‘Is there any violence?’ enquired Oscar. ‘Did he assault the woman?’
‘No, no violence. At this stage in his criminal career, he appears to be a mild-mannered man, quietly spoken, respectably dressed.’ Gabriel returned to the paperwork. ‘Where are we? 1866. He isn’t caught until August, it seems, by which time he had committed a string of similar thefts, as a consequence of which he is sentenced to seven years in prison.’
Oscar sniffed. ‘This sounds more like Mr Dickens’ Fagin than our Jack the Ripper.’
Dr Gabriel nodded. ‘There’s no indication of mania thus far. But seven years’ incarceration can change a man. In 1873 Ostrog is released from Chatham Gaol and, when he is next arrested, he is found to have a gun on him.’
‘Does he use it?’ I asked.
‘He threatens to use it as he’s being arrested and, as a consequence, in January 1874, he is sentenced to ten years in prison. He’s out again in 1883 and we don’t hear anything more of him until 1887 when he is arrested once more – this time for stealing a metal tankard – and sentenced to six months’ hard labour. This is the first time we find the word “mania” cropping up in the police reports.’
‘What exactly is “mania”?’ Oscar asked.
‘It’s a form of madness characterised by bursts of great excitement, euphoria, delusions . . . ’
‘It sounds rather delightful.’
‘A mild burst of mania can be exhilarating,’ said Dr Gabriel, with a wink, ‘but heightened mania leads to over-activity, loss of control, loss of reason, frenzy, hysteria and, ultimately, violence. The problem is that it comes and goes and we don’t quite know what triggers it or how to keep it under control.’ He turned back to his paperwork. ‘On March the tenth 1888 Ostrog was released from prison, apparently “cured”. He then went missing for nine months. The next we hear of him he is in Paris where he is arrested for theft and sentenced to two years’ imprisonment on November the eighteenth 1888.’
‘So,’ said Oscar, sitting forward, ‘between March and November 1888, at the time of the Whitechapel murders, nothing is known of Michael Ostrog or his whereabouts.’
‘Correct, Mr Wilde, but because he is reckoned to be a dangerous man, a serial offender, a violent criminal and has apparently been sighted in the East End of London, police begin to wonder if he might not be the elusive Jack the Ripper.’
‘The police suspect him,’ I said, ‘but they cannot prove anything.’
‘There is no evidence of any kind against him.’
‘What about the bag of knives and surgical instruments he is said to have carried about with him and his record of violence against women?’ I asked.
‘Rumour and hearsay. None of it can be substantiated.’
Oscar asked: ‘Why does Macnaghten call him a homicidal maniac?’
‘He once threatened the police with a gun – and he is subject to bouts of mania. There is no doubt of that. And because of that, when he comes out of prison in Paris and returns to London in 1890, the Metropolitan Police decide to keep an eye on him – and the next time he is in trouble – it’s another petty theft – the authorities decide that enough’s enough – and Michael Ostrog is arrested, taken off to the magistrates’ court, found “incapable and insane” and committed here to the Surrey County Lunatic Asylum. That was almost three years ago, April 1891.’
‘But he’s not a homicidal maniac – in your view, Doctor?’
‘There’s no evidence that he is – or ever was – but once the tag had been attached to him, it suited the police to think of him as such. He was a petty thief, a fantasist, probably delusional, possibly dangerous. He was certainly a nuisance when he was at large. It was arguably for the good of the community to have him locked up here – homicidal maniac or not.’
‘And when was he released?’ asked Oscar.
Dr Gabriel put down his papers. ‘He hasn’t been released. He’s in our asylum at Her Majesty’s pleasure. I imagine he will be incarcerated here until the day he dies.’
11
Face to face
‘Can we see him?’
‘May we speak with him?’ Oscar and I spoke at the same time – and with an almost comical urgency.
Dr Gabriel laughed and pushed back his chair. ‘I can take you to see him now, but he won’t speak to you. He won’t speak to anybody. He hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived.’
‘What?’ cried Oscar. ‘He’s not uttered a word in three years?’
‘Not a word.’
‘He’s become dumb?’ I asked.
‘No. He makes noises. He whimpers. Sometimes he laughs. Not often. If he’s in pain, he cries out.’
‘In Russian? In Polish?’
‘In no discernible language. He makes noises – as an animal might. He’s like an animal – like a wretched old dog whose spirit has been broken. You’ll see.’
Dr Gabriel got to his feet and, with a cheerful wink, said, ‘Shall we?’ He turned off the electric lights (bringing darkness to The Light of the World) and we followed him out of the gloom into the corridor once more. He doubled-locked the office door and led us back to the main entrance hall and then down a steep and narrow flight of stone steps.
As we descended, Oscar whispered to me, ‘Don’t say a word.’
The steps led directly onto a second long corridor that must have been immediately beneath the corridor above. Here there were no windows on the left-hand side, just a whitewashed stone wall bleakly illuminated by half a dozen electric light bulbs that hung from wires in the ceiling along the length of the corridor like so many hangman’s nooses. The doors on the right-hand side were similar to those on the floor above, except that these appeared to be made of iron or steel, painted dark green, and, at eye-height, each one had a small square window in it, no bigger than a clenched fist.
‘Ostrog’s in cell three,’ said Gabriel. ‘He’s probably asleep. He usually is. We don’t need to go in. You can see him through the spyhole.’
To my surprise, Oscar stepped forward first and looked through the tiny window into the cell. ‘Mary Mother of God!’ he cried. ‘Jesus wept.’
I pulled him away at once and put my own eye to the window – and gasped. Within three inches of my eye, staring directly into it, was the man’s right eye. It was a hideous sight: the cornea clouded and milky, the sclera speckled and yellow, the eyelid red-rimmed and encrusted with mucus.
‘What is it?’ asked Dr Gabriel.
‘He is standing right by the door,’ I explained, lowering my voice to a whisper.
Dr Gabriel took my place at the spyhole. ‘Oh yes, it’s lunchtime. He’s waiting for his food.’ The superintendent banged on the metal door with the palm of his hand. ‘Not yet, Ostrog. Soon. Din-dins coming soon. Back to bed now.’ He continued to beat the door. ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ He turned back to us. ‘He’s retreated to his bunk. You can see him better now.’
Oscar and I took it in turns to inspect the man once more. He sat on the edge of his bed, gazing directly at us, making no noise, betraying no emotion.
‘A broken dog, as you say,’ murmured Oscar.
‘What age would he be?’ I asked.
‘Sixty or thereabouts.’
‘And the mania, has it subsided?’
‘There have been no episodes of mania since he was admitted.’
‘Not one?’ asked Oscar.
‘Not one.’
‘You don’t consider him a homicidal maniac, then?’
‘No. That was the police surgeon’s diagnosis, not mine.’
‘So why is he locked up?’
‘It’s what the court ordered. But I wouldn’t release him now, even if I could. He’s not fit to fend for himself. As you can see, he’s a helpless imbecile.’
‘Thank you, Dr Gabriel.’
‘Thank you, gentlemen.’
We climbed the steep steps back into the hallway and bade our genial host farewell.
He beamed at us, shook my hand heartily and, I noticed, offered Osca
r a friendly salute rather than a handshake. He was more sensitive than his bluff manner suggested. ‘If there is anything else I can do for you, gentlemen, I shall be only too pleased to help.’
‘There’s one thing,’ said Oscar, as we stood by the open door, a chill January wind suddenly whipping into the hallway. ‘Do you have photographs of Ostrog?’
‘Only the ones taken here on the day of his admission. I can unearth them quite quickly. I know the date: the first of April 1891 – All Fools’ Day. We’ll take another set in 1901 – should the poor devil live that long. We photograph each inmate every ten years.’
‘You’ve not got any earlier photographs?’
‘I didn’t know there were any. I’ve not seen them. The police might have some. Macnaghten may be able to help you there.’
‘Thank you,’ said Oscar.
‘Is there anything more I can do for you?’ asked the superintendent.
No. Thank you. Thank you so much.’
We clambered aboard our waiting two-wheeler. ‘Simpson’s-inthe-Strand,’ ordered Oscar, looking out of the cab window and offering Dr Gabriel a final farewell wave. The good man stood on the front step of his asylum, watching, winking and waving, until we had turned out of the gates towards Tooting High Road.
‘That’s not Ostrog,’ said Oscar emphatically, settling back into the corner of the cab and opening his cigarette case.
‘Or that is Ostrog,’ I countered, ‘and the man you saw at the Russian Circus is someone else.’
‘No, the man I saw at the circus – the man who has been delivering caviar to me in Tite Street – is the man in the photograph in Macnaghten’s file. He is Michael Ostrog. This poor unfortunate imbecile is someone else altogether.’
‘What do we do now?’ I asked.
‘Have lunch,’ said Oscar, sucking slowly on his cigarette. ‘“Have lunch” is always the best answer to a difficult question.’
‘Shouldn’t we return to the Russian Circus?’
‘All in good time. There’s no hurry. You know my maxim: “Men of thought should have nothing to do with action.”’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Fools rush in, et cetera . . . ’
‘Exactly. And, my God, the Metropolitan Police are fools!’ He exhaled a cloud of purple cigarette smoke and, leaning towards me, spoke through it like an oracle appearing through the clouds at Delphi. ‘Macnaghten’s brief told us Ostrog was a Russian doctor whose “antecedents are of the very worst”. Macnaghten knows nothing of Ostrog’s antecedents! There’s no evidence that Ostrog’s a doctor of any kind! And I doubt very much that he’s even Russian. He’s more likely to be Polish or Lithuanian.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Ostrog liked to call himself Count Sobieski. The Sobieskis were kings of Poland and Grand Dukes of Lithuania – in the good old days.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘You did. You’ve just forgotten.’
I smiled. Oscar continued earnestly: ‘Macnaghten and the Metropolitan Police will never solve the mystery of the Whitechapel murders. Never! They know nothing. I do believe, Arthur, it really is down to us.’ He turned and looked out of the cab window again. After a moment or two’s silence, he said slowly: ‘I shall have roast beef from the trolley and, given the weather, I think we should both allow ourselves the onion gravy.’
In the distance, a clock struck the hour. ‘Big Ben comes from Whitechapel, you know. Until these horrible murders occurred, the Whitechapel Bell Foundry was the district’s principal claim to fame. The bell that is Big Ben is more than seven foot tall and nine foot wide and weighs at least thirteen tons – as much as a baby elephant. Macnaghten knows none of this!’
I laughed. ‘How do you know it?’
‘I have two sons. As you’ll discover as your children grow, Arthur, it’s the sort of information a father needs at his fingertips if he is to have any hope of being respected in his own household.’
‘Very good, Oscar.’
He sat forward suddenly. ‘What time is it?’
‘Two o’clock.’
‘Damnation. We’re late.’
‘You have reserved a table? They know you at Simpson’s.’
‘I have invited a guest.’ My friend was now anxiously peering out of the cab’s side window. ‘There he is.’ He called up to the driver: ‘Whoa! Stop!’
We were already in the Strand. Oscar pushed open the door and jumped down from our carriage. A few yards from us, on the pavement’s kerb, outside the Savoy Hotel, adjacent to Simpson’s restaurant, scowling at his timepiece while waiting to cross the street, stood the distinctive figure of Richard Mansfield. I recognised him at once, but even if you had never seen his well-favoured, clean-shaven, finely contoured face before you would have known this was an actor – and one who considered himself a leading man. There was a crowd waiting to cross the street with him and most certainly did Mansfield stand out from it. He wore a long, black opera cloak (with ornate silver clasp); he sported a monocle in his right eye and he carried a silver-topped cane in his right hand. He was not especially tall, but he seemed it because he wore the kind of high black hat that everyone wore in the 1850s but only an actor-manager of the old school would wear today.
The moment he caught sight of Oscar coming from our two-wheeler towards him, he called out dismissively: ‘It’s too late, Wilde! I have another appointment.’
Oscar, arms outstretched, pressed on, offering profuse apologies. Abruptly, Mansfield turned away. ‘It’s too late, I say.’
As he reached the actor, Oscar put out a soothing hand. ‘Don’t touch me, man!’ cried Mansfield, in a sudden rage. ‘How dare you?’ He turned and raised his cane. For a dreadful moment I thought he was about to strike Oscar a blow, but instead he held his stick mid-air in a theatrical, threatening gesture that would have been laughable had it not been accompanied by a vehement outburst that chilled the blood. ‘You are contemptible, Wilde. First you insult me by sending me a telegram bringing up vile and unfounded allegations that were laid to rest years ago. Then, when, foolishly, I agree to meet you to discuss the matter, you leave me standing in the street like one of your disgusting Mary-Anns. I’ve waited here almost an hour. How dare you? What business is it of yours anyway? Who the devil do you think you are?’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Oscar.
Mansfield said nothing, but lowered his cane, turned and stepped off the pavement into the roadway. Darting elegantly through the traffic, holding his hat against the wind, he crossed the street and disappeared from view.
Oscar came back to where I was still standing by the two-wheeler. He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes: ‘I think a really fine Burgundy is what we need with our roast beef and onion gravy, don’t you?’
We had a most excellent lunch. We followed the beef with Simpson’s celebrated apple pie and custard, and after one bottle of fine Burgundy felt equal to another. We talked of Mansfield and his sudden anger. ‘He’s famous for it,’ said Oscar. ‘He’s half-American: they’re quick to take offence. And I believe he’s currently playing Napoleon on stage – that may have something to do with it.’
‘It’s curious,’ I mused, ‘that a man who simply murders another man is regarded as a common criminal, but a man like Napoleon – responsible for thousands of cruel deaths – becomes a national hero.’
‘There’s glory in numbers,’ said Oscar. ‘In France, they’ve erected statues of Gilles de Rais, companion-at-arms to Joan of Arc and the self-confessed murderer of little children. He slew them by the score, by the hundred – sodomised them first, then cut them up and preserved the heads of the prettiest ones in aspic.’
‘How can a human being do such a thing?’
‘Easily, if he has the power and the will, and the stomach and the soul for it.’
‘He had a soul of darkness.’
‘Indeed. Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul. And, like it or not, he’s joined th
e ranks of the great immortals.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Oh, yes, thanks to that jet-black hair with the cobalt hue. As Bluebeard, he’s world famous. And the hero of one of our favourite Christmas pantomimes.’
When lunch was done, Oscar paid the bill – despite my protestations – and we returned in our two-wheeler to the Langham Hotel. ‘I’m going to take a rest now,’ he said, ‘and ponder why it is that a man turns to murder and to mutilation. We’ll only solve the mysteries of the Whitechapel murders if we think them through. Action is limited and relative. Unlimited and absolute is the vision of him who sits at ease and watches, who walks in loneliness and dreams.’
I smiled and recalled that my friend had ordered a large brandy to accompany his coffee after lunch. ‘And I shall go shopping,’ I said. ‘If I’m to stay in town for a day or two more, I need a fresh shirt.’
‘Don’t change for dinner tonight,’ said Oscar.
‘What are we doing tonight?’
‘We’re going back to Tite Street.’
‘Is Constance expecting us?’
‘Not at present. I shall go in advance to prepare the ground. You can arrive around seven. Bring Catherine Eddowes’ apron with you. We shall need it.’
I waved my friend off to his room and set off down Regent Street towards the bazaar at Regent Circus. I was standing there, at the corner of Oxford Street, looking into the window of a small gentleman’s outfitter when, in the reflection in the glass, I saw two figures pass by that I recognised: one was Oscar, unmistakably; the other was Martin, the young waiter from the Langham Hotel.
12
Oysters
For a while I had sensed that all was not well within the Wilde marriage. Oscar was frequently away from home and I could see how easily he was beguiled by the company of young men. But until I caught sight of his reflection in the glass of that shop window at the corner of Oxford Street, it had not – for a single moment – occurred to me that my friend was a man who might have carnal relations with another man.
[Oscar Wilde 07] - Jack the Ripper: Case Closed Page 8
