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

Chapter 25

William and Henry were seated at the little table in their sister’s bedroom the next morning. Henry was eating a large bowl of the oatmeal with brown sugar that Sally had made for him (Archie, Sally had announced proudly, had already eaten two bowls). William ate a banana (as part of his Fletcher diet), and Alice, excited to hear her brothers’ news, had eaten nothing, despite the protestations of Katherine that she must keep up her strength if she were going to expose a murderer.

She listened to Henry’s account first. He tried, as far as he could, to relay the sense of importance he felt attached to Sickert’s imitation of Whistler’s laugh. Katherine and William didn’t see much in it, but Alice was more encouraging. “Henry’s instincts are the most developed in the family,” she asserted. “If he senses something worth pursuing in this Sickert, then it must be respected. Interesting how we seem to return to Whistler; but you say that he’s out of the question as a suspect?”

“Yes,” said Henry. “He’s in Paris on his honeymoon and hasn’t been in London since July. I have ample correspondence from Bourget and others to that effect. Besides, someone who laughs like Jimmy is hardly likely to render laughter that way in writing.”

Alice nodded. “You’re saying it’s laughter someone else might notice and imitate. It’s the parodic aspect that struck you.”

“Precisely,” said Henry, pleased to have it put so well. It was indeed the element of parody that impressed him in the Ripper letters and that the young Sickert had echoed in his verbal imitation.

“Sickert,” Alice ruminated. “A name worthy of a murderer. William says that we mold our personalities to our physical characteristics. Why not to our names? Had I been named Dolly or Daisy, I’m sure I would have been gay and pretty instead of grim and plain.” She sighed and returned to the topic at hand. “You also said Sickert had a gift for mimicry and comfort with costume and that he is an artist with a dark and macabre palette. It’s all very suggestive.”

Henry nodded complacently. It was pleasant to have his sister’s approval, especially as her subsequent response to William’s findings was less enthusiastic.

“How do you know that the essay is even related to the photograph?” she said, looking skeptically at the book that William handed to her. “Perhaps one of the police planted the picture in order to frame this social revolutionary Cohen.”

“It’s possible,” acknowledged William. Cohen had said he saw an officer find the photograph, but sleight of hand was not to be discounted.

“The essay is fairly well-known,” continued Alice. “It’s likely to elicit interest on a purely academic level from many readers.”

“Gosse often mentions the piece,” piped in Henry. “His father used to read it to him as a child. Scared him half to death.”

“But the underlined sentence and the initials,” insisted William, pointing to the volume. It had seemed compelling at the time. Now it seemed less so. Could Cohen himself have introduced the volume in some effort to throw the police off track?

“Have you been able to make sense of the initials?” asked Alice. “PW crossed out?”

“No,” said William. “None of the murder victims have those initials.”

“There’s a mark between the letters,” noted Henry, peering over his brother’s and sister’s shoulders. “Perhaps an ampersand. Sickert’s first name is Walter. Polly and Walter,” he suggested.

“Then, the X would make sense,” agreed William grudgingly. He was always somewhat annoyed by his brother’s quickness. “Though it is a bit infantile. The sort of thing a child might carve into a tree.”

“And our killer is too sophisticated for that.” Alice smirked. “He only carves up bodies.”

There was silence as the three of them pondered the conundrum. Katherine, who had been sitting quietly in the corner of the room, then spoke up. “Walter Sickert is married to Ellen Cobden,” she said.

Everyone looked at her, surprised.

“Jane Cobden’s sister,” she clarified. Katherine and Alice were both friendly with Jane Cobden, daughter of the noted liberal reformer Richard Cobden. He had four daughters, all known for their beauty and intelligence, of whom Jane was the most politically engaged and the best known to Alice and Katherine.

“That’s interesting,” said Alice. “How old is Sickert?”

“Quite young,” said Henry. “Late twenties at the most.”

“Jane is my age, and Ellen is older by a few years, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” agreed Katherine. “I haven’t met her, but I know she’s older than Jane.”

“That would put her close to forty,” said Alice. “So much older than her husband—and the age of the Ripper victims.”

They all considered this information a moment. Henry then shifted uncomfortably as he began to turn against the idea he had originally proposed. “Just because Sickert said ‘ha ha’ doesn’t mean he murdered five women on the East End.”

“Of course not,” said Alice.

“And theatrical talent means nothing. We don’t suspect Henry Irving.”

“Certainly not,” said Alice.

“And because the fact that his wife is older than he is shouldn’t be held against him.”

“On the contrary,” agreed Alice.

William intervened. “None of this is of any consequence unless we can find a motive that ties it all together. If our speculation about the murders is true, that they represent a kind of frustrated artistic expression, then there must be something to bear that out in this man’s career.”

“Sickert appears to be quite successful,” noted Henry. It struck him that he had more of a motive than Walter Sickert, if one went by that.

“External success and internal fulfillment can differ widely,” warned William. “He may feel himself inhibited or overshadowed in some way that we do not know.”

“The relationship to Whistler,” proffered Alice.

“Jimmy is overbearing and egotistical,” agreed Henry, “but this Sickert doesn’t seem the type to be intimidated.”

“Vulnerability is not always apparent on the surface,” William noted again. “Or at least not on the surface that we are aware of. One has to see the context thoroughly before passing judgment on a subject’s mental health.” He glanced at his sister who, by all accounts, was a strong-minded woman, apart from the fact that she could not get out of bed.

“We must find out more about Walter Sickert,” concluded Alice. “I will make it my business to speak to Jane Cobden about him. It is up to you to research his past—his career, his education, his friendships. He is no doubt entirely innocent. But…” Her face clouded. “What if he’s not?”

“I will ask Abberline to place him under watch,” said William.

Alice nodded. “One more thing,” she added casually, as they were about to leave. “I must meet him.”

The brothers stopped at the door.

“It is the surest way for me to know if there’s anything to it. Henry, you must have a dinner party to honor our brother’s visit to London, and you must invite Walter Sickert, perhaps as a stand-in for Whistler. I’m sure you and John Sargent can come up with a convincing pretext. Arrange it for Sunday evening,” she instructed peremptorily. “We cannot afford to waste time.”

Henry looked uneasy. He doubted very much if Mrs. Smith would be up to a dinner party. Especially on such short notice.

“Katherine will help,” said Alice, as if guessing his concern. “I know it is not in your line to host such things. It isn’t in my line to attend them. But we must both exert ourselves.”

The prospect of doing so, however, had already brought on a headache. She waved her hand to indicate that the visit was over. She would exert herself, as she said she would, to find out if Walter Sickert was involved in these heinous crimes, but that would be later; for now, she would rest.