Michael White - The Art of Murder

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.