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

Chapter 14

When Henry and William returned to Alice’s apartments that evening, Archie was on hand to take their coats. “If you’ll step this way, I’ll show you to the apartment of Madame James,” said the boy with an exaggerated bow.

William seemed nonplussed by this childish formality, but Henry, with a greater understanding of how custom and ritual served to uphold the social structure, responded with a grave nod. “We’re much obliged to you, young man.”

“Archie, get back here and stir the pot!” shouted Sally from the kitchen.

“If you’ll excuse me, sirs, I’m called to duty elsewhere,” explained the boy. “Milady’s chambers is through that door, if you’d be so good as to find your own way.” Having apparently suffered the ire of Sally already and not wanting to repeat the experience, he ducked out of sight.

Henry laughed after the boy left. “It’s a great thing to lift the lower classes.”

“I suppose,” said William doubtfully, “though I suspect it only teaches a more elaborate form of servitude. The whole system offends my ideal of democracy.”

“Your ideal of democracy would not work in this country. Your cutlery would be stolen and your daughter carried off before you had a chance to launch one of your progressive schools.”

“A rather cynical way of looking at things.”

“Not cynical; realistic. You speak continually about the importance of context. Well, context works in social settings as well. One doesn’t apply democratic ideals without an understanding of the history and customs of a people. Here, change happens incrementally, and giving the boy a uniform and a chance to stir the pot in Mayfair is a great leap forward from pilfering and worse in the East End.”

William did not argue.

When they entered Alice’s bedroom, their sister was sitting in her bed, munching on a piece of celery. “It’s supposed to be good for the digestion, only I hate it,” she grumbled, at which she threw the celery across the room, where Katherine, who had been sitting reading a newspaper, calmly picked it up.

“I hope your visit to the East End was productive,” continued Alice, as though throwing celery were a perfectly normal part of her everyday activity.

“I’m afraid we didn’t learn much,” said William, “though we had one intriguing interview with a woman who knew the second victim, Polly Nichols. She said that Polly used to visit a gentleman a few times a week in the area.”

“But isn’t that what such women do?”

William cleared his throat; his sister’s directness still embarrassed him. “Not insofar as Polly told our witness that she was being paid to do something else.”

“And what was that?”

“Unfortunately, we don’t know.”

Alice looked annoyed. “Then you ought to find out, hadn’t you?”

Before more could be said, Sally entered the room with a large casserole dish containing the oysters with mushrooms, and some time was spent ladling out portions.

As they were being served, Alice turned to Henry. “Did you write anything interesting this afternoon?” she asked politely.

“As a matter of fact,” said Henry, pleased to expound, “I have begun a new project, the dramatization of one of my works.”

William made a slight choking sound, and Alice shot him a look. “A play, how nice.” She nodded. They ate without speaking for a few moments, until finally, Alice broke the silence, speaking to William of what clearly interested her most. “I assume you spent your afternoon at Scotland Yard examining the letters. Did you bring them for me to look at?”

William put down his fork and took a sip of wine. As he did so, he touched his jacket pocket in a reflexive gesture.

“You have them!” exclaimed Alice. “They’ve let you borrow them!”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” said William, bringing his napkin to his lips and opening his eyes in mock innocence.

“You see how he gives himself away?” Alice directed herself to Henry. “He can’t lie. He’s afraid he’ll go to hell if he does.”

Henry shook his head. “I don’t think that’s it. He tries to lie, except he’s bad at it. It’s why he could never write fiction—and doesn’t appreciate mine.”

“Enough!” interrupted William. “I admit I have the letters, or at least a few of them. Abberline’s men went through the lot and identified those they felt to be authentic. I’ve been given permission to examine them at my leisure. Obviously they’re confidential.”

“Phooey,” said Alice, waving her hand. “Let me see them!”

“I really can’t do that. The letters were released to me as a special consultant to the police commissioner.”

“And I am a special consultant to you,” declared Alice, “and a highly sensitive one. If you don’t show me the letters, I’m sure to get a headache and have a fainting spell.”

William gave his sister a withering look. “That’s…beneath you!”

“No, it’s not!”

He paused and, still glaring at her, took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it over. There was silence for a few minutes as Alice perused the letters while Henry peered over her shoulder. There were a dozen or so assorted sheets, some on full pieces of vellum, some on scraps of paper or postcards.

“Why do you assume these are authentic?” Alice finally asked.

“It’s not a definitive assumption. There are a hundred or so letters received at Scotland Yard and the Central News Agency alleged to be from Jack the Ripper, and more come in each day. Abberline has confided that at times he wonders if any are genuine. But the experts he has employed believe that these, at least, have a claim to validity by virtue of their content and style.” He leaned forward, extracting a sheet from the group. “This one, for example, dated September 25 and postmarked September 27, was addressed to the Central News Agency, forwarded to Abberline, and not published until October 3.”

Alice took the letter from him. It read as follows:

Dear Boss

I keep on hearing the police

have caught me but they wont fix

me just yet. I have laughed when

they look so clever and talk about

being on the right track. That joke

about Leather Apron gave me real

fits. I am down on whores and

I shant quit ripping them till I

do get buckled. Grand work the last

job was. I gave the lady no time to

squeal. How can they catch me now.

I love my work and want to start

again. You will soon hear of me

with my funny little games. I

saved some of the proper red stuff in

a ginger beer bottle over the last job

to write with but it went thick

like glue and I cant use it. Red

ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha.

The next job I do I shall clip

the lady’s ears off and send to the

police officers just for jolly wouldn’t

you. Keep this letter back till I

do a bit more work then give

it out straight. My knife’s so nice

and sharp I want to get to work

right away if I get a chance.

Good luck.

Yours truly

Jack the Ripper

Don’t mind me giving the trade name.

And at a right angle to the note was written at the bottom:

wasn’t good enough

to post this before

I got all the red

ink off my hands

curse it.

No luck yet. They

say I’m a doctor

now ha ha.

“The reference to Leather Apron is to a criminal with that nickname who was associated with the murders but has since been cleared,” explained William. “It’s a reference that warrants additional looking into,” he noted, more to himself than to the others.

Alice glanced through the remaining sheets. “Here’s the postcard that they printed in the papers,” she said, holding it up so William could see what she was referring to, and then peering at it more closely. It read:

I wasn’t codding

dear old Boss when

I gave you the tip.

Youll hear about

saucy Jackys work

tomorrow double

event this time

number one squealed

a bit couldn’t

finish straight

off. had not time

to get ears for

police thanks for

keeping last letter

back till I got

to work again.

Jack the Ripper.

William again provided the commentary. “That was also sent to Central News and was postmarked October 1. The reference is to the double murder of September 30. Elizabeth Stride, throat cut, but no further violence done her, followed a few hours later by the extensive stabbings to Catherine Eddowes. It is true that one of the latter’s ears was partially severed, suggesting that the murderer was attempting to follow his intention in the former letter.”

Alice had taken up a third letter on a larger sheet and scrutinized it, with Henry leaning over her shoulder.

From hell,

Mr. Lusk

Sor

I send you half the

Kidne I took from one women

prasarved it for you tother piece I

fried and ate it was very nise I

may send you the bloody knif that

took it out if you only wate a whil

longer

signed Catch me when

you can

Mishter Lusk

“The man certainly could use a spelling primer,” noted Henry. “Who is this Mishter Lusk?”

“Mr. George Lusk,” explained William, “president of the community’s Vigilance Committee, whose assistance to the police the murderer was apparently very proud to thwart. The letter was received only a few days ago, along with a small parcel containing half of a left kidney. Catherine Eddowes’s left kidney was indeed missing. There is no proof, given the timing of these letters, that they could not have been written based on newspaper accounts, hearsay, or even presence near the scene upon the discovery of the bodies. The organ too could have been obtained from another source. Still, the handwriting in these letters shows marks of similarity which, though hardly definitive, are noteworthy.”

“I see no consistency in the misspellings and punctuation,” noted Alice. “It looks like someone making up the mistakes as he goes along.”

William nodded. “They’re erratic, extravagant sorts of mistakes: ‘sor’ for ‘sir’; ‘knif’ for ‘knife.’ He drops the e but keeps the silent k. It’s what I call ‘disingenuous illiteracy,’ the spelling and syntax errors of someone who knows language but wants to appear ignorant.”

Alice had been fingering the letters ruminatively. “This one is on good vellum,” she noted. “Is there a stationer’s mark?”

“What?” asked William.

“The imprint that they put on stationery of a particular brand. It’s not readily perceptible, but held to the light, you can see it.”

William looked interested, if slightly annoyed. “I don’t know that either Abberline or I took note of that. It would be hard to trace a piece of vellum in London.”

“That depends on the quality. And certainly, if it’s good quality, it would help locate the killer as someone who circulates outside the East End.” She held the paper up to the light on her bed table and pointed to a mark that read “Pirie and Sons.” “It would be worth finding out how much of this paper they sell and the nature of their clientele. And if you had a suspect, you could check to see if his other correspondence comes from this particular stationer.”

“Good point,” said William, a touch sheepishly. “Are you going to illuminate anything else?”

“It seems interesting that the pens are different colors.”

“As the first letter said, he tried to use blood but substituted red ink instead.”

“True, but this ink on the postcard appears to be purple or brown. More than one colored ink was used, it would seem.”

“Part of the fantastic nature of the creature,” said William.

“Yes, but the inks themselves. Where did he get them?”

“I don’t believe that they’re hard to find.”

“But not in a cheap stationer’s.”

“It supports my theory that the man is not a poor illiterate,” said William a bit smugly. “I’ve already suggested as much. The handwriting, even when it seems to be primitive, is too good. And the spelling seems too mannered in its inaccuracy to be genuine.”

“Hmm,” said Alice. “What’s this?”

“What?” William asked. He had begun to feel defensive in the face of his sister’s astute observations.

“This mark near the bottom.”

“I noted that.” William nodded. “Abberline and I assume that it’s glue. It’s clear and shiny, slightly raised. It might suggest that the writer is in one of the trades, a cobbler or furniture maker, for example.”

“Possibly,” said Alice. “And this?” She pointed to a smudge on another letter.

“It looks like dried blood,” said Henry, leaning closer.

“Does dried blood look this way?” Alice asked William, assuming that, with his years of medical training, he could validate this fact.

He paused. “Not really. I made a note to look into it. The police assume it’s blood, given the context, but blood generally dries darker. But if it’s not blood, I don’t know what it is.”

“If it’s not blood, then what it is, is interesting,” said Alice a bit sharply. “I should like to study the letters this evening.”

“I don’t think so,” said William, taking them from her, replacing them in the envelope, and putting them back in his pocket.

“Were you planning to look at them tonight yourself?”

“No, not tonight. I have an appointment with Professor Sidgwick of Cambridge University.”

“Oh no!” groaned Alice.

“Henry Sidgwick is a noted philosopher and classical scholar. A giant in his field.”

“Also a spiritualist crank.”

“Alice!”

“I can’t help it. The man is president of the Society for Psychical Research—I believe that is the title chosen to dignify an interest in Ouija boards and crystal balls. For someone of your intellect and reputation to be drawn to that sort of thing is an embarrassment. I know that you mourn your Hermie; the loss of a child is more painful than any wound a human creature can suffer. But grief is no excuse for idiocy.”

“I will not listen to you speak this way.”

“All right. Just leave me the letters and go ask the spiritualists to solve the case.”

“I am not asking the spiritualists to solve the case. I’m just leaving the window open.”

“I never leave my windows open; surest way to catch a head cold,” commented Henry, but neither his brother nor sister were in the mood for his whimsy.

Alice glared at William. “Leave your window open, but close mine—bolt it, please,” she said sharply. “I don’t want some sniveling ghost rapping on my walls and chattering about how Father buttoned his jacket or Mother held her knife. If you want to talk that sort of palaver with a Cambridge don, you have my blessing. But I want the letters.”

William looked at his sister, took the envelope out of his pocket, and handed it over. “Keep them tonight. But be careful with them.”

“I’ll be sure to wash my hands.” Alice sat back on her pillows, looking pleased. “So now that that’s settled, what do you say to a cup of Moroccan coffee? Violet Paget brought the beans back from her last trip to the Orient. We could throw in a little eye of newt.”

William scowled and got up from his chair. “I’m afraid I have to skip the coffee. I promised Sidgwick I’d meet him at the Oxford and Cambridge Club.”

“I have tea if you prefer,” said Alice. “I’m told the leaves are very informative.”

William, sensing that mockery of an escalating sort was in the air, grabbed his hat and strode to the door.

“But if I can’t tempt you, then at least we can plan our next rendezvous.” She lowered her voice dramatically. “‘When shall we three meet again?’”

Henry took it up, laughing. “‘In thunder, lightning, or in rain?’”

“Oh shut up, both of you!” said William, slamming the door behind him.