‘Ah,’ said Oscar, eyebrow raised, ‘Thick is moving up the ranks, I see. He’ll be a chief inspector ere long.’ He plucked another piece of toast from the rack and began to butter it. ‘Were there any clues to the woman’s identity?’
‘No clues of substance, but there was press speculation. The newspapers named Lydia Hart as the victim – a prostitute reported missing at about the same time.’
‘The story is a tragic one, but the names are undeniably enchanting. The dead girl is called Hart and Sergeant Thick is looking for evidence in Batty Street. Nomen est omen. And what was the good sergeant’s conclusion?’
‘A curious one,’ I said, turning to the final page of Macnaghten’s memorandum. ‘The police decided that the woman was probably a factory worker – despite the fact, according to the autopsy, that “her arms and hands were well formed and showed no signs of manual labour”.’
‘That’s intriguing,’ said Oscar. ‘That may be the answer to the entire mystery!’ He put the last corner of toast into his mouth and laid his hands on the table triumphantly.
‘What on earth do you mean?’ I ask, amazed.
‘I’m not quite sure,’ he said. ‘I’m in the throes of making one of those leaps of the imagination Macnaghten told us were beyond the reach of mere plodding policeman.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Not quite yet. I need to be sure. If I am right, it may be painful for you, Arthur.’
‘What on earth are you talking about, man? I don’t follow you. You’re speaking in riddles again.’
‘And probably barking up the wrong tree as well.’ He laughed. ‘Now I am speaking in clichés. Ignore all I have just said and let’s get to the nub of the matter. Why does Macnaghten maintain this Whitechapel murder has nothing to do with the earlier Whitechapel murders?’
‘Because it’s a whole year later and because of the nature of the mutilation in this case. With the 1888 murders, the victims were cut about the face and chest and had their innards removed, but there was no decapitation, no limbs were cut off.’
‘But wasn’t another torso found somewhere along the Thames in 1888 – at the same time as the so-called Jack the Ripper killings?’
‘Yes, according to the notes, a torso was found hidden below ground, in a vault in Whitehall, during the building of the police headquarters at New Scotland Yard. It was a young woman again – of large stature and well-nourished.’
‘That’s interesting. That’s what it says in the post-mortem?’
‘It is.’
‘And had the poor creature been disembowelled?’
‘Her uterus had been removed. And a right arm and shoulder believed to belong to the same woman were found washed up from the river in Pimlico.’
‘Not far from the southern end of Tite Street?’
‘Yes.’
‘When was this exactly?’
‘September to October 1888.’
‘And Macnaghten insists this has nothing to do with the Whitechapel murders?’
‘He does.’
‘If the torso was discovered in Whitehall and the victim’s arm and shoulder were washed up in Pimlico, why does Macnaghten include this material in his dossier on the Whitechapel murders?’
‘I don’t know. For “completeness”, as “background”?’
‘He’s hedging his bets, Arthur. He doesn’t know a thing.’
‘Do we know much more?’
‘We know a great deal, my friend.’
‘Do we?’
‘We do,’ he cried exultantly. ‘And we’re about to discover yet more. Drink up your coffee, Arthur. Our carriage awaits.’
21
Freaks
It was not yet ten o’clock in the morning and already we were back in another two-wheeler. As we climbed aboard, Oscar called up to the cabman: ‘123 Whitechapel Road, John – and as speedily as your fiery-footed steeds will take us.’
The cabman chuckled and grunted, ‘Righto, sir.’
‘I thought we were going to the Colney Hatch Asylum this morning,’ I said, ‘in search of Aaron Kosminski?’
‘We are. But something you mentioned at breakfast, Arthur, suggests that a detour via Whitechapel may be to our advantage. Freaks first, lunatics later.’
‘I am confused,’ I said.
‘Indeed.’ He grinned at me mischievously as he settled back in his seat, laying Macnaghten’s file carefully upon his lap and taking out his cigarette case. ‘I do believe “confusion” may be what this is all about.’
The streets of London were curiously quiet and the smog had not yet descended on the city. Our journey east was a swift one and the crisp January air blowing in through the carriage windows helped to clear my head. As we travelled, Oscar leafed through Macnaghten’s dossier, occasionally letting out a mild snort of derision or a gentle gurgle of satisfaction, and I gazed out at the passing scene and did my best to order my thoughts. When I asked Oscar why we were going where we were going, he did not look up but said simply, All will become clear when we get there.’
‘I hope so,’ I replied, rather doubting it.
When I asked him how he knew the name of our cabman when we had merely climbed into the first carriage in the rank, he said: ‘I didn’t. I don’t. But John is by a long way the most common Christian name among men in this country, so the odds were in my favour. I don’t hedge my bets. He seemed happy enough to be called John.’
‘But if his name is Tom or Dick or whatever it may be—’
‘William is the second most common name in England.’
‘Yes, whatever. It’s an amusing trick, but if you get it wrong, the effect is rather spoiled and he won’t be so happy.’
My friend turned and looked at me steadily, widening his eyes. ‘I grant you that, Arthur. Every effect that one produces risks giving one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity.’
We travelled on in silence.
Whitechapel, when we reached it, looked more hospitable than it had the night before. The shops were open; the pavements were more crowded; and the people going about their business moved with an energy and sense of purpose that, I suppose, surprised me.
‘Are we going to the London Hospital?’ I asked, as we travelled down the Whitechapel Road and the familiar porticoed front of the building came into view. Until this adventure, my only forays into this part of town had been to meet up with medical colleagues at the hospital here.
‘No, we are going to Tom Norman’s Exotic Emporium – just opposite, just here.’
Our two-wheeler drew to a halt on the north side of the street. Oscar jumped down. ‘Thank you, John,’ he called up to the cabman. ‘It is John, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And your wife is Mary. Am I right?’
‘You are, sir. And it is Mr Wilde, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘We all know you, sir. Best tipper in town.’
‘Thank you, John. Please wait for us. We won’t be long.’ Oscar smiled at me. ‘That’s not a bad reputation to have, is it, Arthur? Though, of course, in the fullness of time, it can lead a man to ruin.’
He laughed gently and, taking me by the elbow, turned me towards the ‘emporium’. It had the look of a store in a storybook. With its thick mullioned windows framed in dark wood, it reminded me of the Maclise drawing of Mr Dickens’ Old Curiosity Shop.
‘Why are we here?’ I asked.
‘To see Tom Norman.’
‘Is he expecting us?’
‘No – and for that reason I think an oblique approach is called for. “Softly, softly, catchee monkey”, as the saying goes. Let’s not let him know the truth of why we’ve come to see him.’
‘Why have we come to see him? His name doesn’t feature in any of Macnaghten’s notes, as I recall.’
‘Perhaps it should,’ said Oscar, looking at me with a knowing smile. ‘Tom Norman is a friend of Walter Wellbeloved and we don’t yet know enough about him. We are here to make inquirie
s the police have failed to make.’
‘We may fail also,’ I replied. ‘The shop is closed.’ There was a handwritten sign to that effect hanging inside the door.
Oscar pressed his nose to the glass. ‘But it’s not empty. Somebody’s at home.’ He rapped his knuckles against the pane. Almost at once, the front door swung open and there stood a curious-looking character who might have been Dickens’ Mr Jingle. He was tall and lean, with a sallow complexion and a head of luxuriant jet-black hair half-hidden beneath a silk top hat that appeared to have known better days. He wore a cut-away frock coat of shabby black velvet, a silk waistcoat to his neck, and full-length narrow black britches above buckled evening shoes. Beyond the tarnished silver of his buckles and coat buttons, the only relief from the blackness of his appearance came from his yellow cheeks and pale grey spats.
‘You are Tom Norman,’ said Oscar warmly. ‘I am Oscar Wilde.’
The man in black said nothing, but pushed back his hat the better to inspect us. He had small, round eyes with small, black pupils.
‘And this is Dr Arthur Conan Doyle,’ continued Oscar, making the announcement as if playing a trump card.
The figure in the doorway raised an eyebrow. ‘I know. The Sherlock Holmes man.’
Oscar was not finished. ‘I am a friend of Phineas Barnum,’ he went on.
‘Ah,’ said the man.
‘And a friend of Walter Wellbeloved.’
‘His spirit guide was one of my artistes,’ said Tom Norman. ‘You’d better come in, but I haven’t got long.’
He stepped back to allow us into his shop. It was cavernous, dark and cold, and filled, from corner to corner and side to side, with display cases and cabinets of every size, each one covered with a blanket.
‘So you knew Barnum,’ he said to Oscar. His voice was high-pitched; his way of speaking, precise. ‘A good man.’
‘A remarkable man,’ echoed Oscar. ‘I went to his circus in New York and he introduced me to Jumbo the Elephant.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Norman, curling one of his locks of black hair around a thin, pale forefinger, ‘Barnum had the elephant and I had the Elephant Man.’
‘I remember,’ said Oscar.
Norman looked at me with both eyebrows raised. ‘Did you ever see him, the Elephant Man?’ I shook my head. He shrugged his shoulders and giggled mirthlessly. ‘Well, that’s how I billed him. Said his mother had been frightened by an elephant during her pregnancy. Joseph Merrick. Hideous deformities. I gave him a home and a means of earning his living. He was grateful. He lived in there.’ Norman nodded towards the rear of the shop. There was a doorway covered by a beaded curtain and a sign above it that read, in gold and red lettering, A Penny a Peep. ‘He had to sleep sitting up, poor fellow. We were good friends – until some busy-bodying doctor from across the road came along and decided he knew best what was good for the Elephant Man.’
‘Dr Treves,’ I said. ‘I know him.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Norman lightly. ‘No doubt your friend meant well, but Joseph didn’t like being taken from here to there to be poked and prodded by the medical students. He had to wear a hood and cloak to cross the road. They stripped him naked and displayed him like an animal in a cattle market. I had him properly dressed and treated him like a star.’
‘Was he your chief attraction?’ Oscar asked.
Norman giggled once more. It was a peculiar sound and seemed the more unnatural because the man never smiled. ‘I did well with The World’s Ugliest Woman, too.’ Norman shuddered with apparent pleasure at the memory of her. ‘She didn’t disappoint.’ Oscar chuckled obligingly as the man in black continued his nostalgic reverie. ‘Did you ever see John Chambers, the Armless Carpenter?’ he asked. ‘He was ever a favourite.’ He looked around the darkened room. And he built most of these cabinets, too.’
‘I remember your Man in a Trance,’ said Oscar.
‘Do you? Do you really? He was a bugger. I had to get rid of him. He kept asking for more and more.’ Norman giggled again. ‘He had too much time to think about things. Money became his obsession.’
‘Money is in some respects life’s fire,’ said Oscar, tilting his head to one side and studying our host. ‘It is a very excellent servant, but a terrible master.’
‘You did know Mr Barnum, didn’t you? That was one of his lines. He taught me the tricks of the trade, did Barnum – the need for novelty as well as variety. For years my top attraction was Electra, The Electric Lady. There was so much electricity in her she could light a lamp. As she got elderly, poor old bird, she lost her spark. I was going to replace her with her daughter – The Electric Girl. Barnum said, “No, you need something different.” Rosie the Mermaid – that was his idea.’
‘Rosie was Electra’s daughter?’
‘Yes. She was a little charmer was our Rosie.’
‘What happened to her?’ I asked.
‘She died. Went to Ramsgate with Walter Wellbeloved – dirty weekend. He said she was his spirit guide. They’ll call it anything, these old buggers, won’t they? Anyway, he took her for a dip and she drowned. She couldn’t swim.’
Oscar began to laugh.
‘I thought she was a mermaid,’ I protested.
‘She was – in the bath here.’ He began to giggle once more. ‘Poor girl. I was very fond of her. And to be fair to Wellbeloved, I think he was fond of her, too.’ He sighed and looked around his emporium, as if conjuring up the spirits of all the acts and turns he had been proud to present across the years. ‘I’ve had ’em all,’ he cooed, ‘Mermaids, midgets, savage Zulus.’
‘And now you’ve had enough,’ said Oscar briskly. ‘You’re moving, I see?’
Norman returned from his reveries. ‘How do you see that, Mr Wilde?’
‘Well, there’s dust on your forearms and when you kindly opened the door to us there was a line of perspiration across your brow, which suggested unaccustomed exertion. You’ve been moving heavy items that have not been moved for a while.’
Norman tittered. ‘Picking up some of Mr Holmes’s tricks, eh? Yes, I’m cataloguing the collection prior to my departure – for Chicago.’
‘Oh,’ said Oscar. ‘When are you going?’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘Are you going alone?’
‘I’m not taking any of my artistes with me, if that’s what you mean. I shall be recruiting new talent in Illinois. They have taller giants and shorter midgets there than we do. I’m just taking my cabinets with me – about a hundred cabinets in all, that’s more than enough.’
‘Featuring?’
‘The collection of a lifetime!’ Norman moved across the shop to the nearest cabinet and lifted its blanket covering slowly – as if he had been a child raising the curtain on a toy theatre. ‘Behold,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘It’s the world’s smallest whale,’ he breathed, his voice thick with wonder.
‘Really?’ said Oscar, going over to the cabinet and peering in at the specimen. ‘It looks more like a bloater in aspic to me.’
‘You may well be right, Mr Wilde.’ He dropped the blanket over the glass case and lifted the curtain on the adjacent cabinet. ‘This may be more to your liking.’
‘Good grief,’ cried Oscar. ‘It’s an ass’s head.’
‘It is all that remains of the donkey that carried Our Lord into Jerusalem on the first Palm Sunday.’
‘That certainly is remarkable,’ said Oscar.
Tom Norman covered up the animals head and fixed his beady eyes on Oscar. ‘My father was a butcher. I began in the butcher’s trade. I keep his knives still. They come into their own now and then.’
‘Do you have human specimens?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ answered Norman eagerly. He stood, with his hat well pushed back on his head, toying with his black locks while surveying the room, pondering which case or cabinet to unveil next. ‘Mr Barnum had the Siamese Twins, of course, and the advantage that they wer
e living and breathing creatures. I have the Trowbridge Triplets. The disadvantage is that they died at birth. However, there are three of them and they’re conjoined in a most interesting fashion. If I can remember where they are, I’ll show you.’
‘No, no thank you,’ protested Oscar. ‘Please don’t trouble yourself.’
‘No trouble,’ said Norman, squeezing himself between cabinets. ‘And no charge, either.’ He moved like a dancer. ‘It’s good to meet people who appreciate the exotic. Not everyone does nowadays. Back here I have some wonderful novelties – not just freaks of nature, but intriguing parts of the anatomy. Somewhere I have an amusing case featuring the private parts of well-endowed young men.’
‘How on earth have you come by those?’
‘Medical students used to bring them over. Young doctors have a lively sense of humour. One offered me a female head not long ago. Said it was Mary, Queen of Scots and he’d found it washed up by the Tower of London. We all know Mary wasn’t beheaded at the Tower. She was executed up at Fotheringay. Funny folk, doctors.’ Norman looked at me and giggled coldly. ‘Am I right, Dr Doyle?’
I did not know what reply to make, so I deflected his question with an enquiry of my own. And how do you preserve your specimens?’ I asked.
‘Formaldehyde,’ he said. ‘It’s a chemical that’s quite transformed the art of embalming.’ He was turning to and fro within his maze of cabinets, lifting and dropping the blanket coverings of his cases as he spoke. ‘We may have to leave the mummified members for another day,’ he said. ‘It’s all a bit of a muddle back here, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s an extraordinary collection,’ said Oscar admiringly. ‘I am sorry you are closing.’
‘Business is not what it was. You really need a good story to sell a show.’
‘I don’t believe you can have run out of those,’ said Oscar amiably.
‘Indeed, not,’ replied Norman, gazing steadily at Oscar. ‘I have a perfect story right on my doorstep. You’ve heard of Jack the Ripper, have you not?’
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