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

that is all.’
    ‘Concern yourself with what concerns you, C.3.3. Know your place. Remember who you are – sodomite and malingerer.’ He spat out the words. ‘Keep clear of that boy. Lay one finger on him and I will kill you with my bare hands. Do you understand? Do you understand? ’
    In the morning, standing on the gantry outside my cell, waiting in line with the other men to take my slops to the latrine, I heard a voice behind me.
    ‘Did Braddle come to you last night?’
    I turned my head. ‘Don’t look,’ said the voice. ‘Don’t answer. Just listen. We can talk later. When breakfast has been cleared and before we muster for chapel, stand by your cell door, put your ear to the hatch and wait till you hear me call. I will only speak if it’s safe. I know who you are and I am glad that we are neighbours.’
     

8
22 November 1895
C.3.2.

    A t Reading Gaol all men look alike. Our hideous prison garb robs us of our individuality. (It is not called ‘uniform’ without reason.) Our grotesque caps render us invisible. We can reveal who we are only when we speak – and we cannot speak to one another, except on pain of punishment.
    As our line trudged back from the latrines to our cells, through the narrow slits in the veil that flapped against my face I studied the man who trudged ahead of me – the man who had called out to me. I tried to look at him as Holmes would have done, with an analytical eye. He was a slim man, not so tall as I am, but clearly fitter, and younger. By convict standards, his shoulders were less stooped than most and his head was held quite high. He moved at a steady pace, not shambling like the others, but treading carefully – gracefully even. Was he a dancer? No – he held his arms stiffly at his side, with the palm of his free hand open flat and his thumb aligned with his fingers. A soldier, perhaps? A guardsman?
    When we were once more in our cells and the doors had all been locked and the clatter of warders’ feet on the gantry steps had faded away, I stood, as instructed, with my ear pressed against the hatch in my cell door. The cold metal soothed my ear. I felt exhilarated, almost happy. A fellow prisoner had promised to speak to me! I waited. I waited several minutes, pressing my head against the iron, listening intently. In the far distance, I heard the sound of clanging gates and the faint rumble of wheels on cobblestones. Did I hear a dog barking? Or was it a man’s cry? Time passed and silence fell. I went on waiting, standing, leaning against the door, listening, until my back ached and my ear burnt. Eventually, I lifted my head from the door, feeling foolish and disconsolate, humiliated. And then I heard more steps, close by – a single pair of boots this time, clattering as they descended the metal stairway outside my cell, moving rapidly away, from the third level to the second to the first. Then, a further silence. I pressed my ear to the door once more.
    ‘Can you hear me?’ called the voice. It was wonderfully clear – and light and fluting. I thought, as I heard it, that it was like an angel’s voice – strong but gentle, mellifluous, melodious, sweet to the ear. ‘Can you hear me?’ It came again as an echo across a valley.
    ‘I can hear you,’ I answered. ‘Is it safe to speak?’
    The voice laughed. It was high pitched and playful. ‘Yes, I am always careful. Warder Stokes has just gone down to muster with the rest of them in the central hall. Did you not hear him go? He has a light footstep. You will grow accustomed to the sounds of prison life very soon. You must learn to let your ears be your eyes while you are here. The good news, my friend, is that we have almost ten minutes for our chinwag now.’
    ‘You are Indian,’ I said suddenly.
    ‘You are very clever,’ cried my interlocutor, laughing gaily. ‘It is the sing-song in my voice that gives the game away. How do you do, sir?’
    ‘I am very well,’ I said – absurdly. I was alone,