‘The police are so predictable. They find a lonely lunatic who happens to be a hairdresser as well as a misfit and, suddenly, without a shred of evidence, he’s “The Demon Barber of Whitechapel”.’
‘The killings are clearly the work of a disordered mind,’ I protested.
‘Are they? If they are, there’s method in the madness.’
I read on: ‘There are many circumstances connected with this man that make him a strong suspect.’
‘Indeed,’ cried Oscar. ‘I read them. He was about the right height and about the right age and he appears to have been resident in East London on the relevant dates – but so were hundreds of other men, so were thousands! There’s “circumstance”, there’s no evidence.’
‘He had a hatred of prostitutes that was well known.’
‘I grant you that,’ sniffed Oscar. ‘Move on.’
‘Richard Mansfield, actor.’
‘I know him – and I believe his fondness for prostitutes is well known. It’s absurd that he features on Macnaghten’s list.’
‘Born in Germany.’
‘He must be guilty!’
‘American by nationality.’
‘Hang him!’
‘In New York in 1887 he played the title role in the stage adaptation of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, a performance that made such a profound impression on the public he was invited to bring it to the Lyceum Theatre in London in 1888. As an actor, Mansfield is celebrated for the manner in which he inhabits every part he plays and he is known to have been within a mile of Whitechapel and to be without an alibi at the time of each of the five principal Whitechapel murders.’
‘He has also played the Lord High Executioner in The Mikado and King Richard III. It must be him.’ Oscar picked up his table napkin and threw it down again. ‘Next!’
I laughed and waited for the waiter who had come to clear our table to be out of earshot before continuing.
‘Michael Ostrog.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Oscar. ‘This one’s much more promising and neither an invert nor prone to solitary vices, but a proper homicidal maniac.’
‘A mad Russian doctor, a convict, unquestionably a homicidal maniac, said to have been habitually cruel to women and known to have carried about with him surgical knives and other instruments. His antecedents are of the very worst and his whereabouts at the time of the murders could never be satisfactorily accounted for. He was committed to the Surrey County Lunatic Asylum in 1891.’
‘We must pay him a visit.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘I’m not sure. I recognised the likeness, that’s all. Show me.’ From the back of Macnaghten’s file, I produced the photograph of Ostrog. It was the drawn face of a man who looked fearful of life: his dark hair receded over a broad, lined brow, above deeply sunken eyes.
‘Yes,’ said Oscar, ‘I know him. Without a doubt.’ He returned the picture to me. ‘Go on. The last of Macnaghten’s candidates I know I know and I know I know him well.’
‘Walter Wellbeloved.’
‘Yes. Walter Wellbeloved. He’s the reason for Macnaghten’s reference to Freemasonry yesterday. You noticed it?’
‘I did,’ I said. ‘It struck me as curious. If Macnaghten’s a Mason—’
‘He must be – all senior policemen are.’
‘Well, if he is, why did he not signal as much when you introduced us? Why – since there were only three of us in the room – did he not address us as “brother”?’
‘Perhaps he is as lapsed as we are, Arthur. Or perhaps I’m wrong and he isn’t a Freemason, but he wanted to find a way to indicate to me – and to you – that he knows all my secrets . . . ’ Oscar held up his cigarette between his thumb and his forefinger and studied the tip of smouldering ash. ‘Leastways, Walter Wellbeloved is a Master Mason of the third degree.’
‘And is that how you know him?’
‘I know him through the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.’
‘He belongs to it?’
‘He is one of the founders. The Order was conjured up by a small group of Rosicrucian Masons to allow – for the first time – men and women to work together as equals in magical ceremonies whose purpose was “to test, purify and exalt the individual’s spiritual nature so as to unify it with his or her Holy Guardian Angel”.’
‘You know the mantra.’
‘I was a member of the Order – for a brief while. Constance joined first and she persuaded me to follow. Some of the rituals were quite charming.’
‘The Order is involved in magic?’
‘And human sacrifice, if Macnaghten is to be believed. Read what he says.’
I turned back to the chief constable’s file: ‘Wellbeloved is a self-styled poet and philosopher who lives not far from Whitechapel and is the owner of a magic shop in Great Russell Street, close by the British Library. He professes to have powers of necromancy and is rumoured to conduct pagan ceremonies involving sexual perversity and (possibly) human sacrifice. He has been interviewed on several occasions, but has refused to give his whereabouts at the time of any of the Whitechapel murders.’
Oscar sighed and shook his head wearily. ‘Macnaghten has nothing to offer but the odd bit of circumstantial evidence, wild conjecture and his own curious obsession with sexual perversion, sexual insanity and solitary vice! I had hoped he was going to lead us to the unmasking of Jack the Ripper.’ He gestured towards Macnaghten’s file with a languid hand. ‘Here he’s simply set us off on a wild-goose chase – and I fear there won’t be a golden egg at the end of it.’
I leafed through Macnaghten’s papers. ‘Should we consider what he’s got to say about the Duke of Clarence and this man known as “Leather Apron”?’
‘He’s got nothing of substance to say about either of them. “Leather Apron”? What sort of sobriquet for a murderer is that? It’s not quite in the same league as “Bluebeard” or “Jack the Ripper”, is it? Poor John Pizer was another unfortunate Polish Jew. He was a bootmaker, so he wore a leather apron. Yes, he had a record of minor assaults against prostitutes, but he also had a copper-bottomed alibi for each murder.’
‘I’ve read the notes. He was arrested.’
‘And then released because there wasn’t a shred of evidence against him. If you’ve read the notes, you’ll recall the name of the policeman who arrested him.’
‘I do. PC Thick.’
‘Exactly.’
I closed Macnaghten’s file. ‘So, what are we to do, Oscar?’
‘Discover what we can and share it with the chief constable. I suppose it is our duty as good citizens to do so. I am not hopeful that we will discover much.’
‘You said last night that you thought you had an answer to something.’
‘I say a lot of things, Arthur. As you should know by now, between me and life there is a mist of words always. I throw probability out of the window for the sake of a phrase, and the chance of an epigram makes me desert truth.’
‘Well,’ I said, folding my napkin and pushing my chair away from the table, ‘in that case, I shall make my way over to Scotland Yard now. I must go to Macnaghten’s office and give him the notes I’ve written up on the body I examined yesterday.’
‘Ah, yes. That poor wretch in the alley.’ Oscar leaned over and picked up his newspaper from the floor. ‘She only merits a paragraph in the Daily Chronicle. Had she been killed in Whitechapel, there would have been headlines proclaiming “the return of Jack the Ripper” and page after page of lurid detail.’
I stood to take my leave. ‘I will join you at the circus tonight,’ I said.
Oscar banged the table with a show of delight. ‘I’m glad. Constance will be glad. We’ll meet you at seven o’clock by the box office.’ He stretched out a hand to shake mine. ‘And if you see Macnaghten, can you ask him if we might borrow the piece of torn apron that belonged to Catherine Eddowes? It was found in Goulston Street, I think. I assume the police will have kept it. Ask him if he can let us have it for twenty-four ho
urs, no more.’
‘I will, of course.’ I picked up Macnaghten’s file from the table. ‘May I ask why?’
He smiled at me and gently tapped the side of his nose like a conspirator in a penny dreadful. ‘I have my reasons, Dr Doyle.’
I looked at my friend doubtfully. ‘This is not another of your games, is it, Oscar?’
He grinned. ‘I think you’ll approve of this one, Arthur.’
9
The Russian Circus
‘Iam always astonishing myself,’ Oscar used to say. ‘It is the only thing that makes life worth living.’
During the several years that I knew him, my friend never ceased to astonish me. He was a man full of surprises – and contradictions. He boasted of his lack of physical courage, but, on more than one occasion, proved very useful with his fists. He professed to despise ‘the outdoor life’, yet he joined me on long walks over the South Downs and, once, took me all the way to Sandwich in Kent to play a round of golf with him. He was a neglectful husband, and unfaithful to his wife, yet he loved her, beyond question, and, while often absent, when present he was a devoted father to his boys.
When I arrived at the circus that evening I found Oscar in the middle of the foyer, down on his haunches, sporting a clown’s nose, and introducing his sons to a pair of bear cubs.
The boys were dressed, somewhat absurdly, in frilled shirts and velvet knickerbockers, in the manner of Little Lord Fauntleroy. The bears were standing on their hind legs and tethered by rope to an iron trivet overseen by a beautiful young acrobat in a sequin-covered leotard who, as I approached, bowed to me and then immediately bent over backwards and, with her head between her legs, greeted me with the words: ‘Dobry vecher, Dr Doyle.’
Oscar stood up, laughing, and pulled off his cardboard proboscis. ‘This is Olga,’ he said. ‘She seems to know you, Dr Doyle.’
‘I don’t know how,’ I said, bowing towards the young lady, who was upright once more. ‘I am delighted to meet you,’ I said, taking her hand.
‘Dobro pozhalovat,’ she replied, with a gentle smile and a tilt to her head that, I confess, I found wholly captivating.
‘You will be seeing more of her later,’ said Oscar teasingly. ‘We are invited to join the company for a post-performance glass of tea – or vodka.’
‘Can we come?’ Cyril asked, pulling on his father’s hand.
‘No,’ said Oscar, not unkindly. ‘It’s an invitation for gentlemen only. No boys.’
‘Or wives?’ asked Constance quietly.
I had not noticed her until then. She had been standing a little apart from the group. I turned towards her. She stepped forward, smiling. ‘I am so pleased you could join us, Arthur. Oscar says you love the circus.’
‘Happy birthday,’ I said eagerly, tucking the parcel I was holding under my arm and taking both her hands in mine. She was wearing canary-yellow lace gloves and a bottle-green costume cut in the style of a huntsman’s coat. ‘You look wonderful,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘Well, it is the circus.’
A bell was being sounded. We looked around the foyer: a variety of the smaller animals from the circus’s menagerie were on display, supervised by more young female acrobats in sequined leotards, some standing sentinel, two, I noticed, balancing on their hands on top of a cage that contained a sleeping leopard. A huge man, bearded and in uniform, dressed, it seemed, as Tsar Alexander III himself, was striding through the crowd on stilts, waving a handbell.
‘It’s extraordinary,’ said Constance.
‘It is rather splendid,’ I agreed.
‘It is time to find our seats,’ said Oscar. ‘I know the way, follow me.’ He nodded towards our acrobat. ‘Uvidimsya, Olga.’
‘Uvidimsya, Mr Wilde.’
‘Oscar comes here all the time,’ said Constance, taking my arm. ‘I believe he is having a liaison with the lady lion tamer.’
Oscar was leading the way, holding one of his sons’ hands in each of his. Over his shoulder he asked, ‘Is it you who has set this detective on me, Constance?’
‘There is no detective, Oscar. You smoke too many cigarettes. You can’t see properly any longer.’
We reached Oscar’s box. It was the royal box. It was palatial, in the manner of a children’s fairy tale, decked out in red and gold, with cushioned seats for eight, though there were only five of us. We took our places – with Oscar and Constance in the central, canopied thrones – and looked out over the vast arena. ‘This is the largest room in Europe,’ explained Oscar to his boys. ‘It can seat nine thousand people.’
‘It’s a three-ring circus,’ I said, looking down at the huge circles of sawdust below us. High above, mighty chandeliers, ropes, ladders, trapezes and what appeared to be a life-size replica of the Montgolfier brothers’ hot air balloon hung from the barrel-roof.
‘I am glad you’re impressed, Arthur. I believe we’re in for a treat.’
We were. From the moment the Montgolfier balloon was lowered to the ground to the sound of guns and trumpets and the circus ringmaster – known as Ivan the Terrible, ‘the presiding genius’, Oscar called him – emerged from its cradle riding on horseback, for three hours, without pause, we were presented with a cavalcade of excitement, colour, skill and surprise, the like of which I had never seen before and never expect to see again. African lions, Siberian leopards, Indian elephants, dancing bears and prancing horses, brass bands and balancing acts (in one of which the performers were all sea lions; in another, all chimpanzees), trapeze artists and sword-swallowers, tumblers, tightrope walkers, jugglers, clowns, fire-eaters, dwarfs: it was indeed ‘the greatest show on earth’. Towards the end, the boys began to weary, but I was held throughout. And so was Oscar. ‘I love the circus, don’t you?’ he said, as we rose to sing the National Anthem at the close. ‘It is so much more real than life.’
When it was over, exhausted and exhilarated, we escorted Constance and her sons onto the street. Oscar had a brougham waiting for them.
‘That was a wonderful birthday present, husband,’ she said to Oscar, kissing him on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’
‘I think Arthur has a little present for you, too,’ said Oscar, indicating the brown-paper parcel I had been clutching close to my side all evening.
‘No, no,’ I said quickly. ‘I shall bring Constance a present another day. This is something else.’
‘What is it?’ demanded Oscar, reaching out and feeling the paper parcel with his fingers. ‘It’s a lady’s handkerchief. It must be for Constance.’
‘No,’ I insisted, embarrassed.
‘It was for Constance, but now you’ve decided to give it to your young acrobat?’
‘Stop teasing him, Oscar,’ said Constance. ‘Goodnight, Arthur. Thank you for sharing my birthday treat with me.’
‘What is it?’ Oscar persisted.
‘It’s for you,’ I said. ‘It’s what you asked for.’
‘For me? What did I ask for?’
‘It’s the dead woman’s apron.’
Constance bustled the boys into the carriage. She climbed in herself and looked back through the window. ‘I don’t know what you two are up to, but please take care. Please, I beg you.’
‘I can explain,’ I said.
‘No, no,’ said Oscar earnestly, ‘don’t. Please don’t. Nowadays we have so few mysteries left, we cannot afford to part with even one of them.’ He called to his sons: ‘Goodnight, boys. Look after your mother.’ He looked into his wife’s eyes steadily. ‘Goodnight, Constance. I shall see you later in the week. I have work to do, you understand.’
‘I understand,’ she said, smiling sadly. She blew a kiss towards me as the brougham began to move away.
‘And now,’ announced Oscar, ‘na pasashok!’
‘What does that mean?’ I asked.
‘“One for the road”, I think. I’m not entirely sure. What little Russian I have I’ve picked up from Salazkin.’
‘He’s our host?’
‘And the ringmas
ter. And the knife-thrower.’
‘Ivan the Terrible?’
‘Yes, it’s a good name, isn’t it?’
‘And is he a good man?’
‘You can judge for yourself. He is certainly generous. And he has beautiful manners. And he speaks perfect English. It’s just a touch too perfect. That’s how we know he isn’t English. He’s quite difficult to read. More Count Tolstoy than Mr Dickens.’
Oscar led me back into the Olympia Hall, through the throng emerging from the circus, back up the grand staircase to the second floor. Given his bulk, the ease and speed with which he moved often surprised me.
‘Where are we going? I thought circus people lived in caravans.’
‘They do. The caravans are in the field behind the hall, with cages for the animals. But after the performance, Ivan the Terrible holds court up here – in the Prince’s Apartments.’
We had reached a long, narrow corridor, on the north side of the building, with a set of ornate double doors at the end of it. Above the doors, in gilt lettering, a notice read: The Prince’s Apartments.
‘Yes,’ said Oscar, ‘named in honour of the Prince of Wales – with his approval, for his use. The excellent directors of the National Agricultural Hall Company, owners of Olympia, thought His Royal Highness might like to entertain his mistresses here – and they were right. He does.’
Both doors swung suddenly open and there stood Ivan the Terrible – barely recognisable without his moustaches. His face was smooth and featureless, covered in a layer of make-up so thick that it was impossible at a glance to reckon his age. He was wearing a dressing gown and carpet slippers and seemed shorter and much slighter than he had appeared in the circus ring.
‘And his late son,’ he said in a clear, clipped, light voice, ‘the lamented Duke of Clarence and Avondale, liked to come here, too. He used the apartments to entertain his young gentlemen friends. I’ve never believed that he was Jack the Ripper, have you?’
He took Oscar’s hands in both of his. They were quite small hands, I noticed. ‘Welcome, Oscar,’ he said warmly. He smiled at me knowingly. ‘I have perfect hearing, perfect eyesight and, yes, I speak perfect English – but only because my mother, who was Hungarian, was an ardent Anglophile and engaged an English governess to give me my education. The good lady came from Cheltenham. She found circus life quite a trial.’ He returned his gaze to Oscar and looked at him admiringly. ‘So here you are, Oscar, gossiping as usual, but looking well – and with the great Arthur Conan Doyle with you, as you promised.’ He beckoned us over the threshold. ‘Welcome to the Prince’s Apartments. Welcome to the Russian Circus. It is good to meet you, Dr Doyle. The company is excited that you are here. We all love Oscar. Why? Because he is good enough to love us.’
[Oscar Wilde 07] - Jack the Ripper: Case Closed Page 6
