When I asked him who he thought the real murderer might be, he told me he had no idea. ‘Nobody knows. Nobody will ever know. It’s just Jack the Kipper.’
That is all my news, my friend. I could not write more briefly. I did not have the time.
Ever yours,
Oscar
PS Unless I hear to the contrary, I will assume that my proposed guest list for Saturday night meets with your approval and I will issue invitations accordingly. It is important that Bunbury is with us on Saturday. I believe his life depends on it.
34
Murder
I did not reply to Oscar’s letter. Instead, I wrote once more to my Touie in Switzerland, telling her how pleased I was to be back home, assuring her that Mrs Stocks was taking good care of me, and reporting to her on the excellent progress I felt I was making with my new story – one inspired by my adventures with the whalers in the Arctic Circle.
On Friday morning, a little before noon, the telegraph boy arrived with a wire from Oscar:
GUESTS INVITED + YOUR ROOM AT LANGHAM BOOKED
+ SUPPER AT ELEVEN + REVELATIONS AT MIDNIGHT
+ OSCAR
On Saturday morning I was still undecided. I felt my comradeship with Oscar required me to attend the supper party he was holding and I was intrigued to know what revelations’ he might conjure up for the benefit of his guests, but at the same time the prospect of seeing Olga once more unnerved me. I had fallen in love with the girl – I couldn’t deny it, at least not to myself – but there could be no future for us. I knew that. What could be gained by seeing her once more but a renewal of desire followed by regret and heartache?
It was early in the afternoon, at the very moment that I had resolved not to go to London that evening and was beginning to word a telegram of explanation that I might send to Oscar – could I claim to have caught a sudden chill? Or should I tell the simple truth? – when, from my study window, I saw the telegraph boy rest his bicycle against the front gate and come running up the path. It was another wire from Oscar:
FURTHER MURDER IN TITE STREET + HORROR
UNSPEAKABLE + GOME SOONEST + OW
By train and hansom cab, I reached Tite Street in little more than two hours. Darkness had fallen and the street lamps gave a poor light, but I could see through the gloom that the entrance to the road was blocked, as it has been twelve days before when the first body had been found in the alley leading from Tite Street to Paradise Walk. A yellow fog swirled down the street and from it – as I paid off the cabman – I saw a shadowy figure emerge and vanish and appear again, like a ghost on the ramparts at Elsinore.
I felt I recognised the silhouette. I called out: ‘Is that you, Macnaghten?’
The figure came towards me. So thick was the murk that I did not see his face until he was a yard away. It was one of Macnaghten’s men – a sergeant. I knew him from my visit to the police morgue the week before. ‘The chief constable’s not here, sir,’ he said.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked.
‘Another murder.’
‘Another woman?’
‘Yes, sir. Like the last two, but worse. It’s Jack the Ripper all over again.’
‘Can I see the scene?’
‘Not without the chief’s say-so, sir. They’ve taken the body away – what was left of it. The chief was here all morning. Your friend, Mr Wilde, was here too.’
‘I’m going to his house,’ I said.
‘Very good, sir. You know the way?’
I left the sergeant and walked past him into the gloom, past the narrow, black entrance to the alley, now guarded by two policemen, and up the all-but-invisible street. So thick was the fog that I could not tell one house from another and started up the wrong front doorsteps twice before arriving correctly at number 16. I rang the bell. There was no answer. I peered up at the dun-coloured building shrouded in a heavy veil of yellow mist. There were smudges of light at the windows on the upper floors. I rang again. I waited. I was turning over in my mind what best to do next, when I heard the rattle of keys and the pulling of a bolt. An anxious girl’s face peeped around the edge of the door. It was Mary, the Wildes’ young maid.
‘Oh, it’s you, Dr Doyle,’ she whispered. ‘Come in. I thought it might be Mr Wilde. Mrs Wilde said not to let him in.’
‘Not let him in?’
‘He’s the worse for wear.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
The girl gave a nervous giggle as she opened the door to let me pass. ‘Oh, no. Mr William, I mean. Mr Oscar’s with the police. It’s been quite a day, all the comings and goings. Mr William was in a bad way.’
The girl took my hat and dropped it as, all jitters, she helped me off with my coat. The gas jets in the sconces on the wall above the hallway table hissed and flared. ‘Where is Mrs Wilde?’ I asked. ‘Is she in?’
‘She’s changing for dinner, sir.’
As the girl bent down to retrieve my hat, I heard footfall on the landing above and then Constance calling from the top of the stairs: ‘Is that you, Arthur? It’s you, isn’t it? I’m not decent, but you don’t mind, do you? You’re a doctor, after all.’
Mary dropped my hat once more and scuttled away to the kitchen as I looked up to find Constance coming down the stairs, her hands held out towards me. She looked quite wonderful, in a way I had never seen her look before, with her hair pinned up and her face unpainted. She was wearing a Japanese kimono.
‘I look ridiculous, I know,’ she said, coming up and kissing me. As her hands touched mine, I felt them shaking. ‘It’s good to see you, Arthur,’ she said. ‘We’ve had quite a day here.’
‘So I understand.’
‘Willie’s been here and made a terrible scene – terrified poor Mary. Oscar’s having this supper party tonight and has invited Willie, but not his fiancée. And now Willie’s discovered that I’m going, but Lily hasn’t been asked and he’s incensed.’
‘The supper party is still happening?’
‘Yes – and Oscar says I have to come, which is why I’m changing now.’
‘Where is Oscar?’
‘With Mr Macnaghten – at the explosion.’
‘The explosion?’
‘You’ve not heard?’
‘What explosion? I know nothing.’
‘In Paradise Walk, about two hours ago – what time is it?’ She looked around at the clock on the wall. ‘Around lunchtime, it must have been – just after we got rid of Willie. It was quite a small explosion, but alarming all the same. Oscar went out to investigate. He was gone for an hour. We became quite anxious – Mary started crying. You know what girls are. And then Oscar came back with Macnaghten and they gave me telegrams to send. So much has been happening. I’m quite bewildered.’
‘Where are your boys?’
‘They’re with Oscar’s mother, thank heavens. They’re safe. Oscar can’t cope with them here. He says he can’t work with them in the house.’
‘How is Oscar?’
‘Now?’ She hesitated. ‘Excited, I think.’ She put her hands over mine. ‘I know that sounds strange, but, yes, excited. Almost mad.’ She looked up into my eyes and I saw tears in the corners of hers. ‘I sometimes think he is quite mad and I do not know what to do. I love him so very much.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I understand.’
‘This morning, when we heard about the murder – the poor girl in the alley . . . You know about that?’
‘Yes. Oscar sent me a wire. That’s why I’ve come.’
‘When he came back from seeing the poor girl’s body he was white as a sheet – so shocked by what he’d seen. I gave him some brandy, and then Willie arrived while we were having lunch and there was this dreadful argument – and then the explosion occurred and the fire . . .’
Behind me, I heard the key turning sharply in the latch. The front door flew wide open and there stood Oscar in a whorl of yellow mist – like a ghastly apparition in an Adelphi melodrama. His cloak was swept back over his shou
lder. He was wild-eyed and grinning like a man possessed.
‘Ah, here you are,’ he cried, laughing and pointing at me. ‘In at the kill, eh? And with my wife in your arms!’
I broke abruptly away from Constance. ‘What’s the matter, Oscar?’
He stepped in to the hallway, but held the door open. The gas jets flared once more. ‘Come, man, this is no time for romance. We must go. The carriage is waiting. Where’s your bag?’
‘I’ve brought no bag,’ I said.
‘Have you dropped it at the hotel already?’
‘I have no bag, Oscar.’
‘Aren’t you going to change for the party? We’re not in South Norwood now.’
‘I can’t come to the party, Oscar,’ I protested. ‘I came now because of your telegram – and Constance was kind enough to welcome me. But I cannot come to any party. You should cancel the supper, Oscar. Please.’
‘What?’ he bellowed. Are you mad?’
‘Leastways, I cannot come. I really cannot. You must understand—’
‘Oh,’ he cried, suddenly clapping his hands. ‘Have no fear. She’s not coming, your little acrobat. You’re quite safe, Arthur. I should have told you. The cast list is changed altogether. Come now.’ He stepped back over the threshold beckoning me towards him. I picked up my hat and coat to follow.
Constance called after him: ‘What time must I be there, Oscar?’
‘Eleven at the latest, my dear – but do change before you come. It’s a supper party, not a costume ball.’
We climbed into the two-wheeler that stood waiting at the kerb-side. ‘I thought the street was closed,’ I said.
‘It was,’ said Oscar, settling back into his seat with a mighty sigh. ‘Macnaghten ordered it open again just a minute ago. He’s gone home to change. He’s had quite a day.’
‘And you, Oscar? How are you?’ He made no answer, but began to feel under his cloak for his cigarettes. ‘Remember, I am your friend – and a doctor, too. You’re overwrought. It’s not good for your heart.’
He turned and smiled at me. He appeared calmer now. ‘I know the golden rule: “Always behave as if nothing has happened, no matter what has happened.” It’s sound advice, but so very English and I’m profoundly Irish, I’m afraid.’ He lit his cigarette and chuckled softly.
‘What has happened?’ I asked.
‘So much,’ he said. ‘And there’s more to come – much more, “ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace may meet.”’
‘Keats?’
‘Shelley.’ He gave me his familiar, reassuring pat on the knee. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Arthur. You were here at the start. You should be here at the finish, too.’
‘So what has happened today?’ I asked. ‘Another poor girl was found this morning? As before?’
‘Worse. She had been decapitated. And disembowelled.’
‘You saw the body?’
‘Only briefly. A glance, no more. It was enough. I’m not a doctor.’
‘I understand,’ I said.
‘The legs had been cut off, too. What was left were the arms and a bloodied torso.’
‘Like the torso found beneath the railway arch in Pinchin Street?’
‘And the torso found below ground in the vault in Whitehall – yes. The same.’
‘Was the head nearby?’
‘No – no head, no legs, no clothes, no jewellery, nothing. Just the torso dropped at the end of the alley, as before. The poor creature was lying on her back, her arms outstretched, crucified.’
‘Horrible.’
‘Unspeakable.’
‘And, of course, no one reported missing?’
‘Not yet – but I’d not expect it. It’s the pattern exactly as before.’
‘This is too much.’ I sighed. ‘Something must be done.’
‘Something will be done,’ said Oscar, peering out of the carriage window into the darkness, ‘and tonight.’
‘Tonight,’ I repeated. ‘Yes, tonight . . .’ I looked at my friend’s turned head, perplexed. ‘What are these “revelations” you are promising for tonight, Oscar? Why are you even thinking of going ahead with the party?’
He turned back towards me and said eagerly, ‘We must. We have no choice – though, as Constance may have told you, the guest list has been somewhat modified.’
‘You told me. Olga is not coming.’
‘Nor Mr Dodgson. He declined. Nor Mrs Mathers. She is summoned to a séance in Paddington – for ready money. Quite understandable. And, of course, Sir Freddie Bunbury will not be there.’
‘Bunbury is not coming?’
Oscar looked at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘Bunbury is dead.’
‘What?’
‘Bunbury is quite exploded.’
‘I do not follow you, Oscar. Explain, man.’
‘The explosion – that was Bunbury. He took his own life – and Festing’s. Did Constance not tell you?’
‘No,’ I answered, shaking my head in disbelief. ‘That was the explosion in Paradise Walk?’
‘Yes. And now they are at peace – with Lady Bunbury and Prince Eddy. It’s what they wanted. I thought something of the sort might occur, but not today – tomorrow. That’s why I felt is so essential to have Freddie at the supper tonight. I sensed his life might depend on it. I thought to save him from himself.’
‘I am confused, Oscar – utterly confused.’
‘Tomorrow, Arthur, is the fourteenth of January – the anniversary of Prince Eddy’s death. Last week when we had that dreadful “picnic lunch” with Freddie and Festing, Freddie told us they were nearing their end, did he not? He even told us they hoped to go out with a bang? I should learn to take my friends more literally. I see now it was his little joke. He had it all planned out. And I believe he was so insistent we should be there because, somehow, he wanted to share their secret. He thought I might understand – and I believe I do.’
‘Bunbury has taken his own life – and murdered Festing Fitzmaurice in the process?’
‘Two heinous crimes, according to English law – but at times “the law is a ass, a idiot”.’ Oscar lit a second cigarette from the embers of his first and smiled at me. ‘As you know, Arthur, I’ve not much time for Dickens as rule, but in this instance he gets it right.’
‘I marvel at your composure, Oscar. Your friends are dead and you are almost making light of it?’
‘A moment ago, Arthur, you were telling me I was overwrought. You really must settle on a single diagnosis.’
I laughed despairingly. Oscar shook his head. ‘I am sanguine about Bunbury and Fitzmaurice.’ he went on, ‘because both were old men. One had lost his wife, the other his wits. There was nothing of worth left for them in this world. They were ready for the next.’
‘What does Macnaghten make of it all?’ I asked.
‘He’s all excitement. Here’s a crime he could solve at a stroke. I arrived on the scene at the very moment he did. The pigsty was ablaze.’
‘The pigsty?’
‘That’s where the explosion occurred. In one of the stalls. Bunbury and Fitzmaurice tied together with ribbons – mortars strapped to their chests ignited by fireworks.’
‘Good God.’
‘Macnaghten recognised the modus operandi straight away. He’d first seen primitive mortars like these used by the natives in the land riots in India when he was there. It seems there are combustible chemicals of some sort lurking in animal manure—’
‘Ammonium nitrate,’ I said.
‘That’s it. Ammonium nitrate. You’re the man of science, Arthur. Macnaghten likes to think he is, too. Well, combine a distillation of this ammonium nitrate with a little gunpowder and – boom! Indian rioters, Fenians, anarchists, fading courtiers . . . they’re all using it, apparently.’
‘I marvel that Bunbury knew how.’
‘He was a soldier once upon a time. But, of course, that was many years ago and his home-made mortar wasn’t up to much. Macnaghten reck
ons the shock of the explosion knocked them out and the fumes from the fire asphyxiated them. It was quite a small blaze. The pig escaped, I’m glad to say. And now Macnaghten is merry as a grig because he believes we have found Jack the Ripper.’
‘What?’ I exclaimed, now utterly confounded.
‘Yes, Macnaghten is crying “case solved”. He may be a gentleman, Arthur, but he’s also a fool. He’s misunderstood everything. I don’t know why he wasted all those years managing his father’s tea estates in Bengal. The man was born to be a policeman.’
35
A true friend
The Langham was one of several London hotels where Oscar kept a set of evening clothes in case ‘by chance’ he’d need them.
It was eight o’clock when we arrived and, as we did, much of fashionable London appeared to be criss-crossing the hotel foyer, bustling this way and that like elegant ants, coming from dinner, going to dinner, racing to the theatre or the concert hall, collecting coats and hats and wraps and furs, demanding hansom cabs, pondering whether or not to take umbrellas in case of rain. ‘It’s chaos here,’ cried Oscar happily, as we surveyed the throng.
Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper Page 25