Whitechapel

by Sam Gafford

  Most of the buildings on Commercial Street were old and in poor shape. The businesses on the ground floor were nearly all closed, but there were lights in some of the windows. I guessed that they were private apartments and, in truth, anything could be hidden behind those curtains.

  “I think I see lights on,” Arthur said. “Perhaps we’re in luck.”

  We entered a building that looked like all the others on the street. I was more than a little surprised that the door was unlocked. If I lived here, I would not feel particularly safe or secure. Arthur climbed the stairs quickly, and I sensed that he was becoming anxious for a confrontation. Sadly I realised that I would have to be just as careful with my companion as I would with Sickert. On the third floor, Arthur stopped and pounded on the door. “Sickert! Walter Sickert! Open this door!”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Arthur pounded again.

  I could hear someone moving around inside, and I motioned for Arthur to be quiet. The sound got closer and the lock on the door was turned. Slowly, the door opened and I saw the frightened face of Walter Sickert looking out at us.

  “Who is it? What do you want?”

  I almost felt sorry for Sickert as Arthur burst through the door and into the room.

  Sickert fell backwards. He was wearing a robe and looked as if he’d been in bed, but the bags under his eyes said he hadn’t been sleeping.

  “Machen! What the devil are you doing here? And A.B. too? What an unexpected surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  A woman came rushing into the room. She was young and blonde with full, wide hips. Her hair hung down her shoulders in waves of lush beauty. She was also completely naked. I guess that’s why I didn’t see the gun in her hand until she fired it.

  Luckily, she wasn’t a very good shot, as the bullet went wild and struck the door between Arthur and myself. “Ally,” Sickert shouted, “put that down! These are friends of mine. You are friends, aren’t you?”

  “For now,” Arthur said, “but we’ve come to ask some questions.”

  Sickert got to his feet. “Questions? How delightful. Perhaps if A.B. could pull his eyes back into his head, we can all have some drinks and be civilised?” Sickert smiled with a sarcastic look, and I realised that I hadn’t taken my eyes off the very voluptuous, very naked form of his armed female friend. Embarrassed, I averted my gaze.

  “That,” I said haltingly, “would be fine.”

  For the first time, I noticed the room we were in. It was a very large room that took up most of the apartment. Sickert had several easels near the middle of the floor that faced an area with some chairs and a sofa draped with several sheets. I guessed that it was where he had his models pose. On the other side of the room was a sitting area with another sofa and a few comfortable chairs. There was also a small bar counter with some bottles open on the counter. A bedroom was off to the far end, and it was from here that the woman Ally had come rushing out. The only other room I could see was a very small kitchen next to the bedroom that looked to be only a little larger than a pantry. Lined up against the back wall were several dozen canvases that were all covered with sheets. Paint and papers were piled everywhere, and there were plates of food stacked in the kitchen. I would have guessed that Sickert had been holed up here for several days. But was it because of his painting, or something else?

  “Ally,” Sickert said, “go and put some clothes on. You’re distracting my guests. Now then”—he walked over to the bar and poured three glasses—“what shall we talk about, eh?”

  Smiling at me the entire way, Ally backed out of the room, still holding the gun. Amazingly, Arthur never missed a step.

  “I was wondering,” Arthur began, “where I might find your brother?” He walked up to the bar and emptied a glass with one drink.

  It was probably the last thing Sickert expected Arthur to ask. He stopped in mid-gulp but recovered quickly.

  “George? Whatever could you want him for?”

  I took a sip of my drink and felt it burn down my throat. It was the first time I’d tasted whiskey, and I rarely drank it ever again.

  “For that matter,” Sickert said, “how did you know I was here?”

  Arthur looked him squarely in the eye. “Amy told me about your studio.”

  Sickert was instantly uncomfortable and looked as if he was bracing himself for a punch.

  “Ah, yes, about that, old man. I didn’t know that Amy was married then.”

  “Of course, of course. I mean, the ring on her finger could have been for anything, couldn’t it?”

  “Is that what this is all about? Because, really, Arthur, I have work I could pretend to be doing.”

  “Working or hiding?” I said.

  Sickert looked at me as if he had forgotten I was even in the room.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When you opened that door, you were scared to death of something. I’m betting that it wasn’t Ally’s husband. She’s not wearing a wedding ring.”

  “Ah,” Sickert smirked, “so it was her hand you were staring at. Well, as you may know, Albert, the East End is a dangerous place. You never know who it is knocking on your door at night.”

  Arthur knocked loudly on the bar counter. “Your brother, remember?”

  “Oh, yes. Afraid I don’t know where he is at the moment. Leave me a message and I’ll give it to him the next time I see him.”

  “You mean the next time you two go out ripping up women?” Arthur said. I nearly fainted.

  The blood drained from Sickert’s face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s late and I’m tired, Sickert. We know who your brother really is, and we know what he’s been doing here in Whitechapel.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Machen. For your own sake and that of your wife, walk out of here right now and forget that you ever mentioned George.”

  “‘George’? Don’t you mean ‘Eddy’? Where is he, Sickert? Spending the evening home with his wife and child?”

  I thought the man was going to collapse where he stood.

  “My God! It’s like finding an infant playing with dynamite. You’re more the fool than even I thought you were. Go home, Machen! Go play with your scribbling or translating or whatever it is that you do.”

  Sickert raised his glass to his lips to take another drink. Arthur knocked it out of his hand.

  “Enough of this! I want some answers.”

  Sickert, to his credit, recovered quickly. He took out another glass and started filling it.

  “Sounds to me as if you have quite a few answers already. I am often amazed by how easily people seem to want the very thing that will cause them the most harm. Very well. If you won’t leave, then I guess I’ll have to oblige you. Once I do that, though, I wash my hands of the both of you. I will not feel the tiniest bit of guilt if you both end up at the bottom of the Thames or the Tower.”

  I suddenly realised that I was smelling tobacco. I turned around and the woman, Ally, was lying on the couch at the other end of the room smoking a cigar. She had put a robe on, but it did little to cover her. Her gun was on a side table nearby, within quick and easy reach. She caught my glance and smiled, waving at me as she opened the bottom of the robe slightly to show me what was underneath. I forced myself to look back at Sickert. Were they both so jaded that the presence of a nearly naked beautiful woman would have no impact on them at all?

  “Ask your questions,” Sickert said. “But be warned, anything I say I will deny to my final breath later.”

  “Is your ‘brother’ Prince Albert Victor, Duke of Clarence?” I asked.

  “Yes, I thought you already knew that. Good thing I’m not Aladdin’s genie, or you’d have wasted a wish already.”

  “Why,” Arthur said, “did he pose as your brother?”

  Sickert smiled. “It was his mother’s idea, actually.”

  He must have seen the disbelief on our face, because Sickert quickly said, “No, it’s true
! I’ve known the family for some time, and Princess Alix considers me one of Eddy’s best friends. She knows about his ‘habits’ and asked me to keep him in check during his little outings. Eddy thought it was a great bit of fun to tag along with me, but I thought he was a bloody nuisance. Anyway, I couldn’t go around saying, ‘Meet my friend, Prince Albert Victor,’ could I? So I just started calling him my brother. He thought it was a hoot.”

  “And then what happened? Who’s this girl he married?”

  “Ah, well, Eddy has a bit of a sweet tooth, so we got into the habit of dropping into a candy shop on this street. There was a counter girl that he took rather a shine to, and she fancied him as well. Unfortunately, I encouraged the whole thing because it kept him busy and out of my hair. His mother was worried about him carrying on with the prossies or, even worse, the young boys on Cleveland Street, so I thought that here was a nice, uncomplicated girl to occupy him. Then she up and got pregnant.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What could I do? I hoped that she might miscarry or something so that it would resolve itself; but Eddy, the stupid git, thought it was all a very wonderful thing. He fancied the idea of being a father. Imagine that! So the twit goes and marries the girl. Had me stand up as his best man! He thought it was all a joke. I swear, sometimes I think he’s only about as smart as a child who’s been kicked in the head by a mule. I tried to explain to him that it didn’t matter if he married her under a false name, it would still be his child, but he didn’t care. Bloody fool didn’t even care that she was Catholic.”

  Arthur was shocked, but I didn’t understand why.

  “Are you serious? Was the wedding done in a Catholic church?”

  Sickert nodded. “Priest and everything.”

  “Why is that bad?” I said.

  Sickert looked at me patronisingly. “Been kicked in the head recently yourself, A.B.? Why don’t you explain it to him, Arthur? Heh, Arthur and Albert, what a pair!”

  While Sickert laughed, Arthur explained it. “The monarchy is Church of England, Albert, and a Catholic marriage could undermine that. Especially if it has produced a Catholic heir.”

  “Quite so,” said Sickert. “There are those who would stop at nothing to ensure that a Catholic never sits on the throne of England. What are a few lives compared to that? Now, just imagine what the Irish would do with information like that! There’d be a revolution in the streets.”

  “Perhaps,” Arthur said, “or perhaps not. This might be what is needed to bring the two countries together.”

  Sickert laughed hysterically. “Oh, Arthur, I never knew you had a sense of humour! That’s simply too delicious. Do you believe in Father Christmas too? There would be a civil war before the people in power allow the Irish one inch of a foothold in this country.”

  “Were you with Eddie on August thirty-first?” I asked.

  “What a strange question to ask! As it so happens, in a manner of speaking I was.”

  “What were you doing?”

  Sickert glared at me. “I don’t think I care much for your tone, Besame. Is this how you behave in someone’s home?”

  “Answer the question, Sickert,” Arthur said.

  He took another large gulp from his glass, draining it and filling it again. “I’d prefer not to say,” he replied.

  “I’m afraid I must insist,” Arthur said, “or else I will bring Inspector Abberline here and you will answer to him.”

  Sickert looked at Arthur over the rim of his glass. “Abberline? What does he have to do with this?”

  “He might be interested in knowing the whereabouts of you and the prince while an unfortunate woman was being butchered in the street.”

  “What the devil are you talking about now?”

  “Polly Nichols. The woman who was killed in Whitechapel, not a few streets from here.”

  Sickert brought his glass down onto the counter with a bang. “All right, let’s have it. Just what are you accusing me of?”

  Arthur leaned in closer and fixed Sickert with his stare. “We think that you and Eddy murdered Polly Nichols and Martha Tabram. We think you two ripped them apart with knives.” He paused. “And we think that you’re going to do it again.”

  Sickert just stared at Arthur. “You’re madder than everyone says you are. When was this, this Tabram woman killed?”

  “August seventh,” Arthur replied.

  “I see. And Nichols was on August thirty-first, yes?” I nodded.

  “Well, I can’t say about the seventh, but I know that Eddy did nothing of the sort on the thirty-first—because I was with him.”

  “Poor alibi if you were murdering her together,” Arthur said. “And what about the seventh? Where were you then?”

  “On the Continent,” Sickert replied, “happily enjoying the pleasures of the Moulin Rouge. And a few other pleasures as well—but none, I can assure you, that had to do with butchering a woman.”

  “Can anyone attest to your being there?”

  “I daresay that you could find at least half a dozen women who will testify to seeing quite a bit of me on that day.” He grinned devilishly.

  “What about the thirty-first?” I asked. “What were you doing with Eddy that day?”

  “Ah, yes, that . . .” Sickert hesitated. “I wasn’t exactly with Eddy; at least, he didn’t know I was there.”

  “What do you mean?” Arthur said. He was getting exasperated. I could tell that, whatever else he might think of Sickert, he did not think that he was Eddy’s mysterious S.

  “I mean, my dear Machen, that on the morning of August thirty-first, I was assisting the officers of the Special Branch in apprehending Eddy and dragging him from his ‘illicit’ love den that he shared with Annie Crook, his wife.”

  Arthur and I were silent at this bit of news, so he continued.

  “The night before, I was visited by Inspector Greene. We had a lengthy discussion punctuated by many threats and much concern over my future well-being. Shortly after, I climbed into a cab driven by Eddy’s odious coachman, Netley, and I led them to their apartment. I had been the one who found it for them, you see, and I rented it for them under a false name. Not a very hard thing to do around here.

  “I waited outside while they went in. There were six or seven of them. It only took a few minutes before I heard a woman screaming and a man shouting. Then they brought them down. Annie was naked and shrieking; Eddy was in his nightshirt. They put Annie in one cab and Eddy into another. All the time, Annie kept yelling for him, ‘George! Georgie! Why are they doing this? Help me!’”

  Sickert took a long pull from the bottle of whiskey. “I can still hear her screams.”

  “What happened then?” Arthur asked.

  “Their cabs took off in different directions, and Greene joined me in mine. We had another long discussion. I was told the consequences that would befall me if I ever spoke about what I had seen or about Eddy’s time in the East End. It seemed that I still enjoyed the protection of the princess but, as Greene pointed out to me, that protection would fade or disappear should certain things come out. Greene left me with no doubt that he would be happy to handle my ‘dispensation’ himself.

  “Through some old contacts, I’ve found that Annie had been taken to an asylum. What better place to put someone who kept screaming that her husband, the Duke of Clarence, was coming to rescue her? A few weeks ago, she was operated on.”

  “Operated on? For what? By whom?” I cried out.

  “A brain operation was performed by none other than Sir William Withey Gull. It was an operation for the express purpose of rendering her incapable of ever speaking about Eddy or even thinking beyond the most basic of thoughts. In short, he cut out her mind.”

  I remembered what Arthur had told me about the old man with such a cold heart—and I found myself believing every word that Sickert was saying.

  “But what about the baby? What happened to it?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t in the apartmen
t when they came for Eddy. Believe me, they’ve questioned me quite thoroughly about it. For my part, I’ve avoided asking about her. If I don’t know, they can’t get it from me.”

  The enormity of it all was starting to overwhelm me.

  “Perhaps now you understand,” Sickert went on, “what I was afraid of when you knocked on my door. I thought that you were Greene, come back to finish the job.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of telling us all this?” I said.

  “Not particularly. You’d already gotten most of it before you got here. I just gave you the rest of the details.”

  “And not worried that you’ve put our lives in danger as well?” Arthur said.

  “Worried? Arthur, I’m positively delighted by it!” Sickert laughed horribly, and I had to restrain myself from punching him.

  “There’s nothing more for us to learn here, Albert. Let’s go.”

  As we were walking towards the door, I noticed a canvas that was peeking out from behind the others. There was something about it that drew me, so I went over and pulled it out. It was a picture of Mary Kelly. She was sitting in a chair looking off to the left of the picture. She was wearing a dark dress with a flowery hat. Her features were soft and her face was sad, an emotion I hadn’t seen on her before. Sickert noticed me and came over.

  “Ah, you’ve found one of Mary. That was the first portrait I did of her. She’d just come to London. This was years ago, of course. She was much different then. This here was the last portrait I did of her, about six months ago.”

  He pulled out another painting, and it was as if I were looking at a different person. She was naked and draped over the sofa that was at the other end of the room. Her face was harsher, harder—and I felt that I could have been looking at a painting of a lion or tiger getting ready to pounce. It was not a pleasant feeling.

  “I don’t like to ask her to pose for me anymore. Sometimes, though, I don’t have any choice. She just shows up and makes me draw her.”

  After we left Sickert’s studio, it occurred to me that it might not have been Green that Sickert was afraid was at the door. I think that he was really afraid that it could have been Mary Kelly.