William recalled that Mrs. Lancaster, the medium, was married to someone in the foreign office; she too had tried to finger a Jewish subject, although there had also been that odd moment when she veered off from this line, almost, it seemed, against her will. He could not forget her insistence on the killer’s stained fingers.
His thoughts turned to the nude photograph of Polly Nichols. He remembered the odd expression on the face of the woman in that picture who would become Jack the Ripper’s first victim. He was now convinced, with Abberline and Mrs. Lancaster, that Polly was the first, not the second. Despite her nakedness, she had looked dignified, even proud, in the photograph, not the usual expression of a prostitute who sold her body for money. William sensed this piece was important, though he did not know why. Where was the photograph taken? Who had taken it? And how had it gotten into Benjamin Cohen’s shop?
“The picture of Polly Nichols—I want to study it,” he said to Abberline. “And the address of Benjamin Cohen. Could you please make it available to me?”
It seemed he would get his chance to visit the bookstalls of Whitechapel after all.
Chapter 21
Alice was perusing the letters that William had handed over, jotting down occasional thoughts between dozing, when there was a knock at her door, and Archie peeked in, a parcel under his arm.
“Pardon any disturbing of you, mum, but a man was by from Mr. John Singing Sargent who said as how I should give it to you.”
Alice beckoned to the boy to approach her bed and took the parcel, which she supposed was the painting John had promised to brighten up. She must remember, she thought to herself, to refer to John in the future as “John Singing Sargent.”
“Sit here a moment, Archie,” she said to the boy, patting the bed, “and keep me company for a moment. I get lonesome sometimes, you know.”
The boy perched himself on the side of the bed. “I have some tricks for keepin’ the lonesomeness away if you wanna hear ’em, mum,” said Archie.
“Please,” said Alice.
“Well, when my mum would leave me alone for days and days, I would tell myself stories. I’d make as I had friends comin’ by and ud tell ’em the stories bit by bit, like in them Arabian Nights that the ol’ lady told me ’bout later. It passed the time. But I don’ suppose you’d need that, seein’ as how you have your books and newspapers, and your brothers too. That’s nice to have family.”
“Do you miss your mother and father?” asked Alice.
“Can’ say I miss what I never ’ad,” said the boy. “Not as I blame ’em, havin’ all the troubles they did; they coulden very well think on me. I kep’ track of ’em, though, ’specially my mum.” The boy’s face grew dark, and Alice suspected that he might blame himself for her death.
“What do you mean you kept track?”
“I were always good at followin’ people, without them knowing, that is. So I used to follow my mum when she went places. Not as she went out much, ’specially toward the end. But that day she did, an’ I followed ’er. She went to the church and lit a candle for me brother as died, and stayed there for a long time. It was the las’ thing she did afore she done away wi’ ’erself. I used to follow my dad too. Mostly ’e went to those places where they lie around with pipes lookin’ like they’re dead.”
“Opium dens,” said Alice matter-of-factly. “I’m told they can ease pain and misery, but at the cost of deadening the mind. You must never do that, Archie. We must bear whatever pain we have and keep our minds sharp.”
“And why’s that, mum?”
“Because our minds are the one thing we have that is truly ours—that no one can take from us. To be able to think is a rare and precious thing, to be protected, no matter what happens to us.”
“I can see that, mum.”
“So you’ve gotten along without parents,” said Alice. “You’re a strong boy.”
“It’s not as I diden wanna have ’em,” said the boy. “I saw other chaps whose mums worried ’bout whether they ’ad a hole in their trousers or a button gone. I used to say, ‘My mum’s gonna whup me for losing that there button,’ jus’ so it would look like someone cared as I lost it. But no one did.”
“Well, we care here,” said Alice. “And if you lose any buttons, you will have me to answer to. I hope you can begin to feel at home with us.”
“I do, mum. I feel I got a home now more swell than any a the rest of ’em. Sally, she’s like a sister, only stric’ like a mum. I likes it when she yells at me, which is jus’ as well, as she yells at me a lot.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” said Alice, feeling that she ought to have the boy leave the room before she burst into tears. “Tell Sally that she is to continue to yell. And now, I think, I’ll rest a bit. Please close the door quietly when you leave.”
After he had gone, Alice took Sargent’s parcel from the bed table, where she had placed it. Under the brown wrapping, the painting had been wrapped in newspaper. She carefully spread the paper out on the bed to reveal the picture. Sargent’s masterful rendering of the woman in the red cloak shimmered with new luster under the application of a fresh coat of varnish. She let her gaze rest on the painting for a few minutes, and then her attention wandered to the newspaper on which it lay. Her glance stopped with a jolt. “Of course,” she muttered excitedly to herself, her eyes fastened on the page. “Of course. I understand now!”
Chapter 22
Two hours later, when the brothers arrived at Alice’s apartment in response to her message to come at once, they found her in bed nibbling on a brioche. Her eyes were very bright.
“You’re in time for tea—or rather coffee, since that’s what we’re having this afternoon. And you must try one of these,” she said, motioning to the basket of brioches next to a dish of fresh butter and a jar of preserves. “They’re as light as air, thanks to a recipe that Katherine got from Fanny Kemble, and that Fanny got from the divine Sarah Bernhardt. It’s a brioche with a dramatic genealogy.”
The brothers sat down at the little corner table and began eating the brioches and sipping the Moroccan coffee that Sally poured into the large mugs that had been given to Alice by her friend, Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Mrs. Ward had an idolatrous admiration for the late Dickens, and the mugs, which she liked to give as gifts, were painted with characters from Dickens’s novels. Henry found the whole thing very gauche (though perhaps he was jealous). He had at first refused to drink from a mug until Alice said that if he didn’t, it would make more work for Sally, at which he relented and took the one with the picture of Mr. Micawber on it.
They drank their coffee, while Alice kept silent as Henry maligned the mugs and William noted that strawberry preserves were better in America. Suddenly she burst out, unable to contain herself any longer. “I called you here on such short notice because I have an idea about the murders.”
The brothers looked at each other.
“We await illumination,” said William.
“We are all ears,” said Henry.
Alice ignored their facetious tone and continued excitedly, “It began with certain observations that I made while studying the letters. I examined them closely after that horrible Lancaster woman left and was struck, first, by the handwriting. We’ve already discussed the misspellings as exhibiting what William called ‘disingenuous illiteracy.’ The handwriting appears to show a similar tendency; it is artificially awkward.”