‘Whether or not Wellbeloved is Jack the Ripper, as communers with the spirit world he and Mrs Mathers are charlatans?’
‘Or very, very eager to please.’
‘Your brother appeared to be convinced.’
‘Willie has always been a credulous soul. He’ll believe anything except what’s worth believing.’
‘Why conjure up the spirits of your dead sisters, of all people?’
‘Because I had asked for a séance and when people request a séance it is almost invariably because they wish to reconnect with a lost loved one. Mrs Mathers knows I had a sister who died when we were children. I’ve told you the story, Arthur.’
‘I remember,’ I said. ‘She was ten and you were twelve. Isola – that was her name. You published a poem in her memory.’
‘Exactly. My poem is published. The story is in the public domain.’ Oscar drew on his cigarette and half-turned to gaze out of the dining-room window onto Langham Place. ‘And Mrs Mathers comes from Ireland, so she also knows the tragic tale of my two half-sisters, consumed by fire on the terrible night when their ball gowns were accidentally set alight. She takes these long-ago tragedies and uses them to considerable effect – at least so far as Willie is concerned.’
‘But could not your sisters genuinely have been trying to contact you from the other side?’
‘They could, most certainly – but why should they? Last night, when Mrs Mathers and Mr Wellbeloved arrived at Tite Street no one had the Wilde girls on their mind, did they? Willie had mentioned that Wellbeloved was one of the Jack the Ripper suspects. I had arranged the séance thinking entirely of the Whitechapel victims. We gave Mrs Mathers poor Catherine Eddowes’ apron. If we were summoning anyone, it wasn’t Isola and Mary and Emily. It was Catherine Eddowes. I wanted to confront Wellbeloved with one of his victims. Instead, he and his accomplice turned the tables and confronted me and Willie with our dead sisters.’
‘Why do you think your brother brought the séance to such a sudden close?’
‘Because he believed they were indeed our sisters and he has never come to terms with the reality of their deaths. Some drink to drown their sorrows. Willie drinks to avoid sorrow altogether.’
A silence fell between us. Oscar continued to gaze out of the window and draw slowly on his cigarette. I poured myself some more coffee and wondered what best to say next. ‘I liked his fiancée,’ I volunteered at last – admittedly, without a great deal of conviction.
‘I did, too,’ said Oscar, with surprising enthusiasm. ‘She admired my coat – and didn’t mention her own wedding. You could not ask for much more in a woman.’ He chuckled. ‘They’re staying with my mother in Oakley Street, you know.’
‘Did you go back there with them last night?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Oscar. ‘My brother does not interest me. I interest him a great deal, I fear. That is one of his life’s tragedies. What interests me at the moment, Arthur, is our case.’ He turned his chair back towards the dining table and addressed me through a swirl of purple smoke. ‘Who was Jack the Ripper? That is the question.’
‘And are we any closer to the answer?’
‘When you returned to the hotel last night, I gave Mrs Mathers a lift back to her flat and then joined Wellbeloved for a nightcap at his club.’
‘And what did you learn?’
‘That he only drinks water or blood.’
‘Good God.’
‘Indeed – though he was perfectly happy for me to have a brandy and soda.’
I laughed. ‘Should I be taking notes?’ I asked.
‘Possibly,’ said Oscar. ‘Walter Wellbeloved believes in human sacrifice, but only when it is self-sacrifice. The ancient gods require a human offering from time to time, but, according to Wellbeloved, they’re quite fussy. Killing someone at random won’t appease them. It seems the pagan deities Wellbeloved worships need a knowing sacrifice – and they need innocent blood to be spilled in their honour. Sacrificing a sinner is a worthless gesture. He knows people have accused him of being Jack the Ripper. He sees how his writings about pagan sacrifice, insufficiently carefully read, have led the ignorant to make wild allegations, but he denies being Jack the Ripper absolutely. He assured me that he would only be involved in killing someone if that person was a true believer and wanted to be killed – and then he would need to be certain that the person concerned was worthy of the office. To kill a common harlot by way of sacrifice would be to insult the gods, not honour them.’
‘So do we eliminate Wellbeloved from our inquiries?’
‘We’re in no position to eliminate anyone yet. Walter Wellbeloved was in London at the time of each of the Whitechapel murders and doesn’t deny the occasional sortie to Whitechapel during 1888.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘To visit a friend of his, so he told me last night – a showman by the name of Tom Norman. Have you heard of him? He’s well known in certain circles. He has an emporium in the Whitechapel Road where he exhibits freaks of nature. Wellbeloved fell in love with one of them, it seems – a mermaid called Rosie.’
‘Oh my God,’ I exclaimed, shaking my head in disbelief.
‘There’s no accounting for taste when Eros spreads his wings,’ said Oscar, smiling. He stubbed out his cigarette and looked about the dining room. ‘I think we need these kippers cleared away, don’t you?’
‘So Wellbeloved remains on the list of suspects?’
‘For the time being, yes. And I think we should go to Whitechapel to visit Mr Norman.’
‘And the mermaid?’
‘She’s dead. Wellbeloved is distraught. He’s taken up with Mrs Mathers by way of consolation.’
‘How did the mermaid die?’ I asked, marvelling at the words I spoke even as I uttered them.
‘We shall discover when we get to Whitechapel. We need to go there anyway.’
‘We should be pursuing Ostrog, shouldn’t we?’
‘Oh, yes. Circuses, freak shows, lunatic asylums – this is the murder mystery that has it all, Arthur. “It was the best of crimes, it was the worst of crimes.” Your fortune is made.’
I tapped the table with my pencil. ‘It will only work as a story, Oscar, if we discover who did it. No one wants to read of a mystery that’s unresolved.’
‘Courage, mon brave. We’ll get there eventually. First, we have a second lunatic asylum to visit. In Colney Hatch, wherever that may be.’
‘It’s in North London, not far. Is this where Aaron Kosminski is incarcerated?’
‘Supposedly. But when we get there, we may discover that he has run away to the circus, too. I have sent a telegram to the asylum superintendent requesting an interview.’ He looked up and beamed at the white-jacketed waiter who had just arrived at our table. ‘Perhaps Martin has his reply?’
The young man was holding a silver salver on which sat a telegram addressed to Oscar. ‘It’s for you, sir,’ said the lad.
Oscar looked at me and winked. ‘I’ve told him not to call me “Oscar” when he’s at work. The maître d’hôtel might not understand.’
I said nothing, but thought to myself: the maître d’hôtel might understand all too well.
‘Now, Martin,’ continued Oscar gaily, ‘before you clear away these foul-smelling kippers and bring us some fresh toast and hot coffee, tell Dr Doyle what we were doing yesterday.’
‘When, sir?’ asked the boy.
‘Yesterday afternoon, Martin – when you took me off on that wild-goose chase into Soho and Dr Doyle caught sight of us in the shop window and became so alarmed.’
I looked at Oscar, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t know you’d seen me ...’
‘Of course I saw you, Arthur – and I saw what you were thinking, too.’
‘No, please, Oscar,’ I protested. ‘There’s no need to explain.’
‘There’s every reason to explain. You thought I had deceived you, did you not?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Because you are a good, honest,
open fellow, Arthur. And you are my friend. Friendship is love without his wings. You don’t deceive me and I would never deceive you. You should know that.’ He looked up at the young waiter once more. ‘Now, Martin, what were we doing?’
‘Following the gentleman, sir.’
‘Which gentleman?’
‘The gentleman who has been following you, sir.’
‘Thank you, Martin.’ Oscar took the telegram from the silver salver. ‘You may clear the kippers.’ The boy set about his duties and Oscar lit another cigarette. ‘Someone is pursuing me, Arthur – following me, trailing me, waiting outside whatever theatre or restaurant or club I happen to be visiting. He’s waiting outside the hotel here for me every night and he’s here again each morning. I saw him out of the window just now.’ I sat forward and looked out onto the hotel’s empty forecourt. ‘He’s gone,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t linger. He keeps a watchful eye and follows me, but always at a distance. I’ve tried to surprise him, turning back on him suddenly, but each time he’s slipped away. He’s too quick for me – so I’ve set Martin on to him. I’ve shown him to the lad and promised the boy a guinea if he can catch him for me.’
‘Have you any idea who he might be?’ I asked.
‘None whatsoever. He looks neither intelligent nor interesting. That’s why I took him for a detective.’
I laughed. ‘I’m glad we’ve cleared the air, Oscar. “Friendship is love without his wings.” I like that.’
‘You did not recognise it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s not mine. It’s Byron’s line. I’ve just borrowed it for the season.’
We looked at one another, easily. I felt comfortable in my friend’s company once more.
He tore open the telegram and read it.
‘Is this a genuine telegram?’ I asked.
‘Yes. And it’s not what I expected. It’s from Macnaghten. They’ve found another body in that alleyway off Tite Street.’
15
The Mortuary
Within the hour we found ourselves in the basement mortuary at New Scotland Yard, gazing down at the savagely disfigured body of a young woman. She was naked. Her large brown eyes were wide open; her short brown hair was smeared with blood. Her brow, her cheeks, her chin, her neck, her breasts were criss-crossed with knife markings: sharp lines drawn across the flesh, not deep incisions. The real violence had been inflicted below her waist: she had been disembowelled: her abdomen and uterus lay on the examination table next to her.
‘She’s no more than twenty,’ I said, staring bleakly at the poor, scarred creature.
‘Yes,’ said Macnaghten, with a brief, professional sigh, ‘she’s young.’
‘But she was strong,’ I said, puzzled by the contradictions the corpse presented. ‘Look at her arms – the well-developed biceps ... the triceps, too. And here, look at the calf muscle ...’
‘She was strong, she was fit,’ said Macnaghten, ‘so why didn’t she fight back?’
‘Exactly,’ I looked up and down the wretched remains. ‘It’s very strange. The extremities are unscathed. Her face and torso have been cut and slashed, but the shoulders, the arms, the hands, the feet are untouched. There’s no bruising there, no signs of a struggle.’
‘Yet her eyes are wide open, so she was not killed in her sleep.’
‘Would that she had been, poor child.’
‘She’s not a child,’ said Macnaghten drily. He stood across the body from me and took off his hat as he peered down into the dead girl’s face. ‘It’s a young woman’s face, but it’s not an innocent woman’s face, is it?’
‘Can you tell?’ I asked, suddenly (and curiously) affronted on the dead girl’s part.
‘Yes,’ said Macnaghten, standing upright. ‘I believe one can.’
‘Has she been examined yet?’ I asked. ‘Are there indications of recent sexual activity?’
Macnaghten shrugged. With his eyes he indicated the girl’s nether regions: ‘Given the injuries, is it possible to tell?’
‘May I examine her?’ I asked.
‘That’s why you’re here, Dr Doyle.’
Macnaghten nodded to the uniformed police sergeant who had brought us down to the mortuary when we arrived. The man was standing three feet or so away from the head of the table, gazing steadfastly ahead of him. At a glance I could tell that he was a decent man, with a good heart, who must have seen much that was shocking in his years on the beat, but had not seen a horror such as this before. He stepped forward and, without catching my eye, took my hat and coat and, from a shelf and a hook on the wall, fetched gloves and a surgical apron for me to wear.
‘And why am I here?’ asked Oscar.
My friend was standing awkwardly by the door to the room. As we had arrived he and the police sergeant had led the way down the stairs and Oscar had marched briskly towards the mortuary as the man very much in command of the situation and then, like a steeplechaser suddenly refusing a jump, had balked at the sight of the naked and dismembered body laid out on the table. We had moved past him into the room; he had remained fixed where he was in the doorway, one hand resting on the door handle.
Macnaghten turned towards him. ‘You are here, Mr Wilde, because, perhaps after all, there is a connection between these murders in Chelsea and the Whitechapel murders of six years ago.’
‘Do you think so?’ asked Oscar. ‘Do you really think so?’
Macnaghten paused before replying. ‘I do not know how I cannot think so now,’ he said eventually.
‘Surely,’ said Oscar, ‘scores of women are murdered in London every year ...’
Macnaghten moved away from the examination table and towards the door. ‘Yes, Mr Wilde, but very few are murdered in a manner such as this. The appalling savagery is very terrible – I’m not surprised you cannot face it. It is also quite distinctive – and echoes those brutal murders of 1888. The woman whose body we found in Shelley Alley on Monday night had been stabbed thirty-nine times.’
‘I recall,’ said Oscar.
‘Martha Tabram, killed on the seventh of August 1888, was also stabbed thirty-nine times.’
‘On Monday night you considered that no more than a coincidence.’
Macnaghten gave a curt, joyless laugh. ‘I now consider that I may have been wrong.’
‘You surprise me,’ said Oscar. ‘When you gave us the file on the Whitechapel murders, you were most emphatic that Tabram was not one of the so-called Ripper’s victims. You distinctly said: “Jack the Ripper had only five victims and Martha Tabram was not one of them.”’
‘Yes,’ said Macnaghten, shrugging his shoulders once more. ‘That’s what I said. That’s what I believed. Then.’
‘This poor woman has not been stabbed,’ I said, looking up from my grim work at the examination table. ‘She has been cut to pieces with some care. A sharp knife has been used – possibly a surgical knife, certainly a knife at least six inches long – and it has been used by someone with some anatomical knowledge. The girl’s pelvic organs have been removed with one clean sweep of the knife. The intestines, neatly severed from their mesenteric attachments, have been lifted out of the body, whole. And from the pelvis, the uterus and its appendages, the vagina and the bladder, have all been cut out as if a perverse surgeon had been at work. The rectum is untouched.’
‘You will write this up, Doctor?’ asked Macnaghten.
‘Please,’ pleaded Oscar, from his station by the door, ‘spare us the anatomical details.’
‘I cannot,’ I said, standing back from the table for a moment, ‘and for a reason.’
‘I know the reason,’ said Oscar. ‘I read the police surgeon’s postmortem report on Annie Chapman. These wounds are similar.’
‘They are identical,’ I said.
‘I thought they might be,’ said Macnaghten, with satisfaction. ‘I am grateful to have it confirmed, Dr Doyle.’
‘As I recall,’ added Oscar, wincing at the recollection, ‘in the case of Annie Chapman, the inte
stines had been removed from her body and placed on the shoulder of her corpse.’
‘It was the same in this case here,’ said Macnaghten. ‘When this girl’s body was found, the organs that had been removed were laid out on her shoulders – almost as though they had been placed on display.’
‘Do we know who this poor woman is?’ asked Oscar, still not looking towards the table where the girl’s body lay.
‘No.’
‘And we still have no idea who Monday’s victim was?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘The Whitechapel victims were all women of the street,’ said Oscar, ‘whereas
I completed his thought: ‘I do not believe Monday’s victim was a prostitute. She was malnourished. Her skin was withered, but it was not rough. Her fingernails were well cared for. She was not a working woman. She was a lady – I’m sure of it.’
‘And this young woman?’
‘She has a working woman’s hands,’ I said. ‘Her nails are not so well cared for. And there appear to be traces of seminal fluid on her lower thigh, suggesting sexual activity not long before her death.’
‘She might be a prostitute?’ asked Macnaghten.
‘Yes,’ I said reluctantly. ‘And yet she looks well fed. She looks healthy. When we have examined her organs more carefully, I will be surprised if we find anything to suggest excessive use of narcotics or alcohol. The photographs of the Whitechapel victims all show pale-faced, bedraggled women who have been broken by life – ruined long before their ghastly murders.’
‘This one is young, as you say, Dr Doyle,’ said Macnaghten. ‘Perhaps her way of life had not yet had time to destroy her.’
I considered the cadaver once more. For a reason I could not quite understand, I did not want this poor murdered wretch to have been a prostitute. I said: ‘Her face and hands are a little darker than her body, wouldn’t you say? That suggests she spent some time out of doors and worked by day rather than by night.’
‘Possibly,’ said Macnaghten.
‘What do her clothes tell us about her?’ asked Oscar from the doorway.
Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper Page 10