“Admittedly, art serves this end to some degree,” agreed Sickert. “The painter dabbles in different styles; the actor and writer inhabit different characters. But there are impulses that cannot be contained by art, or at least not by art as we commonly know it. The true artist is one who finds an accommodation for his disparate impulses. The more original the impulses, the more ingenious he must be in the form he adopts.”
William blanched. The speech, which dovetailed with some of his own theories about the mutable nature of consciousness, struck him as sinister coming from the individual before him. Wasn’t murder an accommodating form for impulses that might not find a home elsewhere? He did not respond, and Sickert, sensing the conversation was over, nodded politely and moved away to chat with Sargent about the latest art club gossip.
Dinner was served. Mrs. Smith had paid no attention to the diagram, so the forks and spoons were in the wrong order. Mr. Smith, breathing heavily and limping (he had both asthma and gout), began pouring the wine from the right. The soup was brought in; it was tepid and was followed by trout that had not been properly deboned. Katherine felt obliged, for the purpose of safety, to warn the guests to be careful, and the prospect of bones in the fish immediately set Henry’s nerves on edge. He had once been at a dinner where an elderly gentleman had choked on a chicken bone, and the idea of a choking death in the presence of Jack the Ripper struck him as particularly infelicitous.
Potatoes and hashed beans, a large filet de boeuf, overcooked, and a pork pie that appeared to have no pork in it, followed. Vernon Lee stopped suddenly midsentence in her discussion of utilitarian theory to announce that the potatoes were raw. Fenimore, determined to support their host at all costs, insisted they were fine, popped one in her mouth, and then spent an inordinate amount of time chewing it. Finally, when she had gotten the potato down, she began lauding Henry’s latest novel. “It was so moving! The young hero killed himself at the end.”
“No need to read the book now,” grumbled Henry.
“But why did he have to kill himself?” asked Emily, who liked happy endings.
“He had no choice!” insisted Fenimore. “The boy had been assigned to commit a murder by his anarchist friends. He could not face having failed in his pledge. What else could he do?”
“He could have committed the murder,” suggested Sickert lightly.
The siblings exchanged glances.
Sidgwick began telling the company about Mrs. Blavatsky, the medium that the Society for Psychical Research had recently discredited. “I still maintain she has powers beyond the ordinary,” he said. “She found Nora’s mother’s locket.”
Nora Sidgwick nodded. “I never thought of looking under the dormer.”
“Did she levitate anything?” asked Emily. “John and I once saw a lady levitate a blanket. Except John said there were mirrors. Am I right, John?”
“There most certainly were mirrors,” said Sargent.
“Kit levitated herself once,” said Vernon Lee.
Everyone looked at Kit with curiosity.
“Almost,” amended Kit.
“Kit has a gift for the amplification of stimuli,” explained Vernon. “As you can see, she has a magnificent physical instrument.”
Everyone stared at Kit’s physical instrument.
“And how did Kit almost levitate herself?” asked Alice.
“It was the influence of a painting,” explained Vernon. “A Titian. We were both struck dumb, but Kit was affected most strongly. The uplift in the vertical lines combined with the buoyancy of the reds almost lifted her off the ground.”
Everyone pondered this.
“And does Kit have other…gifts?” asked Alice.
“Oh yes,” said Vernon, “she feels all sorts of things. Isn’t that so, dear?” She turned to Kit, who was buttering a roll but who put it down to address the company.
“I feel the forces in this room,” she asserted loudly. “My head is high and my legs rooted, but I feel myself drawn hither and yon.” She began to sway. “Divergent impulses among the company: doubt, suspicion, possibly dread. The vibrations course through me.” She gave a gasp and a shudder. Then she took a bite from the roll.
“Kit could be an invaluable resource if properly exploited,” explained Vernon. “She could anticipate earthquakes, floods, and mining disasters, not to mention evils of the social variety. She has a special feeling for the suffering poor, especially in the area of abused womanhood. The Whitechapel murders, for example. I’m sure she could help the police find this Jack the Ripper if she put her mind to it.”
Henry, who had just taken a gulp of wine to wash down a raw potato, was caught off guard by mention of the individual they suspected might be present. He gagged on the potato and snorted wine out of his nose.
A hubbub ensued, as Fenimore pressed a glass of water to his lips and William slapped him on the back. “The poor man has a problem with esophageal spasms,” he explained to distract the company from what might have prompted Henry’s response.
“Yes,” Alice hastened to add. “We wouldn’t want to lose him prematurely to choking death.”
Everyone looked at Henry with concern, and even Henry, who had forgotten why he had choked, looked alarmed on his own behalf.
Finally the conversation resumed. “You were speaking of Kit’s response to the Titian,” Alice prompted.
“Yes,” Vernon took up. “The effects were duplicated with a Raphael and even a minor Mantegna…increased respiration and elevated heart rate. There was also an enlargement of soul that cannot be recorded but to which she attests through her sentiments and behavior. Last week she was inspired to a great act of charity after an hour in front of an Etruscan bronze.”
Kit nodded complacently. “It’s true. I wanted to give all my money away.”
“And she would have done it, were it not held in trust.” Vernon looked admiringly at her friend, who had started in on a second roll. “But what interests us is not Kit in herself, extraordinary though she is, but her representative nature as the human specimen writ large. Her example demonstrates that great art is literally a source of uplift; it can inspire great acts of charity and mercy.”
“And bad art?” asked Sickert with amusement. “Can it inspire great acts of rapacity and murder? If so, I know quite a few painters who ought to be placed under arrest.”
There was a titter of laughter, and the siblings exchanged glances again.
Mrs. Smith had come in with the ices, which had melted, and Mr. Smith refilled the wineglasses, shakily. His nose had grown very red. There was some general toasting to William’s visit, followed by discussion of the latest Royal Academy show, which everyone agreed was disappointing.
“Except for John’s painting of Mrs. Marquand,” noted Emily.
“A handsome woman, Mrs. Marquand,” noted Nora Sidgwick, “but John made her handsomer.”
“John always paints his subjects’ ideal selves,” explained Emily.
“Their complexions are certainly flawless,” agreed Nora.
“That’s why they pay me so much,” noted Sargent. “I’d cut my fee in half to paint a wart.”
As the conversation veered off to a discussion of warts on Mrs. Marquand, Alice turned to Sickert. He was seated to her right, but they had not yet spoken directly. “How do you paint your subjects, Mr. Sickert?” she asked quietly.
“I paint them as they are,” he said succinctly, “or rather, as I see them.”
She paused. “But you apparently do this very well. I have heard excellent things about your work.”
“Is that so?” He smiled and waited for her to elaborate.
“I am told you can hold your own against Whistler. And have the talent to surpass him.”
Sickert did not refute this fact. “Are you interested in pictures?” he asked, his blue eyes taking in Alice’s dress and hair and then settling with interest on her face. The survey was swift but thorough, and for some reason, though normally she was terribly uncomfo
rtable with being looked at, she did not mind.
“I am interested in everything,” she responded a bit smugly, “though, sadly, I cannot act on my interests. I am not a well person, you see, not so much in body as in mind. I am obliged to view life from a distance.”
“We are alike in that,” said Sickert.
Alice looked at him quizzically. “Your mind is not right?”
“To be sure, my mind is not right.” He laughed. “No interesting person is sane. But I also view life at a remove. As an artist, I am by necessity an onlooker.”
“But I rarely get out of bed,” insisted Alice.
“You surpass me there,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “And what conclusions do you draw from that vantage point?”
She considered this a moment. “That life is hard. That we all suffer.”
He nodded. “I’ll grant you that. But is there nothing else? Do you ever laugh?”
“Oh, I laugh all the time.”
Sickert laughed in response and seemed to examine her even more closely. “I should like you to see my paintings.”
“As I said, I don’t go out,” said Alice, tossing her head. “Tonight is an exception. I do it in honor of my brother’s visit from America. I am sure to pay for it with a week’s worth of headaches.”
“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.”
Chapter 33
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.
The man led William to an area in the corner where there was a shelf containing rows of ledger books. He glanced at the paper that had been handed to him on which Asher Abrams had written “Complete set of De Quincey, red leather binding, from Cheshire estate sale.” The man considered the notation for a moment, then ran his index finger over the ledgers, located one, and thumbed through it. “Here it is,” he finally said, with satisfaction. “De Quincey. Twenty-volume set. Bound in red leather.” He squinted down at the notation. “Not sold,” he commented succinctly. “Miss Ella took it off the market.”
“Took it off the market?” asked William.
The foreman responded, “Took it for her own use. Or to give as a gift,” he added without inflection. “As her father’s surrogate in the business, it is her right to do as she pleases with the merchandise.” William glanced at the ledger and saw that a thin line had been drawn through the item. On the opposite page, he saw another line through an item listed as “small Greek urn, possibly second century,” and above it, a line through “silver cigarette case, gold filigree.”
Before he could ask more questions, however, the front door could be heard opening and closing, and Ella appeared at the entrance to the room. William thought that she looked, if possible, even more beautiful than she had the other night. Her expression, however, was not pleasant.
What Alice Knew Page 21