‘When what they need is bread?’ I suggested.
‘Yes,’ he said, nodding, and gesturing to Ostrog to pour out more champagne. ‘Life in Russia is hard for many people. There is starvation. We have the highest infant mortality in Europe. Life expectancy is little more than thirty years. We are still recovering from the great famine that killed more than half a million of my fellow citizens.’
Oscar opened his eyes. ‘You see, Arthur. He is alarmingly well-informed. And he calls them “citizens”, not “subjects”. What would the Tsar make of that? He’s probably an anarchist himself, if not a Socialist.’
‘I am not one for politics, Mr Wilde, I do assure you.’
‘I don’t believe you, my friend. I saw you yesterday at Nevill’s Turkish Bath hobnobbing with Henry Labouchere MP. I’ve seen you there before, gossiping with the great and not-so-good. You’re steeped in politics.’
‘Enough of this nonsense, Mr Wilde,’ said the ringmaster, sitting forward again and slapping the table with his hand. ‘You are here to interview my man Ostrov. You’d better get on with it.’ Oscar made no effort to rouse himself. ‘Sit, Ostrov,’ said Salazkin, ‘and answer Mr Wilde’s questions. He has been told that you could be the notorious Jack the Ripper.’
‘I know,’ said the servant. He seemed curiously unperturbed by the suggestion. He stood at the other end of the dining table, facing Oscar and his master. I considered his face: it was undoubtedly the face of a man defeated by life, but in his deeply sunken eyes I recognised a glimmer of defiance. He held his arms at his side and looked straight ahead, as though he were a man in the dock.
‘Sit,’ insisted Salazkin. Ostrog sat. ‘Proceed,’ said Salazkin.
I glanced at Oscar and, realising that my friend was either too weary or too far gone in drink to conduct the cross-examination himself, reached into my jacket pocket for my pen and notebook.
I looked down the table towards Ostrog. ‘Thank you for agreeing to talk to us,’ I began. The man said nothing.
‘May I start by asking your name?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
Silence fell. I looked at the man through the flickering candlelight. His face was immobile, his gaze seemingly fixed on Oscar and Salazkin – but, in fact, I suddenly realised, fixed on himself. He was staring straight ahead at his reflection in the mirrored glass. ‘So, what is your name?’ I asked.
‘Michael Ostrov.’
‘Also known as Michael Ostrog?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled – not at me, but at himself. And added: ‘And Michael Hanneford and Bertrand Ashley and Ashley Nabokov and Claude Clayton and Max Gosslar and Count Sobieski and Dr Grant.’
‘You have many names,’ I said.
‘Not now. Now I am Michael Ostrov,’ His accent was thick, but his English was remarkably good.
‘But you have had many names?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Because I have been many people.’
‘Ah,’ I said – not knowing what to say. I glanced towards Oscar. His eyes were half-closed, but there was a smile on his lips. He appeared amused by my predicament.
‘To begin with, who were you? Where do you come from? Where were you born?’
‘I was born in 1833 in Ostrog in the Ukraine. I am Ukrainian Jew.’
‘And when did you come to England?’
‘When the Russians burned down our house. They killed all the Jews, except for me. I escaped. On my horse.’
‘On your horse?’
‘My family were horse traders – for a thousand years. The Russians burned our house and our stables. They killed every Jew in Ostrog – except for me. I was in the hills on the morning that they came.’
‘And you escaped?’
‘I escaped. I was young. And I was strong. And I was clever.’ He smiled at himself in the mirror. ‘I am a Jew.’
‘How did you get to England?’
‘It took a year – two years. I came with the circus.’
I glanced towards Salazkin. He was studying Ostrog with apparent satisfaction, as a master might a star pupil. ‘Not this circus,’ he said quietly.
‘The Hanneford Circus,’ said Ostrog. ‘They had a horse-riding show. Thirty years ago. I was a stable lad.’
‘A Jewish stable lad?’ murmured Oscar. ‘This is sounding a touch improbable.’
Ostrog’s head turned suddenly. For a moment, I thought he was going to spit. ‘Yes,’ he said, his dark eyes suddenly blazing, ‘a Jewish stable lad. You don’t have that in England, do you? You have a Jew for prime minister but he has to call himself a Christian. We got to England and the Hannefords said they didn’t need me any more.’
Oscar roused himself. He sat forward at the table and moved one of the candlesticks the better to see Ostrog. ‘And so you turned to a life of crime?’
Ostrog said nothing and looked away once more.
‘I have read the police file,’ said Oscar. ‘In Oxford, as Max Gosslar, you worked as a College servant until you were arrested for theft and imprisoned for ten months. In Cambridge, a year later, you pulled the same trick – with a similar result. Next you turned up in Tunbridge Wells – as Count Sobieski.’
‘Why Count Sobieski?’ I asked.
Oscar put his hand lightly on my sleeve. ‘Oh, come now, Arthur, it was Tunbridge Wells—’
Salazkin intervened. ‘Ask him if he was guilty of all the offences for which he was imprisoned?’
‘A good question,’ said Oscar. ‘And what is the answer?’ He sat forward at the table, resting his chin on his hand, and looked at Ostrog intently.
‘I am a Jew. I plead guilty.’
‘In 1873,’ I said, ‘I seem to recall you threatened a policeman with a revolver.’
‘And I was sent to gaol for ten years.’
‘And when you were released, it started all over again,’ said Oscar.
‘Did you not learn your lesson?’ I asked.
‘I learned that no one will give work to a man who tells the truth. No one will give work to a Jew who has been in prison for ten years. Would you? Would you?’
‘But Mr Salazkin did,’ said Oscar. ‘I wonder why.’
Salazkin spoke. ‘Because I am Russian and because he told me what the Russians had done to his family.’
Oscar turned towards Salazkin and looked at him amiably. ‘How did you meet?’
‘He came to the circus, looking for work.’
‘Here in London?’
‘No, in Paris.’
‘When was this?’
‘Tell them,’ said Salazkin.
‘I left England on the tenth of March 1888. When I went to prison they said I was a “homicidal maniac” – because I fired that gun at the police. I fired it to protect myself. But when they released me they said I was cured. I left England at once. I wanted to go home. I went to Paris. I looked for work. I speak English and Yiddish and Russian. I went to the Russian Circus.’
‘And I took him on,’ said Salazkin, ‘and he has been with me ever since.’
‘I thought he was imprisoned in France,’ I said.
‘He was,’ said Salazkin, ‘for two years. But when he came out of prison, I took him on again – and he’s stayed on the straight and narrow ever since. He looks after my carriage and my horses and he looks after me. He’s an odd-looking fellow, I agree, but I can vouch for him and I do.’
Oscar laid down his champagne and threw up his hands. ‘So why on earth is he mixed up in this business of the Whitechapel murders? Why do the police reckon he is Jack the Ripper? Why do they believe that at this moment he is locked up in the Surrey County Lunatic Asylum?’
‘I can tell you,’ said Salazkin. ‘Because when we brought the circus to London in the summer of 1888, Ostrov went to Whitechapel.’
‘I had heard about the Jewish market there – and the women. I wanted Jewish food. Bialys and chicken feet. And I needed a woman. And before I found the woman I went for a shave and to get my hair cut.’
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‘And Kosminski was the barber?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘And you became friends?’
‘No. Never friends. We were Jews together, that is all.’
‘And together you hunted for prostitutes.’
‘We did not hunt. We paid. We paid money that we had earned – Kosminski cutting hair and Ostrov working at the Russian Circus.’
‘And you called yourself Ostrov here because it sounds more Russian?’
‘I can call myself whatever I choose. I can be whoever I want to be.’
‘And why do the police think you are Jack the Ripper?’ I asked.
‘Because I was in Whitechapel when the killings happened and I went with prostitutes and I am a foreigner and a convict and a Jew.’
‘But you are not Jack the Ripper?’ said Oscar.
Ostrog said nothing.
‘Answer,’ said Salazkin.
‘Jack the Ripper? It’s a stupid name,’ said Ostrog contemptuously.
‘I agree,’ said Oscar, now lighting another cigarette. ‘But for the sake of clarity: you are not he?’
‘No.’
‘Then how do you explain the bag of knives you were carrying when the police first arrested you?’
‘They were clean knives. There was no blood on them.’
Oscar chuckled. ‘Had there been, I imagine you’d have been arrested, charged, tried, convicted and executed by now, my friend.’
Ostrog stood impassively still gazing at his own reflection in the glass.
‘What on earth were you doing traipsing through Whitechapel with a bag full of knives?’ Oscar persisted. ‘According to the police, you were frequently seen in Whitechapel with your bag of knives. What was going on?’
‘You told the police you were a doctor,’ I said.
‘That was a lie,’ said Oscar.
‘That was to protect me,’ said Salazkin. ‘They were my knives. They are my knives. You saw them tonight, Dr Doyle – in the show. I threw them at the girl, do you remember? The girl turning on the Catherine wheel.’
I remembered the routine. It was impressive. ‘You use real knives?’ I said.
‘We do. And they need to be sharp – and to shine in the lights. And one of Ostrov’s tasks is to keep them sharp and in good repair. He takes them to the knife-grinder for me.’
‘And the knife-grinder plies his trade in the back streets of Whitechapel?’
‘No,’ said Ostrog. ‘The knife-grinder is near here in Hammersmith. I took the knives to Whitechapel to show Kosminski. He liked the knives. He liked to look at them and play with them. He used to shave with them. He cut marks in his body with them. He was a strange man.’
‘You’re not entirely Old Uncle Normality yourself,’ said Oscar, smiling.
Ostrog turned again and looked at Oscar. ‘You patronise me because I am a Jew. I speak good English, I know I do, but because I have a Yiddish accent, I am a funny foreigner to you. My ancestors were nobles. I could have been a doctor. But my parents were burned to death, Mr Oscar Wilde. I lost my inheritance. I am a servant now. I serve you your champagne. I bring caviar to your house. And from your great height you patronise me.’
‘That’s enough,’ said Salazkin. ‘You were wrong to take the knives to Whitechapel and you know it.’
Oscar closed his eyes. ‘Is Kosminski Jack the Ripper, do you think?’ I asked.
‘I do not know,’ said Ostrog. ‘He is a sick man. Strange and sick. When the police could find no evidence against us, they got the magistrates to put us away as lunatics. With Kosminski, that was the right thing to do.’
‘But not with you?’
‘I am not mad.’
‘And you are not the Michael Ostrog who is now languishing in the Surrey County Lunatic Asylum?’
‘No.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He is a sick man. It is right that he should be there.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I do not know his name.’
Salazkin got up from his chair and fetched the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket on the sideboard. He came behind me to refill my glass. He put the bottle on the table next to Oscar so that he could refill his own. ‘We found the man underneath the railway arches in Pinchin Street. He was more dead than alive. He was a drinker, but he was past drink. He was a beggar, but he was past begging. He had nothing. He was waiting to die.’
‘He was a Russian Jew?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Salazkin. ‘Whitechapel is full of them. The East End is their home now. Russia does not want them. As our Tsar likes to say, “Let us never forget that it was the Jews who crucified Jesus.” There is no place for a Jew in modern Russia.’
‘Whitechapel is where they come to die,’ said Ostrog.
‘At least we saved one of them,’ said Salazkin, resuming his seat. ‘I knew that Ostrov was not Jack the Ripper. I knew that Ostrov was not mad. He’d been my good and faithful servant – he’d looked after my carriage and my horses, he’d sharpened my knives, he’d delivered gifts of caviar to the homes of my friends. I wasn’t going to let him be taken off to the lunatic asylum, so on the day when they came in their Black Maria with their straps and their straitjacket to take him away I handed him over . . .’
‘Only the man you handed over wasn’t Ostrog at all. It was the man you had found under the railway arch in Pinchin Street.’
‘We cleaned him up. We shaved him. We dressed him in Ostrov’s clothes. The clothes were too big for him, but it didn’t matter. He looked a little like Ostrov, but that didn’t much matter either.’
‘No one really looks closely when the Jew walks by,’ said Ostrog.
‘Did the man know what was happening to him?’ I asked.
‘He knew he was getting food at last. And clothes. And shelter.’
‘Could he talk? Did he make sense?’
‘He was not in his right mind. He’d ruined that with drink. But he could talk – not in English, but in Yiddish and Russian.’
‘Did you ask him his name?’
‘No. We told him his name.’
‘Michael Ostrog.’
‘Yes,’ said Salazkin. ‘We told him who he was. We told him his whole life story.’
‘And he believed you?’
‘Yes. He became who we wanted him to be.’
‘How did you do it?’
‘Very simply,’ said Salazkin, with a smile. ‘I hypnotised him. It is easily done. It’s much easier than knife-throwing. You can buy a book in the Tottenham Court Road that will show you how.’
25
George R. Sims
The interview concluded, I left Oscar at the circus and walked back to the Langham Hotel alone. It was a cold night, but the sky was clear and the moon was full. I maintained a brisk pace through near-deserted streets and managed the journey from Olympia to Portland Place in little more than an hour. I relished the solitary walk – and the silence. I needed time – and peace – to think.
As I lay in bed, my head was filled with a kaleidoscope of images: Ostrog staring at himself in the looking glass, Ivan the Terrible on horseback commanding the circus ring, little Olga swinging towards me on her trapeze. I could not get the girl out of my mind’s eye. She was an enchantress and I was spellbound.
In the morning, at breakfast, there was no sign of Oscar. As I left the dining room, I found Martin, the young waiter, hovering by the door. He seemed eager to speak to me. I asked him if he had seen Mr Wilde.
‘No, sir,’ he said, not since yesterday, but Is seen the man who’s following him. He was outside the hotel last night and he was here again this morning. When I come on at six, he was already out there, underneath the lamp-post. That’s how I saw him. I went out to speak to him. He didn’t see me sneak up on him. He was lighting a cigarette. I went right up to him and said, “Who are you? What do you want?” He didn’t say a word, just walked away.’
I thanked the lad and told him I’d report his intelligence to Mr Wild
e. He grinned mischievously. ‘You do that, sir. I know he’ll reward me. He’s good like that.’
I went up to Oscar’s room: there was no answer at the door. I tried it: it was locked. I found the chambermaid: she told me she had already cleaned the room and that the bed had not been slept in. I returned to my own room – the maid had cleaned that, too – and spent the morning seated at the table by the window completing the short story I had begun the night before. When I had finished it, I called it ‘Sweethearts’. (If you are inclined to read it, it appeared in The Idler in June that year, 1894.)
My work done (and done well, I felt), I returned to Olympia – this time by bus and tram. As I was leaving the hotel, Jimmy, the bellboy, stopped me in the foyer.
‘Mr Wilde hasn’t collected his flower today,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t rightly know, sir. It’s for a lady, I think. It’s a pink ’un.’
‘Show me,’ I said.
It was a pink viola and quite beautiful. ‘I’ll take it,’ I said. ‘It would be a shame for it to go to waste.’
Clutching my small bloom, I found Olga waiting for me outside the National Agricultural Hall. As I walked towards her from the bus stop, she walked towards me, smiling broadly, with a firm step and outward composure of manner, but as we met and I presented her with the flower, her lip trembled and her hand quivered.
It was the first time that I had seen her not dressed as a circus acrobat, not costumed in her sequined leotard. Today she was a young lady, small, dainty, well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, unsurprisingly, a plainness and simplicity about her outfit, which bore with it the suggestion of limited means. Her coat was a sombre, greyish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and on her head she wore a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather in the side.
‘You look lovely, Olga,’ I said.
‘And you look so handsome, Arthur,’ she replied. ‘Thank you for my flower.’
Arm in arm, we walked down the road to Hammersmith to a small teashop that Olga knew well. We had a pot of tea and poached eggs on toast, followed by more tea and a slice of Victoria sponge, which we shared. ‘This is my favourite meal,’ she said. It was one of the happiest and saddest meals that I have ever known. We cannot command our love, but we can our actions. Olga captivated me: she was so young and so alive. I wanted to make love to her – so much! But I knew it would be wrong – so wrong!
Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper Page 17