The slam of the door put a period to his words, and a warning rumble in Abberline’s stomach added further punctuation. He sat there in silence as Sir Henry Matthews exhaled slowly.
“Bit of a tartar, that one, eh?”
Abberline nodded. “Forgive me for saying so. sir, but this isn’t the first time he’s taken that line. It tends to make for problems in the department.”
“Any suggestions?”
The inspector hesitated, weighing his words. “Meaning no disrespect, but if you could possibly arrange to grant me a free hand in conducting this inquiry—”
“Believe me, I’d like nothing better.” Matthews rose. “Unfortunately, I can hardly jump you over his head, or Anderson’s, for that matter. Question of protocol, eh?”
“I see.”
“I’m sure you do. But there’s no need to look so disappointed. I’d like to entrust you with a private mission of your own.”
“How so?”
Matthews moved up beside Abberline’s chair, speaking in low tones. “Mind you, what I’m about to say is in the strictest confidence. It must go no further than this office. Agreed?”
Abberline nodded.
“Well, then. You heard the Queen’s letter. What do you make of it?”
“She’s concerned—”
“More than concerned. To put matters as delicately as possible, Her Majesty fears that this investigation may not be solely confined to the residents of Whitechapel. It could involve people in high places.”
Abberline’s puzzled frown provoked a further murmur from Matthews. “That’s why I particularly wanted a word with you. Upon examining your duty register I note a connection with the raid on a male brothel at Number Nineteen, Cleveland Street last July.”
“Yes. The trial is still pending.” Abberline paused. “I’ve not had time to look into the reasons for delay.”
“When you do, you may discover that orders have come down from unspecified sources. And that certain of the suspects won’t be available for questioning.”
“Who might they be?”
“James Stephen, for one.”
“Stephen?” Inspector Abberline’s eyebrows arched. “Isn’t he the tutor of—”
“No names.” Matthews paused. “Let me just say that we’ve reason to believe he was responsible for introducing a certain personage to the occupants of the Cleveland Street address.”
Abberline concealed his startled reaction as he spoke. “Anyone else?”
“John Netley.”
“I’ve heard of him. A coachman, isn’t he?”
“That is correct. It has been suggested he frequently drove the party in question on his visits to Number Nineteen.”
“I see.” Abberline hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I don’t see. What has the — personage — got to do with the Ripper affair?”
“This is for you to determine.”
“You’re not suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting nothing, except that you make some discreet inquiries. Would it be possible for you to do so on an unofficial basis?”
“I can manage it.”
“Good.” Sir Henry Matthews led him to the door as he rose. “Remember, I’m relying on your complete discretion.”
“You can depend on me, sir.” Abberline smiled.
But when he left Matthews’ office his smile faded as the Home Secretary’s words echoed in memory. High places. A certain personage. If people like that were suspected of such killings, then whom could you trust?
Inspector Abberline was having a bad day. And his stomach told him it wasn’t over yet.
~ TWENTY-EIGHT ~
United States, A.D. 1791. In Louisville, Kentucky, a Major Elurgis Beatty confided to his diary: “Saw the barbarous custom of gouging practised between two of the lower classes of people here. When two men quarrel they never have any idea of striking, but immediately seize each other, thrusting thumbs or fingers into the eye to push it from the socket as one of those men experienced today… but he in turn bit his opponent most abominably. One of these gougers had, in his time, taken out five eyes, bit off two or three noses and ears and spit them in their faces.”
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.”