Death at Whitechapel (25 page)

“Thank you, but no,” she said, and gave him a small smile. “I think I shall spend a little time among the real people before I go back to Sibley House—although,” she added wryly, “I do not have quite the Romantic view of them that your Mr. Sickert seems to possess.”

“‘Romantic,'” Charles said, musing. “I don't think that's the right word for it, exactly. A Romantic looks at the dirt and finds it wonderful. Sickert seems to see both the hopefulness and the hopelessness at the same time, and manages to capture both. It's quite a complex view.”

“A complex view,” Kate said. “I shall have to think about that.”

 

Commercial Street was much as Kate had left it the day before, the massive gray bulk of Christ Church looming like a great shadow over the weary people, the homeless sleeping restlessly on the benches in Itchy Park, the factory girls in their dirty pinafores, the coal peddler with his sooty coat and half-empty barrow, the coal stolen, most like, from the London docks. Close behind the coal peddler came the gloomy rag-and-bone merchant with his cart, headed for Spitalfields Market.

But with Charles's remarks about Walter Sickert in mind, Kate tried to see Commercial Street from another, more “complex” view. She scanned the gray faces, tried to read enigmatic expressions, sought for some new insight. Was there life and energy here? Was there hope in what she had taken for utter hopelessness?

And little by little, she did see something she had not seen before. A small boy called Whistling Billy—scarcely more than ten, she thought—was dancing on the curb across from Spitalfields Market, to the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” which he played on his own tin whistle. On the pavement before him was a tray of tin whistles for which he was asking tuppence. She bought two, and he gave her a bright smile and a cheerful nod and swung into an energetic hornpipe, his feet a nimble blur. In front of the park was a penny profile-cutter plying his scissors, a frame of specimens tied to a nearby tree and a stout lady posed before him, whose profile he was cutting. Beside him sat a rack of small birdcages filled with bright yellow canaries, all warbling lustily. Across the way was an old man in a coachman's blue greatcoat, playing “The Sultan's-Polka” with many flourishes on a concertina, to a gathered crowd of mesmerized listeners. And behind him was Spitalfields Market, with its vast array of stalls and bins, wicker baskets and wooden boxes, cages of cackling hens and crowing cocks, and trays of lettuces and fresh vegetables.

Was this the life and energy that Walter Sickert had admired in the street people? Kate wondered. And now that she looked for evidences of this
elan
—if that's what it was—she saw it everywhere—a dirty kerchief, bright red and fringed, tied gaily around a neck; a shiny yellow feather tucked with a rakish flourish into an old felt hat; a morose horse with a circlet of purple paper flowers hung around his neck. The ragged skirt with a ruffle beneath, the frayed coat topped by a smart velvet hat, the flash of a gaudy brooch, the flair of a silk scarf. And now that she saw it, she thought she understood it for what it was—heroism of a sort, a kind of audacious daring that thumbed its nose at the worst life could offer, an enterprising arrogance that refused to be trod on, even by the worst adversity. Was that what Charles had meant by the phrase “humorous and melancholy at the same time,” to describe Sickert's perception of these streets, these people? She thought so, and was glad.

Seen with her new eyes, Duval Street did not look quite so dismal as it had the day before. The street was still mean and dirty, its cobbles still broken, the buildings still gray with smoke-smudge. But a lace curtain hung in one window and in another was a brave red geranium. A calico cat was curled gracefully on a pile of rags in a spot of sun, and even the filthy alley passageway into Miller's Court held one lovely thing, an iridescent pigeon feather that she bent to retrieve. The child was gone, the dog was gone, but the girl still sat in the doorway, her hands clasped around her ankles, her cheek upon her knee. Her hair was neatly brushed and fastened with a pair of tortoise shell combs, and she wore a blue shawl around her shoulders. At the sound of Kate's footstep, she looked up.

“Ellie?” Kate asked.

“How do you know my name?” the girl demanded suspiciously. And then, “I suppose Mrs. McCarthy told you.”

“No,” Kate said. A small wooden keg, empty, stood nearby. She pulled it up and sat down. “I saw your photographs in Mr. Finch's studio. At least, I think it is you.”

“He's dead, though, isn't he?” the girl said bitterly. “Somebody killed him.”

“He's dead,” Kate acknowledged, in a matter-of-fact tone. She paused. “Did you enjoy posing for him?”

Ellie pulled herself up straight, her dark eyes flashing. “Of course I did,” she said, and there was a great dignity in her tone. “I mean to be an actress. A
serious
actress. I mean to do Shakespeare.”

And with that, she stood—and was transformed. Her voice fell, became hushed, fearful. She began to scrub her hands together as if she were possessed.
“Out, damned spot!”
she whispered.
“Out, I say!”
She stopped scrubbing and began to whimper.
“One: two: why, then 'tis time to do 't.”
Then, raising her eyes and her voice, as if calling to some unseen presence:
“Hell is murky!—Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?” Then
hushed again, plaintive, weeping and half-laughing at the same time:
“Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him.”

Kate, amazed at this unexpected performance, burst into spontaneous applause. “Ellie!” she exclaimed, “that's splendid! A perfect Lady Macbeth!”

Ellie shrugged, herself again. “Thank you,” she said. She sat down and her voice grew dull. “But I doubt I'll ever get the chance to play her.”

Kate couldn't argue with that. Ellie had an extraordinary talent, there was no question about it. But under the circumstances, it was unlikely that she should have a chance at anything but the cheapest of music hall theater. Perhaps that was what Finch had seemed to offer when he took those photographs—a chance to move into serious theater. Perhaps that was why she sounded so bitter when she spoke of his death.

“I don't know very much about the stage,” Kate said at last, “but I have a few friends who do.” It was true—she was acquainted with Bram Stoker, who was the manager of Henry Irving's Lyceum. It wasn't impossible that Bram might give Ellie at least a bit part in one of his productions, for he was known to take a great interest in young people just beginning their careers. But it was certainly impossible for Ellie to begin from here.

Ellie gave her a cynical look, saying nothing in response to Kate's remark.

Kate, too, was silent. She could offer Ellie a place to work, a place to find enough quiet to prepare herself for the stage. But would the girl trust her enough to accept what might seem to be a curtailment of her freedoms? Would she accept what might seem to be charity? After a moment, she spoke.

“I have a home in Essex,” she said, “and am in need of a servant. If you should like to work for me and save enough to get a start, I shall introduce you to Bram Stoker, who manages the Lyceum.”

Ellie stared at her, disbelieving. “You're lying,” she said flatly. “You're one of those missionaries who wants to save souls. Well, you're not going to save mine, damn it! It's my soul and if I want to go to hell, I'll bloody well do it!”

Kate smiled a little. “I'm not a missionary,” she said. “It is true that I lied to you yesterday, but I'm not lying now.” From her purse, she took out a piece of paper and wrote her name and the directions to Bishop's Keep. She handed it, with five florins, to Ellie.

“Here is train fare plus a bit more and my address,” she said, and stood. “Think about it a little, and then think some more.” She paused.
“If it be now, 'tis not to come,”
she said softly.
“If it be not to come, it will be now
;
if it be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all.”

Ellie stared up at her, holding the florins as if she were ready to fling them away.

As Kate walked down the narrow alley, a ray of sunlight pierced the gloom. Something glinted at her feet and she bent to pick it up. It was a second pigeon feather, shining and iridescent, as beautiful as the first. She picked it up, retraced her steps, and handed it to Ellie.

“The readiness is all,”
she said.

 

 

T
he neighborhood in which Walter Sickert had settled was not much different from Cleveland Street, except for being livelier, rowdier, and seedier, with a good deal more cart and omnibus traffic. Hampstead Road was lined with cheap restaurants and French laundries and shabby shops, their windows pasted over with advertising placards. Peddlers' carts filled with penny trifles were parked along the curbs. Costers bawled, quacks haranged, and crowds eddied up and down, dressed in bright colors and the extremes of fashion. It was all, Charles thought as he turned the corner into Robert Street, wonderfully bohemian, a fine place for a painter whose inspiration fed on such liveliness and life.

Number 13 was at the Hampstead Road end of the street, in a row of dark-colored brick three-story buildings built flush with the sidewalks, with wrought-iron railings across the first-floor level, and tall, narrow windows at the second and third. Charles consulted the bell panel to the right of the door and found the initials
WRS
beside the words “Third floor front.” He went in, climbed the stairs, and stood for a moment outside the door. From inside came the sound of hammering. Charles waited until it stopped, then rapped sharply with his knuckles. In a moment, the door opened.

“I say,” the flush-faced man said, “I do hope you haven't been rapping long. If you have, I shouldn't have heard you.” His face cleared. “Hullo, it's Charles Sheridan, of all people! Well, come in, man! Glad you've caught me. I'm off to Dieppe again tomorrow.”

Walter Sickert's eyes were green, his hair sand-colored, and he wore a close-clipped beard and a drizzle of a golden mustache over his sensitive mouth. His collar was loose and he had rolled up his shirtsleeves for work. He still held the hammer in his hand.

“Off to Dieppe,” Charles said. “Well, then, I
am
glad I came today.” He looked around at the packing crates and the paintings stacked in wooden racks. “You're giving up your studio?”

“Not giving it up. Florence Pash will be using it while I'm gone. I thought I'd just pack up this lot to get it out of her way.” Sickert gestured to a crate. “Sit there, and I'll brew us up a spot of tea.” He placed a kettle on a gas burner on a shelf by the window and got down two cracked cups and a china pot. “You've heard, I suppose, that Nellie and I are about to write
finis
to our marriage.” He opened a package and poured loose tea into a tea ball and dropped it into the pot.

“I hadn't heard,” Charles said, “and I'm sorry.”

Sickert seemed to take the failure of his marriage as a small thing. “We haven't lived together for a couple of years. She lost patience with me, is what it amounts to.” He gave Charles a wry, self-deprecating grin. “Fidelity isn't one of my better qualities, I'm sorry to say. It is difficult for me to stay attached to one of the fair creatures for any longer than it takes to paint them.” He sat down on the crate opposite, pulled one leg over his knee, and folded his arms. “Marriage suits you?”

“It does,” Charles said. He returned the grin. “I should say that I have become profoundly attached to my wife.”

Sickert laughed. “Well, if one must be married, I suppose that is the kind of marriage to have. Now, what brings you here?”

“A long trail of clues,” Charles said.

“That's enigmatic enough. I daresay it was not the Princess who sent you, then.” He sounded wistful, and Charles wondered whether he was hoping for a commission. Sickert's shirt was frayed at the cuffs and the sole of his shoe was worn almost through.

“Not this time, I'm sorry to say,” Charles replied.

“However, Eddy has been much in my mind of late.”

Sickert looked away. “Oh, has he,” he remarked idly.

“As I remember it,” Charles said, “the two of you were rather close friends in the mid-eighties. Was that the Princess's doing?”

Sickert's chuckle was reminiscent. “She wanted me to introduce him to artistic society, she said—although I don't think she quite fathomed what that might mean. I was recommended” (he gave the word an ironic flavor) “by James Stephen, who was Eddy's tutor when he was getting ready to go up to Cambridge.”

“Eddie couldn't have been twenty,” Charles said, thinking that Sickert himself, at the time, must have been in his mid-twenties.

“He was just nineteen, and keen for art. Fancied himself a painter. His mother paints, you know,” Sickert added. “She saw the impulse to art in him, and wanted to encourage it. I think she also wanted to let him have a view of the world. The court is such an artificial place to grow up.”

“You gave him lessons?”

Sickert nodded. “And took him round to meet Whistler, of course—I was apprenticed to him then—and to art viewings. We ran into Oscar Wilde here and there, and Bernard Shaw, who lived at the top of Cleveland Street. Eddy was quite deaf, you know. The trait was passed on to him by his mother. It made him seem slow-witted sometimes, although that wasn't the case at all. ”