by John Boyne
‘Yes, sir,’ Billy said, walking away unhappily. He traced back over his three-day history with Captain Kendall and could not, for the life of him, understand where their relationship had gone wrong. He had never met such an abrupt captain before, someone who seemed to have nothing but contempt for his officers. He was like something out of the navy archives. Only a few more weeks, he reasoned. Only a few more weeks and I’ll be back home with Billy Junior.
Twenty minutes later, Captain Kendall found himself standing outside Cabin A4, the one which was occupied by Mr John Robinson and his son Edmund, with his ear pressed to the door, listening intently to the sounds from within. A wild idea had occurred to him as he stood by the bow, an idea so shocking, so incredible, that he could scarcely bring himself to believe it. However, it had brought him here now and he cursed the designers of the boat for making the first-class cabins so airtight secure. The door was so thick he could hear only muffled sounds and snippets of conversation. He glanced up and down the empty corridor in case he was spotted, hoping that no one would appear before he could find some evidence.
‘It’s not a hotel,’ came one voice from within, the younger one, the higher-pitched one, the woman’s one. ‘They don’t do room service.’
‘Well, at these prices they should,’ was the reply. Some more conversation went by unheard and he scrunched his face up and pressed it even closer to the woodwork, determined to hear something incriminating.
‘She’s a pleasant enough sort,’ he heard. ‘Better than that Drake woman.’
‘I think she likes you.’
‘The mother after the father, the daughter after the son. It’s rather poetic, isn’t it?’
‘Only I’m not your son, am I?’
Kendall gasped. The truth at last. Pressing a hand to his mouth, he held his breath, praying for more.
‘And you nearly called me Hawley when you ran into Miss Hayes and me this morning. You have to be careful about that.’
‘I’m sorry, but I was feeling faint. That DuMarqué boy practically attacked me in the dining hall.’
‘It’s all right, she didn’t notice, but just take more care in future.’
‘What are you doing?’ A voice from down the hallway made Captain Kendall jump, and he spun around in fright. ‘Why are you listening at that door?’
‘I . . . I . . .’ He blushed from the top of his ears right down to his neck, and he was more than aware how ridiculous his red, swollen face would look, cast against his silver-white beard, the kind of beard he believed a sea-faring captain was supposed to wear.
‘What were you doing listening at that door?’
‘I wasn’t listening,’ he stammered. ‘I was . . . I was passing by and thought I heard some commotion from within. I was about to check that they were all right, but it seems to have stopped now.’
Victoria nodded, unconvinced. He gave her a brief smile and marched past, determined to return to his cabin as quickly as possible. He turned away and scampered off down the corridor. Running inside, he closed the door and locked it behind him, tossing his cap across the room on to the bed, then rummaged through a pile of papers on his desk.
‘Where is it, where is it?’ he muttered aloud, searching for what he had been reading the day they had left the port of Antwerp. He prayed that Jimmy, the young cabin boy, had not thrown it away and he was almost ready to give up when he saw its corner poking out from the very bottom of the pile. A newspaper from three days ago. He whipped it out, almost ripping it in the process, and ran his finger down the front page until he reached the article he wanted. If his face had been filled with blood after being discovered by Victoria Drake, it was drained of it now. ‘Good Lord,’ he said out loud. ‘Goodness gracious me.’ He dropped the paper on the floor and looked around the cabin nervously, relieved that he had locked the door behind him.
First Officer Billy Carter was sitting with two sailors in the navigation room, chatting away without a care in the world when he saw the captain striding purposefully along the deck towards them, and then climbing the steps. ‘Caps on, lads,’ he said, aware of Kendall’s rules, and he had just managed to put his own on his head when the older man marched through, indicating with the tip of his finger that he should follow him.
‘Everything all right, Captain?’ he asked perkily, sensing a determined mood in the man that he had not seen before.
‘Not exactly,’ he replied. ‘But it will be soon. Come with me.’
The two men went back down the steps and turned left, then down another flight and into the radio room, Carter practically having to run along to keep up with his captain. The room was empty and, when they were both inside, Captain Kendall locked the door behind them and ordered Carter to sit at the desk.
‘You’re familiar with the Marconi telegraph?’ he asked, and the first officer turned around to look at the wireless machinery and equipment laid out before him.
‘Certainly, sir,’ he said. ‘An amazing invention. Don’t know how we managed before we had it.’
‘I need you to send a message, ship to shore,’ he said, not interested in idle conversation. ‘I’d do it myself, but I need to think it out correctly. Can you send it?’
Billy Carter blinked. This was serious, he could tell. He took his cap off and placed it on the desk beside him. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said formally, with a quick nod of the head.
‘And when we leave this room, you discuss this message with no one. With no one,’ he repeated firmly. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Of course, sir. Strictest secrecy.’
‘All right then,’ said Kendall. ‘Start her up.’
Carter flexed his fingers and pulled the Morse code device towards him, racking his brain to remember the signals of dots and dashes which he had learned many years before but which he had had to use on only a handful of occasions since. He thought them through and relaxed as they came back to him.
‘The message is to be addressed to Scotland Yard,’ said Kendall.
‘Scotland Yard?’ Carter asked, spinning around, but the captain pushed him back to his former position.
‘Just send it,’ he said firmly. ‘No questions.’
Carter tapped away. ‘To Scotland Yard. From Henry Kendall, Captain of the SS Montrose, of the Canadian Pacific Fleet.’ He cleared his throat and waited for Carter to finish sending that before continuing. ‘Have strong suspicions that Crippen, London cellar murderer, and accomplice are among saloon passengers. Moustache taken off, growing beard. Accomplice dressed as boy. Voice, manner and build undoubtedly a girl. Please advise.’
Billy Carter sent the message to the wireless receiver which Guglielmo Marconi himself had built at Poldhu in Cornwall before turning around and staring at his captain with a mixture of amazement and sudden respect.
Kendall looked at him and smiled coldly. ‘Now we wait for a response,’ he said, anticipating the younger man’s question.
11.
Losing Patience
London: 1906–1910
Cora Crippen stared out of the window of 39 Hilldrop Crescent, Camden, her face screwed up like a hungry rodent. Hawley had promised to be home by seven, and it was already ten minutes past and there was no sign of him. Useless man, she thought to herself, absolutely useless. It was Thursday evening and she never liked to be at home alone on a Thursday evening because that was the night when Mr Micklefield called around to collect the rent. They had been living in their new home for over a year now, and he had arrived promptly at seven thirty every week without fail; she didn’t like to face him alone because he always flirted with her and she found both him and his manner distasteful; but, more importantly, she didn’t like to be the one to pay him as it reinforced the fact that she was a mere tenant and not mistress of her own home.
It had been Cora’s decision to move to Camden in the first place. She had finally grown weary of the constant noise from the Jennings family downstairs and had insisted that they find a place of their own. Ever since she had join
ed the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild, renewing her friendship with Mrs Louise Smythson and acquainting herself for the first time with respectable couples such as the Nashes and the Martinettis, she had felt a little embarrassed by her living arrangements. None of the other ladies had to share a house; most of them not only owned their own, but they had servants working for them too. She could not possibly invite any of her new friends to tea, she reasoned, if there was the slightest possibility of their being attacked by a marauding bunch of children on the stairs below, or by that drunken oaf in his vest and underwear. She had gone house-hunting herself, telling Hawley nothing about it, and only when the deed was signed did she inform him that they were leaving South Crescent.
For his part, Hawley found the whole matter disagreeable. It meant a longer walk in the evenings to his dental surgery and in the mornings to his job at Munyon’s. Of course this was balanced with the fact that their home was now bigger and so he and Cora could spend time there together without having to look at each other, but nevertheless it was too bad of her to simply rent a new home without consulting him. As he strode along the street that evening, perspiring slightly with the knowledge that he was late, he patted his pocket nervously to make sure the money was still there. He was not particularly fond of Mr Micklefield either, and he would have preferred to post the rent through his own front door every week; but the landlord insisted that it be so and therefore he had little choice. In recent times it had not been as easy as before to find the money. The dental surgery was not doing as well as it once had because a rival firm had opened only five minutes down the street. The dentists there, he was aware, were real dentists, with qualifications and everything, and he was gradually losing his patient base to them. Talk of the painful procedures that Dr Crippen performed, his cautious use of anaesthetic, his love of oral surgery, his incredible number of needles and pliers, had limited numbers anyway, and now they were dwindling to the point where he could often spend his three hours in the evening there and not see anyone at all. In the years he had been at Munyon’s he had received steady pay rises, but they did not balance against this sudden loss of income, and money had become tight.
‘At last!’ Cora cried, looking up from her meal as he walked through the door. ‘What time do you call this anyway?’
‘I was delayed, my dear,’ he replied quietly, ‘but I’m here now.’
‘You’re here now at twenty minutes past seven. When I specifically told you to return on the hour. Honestly, Hawley, why must you continue to disobey me?’
He said nothing, merely taking off his coat and hanging it on the stand, taking the rent money from his pocket and laying it on the table.
‘And please do not invite that man in here this evening,’ she insisted. ‘Just give him his rent in the hallway. I can’t stand the way he looks at me. He makes me feel an object.’
‘Easier said than done,’ he said. ‘You know what he’s like.’
‘Just tell him I’m indisposed. It’s ridiculous, the way he looks in and pokes his nose around all the time. I won’t have it, Hawley, do you hear me? And I need six shillings by the morning. Can you leave it by the bed, please?’
Hawley stared at her. ‘Six shillings?’ he asked. ‘What do you need six shillings for?’
She laughed. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said, sounding for all the world as if he had just insulted her grossly. ‘Do I have to explain myself to you now?’
‘Not explain yourself, dear. Of course not. I just wondered why you—’
‘If you must know, there is a dress in the window of Lacey’s which I want to buy. It’s beautiful, Hawley. A deep red, almost the colour of blood. It will be perfect for Tuesday night.’
‘Tuesday night?’
‘The Majestic, Hawley,’ she sighed. ‘I’m beginning a new repertoire on Tuesday and I want a new outfit to go with it.’ Cora was performing two nights a week at a music hall in the Strand. Although it paid her eight shillings a week, she considered this to be her personal income and contributed none of it to the family finances.
‘Six shillings though, my dear,’ he said quietly, tugging at his moustache as if the money might fall out of it.
‘Now, you’re hardly going to begrudge me six shillings, are you? After all the work I do here for you? What kind of husband are you anyway?’
He stared around the room and raised an eyebrow. A pile of washing lay in a corner, untouched for days. The sink was filled with dishes, and a thin layer of dust had spread over the top of the bookcase since he had last cleaned it. ‘Of course not, Cora,’ he replied. ‘But money is tight at the moment, you know that. New dresses might be an unnecessary expense.’
‘It’s tight because you refuse to work,’ she snapped, standing up and adding her plate to the growing pile in the sink.
He looked around hopefully, as if there might be a plate waiting for him too, but he knew that this was unlikely; his stomach growled in disappointment.
‘Honestly, Hawley, you live the life of a king, you really do. You put in a few hours at that pharmacy, hardly very taxing work, and sit around in your surgery in the evenings, staring at the ceiling. Perhaps if you found some more productive way to spend your time, then you would earn a little more and it wouldn’t all be left to me.’
‘I’ve explained why the takings are down, my dear,’ he said, referring to his surgical practice. ‘Ever since that other—’
‘I don’t want to hear about it,’ she said, raising a hand. ‘The minutiae of your daily existence are of no consequence to me. But Hawley, I am your wife and will not be treated in this manner. The Majestic is my first step to stardom, you know that. I should have thought you would be delighted to be married to one of London’s premier singing sensations. If I don’t have that dress, then I may as well kiss my career goodbye.’
‘For the sake of a dress?’ he asked sceptically.
‘Six shillings, Hawley. I mean it. Otherwise—’
He never heard what the alternative was for there was a sharp knock on the door, indicating the arrival of Mr Micklefield. Without waiting for an answer, his key was in the lock and he was entering the room, even as Hawley rushed towards the door. One of his pet hates was the way his landlord never gave them time to open it before entering himself. It was his private belief that the man was hoping to catch Cora in a state of undress, and for this reason Hawley usually planted himself beside the door at seven thirty so he could open it before Mr Micklefield did. However, with the onset of tonight’s argument, he had forgotten entirely and their obese landlord was moving between them like a shot.
‘Evening, all,’ he said, pulling out a notebook and licking the top of his pencil. ‘Nice night for it. How are you, Mrs C?’ he asked, winking lasciviously at her. She sighed in exasperation and turned away from them both, two of her least favourite men in London.
‘Here you are, Mr Micklefield,’ Hawley said, picking up the envelope and passing it to him quickly while steering him back towards the door. He noticed unsightly sprouts of hair growing in tufts along the man’s neck and stared at them in disgust. ‘We’ll see you next week.’
‘Everything all right here?’ the landlord asked, stopping and looking around, his eyes darting from item to item like a rat searching for cheese. ‘No problems at all?’
‘None, Mr Micklefield. We’ll let you know if there are.’
‘Water running all right? Gas? Floorboards not creaking too much?’
‘Everything’s fine, Mr Micklefield. Mrs Crippen and I were just having a conversation though, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .’
‘Looking gorgeous as ever, Mrs C,’ he yelled across at her, trying to stay in the room a moment longer. ‘If you ever tire of the doctor here, you know who to call.’
‘If?’ she replied, giving a quick snort. ‘That’s a joke.’
‘Thank you, Mr Micklefield,’ Hawley insisted, pushing him through the door. He closed it behind him and stared at the wood for a moment, not wanting to turn around. He cl
osed his eyes and for a moment felt almost at peace.
‘Six shillings, Hawley,’ Cora repeated when he turned around. Her face was determined and he knew there were no two ways about it. ‘Six shillings by the bed tomorrow morning. Or there’ll be hell to pay.’
He nodded and said his two most commonly uttered words: ‘Yes, dear.’
If Hawley thought that his wife was impervious to their financial difficulties, if he thought for a moment that she believed she could simply continue to spend at will and the money would always be there, he was quite wrong. Cora was more than aware that belts would have to be tightened—or, more specifically, that Hawley’s belt would have to be tightened—if she was to continue to lead the lifestyle to which she aspired. Naturally, the six shillings did appear on the bedside table first thing the following morning before Hawley left for work—no lunch for him for the next few days—but there was not an infinite number of six shillings waiting for her in her husband’s shallow pockets, she knew that. It was pointless waiting for him to do something to improve their situation, however. It was up to her. And even before the night had ended, an idea, and a very attractive idea at that, had occurred to her.
The following Tuesday was one of those now rare days in the dental surgery when Hawley had seen more than one patient. Arriving at 7 p.m. he had been confronted with a terrified-looking child, a small girl who was being held there entirely against her will by the firm hand of two fierce-looking parents. Her teeth were rotten and two extractions were called for, and the child had convinced herself that Dr Crippen was going to murder her in the chair, for two of her classmates had already had the misfortune to visit him and had lived to regret it, entertaining the schoolyard with tales of his sadism for days afterwards. In her case, however, the teeth emerged from her mouth with little difficulty and she had nearly burst into tears when it was over, so grateful was she for the lack of pain inflicted (not that this would alter the gruesome story she told her friends the next day). After her there was a teenage boy who had chipped a tooth in a fight with another boy, and then a middle-aged woman who needed a filling. All in all, it had been a prosperous night and there was a slight spring in his step as he made his way home, his pennies jingling in his pocket as testament to his hard work. Maybe the good people of Camden had grown weary of the new surgery, he thought, not really believing it but enjoying the fantasy. Maybe they’ll all come back to Dr Crippen now.