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

Chapter 18

The next morning, William and Abberline met, as agreed, at Paddington Station before sunrise. They had both brought their breakfasts, wrapped in brown paper, thus revealing a similarity in habit that made them glance with amusement at each other.

When William had proposed that they visit the Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum, the inspector had initially demurred. “I’ve sent many a man there,” he said, “but I don’t see what kind of good it would do talking to any of them.”

William argued otherwise. He had read in the police reports that one of the early Ripper suspects, John Pizer, known throughout the East End as Leather Apron, had been sent to Broadmoor. Even after the police had verified Pizer’s whereabouts at the time of the murders, there were people in Whitechapel who remained convinced of his guilt; after all, they said, the devil could be in two places at once.

“So you want to interrogate a criminal because people associate him with the wrong crimes?” scoffed Abberline.

“I do,” William replied seriously. Indeed, this was precisely the point as he had worked it out.

He had been cultivating an idea on the subject for some time. The perverse impulses that resulted in criminal behavior must, he believed, have utility for the criminal, as a response to trauma or stress that might otherwise be insupportable. The key was to find the context in which the behavior appeared logical, even necessary. William looked down at his fingernails, which had been bitten raw. Wasn’t his compulsion a kind of perversion, developed to keep his demons at bay? In cases of sociopathic perversion, like that of Jack the Ripper, the principle was the same. The murders, in this sense, were like nail biting, only on a spectacular scale, a means by which the killer protected himself against some profoundly debilitating pain.

This idea was behind his determination to speak to Leather Apron. He not only wanted to study the man who had been mistaken for Jack the Ripper; he wanted to ask him for his help. Wouldn’t someone who had terrorized women be in the best position to understand what might propel someone else to do the same? Wouldn’t such a man, mad though he was—indeed, in being mad—know more about the twisted motives of the Whitechapel killer than the most seasoned policeman or psychologist?

These were William’s thoughts, but all he said to Abberline was, “We might learn from one madman how to catch another.”

The inspector surprisingly acquiesced. There was trouble at headquarters, he muttered, and he might as well get out of the office. A trip to Broadmoor would at least be a diversion, if not an especially pleasant or productive one.

As they sat together on the train, finishing their breakfast, Abberline pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to William. “This is as good a time as any to show you this,” he said. “It was delivered to headquarters yesterday.”

William looked at the envelope. It was postmarked East London and addressed: “The Boss, Scotland Yard, London City.” Previous Ripper letters, he recalled, had been addressed to “The Boss” at the Central News Agency. He opened the envelope and extracted the paper inside. The writing was a raggedy scrawl.

Tell your professer to keep his nose out or be sory for it.

My minds not disesed but he can get the knif too

if he dont watch out—ha ha.

William stared at the message. “Is it authentic?” he asked softly. He had a sudden recollection of the shove that had sent him careening in front of the curricle on the way to Sidgwick’s club.

Abberline shrugged. “There are points in common with some of the other letters. The paper has the mark of Pirie and Sons, for example. But then, Pirie is a popular stationer in London; no need to make too much of that. And previous letters have been publicized enough to explain the similarity of locution. It’s odd, regardless, that you’re singled out for a joke of this sort. Who do you know who’s aware you’re investigating this case and might have let the word out?”

William furrowed his brow. There were, he realized, plenty of people; Sidgwick and Mrs. Lancaster, to begin with. The Sargents. His brother, Henry, with his general tendency to blab. And something might have come out from their visit to the East End.

“The letter most likely comes from a colleague of yours,” explained Abberline, “perhaps a rival in your line of work, who’s having malicious fun at your expense.”

William could not imagine a colleague doing such a thing, except possibly one of the French.

“As I say, it may be a nasty joke,” continued Abberline, “and chances are, it is. But my advice, Professor, is to take care. Our man is a lunatic, but a cunning one, and if he has his eye on you, I’d make a point to keep out of his way.”