‘What did you think of Sickert?’ asked Daniel as they headed back to the National Gallery.
‘He’s an odious man. A very different kettle of fish from his sister.’
‘His sister?’ queried Daniel.
‘Helena,’ said Abigail. ‘Highly intelligent, honest, forthright, very caring about other people, unlike her brother. We were at Girton at the same time, although our courses were different. Mine was Classics, hers was psychology. She was appointed lecturer in psychology at Westfield. You may know her better as Helena Swanwick, the suffragette and campaigner for women’s rights. She married Frederick Swanwick, a lecturer at Manchester University.’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t know her at all,’ admitted Daniel. ‘But then, I don’t move in those circles. So you don’t approve of Walter Sickert?’
‘No I don’t. He preys on women, especially lower-class women. He’s vain and a blatant self-publicist. He’s a despicable person and I don’t believe we should be helping him.’
‘I agree with you about his character,’ said Daniel. ‘That was my impression of him when we interviewed him about the original Ripper murders. But this isn’t about whether we like him as a person, it’s about whether he’s guilty of these murders, or is he being framed by someone, as he alleges. This is about justice being done.’
‘What about natural justice?’ challenged Abigail. ‘These women he’s preyed on?’
‘Who all got paid, I believe,’ said Daniel.
‘I don’t know,’ said Abigail doubtfully. ‘Are you sure he’s not using you as some kind of smokescreen? For all we know he may well have done it, but because he knows from his previous experience of you that you’re an honest person who believes in justice, he wants you as protection, and also to aid his claims of innocence.’ She frowned and gave Daniel a puzzled look. ‘What was all that about when he had a go at you for discussing his equipment? He seemed really angry.’
‘When we brought Sickert in for questioning during the Ripper investigations, the guv’nor had the idea of giving him a medical examination, and we discovered that his penis was disfigured. It was a congenital defect. Not that it seemed to stop his sexual adventures.’
‘And he thought that was what I was referring to?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Daniel. ‘He’s very sensitive about it.’
‘I hope he was reassured that you hadn’t spoken about it to me. I was just getting back at him for presuming he could talk to a woman about her breasts.’
‘We don’t know he was going to say anything about your breasts,’ said Daniel. ‘You didn’t give him a chance to finish what he was saying.’
‘Why raise the subject if he wasn’t going to continue it?’ asked Abigail.
‘Yes, good point,’ admitted Daniel. ‘And Sickert’s perfectly capable of raising subjects like that, just to shock. He likes shocking people, which is why he’s quite proud of the fact that some people see his work as vulgar.’
Stanford Beckett was waiting for them when they arrived back at the National Gallery. Regretfully, they told him their mission had not been a success.
‘We saw Mr Sickert, who seemed to be in good spirits, but we were ordered off the premises by Chief Superintendent Armstrong. I’m afraid he seems extremely reluctant to release Sickert.’
Beckett gave a weary sigh. ‘I’m sorry you had an abortive journey,’ he said apologetically. ‘But I’ll arrange payment for your time on your usual terms. I hope that will be acceptable?’
‘Very acceptable,’ said Daniel.
They left the gallery and began their walk up Charing Cross Road towards Camden Town.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Abigail resignedly. ‘I didn’t like Sickert, but it’s a great pity that he remains in custody of that oaf Armstrong, who I’m sure will try and break him down and confess.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure if that’ll be the end of it,’ said Daniel. ‘From our point of view, yes. But Ellen Sickert isn’t the sort of woman to give up her husband that easily.’
Chief Superintendent Armstrong paced around his office as Inspector Feather scribbled down his superior’s instructions.
‘Anne-Marie Dresser’s movements,’ he said. ‘We need to find out who she saw the night she was killed. Who she was planning to see. Talk to her friends. Neighbours. Find out if any of them saw Sickert near that room of hers during the evening.’
‘He says he was at home the whole time, and that his wife will bear that out,’ pointed out Feather.
‘Balderdash!’ snorted the chief superintendent. ‘A wife’s alibi isn’t worth anything.’
‘He says his servants will back it up. And there’s this character …’ He flicked back through his notebook. ‘Edwin O’Tool.’
‘A complete figment,’ derided Armstrong. ‘Sickert’s the one. All we’ve got to do is break his alibi, and we do that by proving he and this woman Dresser saw one another that night.’
There was a loud and imperious knock at the door. Before Armstrong could say ‘Come in!’, the door had been pushed open and the tall and bulky figure of Sir Bramley Petton was framed in the doorway. Petton was a very well-known barrister, possibly one of the most familiar faces at the Old Bailey. He was in his sixties, with a mass of unruly greying hair, and a large stomach that battled to burst out of his very expensive tailor-made suit. He carried a bulky envelope under one arm. Petton eyed Armstrong and Feather with a glinting and accusing glare, developed over many years interrogating witnesses in the highest courts in the land.
‘Chief Superintendent Armstrong,’ he boomed, his voice filling the office.
‘Indeed, Sir Bramley,’ said Armstrong. ‘What can I do for you?’
By way of answer, Petton dropped the bulky envelope on Armstrong’s desk.
‘You can release my client, Mr Walter Sickert.’
Armstrong stared at the barrister, bewildered. Petton pointed at the large envelope he’d just deposited.
‘These are signed affidavits from Mrs Ellen Sickert and four of the servants of the Sickert household which swear to the fact that Mr Walter Sickert was at home during the evening and the night of the 14th February, when this heinous crime was committed. Also, there was one Edwin O’Tool, a carpenter, who Mr Sickert had invited to celebrate with him. They drank copiously and Mr O’Tool was obliged to stay the night on the floor of the Sickert’s drawing room next to the settee. Mr Sickert occupied the settee. If Mr Sickert had got up during the night, he would have trodden on Mr O’Tool and woken him. Ergo, Chief Superintendent, my client did not and could not have been murdering and disembowelling anyone that night. Therefore, I insist you release him from custody. Failure to do so will result in my presenting these affidavits to the police commissioner and the home secretary for them to authorise his release.’
Armstrong fixed the barrister with a grim look.
‘There was absolutely no reason for this overreaction—’ he began.
‘Overreaction!’ exploded Petton.
‘… because I had already decided to release Mr Sickert. Is that not so, Inspector?’ he said, turning to Feather.
Feather looked at him in awkward surprise, then at Bramley Petton, before saying, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘But by all means leave these affidavits here,’ continued Armstrong. ‘They may contain evidence that will help us in our investigation.’
Petton gave him a withering look and gathered up the envelope. ‘These are the property of our firm,’ he said. ‘If you decide to take Mr Sickert into custody again, then, and only then will they be relinquished to you. I look forward to my client being released and brought to me.’
Armstrong swallowed, then turned to Feather.
‘Inspector, have Mr Sickert released and taken to the reception area.’ He turned to Petton. ‘You may collect him there, Sir Bramley.’