[Oscar Wilde 07] - Jack the Ripper: Case Closed

by Gyles Brandreth

  ‘Did you know that the gardenia is named after a Dr Garden? Names really are everything. He was a Scotsman, like you, Arthur.’

  ‘Why was he there?’ I repeated, pouring myself a cup of black coffee.

  ‘Queensberry? Last night?’

  ‘Yes. Why was he in that dreadful place?’

  ‘It’s a place where a man may go to ruin himself – and fulfil himself. To beat or to be beaten.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Queensberry is a brute. You saw his ape-like appearance, his bestial, half-witted grin, his stableman’s gait, his twitching hands.’

  ‘I think you exaggerate a little, Oscar. I noticed his heavy eyebrows and I know he is the man who’s codified the rules of boxing.’

  ‘I don’t exaggerate one little bit,’ said my friend earnestly, while turning his boiled egg around in its eggcup. ‘Queensberry’s a brute and a blackguard. You saw the riding crop he was holding?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He uses it with equal violence on his dogs, his horses, his servants and his women.’ As he spoke, Oscar beat the top of the shell of his boiled egg with almost comical vigour. ‘And as to the celebrated Queensberry Rules, outside of the boxing ring the man has no concept of the notion of fair play.’

  ‘I hear what you say, but I still don’t understand why we found him sitting alone in that ghastly backroom in Whitechapel last night.’

  ‘He’s a member of the club.’

  ‘He smokes opium?’

  ‘I doubt it. Opium is only one of the delights on offer underneath the railway arches of Pinchin Street. There’s a room beyond the captain’s cabin where release of a different kind is on offer.’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles, Oscar.’

  ‘You’re even more innocent than you look, Arthur.’ My friend plunged his teaspoon into his boiled egg. ‘The Marquess of Queensberry takes pleasure in beating others. He also derives pleasure from being beaten himself. He goes to the club to be stripped naked by the amiable Mamat and beaten black and blue.’

  ‘Goodness,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Goodness has nothing to do with it.’

  My friend devoured his egg with relish and wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘The first Lady Queensberry – Bosie’s mother – divorced him because of his brutish ways and his adultery, and the second Lady Queensberry, as I understand it, left him at Christmas. I assume he was in Whitechapel last night in search of distraction and the kind of light relief no longer available to him at home.’

  ‘And he found you.’

  ‘Yes, that will have spoiled his evening somewhat. The mad marquess does not approve of me – and the more his wife and children like me, the greater his dislike grows.’

  ‘Has he any reason to dislike you?’

  ‘He thinks my interest in Bosie is unnatural.’

  I looked at my friend over the edge of my coffee cup. I did not say, ‘And is it?’, but he read my mind.

  ‘I adore Bosie. He is young and he is beautiful. There is nothing of the gardenia about him. He is quite like a narcissus – so white and gold.’ He turned away from the table and looked out of the window onto Portland Place below. ‘He lies like a hyacinth on the sofa and I worship him.’

  ‘Yes, well, I can see how a boxing man might find your flowery enthusiasm for his son a tad disconcerting.’

  ‘Exactly. A brute is never going to see eye to eye with a poet, is he?’ He turned back to the table and raised his coffee cup towards me. ‘But I think you do understand, Arthur, and I am grateful for that.’ He leaned forward and tapped the dossier of papers I had brought with me to the table. ‘Never mind Queensberry. Are these Macnaghten’s notes about the torso?’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘Thank you. Just what we need.’

  I picked up the folder and rifled through it. It was a mixture of handwritten memoranda, typewritten copies of autopsy and coroners’ reports and newspaper cuttings. ‘There’s material here about several unsolved murders coincidental with the Whitechapel killings – but Macnaghten is adamant that the five Whitechapel killings stand alone.’

  ‘I know. But just because Macnaghten is adamant does not mean that he is correct. What do the notes tell us?’

  I glanced around the dining room. The hotel residents at other tables appeared engrossed in their breakfasts and their newspapers. I opened the folder and, sotto voce, read out the salient points: ‘On September 10, 1889, at 5.15 a.m., a female torso was discovered by PC William Pennett under a railway arch in Pinchin Street. It was hidden beneath some sacking and partially covered by an old chemise. The body, missing both head and legs, was already heavily decomposed, and it was the stench of the remains that attracted the policeman’s attention.’

  I paused and looked anxiously around the room once more. ‘Carry on,’ said Oscar. ‘I shall eat my toast noisily during the less savoury parts of the narrative.’

  I continued: ‘PC Pennett immediately summoned assistance and proceeded to arrest three men who were found sleeping under nearby arches. They were subsequently cleared of any involvement in the crime. Bloodstained female clothing was later found in Batty Street, but whether or not it was connected with the murder was never established. Sergeant William Thick was in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Oscar, eyebrow raised, ‘Thick is moving up the ranks, I see. He’ll be a chief inspector ere long.’ He plucked another piece of toast from the rack and began to butter it. ‘Were there any clues to the woman’s identity?’

  ‘No clues of substance, but there was press speculation. The newspapers named Lydia Hart as the victim – a prostitute reported missing at about the same time.’

  ‘The story is a tragic one, but the names are undeniably enchanting. The dead girl is called Hart and Sergeant Thick is looking for evidence in Batty Street. Nomen est omen. And what was the good sergeant’s conclusion?’

  ‘A curious one,’ I said, turning to the final page of Macnaghten’s memorandum. ‘The police decided that the woman was probably a factory worker – despite the fact, according to the autopsy, that “her arms and hands were well formed and showed no signs of manual labour”.’

  ‘That’s intriguing,’ said Oscar. ‘That may be the answer to the entire mystery!’ He put the last corner of toast into his mouth and laid his hands on the table triumphantly.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ I ask, amazed.

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ he said. ‘I’m in the throes of making one of those leaps of the imagination Macnaghten told us were beyond the reach of mere plodding policeman.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Not quite yet. I need to be sure. If I am right, it may be painful for you, Arthur.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, man? I don’t follow you. You’re speaking in riddles again.’

  ‘And probably barking up the wrong tree as well.’ He laughed. ‘Now I am speaking in clichés. Ignore all I have just said and let’s get to the nub of the matter. Why does Macnaghten maintain this Whitechapel murder has nothing to do with the earlier Whitechapel murders?’

  ‘Because it’s a whole year later and because of the nature of the mutilation in this case. With the 1888 murders, the victims were cut about the face and chest and had their innards removed, but there was no decapitation, no limbs were cut off.’

  ‘But wasn’t another torso found somewhere along the Thames in 1888 – at the same time as the so-called Jack the Ripper killings?’

  ‘Yes, according to the notes, a torso was found hidden below ground, in a vault in Whitehall, during the building of the police headquarters at New Scotland Yard. It was a young woman again – of large stature and well-nourished.’

  ‘That’s interesting. That’s what it says in the post-mortem?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And had the poor creature been disembowelled?’

  ‘Her uterus had been removed. And a right arm and shoulder believed to belong to the same woman were found washed up from
the river in Pimlico.’

  ‘Not far from the southern end of Tite Street?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was this exactly?’

  ‘September to October 1888.’

  ‘And Macnaghten insists this has nothing to do with the Whitechapel murders?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘If the torso was discovered in Whitehall and the victim’s arm and shoulder were washed up in Pimlico, why does Macnaghten include this material in his dossier on the Whitechapel murders?’

  ‘I don’t know. For “completeness”, as “background”?’

  ‘He’s hedging his bets, Arthur. He doesn’t know a thing.’

  ‘Do we know much more?’

  ‘We know a great deal, my friend.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘We do,’ he cried exultantly. ‘And we’re about to discover yet more. Drink up your coffee, Arthur. Our carriage awaits.’

  21

  Freaks

  It was not yet ten o’clock in the morning and already we were back in another two-wheeler. As we climbed aboard, Oscar called up to the cabman: ‘123 Whitechapel Road, John – and as speedily as your fiery-footed steeds will take us.’

  The cabman chuckled and grunted, ‘Righto, sir.’

  ‘I thought we were going to the Colney Hatch Asylum this morning,’ I said, ‘in search of Aaron Kosminski?’

  ‘We are. But something you mentioned at breakfast, Arthur, suggests that a detour via Whitechapel may be to our advantage. Freaks first, lunatics later.’

  ‘I am confused,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed.’ He grinned at me mischievously as he settled back in his seat, laying Macnaghten’s file carefully upon his lap and taking out his cigarette case. ‘I do believe “confusion” may be what this is all about.’

  The streets of London were curiously quiet and the smog had not yet descended on the city. Our journey east was a swift one and the crisp January air blowing in through the carriage windows helped to clear my head. As we travelled, Oscar leafed through Macnaghten’s dossier, occasionally letting out a mild snort of derision or a gentle gurgle of satisfaction, and I gazed out at the passing scene and did my best to order my thoughts. When I asked Oscar why we were going where we were going, he did not look up but said simply, ‘All will become clear when we get there.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I replied, rather doubting it.

  When I asked him how he knew the name of our cabman when we had merely climbed into the first carriage in the rank, he said: ‘I didn’t. I don’t. But John is by a long way the most common Christian name among men in this country, so the odds were in my favour. I don’t hedge my bets. He seemed happy enough to be called John.’

  ‘But if his name is Tom or Dick or whatever it may be—’

  ‘William is the second most common name in England.’

  ‘Yes, whatever. It’s an amusing trick, but if you get it wrong, the effect is rather spoiled and he won’t be so happy.’

  My friend turned and looked at me steadily, widening his eyes. ‘I grant you that, Arthur. Every effect that one produces risks giving one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity.’

  We travelled on in silence.

  Whitechapel, when we reached it, looked more hospitable than it had the night before. The shops were open; the pavements were more crowded; and the people going about their business moved with an energy and sense of purpose that, I suppose, surprised me.

  ‘Are we going to the London Hospital?’ I asked, as we travelled down the Whitechapel Road and the familiar porticoed front of the building came into view. Until this adventure, my only forays into this part of town had been to meet up with medical colleagues at the hospital here.

  ‘No, we are going to Tom Norman’s Exotic Emporium – just opposite, just here.’

  Our two-wheeler drew to a halt on the north side of the street. Oscar jumped down. ‘Thank you, John,’ he called up to the cabman. ‘It is John, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And your wife is Mary. Am I right?’

  ‘You are, sir. And it is Mr Wilde, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘We all know you, sir. Best tipper in town.’

  ‘Thank you, John. Please wait for us. We won’t be long.’ Oscar smiled at me. ‘That’s not a bad reputation to have, is it, Arthur? Though, of course, in the fullness of time, it can lead a man to ruin.’

  He laughed gently and, taking me by the elbow, turned me towards the ‘emporium’. It had the look of a store in a storybook. With its thick mullioned windows framed in dark wood, it reminded me of the Maclise drawing of Mr Dickens’ Old Curiosity Shop.

  ‘Why are we here?’ I asked.

  ‘To see Tom Norman.’

  ‘Is he expecting us?’

  ‘No – and for that reason I think an oblique approach is called for. “Softly, softly, catchee monkey”, as the saying goes. Let’s not let him know the truth of why we’ve come to see him.’

  ‘Why have we come to see him? His name doesn’t feature in any of Macnaghten’s notes, as I recall.’

  ‘Perhaps it should,’ said Oscar, looking at me with a knowing smile. ‘Tom Norman is a friend of Walter Wellbeloved and we don’t yet know enough about him. We are here to make inquiries the police have failed to make.’

  ‘We may fail also,’ I replied. ‘The shop is closed.’ There was a handwritten sign to that effect hanging inside the door.

  Oscar pressed his nose to the glass. ‘But it’s not empty. Somebody’s at home.’ He rapped his knuckles against the pane. Almost at once, the front door swung open and there stood a curious-looking character who might have been Dickens’ Mr Jingle. He was tall and lean, with a sallow complexion and a head of luxuriant jet-black hair half-hidden beneath a silk top hat that appeared to have known better days. He wore a cut-away frock coat of shabby black velvet, a silk waistcoat to his neck, and full-length narrow black britches above buckled evening shoes. Beyond the tarnished silver of his buckles and coat buttons, the only relief from the blackness of his appearance came from his yellow cheeks and pale grey spats.

  ‘You are Tom Norman,’ said Oscar warmly. ‘I am Oscar Wilde.’

  The man in black said nothing, but pushed back his hat the better to inspect us. He had small, round eyes with small, black pupils.

  ‘And this is Dr Arthur Conan Doyle,’ continued Oscar, making the announcement as if playing a trump card.

  The figure in the doorway raised an eyebrow. ‘I know. The Sherlock Holmes man.’

  Oscar was not finished. ‘I am a friend of Phineas Barnum,’ he went on.

  ‘Ah,’ said the man.

  ‘And a friend of Walter Wellbeloved.’

  ‘His spirit guide was one of my artistes,’ said Tom Norman. ‘You’d better come in, but I haven’t got long.’

  He stepped back to allow us into his shop. It was cavernous, dark and cold, and filled, from corner to corner and side to side, with display cases and cabinets of every size, each one covered with a blanket.

  ‘So you knew Barnum,’ he said to Oscar. His voice was high-pitched; his way of speaking, precise. ‘A good man.’

  ‘A remarkable man,’ echoed Oscar. ‘I went to his circus in New York and he introduced me to Jumbo the Elephant.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Norman, curling one of his locks of black hair around a thin, pale forefinger, ‘Barnum had the elephant and I had the Elephant Man.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Oscar.

  Norman looked at me with both eyebrows raised. ‘Did you ever see him, the Elephant Man?’ I shook my head. He shrugged his shoulders and giggled mirthlessly. ‘Well, that’s how I billed him. Said his mother had been frightened by an elephant during her pregnancy. Joseph Merrick. Hideous deformities. I gave him a home and a means of earning his living. He was grateful. He lived in there.’ Norman nodded towards the rear of the shop. There was a doorway covered by a beaded curtain and a sign above it that read, in gold and red lettering, A Penny a Peep. �
�He had to sleep sitting up, poor fellow. We were good friends – until some busy-bodying doctor from across the road came along and decided he knew best what was good for the Elephant Man.’

  ‘Dr Treves,’ I said. ‘I know him.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Norman lightly. ‘No doubt your friend meant well, but Joseph didn’t like being taken from here to there to be poked and prodded by the medical students. He had to wear a hood and cloak to cross the road. They stripped him naked and displayed him like an animal in a cattle market. I had him properly dressed and treated him like a star.’

  ‘Was he your chief attraction?’ Oscar asked.

  Norman giggled once more. It was a peculiar sound and seemed the more unnatural because the man never smiled. ‘I did well with The World’s Ugliest Woman, too.’ Norman shuddered with apparent pleasure at the memory of her. ‘She didn’t disappoint.’ Oscar chuckled obligingly as the man in black continued his nostalgic reverie. ‘Did you ever see John Chambers, the Armless Carpenter?’ he asked. ‘He was ever a favourite.’ He looked around the darkened room. ‘And he built most of these cabinets, too.’

  ‘I remember your Man in a Trance,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Do you? Do you really? He was a bugger. I had to get rid of him. He kept asking for more and more.’ Norman giggled again. ‘He had too much time to think about things. Money became his obsession.’

  ‘Money is in some respects life’s fire,’ said Oscar, tilting his head to one side and studying our host. ‘It is a very excellent servant, but a terrible master.’

  ‘You did know Mr Barnum, didn’t you? That was one of his lines. He taught me the tricks of the trade, did Barnum – the need for novelty as well as variety. For years my top attraction was Electra, The Electric Lady. There was so much electricity in her she could light a lamp. As she got elderly, poor old bird, she lost her spark. I was going to replace her with her daughter – The Electric Girl. Barnum said, “No, you need something different.” Rosie the Mermaid – that was his idea.’

  ‘Rosie was Electra’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes. She was a little charmer was our Rosie.’