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

“So the murderer is an artist,” ruminated Henry. “It would explain the fair Lancaster’s assertion that his fingers were stained!”

Alice waved her hand. The idea of giving credence to a spiritualist almost made her want to dismiss her theory.

“It would also explain this,” said William quietly, taking the photograph of Polly Nichols out of an envelope in his pocket.

Alice studied the picture a moment. “Where did it come from?” she asked.

“From the police. They found it in a book that a Jewish bookseller had for sale in his shop. It was probably delivered to him by one of his vendors. I will try to find out where he got it.”

“Please do,” said Alice. “There’s no mark of a photographer’s shop on the back. I suspect that it was taken by the murderer.”

William nodded. As soon as his sister had mentioned her theory, he realized that it could account for the pride on Polly Nichols’s face in the photograph. She was posing in the manner of a painter’s model and was proud to be using her body in the service of art.

He mused, “Mary Wells said Polly used to do something in the area that she thought was refined, but came back with her sweater misbuttoned.”

“She was posing for an artist who decided to kill her,” agreed Alice. “It explains the gashes under the eyes of Catherine Eddowes and the symmetrical gashes on the abdomens of the other women.”

“He was painting her body with a knife,” concluded William softly. The idea was grotesque but stunningly obvious. It amazed him that he had not made the connection before.

“Do you think all the women killed by Jack the Ripper were his models?” asked Henry.

“Not necessarily,” William responded quickly. “Polly could simply have set the acts in motion.” He realized that his sister’s revelation was compelling, not only because it fit with the pieces of evidence they had gathered, but also because it resolved his theory about the inner workings of perversion, the way it repeated itself in the form of a habit and linked to the instruments associated with the perpetrator’s vocation.

“If the murders are the work of an artist, what does that tell us?” asked Alice, as though she were quizzing a group of bright students.

“Artists are inclined to sign their work,” suggested Henry. “They crave recognition.”

“The letters reflect this,” she agreed.

“And every artist has a distinctive style,” William noted.

“So what is Jack the Ripper’s style?”

“Hardly traditional, I would say,” said William. “He’d be in the modern impressionist school.”

“But not one of the pretty impressionists,” qualified Alice. “Not lily pads and sunsets.”

“No,” agreed William. “His palette would be dark. We will have to ask John Sargent. He knows everyone.”

“Yes,” Henry added, bemused. “We can certainly trust John. His pictures are pretty, he loves his sister, and he is too fastidious to commit murder.”

“Though sisters may drive even the most fastidious man to murder,” William couldn’t resist noting.

“This is no time for jokes,” Alice intervened sternly. “This is an important discovery, and we must act on it, quickly, each of us according to our abilities.” She spoke with the authority of a commander laying out a plan of battle. “I will continue to study the evidence and consider how it may bring us closer to the murderer. William, you are to learn what you can from Scotland Yard and trace the source of Polly Nichols’s photograph. Henry, you must inventory the art world and consider who has the motive and opportunity to commit these crimes.”

“But Wilde’s dinner party is tonight,” complained Henry. He suddenly imagined being trundled off to thumb through the membership lists of the minor art clubs and having to dine late on Mrs. Smith’s unprepossessing fare.

Alice happily contradicted his assumption. “No need to miss your party,” she said. “I want you in society, mixing with the fashionable world, but alert, if you don’t mind my adding, which means indulging in less wine than you are probably used to.” She gave him a severe look and continued. “Wilde has a wide circle of friends and knows artists, high and low. Keep your eyes and ears open for anyone who seems suspicious. As a novelist, you have an instinct for the incongruous detail; bring this to bear now, where the stakes are the highest.”

Having spoken, she laid her head back on her pillow. The exertion of the past hour had taken its toll. “We are dealing with an artist of murder,” she murmured. “We must use our much vaunted intelligence and creative skill to catch him.”

Despite the momentous discovery of the afternoon, the identity of the murderer was far from Henry’s mind as he prepared to attend Wilde’s party that evening. He had heard from some of his friends that his countryman, Samuel Clemens, had just arrived in England, and that Wilde, who had met Clemens during his American tour, had invited him to be the promised surprise guest. As much as Henry enjoyed Wilde’s dinners, the thought of sitting across the table from this much touted personage did not appeal to him. He did not like the homely demeanor that Clemens affected, and he liked even less the man’s great success with it. Clemens was selling books and giving lectures, while Henry had stacks of unsold volumes moldering in a warehouse somewhere and had not been asked to lecture to anyone.

When he arrived at the Albemarle Club, the bohemian enclave that Wilde favored for his more festive gatherings, Henry made his way to the private dining room where the party was being held, ordered himself a brandy, and surveyed the company. Wilde had not yet made an appearance, but most of the other guests were already seated. There were a number of pedigreed women and the usual literati with whom Wilde liked to ornament his dinners. A surprising addition was the venerable Robert Browning, who was fielding questions on the subject of his late wife. How awful, Henry thought, to have to drag around someone else’s literary reputation and have it eternally eclipse your own.

There were a few Germans talking loudly about the scientific study of aesthetics (leave it to the Germans to turn art into science), and a contingent of Frenchmen looking superior for no other reason than that they were French.

Also present was a diverse sampling of artists. A handful of eager Pre-Raphaelites were listening with rapt attention to their mentor, Burne-Jones, who seemed to be lecturing them on the china plate. Two members of the Newlyn school, who specialized in Cornish landscape, were whispering about two members of the Marble school, who specialized in neoclassical subjects. Du Maurier was there, sketching a cartoon on his napkin, and a few minor portraitists were looking jealously at Sargent, who had just received a handsome commission for his portrait of a Liverpool factory owner’s wife. He had earned it through his ability to give her the eyes of a duchess and remedy her lack of a chin.

Henry considered his sister’s hypothesis. Were any of these people capable of a grisly series of murders? It seemed unlikely, though appearances could be deceiving.

He had ordered himself a second brandy and was beginning to relax when there was a bustle near the door, and Wilde finally appeared with his entourage, which included a number of young gentlemen with the comfortable air of stupidity that seemed to accompany hereditary privilege. Several others entered as well, and Henry caught a glimpse of a face that seemed both familiar and strange. Before he had a chance to take it in, his attention was diverted to a middle-aged man in a checkered suit with wild hair and a bushy, oversize mustache. Clemens. The very sight of this homespun creature was annoying.