The Night of the Ripper

~ TWENTY-EIGHT ~

When the cab deposited Abberline before the Royal Lyceum Theatre he paid the jarvey and made his way past the imposing six-pillared entrance.

A porter halted him at the inner doorway. “Sorry, sir. No matinee today.”

“I know.” Abberline pulled out his wallet to display his badge. “I’m told I might find a Mr. Wilde here.”

The porter hesitated, blinking at the badge. “Not in trouble, is he?”

“Nothing of the sort.” Abberline offered a reassuring smile. “This is purely a personal matter.”

“Right, guv’nor.” The porter gestured. “He’s in the green room wiv Mr. Mansfield and another gentleman.”

Abberline found his way to the backstage chamber and presented himself to the trio seated there.

He was surprised to find Richard Mansfield so short a man. Somehow he’d always pictured the visiting American actor as a towering figure, perhaps because of the roles he played, but the broad-shouldered chap with thinning hair bore no resemblance to the fearsome Mr. Hyde.

The second occupant of the room was a feisty little journalist in his early thirties, with carroty-red hair, bushy brows and satanic whiskers. Mansfield introduced him as a critic and a budding playwright, but that’s not why the name rang a bell. Abberline tried to remember where he’d heard of Mr. George Bernard Shaw before, but the recollection eluded him.

The third man presented no such problem. There was scarcely anyone who wouldn’t have recognized Mr. Wilde. If the flowing, centrally parted hair, the extravagantly checkered coat and frogged vest didn’t stamp him unmistakably as the celebrated poet, his tongue offered immediate proof of Oscar Wilde’s identity.

“I was just telling these gentlemen of my recent visit to the Beaux Arts Balls in Paris.” Wilde smiled at him, then turned his attention to the others. “As I said, this year the theme was biblical, if not entirely reverent. The polyglot mixture of tongues — French. English, German and Italian — brought to mind the Tower of Babel. Though the decorum, I must confess, bore more of a hint of Sodom and Gomorrah.” Wilde’s fluty voice rose. “At midnight they bestowed the first prize on a handsome fellow who had chosen to appear as Adam — in full fig, of course. His entire body, completely visible to the naked eye, and most appropriately so under the circumstances, was covered with gold paint. A gilded youth — but not, thank God, gelded.”

Wilde giggled and Richard Mansfield shook his head. “Oscar, you’re incorrigible!” He turned to Abberline. “Do sit down, Inspector. Can I offer you a dash of sherry?”

“Thank you, no.” Abberline lowered himself into a chair before the fireplace, rubbing his hands. “The days are getting nippy. There’s quite a chill in the air.”

“To say nothing of soot, coal dust, and all manner of poisonous chemical compounds.” Bernard Shaw peered at him from beneath bristling brows. “No wonder the Queen keeps fit — she stays out of London and enjoys the pure Scottish air.”

“Pure Scottish malt, more likely,” Wilde said. “I’m told her gillie, the late John Brown of unsaintly memory, introduced our beloved sovereign to the delights of the Highland fling.”

“Nonsense.” Shaw shook his head. “One can’t preserve one’s health in alcohol. London pours whiskey down its throat, but it coughs and wheezes nonetheless. And no wonder, what with the effluvium of thousands of tons of horse droppings, the miasma of sewage, billions of bacteria assaulting our every breath.”

“Ah yes, the germ theory.” Wilde smiled. “Once you get started on that topic you sound as prejudiced as Pasteur and as virulent as Virchow.”

“Better than being as gullible as Gull,” Shaw muttered.

“Really.” Mansfield gave him a reproving glance. “Don’t tell me you’re taking issue with the Physician Ordinary to the Queen?”

“Physician Ordinary.” Wilde giggled again. “How very apt!”

Mansfield glanced at Abberline. “I fear I must apologize for all this. My friends here were in the midst of conducting an interview with me for the press. But if you’ve come on official business—”

“My business is with Mr. Wilde, and it’s not official,” Abberline told him. “Go ahead with your interview — I can wait.”

“Very well, then.” Mansfield turned to the others. “As I was saying, I have an announcement to make. I’m taking Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde off the boards.”

“Richard!” Wilde’s hand and voice rose in protest. “Have you gone mad? You’ve run for ten weeks to packed houses. Why stop now?”

“It’s a matter of conscience. There’s been a great deal of criticism regarding the content of the play. Some think all this emphasis on violence stirs the morbid imagination of its audiences. I would hate to feel that I may have unwittingly incited someone of unsound mind to perpetrate these Ripper atrocities.”

“Fiddle-faddle!” Bernard Shaw’s blue eyes flashed. “I shall report your decision if you insist, but be assured your conscience can rest easily. I’m not prepared to grant that your dramatic efforts have inspired slaughter in the streets, but even if this were so it might be for the best.”

“Really, now!” Wilde’s mouth contorted in mock amazement. “Are you seriously advocating the wanton murder of wantons?”

“I take it you didn’t read my letter in the Star last month,” Shaw said. “I put forth the suggestion that in the long run these crimes may prove of great benefit. At the very least they’ve served to focus public attention on the misery and poverty of the East End, and thus hasten social reform. It’s a pity that only the poor have been sacrificed in this worthy cause. Had a duchess been one of the victims, perhaps we’d already have a half-million pounds or more to alleviate conditions in Whitechapel.”

“Jack the Ripper as a public benefactor?” Wilde shook his head. “And to think they accuse me of cynicism!” He rose. “I fear I must take my leave before such Fabian sentiments corrupt me further.” Turning, he nodded towards Abberline. “You wish a word with me, Inspector?”

“If I might.”

“Share my carriage, then. I’m expecting guests at Tite Street.”

“Thank you.”

Brief farewells were exchanged, and within a few moments after leaving the theater the inspector was seated beside the poet in the comfort of his carriage.

As they rolled off, Abberline sorted his thoughts. Wilde’s address — Number Sixteen, Tite Street — was known to him as a gathering place for the swells; even the Prince of Wales dined there. But others living nearby sometimes welcomed less distinguished guests. The painter, Sickert, for one; his name had cropped up in connection with the doings at Cleveland Street. Maybe mentioning Sickert and a few others would be the best way of leading up to the delicate subject with this delicate, perfumed gentleman. But on the other hand…

Abberline’s queasy stomach protested painfully as the carriage rounded a corner. On the other hand, delicacy be damned. He had no time to cross rapiers with Oscar Wilde. A bludgeon might be the better weapon.

“Might I ask a question of you, sir?”

“By all means,” Wilde drawled. “I have a questionable nature.”

“Are you acquainted with the Duke of Clarence?”

“Eddy? Yes, I know him.” Wilde smiled. “Not carnally, I hasten to add.”

“Then you’re aware of his — tastes?”

“In dress, yes. Abominable, don’t you think? ‘Collars and Cuffs’ they call him in the penny press. And that fore-and-aft hat he affects — ghastly!” Wilde’s tone was bantering but now his eyes narrowed. “However, I dare say you’re not inquiring about Eddy’s sartorial peculiarities.”

Abberline glanced forward at the swaying back of the coachman seated on his box. “May I speak freely?”

“Please do. My man happens to be deaf — and on occasion, dumb and blind as well.”

“This matter must remain strictly between the two of us.”

“Good enough. Whatever you tell me will go no further. You’ve my assurance on that.”

“Agreed.” Abberline cleared his thoughts and his throat. “About Eddy, then. Is he by any chance a Major Darcy? Does he enjoy swishings?”

“Please, spare me the euphemisms.” Wilde raised a plump hand in protest. “No, he’s not a masochist. To my knowledge he would take no pleasure in being whipped.”

“A Reverend Leffwell, perhaps?”

“What a quaint way of referring to it! Your slang is a bit outmoded. Inspector. I much prefer the term of sadist. It’s only proper that we offer our homage to the divine Marquis.”

“Is he one?”

“I’m not in a position to say.” The poet pondered. “His attitude on the fair sex seems somewhat ambivalent. While he appears to be quite gallant toward ladies of his own station, I’ve heard him speak rather disparagingly of the lower elements.”

“Meaning whores?”

“He tends to regard them as unclean. But knowing their habits, one can hardly fault him for that. Biddies should use bidets, in my opinion.”

“Perhaps he has good reason to feel that way. I’ve heard rumors concerning Lord Vanbrough.”

“Euphemisms again! You policemen are a prudish lot, aren’t you?” Wilde seemed amused. “Oh yes, I know poor Eddy suffered from a venereal complaint. But his dear mother’s physician is said to have cured him — without her knowledge, I might add.”

“Sir William Gull?”

“The same. He takes it upon himself to assume full responsibility for the welfare of a future monarch.”

“What about James Stephen?”

“His tutor?” Wilde grimaced. “A bad influence, I’m afraid. It’s rumored he introduced young Eddy to the dubious joys of our local fleshpots.”

“Such as Cleveland Street?”

“You know about that affair, do you?” The poet’s full lips pursed. “I’m not sure how deeply Stephen was involved. He’s been in poor health for some time now.”

“Forgive my asking, but have you ever visited Cleveland Street yourself?”

“Really, now.” Again Wilde raised his hand. “It would never do for me to drink from a public fountain, as it were. After all, I have a reputation to live down to.”

“But Eddy frequented the place?”

“Frequented it frequently. His dear mother gave her blessing to his excursions in town with Stephen, in hopes that he might mingle with the literati and become a patron of the arts. But she doesn’t know of his involvement with the illiterati, nor the dubious arts he has come to patronize.”

“You’re sure he’s not sadistic?”

“I told you, I have no certain knowledge.”

“How does his tutor feel about women?”

“Stephen? He dislikes the sex, given his own leanings.”

“Dislikes? Or does he hate them?”

“A bit near the wind, perhaps.” Wilde paused. “But yes, you might say that.”

Abberline nodded. “Eddy caught syphilis from a whore. His tutor — who may be his lover as well — hates women. Eddy has been known to prowl the East End incognito at night. What does that suggest to you?”

“That you are in grave danger of breaking your leg by jumping at conclusions.”

The inspector glanced sharply at his companion. “You’re sure you’re not saying that just to protect him?”

“My dear fellow.” Oscar Wilde’s smile had vanished. and now his voice deepened. “Whatever you may think of me. I’m not so devoid of human feeling as to shield a murderer. Like any decent citizen, I wish only to protect my family from such creatures. Remember, I have a wife and children of my own.”

The carriage came to a halt. When the coachman opened the door. Wilde turned to Abberline with a parting smile. “If I had any further information, rest assured it would be gladly given. But unfortunately I know nothing more, and I can only wish you well. My man has instructions to drive you back to the Yard. Godspeed, Inspector.”

Alone in the carriage, jolting now on his way to his official quarters, Abberline shook his head. “Godspeed” from Oscar Wilde? The pouf as a family man? Life had its share of surprises, to say nothing of complications.

But he might safely scratch Eddy from his list of suspects. Or could he? After all, the poet had merely given his opinion, and perhaps there were things he didn’t know.

That was the rub; there were too many things nobody seemed to know. Nobody except the bloody bastard himself — Saucy Jack, Red Jack, Jack the Ripper — writing those damned letters, laughing at him. Who was he, where was he, what was he doing? No killings in all these weeks past — possibly he was in lavender a thousand miles away by now, gone scot-free.

Abberline sighed. “No sense stewing,” he muttered aloud. He intended only to report in, sign out and spend a quiet evening at home.

But his bad day hadn’t entirely ended. One more complication and surprise awaited the inspector at Scotland Yard.

That’s where they handed him the kidney.