Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper

by Gyles Brandreth

  As we descended, Oscar whispered to me, ‘Don’t say a word.’

  The steps led directly onto a second long corridor that must have been immediately beneath the corridor above. Here there were no windows on the left-hand side, just a whitewashed stone wall bleakly illuminated by half a dozen electric light bulbs that hung from wires in the ceiling along the length of the corridor like so many hangman’s nooses. The doors on the right-hand side were similar to those on the floor above, except that these appeared to be made of iron or steel, painted dark green, and, at eye-height, each one had a small square window in it, no bigger than a clenched fist.

  ‘Ostrog’s in cell three,’ said Gabriel. ‘He’s probably asleep. He usually is. We don’t need to go in. You can see him through the spyhole.’

  To my surprise, Oscar stepped forward first and looked through the tiny window into the cell. ‘Mary Mother of God!’ he cried. ‘Jesus wept.’

  I pulled him away at once and put my own eye to the window – and gasped. Within three inches of my eye, staring directly into it, was the man’s right eye. It was a hideous sight: the cornea clouded and milky, the sclera speckled and yellow, the eyelid red-rimmed and encrusted with mucus.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Dr Gabriel.

  ‘He is standing right by the door,’ I explained, lowering my voice to a whisper.

  Dr Gabriel took my place at the spyhole. ‘Oh yes, it’s lunchtime. He’s waiting for his food.’ The superintendent banged on the metal door with the palm of his hand. ‘Not yet, Ostrog. Soon. Din-dins coming soon. Back to bed now.’ He continued to beat the door. ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ He turned back to us. ‘He’s retreated to his bunk. You can see him better now.’

  Oscar and I took it in turns to inspect the man once more. He sat on the edge of his bed, gazing directly at us, making no noise, betraying no emotion.

  ‘A broken dog, as you say,’ murmured Oscar.

  ‘What age would he be?’ I asked.

  ‘Sixty or thereabouts.’

  ‘And the mania, has it subsided?’

  ‘There have been no episodes of mania since he was admitted.’

  ‘Not one?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘Not one.’

  ‘You don’t consider him a homicidal maniac, then?’

  ‘No. That was the police surgeon’s diagnosis, not mine.’

  ‘So why is he locked up?’

  ‘It’s what the court ordered. But I wouldn’t release him now, even if I could. He’s not fit to fend for himself. As you can see, he’s a helpless imbecile.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Gabriel.’

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

  We climbed the steep steps back into the hallway and bade our genial host farewell.

  He beamed at us, shook my hand heartily and, I noticed, offered Oscar a friendly salute rather than a handshake. He was more sensitive than his bluff manner suggested. ‘If there is anything else I can do for you, gentlemen, I shall be only too pleased to help.’

  ‘There’s one thing,’ said Oscar, as we stood by the open door, a chill January wind suddenly whipping into the hallway. ‘Do you have photographs of Ostrog?’

  ‘Only the ones taken here on the day of his admission. I can unearth them quite quickly. I know the date: the first of April 1891 – All Fools’ Day. We’ll take another set in 1901 – should the poor devil live that long. We photograph each inmate every ten years.’

  ‘You’ve not got any earlier photographs?’

  ‘I didn’t know there were any. I’ve not seen them. The police might have some. Macnaghten may be able to help you there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Is there anything more I can do for you?’ asked the superintendent.

  No. Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  We clambered aboard our waiting two-wheeler. ‘Simpson’s-in-the-Strand,’ ordered Oscar, looking out of the cab window and offering Dr Gabriel a final farewell wave. The good man stood on the front step of his asylum, watching, winking and waving, until we had turned out of the gates towards Tooting High Road.

  ‘That’s not Ostrog,’ said Oscar emphatically, settling back into the corner of the cab and opening his cigarette case.

  ‘Or that is Ostrog,’ I countered, ‘and the man you saw at the Russian Circus is someone else.’

  ‘No, the man I saw at the circus – the man who has been delivering caviar to me in Tite Street – is the man in the photograph in Macnaghten’s file. He is Michael Ostrog. This poor unfortunate imbecile is someone else altogether.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ I asked.

  ‘Have lunch,’ said Oscar, sucking slowly on his cigarette. ‘“Have lunch” is always the best answer to a difficult question.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we return to the Russian Circus?’

  ‘All in good time. There’s no hurry. You know my maxim: “Men of thought should have nothing to do with action.’”

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Fools rush in, et cetera

  ‘Exactly. And, my God, the Metropolitan Police are fools!’ He exhaled a cloud of purple cigarette smoke and, leaning towards me, spoke through it like an oracle appearing through the clouds at Delphi. ‘Macnaghten’s brief told us Ostrog was a Russian doctor whose “antecedents are of the very worst”. Macnaghten knows nothing of Ostrog’s antecedents! There’s no evidence that Ostrog’s a doctor of any kind! And I doubt very much that he’s even Russian. He’s more likely to be Polish or Lithuanian.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Ostrog liked to call himself Count Sobieski. The Sobieskis were kings of Poland and Grand Dukes of Lithuania – in the good old days.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘You did. You’ve just forgotten.’

  I smiled. Oscar continued earnestly: ‘Macnaghten and the Metropolitan Police will never solve the mystery of the Whitechapel murders. Never! They know nothing. I do believe, Arthur, it really is down to us.’ He turned and looked out of the cab window again. After a moment or two’s silence, he said slowly: ‘I shall have roast beef from the trolley and, given the weather, I think we should both allow ourselves the onion gravy.’

  In the distance, a clock struck the hour. ‘Big Ben comes from Whitechapel, you know. Until these horrible murders occurred, the Whitechapel Bell Foundry was the district’s principal claim to fame. The bell that is Big Ben is more than seven foot tall and nine foot wide and weighs at least thirteen tons – as much as a baby elephant. Macnaghten knows none of this!’

  I laughed. ‘How do you know it?’

  ‘I have two sons. As you’ll discover as your children grow, Arthur, it’s the sort of information a father needs at his fingertips if he is to have any hope of being respected in his own household.’

  ‘Very good, Oscar.’

  He sat forward suddenly. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Two o’clock.’

  ‘Damnation. We’re late.’

  ‘You have reserved a table? They know you at Simpson’s.’

  ‘I have invited a guest.’ My friend was now anxiously peering out of the cab’s side window. ‘There he is.’ He called up to the driver: ‘Whoa! Stop!’

  We were already in the Strand. Oscar pushed open the door and jumped down from our carriage. A few yards from us, on the pavement’s kerb, outside the Savoy Hotel, adjacent to Simpson’s restaurant, scowling at his timepiece while waiting to cross the street, stood the distinctive figure of Richard Mansfield. I recognised him at once, but even if you had never seen his well-favoured, clean-shaven, finely contoured face before you would have known this was an actor – and one who considered himself a leading man. There was a crowd waiting to cross the street with him and most certainly did Mansfield stand out from it. He wore a long, black opera cloak (with ornate silver clasp); he sported a monocle in his right eye and he carried a silver-topped cane in his right hand. He was not especially tall, but he seemed it because he wore the kind of high black hat that everyone wore in the 1850s but only an actor-manager of the old sch
ool would wear today.

  The moment he caught sight of Oscar coming from our two-wheeler towards him, he called out dismissively: ‘It’s too late, Wilde! I have another appointment.’

  Oscar, arms outstretched, pressed on, offering profuse apologies. Abruptly, Mansfield turned away. ‘It’s too late, I say.’

  As he reached the actor, Oscar put out a soothing hand. ‘Don’t touch me, man!’ cried Mansfield, in a sudden rage. ‘How dare you?’ He turned and raised his cane. For a dreadful moment I thought he was about to strike Oscar a blow, but instead he held his stick mid-air in a theatrical, threatening gesture that would have been laughable had it not been accompanied by a vehement outburst that chilled the blood. ‘You are contemptible, Wilde. First you insult me by sending me a telegram bringing up vile and unfounded allegations that were laid to rest years ago. Then, when, foolishly, I agree to meet you to discuss the matter, you leave me standing in the street like one of your disgusting Mary-Anns. I’ve waited here almost an hour. How dare you? What business is it of yours anyway? Who the devil do you think you are?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Oscar.

  Mansfield said nothing, but lowered his cane, turned and stepped off the pavement into the roadway. Darting elegantly through the traffic, holding his hat against the wind, he crossed the street and disappeared from view.

  Oscar came back to where I was still standing by the two-wheeler. He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes: ‘I think a really fine Burgundy is what we need with our roast beef and onion gravy, don’t you?’

  We had a most excellent lunch. We followed the beef with Simpson’s celebrated apple pie and custard, and after one bottle of fine Burgundy felt equal to another. We talked of Mansfield and his sudden anger. ‘He’s famous for it,’ said Oscar. ‘He’s half-American: they’re quick to take offence. And I believe he’s currently playing Napoleon on stage – that may have something to do with it.’

  ‘It’s curious,’ I mused, ‘that a man who simply murders another man is regarded as a common criminal, but a man like Napoleon – responsible for thousands of cruel deaths – becomes a national hero.’

  ‘There’s glory in numbers,’ said Oscar. ‘In France, they’ve erected statues of Gilles de Rais, companion-at-arms to Joan of Arc and the self-confessed murderer of little children. He slew them by the score, by the hundred – sodomised them first, then cut them up and preserved the heads of the prettiest ones in aspic.’

  ‘How can a human being do such a thing?’

  ‘Easily, if he has the power and the will, and the stomach and the soul for it.’

  ‘He had a soul of darkness.’

  ‘Indeed. Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul. And, like it or not, he’s joined the ranks of the great immortals.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Oh, yes, thanks to that jet-black hair with the cobalt hue. As Bluebeard, he’s world famous. And the hero of one of our favourite Christmas pantomimes.’

  When lunch was done, Oscar paid the bill – despite my protestations – and we returned in our two-wheeler to the Langham Hotel. ‘I’m going to take a rest now,’ he said, ‘and ponder why it is that a man turns to murder and to mutilation. We’ll only solve the mysteries of the Whitechapel murders if we think them through. Action is limited and relative. Unlimited and absolute is the vision of him who sits at ease and watches, who walks in loneliness and dreams.’

  I smiled and recalled that my friend had ordered a large brandy to accompany his coffee after lunch. ‘And I shall go shopping,’ I said. ‘If I’m to stay in town for a day or two more, I need a fresh shirt.’

  ‘Don’t change for dinner tonight,’ said Oscar.

  ‘What are we doing tonight?’

  ‘We’re going back to Tite Street.’

  ‘Is Constance expecting us?’

  ‘Not at present. I shall go in advance to prepare the ground. You can arrive around seven. Bring Catherine Eddowes’ apron with you. We shall need it.’

  I waved my friend off to his room and set off down Regent Street towards the bazaar at Regent Circus. I was standing there, at the corner of Oxford Street, looking into the window of a small gentleman’s outfitter when, in the reflection in the glass, I saw two figures pass by that I recognised: one was Oscar, unmistakably; the other was Martin, the young waiter from the Langham Hotel.

  12

  Oysters

  For a while I had sensed that all was not well within the Wilde marriage. Oscar was frequently away from home and I could see how easily he was beguiled by the company of young men. But until I caught sight of his reflection in the glass of that shop window at the corner of Oxford Street, it had not – for a single moment – occurred to me that my friend was a man who might have carnal relations with another man.

  I was not overly shocked by the notion (I am a man of the world and a doctor), but I was surprised. When I first saw Oscar and Constance together, five years before, they seemed to me to be so ideally matched and their affection – their love – for one another was palpable. But beyond surprise, as I stood outside the gentleman’s outfitters on that gusty January afternoon, I felt a twinge of anger. My friend had said that he was planning to take a rest, when in fact he was planning to take to the streets with this young man ... He had told me one thing and done another.

  I felt deceived – and aggrieved as a consequence. I decided that I must question my friend on the matter – and as soon as possible. We could not continue this investigation together if there was not to be openness and honesty between us. A friendship without frankness is not worthy of the name.

  I proceeded into the store and bought two shirts. I chose neither wisely nor well. (I am old-fashioned: I believe a gentleman’s shirts are best chosen by his wife.) When I got back to the hotel, Oscar was not there, of course. An hour later, still he had not returned. I decided to make my way to Tite Street earlier than I had planned, with a view to arriving a little before the agreed hour and securing a private word with my friend.

  My stratagem failed. Even as I stood on the doorstep at 16 Tite Street I could hear raised voices within. An altercation of some kind was taking place in the hallway. The moment that I rang the bell, the front door swung open. Oscar stood there, his face flushed, irritation in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. I was showing my brother out. You are earlier than I expected.’

  ‘I apologise.’

  He leaned towards me urgently. ‘Did you remember the apron?’

  I indicated the brown parcel tucked underneath my arm.

  ‘Very good,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t mention it until I ask you for it and on no account say what it is or where it comes from.’

  ‘What’s all this about, Oscar?’ I said quietly.

  ‘I’m laying a trap.’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘Walter Wellbeloved.’ Stepping back from the doorway, my friend suddenly raised his voice and called over his shoulder, ‘My brother is just leaving.’

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ said Willie Wilde, emerging from beneath the kitchen stairway arch at the far end of the hall. He was smoking a cigar and holding what looked like a tumbler of whisky. ‘He’s only just arrived and he’s looking forward to a jolly evening. Mrs Wilde has promised a few oysters and some Chablis and a game or two of cards.’ He walked towards me, brushing past Oscar. ‘If you won’t play with us, brother, perhaps your friend will.’ He put his cigar in his mouth and put out his hand to shake mine. ‘We’ve not been introduced. My brother doesn’t know the meaning of manners. But I know exactly who you are. You are the celebrated Dr Arthur Conan Doyle. I envy you. You have created the great Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘You envy everybody, Willie,’ murmured Oscar. ‘Come in, Arthur,’ he said to me. ‘Let me take your coat.’

  ‘I used to envy you your lovely little wife, Oscar,’ boomed Willie, ‘but I don’t any more because now I have my own.’ He turned to me to explain. His manner was d
isconcertingly like Oscar’s, but his beard and waxed moustache gave him the appearance of a Spanish grandee. ‘I am marrying this month, Dr Doyle. I only proposed at Christmas. I don’t believe in long engagements.’

  ‘Or long marriages,’ said Oscar tartly.

  ‘That is not friendly, brother.’

  ‘You are a journalist, Willie. I am not on friendly terms with journalists. I don’t trust them.’

  ‘I’m a leader writer,’ Willie explained to me. And I sell the occasional freelance paragraph when I can.’

  ‘This is my house,’ said Oscar. ‘I will choose who I invite here. I choose not to entertain journalists.’

  Willie raised his glass defiantly towards his brother. ‘It’s your wife’s house also. I am here as her guest at her invitation. We are here to play cards. I am not leaving until and unless Constance instructs me to do so.’

  Oscar looked at his timepiece. ‘Stay if you must,’ he said wearily, ‘but we are not playing cards. I have other plans for this evening.’

  ‘Oh, God, you’re not going to read us one of your plays, are you? Constance tells me that now Bosie’s away, you’re getting back to work.’

  Oscar gazed at his brother with cold eyes. ‘We are conducting a séance here this evening – a psychical experiment. Perhaps you and your fiancée, Willie, would care to take part. I understand from Mrs Mathers that seven is the ideal number of participants. I thought we would be five. Since you are here, you can at least serve some useful purpose.’

  ‘A séance?’ Willie began to rumble with delight. He polished off his whisky. ‘A séance!’ he repeated. ‘That’s much more fun than cards. Did you know that was the plan, Dr Doyle?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I had no idea.’ I looked towards Oscar, somewhat perplexed.

  ‘Have you ever taken part in a séance before?’ asked Willie.

  I hesitated. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘yes, I have. In Southsea. It was a somewhat laborious process, as I recall. Sitting in the dark, spelling out words, letter by letter.’

  ‘This will be different,’ said Oscar. ‘Mrs Mathers is able to speak directly to the other side and whoever may be there in the spirit world can speak directly through her to us – or so I understand.’