Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper

by Gyles Brandreth

  I leafed through Macnaghten’s papers. ‘Should we consider what he’s got to say about the Duke of Clarence and this man known as “Leather Apron”?’

  ‘He’s got nothing of substance to say about either of them. “Leather Apron”? What sort of sobriquet for a murderer is that? It’s not quite in the same league as “Bluebeard” or “Jack the Ripper”, is it? Poor John Pizer was another unfortunate Polish Jew. He was a bootmaker, so he wore a leather apron. Yes, he had a record of minor assaults against prostitutes, but he also had a copper-bottomed alibi for each murder.’

  ‘I’ve read the notes. He was arrested.’

  ‘And then released because there wasn’t a shred of evidence against him. If you’ve read the notes, you’ll recall the name of the policeman who arrested him.’

  ‘I do. PC Thick.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I closed Macnaghten’s file. ‘So, what are we to do, Oscar?’

  ‘Discover what we can and share it with the chief constable. I suppose it is our duty as good citizens to do so. I am not hopeful that we will discover much.’

  ‘You said last night that you thought you had an answer to something.’

  ‘I say a lot of things, Arthur. As you should know by now, between me and life there is a mist of words always. I throw probability out of the window for the sake of a phrase, and the chance of an epigram makes me desert truth.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, folding my napkin and pushing my chair away from the table, ‘in that case, I shall make my way over to Scotland Yard now. I must go to Macnaghten’s office and give him the notes I’ve written up on the body I examined yesterday.’

  ‘Ah, yes. That poor wretch in the alley.’ Oscar leaned over and picked up his newspaper from the floor. ‘She only merits a paragraph in the Daily Chronicle. Had she been killed in Whitechapel, there would have been headlines proclaiming “the return of Jack the Ripper” and page after page of lurid detail.’

  I stood to take my leave. ‘I will join you at the circus tonight,’ I said.

  Oscar banged the table with a show of delight. ‘I’m glad. Constance will be glad. Well meet you at seven o’clock by the box office.’ He stretched out a hand to shake mine. ‘And if you see Macnaghten, can you ask him if we might borrow the piece of torn apron that belonged to Catherine Eddowes? It was found in Goulston Street, I think. I assume the police will have kept it. Ask him if he can let us have it for twenty-four hours, no more.’

  ‘I will, of course.’ I picked up Macnaghten’s file from the table. ‘May I ask why?’

  He smiled at me and gently tapped the side of his nose like a conspirator in a penny dreadful. ‘I have my reasons, Dr Doyle.’

  I looked at my friend doubtfully. ‘This is not another of your games, is it, Oscar?’

  He grinned. ‘I think you’ll approve of this one, Arthur.’

  9

  The Russian Circus

  ‘I am always astonishing myself,’ Oscar used to say. ‘It is the only thing that makes life worth living.’

  During the several years that I knew him, my friend never ceased to astonish me. He was a man full of surprises – and contradictions. He boasted of his lack of physical courage, but, on more than one occasion, proved very useful with his fists. He professed to despise ‘the outdoor life’, yet he joined me on long walks over the South Downs and, once, took me all the way to Sandwich in Kent to play a round of golf with him. He was a neglectful husband, and unfaithful to his wife, yet he loved her, beyond question, and, while often absent, when present he was a devoted father to his boys.

  When I arrived at the circus that evening I found Oscar in the middle of the foyer, down on his haunches, sporting a clown’s nose, and introducing his sons to a pair of bear cubs.

  The boys were dressed, somewhat absurdly, in frilled shirts and velvet knickerbockers, in the manner of Little Lord Fauntleroy. The bears were standing on their hind legs and tethered by rope to an iron trivet overseen by a beautiful young acrobat in a sequin-covered leotard who, as I approached, bowed to me and then immediately bent over backwards and, with her head between her legs, greeted me with the words: ‘Dobry vecher, Dr Doyle.’

  Oscar stood up, laughing, and pulled off his cardboard proboscis. ‘This is Olga,’ he said. ‘She seems to know you, Dr Doyle.’

  ‘I don’t know how,’ I said, bowing towards the young lady, who was upright once more. ‘I am delighted to meet you,’ I said, taking her hand.

  ‘Dobro pozhdlovat,’ she replied, with a gentle smile and a tilt to her head that, I confess, I found wholly captivating.

  ‘You will be seeing more of her later,’ said Oscar teasingly. ‘We are invited to join the company for a post-performance glass of tea – or vodka.’

  ‘Can we come?’ Cyril asked, pulling on his father’s hand.

  ‘No,’ said Oscar, not unkindly. ‘It’s an invitation for gentlemen only. No boys.’

  ‘Or wives?’ asked Constance quietly.

  I had not noticed her until then. She had been standing a little apart from the group. I turned towards her. She stepped forward, smiling. ‘I am so pleased you could join us, Arthur. Oscar says you love the circus.’

  ‘Happy birthday,’ I said eagerly, tucking the parcel I was holding under my arm and taking both her hands in mine. She was wearing canary-yellow lace gloves and a bottle-green costume cut in the style of a huntsman’s coat. ‘You look wonderful,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘Well, it is the circus.’

  A bell was being sounded. We looked around the foyer: a variety of the smaller animals from the circus’s menagerie were on display, supervised by more young female acrobats in sequined leotards, some standing sentinel, two, I noticed, balancing on their hands on top of a cage that contained a sleeping leopard. A huge man, bearded and in uniform, dressed, it seemed, as Tsar Alexander III himself, was striding through the crowd on stilts, waving a handbell.

  ‘It’s extraordinary,’ said Constance.

  ‘It is rather splendid,’ I agreed.

  ‘It is time to find our seats,’ said Oscar. ‘I know the way, follow me.’ He nodded towards our acrobat. ‘Uvidimsya, Olga.’

  ‘Uvidimsya, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘Oscar comes here all the time,’ said Constance, taking my arm. ‘I believe he is having a liaison with the lady lion tamer.’

  Oscar was leading the way, holding one of his sons’ hands in each of his. Over his shoulder he asked, ‘Is it you who has set this detective on me, Constance?’

  ‘There is no detective, Oscar. You smoke too many cigarettes. You can’t see properly any longer.’

  We reached Oscar’s box. It was the royal box. It was palatial, in the manner of a children’s fairy tale, decked out in red and gold, with cushioned seats for eight, though there were only five of us. We took our places – with Oscar and Constance in the central, canopied thrones – and looked out over the vast arena. ‘This is the largest room in Europe,’ explained Oscar to his boys. ‘It can seat nine thousand people.’

  ‘It’s a three-ring circus,’ I said, looking down at the huge circles of sawdust below us. High above, mighty chandeliers, ropes, ladders, trapezes and what appeared to be a life-size replica of the Montgolfier brothers’ hot air balloon hung from the barrel-roof.

  ‘I am glad you’re impressed, Arthur. I believe we’re in for a treat.’

  We were. From the moment the Montgolfier balloon was lowered to the ground to the sound of guns and trumpets and the circus ringmaster – known as Ivan the Terrible, ‘the presiding genius’, Oscar called him – emerged from its cradle riding on horseback, for three hours, without pause, we were presented with a cavalcade of excitement, colour, skill and surprise, the like of which I had never seen before and never expect to see again. African lions, Siberian leopards, Indian elephants, dancing bears and prancing horses, brass bands and balancing acts (in one of which the performers were all sea lions; in another, all chimpanzees), trapeze artists and sword-swallowers, tumblers, tightrope walker
s, jugglers, clowns, fire-eaters, dwarfs: it was indeed ‘the greatest show on earth’. Towards the end, the boys began to weary, but I was held throughout. And so was Oscar. ‘I love the circus, don’t you?’ he said, as we rose to sing the National Anthem at the close. ‘It is so much more real than life.’

  When it was over, exhausted and exhilarated, we escorted Constance and her sons onto the street. Oscar had a brougham waiting for them.

  ‘That was a wonderful birthday present, husband,’ she said to Oscar, kissing him on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I think Arthur has a little present for you, too,’ said Oscar, indicating the brown-paper parcel I had been clutching close to my side all evening.

  ‘No, no,’ I said quickly. ‘I shall bring Constance a present another day. This is something else.’

  ‘What is it?’ demanded Oscar, reaching out and feeling the paper parcel with his fingers. ‘It’s a lady’s handkerchief. It must be for Constance.’

  ‘No,’ I insisted, embarrassed.

  ‘It was for Constance, but now you’ve decided to give it to your young acrobat?’

  ‘Stop teasing him, Oscar,’ said Constance. ‘Goodnight, Arthur. Thank you for sharing my birthday treat with me.’

  ‘What is it?’ Oscar persisted.

  ‘It’s for you,’ I said. ‘It’s what you asked for.’

  ‘For me? What did I ask for?’

  ‘It’s the dead woman’s apron.’

  Constance bustled the boys into the carriage. She climbed in herself and looked back through the window. ‘I don’t know what you two are up to, but please take care. Please, I beg you.’

  ‘I can explain,’ I said.

  ‘No, no,’ said Oscar earnestly, ‘don’t. Please don’t. Nowadays we have so few mysteries left, we cannot afford to part with even one of them.’ He called to his sons: ‘Goodnight, boys. Look after your mother.’ He looked into his wife’s eyes steadily. ‘Goodnight, Constance. I shall see you later in the week. I have work to do, you understand.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said, smiling sadly. She blew a kiss towards me as the brougham began to move away.

  ‘And now,’ announced Oscar, ‘na pasashok!’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

  ‘“One for the road”, I think. I’m not entirely sure. What little Russian I have I’ve picked up from Salazkin.’

  ‘He’s our host?’

  ‘And the ringmaster. And the knife-thrower.’

  ‘Ivan the Terrible?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a good name, isn’t it?’

  ‘And is he a good man?’

  ‘You can judge for yourself. He is certainly generous. And he has beautiful manners. And he speaks perfect English. It’s just a touch too perfect. That’s how we know he isn’t English. He’s quite difficult to read. More Count Tolstoy than Mr Dickens.’

  Oscar led me back into the Olympia Hall, through the throng emerging from the circus, back up the grand staircase to the second floor. Given his bulk, the ease and speed with which he moved often surprised me.

  ‘Where are we going? I thought circus people lived in caravans.’

  ‘They do. The caravans are in the field behind the hall, with cages for the animals. But after the performance, Ivan the Terrible holds court up here – in the Prince’s Apartments.’

  We had reached a long, narrow corridor, on the north side of the building, with a set of ornate double doors at the end of it. Above the doors, in gilt lettering, a notice read: The Prince’s Apartments.

  ‘Yes,’ said Oscar, named in honour of the Prince of Wales – with his approval, for his use. The excellent directors of the National Agricultural Hall Company, owners of Olympia, thought His Royal Highness might like to entertain his mistresses here – and they were right. He does.’

  Both doors swung suddenly open and there stood Ivan the Terrible – barely recognisable without his moustaches. His face was smooth and featureless, covered in a layer of make-up so thick that it was impossible at a glance to reckon his age. He was wearing a dressing gown and carpet slippers and seemed shorter and much slighter than he had appeared in the circus ring.

  ‘And his late son,’ he said in a clear, clipped, light voice, ‘the lamented Duke of Clarence and Avondale, liked to come here, too. He used the apartments to entertain his young gentlemen friends. I’ve never believed that he was Jack the Ripper, have you?’

  He took Oscar’s hands in both of his. They were quite small hands, I noticed. ‘Welcome, Oscar,’ he said warmly. He smiled at me knowingly. ‘I have perfect hearing, perfect eyesight and, yes, I speak perfect English – but only because my mother, who was Hungarian, was an ardent Anglophile and engaged an English governess to give me my education. The good lady came from Cheltenham. She found circus life quite a trial.’ He returned his gaze to Oscar and looked at him admiringly. ‘So here you are, Oscar, gossiping as usual, but looking well – and with the great Arthur Conan Doyle with you, as you promised.’ He beckoned us over the threshold. ‘Welcome to the Prince’s Apartments. Welcome to the Russian Circus. It is good to meet you, Dr Doyle. The company is excited that you are here. We all love Oscar. Why? Because he is good enough to love us.’

  We stood for a moment in a small ante-room. We could hear a hubbub of men’s voices in the room beyond. ‘I am pleased to see you, Ivan,’ said Oscar. ‘The performance was perfection – as ever. In fact, I think it was better than ever. Thank you for your hospitality.’

  ‘I am relieved to see you, Oscar. I read about the murder in your neck of the woods. Was it very violent? A lady of the night, I assume?’

  Oscar caught my eye. ‘You see. Mr Salazkin has all our English idioms on the tip of his tongue. “Neck of the woods”, “lady of the night”. And he loves a good murder.’

  The ringmaster smiled. ‘It’s in the blood.’

  ‘He claims to be descended from Countess Elizabeth Báthory,’ said Oscar, ‘the lady who, notoriously, killed some six hundred and fifty girls so that she could take baths in their blood.’

  Still smiling, our host murmured, ‘She had a wonderful complexion.’

  ‘And for a Russian of Hungarian descent, he has a very English sense of humour, don’t you think?’ Oscar touched the ringmaster on the arm. ‘Since you ask, was it very violent? Yes, the poor woman was stabbed thirty-nine times and virtually dismembered – but, thus far, no one seems to know who she is.’

  ‘But you are safe, Oscar,’ said our host, opening the inner door. ‘That is what counts. And the creator of Sherlock Holmes is with us and that’s exciting. Now, gentlemen, you must have a drink and meet the company.’

  ‘We must salute the company,’ said Oscar emphatically.

  We proceeded to do exactly that. There were perhaps twenty of them in the room and I saw at once that the number did not include Olga, the young acrobat. These were all men, and mostly older men, burly, almost brutish in appearance, and, while several spoke French, none had a command of English remotely on a par with that of the ringmaster. Conversation was consequently limited. We shook hands enthusiastically. We said ‘Bravo!’ repeatedly. I nodded acknowledgement when they boomed at me, ‘Sherlock Holmes! Sherlock Holmes!’ and slapped me on the back.

  I accepted a glass of acrid black tea from the samovar. I saw Oscar throw back three glasses of vodka in quick succession and was grateful to see him decline a fourth. Our host left us to our own devices, so we mingled as best we could. We did not stay long.

  As we left the party, and were descending the grand staircase, now shrouded in darkness, Oscar whispered to me: ‘You saw him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Saw who?’

  ‘The man who was serving the vodka – the man who fetched you your tea.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘It was Ostrog – Michael Ostrog – Macnaghten’s “homicidal maniac”. I know now why I recognised his photograph. He is the man who delivers my caviar.’

  10

  The Surrey County Lunatic Asylum


  ‘Every man would like to have a mistress.’

  Once again Oscar was in puckish form at the breakfast table. I had spent a second night at the Langham Hotel and on this Wednesday morning – it was now 3 January 1894 – I had arrived in the dining room only moments after my friend. He was standing by a window table, looking out into the street. He was dressed in the same suit as on the day before, but wore a fresh buttonhole (a Christmas rose) and a pale pink tie to match. I took his evident ebullience to indicate that his mystery follower was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Every man would like to have a mistress,’ he repeated, grinning at me impishly while taking his place at the table, and, in my view, should be encouraged to do so.’

  ‘You don’t mean it, Oscar,’ I said, taking my place opposite him and determined not to rise to his bait.

  ‘I do. Every great piece of music has its grace notes. Every great work of art calls for light as well as shade. For any marriage to survive beyond seven years the monotony of monogamy needs to be enlivened by the occasional caprice.’

  ‘This is dangerous talk, Oscar,’ I said, holding up my hand to silence him while the waiter took our breakfast order.

  ‘It’s common sense. What’s good enough for my friend the Prince of Wales is good enough for my friend Arthur Conan Doyle.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that you should return to the Russian Circus, find that delightful little acrobat of yours and take her out to supper.’

  ‘Please, Oscar!’ I protested.

  ‘You know you want to – and you know you can. Your wife is in Switzerland. Your offspring are with her. You are in London, alone, footloose and fancy-free. Carpe diem. Seize the day. Seize the girl!’

  ‘This is a ridiculous suggestion, Oscar – unworthy, shameful.’

  ‘It’s neither, Arthur, and you know it. I saw the way Olga looked at you and I saw the way you looked at her. It was altogether charming.’