by John Boyne
The formal practice of medicine therefore became an aspiration which Hawley was forced to put out of his mind for ever. However there were other courses, less expensive ones, through which he could indulge his fascination with science, and he began to investigate these, numbing his disappointment by convincing himself that this was the next best thing. In an issue of The Medical Practitioner’s Bi-Monthly Review, he read that the Medical College of Philadelphia offered a correspondence course in general health studies which, over the course of a twelve-month period, could lead to a diploma. It cost $60, an expense which would eat into his income over the year, but he decided it was worth it, applied and was quickly accepted as a student.
In order to fund the diploma, he went in search of a night job and was offered a position in the McKinley-Ross Abattoir where, from nine p.m. until six a.m., three nights a week, he received the carcasses of sheep or cattle, and skinned them, gutted them, cleaned out their entrails and sliced them up.
Although Jezebel and Samuel were horrified, it seemed a natural job for Hawley to do while beginning his studies. He had spent enough long nights tracing his finger around the various parts of the human body depicted in his Gray’s Anatomy, learning their names and functions, understanding how easily each could be broken or worn down. He knew where the weak points of ligaments and tendons lay and, although he had never sliced a knife through a cadaver as yet, he had dreamed about it and had decided already where each incision would be most appropriate for the cleanest possible dissection. Although it wasn’t ideal, he rather relished the idea of being presented with a recently dead animal and having full responsibility for separating its bones from its muscles, its skin from its organs, collecting the blood separately and delivering the corpse into chops for the dinner table. While some might have found the process disgusting, Hawley Harvey Crippen found himself licking his lips at the thought of what lay ahead.
On his first evening at McKinley-Ross, he was partnered by a sixty-two-year-old veteran of the abattoir named Stanley Price who, he was informed, would train him at the craft. A skinny devil with a slightly humped back and grizzly white hair, the first thing Hawley noticed about his teacher was the fact that his hands were lined in red from thirty-seven years of chopping up dead animals, the pores so deeply dyed that the innards of millions of animals could be identified all over his exposed skin. ‘All the washing in the world won’t take that away,’ Price told him proudly. ‘I’ve got more blood on my hands than any of them murderers in Chokey. And I’m better with a knife. You ever cut up a dead animal before?’
‘Never,’ Hawley admitted, laughing as if the idea was preposterous. As if he had spent the long, lazy summer days of his Michigan youth randomly slicing dogs and cats open on his front porch.
‘Got the stomach for it?’
‘I believe so. I’m studying to be a doctor with the Medical College of Philadelphia.’ This was only a white lie; the recipients of diplomas in general health studies from the MCP were not entitled to call themselves doctors, although they did clearly have some medical training. Hawley thought there would be little to lose by boosting his credentials a little and that it might even earn him some respect.
‘And if you’re studying in Philly, what the hell are you doing still in Michigan?’
‘It’s a correspondence course,’ he explained.
‘A correspondence course to be a doctor?’ the older man asked sceptically.
Hawley nodded and stood firm.
They stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes before Price breathed in heavily through his nose and, shaking his head, looked away. ‘Don’t come to my rescue if you see me falling over, sick. A doctor by correspondence course,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘What’s the world coming to?’
‘How many animals do we cut up a night?’ Hawley asked, wanting to change the subject and return to the business at hand. He tried to phrase his question in as serious a tone as possible, not wishing to sound bloodthirsty.
‘Me, I can go through five cows on a good night and maybe two or three sheep for variety. All the way, from just dead to sliced up for mincemeat. You?’ He looked the boy up and down as if he had never seen a less likely candidate before. ‘Your first few months, you’ll be lucky to manage one a night without assistance. It’s not a question of numbers, Crippen. Remember that. You have to have the same level of skill for each animal, and if that means you only do one-fifth the work of someone else, well, so be it. But don’t rush a job just to move on to the next one. You’ll ruin the meat.’
‘Right,’ said Hawley, bouncing from foot to foot and feeling the blood rise within him in his excitement. ‘So when do we get started, then?’
‘Anxious, ain’t you?’ said Price. ‘Well, don’t worry, we’ll be starting soon enough. Soon as that bell over there sounds.’ He nodded towards the clock on the wall which was edging towards nine o’clock. The day shift of abattoir workers finished at seven p.m., when the cleaners came in and scrubbed the floors, disinfecting the workbenches in time for the night shift to begin. McKinley-Ross never shut. There were always slaughtered animals to be cut up.
Finally the bell sounded and the doors opened; the forty night-shift workers entered a long corridor along which hung rows of pristine white jackets, such as scientists might wear in a laboratory.
‘It’s one size fits all around here,’ Price said. ‘So just take the first one that comes to hand and let’s get to work. Don’t know why they bother with them myself. They’re all covered in blood by the time we’re finished.’
Hawley took a jacket and put it on, enjoying the fact that its appearance made him feel like a real doctor. He grinned at Stanley Price, who stared back at him suspiciously, shaking his head as if he was watching an idiot child being led to his execution, completely unaware that what lay ahead would not be pleasant.
Price walked towards a corner of the massive auditorium within and looked around, pointing out the various features to his new protégé. ‘Over here’s all our tools,’ he said. ‘Saws, carvers, slicers, all sharpened twice a day. Don’t bother testing the blades with your fingers unless you want to lose one of them. A hose over here where we can wash blood away into the drain. Gets collected down below.’ He nodded towards the corner of the floor where a sudden steep slope indicated where it would disappear. ‘When we get started, we press this button.’ He reached out and pressed a green button by a conveyor belt, and it immediately chugged into action. All around the massive room, Hawley could hear similar buttons being pressed and in a moment a series of dead animals entered the room on an overhead conveyor belt, hooked through the neck by massive steel claws. ‘You struck gold,’ Price said in a dry voice. ‘We got a cow.’
Sure enough, the body of a cow turned slowly around on the conveyor until it was situated directly over the drain, at which point Price pressed a red button and the animal clunked to a stop, rocking back and forth on its hook precariously. Hawley reached forward and touched the skin; it was cold and the hairs were slightly extended forward along the neck, much like the hairs on his own forearms which bristled attentively. The cow’s eyes were open and stared back at him, massive dark pools of blackness in which, when he leaned forward, he could see his own reflection.
‘All we need’s the torso,’ said Price, ‘so first things first. Press that green button again till the cow’s over the bench.’
Hawley did as he was asked, and then Price reached to one side and pulled a yellow lever downwards, a movement which took some force. Hawley jumped back in shock as the cow appeared to come to life before his eyes. In fact, the lever had extended the hook backwards so that the animal’s head was slowly turned around. When it was released, the carcass fell the remaining distance directly on to the workbench with a massive thud. Years of experience had ensured that, when the older man pressed any button or pulled any lever in this room, he knew exactly when to stop it and, sure enough, the cow had landed directly on its side, in a perfect position for th
e amputations to follow.
‘We need to cut off the head,’ said Price in a calm voice. ‘Then the tail and each of the legs. Then we’ll drain the body of blood, skin it, take out the organs, hose down the cadaver that remains and chop it up for the dinner table. How’s that sound to you, sonny?’
This was not the first time that Price had trained a new recruit in the art of reducing a recently killed animal to its basic components and he took a perverted pleasure from the way each one of them, even the most hardy, waited until this very moment, after that very speech, to step backwards awkwardly and reach a hand to their mouth before running, charging out of the room into the cold air beyond, where they would throw up whatever dinner they had been foolish enough to swallow earlier. But now, for the first time in years, he looked across at his trainee and saw, not the disgusted face of a novice, squeamish and terrified, but instead a serious-looking young man whose cheeks, if anything, had gained some colour. And was he seeing things, or was that the beginnings of a smile stretching across the youngster’s face?
‘My oh my,’ he said, surprised at what he saw, even a little disturbed. ‘You are a cold one, ain’t you?’
3.
Mrs Louise Smythson’s First Visit
to Scotland Yard
London: Thursday, 31 March 1910
Not even her closest friends could have suggested that Mrs Louise Smythson was a friend to the working classes. A product of a poverty-stricken upbringing herself, she had dragged herself out of the gutter and felt nothing but contempt for those still wallowing there. When she had met her future husband Nicholas, she had been working as a barmaid at the Horse and Three Bells public house in Bethnal Green. He had been smitten by her beauty immediately, while she had been won over by his silver cigarette case, the oak carved cane he carried and his gentleman’s manners. When she served him at the bar and he opened his wallet to reveal a brace of £20 notes, it only added to the attraction. After serving him a frothy beer followed by a small brandy, she had whispered to her friend Nellie Pippin that she would marry the young man seated at the corner table poring over The Times or die in the attempt. Six months later, still alive, she married him in a small ceremony in a church off Russell Square, in Bloomsbury, attended only by his closest family members, many of whom were heard to say that the pretty girl with the affected vowels had landed on her feet and no mistake.
Still, married they were, and from that moment Louise decided that being the wife of a gentleman automatically made her a lady. In this she was incorrect. She refused to speak to any of her family any more—‘Common as muck, most of ’em, ain’t got no manners, can’t even speak proper, none of ’em, not even ol’ Uncle ’Enry and ’im as ’ad three years of schoolin’ when ’e were a lad’—and didn’t even acknowledge her old friends. She developed an eye for fashion by sitting in her upstairs bay windows, watching the well-dressed ladies walk by, writing down what they were wearing in a notebook and presenting its contents to her tailor, demanding that he reproduce them exactly. She bought the latest and most stylish shoes and hats and she insisted on eating out almost every night of the week in popular society restaurants, where she ate little because she was conscious of her figure and dined mainly off the luxurious atmosphere. Nicholas, a man with few brains but a lot of money, continued to dote on her, always giving in to even her most outlandish demands, and his own friends finally grew to accept that love can be not only blind but also lacking in taste.
Although she was quite fond of her brother-in-law—he had, after all, played an important part in convincing the Smythson family that Nicholas should be allowed to marry whomever he wanted, even if she was a cheap tart with no class or upbringing to speak of—Louise’s dearest wish was that the Honourable Martin Smythson would die. It was well known that he suffered from all manner of ailments, including a dislocated vertebra, one nonfunctioning kidney, an arthritic knee and a heart flutter, and that he had been in and out of hospital all his life. His own father was also at death’s door, which meant that Martin would soon inherit the title of Lord Smythson. Recently married himself, Louise prayed nightly that he would succumb to one of his illnesses before his wife found herself with child, otherwise the possibility of the title passing to Nicholas would fade. She was determined to become Lady Smythson, and if that meant leaving a few extra windows open when Martin came to visit, or undercooking his meat a little, well what of it? It was all in a good cause.
On the morning of Thursday, 31 March 1910, however, thoughts of the dress she would wear to any of her in-laws’ funerals at some future date were at the back of her mind as she marched determinedly along Victoria Embankment towards the offices of New Scotland Yard to report a murder.
It was at breakfast that morning when she had come to her decision. She had been thinking about it all night, ever since the meeting of the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild the previous evening at the home of her friend Mrs Margaret Nash. In fact she had hardly slept when she had returned home, and for once it had not been the snoring of her husband in the bed beside her that had kept her awake. Sitting at their breakfast table by the bay windows in the living room shortly before nine, the window above them open to let in a little fresh morning air, he had been surprised by her air of distraction, watching her, half amused, as she spread the jam on her toast before the butter and, realizing her mistake, sought to eat it quickly rather than draw comment.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Nicholas asked, taking his pince-nez off his nose and peering at her, as if his spectacles hindered his sight.
‘Perfectly fine, Nicholas. Thank you for asking,’ she replied formally.
‘It’s just you seem a little distrait,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’
She sighed and decided to confide in him. ‘I didn’t, if you want to know the truth,’ she said in a sad voice. ‘I had a conversation last night that’s left me not knowing what to think.’
Nicholas frowned. His wife was not normally as mysterious as this. He rang the small bell on the table and when the maid came he asked her to clear away the breakfast things, informing her that they would take coffee by the fireplace. Sitting on the sofa, Louise thought the whole thing through then turned to her husband. ‘I was at my meeting last night,’ she began. ‘You know, the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild?’
‘Of course, my dear.’
‘And I was talking to Margaret Nash. We talked of many things, but eventually the conversation turned to Cora Crippen.’
‘To whom?’
‘Cora Crippen, Nicholas. You know Cora. You’ve met her several times. A lovely woman. A fine singer. She was married to Dr Hawley Crippen.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ he said, remembering. ‘Bit of a milksop, that Crippen man, if you ask me. Bit hen-pecked. Let his wife bully him something dreadful. Decent enough sort, other than that, I expect.’
‘Nicholas, really! The poor woman has only been dead a short time. You can hardly speak ill of her at a time like this.’
‘But hadn’t you decided not to talk to her again?’ he asked, recalling an unpleasant event at the Crippens’ home a few months earlier. ‘That’s right, she insulted you and you determined to have her expelled from the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild.’
‘She was upset, Nicholas.’
‘She was drunk.’
‘Really, you shouldn’t speak in that way about someone who isn’t alive to defend themselves. And I didn’t plan on having her expelled. I merely thought she should reconsider her actions in polite society.’
‘I apologize, my dear. That was insensitive of me.’
She shook her head, dismissing it. ‘The thing is,’ she continued, ‘that Margaret mentioned seeing Dr Crippen a few weeks before at the theatre. Andrew was entertaining some business associate in London—apparently he’s a bit of a drama buff—and they all went to see a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the West End. And during the interval they were having a drink in the crush bar when Margaret saw Dr Crippen standing nearb
y. Now, she hadn’t seen him since we all heard about Cora going off to America and then dying there, so naturally she went over to say hello to him and offer her condolences.’
‘Naturally,’ said Nicholas.
‘Of course she was surprised to see him there at all. The poor woman had only been gone a couple of weeks. It did seem a little heartless to come out in society so soon.’
Nicholas shrugged. ‘We each of us deal with loneliness in different ways, my dear,’ he suggested quietly.
‘Of course, and it’s neither here nor there, but still one can’t help but feel a little ashamed of his behaviour. Anyway, when Margaret approached him, Dr Crippen was actually quite rude to her, speaking for only a few moments before walking away.’
‘Well, perhaps he was upset. Perhaps he didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘But he had a young lady with him, Nicholas. A pretty young thing, apparently, but rather common. That young woman we met at the Crippens’ house one evening, the one with the scar running from her nose to her lip. You remember her?’
‘Vaguely,’ said Nicholas, not recalling her at all.
‘The first time we went there. Over a year ago now. When that nice young man who was lodging with them was so entertaining,’ she added, remembering the young man, whose name was Alec Heath, fondly.
‘I’m sure I was there, Louise,’ he replied. ‘But really, I can’t be expected to remember every social function I attend, can I?’
‘Whether or not you remember the woman is immaterial,’ she said irritably. ‘The point is, she was wearing a blue sapphire necklace that Mrs Nash had seen Cora wear on several occasions in the past, along with a set of earrings that she knew to be her favourites. Don’t you think that’s astonishing?’