardens. The grand hall was dominated by a mahogany staircase that swept up to the first floor then split to left and right before sweeping round in two great curves. The main dining hall was lit with literally hundreds of candles held in crystal chandeliers. I was told the owner of this palace shunned gaslight and would only illuminate his home with the natural glow of candles. It was a breathtakingly beautiful affectation.

No one knew how Oglebee had made his fortune. No one seemed to have a clue what he actually did in the world, or even how he spent his days. And, of course, this set tongues wagging among those few who even knew the man existed. I remember there was some fevered speculation that he was a vampire who only came out at night. Absurd, of course, and a notion most probably fuelled by excessive quantities of opium. But certainly a flattering piece of gossip, nevertheless.

There were just twelve guests that night. Oglebee made it a happy thirteen. Morris and Burne-Jones were there. The author Charles Dodgson arrived late, fretting comically. And I saw at least two well-known politicians, one from the Upper House, men whose faces are often seen in the pages of The Times. We dined early, an exquisite meal of oysters, salmon and game followed by a wonderful dish I had never before experienced, a thing called creme brulee which was originally called Cambridge Burnt Cream, a delicacy from 'the other place'. I'll send you the recipe sometime.

After the meal, we were invited into the vast library. Servants supplied us with cigars and brandy. I perused the books, staggered to find such delights as first editions of de Sade, Rochester, Byron, Keats, and a host of other luminaries. As well as these, I found books on alchemy and necromancy, the titles of which I had never heard of before, but all lovingly bound in the softest calf-skin.

I had still not been formally introduced to Oglebee when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned to see the man himself standing rather uncomfortably close. He was an exuberant host and I'd had many a chance to observe him during the course of the evening. In an oddly high-pitched, reedy voice, with a mild, indefinable accent, he had held forth at dinner upon a range of interesting subjects and regaled his guests with a succession of wonderful anecdotes. He was small, barely passing my shoulder, and had a bird's face: pinched nose, and small black eyes that darted quickly from side to side as he spoke. And when his eyes were occasionally fixed straight ahead, he had the rather unnerving habit of seeming to look straight through you. He exuded immense confidence, almost disturbingly so, and I am happy to admit that, with him, I immediately felt I had to up my game. The acting skills that had served me well with the common herd of humanity, even with Oxford dons and artists, suddenly seemed insufficient. Oglebee, I realised, was a man apart.

'Come,' he said. 'Entertainment has been arranged.'

He beckoned to the others and we all followed him into a large room adjoining the library. We began chatting amicably, and perhaps a little drunkenly. At dinner I had been careful to imbibe little, surreptitiously tipping most of what I had been given on to the carpet. Some instinct told me I needed to keep a level head.

The room already lay in deep shadow, but then a team of servants appeared and began quenching the remaining candle flames. This cast us all into absolute darkness. The sound of music sprang from some hidden source. It was music such as I had never heard before. I could not imagine how Oglebee had managed to bring it into the room without any visible performers, but I quickly forgot how strange this was for suddenly a line of six lights appeared. They moved across the room, and as the glow grew brighter I realised they were candles in gold holders each carried by a young woman. Their naked bodies were painted gold and each woman had blonde, waist-length hair. They began to dance exquisitely.

I felt a wooden object pushed into my hand. I could barely see it in the half-light, but as I bent close I could make out a pipe. I went to push it away, but saw that it was Oglebee sitting next to me, offering the contraption. He nudged it back and nodded. I could not refuse. I took a child's drag on the pipe's ebony tip. Oglebee laughed and poked an elbow in my ribs. 'Oh, stop pretending, young man,' he said. 'I thought you were… an artist!'

There is an unpleasant void in my memory. It lasts from soon after I took a deep draw on that pipe to a point in time where it seems a veil was drawn aside and I slowly surfaced into some form of normal consciousness. I detest losing control, or worse still, being forced to lose it. But that must have been what happened, for the next thing I recall is seeing a pair of breasts swaying in front of me and feeling a burning sensation in my groin. I remember pushing out my arms and pressing against soft flesh. I knew I was naked. I clambered to my feet a little unsteadily and took a deep breath.

It was dark, and several moments passed before my eyes began to adjust. I found a robe of some sort. Ignoring the cries of the girl I had pushed away, I staggered towards a source of light. I almost collided with the edge of a door as I pulled it towards me and stepped into a wide corridor. Light spilled from under a line of doors to either side of me. I could hear strange animal sounds: grunts, a scream, something falling, a heavy object crashing to the floor and shattering.

I reached the end of the corridor. The walls were sliding away. I knew I was still intoxicated, but I felt drawn onward. There was another door, with a large brass handle. I clutched it in my hand, turned it clockwise, pushed the door open and fell forward.

I lay sprawled on the floor for what seemed an age. Then, slowly, I pulled myself to my feet. I felt a stabbing pain in my side and did my best to ignore it. I looked around. Light seeped in at a window in the far wall. In front of this I could make out the shape of a chair and a man sitting in it, straight-backed. I took a step forward, and then another. I saw Oglebee. He was facing me in a large, throne-like chair. He was wearing a white robe smeared with red. The head of a young woman lay in his lap, her long blonde hair draped to the floor. He was stroking her hair. Her eyes stared at me, sightless. Utterly dead, of course.

I would be lying if I said I was not shocked. I was, but it did not last long and it was rapidly replaced by an intense ripple of excitement, a thrill I had only rarely experienced in my life up to that point. I smiled at Oglebee.

'I thought you would enjoy it, William,' he said. 'I understood what you were the moment I set eyes on you.'

'You did?' I said, genuinely puzzled. I kept being drawn to the dead girl's sightless eyes. After a moment, Oglebee lifted the head, still dripping blood and gore, and laid it carefully on the floor beside his chair.

'Of course, young man. You are not the first and you will not be the last.'

'Oh, I rather supposed I was unique,' I said quietly, staring into his small black eyes.

He chuckled. 'What is it that drives you?'

'I could ask the same of you, Mr Oglebee.'

'Yes, you could. But I asked first. Humour me.'

I said nothing for a moment, staring at the man, trying to read his face and failing utterly. 'I realised some time ago that I'm searching,' I began. 'Searching for something very difficult to find.'

'In a way we are all searching, are we not? Even the brainless masses are searching. It's just that they don't actually realise it.'

'Does that mean you are searching too?'

He chortled again. 'Oh! Believe me, William, I searched assiduously. But then I realised the thing I sought did not exist.'

'So you stopped?'

Oglebee glanced down at the head resting on the floor. He nodded towards it. 'I stopped searching, if that is what you mean. Now I'm happy to entertain myself. You see, you are a very fortunate young man.'

'I am?'

'Yes, because you have great talent. Your friends praise you very highly.'

I stared at him, expressionless.

'You don't really understand what I'm talking about, do you?'

I did my best to call his bluff, but it was useless. Employing all the skills I had learned proved of little value to me at that moment. Oglebee knew me, he really knew me. He seemed to know everything.

'It is time, William, for you to move on. What you seek is not there. It's time for you to have some fun instead… to deploy your talents fully. I cannot tell you what to do. I can only guide and advise you. Think about combining your natural instincts with your natural talents.'

I was still confused, but realised I should at least make a pretence of understanding, in the hope that, later, I really would comprehend. I realised that Oglebee would miss nothing, that I would not be fooling him in this way, but I could think of nothing else to say or do.

'How do…' I began, but Oglebee raised a hand to stop me.

'I cannot tell you what to do. I've said that already, William. It is for you to work out what I am trying to explain to you. However, I will give you one small piece of advice to help you on your way.' He fell silent for a moment. The room was utterly silent, unnaturally so. It felt as though we were floating in space. 'To move on,' he said, 'you must eradicate your past. You must begin again. Shed your skin. Become someone new.' I was still not entirely convinced. After all, I had been searching for a long time and I had dwelt on the matter of the soul since childhood. But I knew Oglebee was right about two things at least. It was time I had some fun, and it was time to expunge the past.

I took some time away from my studies using the excuse that my father was ill and that I needed to return home for a few days. No one seemed to care. I caught an early-afternoon train and had the carriage all to myself for the entire journey. I changed trains in London and arrived in Hemel Hempstead just as it was getting dark. I was travelling light, with just an overnight bag, and so I walked the mile or so from the station to Fellwick Manor. It was a clear night, unusually warm, the stars out in all their chaotic profusion. I've never liked the stars.

There was a light on in my father's study at the front of the house. I could see it through a small gap in the curtains. My shoes crunched on the gravel. I pulled the bell and waited, listening to the sounds of my father hauling himself up from his chair in the study and walking across the floor. I had chosen the servants' half-day for this return home. Then came the familiar creak of the loose floorboard near the front door. Another pool of light appeared as Father lit a second lamp. Through the stained-glass panels of the front door, I watched the distorted sphere of yellow pass along the hallway.

'Who is it at this hour?' my father called.

'It is I, Father. William.'

'William? What the devil…'

I heard him place the lamp on a table near the door and then came the rasp and scrape as he undid the locks and slid the bolts. Finally, the door opened and we stood face to face.

I had been back here only rarely since going up to Oxford. I hated this place and I did not wish to refresh my memories of the years I was forced to live in Fellwick Manor. I wrote to my father only very occasionally, and when I did filled the letters with the sort of utter tosh and lies I knew he would want to read, so as not to deter him from paying me my allowance. I had known for as long as I could remember that the man detested me. Always had done. Always would. Furthermore, he had no glimmer of understanding as to why I should wish to waste three years studying Fine Art. But that said, Father was civil enough upon my arrival. He did not send me back to town to find a lodging house, at least. He offered me some food. Cook had left a plate of cold meats in the pantry. What I wanted most was a stiff whisky, but I knew that that would be entirely out of the question, and so I settled for cocoa, which I insisted I made, while Father sat nearby and asked me inane questions about life at Oxford.

The drug took only a few minutes to work. The first sign was that he started to slur his speech, as though he were drunk. Then he began to stare at me with a slightly glazed expression. 'Good Lord,' he said, running his fingers over his bald pate. 'I feel most odd.'

'That would be the morphine, Father.'

He stared at me unsteadily, his eyes wandering off target, then he looked puzzled.

'I put morphine in your drink.'

He did not have the energy to move or even to alter his facial expression. It was really very amusing, dear lady. I did not waste a moment. I knew I had to move fast because I had only used a tiny quantity, so it would soon wear off. I wanted its effects to evaporate, but not until I was entirely ready.

I walked around the back of Father's chair and pulled him to his feet. He could barely walk, but I managed to half-carry him to his study. As we reached the room, I could tell he was already beginning to shake off the effects of the drug, but I had a firm grip on him. I pulled two short lengths of rope from my pockets and swiftly bound his wrists and ankles. Then I positioned a chair in front of the desk, spun my father round and pushed him so that he fell face forward across the desk, with his knees on the chair.

'Have you… go… gone… ma… mad?' he managed to splutter.

'Most probably, Father,' I retorted. I pulled off my cravat and wrapped it around his head, pulling it tight between his lips so that he could no longer move his jaws. The best he could manage was a low grunt, which I found quite hilarious. I stood back to survey my efforts, then took a step forward to tear away the back of his shirt. I then undid his trousers and yanked them down to his ankles, exposing his scrawny backside. Spinning round, I reached into the cupboard for the cane. It was there, just as it always was.

I walked around the other side of the desk and crouched down to twist my father's head round so as to face me. His eyes were wild with fear and fury. Saliva ran down his chin because in this position he could not swallow.

'Well,' I said, 'this is what the novelists call a reversal of fortune, Father. For many years I've fantasised about doing this. I've had very pleasant dreams about it. The only pity is that your bitch of a wife is not here to see it too. That would have been a truly delicious experience.'

He grunted and struggled to slide off the chair, but he was not the man he once was, and I was no longer a little boy he could overpower.

I returned to the other side of Father's desk, raised my hand and brought the cane down with that old familiar 'whoosh'. I cannot tell you for how long I beat my father, each stroke more frenzied than the last. I lost all track of time. My arm began to ache from the exertion, but I did not let that deter me. I was panting; sweat ran off me. At length I felt a terrible pain in my chest and almost passed out. That was when I stopped.

Slowly, I lowered my arm to my side and dropped the bloodied cane to the floor. It fell silently on the rug. My father had stopped making any sound some indefinable time earlier. There was little left of his skin. The flesh was flayed, blood-smeared, grey; a few vertebrae lay exposed.

I seemed to snap back to myself then. I untied the ropes, letting Father's body tumble to the floor. Then I slipped the ropes back into my pocket, crouched down and removed my cravat from his distorted mouth. His face was blackened and bruised from where it had slammed against the desk. His horrible moustache was bloodied. His eyes were closed. Turning, I picked up the cane and broke it in two, tossing the pieces to opposite sides of the room.

In the outhouse, I found a can of paraffin. I opened the top and sniffed, coughing as the fumes hit me. Then I paced around the ground floor of the Manor with the can tilted, the liquid sliding out and over the floors. I started the fire in the study by tossing the oil lamp on to the floor beside my father's body. Staying inside the house just long enough to get the stink into my clothes, I blackened my face and shirt with soot. As I ran out on to the road beyond the Manor's grounds, the flames really started to catch hold. I heard the voices of neighbours running towards me. Putting on a performance that would have made Sarah Bernhardt proud, I staggered along the path, weeping and screaming for assistance. Deep inside me, I felt the old William Sandler, son of Gordon and Mary Sandler, vaporise like my father's blood spilled on the study carpet.