[Oscar Wilde 07] - Jack the Ripper: Case Closed Page 4

  ‘Thank you.’ He turned to Oscar, smiling. ‘And now, Mr Wilde, to business.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oscar eagerly, lighting a fresh cigarette and throwing the spent match into the fire grate with a flourish. ‘Jack the Ripper. The curtain rises . . . ’

  ‘Yes, “Jack the Ripper” – how I loathe the name,’ said Macnaghten, shaking his head wearily. ‘But loathe it as I might, it has caught the public’s imagination, there’s no denying it – and we must either catch the man or prove him dead, or this “Jack the Ripper” business will go on for ever.’

  ‘It’s a telling name,’ said Oscar, ‘that is why it has caught the public’s imagination. It has a ring to it – like Oliver Twist. And it touches something deep in all of us, going right back to the mythic figures of our childhood. Jack-o’-lantern, Jack and Jill, Jack the Giant-killer . . . Jack the Ripper, Jack the Ripper, Jack the Ripper. Say it softly. Say it slowly. Say it as night falls. The name tells you everything you need to know.’

  ‘Where does it come from?’ I asked, as crisply as I could, sensing that Macnaghten might not be appreciating the relish with which Oscar was repeating the name.

  ‘From a letter and a postcard sent to the Central News Agency at the height of the killings and purporting to come from the killer himself.’

  ‘But not coming from him?’

  ‘We don’t know. There’s a great deal we don’t know.’ The policeman drummed his fingers lightly on his file of papers once more. ‘That’s why I have been charged with producing a report – a definitive report – that eliminates the speculation – of which there is a great deal – and focuses on the facts – which, unfortunately, are very few.’

  ‘You will unmask “Jack the Ripper”,’ announced Oscar, raising his glass towards the policeman. ‘I know it.’

  ‘I will produce a report on the “Whitechapel murders”, as we refer to them at Scotland Yard, and I will leave no stone unturned, that’s all I know.’

  ‘How many “Whitechapel murders” have there been?’ I asked.

  ‘There are eleven in all on the file, committed between the third of April 1888 and the thirteenth of February 1891.’

  ‘And all the work of the same inhuman hand?’

  ‘Probably not. Certainly not, in my view. Five of the murders are remarkably similar in terms of the killer’s modus operandi – with deep cuts to the throat, specific knife marks on the face, mutilation of the abdomen and private parts, the removal of internal organs—’

  ‘Enough,’ cried Oscar, closing his eyes.

  ‘Grotesque,’ I said.

  Macnaghten nodded. ‘Grotesque and distinctive. That’s the point. The other six involve strangulation, decapitation – all kinds of horror – but they don’t carry the unique hallmarks of a Jack the Ripper killing.’

  ‘Who was the first victim?’ I asked.

  ‘The first two murders on the file are those of Emma Smith and Martha Tabram. Smith was robbed and sexually assaulted in Osborn Street, Whitechapel. That was on the third of April 1888.’

  ‘It was Easter, was it not?’ said Oscar, opening his eyes.

  ‘The Easter weekend, yes,’ said Macnaghten. ‘A blunt instrument was thrust into her private parts rupturing her peritoneum. She survived the attack, but died in hospital the following day of peritonitis.’

  ‘Was she able to describe her assailant before she died?’ I asked.

  ‘She said there were two of them, possibly three. She could not describe them in any useful way, but she was certain there was more than one. Months after the event, the newspapers decided to link Smith’s murder to the Jack the Ripper killings – without good cause.’

  ‘I believe nothing that I read in the newspapers,’ said Oscar, gazing into his empty sherry glass. ‘Journalists get everything wrong, in my experience. Instead of monopolising the seat of judgement, journalism should be apologising in the dock.’

  ‘Emma Smith was brutally murdered,’ said Macnaghten, ‘but by a gang, not by Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘And Martha Tabram?’ I asked.

  ‘She was murdered on the seventh of August 1888, in George Yard, Whitechapel, not far from Osborn Street. She is more likely to have been one of the Ripper’s victims, but I do not believe that she was.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The Ripper slashed his victims,’ said Macnaghten, lifting his pipe from the rack and sawing the air with it. ‘Martha Tabram was stabbed in the throat and the abdomen – repeatedly.’ He used the pipe to make a short, sharp stabbing gesture. ‘She was stabbed thirty-nine times in all.’

  I looked up at the chief constable. ‘Yes,’ he said, smiling. ‘An interesting coincidence, but after more than five years and in a quite different part of town, I don’t see that it can be anything more.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, both puzzled and perturbed.

  ‘Really,’ replied the policeman emphatically. He got to his feet and collected the sherry decanter from the sideboard. ‘A little more, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Oscar. ‘I can resist everything except temptation.’

  ‘And your five undoubted victims?’ I enquired.

  ‘Five women, all prostitutes, savagely murdered and mutilated in very similar circumstances, within a few streets of one another, within a few weeks of one another, between the thirty-first of August and the ninth of November 1888: Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary Jane Kelly.’

  ‘You know the names by heart.’

  ‘I do. I know the details of each case by heart.’

  ‘Five murders,’ said Oscar. ‘And how many suspects?’

  ‘Five dozen – five score. More! Hundreds, if you take into account all the speculative possibilities raised by a sensationalist press. Most, of course, are utterly fantastical and don’t merit a second glance.’

  ‘But how many do?’

  Macnaghten hesitated a moment. ‘About twenty individuals in all, no more.’

  ‘And of those,’ I asked, ‘how many are on your personal list of chief suspects, Chief Constable?’

  ‘Just five. I’m narrowing the field.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’ asked Oscar lightly.

  ‘Yes, Mr Wilde, several that you know. That is the point. That is why you are here.’

  6

  ‘Am I a suspect?’

  Oscar looked about Macnaghten’s study as though seeking an invisible audience whose applause he might acknowledge. ‘Am I a suspect?’ he asked, turning towards our host and widening his eyes. ‘I rather hope I might be. There’s only one thing worse than being talked about and that is not being talked about.’

  ‘This is no laughing matter, Oscar,’ I said reprovingly.

  ‘You are not a suspect so far as I am concerned, Mr Wilde, but I do have to tell you that, as I work on my report and consider each suspect in turn, your name keeps cropping up.’

  ‘I’m intrigued,’ said Oscar. ‘Tell me more, Chief Constable. It seems I know all the wrong people.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Macnaghten, with a dry laugh. ‘From our investigation’s point of view, you know all the right people, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘Is my friend Sickert, the artist, on your list? I imagine he is.’

  ‘He was, briefly, but he is no longer.’

  Oscar turned to me to explain. ‘Wat Sickert lived close to Whitechapel and walked the streets – wearing a long great coat and a tall top hat. Some children caught sight of him and began shouting, “Jack the Ripper! Jack the Ripper!” That’s all it takes. Wat looks the part of a stage villain, I grant you, but he’s the sweetest creature underneath that curled and waxed moustache.’

  ‘We ascertained that Mr Sickert was in France at the time of the murders,’ said Macnaghten. ‘He was never a serious candidate, but we try to follow every lead. We hear rumours: we investigate.’

  ‘I suppose poor Prince Eddy is on your list?’ said Oscar.

  ‘The late Duke of Clarence and Avondale does feature on the long li
st, unfortunately, yes.’

  ‘I barely knew him,’ said Oscar. ‘He was the heir presumptive so, naturally, I didn’t presume. He had a chequered career, I know, and a very weak chin, but I didn’t see him as a multiple murderer, did you? He was Queen Victoria’s grandson, after all.’

  Macnaghten said nothing. He was now holding the file marked ‘Wilde’ in both hands.

  ‘Beyond Sickert and poor Prince Eddy, can there be anybody else on your list that I might know?’ Oscar asked the question looking genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the chief constable.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You will see.’ The policeman leaned forward and presented the file he was holding to Oscar. ‘I have prepared these notes for you, Mr Wilde. Study them, if you will – at your leisure. They include the names of those I regard as the key suspects. You will find that more than one of them is known to you personally.’

  Oscar took the policeman’s dossier and gazed down at it, seemingly bewildered. ‘Why are you entrusting me with this?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite simply, because I need your help, Mr Wilde. You will know some of these people and you will know them better than I do. You will know them and their circles. You may even know their secrets. I have read your novel, Mr Wilde: The Picture of Dorian Gray. You understand what moves a man to murder. I will be grateful for your thoughts.’

  ‘I am not a detective, Chief Constable.’

  ‘No, but you are a poet, a Freemason and a man of the world. All useful qualifications for the business in hand.’

  Oscar made to protest, but Macnaghten stopped him. ‘You have a poet’s eye, Mr Wilde, and that means you can see the facts and then make a leap of the imagination beyond the reach of us mere plodding policemen. The detectives of the Criminal Investigations Department of the Metropolitan Police are not known for their intellectual acuity, whereas you are considered one of the most brilliant men of your generation. You have won every academic prize open to you and have secured a double first from Oxford University. I have not.’ Macnaghten stretched out his right hand towards Oscar. ‘Will you help me?’

  Oscar took the proffered hand and shook it warmly. ‘Of course,’ he said with emotion. With his other hand he clutched the chief constable’s file to his breast. ‘I will study this material carefully and do whatever I can to assist you – though it may not be much.’ He glanced in my direction and then added, more hesitantly: ‘May I share the contents of the file with Dr Conan Doyle?’

  ‘I very much hope that you will,’ said Macnaghten, smiling. ‘When I discovered this afternoon that you and Dr Doyle were friends, I’ll confess that the notion of having both Oscar Wilde and the creator of Sherlock Holmes on the case seemed almost too good to be true. I will be most grateful for your joint assistance – and I know that I can rely on your complete confidentiality.’

  ‘Naturally, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Oscar, more diffidently, adding, after a moment’s pause, ‘Though perhaps, in the fullness of time, as authors we might be permitted to use some of what we have learned . . . ’ My friend let his sentence trail off into a nothingness.

  ‘You want to write about all this?’ said Macnaghten doubtfully. ‘Let us cross that bridge as and when we reach it. We are conducting a murder investigation here, Mr Wilde, not conjuring up a murder mystery.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Oscar, duly chastened.

  ‘You may depend on us,’ I said, getting to my feet, sensing that our interview was at a close.

  ‘Let’s meet again shortly,’ said Macnaghten, ‘when you have had an opportunity to consider the file. We can meet here rather than at Scotland Yard. It’s more discreet.’ I nodded our agreement. ‘And you won’t forget to let me have your notes from this afternoon, will you, Doctor?’

  ‘You will have them tomorrow,’ I said, ‘without fail.’

  Oscar drained his sherry glass and returned it to the sideboard. ‘May I ask one question,’ he said quietly, ‘before we leave you?’

  ‘By all means,’ answered Macnaghten amiably.

  ‘Why now? These foul murders took place in 1888, six years ago. Why this sudden renewed interest in them?’

  ‘I don’t think the interest in them has ever gone away, Mr Wilde. Our sensationalist press has made sure of that. Are you familiar with Mr George R. Sims?’

  ‘Of course. I know him personally, though not well.’

  ‘He has been the leader of the pack. Week in, week out, in his column in The Referee he returns to the subject of Jack the Ripper like a dog to a bone. There’s nothing new to be said, but that doesn’t trouble him. Gleefully he reports that the police continue to make no progress and then fuels empty speculation with lurid conjecture. Every paragraph he writes undermines the authority of the Metropolitan Constabulary. It’s bad and it’s set to get worse.’

  ‘Worse?’

  ‘You mentioned the Duke of Clarence. As you know, His Royal Highness passed away two years ago. He was just twenty-eight.’

  Oscar shrugged. ‘The clap shows no respect for age.’

  ‘It was not gonorrhoea, Mr Wilde. It was pneumonia. There is no doubt about that.’

  Oscar smiled.

  ‘But you are right,’ the chief constable continued imperturbably. ‘There were rumours . . . ’

  ‘There always are.’

  ‘And since you cannot libel the dead, now the young prince has gone, people are free to say whatever they choose about him – however outrageous. His Royal Highness’s thirtieth birthday would have fallen next week, on the eighth of January, and our understanding is that the Sun newspaper is planning to run a scurrilous series of articles to mark the anniversary. The Prince of Wales is understandably concerned that newspaper stories linking his eldest son with Jack the Ripper could tarnish the crown . . . ’

  Oscar raised an eyebrow. ‘And might even threaten the throne?’

  ‘Look at France,’ said the policeman solemnly. ‘Look at Russia. We live in uncertain times, Mr Wilde. Even the oldest monarchies can take nothing for granted.’

  ‘The Prince of Wales has shared these concerns with you?’

  ‘No, he has shared them with certain senior politicians who have shared them with the Metropolitan Police Commissioner who has instructed me to discover the truth of the matter – if I can. Or, if I cannot, at least to produce a report detailing exactly what we do and do not know, narrowing the field of suspects and eliminating all those we know for certain cannot possibly be this “Jack the Ripper” – the late Duke of Clarence being one such. “Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth.” Isn’t that one of Sherlock Holmes’s maxims?’

  ‘It is, indeed,’ I said, as Macnaghten escorted us into the hallway. He handed me my overcoat and helped Oscar on with his.

  ‘May I ask a question?’ he added, as he opened the front door to see us on our way. ‘I know it was your little joke, Mr Wilde, but why, earlier, did you say, “Am I a suspect?” What made you think of such a thing?’

  Oscar looked Macnaghten directly in the eye: ‘A man has been following me for several months past. He has kept his distance. I have not seen his face. I do not know who he is, but he has something of the manner of a policeman about him. I thought perhaps he was one of your detectives, Chief Constable.’

  ‘No, Mr Wilde; whoever he is, he’s not one of mine. I can assure you of that.’

  The heavy rain had stopped, but a drizzly fog had now descended on the darkened street. By the smudged pale yellow light of its lamps we found Oscar’s four-wheeler waiting for us exactly where we had left it five hours before. It took us forty minutes to travel back to the Langham Hotel.

  ‘Stay the night,’ said Oscar as the cab pulled away. ‘You will be my guest, old friend.’ Beyond that, he said nothing.

  7

  Five only

  We stood in the gas-lit lobby of the hotel and bade one another goodnight. My friend, so exuberant for most of the day, looked weary. />
  ‘Forgive me, Arthur. I am not in the giving vein tonight. We can talk it all through in the morning, can’t we?’

  ‘We can.’

  ‘You will stay the night, won’t you? As my guest.’

  ‘If they have a room, I’ll stay the night, of course. But not as your guest. You’re wanton with money, Oscar. You overtipped the cabman quite ludicrously. Your extravagance will ruin you.’

  He smiled wanly as we shook hands. ‘Surely, it is the ruins the tourists most want to visit.’

  The Langham had a room and I took it. I ordered myself a simple supper of bread and cheese and pickle, and a glass of beer, and, as I had promised the chief constable, set about writing up my notes on the body of the murdered woman that I had examined at the beginning of the afternoon. As I worked, the poor unfortunate wretch’s scarred and bloodied face settled in my mind’s eye. I found the only way to shift the dreadful image was instead to picture the smiling face of Constance Wilde. I was reflecting on her uncomplicated loveliness – and on the sweetness of her nature – when there was a sharp knock on my bedroom door. It was Oscar.

  He looked brighter than he had done an hour before. ‘Macnaghten’s file,’ he said, handing it to me. ‘I’ve read it.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘I’m a quick study, as you know.’

  ‘You’ve read it all?’

  ‘I am leaving the details to you. I have the colour of it.’ He grinned and revealed his none-too-gainly teeth. ‘And perhaps an answer to one of the mysteries, too.’

  ‘You amaze me.’

  ‘I have nothing to declare but my genius,’ he said complacently. ‘“It was the best of crimes, it was the worst of crimes”, as you’ll see. Goodnight, Arthur.’

  I closed the door on my friend, sat back on my bed and opened the policeman’s dossier.

  To: OW

  From: MM

  Date: 01/01/94 STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

  WHITECHAPEL MURDERS

  Background

  Whitechapel is the poorest parish in London’s East End. Drunkenness and vice are rife. Respect for the law is low and good policing consequently difficult to achieve. Violence is commonplace and murder far from unknown. Brewing, distilling, iron-founding, floor-cloth manufacture, dyeing and prostitution are the local industries. There are four churches in the parish and sixty-two known brothels. Some 1,200 women work the streets, notably in the areas close to the bathhouses, the sailors’ home, the workhouse, the boys’ refuge and the Jews’ orphan asylum.