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

Chapter 29

When the brothers left the Slade, Henry announced that they should take a hansom cab to Chelsea and make two visits that would be helpful in their investigation. Oscar Wilde and John Sargent, both acquainted with Walter Sickert, lived on Tite Street, practically across from each other, which meant they could interrogate both in the space of a few hours. Henry was pleased to be able to propose it. As boys, it was always William who took the lead, and he was obliged to follow along or remain behind. But here, he knew the terrain and could have the ideas.

As they descended the hansom cab on Tite Street, Henry warned that Wilde might not be home. That he had a home at all, and with the appurtenances of a wife and children, was in itself surprising, so it was little wonder that he was rarely there. Today, however, he was, because he was suffering from a cold. The brothers entered the drawing room to find him reclining on the sofa, two children in blue pinafores playing quietly in the corner, his wife knitting by the fire. It might have been a stage set in which Wilde had been plopped or a scene out of Dickens of the precise sort that Wilde liked to make fun of.

But he was in no mood to make fun. He was wearing a rumpled dressing gown, and his hair, usually glossy and neatly parted in the middle, had a dull, unbrushed look.

“You catch me en famille,” he said, waving a limp hand in the direction of his children and wife. One might have thought that they had caught him in a compromising situation, which, given his reputation for the unconventional, they had. “You know my lovely wife, Constance.” He motioned toward the woman knitting nearby, who smiled weakly. She was a pale woman with a coronet of flyaway hair and a long, arched nose that strikingly resembled her husband’s (it was sometimes given out that Constance was really Oscar in petticoats, since they were so rarely seen together). To Henry, however, the resemblance was not surprising. If someone like Wilde was going to marry, he would try as far as possible to marry himself.

“Get them some tea, my dear,” he ordered his wife. Constance went off to get them tea.

“You see before you the domesticated Wilde,” said Wilde, blowing his nose in a large handkerchief. “It is very nice to have a wife when one is sick.”

Henry could not disagree; the problem, he thought, was having a wife when well.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit from America’s most gifted brothers?” continued Wilde through his stuffed nose.

William explained that he had wanted to relay the best wishes of his countrymen, who had been so taken by Wilde during his American tour. (He and Henry had agreed on this excuse for the visit, knowing that it would appeal to their host’s vanity.)

“So they still remember me there?” said Wilde wistfully. “Tell me more.”

“Oh, they talk about you continuously,” said William, hoping that he would not be expected to name names. “They say you are the epitome of sophisticated wit.”

“It’s true, I am,” agreed Wilde, “though I’m not as acclaimed for it here, which I suppose is to be expected. I’ve considered moving to your country, you know, but then I’d have to perform myself brilliantly every minute of the day. It would be tiring.” He sniffled into his handkerchief, as he considered that prospect. “Here, at least, I can relax from time to time in the domestic enclave.” He looked around him and then sneezed, as though he were allergic to what he saw.

There was a pause, as Constance came back with the tea and then, at a gesture from her husband, ushered the children out of the room.

Henry saw an opportunity to move toward the desired subject, even though it meant referring to someone he would have preferred not to discuss. “If you came to America, you would soon surpass Clemens in popularity,” he noted.

Wilde looked even more pleased. “It’s nice of you to say, but I hardly think so.” He then took the bait Henry had planted, his rheumy eyes sparkling maliciously. “Clemens was in rare form the other night, don’t you think? I feared that he would pummel you.”

“Yes,” said Henry, wincing. “I am grateful for the intervention of that young man, what was his name?”

“Sickert. Walter Sickert.”

“That’s it. Walter Sickert. Are you intimate with this Sickert?”

“Not intimate,” said Wilde, winking.

“I mean…are you good friends?”

“Oh yes, great friends. We perform together, as you saw.”

“Do you know his family?”

“I’m a great friend of his mother and sister. They dote on me almost as much as they dote on him.”

“And his father?”

“His father is a minor painter. A Prussian.”

“Severe? Autocratic?”

“Not really,” said Wilde. “Can’t say I know the man well, but he seems benign enough.”

“And Sickert’s wife?”

“He doesn’t spend much time with her. Goes off to do his painting…Cornwall, Dieppe, and the East End. He has a number of studios there.”

“That’s odd.”

“No. Whistler did the same.”

“It must be hard for him, dealing with Whistler.”

“Not really. They seem to get along. Jimmy says he has talent, which constitutes high praise from that quarter.”

Henry felt frustrated. Aside from the fact of East End studios, which were not uncommon among artists these days, he was not getting the sort of information he would have liked.

“But you should ask him these questions yourself”—Wilde sniffled insinuatingly—“since you appear to be so interested in each other.”

Henry looked surprised. “In each other?”

Wilde paused to blow his nose and then continued, “After the party, Walter asked me about you. Wanted to know all about William and Alice too.”

“Really?” Henry and William exchanged glances. “Do you have any idea why?”

“None at all, dear boy. You know I don’t pay attention to other people; I’m too interested in hearing what I will say next.”

William cleared his throat. He, for one, had no interest in hearing what Wilde would say next.

“I’m afraid we must be off,” said Henry, taking William’s cue.

“So thoughtful of you to stop by.” Wilde sniffled. He seemed to want to say more but sneezed instead. There was something to be said for Wilde with a cold.