What Alice Knew

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  “It was rude of you not to wait for me,” she said, her mouth set in an angry line and her face flushed. The clerk, seeing that it was a matter that did not concern him, put the ledger back into the bookcase and retired to his desk, where he became immediately engrossed in cataloging a set of ceramic tiles.

  William walked over to where Ella Abrams stood, realizing that he wanted desperately to regain her good opinion. “I thought it might be best to get here early,” he explained apologetically, “though of course I intended to wait for you. I hope you can still spare me a moment of your time.”

  She gave a sigh, turned, and walked into the shop, where she settled into one of the armchairs and motioned for him to take the other. She did not speak for a moment; then, having regained her composure and abandoned both her anger and her furtiveness, spoke bluntly. “My father says you have a deep understanding of people.”

  “And how does he know that?”

  “He is something of a psychologist himself, you know. Indeed, he has many talents, though, unfortunately, he must apply them all to one end—that of making money in order to prove that he is as good as other English gentlemen. Of course, by concentrating on that task, he succeeds only in proving that he’s not. It’s a paradox that it will take another generation or two to overcome. Then we will have the luxury to appreciate art and philosophy as you do.”

  “You seem to appreciate art and philosophy.”

  “I have an interest,” agreed Ella. “But what is that? A woman can take an interest in things, but she cannot do them. You must understand that, having a sister…and a wife. And as a Jew, I am handicapped further, though I suppose it gives me a perspective on things. John Sargent says that women and Jews are the great observers of culture. I, being both, observe quite a bit, you see.”

  “You are dissatisfied with your life?” William asked, discerning the bitterness in her voice.

  “Dissatisfied?” mused Ella. “I suppose I am. I wish to represent myself in some way in the world.”

  “John Sargent has painted you.”

  “Yes, he finds me exotic and is taken with the play of light on my hair. Others have delved deeper. But inspiring art is not the same as creating it.” There was a pause. “I gave the De Quincey set to a friend.”

  William sat very still for a moment. “I have reason to want to speak to the owner of the set,” he finally said quietly. “Could you put me in touch with him?”

  “We are no longer in touch, but you can contact him on your own. He has, I believe, a rising reputation in the art world; his name is Walter Sickert.”

  William felt his throat tighten, and for a moment he thought he would faint. His distress must have shown on his face, for Ella spoke sharply. “You are shocked that I had an intimate relationship with a man…and a gentile at that? I am an independent woman. I will no doubt marry a Jewish banker of whom my father approves, but until then, I do as I please. As I said, I do not have the resources that you have to accomplish anything of significance, so I resort to attaching myself to accomplished men.”

  William recalled the other items that had been marked in the ledger, all tokens of affection from Ella Abrams to Walter Sickert, he thought. “You were…in love…with this Sickert?” His voice sounded muffled to his own ears.

  “Whatever I felt is over,” said Ella, looking at him with calm directness. The sun streaming through the window had burnished her skin so that it looked like polished bronze. The dark, shiny hair; the chiseled face; the bright, intelligent eyes all seemed to be set off by a radiant cloud of light. He was reminded of Sargent’s portrait, but as she had implied, the picture was a superficial appreciation; it made her into a sensual surface rather than the complex, restless being he saw before him.

  He couldn’t stop looking at her, gulping down the smooth planes of her face and the lights in her hair. He was staring, he knew, but he couldn’t help it, though he also felt inhibited, constrained in ways he had not felt before.

  “I have no doubt that the person I mentioned will be helpful with regard to assembling the completed set,” she said softly. “I have no idea how the single volume may have become unattached.”

  “Why did you stop seeing him?” William had forgotten about the volume; he was thinking only about the relationship that had been revealed to him between Ella Abrams and Walter Sickert. The idea of such a relationship made him feel sick.

  Ella paused to fully consider her answer. “I misjudged his character,” she finally said.

  He knew that he should ask her what she meant, interrogate her as to the nature of the man with whom she had been intimate, but he could not. The idea of speaking about Sickert now repelled him. He would have to see to her again when he was calmer and more prepared to probe the subject. Perhaps the desire to see her again was what prevented him from asking questions now.

  She had risen from her chair, and he did the same. They stood opposite each other, close, though not so close as to touch, and yet he felt the presence of her body, in its suppressed energy, and imagined it pressing against his. He had an almost irresistible urge to give himself up to his feelings and knew that if he did, she would respond. He could feel her desire for him radiating back at him. He did nothing, though, merely continued to hold his gaze on her face. When she finally put out her hand, he looked down and took it, grasping the soft palm in his. He did not know how long he held it, but it was a long time before he finally mumbled farewell and hurried out the door into the bustling streets.

  Chapter 34

  I don’t think you should go through with this,” said William, as he, Alice, and Henry sat together in her bedroom. She had, he saw to his consternation, already gone to some trouble to prepare for Sickert’s visit. She had had Sally purchase her a new cap, and she had changed the coverlet on her bed to the lace one that had belonged to their mother and that she generally kept in storage. She had also made Archie move the armoire so that there would be room for Sickert’s easel and paints.

  The idea that she was looking forward to the visit upset William considerably. Ella Abrams had succumbed, and now his sister, of all people, was showing herself to be susceptible. What was it with this man Sickert, and more to the point, with the women who found him alluring?

  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 t
hat 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.”

  “And what does that consist of?”

  He paused. “I don’t judge human desire, and I don’t deny my own.”

  “But do you consider other people?”

  He paused again. “Others must occasionally be sacrificed.”

  “Sacrificed?”

  “Inevitably, there is pain.”

  Alice had grown pale and motioned to the door. “Can you call for some wine?” she said softly. “I feel a bit faint.”

  Sickert put down his brush, went to the door, and called down the stairs. Almost immediately Archie appeared with a glass of wine. He handed the glass to Alice and stood waiting at the side of the bed as she took a few sips.

  Sickert watched him curiously. “How old are you, young man?” he asked the boy.

  “Twelve or thereabouts,” said Archie.

  “You seem very attentive to this lady.”

  “I does my best, sir. She been good to me.”

  “And how did you come to this employment, may I ask?”

  “Milady took me on after me mum died,” said the boy matter-of-factly.

  “I see,” said Sickert gently. “You seem a very bright and responsible young man, if I may say so. I think your mother would be proud of you.”

  The boy looked up but said nothing.

  “You can go now, Archie,” Alice instructed. Her eyes lingered on Sickert as he returned to the canvas and picked up his brush. “I thought you didn’t believe in morality,” she said as he began to jab at the canvas again. “You seemed to feel for the boy.”

  “Of course I feel for the boy,” said Sickert with some annoyance. “I’m not a monster or a stone.”

  Alice nodded. She would have to tell Jane Cobden that her brother-in-law, despite his neglect of her sister, was kind. Watching his short encounter with Archie, her feelings had undergone a change, or rather had settled into a kind of certainty. She felt she had seen into Sickert’s character and could put aside any doubts she ma
y have entertained about his guilt. A man who could speak with such simplicity of feeling to a child could not, she was convinced, be capable of murder.

  “Tell me about your wife,” she said.

  Sickert put down his brush as if contemplating how to answer. “I have great affection for her,” he said.

  “But you are not faithful.” Alice completed the thought.

  “I follow my inclinations.”

  Inside the closet, William had become flushed with anger. The man was shameless, acknowledging his depravity so boldly. Who could doubt that he had murdered those women in the East End? He poked Henry again, to register his outrage, but his brother was not paying attention. The mold in the closet was seriously irritating his sinus cavity, and he had begun to sniffle loudly. Suddenly he sneezed, the sound reverberating beyond the closet into the adjoining room.

  “I think you have a chaperone,” noted Sickert.

  “He heard you,” whispered William furiously. “Go out there. Come up with an excuse.”

  Henry stumbled out of the closet, taking a notebook from his pocket and nodding to Sickert. “Hello,” he said vaguely. “I was doing a little writing in the”—he motioned behind him and waved the tablet—“an enclosed space excites the imagination, you know.” He sneezed again. “But it’s moldy.”

  Sickert laughed and offered his handkerchief, which Henry pressed gratefully to his nose. It was of fine cambric and smelled faintly of lavender.

  Chapter 35

  After Sickert left, William burst out of the closet looking distraught. Henry had already seated himself at the little table and was pressing the handkerchief to his nose.

  “There!” exclaimed William to Alice. “That finishes it! It’s clear we need to have Abberline arrest the man and formally begin interrogation.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Alice.