What Alice Knew (20 page)

“Kit could be an invaluable resource if properly exploited,” explained Vernon. “She could anticipate earthquakes, floods, and mining disasters, not to mention evils of the social variety. She has a special feeling for the suffering poor, especially in the area of abused womanhood. The Whitechapel murders, for example. I’m sure she could help the police find this Jack the Ripper if she put her mind to it.”

Henry, who had just taken a gulp of wine to wash down a raw potato, was caught off guard by mention of the individual they suspected might be present. He gagged on the potato and snorted wine out of his nose.

A hubbub ensued, as Fenimore pressed a glass of water to his lips and William slapped him on the back. “The poor man has a problem with esophageal spasms,” he explained to distract the company from what might have prompted Henry’s response.

“Yes,” Alice hastened to add. “We wouldn’t want to lose him prematurely to choking death.”

Everyone looked at Henry with concern, and even Henry, who had forgotten why he had choked, looked alarmed on his own behalf.

Finally the conversation resumed. “You were speaking of Kit’s response to the Titian,” Alice prompted.

“Yes,” Vernon took up. “The effects were duplicated with a Raphael and even a minor Mantegna…increased respiration and elevated heart rate. There was also an enlargement of soul that cannot be recorded but to which she attests through her sentiments and behavior. Last week she was inspired to a great act of charity after an hour in front of an Etruscan bronze.”

Kit nodded complacently. “It’s true. I wanted to give all my money away.”

“And she would have done it, were it not held in trust.” Vernon looked admiringly at her friend, who had started in on a second roll. “But what interests us is not Kit in herself, extraordinary though she is, but her representative nature as the human specimen writ large. Her example demonstrates that great art is literally a source of uplift; it can inspire great acts of charity and mercy.”

“And bad art?” asked Sickert with amusement. “Can it inspire great acts of rapacity and murder? If so, I know quite a few painters who ought to be placed under arrest.”

There was a titter of laughter, and the siblings exchanged glances again.

Mrs. Smith had come in with the ices, which had melted, and Mr. Smith refilled the wineglasses, shakily. His nose had grown very red. There was some general toasting to William’s visit, followed by discussion of the latest Royal Academy show, which everyone agreed was disappointing.

“Except for John’s painting of Mrs. Marquand,” noted Emily.

“A handsome woman, Mrs. Marquand,” noted Nora Sidgwick, “but John made her handsomer.”

“John always paints his subjects’ ideal selves,” explained Emily.

“Their complexions are certainly flawless,” agreed Nora.

“That’s why they pay me so much,” noted Sargent. “I’d cut my fee in half to paint a wart.”

As the conversation veered off to a discussion of warts on Mrs. Marquand, Alice turned to Sickert. He was seated to her right, but they had not yet spoken directly. “How do
you
paint your subjects, Mr. Sickert?” she asked quietly.

“I paint them as they are,” he said succinctly, “or rather, as I see them.”

She paused. “But you apparently do this very well. I have heard excellent things about your work.”

“Is that so?” He smiled and waited for her to elaborate.

“I am told you can hold your own against Whistler. And have the talent to surpass him.”

Sickert did not refute this fact. “Are you interested in pictures?” he asked, his blue eyes taking in Alice’s dress and hair and then settling with interest on her face. The survey was swift but thorough, and for some reason, though normally she was terribly uncomfortable with being looked at, she did not mind.

“I am interested in everything,” she responded a bit smugly, “though, sadly, I cannot act on my interests. I am not a well person, you see, not so much in body as in mind. I am obliged to view life from a distance.”

“We are alike in that,” said Sickert.

Alice looked at him quizzically. “Your mind is not right?”

“To be sure, my mind is not right.” He laughed. “No interesting person is sane. But I also view life at a remove. As an artist, I am by necessity an onlooker.”

“But I rarely get out of bed,” insisted Alice.

“You surpass me there,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “And what conclusions do you draw from that vantage point?”

She considered this a moment. “That life is hard. That we all suffer.”

He nodded. “I’ll grant you that. But is there nothing else? Do you ever laugh?”

“Oh, I laugh all the time.”

Sickert laughed in response and seemed to examine her even more closely. “I should like you to see my paintings.”

“As I said, I don’t go out,” said Alice, tossing her head. “Tonight is an exception. I do it in honor of my brother’s visit from America. I am sure to pay for it with a week’s worth of headaches.”

“I hope it will be worth it.”

“I hope so.” Her tone was saucy. For the first time in her recollection, she was flirting with a man—if she didn’t count the teasing that she and William had done as children.

He kept his gaze on hers. “I could always give you a private viewing…bring my pictures to
you
.”

She returned his gaze. “I think I should like it better if you painted my portrait. I am told you are gifted but morbid, just the sort of painter who could do me justice.”

“I think I could,” murmured Sickert. “Though, as I said, I am not inclined to flatter.”

“I don’t want to be flattered,” said Alice lightly. “But you will have to paint me in my bedroom, since as I said, I rarely leave it.”

“I would be delighted to be invited into your bedroom—in any capacity you please.”

His eyes flickered with amused insinuation, but Alice could not feel insulted. On the contrary, she looked at him with similar amusement and told him it was settled. “But you will have to hurry,” she warned. “I cannot keep the headaches at bay for long.”

“Then I will come on Tuesday after luncheon.”

She nodded her head slightly and turned away. The headache that she had felt coming on early in the evening had disappeared, and despite the unaccustomed activity, she felt surprisingly well.

***

“You what?” said Henry and William together, after the guests had left and Mrs. Smith had tidied up, not very well.

“I have asked him to paint me,” Alice repeated.

“Are you saying that you have abandoned our idea? That you think he is innocent? ”

“I don’t know about that.” Alice shrugged.

“My God!” said William.

“It
is
a terrible thing to say, I know. How could one like a murderer? But I did like him, and I don’t know if he’s innocent. I want him to paint my picture, both because I think he would do it well and because I think it would help me decide. He’s coming Tuesday, so I think I should go home and get some rest.” She was feeling uncharacteristically lighthearted. “An excellent dinner party, Henry,” she added, as Katherine helped her on with her coat. “Tell Mrs. Smith that she outdid herself.”

When William hurried into Abberline’s office at nine a.m. the next morning, he was surprised by the state of things. The inspector’s desk was generally orderly in the extreme, reports and documents arranged in bins that William had laughingly compared to the cubbyholes Minor used for his dictionary definitions. But today, the desk was submerged in an avalanche of unruly papers. Abberline was seated stiffly in front of them, making no effort to set them right. As soon as he saw William, however, he gave the papers an irritable shove and stood up.

“This is what the newly materialized assistant commissioner would have me waste my time doing.” He gestured contemptuously at the pile of papers. “Sorting through reports of infractions by members of our labor syndicates. After that, he is likely to have me interrogate the rabbis of London. Sir Robert maintains that a cabal is behind the Ripper murders and will not rest until he has expended great amounts of time and energy chasing an illusory conspiracy. It worked for him before, when he accused Parnell of involvement in the Phoenix Park murders, and he assumes it will work again now.”

“But Parnell was found innocent of those charges,” noted William.

Abberline snorted. “Truth and falsehood are inconsequential in such cases. The aim is to establish a reputation, and for that, it’s better to make a great false claim than a small true one.” He took a breath and realizing that he was being goaded by Anderson in a way he disliked, tried to address William more calmly. “You are earlier than usual this morning. Our coffee isn’t even ready.” It had become a ritual for them to share a late-morning coffee, fortified by a generous dose of brandy.

“No coffee today,” said William. “I am en route to an errand elsewhere, but I wanted to give you this.” He took a small envelope from his pocket. “I’d like you to examine it alongside the Ripper letters.”

Abberline took the envelope and extracted its contents. It was the note Sickert had sent in response to Henry’s dinner invitation. It was written in red ink on heavy, cream-colored vellum.

“As you can see, the stock is familiar; it bears the mark of Pirie and Sons.” William had noted this point as soon as the letter was delivered to Henry’s flat, though he had not mentioned it to his brother or sister. It could mean nothing, and would only have upset them.

Abberline examined the note for a moment. He did not seem unduly impressed. “As I told you, the paper is too common to allow us to draw a conclusion. My wife uses it for…whatever it is she uses it for. But I’ll have the note looked at, since you believe there is reason to suspect the writer. It will at least divert me from this.” His lip curled as he waved at the pile on his desk. “Do you have time to go with me to consult our ‘experts’?” Abberline’s “experts” were a ragtag troop of petty forgers who had traded a year in prison to assist on the Ripper investigation. These individuals, some of whom had proven more competent and astute than many on the police force, had sifted through the hundreds of letters sent to Scotland Yard and the Central News Agency and come up with the handful of specimens that William had shared with Alice.

Normally William would have enjoyed consulting with these gifted specimens of criminality, but today he could not linger. Indeed, glancing at his watch, he saw that he was already running late. He therefore promised to stop back for a report on Sickert’s note and apologized again that he would miss their morning coffee, which was to say, their morning brandy.

It was forty minutes before eleven, later than he had intended, when he arrived by hansom cab at Asher Abrams’s shop, a neat brick structure located at the end of a well-swept cul-de-sac in Soho. The words “Abrams & Son: Art, Antiquarian Books, and Reliquaries” were traced in gold script on the large plate-glass window that fronted the street.

He had wanted to arrive well before the hour Ella Abrams had established they would meet, since he wished to consult with the clerk before she got there. As much as he wished to see her again—and the idea excited him more than he wanted to admit—he was also convinced that she had something to hide with respect to the De Quincey volume.

The inside of the shop was even more impressive than its exterior. The bookcases, which reached to the ceiling, were of a polished mahogany wood decorated here and there with brass plaques to mark the kinds of volumes assigned to each shelf. There were sliding ladders to reach the higher collections, and interspersed with the books were colorful ceramics, bowls, and tiles exhibited behind glass cases. Gilt-framed canvases in oil, watercolor, and chalk hung on the walls that did not have bookcases. A fireplace, in which was a carefully tended fire, was in one corner of the room, in front of which were two armchairs. The room was like an opulent and extremely comfortable drawing room, and William couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be to sit in those armchairs with Ella Abrams and converse quietly before the fire.

An older man in an apron greeted William as he came in. When he stated his errand and explained it had been sanctioned by Asher Abrams, the clerk led him to a large room in the back of the shop where artifacts awaiting inventory were stored. There were piles of books with elaborate bindings, picture frames without pictures, pictures without frames, mirrors of various sizes, furniture in various states of disrepair, and sundry other objects reaching from floor to ceiling within the cavernous space.

The man led William to an area in the corner where there was a shelf containing rows of ledger books. He glanced at the paper that had been handed to him on which Asher Abrams had written “Complete set of De Quincey, red leather binding, from Cheshire estate sale.” The man considered the notation for a moment, then ran his index finger over the ledgers, located one, and thumbed through it. “Here it is,” he finally said, with satisfaction. “De Quincey. Twenty-volume set. Bound in red leather.” He squinted down at the notation. “Not sold,” he commented succinctly. “Miss Ella took it off the market.”

“Took it off the market?” asked William.

The foreman responded, “Took it for her own use. Or to give as a gift,” he added without inflection. “As her father’s surrogate in the business, it is her right to do as she pleases with the merchandise.” William glanced at the ledger and saw that a thin line had been drawn through the item. On the opposite page, he saw another line through an item listed as “small Greek urn, possibly second century,” and above it, a line through “silver cigarette case, gold filigree.”

Before he could ask more questions, however, the front door could be heard opening and closing, and Ella appeared at the entrance to the room. William thought that she looked, if possible, even more beautiful than she had the other night. Her expression, however, was not pleasant.

“It was rude of you not to wait for me,” she said, her mouth set in an angry line and her face flushed. The clerk, seeing that it was a matter that did not concern him, put the ledger back into the bookcase and retired to his desk, where he became immediately engrossed in cataloging a set of ceramic tiles.

William walked over to where Ella Abrams stood, realizing that he wanted desperately to regain her good opinion. “I thought it might be best to get here early,” he explained apologetically, “though of course I intended to wait for you. I hope you can still spare me a moment of your time.”

She gave a sigh, turned, and walked into the shop, where she settled into one of the armchairs and motioned for him to take the other. She did not speak for a moment; then, having regained her composure and abandoned both her anger and her furtiveness, spoke bluntly. “My father says you have a deep understanding of people.”

“And how does he know that?”

“He is something of a psychologist himself, you know. Indeed, he has many talents, though, unfortunately, he must apply them all to one end—that of making money in order to prove that he is as good as other English gentlemen. Of course, by concentrating on that task, he succeeds only in proving that he’s not. It’s a paradox that it will take another generation or two to overcome. Then we will have the luxury to appreciate art and philosophy as you do.”

“
You
seem to appreciate art and philosophy.”

“I have an interest,” agreed Ella. “But what is that? A woman can take an interest in things, but she cannot do them. You must understand that, having a sister…and a wife. And as a Jew, I am handicapped further, though I suppose it gives me a perspective on things. John Sargent says that women and Jews are the great observers of culture. I, being both, observe quite a bit, you see.”

“You are dissatisfied with your life?” William asked, discerning the bitterness in her voice.

“Dissatisfied?” mused Ella. “I suppose I am. I wish to represent myself in some way in the world.”

“John Sargent has painted you.”

“Yes, he finds me exotic and is taken with the play of light on my hair. Others have delved deeper. But inspiring art is not the same as creating it.” There was a pause. “I gave the De Quincey set to a friend.”

William sat very still for a moment. “I have reason to want to speak to the owner of the set,” he finally said quietly. “Could you put me in touch with him?”

“We are no longer in touch, but you can contact him on your own. He has, I believe, a rising reputation in the art world; his name is Walter Sickert.”

William felt his throat tighten, and for a moment he thought he would faint. His distress must have shown on his face, for Ella spoke sharply. “You are shocked that I had an intimate relationship with a man…and a gentile at that? I am an independent woman. I will no doubt marry a Jewish banker of whom my father approves, but until then, I do as I please. As I said, I do not have the resources that you have to accomplish anything of significance, so I resort to attaching myself to accomplished men.”

William recalled the other items that had been marked in the ledger, all tokens of affection from Ella Abrams to Walter Sickert, he thought. “You were…in love…with this Sickert?” His voice sounded muffled to his own ears.

“Whatever I felt is over,” said Ella, looking at him with calm directness. The sun streaming through the window had burnished her skin so that it looked like polished bronze. The dark, shiny hair; the chiseled face; the bright, intelligent eyes all seemed to be set off by a radiant cloud of light. He was reminded of Sargent’s portrait, but as she had implied, the picture was a superficial appreciation; it made her into a sensual surface rather than the complex, restless being he saw before him.

He couldn’t stop looking at her, gulping down the smooth planes of her face and the lights in her hair. He was staring, he knew, but he couldn’t help it, though he also felt inhibited, constrained in ways he had not felt before.

“I have no doubt that the person I mentioned will be helpful with regard to assembling the completed set,” she said softly. “I have no idea how the single volume may have become unattached.”

“Why did you stop seeing him?” William had forgotten about the volume; he was thinking only about the relationship that had been revealed to him between Ella Abrams and Walter Sickert. The idea of such a relationship made him feel sick.

Ella paused to fully consider her answer. “I misjudged his character,” she finally said.

He knew that he should ask her what she meant, interrogate her as to the nature of the man with whom she had been intimate, but he could not. The idea of speaking about Sickert now repelled him. He would have to see to her again when he was calmer and more prepared to probe the subject. Perhaps the desire to see her again was what prevented him from asking questions now.

She had risen from her chair, and he did the same. They stood opposite each other, close, though not so close as to touch, and yet he felt the presence of her body, in its suppressed energy, and imagined it pressing against his. He had an almost irresistible urge to give himself up to his feelings and knew that if he did, she would respond. He could feel her desire for him radiating back at him. He did nothing, though, merely continued to hold his gaze on her face. When she finally put out her hand, he looked down and took it, grasping the soft palm in his. He did not know how long he held it, but it was a long time before he finally mumbled farewell and hurried out the door into the bustling streets.