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

“It passed through our hands, obviously,” he murmured, “but I see so many things. Ella, do you recognize it?”

Ella seemed hardly to glance at the volume. “I don’t know,” she said abruptly. “It’s probably part of a set we got years ago. I don’t recall seeing anything in red leather recently.”

“There was the Coleridge,” said Abrams ruminatively. “And that set of Dryden. Both were red leather.”

Ella shrugged. “I can’t say I recall.”

Abrams looked at the book again. “If you’re looking for a set of De Quincey, I can put word out and see what I can find.”

“No,” said William. “I want the particular set associated with this volume. I have my reasons.”

Abrams examined the book again, and William could see him riffling his memory as Ella shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I remember,” Abrams said finally with decision. “It came with the Coleridge and the Dryden from that Cheshire estate sale a year or so back. I remember it because it was an American edition. I hadn’t seen a full set of De Quincey before and was surprised the Americans had put one out. Don’t you remember, Ella, you were especially eager to acquire it?”

“No,” said Ella curtly. “I really can’t say I do.”

William leaned forward inquiringly. “How might this volume have found its way into a Whitechapel bookstall?”

Abrams shrugged. “There, I can’t help you. I buy only complete sets. A collector wants completeness, whether in china or etchings or books; it represents a level of control. If a set is dispersed—and a missing volume is all it takes—the items become virtually worthless. I can surmise only that we sold the set to someone who was careless with it. It’s not uncommon for an unscrupulous employee to lift a volume and then conspire with a confrere to sell it back to the owner for a substantial sum. Perhaps the thief in this case misplaced the merchandise, got sidetracked, or was sent off to prison. We can certainly tell you to whom we sold the set, if that would be helpful. Abrams & Son—or rather Daughter—keep excellent records, don’t we, Ella?”

“We try,” said Ella, her voice uneasy.

William glanced at her. He could tell she was undergoing a disturbance that the book had initiated. It struck him as both unsettling and intriguing. What could the volume possibly mean to her? “I would greatly appreciate knowing to whom the set was sold,” he said to Abrams.

“Then you must visit the shop Monday morning and have my clerk review the records. You will have only to tell him that we have spoken, and he will be sure to accommodate you.”

Out of the corner of his eye William could see that Ella had regained her bearings and was sitting less stiffly in her chair. “I would be glad to assist Professor James,” she announced lightly. “It would give me the opportunity to continue our discussion of philosophy.”

“I should like that,” said William, realizing that he would like it more than he wished to admit.

She gave him a quick sidelong glance and removed a card with a gold border and black script from her waistband. “Here is the address of the shop. I shall see you Monday at eleven.” She rose, a cue for him to do the same. “Be sure to send my regards to Mr. Sargent. Tell him I shall be over next week to dress as a Persian princess, as he requested.”

Abrams laughed and added, “You can tell your friend Sargent that he must paint me again as well. He’s already represented me in the proper costume of an English gentleman.” He motioned to the portrait behind himself. “Now I should like one in the more splendid accoutrements of a Venetian doge. We could place it in the shop, don’t you think, Ella? It might encourage trade.” He laughed again, and William thought that the cunning businessman was perfectly aware of how he was perceived by the society in which he lived. He would play the expected role, but he would not be a dupe to it or pretend to take it seriously.

It was past ten p.m. when William left the Abrams home on Connaught Square, and it was a beautiful night. In general during his visits to London, the weather was foggy or rainy, a contrast to the refreshing climate that he associated with his own country. But tonight was an exception; the gray limestone of the buildings, so different from the bold newness of Boston’s red brick, shimmered under the soft moonlight.

He considered hailing a cab and then decided that he would walk to Henry’s flat across Hyde Park. It was not a long walk, and he felt energetic and ebullient as he strode under the lush autumn foliage. He knew, the habit of self-scrutiny being well developed in him, that his high spirits were the result not only of the weather but also of the feelings engendered in him by Ella Abrams. Her vibrant beauty had impressed itself upon him forcefully. Even her unease with regard to the De Quincey volume intrigued him, suggesting something withheld and secretive that added to his fascination with her. He was a husband and a father, a devoted one on all counts, a man who would never dream of wandering from the path of righteousness, yet he felt, as he strode into the park, that there was no harm in the feeling of attraction he was experiencing. So long as it was not to be acted upon, it was a natural sort of thing. Ella Abrams, with her dark eyes and full mouth, her darting intelligence and humor, her exoticism and mystery, stoked his imagination and made him feel vital and glad to be alive. He would see her again on Monday, and the thought pleased him—that was all there was to it. There was a degree of self-deception in his thinking—he knew that—but he did not care.

It was quite dark as he entered the park and made his way along the main path. A few couples were walking arm in arm, and there was a smattering of beggars of the West End variety, well brushed in the manner of gentlemen fallen on hard times. They murmured discreetly their need for a bit of assistance, and William gave each of them something; he was in a magnanimous mood.

When he approached the center of the park, he veered off onto one of the side paths that would lead him to the avenue nearest to his brother’s flat. The gas lamps that lit the main path did not extend to this one, so the area grew darker as he moved farther along. The sounds of the street began to recede, and the trees seemed to grow thicker and more luxuriant. It was nice to have such lush greenery in the center of the city. New York had Central Park, and Boston had its Commons, but Hyde Park was different in the degree to which it could suddenly seem remote from the urban hubbub that surrounded it. Only the English could feel confident enough to allow the wild to encroach so far within a civilized space. It was the first time that he had acknowledged that this country might surpass his native land in some respect. Perhaps he would take a flat in London after all; so much coming and going to conferences and meetings was wearing. And it would be convenient to be near Henry and especially Alice, given her condition.

He paused to be sure that he still had the card for Ella Abrams’s shop in his pocket. It pleased him to finger it and remember its gold border and simple black script: “Abrams & Son.” Despite the appellation, the card put him in mind of Ella; gold and black were colors one would associate with her. He recalled the painting Sargent had done in which her arms were encased in gold bracelets, and her hair, emerging from a colorful scarf, was jet-black with flecks of white. It was Sargent’s hallmark to do hair that way so as to suggest thickness and glossiness and thus flatter his sitters, though in this case, there was no need to flatter; if anything, the representation fell short of the original.