‘Which I appreciate,’ replied Oscar, with a small bow. ‘The more so, since my brother seems to be asleep.’
I glanced across the table. Willie Wilde had his hands folded comfortably across his ample stomach and his bearded chin was lolling on his chest. Whether or not his eyes were open, I could not see.
‘He’s not asleep,’ said Sims. ‘If he were, we’d hear him snoring.’ A gentle chuckle rippled around the room.
‘It’s interesting,’ said Alec Shand, ‘how often we laugh when we are most afraid.’
‘We’ll give you fifteen minutes more, Wilde,’ announced Labouchere, ‘and then we’re off to bed. We’re all busy people.’ I watched his silhouette turn to either side of him. ‘The doctors have to get back to their lunatics, Salazkin’s got to get to Paris—’
‘And Labby has the Empire to run,’ threw in George R. Sims.
‘Very well,’ said Oscar. ‘I will be brief.’
‘Who was this Jack the Ripper?’ demanded Labouchere. ‘Who is he? That’s all we want to know.’
‘I can tell you,’ said Melville Macnaghten emphatically. ‘The Whitechapel murderer was the doctor, Druitt, who killed himself after murdering Mary Jane Kelly. And the Chelsea murderer was Sir Frederick Bunbury, who took his own life today. I’m grateful to Mr Wilde and to Dr Doyle for unravelling the mystery of these latest killings.’
‘And we are grateful to you, Chief Constable, for involving us in the matter and inviting me to bring what you charmingly called my “poet’s eye” to the proceedings.’ Oscar was full of energy once more. ‘But Montague John Druitt was not a doctor. He was a barrister and a schoolmaster and he could not have been Jack the Ripper because there are reliable witnesses who will testify that he was nowhere near Whitechapel at the time of any one of the Whitechapel murders. His suicide came from quite another cause.’
‘So who was Jack the Ripper?’ demanded Labouchere. ‘We’ve not got all night.’
Oscar breathed deeply as he lit another cigarette. ‘Very well,’ he said again. He considered the cloud of smoke as it filtered from his mouth and nostrils, as if the monster might appear from the miasmal mist. ‘Who was he? Who is he? He seems to have been so many people since his arrival – and his christening – six years ago.’
He looked towards George R. Sims and then down at the slumped figure of Willie Wilde. ‘To the gentlemen of the press – and to the public at large – he was whoever they could fix a name to. Who is interested in a murderer “name unknown”? But call him “Leather Apron” or, better still, “Jack the Ripper”, and now there’s a shivering up the spine and the papers start to sell. And bring in “celebrity” – a crass coinage for a noxious notion – and the whole kingdom is suddenly agog. Could it be Her Majesty’s grandson, the heir to the heir to the throne? We’ve heard rum talk about him. It’s a notorious crime, let’s pin it on someone famous! What do you say? Lewis Carroll or George R. Sims?’
Sims chuckled obligingly.
‘In the course of our investigation,’ Oscar continued, with the help of Mr Wellbeloved and his friend Mrs Mathers, Dr Doyle and I took part in a séance. I was reminded then how often it is that when we try to contact “the other side” we expect to be greeted by an immortal of note. There must be millions of lost souls waiting out there in the ether, but when we come knocking we don’t want any Tom, Dick or Harry responding to our summons. We want to find Joan of Arc or Charlemagne or Napoleon at the door.’
Oscar searched out Richard Mansfield in the gloom. The actor’s monocle glistened in the candlelight. ‘Mr Mansfield is playing Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde in the Strand. He’s been seen in Whitechapel after dark. He’s famous. Let’s make him Jack the Ripper.’
‘Are you saying it’s Mansfield?’ interrupted Sims. ‘That’s preposterous.’
‘Richard Mansfield has no alibis for the witching hours when the Whitechapel murders took place – though I acknowledge that he was on stage when the second of the bodies was left in the alley by Paradise Walk last week.’
‘If your “poet’s eye” has lighted on Mansfield, Oscar, you need to visit your oculist.’
‘I’m merely saying, George, that – encouraged by the popular press – the public warms to the idea of a multiple murderer who looks the part. Richard III, Mr Hyde, Napoleon . . . these are monsters to reckon with.’
Mansfield said nothing. From what I could tell in the half-light, he appeared amused.
Oscar smiled. ‘That’s Jack the Ripper for the multitude,’ he said. ‘But, closer to home, nearer to the scene of the crime, he becomes a different character. According to the two policemen that Dr Doyle and I encountered as we walked the streets of Whitechapel, whoever he was, the Ripper wasn’t going to be a local man. There was too much blood and guts for that. He was going to be a stranger, an outsider, “a foreigner most like”. Over many months the police collected hundreds of statements from so-called witnesses – people who had been in the vicinity at the time of one or more of the murders. Some thought they might have seen the man – but none was sure. Not one! They’d seen a figure near the scene of the crime on the night in question. Some said he was tall. More said he was short. Some called him swarthy, some called him pale. One was sure he had a limp. Few thought him clean-shaven. Most gave him a moustache; others a grizzled beard. But how could they tell in Whitechapel by night? It’s darker than this room is now – and rolling up from the Thames there’s invariably a mist and, as often as not, a pea-souper of a fog. Jack the Ripper could be anyone.’
‘There needs no ghost come from the grave to tell us this, Oscar,’ said Richard Mansfield, without rancour.
‘Indeed not, sir, but I believe it was a ghost of sorts who told us where we should be looking – the ghost of Lizzie Stride.’
‘Lizzie Stride?’ repeated Dr Rogerson.
‘Elizabeth Stride – the third of the Macnaghten victims. Dr Doyle and I encountered her sister, Stella, plying her trade in the very alley where poor Lizzie lost her life.’
I spoke – without thinking. ‘Two Jacks for the price of one,’ I said.
‘Exactly, Arthur. “There might have been two of them.” That’s what Stella Stride said. One to watch and one to act. One to hold the lamp, one to do the deed. One to be the lookout, while the other wielded the knife. In all the reports of all the murders, very few cries for help were heard. Did one man cover the victim’s mouth while the other began the butchery? And, as butchers, did they take it in turn to carve the joint? The police, led by Chief Constable Macnaghten, believe that only five of the Whitechapel murders can be attributed to Jack the Ripper because only five of the victims were slaughtered in the same way. But there were eleven brutal murders in Whitechapel between the summer of 1888 and the spring of 1891 and a further two, not-dissimilar ones, in Paradise Walk this past week. Thirteen in all. In some, the victims were slashed – mutilated and disembowelled. In others, the victims were stabbed – dismembered and decapitated. Thirteen murders. Two modus operandi. Two Jacks for the price of one.’
‘But no witnesses spoke of seeing two men together?’ said Melville Macnaghten.
‘No one was looking for two men. Everyone was looking for Jack the Ripper.’
‘Two men,’ repeated Labouchere. ‘Two men, hunting together – off and on over a period of almost six years. Could two men keep a secret for so long?’
‘Yes,’ said Oscar, ‘I believe so, if they had a bond.’
‘A bond?’ queried Sims.
‘If they were brothers, for example.’ He glanced down at the slumped figure of Willie and smiled. He looked up across the table. ‘Or felt they were brothers because they were both beleaguered Jews in a foreign land.’
‘You mean Kosminski and Ostrog?’ asked Dr Rogerson.
I spoke without considering my words. ‘And Kosminski did the stabbing and decapitating while Ostrog slashed his victims and removed their internal organs with his knife.’
‘Rather the other way around, I think,’ said Oscar lig
htly.
‘It’s not possible, Mr Wilde,’ said Dr Rogerson. ‘You’ve seen Kosminski. He is an incapable imbecile. We keep him under lock and key. Even were he to escape, he hasn’t the strength for barbaric crimes like these.’
‘And five years ago?’ asked Oscar.
‘He was stronger then, yes,’ said Rogerson, ‘but I examined him on his admission – at length. There is nothing in anything he said that would suggest in any way that he was involved in murders such as these.’
‘I can believe it,’ said Oscar. ‘Perhaps he did not know what he had done. Is it possible to wipe the memory clean?’
‘Yes,’ said Dr Gabriel, psychogenic amnesia is not unknown.’
‘And what causes it?’ asked Oscar.
‘Severe abuse of alcohol, trauma to the head. It can be induced by hypnosis.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Dr Rogerson. ‘Kosminski is not capable of the murders that have taken place this week. You have seen him with your own eyes. You must know that.’
‘However,’ said Oscar slowly, ‘Ostrog might be.’
I looked up at Oscar. ‘But Ostrog was in Paris last week when the second body was found in the alley off Paradise Walk.’
‘Who told us that?’
‘Mr Salazkin did,’ I said. ‘He told us Ostrog was in Paris on circus business, taking publicity material to the French printers or some such.’
‘Indeed, Arthur, that’s what we were told.’ Oscar lit one of his Vestas. The flame flared and for a moment illuminated the table. The eyes I saw were all turned towards Salazkin. The ringmaster sat impassively at the far end of the table.
‘Two Jacks – one King,’ said Oscar. He lit his next cigarette and drew on it deeply. As he exhaled the blue-grey smoke, he set out his stall with the calm authority of an Old Bailey barrister. ‘My friend Dr Conan Doyle once told me that the most difficult crime to track is the one which is purposeless. He is right, of course. He invariably is. But the first crimes – the Whitechapel murders – had a purpose – and a clear one.’
‘Beyond the senseless mutilation of defenceless women?’ asked George R. Sims.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Oscar. ‘That was but the means to the end.’
‘And what was the end?’ asked Sims.
‘Terror and confusion,’ said Oscar. ‘The Whitechapel murders were acts of terrorism.’
‘Explain,’ said Labouchere.
‘Either acting on his own account or at the behest of his masters in St Petersburg, our country’s “friendly informer”, Ivan Salazkin, brought his Russian Circus to London and set about creating a little mayhem on the side. Whether he is a true revolutionary or an anarchist or, as I suspect, simply a monster with bloodlust in his veins – he is proud to claim descent from the countess who slaughtered young women by the score so that she could take baths in their blood – who knows? What I do know is that his circus was in London at Easter 1888 when Emma Smith was murdered. Before she died she said she had been the victim of two or three assailants. It could be that Salazkin was guilty of the crime or – more likely, in my estimation – it could be that the reports of her murder inspired his killing spree when the circus returned to London in August that year.’
‘Is this possible?’ hissed Labouchere. He turned to Salazkin. ‘Say something, man.’
Salazkin said nothing.
‘The dates all fit,’ continued Oscar calmly. ‘The Russian Circus was in London at the time of ten of the eleven Whitechapel murders. The exception is the twentieth of December 1888, when the circus was in Paris and Rose Mylett’s body was found.’
‘She died of strangulation,’ said Macnaghten.
‘As I recall,’ said Oscar. ‘Her death cannot be laid at Salazkin’s door – except perhaps in the sense that every unexplained murder after the first few was heralded by our sensationalist newspapers as marking the return of Jack the Ripper. If the ringmaster’s purpose was to spread terror in the streets of the capital, the gentlemen of the press certainly assisted him in his endeavour.’
Labouchere had his eyes fixed on the immobile Salazkin. Without turning towards Oscar, he asked: ‘If terrorising the public at large was the object, why were the victims all prostitutes?’
‘I am not sure that they were,’ said Oscar. ‘A torso was found under the railway arch in Pinchin Street in Whitechapel on 10 September 1889. No one had been reported missing. The victim was unidentifiable and unknown. And is so still. But at his Exotic Emporium in Whitechapel, Tom Norman told us that he had acquired a female head a few years ago – it had been washed up in the Thames – and later, when we saw that head preserved in formaldehyde, loosely disguised as the head of John the Baptist, Dr Doyle and I both noticed the young woman’s Slavic high cheekbones. I don’t believe she was a prostitute. I think it more likely that she was one of Salazkin’s troupe of orphaned acrobats – killed on a whim and left in pieces in Whitechapel.’
‘But most were prostitutes,’ persisted Labouchere.
‘Indeed,’ said Oscar. ‘Most were. Prostitutes were easy prey. And Ostrog and Kosminski were regular customers. They knew the territory. I doubt Salazkin went to Whitechapel himself on the nights his crimes were committed. He is a ringmaster, after all. He cracks the whip and the animals do his bidding.’
‘They’d kill for him?’
‘Without any difficulty. Have you not seen hypnotists at work at the fairground and the music hall? They can persuade almost anyone who is susceptible to do almost anything they command, however unlikely, however absurd, however evil – and, after the event, to have no recollection of what they have done.’
‘But then the killing stopped,’ said Labouchere.
‘Yes,’ said Oscar. ‘The mischief had been done. Terror had been spread. It hadn’t overthrown the government, to be sure, but it had unsettled the citizens and distracted the police. And now any unexplained murder was laid at the feet of the infamous Jack the Ripper. No further killing was required. Besides, Salazkin is no fool. He knows that in the circus you walk the tightrope. You don’t fall off. He was never going to run the risk of getting caught. His creatures – his instruments of death, Ostrog and Kosminski – were recognised Whitechapel habitués and, by now, under suspicion. Nothing could be proved against them, but the authorities had them in their sights and contrived to have them put away. Each was committed to a lunatic asylum. Salazkin was content to let Kosminski go, but because he valued him, Salazkin found a way to save Ostrog from incarceration.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Dr Gabriel.
‘That the man you hold in your asylum, Dr Gabriel, is not Michael Ostrog but a substitute – a drink-sodden destitute found beneath the arches in Pinchin Street.’
‘Where the blazes is Ostrog, then?’ demanded Dr Gabriel.
‘He was here, just outside in the vestibule, earlier this evening. He arrived with his master. I saw him.’ Oscar glanced at his timepiece. ‘By now I believe he will be in the custody of Major Ridout of the War Office.’
‘And Kosminski?’ asked Dr Rogerson.
‘You hold him, Dr Rogerson. Yours is the genuine article.’
‘You are making extraordinary allegations, Wilde,’ said Labouchere.
‘But why does not Mr Salazkin rebut them?’ asked Sims.
In the darkness Salazkin raised a hand and waved it towards Oscar dismissively.
Oscar smiled. ‘What can he say? Ostrog and Kosminski may not realise what they have done – what, through hypnosis, they have been made to do – but Salazkin knows the truth. He knows, too, that were it not for his hubris, he might have taken his dark secret to the grave. Instead, ten days ago, almost five years since the last of the Whitechapel murders, his arrogance got the better of him.’ Oscar sipped at his port and smiled grimly. ‘I fear that I am partly to blame for that.’ He paused.
‘Go on,’ said Richard Mansfield. ‘You’re holding the house. Not a mouse stirring.’
Oscar continued: ‘On New Year’s Eve, Sir Frederick Bunbury “mur
dered” his wife just as Ostrog had murdered Martha Tabram. The story appeared in the paper. When I saw Salazkin at the circus shortly afterwards, foolishly I mentioned a detail that had not featured in the newspaper report. I spoke of the thirty-nine stab wounds and, I fear, in doing so, rekindled Salazkin’s bloodlust. Why not bring Jack the Ripper out of retirement and have some fun with him once more? Sow some more confusion, spread a little terror in a different part of town – make some mischief in the street where my friend Oscar Wilde lives.
‘Kosminski was no longer available to do Salazkin’s bidding, but Ostrog was at his command as ever. And there was no need to travel to Whitechapel to find a victim. Salazkin could supply his own victims – girls from the circus would do. They often ran off without explanation. Dr Doyle examined the first of these new victims in the police morgue. She was young, well-nourished and strong. I imagine Salazkin – who liked to have his way with the girls – asphyxiated her during the act of darkness and left the rest to Ostrog. The circus yard contains two covered carts customarily used to carry and butcher the meat for the circus’s wild animals. I imagine that’s where Ostrog did his grisly work before driving the cart to Paradise Walk and dumping the poor girl’s remains in the alley there.’
‘Can this be possible?’ asked Macnaghten in a hollow voice.
‘Once you eliminate the impossible, Chief Constable, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’
‘This is so grotesque, Wilde,’ said George R. Sims.
‘Life imitates art, George. She always has. And lurid melodrama has long been a staple of the English stage.’
Henry Labouchere had got to his feet. He stood over the motionless figure of Ivan Salazkin. ‘Come, sir, Mr Wilde has made the most extraordinary allegations against you. Have you nothing to say?’
Salazkin pushed his chair back from the table, but made no sound.
‘He does not need to speak,’ said Oscar. ‘His eyes have already told us all we need to know.’ My friend looked around the room and raised his voice a little. ‘You are all here tonight for a reason. Alec Shand is here for a particular one. He has written a book based on some remarkable research. He kindly sent me a copy and in it I read the details of an experiment that proved that if you show to someone a photograph of a young child smiling, it is impossible for the person seeing the picture not to smile themselves. It is the natural, automatic human response. Only those with what the medical men now call “a psychotic personality” show no emotion in their eyes when confronted with a happy photograph of a happy child. Knowing of this experiment, I obliged my friend Dr Doyle to show a photograph of his two charming children to several of you – as you will recall. And all of you smiled – save one. Salazkin did not smile. Salazkin looked at the picture and showed no emotion. The eyes are the mirror to the soul. Everything you feel, they show. You cannot hide it. And if your eyes are dead it’s because your soul is dead. Salazkin feels nothing. That may be why he is not even moving now.’
Oscar Wilde and the Return of Jack the Ripper Page 28