‘Mrs Mathers? Mina Mathers? Mina Bergson as was? This is wonderful,’ cried Willie. ‘This calls for a drink. Lily! Constance! Come down, ladies.’ He turned towards the staircase. ‘The present Mrs Wilde and the future Mrs Wilde are upstairs in the nursery.’ There was a flurry of skirts on the landing. ‘No they’re not. They’re on their way to join us – and don’t they look charming?’
Constance was dressed in her favourite primrose yellow, her hair tied up with yellow ribbons. The future Mrs William Wilde was all in green velvet. A tall, willowy lady, with a long, thin birdlike face, she had large dark eyes, thick black hair and her height, already considerable, was accentuated by a green feather tucked inside a velvet band that ran around her dark brown brow. She gave the immediate impression of intelligence and nerviness, of being a curious cross between a Red Indian squaw and the type of young lady we would soon be calling a ‘New Woman.
‘It’s to be a séance,’ Willie continued enthusiastically, ‘with Mrs Mathers putting through the calls. Forget bezique, ladies. We are going to be communicating with “the other side”. Perhaps Joan of Arc will be in touch.’ He turned to me, beaming. ‘It’s usually Joan of Arc, isn’t it, Dr Doyle? We all speak French, don’t we?’
‘You didn’t tell me about this, Oscar,’ said Constance, not unkindly, coming down the stairs and welcoming me with a squeeze of the hand.
‘The opportunity suddenly came up,’ said Oscar.
‘I’d have prepared sandwiches had I known. Are oysters appropriate for a séance?’
‘Oh, yes,’ gurgled Willie, now leading the way out of the hall and into the dining room. ‘Oysters are notorious as aphrodisiacs. Bringing the dead to life is their speciality.’
Oscar barked a hollow laugh.
‘Oscar, Arthur,’ said Constance, ‘may I present Miss Lily Lees, Willie’s fiancée? She comes from Dublin.’
‘I know,’ said Oscar, taking the lady’s hand and bowing his head. ‘I’m sure we’ve met before. I know we will have friends in common. I’m only sorry they don’t include my older brother.’
‘Oscar!’ Constance scolded. ‘Pay no attention to him, Lily. Willie gave my husband’s last play a disobliging review and I’m afraid Oscar cannot bring himself to forgive and forget – quite yet.’
Oscar said nothing. I said, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Lees.’
‘Who is Mrs Mathers?’ she asked. Her voice was unexpectedly resonant and her accent suggested New England rather than Dublin.
‘Mina’s lovely,’ said Constance. ‘We know her through the Order of the Golden Dawn. She is an artist and a seeress and a prophetess – and altogether wonderful. I love her.’
‘She’s a character,’ said Oscar. ‘Indeed, I thought she might be a character in a play I am planning to write.’
Willie called from the dining room: ‘Oh no, not another one.’
Constance put her forefinger to Oscar’s lips. ‘Don’t say a word, Oscar. Don’t rise to it.’ She turned to me and to Miss Lees. ‘We are in for a treat, I know. Mina has a very special gift. Let us help Willie prepare the room.’
Setting the scene did not take long. In a matter of moments, with the curtains drawn and the candles lit, with its pure white walls, white carpet and white chairs, and with a fresh white damask cloth spread out over the table, the Wildes’ dining room was suddenly transformed into the council chamber of an ice palace in a Nordic fairy tale.
‘This is magical,’ said Lily Lees.
‘I will look after the drinks, if I may, Constance?’ said Willie. ‘Champagne?’
‘We can’t have champagne for a séance,’ said Oscar. ‘Unless you’ve brought some with you, Willie?’
‘Don’t start bickering, you two,’ said Constance. ‘We need a calm atmosphere. We need serenity.’
‘Something German, then?’ suggested Willie.
‘We don’t want Schiller coming through, do we?’ said Oscar.
Willie chuckled. ‘That’s quite funny, Oscar. You can put that in your play. And you’re right. It’s got to be French.’
‘Alsatian,’ said Oscar softly, ‘if you’re expecting Joan of Arc.’
‘What time is Mina coming?’ asked Constance, tidying her hair. I was watching her in the mirror above the fireplace. Her face looked so lovely in the flickering yellow candlelight.
Oscar consulted his timepiece as the doorbell rang. ‘Half past seven. This will be her.’
‘Is she bringing Bergson?’
‘No,’ said Oscar. ‘She is bringing Walter Wellbeloved.’
‘Oh my God,’ cried Willie, ‘the Jack the Ripper suspect?’
‘Yes,’ said Oscar, ‘but we won’t dwell on that, if you don’t mind, Willie. There are some things a gentleman does not talk about before dinner.’
13
The Séance
In recent years I have become increasingly fascinated by psychic phenomena. I have taken part in psychic experiments across the globe, from America to Australia. I have communed with spirits from the world beyond and done so frequently and through the good offices of mediums young and old, male and female. Here and there, I have encountered false mediums, of course. I have been the occasional victim of trickery. There are charlatans in every walk of life. But over time I have come to accept that what Hamlet told Horatio is true and there are indeed more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.
In 1894 I was younger, less experienced and more sceptical. I was no doubt prejudiced, too. The Wildes were Irish and everyone knows that the Irish believe in fairies. Oscar and Constance were poets also, and a poet’s view of life tends to the romantic and the fanciful. I am a Scotsman and a scientist. I deal in facts. I write in prose.
You, my reader, must make what you will of what occurred in the Wildes’ dining room on the night of Wednesday 3 January 1894. Here are the sceptic’s notes I wrote up later that same evening, presented as I penned them in my room at the Langham Hotel, without alteration or benefit of hindsight.
Séance held at Tite Street, Chelsea, 3.i.94
Present
Mina Mathers (née Mina Bergson), our medium. A young woman, not yet thirty, full of vitality and intelligence. No great beauty: a pointed nose and narrow chin. Dressed like a Romanian gypsy, she moved with a dancer’s grace and, as she spoke (quite softly), she painted pictures with ever-flowing hands and arms. When we were introduced, she said: ‘We have met before, in another time. I was once the goddess Isis. I believe you may have known my brother, Osiris – before I married him, before we had our child, Horus. Am I right?’ I was lost for words, but (I confess it) oddly charmed.
Walter Wellbeloved. 50, medium height but thin, almost cadaverous. Receding hair, small moustache, piercing eyes, considerable ‘presence’ and (to my surprise) a most musical voice. Apparently a medium himself (‘more an evoker of spirits’ than a seer, he explained), he had come as Mrs Mathers’ chaperone. ‘I am also her lover,’ he announced, without embarrassment. ‘When we have enjoyed congress, we find that the spirits are much more forthcoming.’ I was lost for words once more – but less charmed. In a whispered aside, Oscar instructed me to keep ‘the closest eye’ on Wellbeloved in case, during the séance, he should give himself away’.
William Wilde. 40s, appears older. Oscar’s brother and very like him – but, I fear, a slave to the demon drink.
Lily Lees, 30s, William Wilde’s fiancée. She said little. I could not fathom her. She watched her future husband become increasingly intemperate and smiled at him, offering no reproof. Throughout the evening, her features told no tales. Had she taken a powder to steady her nerves?
Oscar. Constance. Self.
There were no servants present. Before the séance, Constance fetched a large dish of oysters and bread and butter from the kitchen and Oscar allowed his brother to bring up copious quantities of white wine from the cold room, but Mrs Mathers and Mr Wellbeloved took nothing but water for refreshment. We stood for a while in the candlelit dining r
oom, picking at the food and exchanging pleasantries in a low murmur until a little before eight o’clock when Mrs Mathers lifted her arms slowly above her head and cooed, ‘I feel the spirits calling. Let us be seated.’
Mrs Mathers placed herself at the head of the table and, arranged by Oscar, we sat thus:
Mrs Mathers
Wm Wilde
Oscar
Lily Lees
Constance
Mr Wellbeloved
ACD
The ritual
Mrs Mathers held her arms aloft and invited us to join her in ‘the sacred circle’. She chanted ‘a prayer of peace’ and, from the far end of the table, every word she spoke was underscored by a melodious humming supplied by Mr Wellbeloved. She invited us to close our eyes and hold hands. Constance’s hand was warm to the touch; that of Mr Wellbeloved ice cold.
After several long minutes of chanted conjurations, invoking ancient gods and spirits manifold’, Mrs Mathers told us we could let go of one another’s hands and open our eyes. During the chanting, someone – Mr Wellbeloved, I assume – had blown out all the candles in the room, bar the one that stood on the table immediately in front of Mrs Mathers. In the gloom, her face shone, radiant yet pale and ghostlike.
‘The spirits are here,’ she said softly. ‘They are waiting for us at the gates.’
‘Who is there?’ Walter Wellbeloved asked the question.
‘So many,’ said Mrs Mathers.
‘Who are they? What are they?’
‘They are women. They are sad. They are weeping.’
‘Who are they seeking?’ asked Wellbeloved. ‘To whom do they wish to speak?’
‘I will ask them,’ said Mrs Mathers. She straightened her back and lifted her head so that her sharp nose pointed almost to the ceiling. She closed her eyes. ‘Spirits at the gate, why do you weep? Whom do you seek? Is there someone here for whom you have a message?’ She paused. I noticed Willie Wilde stir impatiently. Mrs Mathers, though her eyes were shut, sensed his movement and stilled him by gently laying her hand on his. ‘Hush,’ she said, ‘hush.’ And then, slowly, lightly, she began to toss her head from side to side. ‘They are speaking,’ she murmured. She raised her voice: ‘They are speaking all at once.’ She held up her hands as if to calm the multitude. ‘One at a time, please, ladies!’ She smiled. ‘That’s better. Thank you, my child.’ She laughed. ‘Who is it you seek? What? Your brother? My brother? Os ... Osiris? Not my brother, Osiris? Not Osiris. No ... Oscar! It is Oscar to whom you wish to speak?’
‘I am here,’ said Oscar.
Mrs Mathers opened her eyes and looked directly at Oscar. ‘Who are you seeking, Mr Wilde?’
Oscar turned to me. ‘Arthur, would you fetch Mrs Mathers the apron?’
Quickly I left the table and brought in my parcel from the cloak stand in the hallway. I gave it to Oscar who unwrapped it and handed Mrs Mathers the folded piece of cloth.
‘What is this?’ she asked.
‘It belonged to the young woman I am seeking,’ said Oscar, passing the material to Mrs Mathers.
‘Good,’ said the medium eagerly. ‘Very good.’ She did not unfurl it. She did not examine it. First she placed it beneath her nostrils and breathed in deeply and then, with both hands, she pressed the folded material to her forehead – hard – and, as she did so, began to rock to and fro. ‘Yes, yes,’ she cried, with ever-deepening intakes of breath, as if reaching a kind of ecstasy. ‘Yes, this is yours, my dear, is it not? It is yours. It is yours! I knew it. Your shawl is returned to you now. Oscar has brought it for you. He is here.’
‘I am here,’ said Oscar.
‘Can you hear him, my child?’
Mrs Mathers was now rocking forward and back, the folded apron still held to her head. ‘She hears you, Mr Wilde. Her sisters hear you. They are holding out their arms towards you in greeting. It is beautiful to behold.’
‘How many are there there?’ asked Oscar. ‘How many wish to speak to us?’
Mrs Mathers leaned forward and, eyes tight shut, looked about her. ‘I can see just three of them now. The others have stepped away from the gate. These are the three you have summoned.’
‘Are there not five of them?’
‘No, just the three that I can see. There are others, but they are standing behind. Speak to these three, Mr Wilde. What do you wish to ask of them?’
‘How did they die?’
Mrs Mathers lowered the apron from her forehead and, opening her eyes, looked directly at Oscar. ‘They are not “dead”, Mr Wilde. They are living in a world beyond ours, that is all.’
William Wilde shifted in his seat. Constance said gently, ‘Oscar understands. We all understand.’
‘How did they leave this world?’ asked Oscar. He spoke calmly, considering Mrs Mathers carefully as he spoke. ‘Can they recall? Can they tell us? Can they speak of the brutality of their parting?’
Suddenly Mrs Mathers was rocking once more, moving forward and back, breathing deeply. ‘They are crying out to you, Mr Wilde. They are saying that what you say is true. They were taken before their time – cruelly taken.’
‘Were they taken together by the same man? Can they tell us that? What do they know?’
‘You can speak to them directly, Mr Wilde. They can hear you through me. They will answer through my mouth.’ Mrs Mathers lifted Catherine Eddowes’ apron to her forehead once more. It covered her eyes. ‘They are answering you now, Mr Wilde. They want to share their sorrow with you.’
‘What are they saying?’
Mrs Mathers paused and held out her left hand to halt Oscar’s flow of questions. ‘They will answer you, Mr Wilde. Be patient.’ She threw her head back so that her covered face was pointing at the ceiling. Two of them died on the same night ... One died alone. Does that make sense? They are speaking all together now. They are so pleased that you care for them. They are grateful for your love.’
‘Can they tell me who took their lives?’ Oscar asked.
‘It was God’s will,’ Mrs Mathers answered at once.
‘It was the devil’s work,’ said Oscar sharply. They were violated, ripped apart.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Mathers, rocking once more, her head facing forward. ‘The girl whose shawl this is says there was no pain. You need feel no pity for her. She felt nothing at the moment of passing. She was overwhelmed in the darkness and then woke in the light of heaven. She is at peace now. She is content.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Oscar. ‘Do the others recall anything of the moment when they were taken? Can they describe what happened?’
Mrs Mathers gave a sudden shriek, violent and piercing, a cry of pain so real that I started. Wellbeloved reached across the table with a restraining hand. ‘It is the women,’ he said. ‘It is their pain. Mina is quite safe.’
William Wilde shifted in his seat once more. No one else at the table responded.
Mrs Mathers took a slow, deep breath, as if to calm herself. ‘They died in agony, Mr Wilde. They are shrinking away in terror as you ask your question.’
‘What happened to them? Can they tell you?’
‘They are raising their hands in horror. They are covering their faces. They are crying out.’
‘What happened?’
‘They were consumed.’
‘By whom? Who did this to them?’
‘They were consumed by fire.’
‘Stop!’ cried Willie Wilde, pushing his chair away from the table. ‘These are our sisters, Oscar!’ Angrily, he turned towards Mrs Mathers. ‘This must stop, madam. This is grotesque. Let’s have some light and let the dead rest in peace.’ Steadying himself, he got to his feet and taking the candle that stood in front of Mrs Mathers he lit the other candles on the table. ‘I need a drink,’ he said. ‘I’m sure we all do.’
‘I think we should go home,’ said Miss Lees, getting to her feet.
‘I’ll have one drink,’ said Willie Wilde, ‘and then we’ll go.’ He leaned on the table and looked at Oscar
. ‘You realise that those were our poor dead sisters, Oscar. Let them rest in peace.’
Oscar sat, strangely silent, his hands laid out on the white tablecloth, his fingers splayed.
Walter Wellbeloved pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Who were you expecting, Mr Wilde?’ he asked. ‘The victims of Jack the Ripper?’
Oscar smiled. ‘Possibly,’ he said, still gazing down at his own hands.
‘They were all fallen women, Mr Wilde – of the worst sort. You’re hardly going to find them at the gates of heaven, are you? They’ll all have gone to hell.’
14
Kippers
‘Did you keep your eye on Wellbeloved throughout?’
‘It was a little difficult in the dark, but yes. I did as you asked.’
‘And what did you make of him?’
‘I didn’t warm to him, but I can’t say that I saw him do anything to suggest he might be Jack the Ripper.’
‘Unfortunately, the séance did not proceed quite as I had hoped.’ Oscar poked at the orange kipper that sat untouched on the plate in front of him. ‘What did you make of it all?’
‘I am not sure,’ I said.
‘I am,’ said my friend emphatically, pushing his breakfast away from him and opening up his cigarette case. ‘I concede that for a moment or two I was lulled, carried away by the candlelight and the chanting – just as the idea of these kippers seemed a tempting one ten minutes ago. And then the reality dawned – the kippers came and didn’t smell quite right. When Mrs Mathers began sniffing at the poor dead girl’s apron it was a theatrical touch too far for me. I smelled a rat.’
‘You’re mixing your metaphors now, Oscar,’ I laughed. ‘That’s not like you.’
‘I’m having a cooked breakfast at nine o’clock in the morning. That’s not like me either. These are confusing times, Arthur, but I think we can be clear about last night.’
Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper Page 9