What Alice Knew: A Most Curious Tale of Henry James and Jack the Ripper

Chapter 7

Had Philip Wilkinson—Henry crossed out “Wilkinson.” Something more Dickensian, he thought.

Had Philip Wiltingham not been sent to Algate Market (check spelling) by his wife …No, not his wife. That would suck the life out of the character before the story got started.

Had Philip Wiltingham not been sent to Algate Market(check sp) by his sister to buy the lamb chops for her dinner party that night, and had he not ducked into the building when he saw Joseph Donner(Donning? better), an insufferable bore to whom he had lost fifty pounds at cards…too much information there, about the losing at cards.

Had Philip Wiltingham not been sent to Algate Market(check sp) by his sister to buy the lamb chops for her dinner party that night, and had he not ducked into the building when he saw Joseph Donning, an insufferable bore to whom he owed fifty pounds, approaching in the other direction, he would never have found the body.

Henry paused and took his watch out of his pocket. It was after seven o’clock, time to prepare for dinner at…he must check his date book to see where he was invited to dinner that night.

He put down his pen and surveyed the parlor of his flat, where his desk had been set up in the corner. The room was to his liking, with its silvery damask chairs, pale gray wallpaper, and long, elegantly draped windows.

He got up and crossed the room, touching the peonies in the vase on the mantel and straightening the bust of Benjamin Franklin that William Dean Howells had sent him as a reminder of his American roots. It was dusty, Mrs. Smith being remiss again. He proceeded to his room, passing the spare room that William was occupying during his stay. He could see that clothes were strewn on the floor and the daybed was unmade.

He went into his dressing room and rinsed his face in the china bowl with its sprinkling of wilted rose petals (not replaced, he was dismayed to note, since the morning). He changed into his dress shirt, taking care with the fastening near his neck where he had once pinched himself and drawn blood. He chose a dark gray waistcoat, black trousers, and a pearl gray cravat. He recalled the charcoal striped trousers from the other night, which he had to discard in the trash bin behind his building. No need to think about that.

He knew that Mr. Smith, retained in the combined role of valet and butler, ought to be on hand to help him dress. There was no denying that the two who served him, for all their exemplary qualities, were not up to par when it came to doing what they were hired to do. Secretly, however, he was pleased for the opportunity to dress himself. It was an aesthetic pleasure to put his outfit together—an elegant, leisurely assemblage of pieces, not unlike the assemblage of words in the construction of a well-turned sentence.

He chose the silver cuff links that had belonged to his father. He had worried that William would want them, but William did not appear to care. As they moved into middle age, his older brother had become even more oblivious, if possible, to everything except his work and, at sporadic intervals, his family. The patterns of their boyhood had persisted but mutated as well. William had always been the more daring and insouciant of the two, but Henry, once timid and negligible, had come into his own. He was proud to think that his brother occasionally took notice of how well regarded he had become in certain circles, how nicely his particular brand of courtliness conformed to the manners of the British gentry among whom he had chosen to live.

He heard the door open and a rustle of garments in the front hall. Mrs. Smith had come in. He glanced at his watch…late again. He must have a talk with her about her laxness with regard to hours—and other things. As for her husband, his chronic absence was certainly annoying, especially since he was being paid a considerable stipend to be present.

Henry walked tentatively into the front hall, where Mrs. Smith was busily hanging up her mackintosh and shaking out her umbrella. The umbrella was leaving a large puddle near the door.

“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll mop it up,” said Mrs. Smith cheerfully. She was always promising to do things that she never got around to doing.

Henry looked at his watch and coughed. “Your husband is…indisposed?” he asked.

“He’s walking Mary home,” said Mrs. Smith blithely. “Worries himself sick with that Jack the Ripper loose. Can’t say I’m not without worries myself. Mary’s the age he likes, you know.”

Henry considered this. “Doesn’t Mary live in Lambeth?” he asked. “This Ripper creature…operates…in Whitechapel.”

“For now he does,” said Mrs. Smith, “but he’ll be in Lambeth soon enough. He’ll be wanting a wider berth.”

Henry nodded at this geographic logic. “But he’s killing women of a certain type,” he added. “Mary’s not…” He paused. Perhaps Mary was. He didn’t know much about Mr. and Mrs. Smith’s daughter beyond the fact that she was often their reason for being elsewhere. He had met her once. She was a blowsy, unkempt young woman; the word “slatternly” came to mind, which was why he had stopped himself so abruptly in noting that Jack the Ripper’s victims tended to be of an unsavory sort.

“For sure, he’s killing off those types now,” said Mrs. Smith, as though she had access to the modus operandi of the killer. “They always start low and work their way up.”

“Ah!” said Henry, wondering how far up Mrs. Smith imagined Mary was.

“These sorts aren’t easily satisfied,” Mrs. Smith continued sagely. “There’s the lustful part, of course, but they don’t go after us women just for that.”

“No?” said Henry. He was uncomfortable with the line the conversation was taking but still eager to hear more.

“No,” asserted Mrs. Smith. “It’s for we’re weaker and more sensitive-like, as sets ’em off. I once been with a man who beat me most every night, not ’cause I did him no harm, but as he thought to be rid of his own weakness that way. Couldn’t be the man he wanted, so he blacked my eyes to make him feel strong. Thank God I got away afore he killed me. Mr. Smith’ll drink himself to a stupor, but he don’t see no need to beat me, God bless ’im.”

Henry coughed uneasily, wondering if he was expected to praise Mr. Smith for this. Still, there was something to what Mrs. Smith said. “Manliness”—he disliked even the term—had always been a source of frustration and difficulty for him. He had found ways to cope, but he supposed there were others whose resources were less…developed.

“It’s an interesting observation, Mrs. Smith,” said Henry, nodding absently. “I’ll have to tell my brother to consider it in his investigation of the case for Scotland Yard.” He spoke without thinking, instinctively trying to assert his authority, only to realize that he had been dreadfully indiscreet; this was hardly a matter to be shared with a servant, or with anyone for that matter. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? Mrs. Smith’s eyes had opened wide in hearing of William’s involvement in the case, and Henry hurried to change the subject. “I’ll be going out now, Mrs. Smith. I don’t know when my brother shall be back, so please have his room made up as soon as possible.”

“I was just about to do that,” said Mrs. Smith with a touch of huffiness. “By the by, sir”—she resumed a more congenial tone—“there’s a note dropped off for you yesterday by Mr. Wilde’s man. I kept it with me for safekeeping.” She reached into her pocket and drew out a small envelope, which she handed over with a flourish.

Henry removed the note from the envelope. It was an invitation to a dinner party next week at Wilde’s club. At the bottom was a scrawled message. “Surprise guest!—and music hall turns, as promised.” What was that about? Oscar was always making allusions to things one was supposed to know, but didn’t. Though, of course, he would accept the invitation. Whatever surprises Wilde had in store, there was also sure to be good conversation and good wine—both tended to flow copiously in Wilde’s proximity.

“Will you be dining at home tonight?” asked Mrs. Smith obsequiously.

She knew he was not dining at home, thought Henry; he had said he was going out and was dressed for the purpose—without the help of Mr. Smith, he noted to himself. But his mood had improved, and he was willing to play along. “No, no, not tonight,” he assured her. “But please prepare something for my brother. No need to make a fuss. Professor James is parsimonious in his diet.”

“As you like, sir,” said Mrs. Smith, as though she would have been glad to prepare an elaborate meal. “I’ll go make up his room now if you’ll excuse me. I hope I’m not being forward to say this, sir, but it’s a shame the professor don’t share your habits.” She cast a sly glance at Henry, who could not hide that he was pleased by the remark. He had always been neat, where his brother, to be frank about it, was slovenly.

After Mrs. Smith left the room, Henry took a cloth from the kitchen and wiped up the puddle from her umbrella. He then went to his desk, glanced down at the sentence he had written, crumpled the paper, and threw it in the basket near his chair. Why should he write about something like that? He had been instigated to do so because William was being so smug about working for Scotland Yard. And there was the lady at Gosse’s (was it Gosse’s?) who had encouraged him. His mind veered off. The ghastly events of that night remained cloudy in his memory. It was fortunate that his consciousness had been muted by drink (the irony of this was not lost on him), and that he was free of any vivid recollection of pain or fear that might have derailed his social relations or, worse, his work.

Yet something from that night nagged persistently at his memory. It was not the attack itself but something that had occurred earlier. He closed his eyes, trying to remember, but all he could summon up was a blur of faces around a table. If there was a germ there—the kind of hint that so often sparked his stories—he could not recall what it was.

No, he would not write about murder, but he would take an interest in the case and help where he could. The observations of Mrs. Smith had left an odd resonance. He felt a vague kinship with the murderer—he had felt this before, but when?—a sense that the impulses that drove this deranged creature to kill were not so very different from those that drove him to write. He had learned early on how to transform frustration into a fantasy of fulfillment, to turn life into art. To catch Jack the Ripper, he understood, was to effect a reverse transformation, to uncover the frustrated desires that found their perverse fulfillment in murder.