At two o’clock, Olga had to return to the circus and I made my way back to the Langham Hotel. There was a wire waiting for me from Oscar:
YOU WILL ALWAYS BE FOND OF ME ARTHUR. I REPRESENT ALL THE SINS YOU NEVER HAD THE COURAGE TO COMMIT. SEE YOU TONIGHT AT SEVEN PM AT TWELVE CLARENCE GATE LONDON W. SIMS KNOWS ALL.
George R. Sims certainly knew everybody. In 1894 he was at the height of his fame and fortune. He was the highest paid journalist in the land (reputedly earning upwards of £150,000 a year) and, arguably, the best informed. He was also a prolific playwright, popular poet, zealous social reformer, acknowledged criminologist, noted bon vivant and ardent follower of the horses, the dogs and the boxing ring. Today, he is probably best remembered as the author of the sentimental ballad that begins, ‘It was Christmas day in the workhouse . . .’ In his day, he was known as a thoroughly good egg, a wholly decent, hard-working, amusing, intelligent, clubbable man.
‘Even behind his back, people say nice things about George R. Sims,’ said Oscar. ‘What’s his dark secret, I wonder? He must have one.’
‘Hush!’ I said.
I had encountered my friend in the entrance hall of Sims’ house, just off the Marylebone Road on the south side of Regent’s Park. Oscar had stepped out of his carriage just as I was coming up the road from the underground at Baker Street. The Sims’ butler was helping him off with his coat. Oscar was looking unusually pink-cheeked and ebullient, freshly kitted out in a well-cut velvet evening suit of bottle green.
‘Where have you been?’ I asked, taking off my own coat to hand to the butler.
‘Never mind that,’ said my friend. ‘Look where we are now! This is George R. Sims’ Twelfth Night party. Everybody who is anybody will be here.’
Together we walked across the parquet-floored hall and into the Sims’ drawing room. Footmen on either side of the double doors held trays bearing frosted flutes of gently bubbling champagne. ‘It’ll be Perrier-Jouët,’ murmured Oscar. ‘And a good vintage. George is a generous soul.’
The drawing room was beautifully proportioned, high-ceilinged, brilliantly lit and crowded with an equally brilliant assembly. There must have been eighty to a hundred people in the room and, even at a glance, most of them looked familiar. At once, I recognised actresses I knew from picture postcards, politicians I knew from photographs in the daily papers, authors I knew as rivals.
‘There’s Bram Stoker,’ I said.
‘With Florrie Balcombe, once the prettiest girl in Dublin, now the loveliest woman in London. You know she turned down my offer of marriage in favour of Bram?’
‘So you tell me.’
‘So it is.’
‘And who are they talking to?’
‘The handsome one’s Alec Shand. Now he was secretly engaged to Constance. Before my time. He’s a most unusual fellow with some quite unusual ideas. He has sent me his new book. It’s intriguing.’
‘And the little old man they’re talking to? Is he a clergyman?’
‘That is the Reverend Charles Dodgson.’
‘Lewis Carroll?’
‘Oh yes. Sims knows everybody. Le tout monde and le demimonde. Look over there . . . Tom Norman deep in conversation with Walter Wellbeloved. And there’s Richard Mansfield hugger-mugger with my friend Wat Sickert. Extraordinary. Is this a convocation of Jack the Ripper suspects brought together for our convenience?’
As he spoke, a large hand fell on his right shoulder and another on my left. It was our host coming up behind us and giving us a welcoming embrace. He was as tall as Oscar – over six feet – and as elegantly attired – he sported a black velvet evening suit, with silk trimmings – but he cut a more dapper figure because he was slimmer than Oscar and, unlike Oscar, wore a full beard, carefully cut in the style made fashionable by the Prince of Wales.
‘You know I was once mistaken for Jack the Ripper, don’t you? My portrait appeared on the cover of a sixpenny edition of one of my books and a Whitechapel coffee-stall keeper who claimed to have had a conversation with the Ripper on the night of the double murder said “That’s the man” and took my picture to the police.’
‘Were you arrested?’
Sims had a warm, deep voice, which, at all times, carried with it the hint of a chuckle. ‘I was pleased to help them with their inquiries,’ he answered, smiling, ‘and provide them with my rock-solid alibis. Who knows who the coffee-stall keeper was talking to that night? It might have been Jack the Ripper. Or it might not. Whitechapel was and is awash with possible suspects, but there are no known witnesses to any of the crimes. The murderer remains a faceless wonder.’
‘Could he be among your guests tonight, George?’
‘Anything is possible, Oscar, but, whatever the gossip-mongers say, I don’t believe it’s going to turn out to be Lewis Carroll, do you? Look at him. Eccentric, I grant you, but I don’t think the darling man has the strength for it.’
‘You know everybody and everything,’ said Oscar ingratiatingly. ‘Who do you reckon is the Whitechapel murderer?’
‘I can tell you that the Sun newspaper is about to run a series of articles accusing one Thomas Cutbrush of the crimes.’
‘I know the name,’ I said.
‘You might well do, Arthur. It was in the papers a year or two ago. Cutbrush is a lunatic, already in Broadmoor because in 1891 he was caught red-handed assaulting a woman’s buttocks with a kitchen knife – but, pace the Sun, there’s nothing of any substance to link him with the Whitechapel killings of 1888. I’m afraid some papers will say anything in pursuit of sales.’
‘Cutbrush is a good name for a murderer, all the same.’
Sims smiled. ‘I agree, Oscar. Names do make such a difference, don’t they? I was so sorry when Dr Cream was ruled out of the running. Dr Cream! Top hat, black moustache – whiskers you could twirl. He looked the part, he played the part – confessed to killings all over the shop – apparently actually boasted of being Jack the Ripper as he went to the gallows. Unfortunately, it turned out he was in America all through 1888 and his modus operandi was the phial of poison rather than the kitchen knife.’
‘You know there’s been a Holmes accused of being the Ripper?’ I said.
‘Indeed,’ answered Sims. ‘H. H. Holmes, the man who built his own “Murder Castle”. I had hopes of interviewing him, but he proved elusive.’
‘And where did Mr Holmes build his “Murder Castle”?’ enquired Oscar, widening his eyes. ‘Not in Whitechapel?’
‘No, in Chicago. It was a hotel designed to attract young unattached females attending the Chicago World’s Fair and looking for an inexpensive room for the night. Holmes designed it all himself–with secret passageways, dungeons, poisoned gas chambers, acid pits, the works. I thought it would make a marvellous setting for a play – build the actual house on stage. Holmes murdered women by the dozen, apparently. He’s still on the run. Maybe we should put your Holmes on his trail, Arthur?’
‘My Holmes is a fictional character,’ I said firmly, ‘and I’ve done with him, thank you very much.’
‘Will we ever be done with Jack the Ripper, I wonder?’ mused Sims. ‘H. H. Holmes is in the clear, however. There’s no evidence he was in Whitechapel in 1888.’
‘And is Prince Eddy in the clear, too?’ asked Oscar. I see Bunbury is here tonight and in mourning.’
‘Bunbury?’ I asked.
‘Prince Eddy’s equerry,’ explained our host. ‘The Bunburys have been courtiers since time immemorial. Freddie was at Prince Eddy’s beck and call to the last – but, while I’ve no doubt he still misses HRH, he’s actually in mourning for his wife. She passed away only this week. I am glad he’s come, under the circumstances.’
‘I think I should say hello to him,’ said Oscar. ‘I know him slightly. You’ll like him, Arthur. He’s most engaging.’
‘Mix and mingle, gentlemen,’ said Sims encouragingly, pushing us towards the throng. ‘Recharge your glasses as you go. I’ll catch up with you later. There’s something in parti
cular I want to say to you, Oscar. Meanwhile, help me out and work the room – but don’t just hover round the actresses.’ He laughed as we plunged into the mêlée. ‘Your brother’s here, Oscar,’ he called out after us. ‘And the Marquess of Queensbury is here. You know his son, don’t you?’
‘Queensbury and Willie we can avoid,’ murmured Oscar. ‘Let’s find Bunbury. He’s a sweet old thing.’
Having squeezed our way through the multitude, we found him by the fireplace. Sir Frederick Bunbury, Bt., was a tall, lean figure, dressed all in black, with a thin neck that failed to touch his shirt collar but somehow supported an improbably large head that hung forward like a tortoise’s. His eyes were hooded; his face was deeply lined; he had long white hair and a drooping white moustache.
‘My condolences, Sir Freddie,’ said Oscar gently, taking the old gentleman by the hand. ‘I feel for you in your loss.’
‘Thank you, Wilde,’ murmured the baronet softly. ‘She had been poorly for some time, so it was not entirely unexpected. And for her, at least, a release.’
Oscar presented me to Bunbury and, inadequately, I added my condolences.
‘Thank you,’ nodded the elderly courtier. ‘The Reverend Dodgson has been reminding me that my dear wife is now in a better place and I believe him. Do you know Mr Dodgson?’
‘I know of Lewis Carroll, of course, the author of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,’ said Oscar with feeling, shaking the clergyman’s small hand with both of his. ‘It is an honour to meet you, sir. The Mad Hatter, the March Hare, the White Rabbit, Alice – all yours.’
‘Alice is a real person,’ said Lewis Carroll, in a small Dormouselike voice, gazing up at Oscar myopically. ‘I take no credit for her.’
‘No doubt God and the girl’s parents brought her into the world, but you took her into Wonderland and have made her immortal.’
Lewis Carroll blinked at Oscar, but said nothing more.
‘I agree,’ drawled Bunbury. (He was an aristocrat of the old school: his lips barely moved as he spoke and the sound came from the cavernous roof of his mouth.) ‘It’s an extraordinary thing to do – create a character that lives beyond the page. Not many can boast as much.’
‘Though, curiously,’ said Oscar, now in full flow, ‘two or three who can are gathered here. Arthur Conan Doyle is the creator of the great detective Mr Sherlock Holmes. And look, here with my brother is one of our finest players, Mr Richard Mansfield, who has successfully brought to life both Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.’
Willie Wilde, Richard Mansfield, Bram Stoker and my friend James Barrie were standing in line in front of the fireplace. All but Willie were smiling at Oscar’s effulgence. ‘To create a name that will live beyond your own lifetime – that’s something. You’ve done it, Mr Dodgson – with a dozen characters and more. Mr Dickens did it with Mr Pickwick and old Scrooge. I reckon Arthur here has done it with Holmes and his friend Watson. I have some hopes for my Dorian Gray. How’s your vampire coming along, Bram? Has he got a name yet?’
‘Not yet,’ said Stoker. ‘I’m thinking of calling him “The Undead”.’
‘That won’t do,’ cried Oscar dismissively. ‘You need a proper name – a name with a ring to it.’ Oscar glanced around the little group gathered by the fireplace. ‘Pickwick, Scrooge, Humpty Dumpty, Holmes and Watson, Jekyll and Hyde – they’re all names that will join the ranks of the great immortals. If you want to capture the public’s imagination, you’ve got to get the name right.’
Willie Wilde spoke up: ‘Jack the Ripper is a case in point.’
Oscar placed his champagne flute on the mantelpiece and looked at his brother. ‘For once, Willie, I agree with you. Jack the Ripper is a name that could outlast them all.’
26
Stay
Sims’ party was a memorable one and convivial in the main. It was marred by two incidents, noticed by none except those involved.
The first was minor. As we broke away from the gathering of writers around the fireplace, Willie remarked to Oscar: ‘I notice you’re not wearing your customary buttonhole tonight, Oscar. Neglecting your appearance as well as your wife? Where will it all end, I wonder?’
Oscar rose above the slight, but I felt it – and felt responsible for it, too.
The second incident might have been more serious.
‘Who is your friend, Arthur?’ Oscar asked once we had shaken off Willie and were returning to the fray. ‘The young man with the sad eyes and the subaltern’s moustache – who is he?’
‘James Barrie,’ I said. ‘A fellow Scot. We wrote a comic opera together, Jane Annie.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. It’s set in a girls’ boarding school.’
‘Oh, Arthur, you do sail close to the wind.’ He laughed and turned. ‘I’m going back to find him. He looks interesting. I want to talk to him.’
‘He is interesting,’ I said, ‘but he doesn’t say very much.’
‘That won’t be a problem,’ said Oscar, turning towards the fireplace. Barrie, I saw, was now standing to one side of it, alone.
I watched Oscar go up to my young friend and introduce himself and, at once, say something that made the customarily solemn JMB laugh out loud. For the next hour, every ten minutes or so, as I moved through the crush of Sims’ distinguished guests, I caught sight of them – Oscar and James – standing side by side, talking animatedly.
As I did our host’s bidding and ‘worked’ the room, for some reason (no doubt connected with Olga) I did avoid the actresses. I talked for a while with Richard Mansfield. He said: ‘Your friend Wilde is amusing, but please tell him that I haven’t played Jekyll and Hyde for several years. I’d rather be known for my Richard III or, better still, my Napoleon.’
‘Napoleon is the part you are playing at the moment?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but I’ve taken the night off to attend George’s party – and to give my understudy an opportunity.’
‘I’d enjoy seeing your performace,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Come tomorrow, why don’t you? We’ve a special Sunday performance – by invitation only. We’ll get Wilde to come, too.’ He glanced in Oscar’s direction. ‘I’d ask him now, but he seems a little preoccupied.’ The actor offered me a knowing smile and moved off into the throng.
I sought out Walter Wellbeloved and found him in conversation with Alec Shand. ‘I’ve only just met Wellbeloved,’ said Shand disarmingly, ‘but we’re already close because we have discovered we both have a longing for Constance Wilde. Do you hanker after her, too, Dr Doyle?’ I made no reply. ‘Ah.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘I see you do. You say nothing, but your eyes speak volumes. The eyes truly are the mirror to the soul. Everything you feel, they show. You cannot hide it.’
‘Is that so?’ I said, disarmed.
‘It is. And if your eyes look dead it’s because your soul is dead. Your eyes are full of life, Dr Doyle. And full of longing, too. You should be pleased.’
‘I’m not sure what to say,’ I answered.
‘Say nothing,’ said Shand pleasantly. ‘You can read my treatise on the subject if you’re interested. I think you’ll find the research convincing – and revealing. I’ve sent Wilde a copy. Borrow it from him.’
We were joined by Henry Labouchere MP who boomed at us: ‘When you’re with a prostitute, do you think about her or your wife or your mistress or the barmaid down at the old Bull and Bush? Come on, chaps, I want the truth.’
Walter Wellbeloved half closed his eyes: ‘I have drunk too much or I wouldn’t say this. I think about a girl called Rosie. She was a mermaid.’
‘I don’t think you’ve drunk nearly enough, old fellow,’ said Alec Shand. ‘Let’s get you another glass. I want to hear more about Rosie.’
Gradually the room thinned. I looked at my watch. It was nine o’clock. Oscar and James were still standing next to the fireplace, side by side, backs against the wall. I went to join them.
‘We’ve only just begun, Arthur, and you
’re telling us it’s time to leave.’
‘It’s gone nine,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’ve met.’
‘James has been asking me about Dorian Gray,’ said Oscar. ‘He’s taken with the notion of eternal youth. He tells me my book has given him an idea for a play.’
‘That’s charming,’ I said. ‘I hope it will be more successful than Jane Annie.’
As we were laughing, a voice behind me hissed: ‘It’s disgusting. The man’s a disgrace.’ I felt spittle on my ear.
I turned to find the diminutive Marquess of Queensbury glowering at us. His head jutted forward, his shoulders were hunched. He slapped a tight fist into his open palm and leaned in towards Oscar. ‘I’ve been watching you, Wilde,’ he snarled. ‘I’ve been watching you with this young man. You’re at it again.’
‘At what, may I ask?’ enquired Oscar coolly.
‘Carrying on like a pervert.’ Oscar raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t say you are it, but you look it. You pose as it, which is just as bad.’ Queensberry twisted his head towards James Barrie. ‘You’ll steer clear of this perfumed popinjay if you know what’s good for you, sir. He’s near ruined my son. He knows no shame.’
‘I must protest—’ Oscar began, but mildly.
‘Wilde,’ barked Lord Queensberry, ‘if I catch you and my son together again in any public place, I will thrash you. I give you fair warning.’
Oscar stopped lounging against the wall and stood upright. He towered over the snarling marquess. ‘I do not know what the Queensberry rules are, but the Oscar Wilde rule is to shoot at sight.’
With a yowl of derision, Queensberry turned and stomped away.
‘Bosie is right,’ said Oscar gently. ‘What a funny little man he is.’
There was a moment’s awkward silence before Barrie said: ‘I must be on my way. I will write to you, Mr Wilde. I’ll see you very soon, Arthur. We must talk cricket,’ With a schoolboyish formality, he shook us both by the hand. ‘Goodnight, Mr Wilde. I have so enjoyed our conversation.’
Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper Page 18