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

He had tried his best to explain to Alice why Sickert’s ownership of the De Quincey volumes strongly supported his guilt, but she stubbornly refused to be convinced.

“I agree that it’s a coincidence,” she said, “but we remain unsure of so many things: whether the photograph was planted in the book and whether the owner might not simply have notated it without any intention to kill. It’s a popular essay, and someone who finds it of interest isn’t necessarily a murderer.”

“But the initials!” insisted William.

“Who’s to say that they refer to ‘pupil of Whistler’? It’s an ingenious but unsubstantiated assumption. They could mean anything. And”—she spoke with a certain knowing emphasis here—“perhaps they were put in the book before the set was given to Sickert by your young lady. We don’t know how the volume became separated from the set.”

She was making excuses on his behalf, thought William angrily; she was engaging in the sort of rationalizations one heard from an infatuated woman. As much as he might deny it, he had always found secret comfort in the fact that she had never seemed to care for men. Her friendship with Katherine had pleased him in this respect, alleviating any need to be jealous in a conventional sense. But now he was both jealous and afraid.

“I insist on being present during the sitting,” he asserted vehemently. “There’s no telling what that maniac might do alone with you in your bedroom.”

“I am quite sure he will not ravish me…unless I cooperate,” said Alice, ignoring the shocked expression on her brother’s face. “And he couldn’t possibly cut my throat. Everyone is within shouting range. Your inspector’s man will be keeping watch outside.”

“You must have Katherine with you, then,” said William, sensing that Alice’s companion was a bar of more than a physical sort to any kind of emotional entanglement.

“Katherine is off to nurse her sister in Sussex. And it is just as well. If I am to arrive at any sort of conclusion, I must see him alone.”

“We can’t condone it,” William fumed. “Can we, Henry?”

Henry, who had been sitting off to the side musing, was not prepared to agree unequivocally with his brother. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sickert seems rather a nice sort of fellow.”

William looked disgusted. “Of course he’s nice. It’s his modus operandi to be nice.” He was half in mind to tell them about the attack on his life, and then thought better of it. It would only upset Alice without necessarily convincing her of anything.

“If you insist on worrying, you can keep watch from my closet,” said Alice finally, indicating the small room off to side that contained a commode and a large washbasin that could be moved into the back hall.

It was, William concluded, not a bad idea. The space connected to the bedroom by way of a little door with slats that could be adjusted so its occupants might see what was transpiring in the next room.

“I realize that it’s not very dignified to hide in a loo,” Alice noted with amusement, “but it offers a good vantage point on the proceedings.”

William said he did not care about his dignity, and Henry, who had roused himself to become involved in the discussion, said he didn’t either. He could not think of Sickert as a murderer, but the idea of spying on him seemed an exciting prospect from which he was not about to be excluded.

“It’s too cramped for both of us,” protested William, looking at his brother with annoyance.

“I think there’s plenty of room,” countered Henry.

“Why should the two of us keep watch?”

“Because I may catch something you miss.”

There was some truth in this point, William grudgingly admitted to himself. His brother had a way of seeing things that never ceased to surprise him. There was no denying that Henry could be an astute observer, and that the nature of their respective vision was often complementary. William therefore nodded curtly in acquiescence.

They brought their chairs into the little room, arranged the slats on the door, and took their places.

“It’s moldy in here,” complained Henry, sniffling.

“Then leave.”

“I was just making an observation.”

William glared at his younger brother. “If you insist on being here, I ask only one thing: that you keep quiet!”

Sickert was late. William had begun to shift restlessly, and Henry, though he had kept his mouth shut as stipulated, was sniffling from the mold in the closet when the visitor finally made his appearance at almost four p.m.

He arrived weighed down with easel, paint box, and canvas, which he placed in the corner of the room, and then he came directly up to the bed, took Alice’s hand, and kissed it gallantly. His lateness, he explained, was because he had to wait for the canvas to be stretched. For this purpose he relied on a man who was often out on errands, yet here Sickert was, and the canvas was just as he liked.

He sat for a few moments on the edge of the bed, holding Alice’s hand and looking at her closely, as he had done at the dinner party. The brothers peered through the slats. There was hardly room for both to look at once, so there was some jostling and elbowing. Sickert’s closeness to Alice and the silence in which he gazed at her struck William as sinister, but his sister did not seem to mind. She returned his gaze, smiling.

“I was beginning to think that you had second thoughts about painting me,” she said.

“On the contrary. I have been looking forward to it all day.” He moved his head closer to hers and touched the strings of her bonnet. “But I think you should remove the cap.” With a quick stroke, he pulled the strings and unceremoniously took the cap from her head and threw it on the floor.

“It’s a new cap,” protested Alice.

“So much the worse for it. I’m not painting the cap.” He smoothed her hair with his hand, and she did not protest.

Henry elbowed William sharply to get a view through the slats, and William elbowed back, his teeth clenched in anger at the sight of Sickert with his hand on his sister’s head.

Sickert moved his hand to her cheek and held it there a moment, then got up, walked back to the easel, and stood looking at her from that vantage point. “Unclasp your hands, please,” he said. “Place them at your sides.”

She did.

“Now close your eyes.”

Alice paused. “You want to paint me as if I’m sleeping. Or dead?”

“No,” said Sickert. “I want you to relax your face. Close your eyes and then open them again.”

She did.

“You look more relaxed already.”

“I never relax,” protested Alice.

“We’ll see.”

“I am not a picturesque subject,” she added.

“I don’t care for picturesque subjects.”

Her face dropped slightly. She had expected him to say that she was picturesque.

He did not speak for a moment as he prepared his palette, and then he finally said, “I care for interesting subjects, not picturesque ones. Beauty, in the conventional sense, is not interesting.” He began to daub the canvas with paint, moving back and forth, looking at her with his bright blue eyes and then bringing his brush to the canvas in quick, sharp jabs.

William poked Henry to observe the manner in which Sickert was applying the paint.

“You do not care for beauty?” Alice asked, a touch of rancor in her voice.

“I said I do not care for conventional beauty. You are beautiful.”

“Yes, I have a beautiful soul.”

“I don’t believe in the soul,” said Sickert drily.

“Morality holds no interest for you?”

“I didn’t say that. But I have no use for conventional morality either. I follow my own morality.”