What Alice Knew (24 page)

Henry had been working on his novel, practically without pause, all week. It was like that with him. Everything else was embroidery and diversion; writing was the center and foundation of his life.
Bounded by a nutshell
, he sometimes thought during these intensive, almost maniacal periods. He might get up for a cup of tea and a biscuit, but it was only to carry them back to his desk, too excited to stop working and eat properly. Now, for example, he sat, absently picking at the buttered crumpet that he had put down near his chair, contemplating the sentence that he had just written.
We must recognize our particular form, the instrument that each of us—each of us who carries anything—carries in his being. Mastering this instrument, learning to play it in perfection, that’s what I call duty, what I call conduct, what I call success
. Was he overdoing it? Perhaps he was, but the character who was speaking these words was flamboyant and extravagant, and the sentiments expressed were true.

After putting aside the idea of writing about murder and tabling his dramatization, he had decided to work on a story about art and theater, more congenial and familiar subjects. His heroine was an actress; his hero, a painter. Ellen Terry and Walter Sickert were not far from his mind; Wilde was in there; and his brother too was an oblique inspiration. He had glimpsed in William over the last few days a resurgence of the conflicted loyalties that had besieged him during his youth. He had watched with fascination as the struggle, muted by age and experience, replayed itself. He himself had never had such a struggle. After a brief and unpleasant dabbling in the law, he had plunged, with certainty, into his vocation as a writer. It had been simple for him. He could not do most things, and what he could do, he did. But William had always been capable of many things. The stress of choice had weighed on him.

In the novel Henry was working on, the hero would be like that—a man drawn to the artistic life who felt obligated to pursue a political career. With William, of course, the loyalties were different—more tangled and confused—but that was as it should be. One didn’t want art to imitate life. As deep as his characters were, they were never as deep as real people. To go that deep, one would drown.

He was engrossed in his work, scattering crumbs on the floor and spotting his notebook with butter, when a clamor was heard in the hallway, and Alice’s girl Sally pushed into the room.

“She wouldn’t wait to be announced, sir,” said Mrs. Smith, coming in behind huffily. Despite her own frequent lapses, she was always shocked by a lack of decorum in other people.

Sally, however, did not register Mrs. Smith’s protests. She had thrown off her usual timidity and, breathless and distraught, ran to Henry and pulled at his sleeve. “You must come at once,” she cried. “Your sister needs you.”

Henry required no more incentive than the girl’s frightened words. He rose hurriedly from his desk and followed her to the waiting carriage. As they drove the few blocks to the other end of Bolton Street, Sally could say only that Alice had been wild with fright, though the girl had no idea why.

It was only when they were in the carriage that he realized that it was nearly four p.m. and he had not seen William all day. Engrossed in his writing, he had lost track of time. Now it occurred to him to wonder where his brother was and why he had not heard from him. He told the driver to drive faster.

Alice had spent the morning listening to Katherine’s report on her sister: Louisa’s appetite was back, and she had put on weight, all the result of Katherine’s diligent care. Hadn’t she done the same many times for Alice—nursed her back to relative health from the brink of hypothetical death? That was Katherine’s genius after all, to make people make an effort and continue living their lives.

Generally, Alice was jealous when Katherine spoke about her sister, who was, though fragile, fortunately not as fragile as Alice. But today, she listened patiently. She was grateful to have Katherine back and was willing to indulge her more than usual. They had had a pleasant reunion the night before, dining together over a mutton stew that Sally had whipped up entirely on her own. The girl had begun to put ingredients together, a sign, they agreed, that she could think for herself. “Perhaps she will be a cook,” said Alice, “and Archie can be a footman.” They had laughed delightedly at the idea. Despite her reformist impulses, Alice agreed with Henry that the lower orders had no reason to aspire to the occupations and desires of the higher ones. Comfortable servitude seemed to her to have much to recommend it.

On the subject of Sickert, she had said little to Katherine except that her portrait was done, and the artist would deliver it in its frame in a few days.

“I look forward to it,” said Katherine shortly, and Alice was glad that she did not pursue the subject. Her relationship with Sickert seemed too private to discuss even with—indeed especially with—her most intimate companion.

After an early luncheon, Katherine left to do errands, and Alice turned over in her head what ought to be done with regard to the Ripper investigation. It was wearisome. They were going to have to start again, comb through the membership lists of the art societies, look through the exhibition catalogs, interrogate John Sargent about the gossip in the art world. She still believed that the murderer was an artist, but everything else they had assumed before now struck her as dubious. Convinced as she was of Sickert’s innocence, she could hardly say that the idea of a Whistler connection carried much weight.
P
of
W
—“pupil of Whistler.” It was, upon consideration, a silly hypothesis. The line between the letters might not be “of,” and PW could stand for anything.

She had been jotting some notes in her diary and dozing, when Archie came to the door with a package.

“This here been dropped off for you, milady,” he said, presenting it with the characteristic flourish that Alice found both amusing and pathetic. He would be less charming, she thought, when the novelty of his circumstances wore off, and yet she could only hope that they would, that he would forget that he ought to be grateful for regular meals and people who cared about him, that he would come in time to take such things for granted.

“Who left it?” she asked, looking curiously at the box on which her name was scrawled, not very tidily, in red ink.

“Don’ know that,” said Archie. “It was lyin’ on the mat when I went out to wash the stoop. I was out an hour afore to shake the rug, and it weren’t there then, so I’d say it were left within the hour.”

“Thank you, Archie. That shows good reasoning. You can take the afternoon to play if you like. Just be sure you’re back by dinner so that Sally won’t be left shorthanded.”

The boy seemed to find this warning to his liking and trotted away, presumably to win more marbles off the neighbor’s boy, who had lost almost all of them to him already.

Alice turned to the package. It was small, no more than four or five inches long, and very light, so it was not books, which was what people usually sent her. There was no address, which meant it must have been placed by hand on the stoop where Archie had found it. She took the letter opener on her night table and slit the top, which had been glued together using brown paper. She opened the flaps of the box. What lay inside took a moment to take in. First she felt her throat constrict, and she gagged. Regaining her breath, she screamed.

Inside the box, nestled in tissue paper that had been soaked crimson, was a bloody piece of a woman’s breast.

Everything happened quickly. Katherine returned as Henry arrived and administered a few drops of laudanum. William came in soon after with news of the murder and immediately sent Archie out with a note to Abberline.

Alice had not allowed anyone to open the box and refused to say anything about it. She had placed it near the bed, but out of her direct sight.

When Abberline arrived, she mutely pointed to it, and he took it into the small drawing room and shut the door. He was gone for several minutes, and when he returned he spoke to the assembled group. “The package that Miss James received appears to contain part of the left breast of Mary Jane Kelly,” he announced. The suspense had been so great for the others that even this shocking information was a relief. Most helpful, however, was the professional tone of the inspector, for he simply stated the facts with grim simplicity: “A portion of that organ was missing when the body was examined by Dr. Phillips. The question now becomes why it was sent to Miss James.”

“It’s obvious,” asserted William, who had been sitting off to the side, tapping his foot in restless anticipation. “The man who painted her portrait has just murdered another woman in the East End. He must know I’m involved in the case and assumes this is the way to scare me off.”

But Alice, who had been leaning back weakly against her pillows, rallied herself. “Walter Sickert is incapable of murder,” she declared. “And besides, he has gone to Cornwall.”

“You hold to that line,” sneered William.

“We have brought Mr. Sickert in for questioning,” said Abberline, waving a hand, “and will see what he has to say for himself.”

Alice had turned chalk white.

“Not in Cornwall, apparently,” said William gloatingly. “I assume the officer assigned to watch him has evidence of his whereabouts last night, though why he couldn’t stop the attack is another matter.”

“We do not know that he committed the crime,” continued Abberline. “All we know is that he went to a public house in Whitechapel on Wednesday evening. He was accompanied by a woman.”

Henry, watching his brother and sister, was struck by the reversal. William turned pale, while Alice regained a degree of color and life. Something had shifted for each of them. He had no idea what it was, but it was interesting to watch.

Abberline continued, “He arrived with the woman at around ten p.m., but he did not leave before the murder. She, however, did. At approximately one a.m. My man noticed because the other women leaving the public house at that time of night were, let’s say, not of a reputable sort, and she, by contrast, was.”

“And when did
he
leave?” asked William sharply. It was Abberline’s turn to be discomfited. “My man appears to have left the scene when news of the murder became known. When he returned to the public house, Sickert was gone.”

“And who was the woman?” asked Alice.

“We have questioned Sickert on the subject, and he will not say.”

“What did she look like?” asked Henry. William had retreated into a tense silence.

“She was fairly tall and wore a long cape. He could not see her well when they arrived, though he said she was well featured and wore her hair in a thick plait. Leaving, he could see nothing. It was dark, and her hood was up.”

Alice was in a state close to collapse. The package had shaken her, but what she felt now was different—and worse. After Henry and Abberline left, William had remained behind and spoken to her, his voice shaking with emotion. He had said that the evidence was clear. Sickert had murdered those women and had used one of his many conquests—he spit the words out with a venom she had never seen him express before—as a means to escape detection. He had also told her about the attack on himself a few weeks back. A man in a cape, covered from head to toe. The cape, he said, though he had not realized it at the time, might well have been borrowed from a woman.

“And how do you know it wasn’t a woman who attacked you?” asked Alice. It had been a reflexive sort of question, her way of expressing doubt that it was Sickert who had committed the crime.

The comment had elicited an unprecedented response from her brother. At first he stared at her, his eyes glazed, his face flaccid, almost idiotic. For such a brilliant man to look like an idiot was a transformation she was not likely to forget. He stared at her like that for a few seconds and then, shaking himself, exploded. “You’re a fool! You sit there in your bed, reading books and talking about politics and the poor. But let a man pretend to admire you, and you lie down at his feet like all the rest of them.”

Alice was too shocked to respond. She had never dreamed that her brother could speak to her like that, and could not fathom what had provoked him. She poured some laudanum into a glass and began stirring it with a trembling hand.

William was not yet done; he continued to speak with increased venom. “You’d run after him if you could. Why don’t you hide him here, under the covers of your bed, and maybe he’ll do what you want before he cuts you up!”

The color had drained from Alice’s face. Was this her brother, the man she trusted and loved more than anyone in the world, for whom she would be willing to sacrifice her life? Had he become a raving lunatic?

“Please leave,” she said softly, pointing to the door.

“You want me to leave, but you’d welcome him.” William sneered, his face contorted with anger and disgust.

She did not tell him again. He had finished his tirade and slumped in his chair, all will and energy sapped. She turned her head on the pillow and closed her eyes, trying to regain a measure of calm. They remained like this for a long time, opposite each other, saying nothing, sunk into morbid thought, when Alice was roused by Sally, who had entered the room to announce that Jane Cobden was below and wanted to see her.

“Tell her I’m indisposed,” she responded dully.

Before this message could be relayed, Jane, who had apparently followed the servant up the stairs, hurried in, rushed to Alice’s bed, and knelt down beside it. She was trembling violently. Her thick red hair, usually fastened neatly at the back of her head, was loose and disheveled, and her large bosom within the plain serge dress was heaving with exertion and anxiety. “Please help me,” she said, grasping Alice’s hand and raising a tearstained face in supplication.

What was going on?
thought Alice, in a spasm of panic. Had everyone gone mad?

William was sitting in the corner, slumped slightly, hardly paying attention.

“You must help me,” Jane Cobden repeated. “And him.”

“Him?” asked Alice, surprised.

“Walter Sickert. My brother-in-law.”

Alice, who was still holding the glass of laudanum in one hand, dropped it to the floor so that it shattered, but neither she nor William seemed to notice. They were both staring at the woman who had just spoken.

“I was with him last night, at the public house. I spent the night there; I left early in the morning. I know they’ve arrested him. I know you and your brothers have suspected him of those murders. But of course, he’s innocent of killing anyone, though not of other crimes, of which I hold myself more guilty than he. If he is an adulterer, I have betrayed my own sister. If Ellen knew…” She broke off and put her face in her hands.

Everything had suddenly changed. William had sprung from his chair and gone over to Jane Cobden. He raised her to her feet and began assuring her excitedly that he understood; flesh was weak, and sometimes even the most stalwart and upright tripped and fell. She could count on his discretion. He remembered her father and knew of her good works. He was in the counsel of the inspector on the case and would do his best to keep things quiet.

He had her write down a statement about what had happened, and after he put it in his pocket and saw her to the door, he returned and faced Alice. He did not hesitate to abase himself for his behavior. He had spoken rashly, said things that were unforgivable and cruel; yet he begged her to forgive him. He had been jealous—that was the crux of it, seeing his beloved sister so taken with a man known to be a libertine, though obviously a very talented and charming individual.

As he spoke, he appeared to Alice to have returned to his familiar, rational self. He was deferential, kind, articulate, yet she also recalled how he had sounded before Jane Cobden came in. He had said he was jealous of her affections; she believed him. She had often been jealous of him; why would he not be of her? But she also knew that there must be more that he was not revealing. He had gone mad for a time, and though the originating influence had dissipated, she could still sense the undertow pulling against his rational speech. She would never hear him speak again without a sense of that undertow. It existed, she knew, in everyone, but she had always thought of her brother as the most exemplary of beings, capable of keeping that side of himself at bay. Now she knew otherwise.

She would have to face what she should have known to be true all along: that on the stage that was her life, there were no other principal actors. She was entirely alone.