“It is,” responded Sidgwick, “and this is precisely what Nora hopes to change. The club was formed to serve the graduates of Oxford and Cambridge. Newnham is Cambridge’s first female college, just as Girton is Oxford’s, but the bylaws have not been amended to reflect this, and Nora, as head of one of these female institutions, protests the fact strenuously.”
Nora, who sat by while her husband explained her position, did not appear to be protesting strenuously, but she did look very charming as she nodded in agreement. “I stumbled on the idea while reading your Henry Thoreau,” she said languidly. “He refused to pay his taxes. I’m acting on the same principle.”
“Not an exact analogy,” acknowledged Sidgwick, “but close enough.”
“Henry Thoreau went to jail,” noted William.
“Nora’s intention precisely,” said Sidgwick. “She feels it would be good publicity for the movement. Unfortunately, she can’t get anyone to arrest her.”
“Englishmen are cowards,” explained Nora. She glanced around the room, and the men who had been staring at her immediately averted their gazes.
“We British tend to hope the cold shoulder and the venomous stare will do the work of prescribed legislation, which is why reform grinds exceedingly slow in this country,” said Sidgwick.
“Since I don’t think they have the courage to arrest me, I might as well leave,” said Nora, sighing. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor James. I look forward one day to meeting your wife. Perhaps you will visit us in Cambridge. The Newnham girls are very good with children, so she could rid herself of the albatross of childcare and enjoy herself.”
William assured her he would relay the message, wondering whether his Alice had ever considered childcare to be an albatross.
“And send my regards to your sister,” she added. “I hear she is not well. She might find some relief in spiritualism. We would welcome her as a member of the SPR.”
William explained that his sister was too much of a skeptic to entertain ideas beyond the realm of the empirical.
“Well then,” said Nora, “perhaps we can find common ground elsewhere. I have also heard that she has a strong feeling for social justice. Perhaps she can come sit with me and weather the stares of the ossified members. It would be a nice touch to have an invalid who could barely walk thrown out of the club.”
“That is the sort of thing that would appeal to her,” agreed William, “if she could get up the strength to get out of bed.”
“The prospect of being thrown into the street might be an incentive for her to do so,” said Nora shrewdly. She had risen from the table and begun putting on her cloak.
The eyes of every man in the room registered relief as they watched her leave, and as soon as she was out the door, the young waiter came over to take the men’s drink order.
William turned to Sidgwick, pleased finally to be able to speak in person with someone he had long admired. “A great honor to meet the author of the Methods of Ethics.”
“The admiration is mutual,” Sidgwick responded. “Most illuminating, your treatise on habit. It is, as you rightly say, the foundation for moral character—on the one hand, ensuring discipline and virtue; on the other, blinding us to wonders that may exist beyond our daily routine. Which is why we must not let the skeptics close our eyes to the possibility of other worlds and the otherworldly.”
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’” agreed William. It was the premise on which both men rationalized their interest in psychical phenomena. “You are not deterred after that fiasco with Madame Blavatsky?” he asked gingerly. He was referring to the alleged medium Sidgwick’s group had discovered, but who was found to have fabricated a large swath of her personal history.
“That was a disappointment.” Sidgwick sighed. “But I still hold that the woman possesses extraordinary capabilities; a little charlatanism ought not to be a complete disqualification.”
William nodded. It was precisely his view. One fraud, even fifty or a thousand, did not mean that the subject was closed. All you need is one white crow to destroy the assumption that all crows are black.
“And now, what brings you to London, my dear fellow?” asked Sidgwick with a pointed look that seemed to know the answer, supporting the general assumption that he had psychic powers of his own.
“I’m here to investigate the Whitechapel murders.” William had not intended to give a reason for his visit, but the question had been so direct and so knowing that he felt he could not evade it.
Sidgwick’s eyes brightened. “I suspected as much,” he exclaimed, slapping William heartily on the shoulder. “How surprisingly intelligent of those duffers at Scotland Yard! You’re just the person we need to shed light on the case. And I must say that our meeting today is a happy accident—if there is such a thing as accident. It happens that I have access to”—he cleared his throat—“evidence…that you may find uniquely useful.”
“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.
Mrs. Lancaster indicated that the lights in the room should be dimmed and the shades drawn. The result was dark, though not as black as Alice had heard some mediums required in order to work.
“We must all hold hands,” said Mrs. Lancaster, taking Alice’s hand in her bony fingers. “The spirits find it consoling to know that we are united.”
“Is there music?” asked Henry. “I like a bit of music.”
“No music,” said Mrs. Lancaster curtly.
Henry coughed and then sniffed slightly. “Can I get out my handkerchief, or will that bother the spirits?”
“Shh,” said William. “You don’t have to play the prima donna all the time. Just sit still and be quiet.”
The group remained silent for a few minutes.
“I don’t know that I’m getting anything,” said Mrs. Lancaster. “There is a great deal of negative energy in the room.”
“Maybe if I could blow my nose?” asked Henry.
“Blow your nose, for God’s sake, and be done with it,” snapped William.
Henry blew his nose, and the group returned to silence.
Suddenly there were two loud raps that Alice felt must have come from under the table. She moved her leg quickly against Mrs. Lancaster’s and felt a tremor in the muscles of the woman’s calf, though so slight, it seemed hardly enough to produce the loud noises she had just heard. There was no time to explore further, for Mrs. Lancaster began to shake violently. She continued to hold Katherine’s and Alice’s hands, but the shaking grew so violent that everyone around the table was pushed from side to side.
“Oh my!” said Henry. “I’m not cut out for so much exercise.”
“Shh!” said William.
Mrs. Lancaster’s teeth began to chatter, and her eyes rolled back in their sockets. If she had not been much to look at before, she was definitely not a pretty sight now.
“Perhaps we should call a doctor,” murmured Henry.
“Shh!” said William.
Mrs. Lancaster sat bolt upright, her eyes wide open. Her face, harsh and bony in its natural outline, appeared to soften. Her eyes grew bright, and her mouth shaped itself into a pout. In an uncanny eruption, a child’s voice suddenly cried out, “I wants some cake! I wants some cake!”
Everyone looked at Mrs. Lancaster in wonder.
“Mayn’t I have some cake?” the voice cried again.
“It seems she wants cake,” murmured Henry.
“Mayn’t I have some cake, mum, please?” The voice, which had been demanding, had turned to a plaintive whine. “It’s cake I want; please, Mum, please!”
Alice, who had been staring raptly at Mrs. Lancaster’s transformed features, called out to Sally, who appeared in the doorway, and at the sight of the medium’s contorted visage, looked like she was about to faint.
“No need to be frightened, dear,” said Alice, who herself sounded a bit shaky. “Please go to the cupboard and bring some of that lemon cake that Mrs. Woolson brought over the other day.”
Sally disappeared and returned with a platter with a cake on it.
“Put it in front of the lady,” instructed Alice, so that Sally, her hands trembling, deposited the cake in front of Mrs. Lancaster and then quickly ran from the room.
“There’s your cake, dear,” said Alice. She took hold of Mrs. Lancaster’s arm and directed it toward the cake. Mrs. Lancaster placed her hand in the cake and began to shovel it into her mouth.
She kept shoveling until the cake smeared her face and the front of her dress.
“Someone needs to learn some manners,” murmured Henry.
“Shh!” said William.
After several minutes of cramming the cake into her mouth, Mrs. Lancaster leaned back. “Good cake,” said the child’s voice.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Alice. “Now tell us your name, little girl,” she said.
“I’s Cassie Bartram,” said the voice.
“And how old are you, Cassie?”
“I be nine or ten, not sure which one,” said the voice.
“And why are you here?”
“I comes here sometimes to speak through this lady. Don’t know why I do, but she’s easy to go through when I’s something I need to say.”
“And you have something you need to say now?”
“I do. I do. It’s from Annie—that’s a lady here I know who had a hard time of it. She been good to me, and so I said I’d do as I can for her over on this side.”
“What do you need to tell us about Annie?”
“I gotta tell that she been killed. Like me. On’y worse than me. Me dad, he jus’ hit me real hard, and it kinda busted my head. It weren’t that he meant to kill me; he just got mad like he always done, but this time he hit too hard. But Annie, she got stabbed with a knife. That’s worse than hitting.”
“Where was she stabbed?” asked Alice.
What Alice Knew Page 10
