‘Indeed. But why? He is the chief constable in charge of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police – believe it or not, the most respected police force in the world. Why did he ask for your assistance? You of all people?’
‘Because I’m a neighbour – and I have a poet’s eye.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘Yes.’
Sims shook his head and suppressed a chuckle. ‘Macnaghten is a policeman, Oscar. He was a tea-planter in Bengal. Think, man. Is it really likely that what he’s after is the assistance of a friendly neighbour with “a poet’s eye”?’
Oscar said nothing, but continued eating.
‘And why now? You’ve been neighbours for some years. Your “poet’s eye” has long been at his disposal if he’d wanted it. Why ask for your help now? The Whitechapel murders took place six years ago.’
‘Ah,’ I said, relieved to have something to contribute. ‘Macnaghten was clear about that. What would have been the Duke of Clarence and Avondale’s thirtieth birthday is imminent. It falls on Monday, in fact. Macnaghten explained that the Palace is fearful that the anniversary will prompt more lurid press speculation – more damaging nonsense about Prince Eddy and the possibility of him being Jack the Ripper. Macnaghten mentioned the series that the Sun is planning to run.’
‘The Sun’s articles will be all about a man called Thomas Cutbrush. They’ll have nothing to do with Prince Eddy. Macnaghten knows that. I told him as much before Christmas.’
‘Well,’ I said, perplexed, ‘he told us that the Prince of Wales is concerned.’
Sims shrugged. ‘He may be – but without much cause. As far as the press is concerned, the hunt is still on for Jack the Ripper, and Scotland Yard have made a botch of it so far, but Prince Eddy is no longer a hare that anyone is chasing.’
Sims got to his feet and fetched the decanter of claret from the sideboard. He refilled each of our glasses and then left the decanter at Oscar’s side. ‘Macnaghten gave you his list of suspects?’ he asked.
‘He did,’ said Oscar, ‘and I acknowledged that I was familiar with several of the names. Wellbeloved and Mansfield are friends, of sorts. Druitt and I overlapped at Oxford. I didn’t know Ostrog’s name, but I knew his face. In Whitechapel once I was a customer of Kosminski’s at his barber’s shop. I was intrigued.’
‘Did Macnaghten tell you which of the suspects he suspected most?’
‘No,’ said Oscar, ‘he did not.’
‘Far from it,’ I said.
‘I’m surprised,’ said Sims. ‘A year ago, Macnaghten told me he believed he knew who had committed the Whitechapel murders – but couldn’t prove it.’
‘That’s not what he told us,’ I insisted. ‘He gave us his list of five suspects and invited us to explore the possibilities, eliminate the impossibilities and arrive at the truth – if we could.’
‘Well,’ said Sims, laying down his napkin and pushing his chair back from the table, ‘when I discussed the case with Macnaghten – and went through his five principal suspects and a host of others – he gave me the distinct impression that he had come to a conclusion.’
‘Which was?’ asked Oscar, looking over his wine glass, eyebrow raised.
‘That Montague Druitt was the Whitechapel murderer.’
‘The man who was found drowned?’
‘Yes,’ said Sims. ‘He’s been my favourite candidate, too. I have found the whereabouts of Druitt’s sister. I’ve not interviewed her yet, but I’m in correspondence with her and I believe she will talk to me and, if she does, I may have something to tell the readers of The Referee that will see the Sun and Thomas Cutbrush thrown firmly out of the ring.’
‘And why is Montague Druitt Macnaghten’s principal suspect – and yours?’
‘Because his drowning coincided with the last of the Whitechapel murders.’
‘But so did the incarceration of Ostrog and Kosminski, didn’t they?’ I said. ‘And so did Richard Mansfield’s departure for America.’
‘The police know nothing,’ cried Oscar suddenly, pushing his plate away from him. ‘According to Macnaghten’s notes, Druitt was a doctor. But I knew him at Oxford. He was a lawyer.’
‘And he may be irrelevant, anyway,’ said Sims, looking up and gently rubbing his right ear. ‘Macnaghten is now not certain it is Druitt after all.’
‘Who is it, then?’ exclaimed Oscar. ‘Is it me? Is that what he has said to you?’
Sims made no reply. He took a gulp of wine.
‘And why is Druitt now suddenly out of the running?’ I asked.
‘Because of the Tite Street murders.’
‘But they are different,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Sims, ‘different, but similar. And they have occurred after Druitt’s drowning.’
‘Long after,’ I said. ‘And not in Whitechapel.’
‘Indeed. Not in Whitechapel, as you say.’
‘But in the vicinity of Tite Street – where Oscar lives.’
‘As does Macnaghten,’ cried Oscar. ‘As does Mr Justice Wills. Are they suspects too?’
‘No one is accusing you of anything, Oscar,’ said Sims soothingly.
‘Aren’t they? Aren’t they?’
‘As I understand it,’ I said, ‘Macnaghten invited Oscar to help him investigate the Whitechapel murders before the first of the Tite Street killings took place.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Sims.
‘Yes,’ said Oscar. ‘He mentioned it first before Christmas, though we didn’t meet to discuss it until New Year’s Day – last Monday. It was the first, wasn’t it?’
‘It was,’ I said.
‘But why, George? Why did Macnaghten go to all the trouble of inviting me to his house and giving me his files – and letting Arthur become involved too – if he did not in reality want my assistance at all?’
Sims said nothing, but sipped at his wine once more.
‘Why, George, why?’ persisted Oscar.
‘Because,’ said Sims, laying down his glass carefully and positioning it just to the right of his half-eaten plate of mashed potato and devilled kidneys, ‘he wanted to keep you occupied – occupied in an enterprise that might incidentally throw up information or intelligence relevant to the Whitechapel murders – that would be a bonus – but essentially occupied in an endeavour of his choosing and occupied in London.’
‘He wanted to keep me in London?’
‘Yes.’
‘What? Not following Bosie to Egypt? Is that what this is all about? Is Macnaghten in cahoots with Queensbury and Labouchere? Is that the nub of it? Is that what this preposterous charade is all about?’
‘I don’t believe so. I have no reason to think that.’
‘Have you told me all that you know, George? You do know everything, after all.’
Sims smiled. ‘I’ve told you what I know, Oscar. You can trust me, as a friend – as a fellow author. I know that Macnaghten has been following you for some time, keeping you in his sights. I know no more than that. I just thought it right to mark your card – to alert you, in case ever you go to places less enlightened souls might not approve of and consort with people whose personal morality is outwith the law as it is currently constituted.’ He paused and looked at Oscar kindly. ‘Do you take my meaning?’
‘I do,’ said Oscar quietly.
‘Your private life is your own affair. You are a free spirit and will do as you please. I just felt you should know that Macnaghten’s men are watching you. Take care.’
‘I understand,’ said Oscar. ‘Thank you, George.’
‘Do you know,’ I added, feeling it was time I made a contribution, ‘I believe this is the best Welsh rarebit I’ve ever had.’
28
‘I can solve it all’
Oscar Wilde died in November 1900, at the age of only forty-six. At the time I was surprised because when I knew him, just a few years before, he seemed to me to have the constitution of an ox. He was a big man, with a big
man’s appetite for food, for drink, for life.
When we emerged from George R. Sims’ house that Saturday night it was gone eleven o’clock. I was ready for bed. Oscar was not. As Sims closed his front door behind us and we came down the stone steps into the street, Oscar announced, ‘We’re going drinking, Arthur.’ There was a steely defiance in his tone. As he pulled open the door of the two-wheeler that stood waiting for us, I noticed his hand trembling with suppressed rage. ‘We’re near Baker Street, aren’t we? This is your territory, Arthur. Where would Holmes take Watson for a night on the tiles?’
‘Holmes is not really a drinking man,’ I said unhelpfully, my heart sinking somewhat at the prospect of ‘a night on the tiles’.
‘Of course not,’ laughed Oscar. ‘He’s a dope fiend.’ He climbed up into the carriage. ‘How do you get away with it? If I’d created a hero who revelled in his addiction to cocaine I’d be drummed out of town, but somehow you’re everybody’s favourite author. How do you do it?’ He called up to the cabman. ‘Take us to the Mermaid in Marylebone Lane.’
‘I don’t know it,’ I said. ‘Is it a pub? Will it be open still?’
‘For us, it will be. It is a refuge for the angry and the sad.’
‘And which are we?’ I asked, as our two-wheeler pulled away and trundled steadily along Clarence Gate towards the Marylebone Road. The night was still and the street was quiet: the only sound, the clatter of the iron wheels on the wet cobblestones.
‘I am angry and you are sad.’
‘If Macnaghten has indeed deceived you, I can understand your anger,’ I said, ‘but I’d be surprised. He struck me as a gentleman through and through.’
Oscar laughed. ‘And you strike me as a model husband, through and through, devoted to your Touie and your bairns, and yet you long for your little Russian acrobat – how you long for her . . .’
‘No,’ I said emphatically – but without conviction. ‘No, you’re wrong . . . ’ I turned away from Oscar and looked out onto the wet, black roadway.
Did I sigh? I don’t believe I did, but, afterwards, Oscar told me that I had. At all events, with his glove he rapped my knee gently and whispered, ‘Sigh no more, Arthur, sigh no more. Men were deceivers ever – one foot in the sea and one on shore, to one thing constant never.’
‘I shall be constant to Touie,’ I said, not looking back at him.
‘Infidelity starts in the mind,’ he replied. ‘It’s too late now.’
We sat in awkward silence until the carriage came to a halt.
The Mermaid was a small, traditional London public house, with mullioned windows and oak beams, low-ceilinged, smoke-filled and cosy, with a coal fire burning at each end of its one narrow room. The place was owned, Oscar explained, by a former Metropolitan police sergeant, who ‘entertained friends’ after hours, ‘no questions asked, no money taken, though a Christmas present is always appreciated’.
‘Just the one drink,’ I said, as we stood at the bar and Oscar ordered what he called his ‘usual’: a bottle of champagne and a bottle of brandy to go with it. The barman – a young Negro who appeared to be dressed as a sailor – produced the bottles at once and an empty pewter tankard for each of us. Oscar, brooking no argument, poured two fingers of brandy and four of champagne into each vessel. He gave me mine and raised his towards me.
‘Welcome to the Mermaid,’ he said, ‘where those who lead double lives seek consolation.’
The place was entirely lit by candles and in their ochre glow, Oscar, more mellow now, looked like a benign devil hosting a Hallowe’en drinks party for a few of his closer friends. There were no more than twenty people in the room, seated at small tables, standing in alcoves, mostly in pairs and, mostly, I realised at once, older men – professional men – with younger women not of their class.
‘And not all the women are women,’ Oscar whispered to me, as he watched me watching them. ‘Some of these “girls” are telegraph boys on the spree.’
‘I see,’ I said, taking a sip of Oscar’s heady brew.
‘’Evening, Mr Wilde,’ said a figure who stood alone, lounging against the wall at the far end of the bar. He was tall and lean with a thin yellow face and a curious staring gaze. He wore a dark red velvet suit whose plush was as worn as the covering of one of the bar stools.
‘Good evening, Jonah.’ Oscar turned to me and murmured: ‘This is our host, Arthur. He doesn’t look like a police sergeant, does he? He’s blind.’
‘But not deaf,’ answered the landlord, moving away from the wall and coming along the bar towards us. ‘We’ve not seen you for a while, Mr Wilde.’ The man set his staring, dead eyes towards my friend.
‘I was hoping Walter Wellbeloved might be here tonight,’ said Oscar.
The landlord shook his head. ‘He’s not been here for months. He stopped coming once his own mermaid died. He knew I’d been a copper. I think I made him nervous.’
‘Do you think he killed his mermaid?’ asked Oscar.
‘Possibly,’ said the landlord. ‘Probably. Most women who get murdered are murdered by their husbands or their lovers.’
Oscar peered into his tankard. ‘Does each man kill the thing he loves?’
‘It’s common, that’s all I’m saying,’ continued the landlord. ‘He’s an odd one, that Walter Wellbeloved, and quite capable of murder, in my opinion.’
‘Could he be Jack the Ripper, in your opinion?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said the landlord emphatically.
‘Who is then?’ asked Oscar, looking into our host’s blind eyes.
‘No idea. I’ve been out of the game too long. But it won’t be an Englishman, that’s all I know.’
‘Why do you say that, Jonah?’ asked Oscar, seemingly amused by the assertion.
‘I was in the force for thirty years. I’ve known my share of murderers and I can tell you this: an Englishman can be a brute. He’ll batter a woman, beat her, break her neck, shoot her in cold blood, throttle her in the heat of the moment, poison her, drown her even – like Wellbeloved drowned his mermaid. But he won’t cut her up and leave her entrails all over the place – especially not her private parts.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s English. He’s too squeamish.’
Oscar laughed and refilled his tankard with brandy and champagne.
It must have been four in the morning before we reached our rooms at the Langham Hotel. In truth, I have no recollection of reaching mine. All I recall is being woken at around nine in the morning by a shaft of winter sunlight piercing through the half-closed curtains and forcing its way through my eyelids. It seemed I had managed to undress myself, but had not climbed beneath the bedclothes. As the daylight hit my aching eyes, my ears picked up the sound of scratching – as though a mouse was caught in a cupboard. Slowly, painfully, I rose, pulled on my dressing gown and, searching for my slippers, noticed that a piece of paper had been pushed under the bedroom door. It was a note from Oscar:
I can solve it all. I am in the dining room having break fast.
Join me when you are ready. O.
Within twenty minutes, I had washed, shaved, dressed and made my way down to the dining room where my bleary eyes were confronted by a quite extraordinary sight: Oscar, bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, en prince, sporting a canary-yellow carnation in the buttonhole of a startlingly bright green Harris-tweed suit. He had a cup of coffee in one hand, a piece of toast in the other and a copy of the Observer propped up against the coffee pot in front of him.
‘Good morning, Oscar,’ I croaked. ‘I’m impressed to see you looking so fresh and wide awake.’
He looked up at me and smiled. ‘Enjoy your breakfast and confound your enemies. Nothing annoys them more.’
I sat down facing him. He poured me some coffee. ‘You’re keeping notes, I take it?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but not last night. I’ll write them up when I get home this evening.’
‘You’re not going home this evening, Arthur,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’r
e coming to the theatre with me. And with Constance. Richard Mansfield has invited us to a special Sunday matinée. It’s a private performance for friends and members of the profession only. It would be churlish to refuse.’
‘I must go home,’ I pleaded.
‘Not quite yet. One more night here. I shall pay. And tomorrow we’ve got our picnic lunch with Freddie Bunbury and Festing Fitzmaurice. We need to eliminate Prince Eddy altogether. I can let you go after that. We should have it all done and dusted by then, don’t you think?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
He put down his coffee cup and reached for his cigarette case. ‘I’ll confess a certain sense of satisfaction,’ he said, narrowing his eyes and suddenly looking distinctly like Mr Dodgson’s Cheshire Cat. ‘The police have been on the case for six years and have got nowhere. We have been at it for barely six days and I do believe we’re nearly there.’ He struck a Vesta with a flourish.
‘What are you talking about, man?’ I protested.
‘We’ve got to see the Druitt family, I grant you, and find out if “Leather Apron” has anything useful to offer, but that done I am hopeful we’ll be able to say “Case closed”.’
‘You are quite extraordinary, Oscar,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ he replied, beaming. ‘You said that with real feeling, Arthur.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Of course,’ he added mischievously, ‘every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not the sitter, but even so, you are the man to write up this story, without a doubt. Can you imagine what a dreary job Henry James would make of it?’ He laughed and turned to scan the dining room for a waiter. ‘We must get you some eggs and bacon. You’re looking quite wan and you’re going to need all your strength for the final furlong.’
He waved a languid hand in the direction of the boy Martin, who appeared to be coming towards our table in any event. The young waiter arrived, breathless and smiling. He was carrying a large cardboard box in both hands.
[Oscar Wilde 07] - Jack the Ripper: Case Closed Page 20