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

“Perhaps all the murders were inspired by Sickert’s paintings,” noted Alice. The idea seemed grotesque yet logical. It had the added element of making Sickert complicitous, if not consciously so, in the murders.

“It’s possible,” agreed William. “But no doubt your portrait is a special case, since Newsome knew that I was involved in the investigation and wanted to retaliate against me as your brother. That would also explain the gruesome package. But the key to everything is the strength of the motive—extreme shame and loss of vocation, with a trigger in the form of a successful artist with whom he continued to be in contact.”

“The friendship also gave Newsome access to Sickert’s stationery and inks,” speculated Henry.

“And to the De Quincey volume,” said William. He thought of Asher Abrams. Perhaps Sickert had introduced Newsome to Abrams, who employed him as a framer. He recalled that Ella had met him in Whitechapel on that shameful day because she had business with a framer.

The siblings had fallen silent. If their hypothesis was correct, Newsome would have had access to everything within Sickert’s sphere. No wonder they had made the mistake. Sickert was the successful incarnation of what Newsome wanted to be, and Newsome was Sickert’s obverse self, his doppelgänger.

They sat together thinking about this for a few minutes, until Alice spoke abruptly. “If what we suspect is true, we are wasting valuable time. We must alert the inspector. Walter Sickert is temporarily out of reach for questioning, since he is in Cornwall. Who else can lead us to the suspect? Who else knows Peter Newsome?”

Ella Abrams , thought William. Ella would know where to find Newsome. He felt a tightening in his throat at the idea that he would have to contact her again.

Before he could speak, there was a rustle in the corner of the room. It was Archie, who had been napping under the table and was roused by the urgency in Alice’s voice.

“Peter Newsome?” He looked around, bleary-eyed. “I knows Peter Newsome.”

Everyone looked at Archie with wonder.

“How do you know Peter Newsome?” asked William.

The boy had gotten to his feet and come to the side of Alice’s bed. He stood there as he often did, waiting for her to pet him and offer him sweets. Katherine had warned that he ought not to be fed so much sugar; it ruined his appetite and would rot his teeth, but Alice explained that the psychological benefits of a piece of candy outweighed any physical harm it might do.

“’E’s a friend of Mr. Sickert and an artist too,” said Archie, eyeing the two chocolates on the little dish next to Alice’s bed.

“And you know him?” Alice asked quietly.

“Well, sure. ’E’s been by when Mr. Sickert was painting, to drop off brushes and such. ’E told Sally she’d make a fine subject for a picture. ’E’s paintin’ ’er now.”

There was a hush in the room.

Sensing that he had said something wrong, Archie spoke quickly, as if to cover his tracks. “I told ’er ’e probly couldn’t draw a pot and sure couldn’t make such pretty things as Mr. Sargent or sing songs like Mr. Sickert, but she says as she don’t care. She wants to ’av ’er portrait painted like the mistress. That’s all.”

He paused and looked around him and, seeing that the faces of the adults remained taut and anxious, added quickly, touching on the subject that he assumed was the source of their concern. “She said takin’ yer clothes off fer an artist ain’t bad. Even the fine ladies does it. So’s I believed ’er.”

“Where did she go, do you know, Archie?” asked Alice. She had taken hold of his arm and was gripping it tightly.

He did not answer but sniffled loudly and squirmed under her grasp.

“Can you tell us where Sally’s gone?” William asked sharply.

The adult behavior must have reminded him of calamitous events in his former life, for his eyes darted about, as if looking for a means of escape. “I hope Sally ain’t come to no ’arm,” he wailed.

Henry interceded. He held out the plate of chocolates and waited calmly for Archie to take one, and then he spoke with stern directness. “We need to find Sally so she won’t come to harm. We need you to help us. Can you do that?”

The boy nodded, though he continued to sob. He forced himself to speak. “I followed ’er once. I knows I’m not supposed to spy. But I did it with my mum, so I do it automatic.” He whimpered in fear.

Henry assured him that in this case they were happy he had spied. “Now, we need you to tell us where you followed her. Is it far?”

“Far enough. It’s near to where me mum died.” Archie whimpered. “I thinks,” he amended.

“Would you be able to find it if we took a hansom cab to your mum’s street?” asked William.

“Dunno,” said Archie. A look of panic crossed his face again. “Don’ want Sally to come to no ’arm!”

“Can you remember how to get there by foot?” asked Henry, realizing that the boy would be best going the way he’d gone before.

Archie nodded, still whimpering.

“Just lead us there, then,” said Henry. “Don’t worry about how far it is. Go the way you went when you followed her. I’m sure you can remember.”

The boy nodded, his face white, as the brothers urged him down the stairs and to the door. William paused only to instruct Katherine, who had been busy in the kitchen, to go immediately to Scotland Yard and alert Abberline. “Tell him to look for the shop of a framer named Peter Newsome in the vicinity of where the poor woman killed herself last week,” he explained. “Tell him to waste no time.”

There was hubbub as hats and coats were hastily put on, the front door noisily opened and shut, and then, silence. Alice was left, propped up in her bed, alone in the flat. As always, it was her fate to stay behind and wait.

It was strange that Henry was able to keep up. William maintained a daily regimen of exercise and diet and was in shape to make the trek from Mayfair to Whitechapel on foot, but Henry, corpulent and sedentary, would have been expected to lag behind, perhaps to give up the chase altogether. But he did not. Indeed, he continued in the lead, following Archie through the park, up the embankment, and into the winding streets of the East End. As he strode through the various neighborhoods and saw the houses grow shabby and the streets dirty and rubbled, he recalled that awful night when he had been attacked and saved by Walter Sickert. It was perhaps the sense of dread he felt then that made him hurry to the aid of the girl now.

They entered a narrow path in the vicinity of Spitalfields, and Archie began to move more slowly, trying to recall where he had gone the day he had followed Sally. He paused for a moment at the crossroads of two streets, cocking his head, like a dog trying to follow a waning scent, and then moving forward with more certainty. They had arrived at a maze of small muddy paths, and Archie seemed to be surer as he moved into this labyrinth, turning left and right and left again until they found themselves at the end of an alley at which stood a tall, brick structure with the sign that said “Frames, Canvases, Art Supplies” hanging from the cornice. They tried the front door; it was locked. Henry had already gone to the back and returned to say it was locked too.

“We’ve got to get inside,” said William.

Archie looked at the brothers and then took a metal wire from his pocket and poked it into the lock until it clicked open.

“Where did you learn to do that?” asked Henry.

Archie shrugged. “I knows I’m not supposed to, but you says we gotta get in.”