What Alice Knew by Paula Marantz Cohen

you’ll step this way, I’ll show you to the apartment of Madame James,” said the boy with an exaggerated bow.
    William seemed nonplussed by this childish formality, but Henry, with a greater understanding of how custom and ritual served to uphold the social structure, responded with a grave nod. “We’re much obliged to you, young man.”
    “Archie, get back here and stir the pot!” shouted Sally from the kitchen.
    “If you’ll excuse me, sirs, I’m called to duty elsewhere,” explained the boy. “Milady’s chambers is through that door, if you’d be so good as to find your own way.” Having apparently suffered the ire of Sally already and not wanting to repeat the experience, he ducked out of sight.
    Henry laughed after the boy left. “It’s a great thing to lift the lower classes.”
    “I suppose,” said William doubtfully, “though I suspect it only teaches a more elaborate form of servitude. The whole system offends my ideal of democracy.”
    “Your ideal of democracy would not work in this country. Your cutlery would be stolen and your daughter carried off before you had a chance to launch one of your progressive schools.”
    “A rather cynical way of looking at things.”
    “Not cynical; realistic. You speak continually about the importance of context. Well, context works in social settings as well. One doesn’t apply democratic ideals without an understanding of the history and customs of a people. Here, change happens incrementally, and giving the boy a uniform and a chance to stir the pot in Mayfair is a great leap forward from pilfering and worse in the East End.”
    William did not argue.
    When they entered Alice’s bedroom, their sister was sitting in her bed, munching on a piece of celery. “It’s supposed to be good for the digestion, only I hate it,” she grumbled, at which she threw the celery across the room, where Katherine, who had been sitting reading a newspaper, calmly picked it up.
    “I hope your visit to the East End was productive,” continued Alice, as though throwing celery were a perfectly normal part of her everyday activity.
    “I’m afraid we didn’t learn much,” said William, “though we had one intriguing interview with a woman who knew the second victim, Polly Nichols. She said that Polly used to visit a gentleman a few times a week in the area.”
    “But isn’t that what such women do?”
    William cleared his throat; his sister’s directness still embarrassed him. “Not insofar as Polly told our witness that she was being paid to do something else.”
    “And what was that?”
    “Unfortunately, we don’t know.”
    Alice looked annoyed. “Then you ought to find out, hadn’t you?”
    Before more could be said, Sally entered the room with a large casserole dish containing the oysters with mushrooms, and some time was spent ladling out portions.
    As they were being served, Alice turned to Henry. “Did you write anything interesting this afternoon?” she asked politely.
    “As a matter of fact,” said Henry, pleased to expound, “I have begun a new project, the dramatization of one of my works.”
    William made a slight choking sound, and Alice shot him a look. “A play, how nice.” She nodded. They ate without speaking for a few moments, until finally, Alice broke the silence, speaking to William of what clearly interested her most. “I assume you spent your afternoon at Scotland Yard examining the letters. Did you bring them for me to look at?”
    William put down his fork and took a sip of wine. As he did so, he touched his jacket pocket in a reflexive gesture.
    “You have them!” exclaimed Alice. “They’ve let you borrow them!”
    “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” said William, bringing his napkin to his lips and opening his eyes in mock innocence.
    “You see how he gives himself away?” Alice directed herself to Henry. “He can’t lie. He’s afraid he’ll go to hell if he does.”
    Henry shook his head. “I