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

“I hope it will be worth it.”

“I hope so.” Her tone was saucy. For the first time in her recollection, she was flirting with a man—if she didn’t count the teasing that she and William had done as children.

He kept his gaze on hers. “I could always give you a private viewing…bring my pictures to you .”

She returned his gaze. “I think I should like it better if you painted my portrait. I am told you are gifted but morbid, just the sort of painter who could do me justice.”

“I think I could,” murmured Sickert. “Though, as I said, I am not inclined to flatter.”

“I don’t want to be flattered,” said Alice lightly. “But you will have to paint me in my bedroom, since as I said, I rarely leave it.”

“I would be delighted to be invited into your bedroom—in any capacity you please.”

His eyes flickered with amused insinuation, but Alice could not feel insulted. On the contrary, she looked at him with similar amusement and told him it was settled. “But you will have to hurry,” she warned. “I cannot keep the headaches at bay for long.”

“Then I will come on Tuesday after luncheon.”

She nodded her head slightly and turned away. The headache that she had felt coming on early in the evening had disappeared, and despite the unaccustomed activity, she felt surprisingly well.

“You what?” said Henry and William together, after the guests had left and Mrs. Smith had tidied up, not very well.

“I have asked him to paint me,” Alice repeated.

“Are you saying that you have abandoned our idea? That you think he is innocent? ”

“I don’t know about that.” Alice shrugged.

“My God!” said William.

“It is a terrible thing to say, I know. How could one like a murderer? But I did like him, and I don’t know if he’s innocent. I want him to paint my picture, both because I think he would do it well and because I think it would help me decide. He’s coming Tuesday, so I think I should go home and get some rest.” She was feeling uncharacteristically lighthearted. “An excellent dinner party, Henry,” she added, as Katherine helped her on with her coat. “Tell Mrs. Smith that she outdid herself.”

When William hurried into Abberline’s office at nine a.m. the next morning, he was surprised by the state of things. The inspector’s desk was generally orderly in the extreme, reports and documents arranged in bins that William had laughingly compared to the cubbyholes Minor used for his dictionary definitions. But today, the desk was submerged in an avalanche of unruly papers. Abberline was seated stiffly in front of them, making no effort to set them right. As soon as he saw William, however, he gave the papers an irritable shove and stood up.

“This is what the newly materialized assistant commissioner would have me waste my time doing.” He gestured contemptuously at the pile of papers. “Sorting through reports of infractions by members of our labor syndicates. After that, he is likely to have me interrogate the rabbis of London. Sir Robert maintains that a cabal is behind the Ripper murders and will not rest until he has expended great amounts of time and energy chasing an illusory conspiracy. It worked for him before, when he accused Parnell of involvement in the Phoenix Park murders, and he assumes it will work again now.”

“But Parnell was found innocent of those charges,” noted William.

Abberline snorted. “Truth and falsehood are inconsequential in such cases. The aim is to establish a reputation, and for that, it’s better to make a great false claim than a small true one.” He took a breath and realizing that he was being goaded by Anderson in a way he disliked, tried to address William more calmly. “You are earlier than usual this morning. Our coffee isn’t even ready.” It had become a ritual for them to share a late-morning coffee, fortified by a generous dose of brandy.

“No coffee today,” said William. “I am en route to an errand elsewhere, but I wanted to give you this.” He took a small envelope from his pocket. “I’d like you to examine it alongside the Ripper letters.”

Abberline took the envelope and extracted its contents. It was the note Sickert had sent in response to Henry’s dinner invitation. It was written in red ink on heavy, cream-colored vellum.

“As you can see, the stock is familiar; it bears the mark of Pirie and Sons.” William had noted this point as soon as the letter was delivered to Henry’s flat, though he had not mentioned it to his brother or sister. It could mean nothing, and would only have upset them.

Abberline examined the note for a moment. He did not seem unduly impressed. “As I told you, the paper is too common to allow us to draw a conclusion. My wife uses it for…whatever it is she uses it for. But I’ll have the note looked at, since you believe there is reason to suspect the writer. It will at least divert me from this.” His lip curled as he waved at the pile on his desk. “Do you have time to go with me to consult our ‘experts’?” Abberline’s “experts” were a ragtag troop of petty forgers who had traded a year in prison to assist on the Ripper investigation. These individuals, some of whom had proven more competent and astute than many on the police force, had sifted through the hundreds of letters sent to Scotland Yard and the Central News Agency and come up with the handful of specimens that William had shared with Alice.

Normally William would have enjoyed consulting with these gifted specimens of criminality, but today he could not linger. Indeed, glancing at his watch, he saw that he was already running late. He therefore promised to stop back for a report on Sickert’s note and apologized again that he would miss their morning coffee, which was to say, their morning brandy.

It was forty minutes before eleven, later than he had intended, when he arrived by hansom cab at Asher Abrams’s shop, a neat brick structure located at the end of a well-swept cul-de-sac in Soho. The words “Abrams & Son: Art, Antiquarian Books, and Reliquaries” were traced in gold script on the large plate-glass window that fronted the street.

He had wanted to arrive well before the hour Ella Abrams had established they would meet, since he wished to consult with the clerk before she got there. As much as he wished to see her again—and the idea excited him more than he wanted to admit—he was also convinced that she had something to hide with respect to the De Quincey volume.

The inside of the shop was even more impressive than its exterior. The bookcases, which reached to the ceiling, were of a polished mahogany wood decorated here and there with brass plaques to mark the kinds of volumes assigned to each shelf. There were sliding ladders to reach the higher collections, and interspersed with the books were colorful ceramics, bowls, and tiles exhibited behind glass cases. Gilt-framed canvases in oil, watercolor, and chalk hung on the walls that did not have bookcases. A fireplace, in which was a carefully tended fire, was in one corner of the room, in front of which were two armchairs. The room was like an opulent and extremely comfortable drawing room, and William couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be to sit in those armchairs with Ella Abrams and converse quietly before the fire.

An older man in an apron greeted William as he came in. When he stated his errand and explained it had been sanctioned by Asher Abrams, the clerk led him to a large room in the back of the shop where artifacts awaiting inventory were stored. There were piles of books with elaborate bindings, picture frames without pictures, pictures without frames, mirrors of various sizes, furniture in various states of disrepair, and sundry other objects reaching from floor to ceiling within the cavernous space.