[Oscar Wilde 07] - Jack the Ripper: Case Closed Read online

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Does Mrs Wilde know where you are staying?’ It was a question I felt I knew him well enough to ask.

  ‘Of course. I keep nothing from Constance. No man should keep a secret from his wife. She invariably finds it out.’ He sucked noisily on a lobster claw. ‘Besides, I was at home for Christmas and it’s well known that too much domesticity is debilitating. It ages one rapidly and distracts one’s mind from higher things.’

  I laughed, as he hoped I would. ‘How was Christmas? How are your boys?’

  ‘Christmas was charming in its way.’ He looked at me directly and there were tears once more in his eyes. ‘The Christmas story is so lovely, but how can one enjoy it when one knows how it will end? Is there to be a crucifixion in all our lives?’

  ‘And the boys?’ I said again, not feeling there was anything to be gained by prolonging another of my friend’s increasingly frequent maudlin moments.

  ‘The boys are well, thank you. But exhausting. Now they’re seven and eight they lead such active lives I don’t like to get in their way. The truth is, fathers should be neither seen nor heard. That is the proper basis for family life.’

  I wondered if he might enquire after my wife and small ones, but he did not. ‘Christmas was good,’ he murmured, ‘or, at least, untroubled.’ He peered inside the picnic basket and pulled out a silver flask. ‘Do you think this might contain a passable white Burgundy?’ He undid the stopper and sniffed. ‘It does!’ He filled a small beaker and handed it to me. ‘Happy New Year, Arthur. Thank you for answering my summons.’

  ‘I am always pleased to see you,’ I said truthfully, raising my beaker to my friend. The carriage juddered to a halt. We had reached Piccadilly Circus. Even on New Year’s Day, at lunchtime in the rain, street girls were gathered in small clusters plying their trade. One looked up at me waving a handful of lavender in my direction and called out, ‘Happy New Year, guvn’r.’ The four-wheeler jolted forward and rumbled on.

  ‘I take it Lord Alfred Douglas is away,’ I said lightly.

  ‘Yes, Bosie is in Egypt. He’s spending the winter working as private secretary to the consul-general in Cairo. The sun will be bad for his complexion, but the work will be good for his soul.’ Oscar leaned towards me and tapped me gently on the knee. ‘You must call him Bosie, you know. Everybody does. He likes you very much, Arthur, even though you don’t like him.’

  ‘I don’t dislike him,’ I said. ‘I don’t really know him, that’s all.’

  In truth, I felt I knew enough of him not to trust him. Bosie Douglas was a young man of twenty-three, fair-haired, thin-lipped, good-looking (in a very English, weak sort of way), the third son of the 9th Marquess of Queensberry, a spoilt child, a mother’s favourite, a self-styled poet, a young idler who had left Oxford without taking a degree: effete, effeminate, ineffectual – and, in my estimation, a ruinous distraction for Oscar who was infatuated with the boy and lavished time, attention and money on him to a degree that was embarrassing. Certainly I would not have been embarking on this adventure with Oscar now had Bosie been in town. When Lord Alfred Douglas whistled, Oscar Wilde would drop everything to run to his side.

  ‘I have been very worried about Bosie, Arthur. He has so much promise, but it’s going nowhere. He does nothing. His life seems aimless, unhappy, absurd.’

  I helped myself to a spoonful of caviar and glanced out of the carriage window. We were moving south through Trafalgar Square.

  Oscar continued earnestly: ‘I gave him my French play to translate last year. Salome. I thought the story would appeal to his fascination with the sacred and the macabre.’

  ‘And did it?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, very much so. He produced a fine translation, but that was months ago. And since then, he’s done nothing. Nothing at all. And empty days lead to sleepless nights, with his health suffering terribly in consequence. He’s become nervous – almost hysterical.’

  ‘It’s a phase,’ I said. ‘He’s very young. He’ll grow out of it.’

  ‘Or kill himself.’

  ‘Now who’s getting hysterical?’ I asked.

  ‘Suicide runs in families, Arthur. Bosie’s grandfather took his own life, you know – shot himself. And his uncle cut his own throat – with a butcher’s knife.’

  ‘I thought his uncle was a clergyman.’

  ‘That’s another uncle – Lord Archie Douglas. Lord James Douglas is the one who cut his own throat – only a year or so ago. He was in love with his twin sister, Florrie, and when she got married it broke his heart and he went off the rails. He tried to abduct a young girl as a sister-substitute, but that went awry, to put it mildly, so he turned to drink and eventually he killed himself.’

  ‘They’re an odd family,’ I said, not knowing quite what else to say.

  ‘Anyway, with my encouragement, and his mother’s, Bosie’s gone to Cairo to work for Lord Cromer. The change of scene, and proper employment, will do him good, I trust.’

  ‘I trust so, too,’ I said, without much conviction, adding, with somewhat more sincerity, ‘And now Bosie’s away, you’re free to get on with some work of your own.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Oscar answered eagerly. ‘And that’s what I plan to do – what I need to do, in fact.’ We had reached the Thames Embankment and Oscar, looking out of the carriage window and up at the sky, while dramatically waving a forkful of potted shrimp towards the river, suddenly declared: ‘I am overwhelmed by the wings of vulture creditors, Arthur. I need money. I am hopelessly in debt.’

  ‘But you’ve had two plays in town this year,’ I protested. ‘You’ve made a fortune.’

  ‘And spent one.’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘Without regret. Pleasure will be paid for. And pleasure must be had. An inordinate passion for pleasure is the secret of remaining young.’

  ‘As I’ve heard you say before.’

  He offered up a theatrical sigh. ‘You see what I am reduced to, Arthur? Repeating my own lines! I need to buy time to create some new turns of phrase. It’s very difficult to be original when one is in debt.’

  ‘And you have a plan?’ I suggested.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And it involves me?’ I asked.

  ‘It does.’

  ‘And Mr Macnaghten?’

  ‘And Chief Constable Macnaghten – yes, indeed. Macnaghten is to lead us to our crock of gold, Arthur.’

  ‘The chief constable is a neighbour of yours? Tite Street is an unusual address for a policeman.’

  ‘Macnaghten is an unusual policeman. He’s intelligent. He’s cultivated. He’s educated.’

  I laughed. ‘Does that mean he was at Oxford with you?’

  ‘No, he went to Eton – that’s a start. And then he went to India to manage his father’s tea estates in Bengal.’

  ‘He’s a planter turned policeman – that’s a curious kind of career development.’

  ‘He’s a polymath, with private means. He could do anything. Apparently, he was spotted by a district judge in Bengal who recognised his potential and when Macnaghten decided to come back to England with a view to being of some service to his country, the good judge pointed him in the direction of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police. He’s now their Chief Constable – and only just turned forty.’

  ‘Is he a family man?’ I asked, fearing for a moment that Macnaghten might turn out to be one of Oscar’s good-looking enthusiasms suddenly brought into play because of the absence of Lord Alfred Douglas.

  ‘A family man? Very much so. He has fourteen brothers and sisters.’

  ‘And isn’t in love with any of them, I hope?’

  Oscar giggled. ‘He is happily married to a very pretty girl called Dora, the daughter of a canon of Chichester, and I believe they have several small and no doubt delightful children. The family is a model of respectability.’

  ‘You like him?’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘And trust him?’

  ‘Absolutely. He has a wal
rus moustache, Arthur, to rival your own.’

  ‘And this Chief Constable Macnaghten is to help us make our fortune?’

  ‘Correct, my dear friend. You’re as sharp as Sherlock Holmes today. I need money and you need money.’ He looked at me slyly, his mouth half full of potted shrimp. ‘You have a poorly young wife at a nursing home in Switzerland, do you not? She requires care and attention, I’m sure – and that comes at a price.’ He took a sip of wine and smiled at me solicitously. ‘How is Touie, by the way?’

  ‘She is bearing up, thank you – and asks to be remembered to you. And to Constance.’

  ‘And you have children, don’t you, one of each?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, smiling. ‘Mary and Kingsley. Well remembered.’

  ‘And they need nursemaids – and education. Obviously nothing that is worth knowing can be taught, but, even so, schools must be found and paid for. You could bring in more money by writing another of your Sherlock Holmes stories, but you appear disinclined to do so . . . ’

  ‘I’ve had enough of Holmes.’

  ‘Very good. But you still need an income.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Exactly. I reckon you need a story that will outsell all that you have done before – and I need a play that will draw the town.’

  ‘And somehow your Chief Constable Macnaghten can supply us with both?’

  ‘I believe so,’ murmured my friend, almost purring with pleasure at the prospect.

  ‘And how exactly, Oscar, will he do that?’

  ‘By the simple expedient of helping us to identify the most celebrated, the most vile, the most notorious, the most repugnant, the most popular criminal of the age – Jack the Ripper. Was there ever a more promising start to a new year?’

  3

  Paradise Walk

  Irapped my beaker of white Burgundy down on the picnic basket and laughed out loud. ‘We are to unmask Jack the Ripper?’

  Oscar glanced up anxiously towards our coachman. Above the rattle of the metal wheels on the roadway, and through the steadily streaming rain, there was no possibility of him overhearing us. Nevertheless, Oscar lowered his voice and leaned in towards me conspiratorially. ‘We are to assist the police with their inquiries,’ he confided, ‘and our reward will be to discover all that they know.’

  I gazed at my friend in astonishment. ‘But the police know nothing, Oscar,’ I protested. ‘If they knew anything, they’d have made an arrest by now. They’ve been searching for this so-called Jack the Ripper for five years – longer – and they’ve got nowhere. They don’t know who he is or where he comes from, they don’t know if he’s alive or dead, they don’t even know for certain how many murders he may have committed. They have no idea what his motives might have been. Remember, the most difficult crime to track is the one which is purposeless. The police know nothing, Oscar – nothing!’

  ‘They know more than you think, Arthur.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘My man Macnaghten is now in charge of the case.’

  ‘As you say.’

  ‘The point is: he’s new to it. He was still in Bengal in ’eightyeight when the murders started. He’s come to it with a fresh mind.’

  ‘And fresh information? That’s what wanted, surely?’

  ‘He’s exploring “a range of possibilities”, he tells me. He’s been charged with producing a definitive report to put an end to all the lurid speculation – and to get at the truth. And when he does, you will want to write it up, Arthur.’

  ‘If he gets to the truth, it will certainly be a story,’ I conceded.

  ‘“It was the best of crimes, it was the worst of crimes” – that’s your opening line.’

  ‘As you keep telling me,’ I laughed.

  ‘It has a ring to it.’

  ‘A Dickensian ring, Oscar.’

  My friend drained his beaker of wine. He had now emptied the flask. ‘I never rated Dickens, as you know. One must have a heart of stone to read the death of Little Nell without laughing. But there’s no denying Mr Dickens’ popularity. His books have sold in their hundreds of thousands. With Case Closed – The Truth about Jack the Ripper, or whatever we call it, we can do likewise. You will write the book. I will write the play. The public loves a blood-curdling melodrama. Look at the stage adaptation of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde: standing room only in London and New York.’

  ‘Your man Macnaghten is the officer in charge of the case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if and when he uncovers the truth, he has agreed to share it with us – exclusively?’

  Oscar was peering out of the window. We had reached Chelsea Hospital on our right: Tite Street was approaching. ‘Not exactly – but we’re near neighbours and fast becoming firm friends. He’s told me a little about the case – and about the report he’s writing – and asked for my assistance – so I am seizing the opportunity. Hence our two o’clock appointment.’

  ‘Your two o’clock appointment, Oscar. He’s not expecting me, I think.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ My friend looked at me, perturbed.

  ‘That telegram just now,’ I said, ‘the one purporting to come from Macnaghten. It wasn’t from him at all, was it?’

  ‘What do you mean, Arthur?’

  ‘You sent it to yourself, didn’t you?’

  Oscar had replaced his empty beaker in the picnic basket. His hands fluttered before him like moths trapped in a bottle. He was evidently embarrassed. ‘How did you guess?’

  I laughed. ‘I recognise a charade when I see one, Oscar. That nonsense of the bellboy dropping the sixpence. You set it up too elaborately. He did it too obviously. You’d primed him.’

  ‘He’s not a very good actor, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Nor are you.’ I smiled. ‘For a moment I was almost taken in by your display of Holmesian omniscience, but it was all too pat. I smelled a rat. And now I’ve worked it out. The telegram was a ploy to intrigue me, wasn’t it? A device to get me involved? Macnaghten isn’t expecting me at all, but for some reason you don’t want to see him on your own. Am I right?’

  Oscar dropped his hands in his lap and shook his head in contrition. ‘You’re quite right, Arthur. I didn’t think you’d agree to come with me to meet Macnaghten and talk of murder if you hadn’t been invited – hence my playful subterfuge. It was just one of my little games.’

  ‘Murder isn’t a game, old friend.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered airily, packing up the remnants of our picnic and returning them to the basket. ‘There’s nothing quite like an unexpected death for lifting the spirits.’

  ‘You’ve said that before, too.’

  We both laughed. ‘Thank you for coming,’ said Oscar. ‘I’ll confess I have been oddly anxious about seeing Macnaghten on my own.’

  ‘Did he ask you to come on your own?’

  ‘Not in so many words. He said he wanted to talk about the case “confidentially”. But if we arrive together, he can have no objection to your presence. He will be happy to meet you, I’m certain – and who knows where the interview may lead?’

  ‘Are we here?’ I asked, as the four-wheeler juddered once more to a stop.

  We had reached the corner of Dilke Street and Tite Street, residential thoroughfares just off the embankment, fifty yards from the river’s edge. Our coachman jumped down from his driver’s seat and opened the carriage door. ‘Something’s up, sir,’ he said. ‘The street’s closed.’

  We peered out into the rain. A knot of shadowy figures was standing on the pavement and a line of four or five uniformed policemen was straddled across the roadway. There was a hubbub of men’s voices and, in the distance, the shrill sound of short, sharp repeated blasts from a police whistle.

  I recognised the signal. ‘They’re calling for a Black Maria,’ I said. ‘It’s either an arrest or a body.’

  ‘Wait here,’ said Oscar to our driver, as we clambered out of the four-wheeler. I opened up my umbrella and, huddled be
neath it, we made our way towards the line of police.

  ‘Is Tite Street closed?’ asked Oscar.

  ‘Not if you’re a resident, sir. It’s Paradise Walk that’s closed. There’s been an incident.’

  ‘There’s been a murder, Mr Wilde,’ said a voice from behind us, ‘in the alley that leads to the back of your house – and mine.’

  We turned towards the voice and I raised the umbrella so that we could see the figure addressing us. He was a tall, handsome man of about forty years of age, with strong, clean features, a firm jaw, an unfurrowed brow, sandy, somewhat receding hair, startlingly clear blue eyes – and, as Oscar had told me, a moustache much like mine. He wore a khaki-coloured greatcoat that glistened in the rain and brown leather gloves. He raised his hat as he shook Oscar by the hand. He nodded to me. ‘Melville Macnaghten,’ he said, ‘Chief Constable, Metropolitan Police CID.’ I liked his manner immediately.

  ‘Arthur Conan Doyle,’ I replied, ‘Doctor.’

  ‘I know the name, Doctor,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Is it doctor of medicine?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘May I impose upon you for a moment, Doctor?’ He did not wait for my reply. He was a man accustomed to command. ‘Kindly follow me, if you would. I doubt you’ve seen worse, Doctor. It’s an horrific crime. We need to remove the body as soon as possible, but a note from a medical man in situ could prove useful – if you don’t mind. Come this way.’

  Briskly, he led us into Tite Street, beyond the line of policemen and away from the group of gawping bystanders. He stopped at the first corner, by a large red-brick building, where two more policemen were standing guard. ‘This is the Shelley Theatre – you’ll know it, Mr Wilde. And this is the alley that leads to Paradise Walk. She’s down here, poor woman – or what remains of her. It’s a messy business, Mr Wilde. You won’t want to look. Wait here. I’ll take the doctor down.’

  We left Oscar standing beneath my umbrella and I followed Macnaghten along Shelley Alley. It was muddy and stinking, littered with refuse, broken orange boxes and old vegetables, some fifty yards long but no more than three feet wide – as narrow as the narrowest calli in Venice, and as dark: the buildings on either side rose four storeys high.