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offer an immediate confession.’ Daubeney
sat, in heavy silence, gazing disconsolately at his empty glass. ‘Byrd,’ said
Oscar, ‘draw out the next victim’s name if you please.’
    Byrd
produced a second slip of paper from his bag and read out the name, this time
with rather less ceremony. ‘“Lord Abergordon”,’ he said.
    ‘Who?’
asked Heron-Allen.
    Byrd
repeated the name: ‘Lord Abergordon.’
    ‘A
curious choice,’ said Oscar, taking a sip of brandy.
    ‘Who is
he?’ asked Sickert.
    ‘We
neither know nor care,’ boomed Bradford Pearse.
    ‘He’s
an elderly and obscure member of the government, I believe,’ said Bram Stoker.
    ‘He
won’t be much of a loss then,’ said Heron-Allen, with a wry smile.
    ‘Very
droll, Edward,’ murmured Oscar. ‘You’re getting the idea. Next, if you will, Mr
Byrd—kindly maintain the momentum.’
    Byrd
produced the third slip of paper, and smiled, and read out the name: ‘“Captain
Flint”.’
    ‘That’s
more like it,’ said Oscar.
    ‘Who’s
Captain Flint?’ asked Willie Hornung.
    ‘The
hotel parrot,’ said Bosie. ‘He’s the moth-eaten creature who sits in that cage
by the porter’s desk. He’s impertinent and garrulous and deserves everything
that’s coming to him. I wanted to murder my father, of course, but Oscar said I
couldn’t, at least not on a Sunday, so I chose the parrot instead.’
    Oscar
turned to his handsome young friend and reprimanded him. ‘Bosie, you have now
spoilt what was a most excellent choice. The object of the game is not for you
to reveal who is your intended victim. It is for the rest of us to guess.’ He
turned back to Byrd. ‘On, man, on!’
    Byrd
produced a fourth slip of paper from the velvet bag and read out the name with
a flourish. ‘“Mr Sherlock Holmes”,’ he said.
    ‘That’s
much more like it!’ cried Oscar.
    ‘I
agree,’ said Conan Doyle.
    ‘On,
on, Byrd! Don’t dawdle, man. Give us the next name.’
    The
night manager had the fifth slip ready. He looked at it and hesitated.
    ‘Well?’
said Oscar.
    “Mr
Bradford Pearse”,’ said Byrd.
    ‘Oh?’
said Bradford Pearse, with a shallow laugh.
    ‘Someone
here wants me out of the way …’
    A
courteous rumble of dissent went round the table. Conan Doyle spoke up. ‘This
game is not amusing, Oscar,’ he said.
    ‘It’s
not the game that isn’t amusing,’ said Oscar smoothly. ‘It was Pearse’s Fabian
that failed to entertain—alas! It’s a devil of a part. Several of the critics
said poor Pearse deserved to be shot …’
    Oscar
smiled benignly at the unfortunate actor. ‘It’s only a game, Bradford,’ he said
gently. Pearse nodded and shrugged his shoulders and reached for the decanter
of brandy. Oscar turned back to the hotel night manager. ‘Onward, Mr Byrd.
We’re almost halfway. Who is our next victim to be?’
    Byrd
had the next slip of paper already in his hand. ‘“Mr David McMuirtree”,’ he
announced.
    ‘Goodness
me,’ said Willie Hornung.
    ‘This
must stop, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle, sharply. ‘Enough’s enough. Mr Pearse and
Mr McMuirtree are our guests. They have come here to be entertained—not
threatened with murder, even in jest.’
    ‘I
don’t take it personally,’ whispered McMuirtree from the far end of the table.
    ‘Really?’
murmured Charles Brookfield. He was seated directly facing McMuirtree. He
looked him in the eye. ‘What other way is there to take it?’ he asked.
    ‘As our
chairman says,’ answered McMuirtree, turning away from Brookfield and looking
towards Oscar, ‘it’s only a game.’
    ‘Thank
you, Mr McMuirtree,’ said Oscar, raising his brandy glass in the boxer’s
direction. ‘We green-carnation men understand one another.’
    Conan
Doyle growled unhappily and shook his head. Oscar leant towards the good
doctor.
    ‘Don’t
look so serious, Arthur. Humanity takes itself far too seriously as it is.
Seriousness is the world’s original sin. If the cavemen had known how to