Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery by Gyles Brandreth Page A

goblin’s nose. He lit a cigarette.
    ‘And now I see that you are the brother, not the father,’ I said. ‘I could not be sure. Your father was a turnkey, too, I suppose – another Warder Braddle. The calling runs in the blood, I know.’
    ‘My father died ten years ago.’
    ‘And now your brother is dead, too. I am sorry.’
    ‘You are not sorry, Wilde.’ The man sucked on his cigarette. He looked down at me. ‘You are not sorry. You are the one responsible.’
    ‘I am not responsible for your brother’s death.’
    ‘You killed him, Wilde.’
    ‘That is absurd,’ I protested.
    ‘Don’t raise your voice,’ he whispered fiercely. He stepped closer to my bed and stood looming over me. He had all the features of Thomas Braddle, but was clearly the younger brother. He blew his cigarette smoke into my eyes. ‘My brother is dead and it is your doing, Oscar Wilde.’
    ‘It is not my doing,’ I said quietly.
    ‘You poisoned him.’
    ‘No, his heart gave way. He had a weak heart. An intestinal rupture triggered a cardiac arrest. I heard the surgeon say so.’
    ‘Oh, yes, that’s what they say. I went to Wandsworth today. That’s what they told me, too – the governor and the surgeon – before they buried him. That’s what’s gone onto the death certificate, you can be sure of that. They don’t want any unnecessary trouble. They don’t want a scandal. But we know the truth, don’t we, Wilde? You killed my brother. You infected him.’
    ‘This is madness.’
    ‘You turned his stomach.’
    ‘We were not friends,’ I murmured. ‘I grant you that.’
    ‘He despised you, Wilde. Do you know what he called you? Do you? Answer me.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Say it.’ He bent over and pushed his face close to mine. ‘Say it, Wilde.’
    I remained silent.
    ‘Say it.’
    Still I stayed dumb. Suddenly, the warder raised his right hand and struck me hard on the head. ‘Malingerer and sodomite,’ he hissed.
    I closed my eyes.
    ‘He died in your cell, Wilde.’
    My temple throbbed, my ear ached, but I felt strangely calm. This man did not frighten me. ‘Warder Braddle came to my cell, uninvited,’ I said, ‘in the middle of the night. It appears to be a Braddle family characteristic.’
    ‘Do not mock me, Oscar Wilde. This is my ward. You are my prisoner. You obey my orders. You are under my command. I shall come here when I please, as I please, and you will do my bidding. My brother is dead. He has gone to heaven, but I am still here and I shall make your life a living hell.’
    He stood upright, and turned, and tossed the remainder of his cigarette into the bucket of water in the corner of the cell. ‘This cell stinks, Wilde. You stink.’ He moved towards the door. He took out his pocket watch and peered at it in the gloom.
    ‘What time is it?’ I asked.
    ‘Gone one o’clock,’ he answered. He pulled open the cell door. ‘I am on my rounds and I find that all my prisoners are sleeping like babes. Horse thieves and blackmailers, pimps and murderers – all asleep, except for one. Is it your unquiet conscience that’s keeping you awake, C.3.3.?’
    ‘All asleep?’ I answered. ‘Is Tom sleeping now?’
    ‘Sleeping? My brother Thomas is dead,’ snapped the warder. ‘How dare you speak of him like that? How dare you use his Christian name?’
    I sat up. ‘I did not mean your brother, Warder Braddle – may your brother rest in peace. I meant Tom, the boy who is here as a prisoner – the boy from E Wing.’
    The warder let go of the cell door. ‘How do you know of him? How do you know his name?’
    ‘He was in the infirmary today,’ I said.
    ‘You spoke with him? You will be punished.’
    ‘I did not speak with him. I heard him coughing – that is all. He is not well.’
    ‘It is a cough,’ rasped the warder, ‘nothing more.’
    ‘I am glad to hear it. I was concerned. A child should not be in a place like this.’
    ‘He is not a child. And he is well enough.’
    ‘I was concerned –