Paula Cohen - What Alice Knew - A Most Curious Tale of Henry James and Jack the Ripper

“And send my regards to your sister,” she added. “I hear she is not well. She might find some relief in spiritualism. We would welcome her as a member of the SPR.”

William explained that his sister was too much of a skeptic to entertain ideas beyond the realm of the empirical.

“Well then,” said Nora, “perhaps we can find common ground elsewhere. I have also heard that she has a strong feeling for social justice. Perhaps she can come sit with me and weather the stares of the ossified members. It would be a nice touch to have an invalid who could barely walk thrown out of the club.”

“That is the sort of thing that would appeal to her,” agreed William, “if she could get up the strength to get out of bed.”

“The prospect of being thrown into the street might be an incentive for her to do so,” said Nora shrewdly. She had risen from the table and begun putting on her cloak.

The eyes of every man in the room registered relief as they watched her leave, and as soon as she was out the door, the young waiter came over to take the men’s drink order.

William turned to Sidgwick, pleased finally to be able to speak in person with someone he had long admired. “A great honor to meet the author of the Methods of Ethics .”

“The admiration is mutual,” Sidgwick responded. “Most illuminating, your treatise on habit. It is, as you rightly say, the foundation for moral character—on the one hand, ensuring discipline and virtue; on the other, blinding us to wonders that may exist beyond our daily routine. Which is why we must not let the skeptics close our eyes to the possibility of other worlds and the otherworldly.”

“‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’” agreed William. It was the premise on which both men rationalized their interest in psychical phenomena. “You are not deterred after that fiasco with Madame Blavatsky?” he asked gingerly. He was referring to the alleged medium Sidgwick’s group had discovered, but who was found to have fabricated a large swath of her personal history.

“That was a disappointment.” Sidgwick sighed. “But I still hold that the woman possesses extraordinary capabilities; a little charlatanism ought not to be a complete disqualification.”

William nodded. It was precisely his view. One fraud, even fifty or a thousand, did not mean that the subject was closed. All you need is one white crow to destroy the assumption that all crows are black.

“And now, what brings you to London, my dear fellow?” asked Sidgwick with a pointed look that seemed to know the answer, supporting the general assumption that he had psychic powers of his own.

“I’m here to investigate the Whitechapel murders.” William had not intended to give a reason for his visit, but the question had been so direct and so knowing that he felt he could not evade it.

Sidgwick’s eyes brightened. “I suspected as much,” he exclaimed, slapping William heartily on the shoulder. “How surprisingly intelligent of those duffers at Scotland Yard! You’re just the person we need to shed light on the case. And I must say that our meeting today is a happy accident—if there is such a thing as accident. It happens that I have access to”—he cleared his throat—“evidence…that you may find uniquely useful.”

“Don’t tell me you have someone channeling the dead women of Whitechapel!” exclaimed William.

“Not all the dead women, James, my friend. Only one : Annie Chapman, the second victim.”

“Annie Chapman was the third victim,” corrected William.

“No. The one they’re putting out as the first, Mary or Martha someone, was killed by someone else. Or so Mrs. Lancaster claims.”

William was reminded that Abberline had his doubts that Martha Tabram was a Ripper murder victim. “And your source, Mrs. Lancaster, can put us…in touch…with Annie Chapman?”

“Under the proper circumstances, it appears that she can. She is, I should note, a very respectable sort of lady; her husband does something in the foreign office. One of her neighbors, whose daughter attends Newnham, alerted Nora of the woman’s trancelike states. We brought her to Cambridge for a week for study, and the results, while hardly definitive, were, if I may say so, promising.” Sidgwick settled back in his chair as though savoring the details of what he had to impart. “Her control is a ten-year-old girl, beaten to death by her father not far from where the Nichols woman was killed. Police reports check this out. Certainly worth your looking into, given the purpose of your visit, I should think.”

William agreed. He had not expected to consult a psychic medium about the Whitechapel murders, but Sidgwick had thrown one in his way, and he was not about to miss an opportunity to pursue truth when it presented itself.

“Would the lady be available for a…meeting?” He hesitated to use the word “séance,” cognizant of the vicious ribbing he would get from Alice.

“I’ve no doubt something could be arranged, no doubt at all,” rumbled Sidgwick. “She promised to be at my disposal anytime she was needed, day or night, so to speak. A very accommodating sort of woman—not the most prepossessing, I admit, but one can’t be picky there—but accommodating, which is not something you can say for all of them.”

“Well then,” said William, considering what would be best. “Could you ask her to come to my sister’s apartments tomorrow at around seven?” He made the proposition, knowing that Alice’s flat would suit the purpose, though knowing as well that to tell his sister about the arrangement might prove more daunting than communicating with spirits from another world. Nonetheless, he scribbled the address on a sheet of paper and handed it to his friend. “I assume you and Nora can be there.”

“I’m afraid not.” Sidgwick sighed. “We’re returning to Cambridge tonight; Nora is organizing a suffrage rally at the college. She’s been working on the thing for months—sashes, placards, all the standard paraphernalia. Must be there for moral support—spouse’s job, you know.”

“Of course, of course,” said William, wondering if he gave his wife the moral support that was a spouse’s job.

“But I’m sure Mrs. Lancaster will be fine without us. A fresh set of witnesses always helpful, you know.”

William agreed, thinking how the presence of Alice would provide an additional element. She was more than a fresh witness; she was a zealous skeptic.

Sidgwick was no longer concerned with channeling spirits. He had begun nodding pleasantly toward some of the men who had been shooting daggers at him and Nora only half an hour earlier. He pointed them out for William’s benefit. “That’s Crutchlow over there in the corner, faculty at the University of London. First-rate on Aristotelian concepts of virtue. And Pumley, the pockmarked one with the withered arm, foreign service, excellent piece in the Times last week on the Scottish Enlightenment. Young Pomeroy is to his right, very promising medical man at St. Barts, working on valves of the circulatory system.”

A few of these personages had wandered over. “William James of Cambridge, Massachusetts,” Sidgwick announced to the assemblage.

One of the younger men jumped forward and pumped William’s hand with enthusiasm. “William James! What an honor to meet you, sir! I greatly admire your work!”

William was about to ask whether he was referring to his work in psychology or in philosophy, when the young man offered his own explanatory commentary:

“Wonderful story of yours about that American girl who comes to England and makes a mess of things. Well observed! Psychologically astute! I couldn’t put it down!”