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

“Thank you, Archie. That shows good reasoning. You can take the afternoon to play if you like. Just be sure you’re back by dinner so that Sally won’t be left shorthanded.”

The boy seemed to find this warning to his liking and trotted away, presumably to win more marbles off the neighbor’s boy, who had lost almost all of them to him already.

Alice turned to the package. It was small, no more than four or five inches long, and very light, so it was not books, which was what people usually sent her. There was no address, which meant it must have been placed by hand on the stoop where Archie had found it. She took the letter opener on her night table and slit the top, which had been glued together using brown paper. She opened the flaps of the box. What lay inside took a moment to take in. First she felt her throat constrict, and she gagged. Regaining her breath, she screamed.

Inside the box, nestled in tissue paper that had been soaked crimson, was a bloody piece of a woman’s breast.

Everything happened quickly. Katherine returned as Henry arrived and administered a few drops of laudanum. William came in soon after with news of the murder and immediately sent Archie out with a note to Abberline.

Alice had not allowed anyone to open the box and refused to say anything about it. She had placed it near the bed, but out of her direct sight.

When Abberline arrived, she mutely pointed to it, and he took it into the small drawing room and shut the door. He was gone for several minutes, and when he returned he spoke to the assembled group. “The package that Miss James received appears to contain part of the left breast of Mary Jane Kelly,” he announced. The suspense had been so great for the others that even this shocking information was a relief. Most helpful, however, was the professional tone of the inspector, for he simply stated the facts with grim simplicity: “A portion of that organ was missing when the body was examined by Dr. Phillips. The question now becomes why it was sent to Miss James.”

“It’s obvious,” asserted William, who had been sitting off to the side, tapping his foot in restless anticipation. “The man who painted her portrait has just murdered another woman in the East End. He must know I’m involved in the case and assumes this is the way to scare me off.”

But Alice, who had been leaning back weakly against her pillows, rallied herself. “Walter Sickert is incapable of murder,” she declared. “And besides, he has gone to Cornwall.”

“You hold to that line,” sneered William.

“We have brought Mr. Sickert in for questioning,” said Abberline, waving a hand, “and will see what he has to say for himself.”

Alice had turned chalk white.

“Not in Cornwall, apparently,” said William gloatingly. “I assume the officer assigned to watch him has evidence of his whereabouts last night, though why he couldn’t stop the attack is another matter.”

“We do not know that he committed the crime,” continued Abberline. “All we know is that he went to a public house in Whitechapel on Wednesday evening. He was accompanied by a woman.”

Henry, watching his brother and sister, was struck by the reversal. William turned pale, while Alice regained a degree of color and life. Something had shifted for each of them. He had no idea what it was, but it was interesting to watch.

Abberline continued, “He arrived with the woman at around ten p.m., but he did not leave before the murder. She, however, did. At approximately one a.m. My man noticed because the other women leaving the public house at that time of night were, let’s say, not of a reputable sort, and she, by contrast, was.”

“And when did he leave?” asked William sharply. It was Abberline’s turn to be discomfited. “My man appears to have left the scene when news of the murder became known. When he returned to the public house, Sickert was gone.”

“And who was the woman?” asked Alice.

“We have questioned Sickert on the subject, and he will not say.”

“What did she look like?” asked Henry. William had retreated into a tense silence.

“She was fairly tall and wore a long cape. He could not see her well when they arrived, though he said she was well featured and wore her hair in a thick plait. Leaving, he could see nothing. It was dark, and her hood was up.”

Alice was in a state close to collapse. The package had shaken her, but what she felt now was different—and worse. After Henry and Abberline left, William had remained behind and spoken to her, his voice shaking with emotion. He had said that the evidence was clear. Sickert had murdered those women and had used one of his many conquests—he spit the words out with a venom she had never seen him express before—as a means to escape detection. He had also told her about the attack on himself a few weeks back. A man in a cape, covered from head to toe. The cape, he said, though he had not realized it at the time, might well have been borrowed from a woman.

“And how do you know it wasn’t a woman who attacked you?” asked Alice. It had been a reflexive sort of question, her way of expressing doubt that it was Sickert who had committed the crime.

The comment had elicited an unprecedented response from her brother. At first he stared at her, his eyes glazed, his face flaccid, almost idiotic. For such a brilliant man to look like an idiot was a transformation she was not likely to forget. He stared at her like that for a few seconds and then, shaking himself, exploded. “You’re a fool! You sit there in your bed, reading books and talking about politics and the poor. But let a man pretend to admire you, and you lie down at his feet like all the rest of them.”

Alice was too shocked to respond. She had never dreamed that her brother could speak to her like that, and could not fathom what had provoked him. She poured some laudanum into a glass and began stirring it with a trembling hand.

William was not yet done; he continued to speak with increased venom. “You’d run after him if you could. Why don’t you hide him here, under the covers of your bed, and maybe he’ll do what you want before he cuts you up!”

The color had drained from Alice’s face. Was this her brother, the man she trusted and loved more than anyone in the world, for whom she would be willing to sacrifice her life? Had he become a raving lunatic?

“Please leave,” she said softly, pointing to the door.

“You want me to leave, but you’d welcome him.” William sneered, his face contorted with anger and disgust.

She did not tell him again. He had finished his tirade and slumped in his chair, all will and energy sapped. She turned her head on the pillow and closed her eyes, trying to regain a measure of calm. They remained like this for a long time, opposite each other, saying nothing, sunk into morbid thought, when Alice was roused by Sally, who had entered the room to announce that Jane Cobden was below and wanted to see her.

“Tell her I’m indisposed,” she responded dully.

Before this message could be relayed, Jane, who had apparently followed the servant up the stairs, hurried in, rushed to Alice’s bed, and knelt down beside it. She was trembling violently. Her thick red hair, usually fastened neatly at the back of her head, was loose and disheveled, and her large bosom within the plain serge dress was heaving with exertion and anxiety. “Please help me,” she said, grasping Alice’s hand and raising a tearstained face in supplication.

What was going on? thought Alice, in a spasm of panic. Had everyone gone mad?

William was sitting in the corner, slumped slightly, hardly paying attention.