“Don’t tell me you have someone channeling the dead women of Whitechapel!” exclaimed William.
“Not all the dead women, James, my friend. Only one: Annie Chapman, the second victim.”
“Annie Chapman was the third victim,” corrected William.
“No. The one they’re putting out as the first, Mary or Martha someone, was killed by someone else. Or so Mrs. Lancaster claims.”
William was reminded that Abberline had his doubts that Martha Tabram was a Ripper murder victim. “And your source, Mrs. Lancaster, can put us…in touch…with Annie Chapman?”
“Under the proper circumstances, it appears that she can. She is, I should note, a very respectable sort of lady; her husband does something in the foreign office. One of her neighbors, whose daughter attends Newnham, alerted Nora of the woman’s trancelike states. We brought her to Cambridge for a week for study, and the results, while hardly definitive, were, if I may say so, promising.” Sidgwick settled back in his chair as though savoring the details of what he had to impart. “Her control is a ten-year-old girl, beaten to death by her father not far from where the Nichols woman was killed. Police reports check this out. Certainly worth your looking into, given the purpose of your visit, I should think.”
William agreed. He had not expected to consult a psychic medium about the Whitechapel murders, but Sidgwick had thrown one in his way, and he was not about to miss an opportunity to pursue truth when it presented itself.
“Would the lady be available for a…meeting?” He hesitated to use the word “séance,” cognizant of the vicious ribbing he would get from Alice.
“I’ve no doubt something could be arranged, no doubt at all,” rumbled Sidgwick. “She promised to be at my disposal anytime she was needed, day or night, so to speak. A very accommodating sort of woman—not the most prepossessing, I admit, but one can’t be picky there—but accommodating, which is not something you can say for all of them.”
“Well then,” said William, considering what would be best. “Could you ask her to come to my sister’s apartments tomorrow at around seven?” He made the proposition, knowing that Alice’s flat would suit the purpose, though knowing as well that to tell his sister about the arrangement might prove more daunting than communicating with spirits from another world. Nonetheless, he scribbled the address on a sheet of paper and handed it to his friend. “I assume you and Nora can be there.”
“I’m afraid not.” Sidgwick sighed. “We’re returning to Cambridge tonight; Nora is organizing a suffrage rally at the college. She’s been working on the thing for months—sashes, placards, all the standard paraphernalia. Must be there for moral support—spouse’s job, you know.”
“Of course, of course,” said William, wondering if he gave his wife the moral support that was a spouse’s job.
“But I’m sure Mrs. Lancaster will be fine without us. A fresh set of witnesses always helpful, you know.”
William agreed, thinking how the presence of Alice would provide an additional element. She was more than a fresh witness; she was a zealous skeptic.
Sidgwick was no longer concerned with channeling spirits. He had begun nodding pleasantly toward some of the men who had been shooting daggers at him and Nora only half an hour earlier. He pointed them out for William’s benefit. “That’s Crutchlow over there in the corner, faculty at the University of London. First-rate on Aristotelian concepts of virtue. And Pumley, the pockmarked one with the withered arm, foreign service, excellent piece in the Times last week on the Scottish Enlightenment. Young Pomeroy is to his right, very promising medical man at St. Barts, working on valves of the circulatory system.”
A few of these personages had wandered over. “William James of Cambridge, Massachusetts,” Sidgwick announced to the assemblage.
One of the younger men jumped forward and pumped William’s hand with enthusiasm. “William James! What an honor to meet you, sir! I greatly admire your work!”
William was about to ask whether he was referring to his work in psychology or in philosophy, when the young man offered his own explanatory commentary:
“Wonderful story of yours about that American girl who comes to England and makes a mess of things. Well observed! Psychologically astute! I couldn’t put it down!”
Chapter 17
At ten minutes to seven the next evening, Mrs. Lancaster was standing in the foyer of Alice’s flat. “I like to be punctual,” she announced blandly, “which means I take into account the possibility of delay and thus tend to arrive early.”
The announcement was not what one might have expected from a spiritualist medium as Alice imagined her. She had in mind bangles and scarves as well as a greater vagueness regarding time, and was, in truth, a bit disappointed with the unfestooned and uninflected person of Mrs. Lancaster.
Alice had spared William the difficulties he had imagined when he announced his intention of holding a séance in her apartment. Partly it was because of her guilt for being hard on him the day before. Partly it was because she was curious to see what a séance was like. She had heard about such things from her friends, and it all sounded very foolish, but it was, after all, a sort of adventure, even if a bogus one. If she could not climb a mountain or ride a horse, she could at least sit at a table as alleged spirits played with the lamps and banged on the walls.
To prepare for the event, she had gotten out of bed and dressed in the Chinese silk robe her aunt had sent her for her last birthday. It was an indeterminate sort of garment—something between an evening gown and a dressing gown—that had the advantage of being comfortable and hiding a body debilitated by erratic nourishment and lack of exercise. It had the additional value of giving her the free use of her limbs, should she want to move them under the table in an effort to explore (she had read about these psychic ladies and knew something of their modus operandi). She had thrown on a string of her mother’s pearls and had Katherine put up her hair in an elaborate chignon. In a word, she looked ready to preside over the séance herself.
The contrast, in fact, to the actual medium was noteworthy. Mrs. Lancaster was wearing a long, mustard-colored dress, an unflattering shade under any circumstances (Alice’s favorite color was pink), but particularly so given the woman’s sallow complexion. She was tall and angular, with the kind of unprepossessing features that one associates with a New England schoolmarm: thin lips, bushy eyebrows, and a nose that was extremely long and aquiline and of the sort likely to get very blue at the tip during the winter. She moved her mouth only slightly when she spoke, suggesting that she had bad teeth and, given the nasal quality to her voice, possibly a serious sinus condition. She had on a pair of worn black shoes that looked too large for her feet. Not at all the sort of woman one would have imagined channeling spirits, Alice thought, though with the secondary observation of the inveterate skeptic that this was precisely the get up that a shrewd operator in this line might choose to put her audience off their guard.
The round table normally in the corner of Alice’s bedroom had been moved into the adjoining study, where Katherine did household accounts. The room had been cleared of its books and papers, and five chairs had been arranged around the table. Mrs. Lancaster immediately took the seat facing the door, and Henry and William, who had been standing off to the side looking uncomfortable, sat down next to each other opposite her. This left Katherine to sit on Mrs. Lancaster’s left and Alice on her right. There had been some discussion about inviting the Sargents, but it was finally agreed that the fewer participants, the better. Sally had been told to remain in the kitchen and keep an ear open in case she was needed.