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

Chapter 49

The statement struck William with the force of a blow. As always, when he got something wrong, he felt how narrow and stupid he had been. He had forgotten the primary factor necessary in solving any human problem: the element of motive. There had never been one with Sickert, just an array of contributing circumstances and a desire on his own part to find the man guilty. He felt shame for his stupidity, but also for his excessive emotional involvement in the case; the former had followed directly from the latter. One became stupid when emotion blocked reason.

But now, Alice’s news had had an amazingly equilibrating effect. The sense of feverish excitement he had felt only moments before had receded, and he felt he could see plainly for the first time in a while.

“Did Sickert show your painting to anyone after he finished it?” he asked Alice. His voice had returned to the calm, measured tone of the academic researcher.

“I’ve been considering that,” she responded. “I’m sure he didn’t show it in any general way. He said he didn’t like a portrait to be seen before it was framed.”

“But did he frame it himself?”

“That is the key,” she agreed. “I don’t know, but he did say the picture would be framed by the time he returned from Cornwall. He didn’t go to Cornwall, as it happens, but I do think he dropped it off somewhere for the purpose.”

“We know that he used someone to do his framing,” piped in Henry. “I recall he was late to my dinner party because he was waiting for a framed painting to be delivered. He said he had gone to school with the framer.”

William nodded. He had already known that the theory would be confirmed. He had accepted it at once, as soon as Alice had uttered it. It was that way with a scientific truth: one tried and tried to understand how something in nature worked, and then once one did, the process became entirely evident, as transparent as glass.

The atmosphere in the room had changed; the sense of disagreement and distrust had evaporated. For a moment, William felt great exhilaration, less regarding the case than because of the sense of reunion with his brother and sister. It was as though his family, long fractured, had been repaired.

William seated himself on the edge of the bed, Henry drew his chair closer, and Alice leaned forward so that their heads were almost touching. Calmly and carefully they pieced the thing together. A young man named Peter Newsome, studying under Alphonse Legros at the Slade, was caught abusing himself after a drawing lesson. He was thrown out of the school and shamed terribly. Whistler took him on as an apprentice. But the trauma affected the boy’s mental state, which in turn affected what was most important to him: his art. He could no longer draw. To make a living, he resorted to framing pictures, since it was something he could do, yet he continued to try to paint. Meanwhile, Sickert became the new “pupil of Whistler.” He had met Newsome at the Slade; perhaps they even overlapped in their apprenticeships. In any case, Sickert employed his colleague to frame his work, and that work became a source of envy and frustration to Newsome. Whenever he saw one of Sickert’s paintings, it reminded him of his earlier promise and prompted him to attempt something similar. Polly Nichols posed for him because Sickert had recently painted a woman of Polly’s general appearance and profession. There was the music hall sketch in Sargent’s studio, no doubt preliminary to a series of paintings in that line. The other victims reflected the same impulse.

“Perhaps all the murders were inspired by Sickert’s paintings,” noted Alice. The idea seemed grotesque yet logical. It had the added element of making Sickert complicitous, if not consciously so, in the murders.

“It’s possible,” agreed William. “But no doubt your portrait is a special case, since Newsome knew that I was involved in the investigation and wanted to retaliate against me as your brother. That would also explain the gruesome package. But the key to everything is the strength of the motive—extreme shame and loss of vocation, with a trigger in the form of a successful artist with whom he continued to be in contact.”

“The friendship also gave Newsome access to Sickert’s stationery and inks,” speculated Henry.

“And to the De Quincey volume,” said William. He thought of Asher Abrams. Perhaps Sickert had introduced Newsome to Abrams, who employed him as a framer. He recalled that Ella had met him in Whitechapel on that shameful day because she had business with a framer.

The siblings had fallen silent. If their hypothesis was correct, Newsome would have had access to everything within Sickert’s sphere. No wonder they had made the mistake. Sickert was the successful incarnation of what Newsome wanted to be, and Newsome was Sickert’s obverse self, his doppelgänger.

They sat together thinking about this for a few minutes, until Alice spoke abruptly. “If what we suspect is true, we are wasting valuable time. We must alert the inspector. Walter Sickert is temporarily out of reach for questioning, since he is in Cornwall. Who else can lead us to the suspect? Who else knows Peter Newsome?”

Ella Abrams, thought William. Ella would know where to find Newsome. He felt a tightening in his throat at the idea that he would have to contact her again.

Before he could speak, there was a rustle in the corner of the room. It was Archie, who had been napping under the table and was roused by the urgency in Alice’s voice.

“Peter Newsome?” He looked around, bleary-eyed. “I knows Peter Newsome.”