What Alice Knew

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  William ignored his brother’s remark and continued. “I see no reason why you should resign yourself.”

  “I don’t resign myself,” said Alice impatiently. “I just don’t care to do mental gymnastics. I don’t have the stomach for it, or rather, the head. Besides, you both have your vocations; I won’t be cured of mine.”

  “She has a point,” noted Henry. “She has everything she wants within reach; everyone comes to her. And she is free to say whatever she pleases, since an invalid is granted complete latitude. As I see it, she has arranged things beautifully.”

  William glared at his brother. “It’s ridiculous for her to stay in bed all day; don’t try to make it sound creative. It may be fine for your novels, but in life we want people walking around.” He turned to his sister. “I have several ideas that may get you on your feet—”

  “You will never get me on my feet.”

  “You were fine after Mother died.”

  “I had to take care of Father.”

  “So you stay in bed because no one needs you to take care of them?”

  “That would be too simple.”

  “Henry needs you.”

  “Henry has never needed anyone. He has his work; his characters are his family. The rest of the time, he has his admirers, mostly women of a certain age who serve very good dinners. As for you, William, you ceased to need me when you married your Alice.”

  There was a momentary silence as the brothers exchanged glances. William had married an appropriate woman. Their mother had practically picked her out—she even had the same name as his sister. It was as close to marrying inside the family as one could get. And yet it wasn’t. Alice James had had her first breakdown soon after William’s marriage; Henry had fled to Europe; Wilky and Bob had begun their downward spiral into depression and alcoholism. But it wasn’t “William’s Alice” (as they referred to his wife inside the family) who had done it. It was all the things that had happened: the trauma of civil war, the need to find useful work, the simple fact of growing older. It was change itself that was to blame. The family was not a sturdy artifact, not even a simple breakable one like a plate. It was a supremely intricate and fragile structure, so intricate and so fragile that any change of pressure or temperature was bound to make it crack. Not that it was a bad thing. Henry, of all the children, saw this fact most clearly. If the family had not given him up, if the seismic shift had not happened, he would never have written a word, never have felt the need to create imaginary worlds to replace the world of his childhood.

  Alice quickly moved to reassure William. “But you were right to marry. Sisters are fine for a while, but a man wants a wife and children. Except Henry, of course. He doesn’t go in for that sort of thing. And me.”

  “You could have married,” noted William glumly. “You still could. There’s Norrie’s son; he always liked you.”

  Alice snorted. “Norrie’s son! No one can stand him! Why is it people think women will share their beds with men they wouldn’t want to sit next to at dinner? But Norrie’s son aside, marriage holds no appeal for me. I wouldn’t marry if the man were…” She tried to think of someone who would be impressive to marry. “The Prince of Wales or even John Sargent, if he asked me. And John, if not the prince, is one of the pleasantest men I know.”

  “John doesn’t go in for marriage either,” noted Henry.

  “That’s true,” agreed Alice. “Nor his sister, which may be why we like them both so much. But I’m speaking hypothetically, to make the point that I am not interested in marriage or anything associated with a normal life in the world. Please don’t argue with me about it anymore.”

  William knew from her tone that the subject was closed.

  There was silence among them for a few moments as Alice arranged the pillows behind her head, pulled the coverlet up under her arms, and took a sip from a glass of port on her bed table. “Now,” she finally said, turning to William, her eyes growing brighter, “tell us why you are here. Your Royal Society lecture isn’t until January. Have you been invited to give another talk?”

  “No.” He spoke carefully. “It’s a different kind of invitation. A very unusual one.”

  “Tell us!” said Henry.

  “Yes,” said Alice, “tell us!”

  William reached into his vest pocket and extracted the letter from Police Commissioner Warren. He passed it to Alice. Henry shifted to the side of the bed and positioned himself so that he could peer at the letter over her shoulder.

  They read for a few minutes in silence. “Extraordinary!” Henry finally exclaimed, adding, “I trust the fellow is more adept as a policeman than as a literary stylist.”

  Alice, however, was not amused. She sat up very straight against her pillows and spoke quietly. “I’ve read about the Whitechapel murders and been dismayed by the lack of progress the police have made on the case. But now, finally, they have done something right; they have sent for you, William. It is a surprising step but an astute one, and I commend them for it. We can now stop these poor women from being killed.”

  Henry and William glanced at each other and then exclaimed together, “We?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “It occurred to me, as I read William’s letter, that the solution to these horrific crimes requires the three of us. ‘Tri-ocular vision,’ I would call it.” She paused, as if working out an equation. “Henry, to observe the social world where I sense the murderer lurks and to plumb his friends and acquaintances for gossip. William, to study the physical evidence through his contact with the police and to supply psychological analysis where needed.”

  “And you?” William asked in amused wonder. “What will you do?”

  “Me?” She leveled her intelligent gaze at her brothers. “I will review what you gather…and solve the case.”

  Chapter 5

  The morning after his arrival, William rose early, washed, dressed, and took his own breakfast in the small kitchen of Henry’s flat. He had agreed to stay with his brother for fear of giving offense, and Henry had insisted that he stay for the same reason. Both would have secretly been happier had he stayed somewhere else.

  Outside in the gray London morning, he waved down a hansom cab and asked the driver to take him to Whitechapel. It was still too early for his appointment at Scotland Yard, and he thought it might be profitable to use the time to visit the scene of the murders.

  “Doing a little sightseein’, sir?” asked the driver as they pulled up to the corner of Whitechapel High and Commercial Streets at the heart of the district. William did not answer. It rankled to be mistaken in his motives, perhaps because he suspected those motives himself. Yet he was always suspecting his own motives, wasn’t he? It was how his mind worked; it was what lay behind his best accomplishments: the drive to prove that he was not the dubious sort of person he secretly imagined himself to be.

  As he stepped out of the carriage and began to walk, he was struck by the contrast of this part of the city to the area from which he had come. Kensington was sedate and extremely quiet. Whitechapel was full of chaotic life and noise, its streets teeming with fish peddlers and flower girls, organ grinders and men with placards advertising the latest music hall attractions. It occurred to William that some of the people hurrying around him might have known the murdered women, given them a farthing out of pity or shared a drink, or even consorted with them for pleasure. Perhaps the murderer himself was brushing past at this very moment or standing in the shadow of a building, seeking his next victim.

  He proceeded briskly for another block down Whitechapel High Street. Away from the main thoroughfares, he could see more clearly the squalor and human misery that pervaded the area: the dark, airless alleys where men and women were leaning against walls or lying on the ground, their senses dulled by drink or opium. Soot and horse offal were piled in the courts between the tenements, whose doors were open to provide a bit of air. Inside, the dim interiors were like rabbit warrens, crammed with people lying on sacks or piles of st
raw. Even passing quickly, William was repelled by the odors that wafted out—damp and mildew mixing with the reek of excrement from unemptied chamber pots and stopped-up privies.

  He turned into a narrow alley marked Mitre Square. The map Warren had sent indicated that Catherine Eddowes, the last Ripper victim, had been killed and mutilated here. As he approached the end of the alley, he saw that a pail was positioned near the curb with a ragged sign propped in front, on which was scrawled “On this spot Katie Eddowes was merdrd. Arms for her chilren.”

  “Arms for her children.” William felt a welling of sadness. Newspaper accounts had reported that all the victims had once been married, though abandoned by their husbands because of drink and dissipation. Had there been children too? In the areas through which he had passed, he had seen many children, filthy and neglected, holding hats or with cupped palms, begging a few farthings from passersby. His throat tightened at the memory of his own child, his little Hermie, who had died of whooping cough before his first birthday. Then, with the rapidity of morbid association to which he was prone, he was seized by guilt for having left his other children, as he so often did, to pursue his work, and also, he acknowledged to himself, to escape the suffocating intimacy of family life. He shook himself, as if determined to throw off the weight of debilitating thought, and then dug into his pocket and dropped a coin into the pail for the Eddowes family.

  There was a hollow ring as it struck the metal. If there had been other coins there before, they were gone now, as this would be too, within the hour, he thought. Was he being unjust in assuming this fact? His sister would say that poor people were not more dishonest than other people; they were simply poorer and therefore obliged to steal.

  Walking back to Whitechapel High Street, he turned onto Mansell Street, where shops with Hebrew letters on the windows lined the road. Groups of men in long coats and skullcaps stood mumbling in corners, and women in head scarves hurried by, holding the wrists of children who had ringlets covering their ears. He walked briskly through the area and paused only near a collection of bookstalls that had been set up in one corner of the street. A scattering of fashionable young men were looking through the volumes, hoping to find that rare edition of Milton’s sonnets or Dryden’s plays that had escaped the professional estate brokers. William was tempted to join them in browsing, but it was approaching the time for his appointment at Scotland Yard. Instead, he motioned to a hansom cab that had parked across the street, as if waiting for him to decide to leave the area. How often, he wondered, did men like himself visit here to indulge some secret vice and then motion to a cab to whisk them away?

  Chapter 6

  The administrative headquarters for the London police was situated among other unimposing gray buildings surrounding a barren courtyard. The one exception to the drab scene was a large, well-appointed barouche parked in front, the letters CW carved in gilt on its door. William assumed the barouche belonged to Sir Charles Warren, the London police commissioner.

  As William entered the foyer of the building, he noted that the paint was peeling from the walls, and the gas fixture on the ceiling was crooked and emitted very little light. The general air of shoddiness surprised him. In America, the police headquarters for a major city, no less the country’s capital, would be immaculately maintained, a signal to the citizenry of a zealous and energetic attitude toward the eradication of crime.

  “I’m here to see Commissioner Warren,” he explained to the officer seated behind a battered desk.

  “Sir Charles is in conference,” the officer responded curtly, barely glancing up from his paperwork.

  William took a step forward and cleared his throat. “I am Professor James of Harvard College with an appointment to meet with Sir Charles Warren. I have just made the crossing from America at his request.”

  The response was immediate. “Terribly sorry, sir!” The officer pushed his papers aside and spoke obsequiously. “I’ll inform Sir Charles at once.” He scampered off, supporting William’s hypothesis that, for the English, the propensity to be supercilious was equaled by the propensity to grovel, and that both behaviors emanated from the same place.

  The man returned quickly and ushered William into a room very different in its appearance from the shabby outer area. Two men were seated at a polished mahogany table. There were gilt-framed portraits on the walls and a green and gold damask drape on the window. The table had been set out with a silver tray, on which was placed a bottle of whiskey and an assortment of sandwiches.

  The man at one end of the table had a red face, a large, overly waxed mustache, and a well-tailored uniform with a profusion of ribbons and medals. He was seated comfortably in an upholstered chair, pouring himself a glass of whiskey as though he was in his club or at home in his drawing room. William was reminded of the pictures he’d seen of British officers camping out in style in the African bush.

  On the other end of the table sat a small man with a neatly trimmed mustache. He wore shirtsleeves slightly worn at the cuffs. It was hard to tell from his expression what he was thinking, but his back was very straight, and there was the slightest suggestion, given his position on the edge of the chair, that he wished to be off doing something else.

  “Ah, the American professor,” said the large man, raising himself partially from his seat and extending a hand, not very far, so that William had to lean forward to reach it. “Charles Warren here. We greatly appreciate your willingness to cross the Atlantic to assist us. I was just telling Inspector Abberline here that we would do well to send more men to interrogate in the East End, where, I’m sure, our perpetrator lurks in some tawdry hovel or musty cellar. My own speculation leads me to assume that he is a barber or perhaps an indigent surgeon or butcher, given the testimony of Dr. Phillips, our esteemed police surgeon, on the expert way in which these poor women were dispatched.”

  William thought he saw a grimace skim the features of Abberline.

  “Be that as it may, our attorney general has instructed us to pursue even the more remote avenues of possibility. To this end, we sent for you. Inspector Abberline spoke highly of your work in…the area in which you work…and assures me that your expertise could, conceivably, be helpful. We must, in short, leave no stone unturned.”

  William nodded his head. “Your obedient stone,” he said gravely and caught a flicker of amusement cross the face of Abberline.

  “What’s that?” said Warren, who had been refilling his glass, which he raised to William before he could respond. “Some spirits, sir, after your arduous journey?”

  “No, thank you,” said William. “Given that I am on an abbreviated visit, I should like to begin work on the case at once.”

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Warren. “Inspector Abberline will tell you everything you need to know. You have my full approval to go anywhere and see anything. If nothing else, you will be able to report that you have been privy to the inner workings of the famed Scotland Yard. And don’t feel undue pressure with regard to the case. It’s a knotty one, you know, and if we do not solve it, it means only that it cannot be solved.” At this, Warren rose to leave. “I am at your disposal, sir, should you need me,” he said, “but Abberline here is a capable second.” He gave a short nod in the direction of the inspector, who also rose from his chair. “No, stay where you are.” Warren waved regally. “I shall have your men show me out.”

  As soon as he was gone, Abberline, who had seemed frozen in his upright posture until now, jumped up with alacrity and strode over to the closet, where he took out his coat. “I will take you to see her if you like.”

  “What’s that—who do you mean?” asked William.

  “Catherine Eddowes,” said Abberline brusquely. “The last victim. You can still see her. She’s been on ice for more than a week, and they plan to bury her tomorrow. It won’t be pretty, but as you’re a scientist with medical training, I thought it would be useful. I’m going over to the mortuary now.”

  William expressed eagern
ess to accompany the inspector and, after a short hansom cab ride, found himself walking through the dank halls of the London morgue. He was not unfamiliar with morgues. While in medical school, he had been lectured on muscular disease at the Boston City Morgue, and on the process of rigor mortis at the morgue of Harvard Medical School. But both places had been relatively benign settings, more reminiscent of a hospital or a laboratory, with scrubbed floors and whitewashed walls.

  The London morgue was entirely different. The building was in a state of extreme decrepitude, the stone walls crumbling and mildewed. As William followed Abberline through the dingy corridors, a feeling of oppressive gloom descended on him. Hard as he tried to push the image from his mind, he was reminded of the nightmarish episode of his youth, when, lying in bed, he had sensed the presence of a monstrous creature, the very embodiment of undiluted evil, lurking in the corner of his room. That creature, though a figment of his deranged mind, had resembled a real figure he had once seen as a child, and that had impressed itself indelibly in his memory. He had been walking with his father on a street in New York when he had noticed a young man, practically naked, huddled at the side of a building. The man was shivering and covered with sores, and when they had approached nearer and were about to pass him by, the man had suddenly bared his teeth and growled with animal ferocity, turning his face upward so that it seemed to engulf William’s vision. The image had engraved itself on his consciousness, so that he never forgot it. It had returned in his illness and, since then, had presented itself to his imagination as what the devil must look like, the devil in the form of a ferociously desperate and suffering human being.

  It was just such a figure, he thought now, that had lain in wait for the poor women of Whitechapel, and he was about to see one of these women after she had been visited by this diabolical creature.