Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper

  ‘As does Macnaghten,’ cried Oscar. ‘As does Mr Justice Wills. Are they suspects too?’

  ‘No one is accusing you of anything, Oscar,’ said Sims soothingly.

  ‘Aren’t they? Aren’t they?’

  As I understand it,’ I said, ‘Macnaghten invited Oscar to help him investigate the Whitechapel murders before the first of the Tite Street killings took place.’

  ‘Is that so?’ asked Sims.

  ‘Yes,’ said Oscar. ‘He mentioned it first before Christmas, though we didn’t meet to discuss it until New Year’s Day – last Monday. It was the first, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was,’ I said.

  ‘But why, George? Why did Macnaghten go to all the trouble of inviting me to his house and giving me his files – and letting Arthur become involved too – if he did not in reality want my assistance at all?’

  Sims said nothing, but sipped at his wine once more.

  ‘Why, George, why?’ persisted Oscar.

  ‘Because,’ said Sims, laying down his glass carefully and positioning it just to the right of his half-eaten plate of mashed potato and devilled kidneys, ‘he wanted to keep you occupied – occupied in an enterprise that might incidentally throw up information or intelligence relevant to the Whitechapel murders – that would be a bonus – but essentially occupied in an endeavour of his choosing and occupied in London.’

  ‘He wanted to keep me in London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What? Not following Bosie to Egypt? Is that what this is all about? Is Macnaghten in cahoots with Queensbury and Labouchere? Is that the nub of it? Is that what this preposterous charade is all about?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. I have no reason to think that.’

  ‘Have you told me all that you know, George? You do know everything, after all.’

  Sims smiled. ‘I’ve told you what I know, Oscar. You can trust me, as a friend – as a fellow author. I know that Macnaghten has been following you for some time, keeping you in his sights. I know no more than that. I just thought it right to mark your card – to alert you, in case ever you go to places less enlightened souls might not approve of and consort with people whose personal morality is outwith the law as it is currently constituted.’ He paused and looked at Oscar kindly. ‘Do you take my meaning?’

  ‘I do,’ said Oscar quietly.

  ‘Your private life is your own affair. You are a free spirit and will do as you please. I just felt you should know that Macnaghten’s men are watching you. Take care.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Oscar. ‘Thank you, George.’

  ‘Do you know,’ I added, feeling it was time I made a contribution, ‘I believe this is the best Welsh rarebit I’ve ever had.’

  28

  ‘I can solve it all’

  Oscar Wilde died in November 1900, at the age of only forty-six. At the time I was surprised because when I knew him, just a few years before, he seemed to me to have the constitution of an ox. He was a big man, with a big man’s appetite for food, for drink, for life.

  When we emerged from George R. Sims’ house that Saturday night it was gone eleven o’clock. I was ready for bed. Oscar was not. As Sims closed his front door behind us and we came down the stone steps into the street, Oscar announced, ‘We’re going drinking, Arthur.’ There was a steely defiance in his tone. As he pulled open the door of the two-wheeler that stood waiting for us, I noticed his hand trembling with suppressed rage. ‘We’re near Baker Street, aren’t we? This is your territory, Arthur. Where would Holmes take Watson for a night on the tiles?’

  ‘Holmes is not really a drinking man,’ I said unhelpfully, my heart sinking somewhat at the prospect of ‘a night on the tiles’.

  ‘Of course not,’ laughed Oscar. ‘He’s a dope fiend.’ He climbed up into the carriage. ‘How do you get away with it? If I’d created a hero who revelled in his addiction to cocaine I’d be drummed out of town, but somehow you’re everybody’s favourite author. How do you do it?’ He called up to the cabman. ‘Take us to the Mermaid in Marylebone Lane.’

  ‘I don’t know it,’ I said. ‘Is it a pub? Will it be open still?’

  ‘For us, it will be. It is a refuge for the angry and the sad.’

  ‘And which are we?’ I asked, as our two-wheeler pulled away and trundled steadily along Clarence Gate towards the Marylebone Road. The night was still and the street was quiet: the only sound, the clatter of the iron wheels on the wet cobblestones.

  ‘I am angry and you are sad.’

  ‘If Macnaghten has indeed deceived you, I can understand your anger,’ I said, ‘but I’d be surprised. He struck me as a gentleman through and through.’

  Oscar laughed. ‘And you strike me as a model husband, through and through, devoted to your Touie and your bairns, and yet you long for your little Russian acrobat – how you long for her

  ‘No,’ I said emphatically – but without conviction. ‘No, you’re wrong . . .’ I turned away from Oscar and looked out onto the wet, black roadway.

  Did I sigh? I don’t believe I did, but, afterwards, Oscar told me that I had. At all events, with his glove he rapped my knee gently and whispered, ‘Sigh no more, Arthur, sigh no more. Men were deceivers ever – one foot in the sea and one on shore, to one thing constant never.’

  ‘I shall be constant to Touie,’ I said, not looking back at him.

  ‘Infidelity starts in the mind,’ he replied. ‘It’s too late now.’

  We sat in awkward silence until the carriage came to a halt.

  The Mermaid was a small, traditional London public house, with mullioned windows and oak beams, low-ceilinged, smoke-filled and cosy, with a coal fire burning at each end of its one narrow room. The place was owned, Oscar explained, by a former Metropolitan police sergeant, who entertained friends’ after hours, no questions asked, no money taken, though a Christmas present is always appreciated’.

  ‘Just the one drink,’ I said, as we stood at the bar and Oscar ordered what he called his usual’: a bottle of champagne and a bottle of brandy to go with it. The barman – a young Negro who appeared to be dressed as a sailor – produced the bottles at once and an empty pewter tankard for each of us. Oscar, brooking no argument, poured two fingers of brandy and four of champagne into each vessel. He gave me mine and raised his towards me.

  ‘Welcome to the Mermaid,’ he said, ‘where those who lead double lives seek consolation.’

  The place was entirely lit by candles and in their ochre glow, Oscar, more mellow now, looked like a benign devil hosting a Hallowe’en drinks party for a few of his closer friends. There were no more than twenty people in the room, seated at small tables, standing in alcoves, mostly in pairs and, mostly, I realised at once, older men – professional men – with younger women not of their class.

  ‘And not all the women are women,’ Oscar whispered to me, as he watched me watching them. ‘Some of these “girls” are telegraph boys on the spree.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, taking a sip of Oscar’s heady brew.

  ‘’Evening, Mr Wilde,’ said a figure who stood alone, lounging against the wall at the far end of the bar. He was tall and lean with a thin yellow face and a curious staring gaze. He wore a dark red velvet suit whose plush was as worn as the covering of one of the bar stools.

  ‘Good evening, Jonah.’ Oscar turned to me and murmured: ‘This is our host, Arthur. He doesn’t look like a police sergeant, does he? He’s blind.’

  ‘But not deaf,’ answered the landlord, moving away from the wall and coming along the bar towards us. ‘We’ve not seen you for a while, Mr Wilde.’ The man set his staring, dead eyes towards my friend.

  ‘I was hoping Walter Wellbeloved might be here tonight,’ said Oscar.

  The landlord shook his head. ‘He’s not been here for months. He stopped coming once his own mermaid died. He knew I’d been a copper. I think I made him nervous.’

  ‘Do you think he killed his mermaid?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘Possibly,’ said the landlor
d. ‘Probably. Most women who get murdered are murdered by their husbands or their lovers.’

  Oscar peered into his tankard. ‘Does each man kill the thing he loves?’

  ‘It’s common, that’s all I’m saying,’ continued the landlord. ‘He’s an odd one, that Walter Wellbeloved, and quite capable of murder, in my opinion.’

  ‘Could he be Jack the Ripper, in your opinion?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said the landlord emphatically.

  ‘Who is then?’ asked Oscar, looking into our host’s blind eyes.

  ‘No idea. I’ve been out of the game too long. But it won’t be an Englishman, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Jonah?’ asked Oscar, seemingly amused by the assertion.

  ‘I was in the force for thirty years. I’ve known my share of murderers and I can tell you this: an Englishman can be a brute. He’ll batter a woman, beat her, break her neck, shoot her in cold blood, throttle her in the heat of the moment, poison her, drown her even – like Wellbeloved drowned his mermaid. But he won’t cut her up and leave her entrails all over the place – especially not her private parts.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s English. He’s too squeamish.’

  Oscar laughed and refilled his tankard with brandy and champagne.

  It must have been four in the morning before we reached our rooms at the Langham Hotel. In truth, I have no recollection of reaching mine. All I recall is being woken at around nine in the morning by a shaft of winter sunlight piercing through the half-closed curtains and forcing its way through my eyelids. It seemed I had managed to undress myself, but had not climbed beneath the bedclothes. As the daylight hit my aching eyes, my ears picked up the sound of scratching – as though a mouse was caught in a cupboard. Slowly, painfully, I rose, pulled on my dressing gown and, searching for my slippers, noticed that a piece of paper had been pushed under the bedroom door. It was a note from Oscar:

  I can solve it all. I am in the dining room having breakfast.

  Join me when you are ready. O.

  Within twenty minutes, I had washed, shaved, dressed and made my way down to the dining room where my bleary eyes were confronted by a quite extraordinary sight: Oscar, bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, en prince, sporting a canary-yellow carnation in the buttonhole of a startlingly bright green Harris-tweed suit. He had a cup of coffee in one hand, a piece of toast in the other and a copy of the Observer propped up against the coffee pot in front of him.

  ‘Good morning, Oscar,’ I croaked. ‘I’m impressed to see you looking so fresh and wide awake.’

  He looked up at me and smiled. ‘Enjoy your breakfast and confound your enemies. Nothing annoys them more.’

  I sat down facing him. He poured me some coffee. ‘You’re keeping notes, I take it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but not last night. ‘I’ll write them up when I get home this evening.’

  ‘You’re not going home this evening, Arthur,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re coming to the theatre with me. And with Constance. Richard Mansfield has invited us to a special Sunday matinée. It’s a private performance for friends and members of the profession only. It would be churlish to refuse.’

  ‘I must go home,’ I pleaded.

  ‘Not quite yet. One more night here. I shall pay. And tomorrow we’ve got our picnic lunch with Freddie Bunbury and Festing Fitzmaurice. We need to eliminate Prince Eddy altogether. I can let you go after that. We should have it all done and dusted by then, don’t you think?’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  He put down his coffee cup and reached for his cigarette case. ‘I’ll confess a certain sense of satisfaction,’ he said, narrowing his eyes and suddenly looking distinctly like Mr Dodgson’s Cheshire Cat. ‘The police have been on the case for six years and have got nowhere. We have been at it for barely six days and I do believe we’re nearly there.’ He struck a Vesta with a flourish.

  ‘What are you talking about, man?’ I protested.

  ‘We’ve got to see the Druitt family, I grant you, and find out if “Leather Apron” has anything useful to offer, but that done I am hopeful we’ll be able to say “Case closed”.’

  ‘You are quite extraordinary, Oscar,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied, beaming. ‘You said that with real feeling, Arthur.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘Of course,’ he added mischievously, ‘every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not the sitter, but even so, you are the man to write up this story, without a doubt. Can you imagine what a dreary job Henry James would make of it?’ He laughed and turned to scan the dining room for a waiter. ‘We must get you some eggs and bacon. You’re looking quite wan and you’re going to need all your strength for the final furlong.’

  He waved a languid hand in the direction of the boy Martin, who appeared to be coming towards our table in any event. The young waiter arrived, breathless and smiling. He was carrying a large cardboard box in both hands.

  ‘Good morning, Martin,’ said Oscar cheerily.

  ‘’Morning, sir,’ answered the boy.

  ‘Have you seen him today?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s out there as usual.’

  ‘And is this a present from him?’ asked Oscar, indicating the container the boy was holding out before him.

  ‘No, sir, this is from Mrs Wilde. She’s just had it sent over by cab from Tite Street. It’s addressed to you. It’s heavy.’

  ‘Put it down, boy,’ said Oscar, clearing space on the table.

  ‘Take care,’ I said, suddenly alarmed. ‘It might be a bomb.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ said Oscar. ‘This isn’t Paris. This isn’t St Petersburg. And I’m Irish and known for my Republican sympathies.’

  ‘Nevertheless, extinguish your cigarette, Oscar,’ I said. ‘I insist.’

  My friend looked at me with a raised eyebrow, but did as I instructed. He took a knife from the table and used it to saw at the string wrapped around the box. ‘It’s an educated hand,’ he said, peering at the address label. ‘It’s marked: “Oscar Wilde – for his eyes only”.’

  ‘Do you think it is a bomb?’ asked the boy excitedly.

  ‘I doubt it very much,’ said Oscar.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked impatiently.

  Oscar had cut through the string and lifted the lid from the box. ‘Christ almighty,’ he cried, blanching. ‘It must be from Tom Norman.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I whimpered.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Oscar. ‘It is the head of John the Baptist.’

  29

  The Man in the Street

  Within the hour we were seated once more at number 9 Tite Street, in the brown, book-lined study of Melville Macnaghten, chief constable of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police. Precariously, the policeman held the box containing the severed head on his lap and peered into it, poking at the contents with a pencil.

  ‘Is it wearing a wig?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘And a false beard.’

  ‘And the hideous eyes?’

  ‘They’re made of glass.’

  ‘But the head is human? You’ve examined it? It’s not a waxwork?’

  ‘It’s human, without question. The waxy look is due to the embalming process. The head has been preserved in formaldehyde.’

  Macnaghten lowered his face further towards the box. ‘I can’t smell anything,’ he said. ‘He looks grotesque – like a doll, quite unreal.’

  ‘For a reason,’ I said.

  Macnaghten looked up. ‘A reason?’

  ‘Yes. He isn’t a “he”. That’s not a man’s head. It’s the head of a young woman.’

  ‘Good God.’ Macnaghten sat back abruptly; the cardboard box shifted on his lap; he used both hands to steady it. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘The size of the head, it’s quite small. The proportions of the features. Principally, the texture of
the skin and the angle and size of the Adam’s apple. There is no doubt about it. That is the head of a young woman, aged around twenty, I’d say, at the time of her death.’

  ‘But why is she disguised as a man, for heaven’s sake? It’s too bizarre.’

  Oscar now spoke – for the first time since we had arrived so unexpectedly at the chief constable’s front door ten minutes before. ‘She is disguised as John the Baptist,’ he said quietly. He moved uneasily in his seat, extinguishing his cigarette. ‘I’m afraid it is my fault. I am responsible.’

  ‘Not for her death?’

  ‘No. That would be too terrible.’ He shuddered visibly. ‘But I am responsible for her appearance here, like this – as you see her now. It is my doing.’

  ‘Explain yourself, man,’ said Macnaghten. He lowered the box onto the floor and placed it by his feet. He looked at Oscar and widened his eyes. ‘What is all this about, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘It’s a tale simply told,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Then tell it simply, if you please,’ snapped Macnaghten.

  ‘We went to visit Tom Norman’s emporium in the Whitechapel Road.’ Oscar paused. I was unaccustomed to seeing him so hesitant. ‘You know the place?’

  Macnaghten nodded.

  ‘It was part of our inquiries,’ continued Oscar, now waving his hands about distractedly. ‘Part of our investigation . . .’

  ‘You were wasting your time,’ said Macnaghten crisply. ‘Norman’s a shady character, no doubt, what the Americans call “a huckster” – but he’s not Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘Nevertheless, we went to see him and while we were there I asked him – foolishly, I see now – whether he might be able to procure for me the head of Iokannan the prophet, the head of John the Baptist.’

  ‘I am lost, Mr Wilde. And not much amused. Would you explain yourself as simply and succinctly as you can?’

  I intervened. ‘Oscar has written a play,’ I said, ‘based on the bible story of Salome.’

  ‘The story features in both the gospels of Saint Matthew and Saint Mark,’ added Oscar eagerly. ‘Salome is the daughter of Herod and Herodias.’