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

Chapter 42

Alice was in a state close to collapse. The package had shaken her, but what she felt now was different—and worse. After Henry and Abberline left, William had remained behind and spoken to her, his voice shaking with emotion. He had said that the evidence was clear. Sickert had murdered those women and had used one of his many conquests—he spit the words out with a venom she had never seen him express before—as a means to escape detection. He had also told her about the attack on himself a few weeks back. A man in a cape, covered from head to toe. The cape, he said, though he had not realized it at the time, might well have been borrowed from a woman.

“And how do you know it wasn’t a woman who attacked you?” asked Alice. It had been a reflexive sort of question, her way of expressing doubt that it was Sickert who had committed the crime.

The comment had elicited an unprecedented response from her brother. At first he stared at her, his eyes glazed, his face flaccid, almost idiotic. For such a brilliant man to look like an idiot was a transformation she was not likely to forget. He stared at her like that for a few seconds and then, shaking himself, exploded. “You’re a fool! You sit there in your bed, reading books and talking about politics and the poor. But let a man pretend to admire you, and you lie down at his feet like all the rest of them.”

Alice was too shocked to respond. She had never dreamed that her brother could speak to her like that, and could not fathom what had provoked him. She poured some laudanum into a glass and began stirring it with a trembling hand.

William was not yet done; he continued to speak with increased venom. “You’d run after him if you could. Why don’t you hide him here, under the covers of your bed, and maybe he’ll do what you want before he cuts you up!”

The color had drained from Alice’s face. Was this her brother, the man she trusted and loved more than anyone in the world, for whom she would be willing to sacrifice her life? Had he become a raving lunatic?

“Please leave,” she said softly, pointing to the door.

“You want me to leave, but you’d welcome him.” William sneered, his face contorted with anger and disgust.

She did not tell him again. He had finished his tirade and slumped in his chair, all will and energy sapped. She turned her head on the pillow and closed her eyes, trying to regain a measure of calm. They remained like this for a long time, opposite each other, saying nothing, sunk into morbid thought, when Alice was roused by Sally, who had entered the room to announce that Jane Cobden was below and wanted to see her.

“Tell her I’m indisposed,” she responded dully.

Before this message could be relayed, Jane, who had apparently followed the servant up the stairs, hurried in, rushed to Alice’s bed, and knelt down beside it. She was trembling violently. Her thick red hair, usually fastened neatly at the back of her head, was loose and disheveled, and her large bosom within the plain serge dress was heaving with exertion and anxiety. “Please help me,” she said, grasping Alice’s hand and raising a tearstained face in supplication.

What was going on? thought Alice, in a spasm of panic. Had everyone gone mad?

William was sitting in the corner, slumped slightly, hardly paying attention.

“You must help me,” Jane Cobden repeated. “And him.”

“Him?” asked Alice, surprised.

“Walter Sickert. My brother-in-law.”

Alice, who was still holding the glass of laudanum in one hand, dropped it to the floor so that it shattered, but neither she nor William seemed to notice. They were both staring at the woman who had just spoken.

“I was with him last night, at the public house. I spent the night there; I left early in the morning. I know they’ve arrested him. I know you and your brothers have suspected him of those murders. But of course, he’s innocent of killing anyone, though not of other crimes, of which I hold myself more guilty than he. If he is an adulterer, I have betrayed my own sister. If Ellen knew…” She broke off and put her face in her hands.

Everything had suddenly changed. William had sprung from his chair and gone over to Jane Cobden. He raised her to her feet and began assuring her excitedly that he understood; flesh was weak, and sometimes even the most stalwart and upright tripped and fell. She could count on his discretion. He remembered her father and knew of her good works. He was in the counsel of the inspector on the case and would do his best to keep things quiet.

He had her write down a statement about what had happened, and after he put it in his pocket and saw her to the door, he returned and faced Alice. He did not hesitate to abase himself for his behavior. He had spoken rashly, said things that were unforgivable and cruel; yet he begged her to forgive him. He had been jealous—that was the crux of it, seeing his beloved sister so taken with a man known to be a libertine, though obviously a very talented and charming individual.

As he spoke, he appeared to Alice to have returned to his familiar, rational self. He was deferential, kind, articulate, yet she also recalled how he had sounded before Jane Cobden came in. He had said he was jealous of her affections; she believed him. She had often been jealous of him; why would he not be of her? But she also knew that there must be more that he was not revealing. He had gone mad for a time, and though the originating influence had dissipated, she could still sense the undertow pulling against his rational speech. She would never hear him speak again without a sense of that undertow. It existed, she knew, in everyone, but she had always thought of her brother as the most exemplary of beings, capable of keeping that side of himself at bay. Now she knew otherwise.

She would have to face what she should have known to be true all along: that on the stage that was her life, there were no other principal actors. She was entirely alone.