Well, I'm a few chapters in now. It's hard going, let me tell you. Thank God I didn't pay for it. Some of the stuff about Sickert's childhood is quite interesting, but difficult to know what is fact and what is fiction. Certainly, anything that talks about Jack the Ripper is fiction. The second line of the book irritated for starters - 'The city was a carnival of wondrous things to do for as little as pennies if one could spare a few.' Well, the vast majority couldn't spare any, Ms. Cornwell, so yah boo shucks.
Chapter 2 starts with a heart-rending account of how harrowed she felt one lonely evening before Christmas 2001, when she bared her soul to her publisher/agent (I forget which - probably both). The poor little lamb was hollow within, knowing what she knew, hating the torment of being the only one to know who the Ripper was; hating the thought that she might be wrong but knowing with all certainty that she wasn't. Yadder, yadder, yadder.....it's quite nauseating.
This is closely followed by the 'startling' (!) admission that she didn't have a clue about Jack the Ripper until May 2001 when she visited London and was offered a tour of the Black Museum. She didn't know it was unsolved. She didn't know he killed prostitutes. She'd never read a book. And she still hasn't. Is anyone surprised? Honestly?
One of the most annoying things (and there's quite a few) is she will spend about a page or more describing a picture of Sickert's, but can't be bothered putting in a plate of it, for us to examine for ourselves. So we are left to believe her when she states that all women painted by Sickert have a dark line around their throats, which is not jewellry nor wrinkles. And another picture depicts a prostitute talking with a bearded man, who has his back partially towards us and who, she claims, gives the impression (useful word that, she employs it quite a lot) that he is holding a knife in his right hand and that his penis is exposed. Again, we must take her word for this, as no reproduction of the picture exists in the book.
Cornwell's argument is lame in the extreme, so far. I don't forsee it getting any better. Lewis Carroll was a better suggestion, and a better argument. She assumes all the letters (or at the very least the vast majority of them) were written by Sickert. As an artist 'obviously' he could disguise his handwriting.
Oh, and by the way, Sickert was also an ardent admirer of Hogarth. It's a pity Cornwell didn't look a bit further into that.
There is no proof. No evidence. Nothing. She just states Sickert was the Ripper - end of argument. She waffles on about police procedure and forensic examiners, citing her six years cleaning up, weighing organs and typing up notes as her experience which we are not at liberty to question. By that argument, my seven years as a legal secretary makes me a barrister.
It's all very wearing. I even read 'Scourge of the Swastika' in the middle of it (a lovely hardback copy of it my father in law elect bought me for Christmas, bless his little RAF socks!) The Other Half bought me a HUGE book on criminal profiling, which I may retreat into as this Cornwell crap is doing nothing for my blood pressure.
Nevertheless, I will persevere. I will tell you more, if you can bear it....
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa....