by John Boyne
‘This is Miss LeNeve, Cora,’ Hawley explained. ‘I’ve told you about her. You’ve met once before. My assistant at Munyon’s.’
‘Miss LeNeve?’ Cora asked contemptuously. ‘I thought you were a boy. Stand up and let me get a good look at you.’ Ethel stood up obediently and stared at the ground, holding her hands tightly before her. ‘Hmm, maybe you are a miss after all,’ Cora said. ‘Well, what of it? What are you doing here?’
‘Ethel was bringing round my keys,’ said Hawley. ‘It hardly matters. You must tell me what’s happened.’
The reminder that something had happened made Cora scream in anger once again, and Hawley jumped back, shocked, wondering whether she might be in need of a doctor. A real doctor. ‘It’s insufferable,’ she shouted.
‘Perhaps I should go,’ said Ethel, not wanting to be around for any more of this scene.
‘Yes, yes, perhaps,’ said Hawley, going over to her and taking her arm, leading her to the door. ‘I do apologize, Ethel,’ he whispered as he let her out. ‘I don’t know what’s come over her. I promise you she doesn’t normally act like this.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Ethel, unconvinced. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow anyway, Hawley.’
‘Yes, and once again I am sorry for all the commotion. Thank you for the keys.’
Their glance lingered in the open doorway for a few moments, and she felt an urge to touch his cheek. The skin looked pale and tired and she wanted to place her hand over it and warm it up. Instead she turned around reluctantly and began to walk home, feeling nothing but sympathy for the poor individual who had the misfortune to be married to such a harridan.
Similar sentiments were being felt by Hawley Harvey Crippen, who marched back into the living room, torn between anger and fear, and stared at his wife, who was pacing up and down the floor like an expectant father.
‘Now for heaven’s sake, Cora,’ he shouted. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’
‘That bastard,’ she shouted.
‘Cora!’
‘I mean it, Hawley, that bastard!’
‘Who? Who are you talking about?’
‘That son of a bitch who runs the Majestic, that’s who I’m talking about,’ she screamed. ‘That shit-eating monster. I’ll kill him. I’ll rip his insides out and make him swallow them, I swear it.’
‘Cora, you must relax,’ said Hawley, taking her by the arm nervously and leading her to the sofa. ‘You’re hysterical. Breathe. Just breathe for a minute.’
For once she did as he suggested and took in great gulps of air before rolling her eyes and snorting in disgust once again. ‘Mr Hammond,’ she said finally. ‘The manager of the music hall.’
‘Yes? And what has he done?’
‘He invited me into his office this evening,’ she explained. ‘Before the show started. He was all smiles, of course. All friendly, like he always is. Then he tells me that he’s found this great new talent, some young girl called Maisie Something-or-other. It seems he’s heard her sing and he thinks she’s the best thing he’s ever heard. He’s giving her a spot on the bill, he says. Thinks all the punters will love her, he says. “I don’t care,” says I. “Why should I?” Then he tells me that there’s only room for one singer in the second half of the show and that her voice is better than mine and he’s sorry but there’s nothing he can do about it.’
‘Oh Cora,’ he said sorrowfully, knowing what a blow this must be to her.
‘Next thing I know, I’m being run out of the office, collecting my final wage packet, and I’m off the bill. Out of a job. Me! The singing sensation Bella Elmore! And of course when I get a look at this new girl, naturally she’s some little blonde thing with big dimples and bosoms out to here. No wonder he wanted to be rid of me,’ she said, standing up and pacing again, this time heading for the kitchen. ‘It’s an insult, an insult!’
‘There’ll be other jobs,’ he reasoned. ‘Other music halls.’
‘There won’t be,’ she shouted, lifting up a pan from the dresser for something to grip and press tightly in her frustration. Before he knew it, she was marching around, holding on to it like a gun.
He tried to reason with her. ‘Cora, please. You’re a wonderful singer. You know you are.’
‘Oh don’t bother, Hawley. You think I’m useless. Just like everyone else does. You’ve never supported my career.’
‘That’s not fair! It’s all I do.’
‘Ha!’
‘I do,’ he said, angry now. ‘I work every hour of the day for you. I feed you, I clean for you, I support you.’
‘I do everything,’ she muttered, ignoring him. ‘Absolutely everything.’
‘And if Mr Hammond has found a better singer, then it just means you have to work harder to improve your voice. That’s all.’
She turned around slowly and stared at him. ‘What did you say?’ she asked quietly.
He thought about it. ‘I said, you have to work harder to—’
‘No. Before that.’
‘I . . . I can’t remember.’
‘You said she was a better singer than me.’
‘I didn’t mean better,’ he said, backtracking, aware of his error. ‘I meant fresher. Newer. Someone he hasn’t heard before.’
‘You said better,’ she screeched.
‘Cora, please. I—’
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Turning away from him for a moment, Cora summoned all the strength and anger she had left in her body and funnelled it into her right arm. Swinging back, she raised the frying pan in the air like a tennis racket and, without giving him any opportunity to anticipate the blow, she slapped it against the side of his face, knocking his spectacles off and sending them crashing into the wall while he was flung back, his entire left cheek feeling numb for a moment before bursting into flames of pain, his eye momentarily blinded as he fell over and landed on the floor. He lay there, stunned, a hand pressed to his cheek, and through his one good eye he saw the avenging figure of his wife standing over him, the frying pan still in her hand, wiping a line of spittle from her mouth as she looked down at him in disgust.
‘You—said—better,’ she stated in slow, flat tones.
12.
Beginning the Chase
Liverpool: Saturday, 23 July 1910
Inspector Walter Dew got off the train in Liverpool and looked around anxiously for Police Constable Delaney who, he had been promised, would be waiting with a car to take him to the port. He glanced at his watch and exhaled loudly in frustration; it was nine forty in the morning, twenty minutes before the Laurentic was due to set sail, and his driver was nowhere to be seen. He had made it clear when he contacted the Liverpool authorities before leaving London that it was imperative that someone meet him at the station, but he could tell that whoever was at the other end of the telephone line had little regard for Scotland Yard inspectors, probably resenting and disliking them in equal parts. He counted to twenty slowly in his head, deciding that if no one had appeared by the time he reached the end he would simply go outside and hail a hansom cab himself. One . . . two . . . three . . .
Captain Kendall’s message had come through to Scotland Yard late the previous evening, just as he was preparing to leave for the day. It was his sister’s birthday and he was due to visit her home in Kensington for a celebratory dinner and he had intended stopping for a drink en route. He needed sustenance before he went there, as she had eight children, none of whom were over the age of nine, and their screams and hysteria drove him to the very edge of dementia.
‘Inspector Dew,’ PC Milburn said, as he was exiting the building, ‘I was just coming up to see you.’
‘Heading off,’ he replied, tapping his watch. ‘It’s been a long day. See you tomorrow, Milburn. You should try to get some sleep tonight, too.’
‘I think you should read this,’ the PC said, holding out a telegram.
Dew frowned. ‘Can’t it wait?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so, sir. I think you’ll want to s
ee it.’
Hesitating only for a moment, the inspector reached across and took the paper, reading it through quickly, his eyes opening wide as he did so, before going back to the beginning of the page and reading it again.
‘When did this come through?’ he asked.
‘Just a few minutes ago, sir. On the Marconi telegraph, transmitted from Poldhu. Like I said, I was just about to bring it to you. That’s three days he’s got on us, sir!’
Dew looked at his watch again and made a quick decision. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Find out the quickest way for me to get across the Atlantic.’
‘What?’ Milburn asked, amazed.
‘You heard me.’
‘But sir, that’s—’
‘Get in touch with the shipping lines,’ he insisted, unwilling to be questioned. ‘Find out what ships are going to Canada and when. I need to get on the next available boat.’ He leaned forward, looking around to make sure that no one could hear him. ‘It’s Crippen,’ he said. ‘He’s been spotted.’
Milburn nodded quickly and picked up the telephone. Within fifteen minutes he had confirmed that a passenger ship, the SS Laurentic, would be departing from Liverpool at ten o’clock the following morning, bound for Canada, and he had booked a ticket in the name of Inspector Dew. He also confirmed that the first train to that city would arrive at around half past nine in the morning, leaving little time for delay. Dew himself had phoned Liverpool police station and demanded an escort to take him to the port. In the meantime he sent a message back to Captain Kendall, informing him that he was giving chase and instructing him to share his discovery with no one until he received further instructions.
Dew’s count had reached fifteen and he was picking up his bag to walk out of the station when he noticed a young constable running in his direction. They were all the same, it seemed to him: lazy, unpunctual, sloppy in their habits. Not like when he was a lad. Sometimes he wondered what would become of the Yard when his own generation had retired and their successors were in control. Mayhem, he presumed. ‘Come on,’ he shouted at the young man without bothering with any formal introductions. ‘There’s no time to waste. The ship will sail without me if I’m not there by ten. I told your sergeant that last night.’
They ran outside and jumped into the waiting car. ‘Sorry I’m late, sir,’ said the police constable, one Jeffrey Delaney, as they drove off.
‘I specifically said I needed someone here by nine thirty,’ Dew insisted irritably. ‘If that ship sets sail without me—’
‘It’s only a few minutes away,’ the young man replied forcibly, willing to apologize but not to be told off by some big shot from London. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get you there on time.’
Dew grunted a response and stared out the window as the Liverpool streets passed by. He had never been in this city before, but there was little time for sightseeing. He pulled Captain Kendall’s Marconi message from his bag and read it again, intrigued. ‘Accomplice dressed as boy. Voice, manner and build undoubtedly a girl.’ Shaking his head, he could scarcely believe the gall of the man. He had seemed such a quiet, personable fellow when they had met. But the memory of what he had discovered when he’d visited the cellar in Hilldrop Crescent had changed all that. He closed his eyes and tried to block it out, but it was a very difficult thing to do. In all his years in the force he’d never seen anything quite so vile. He imagined he would never forget it. And Ethel LeNeve had hardly seemed the sort to involve herself in something like this, either. She had appeared to be the mousy sort. He was disappointed in himself, too; it was unlike him to be so easily deceived. Perhaps I’m getting old, he thought, before dismissing the idea. Or perhaps they’re just getting better. His life was Scotland Yard, he had known no other and was interested in no other. But if he let Crippen escape, if he made it to Canada without being captured, questions would be asked concerning his own abilities.
‘Here we are, sir,’ said PC Delaney, skidding to a halt a few moments later. ‘Told you we’d make it.’
‘With five minutes to spare,’ said Dew, opening the door and stepping outside as the foghorn of the Laurentic signalled that she was preparing to depart and any remaining people on board who were not passengers should disembark immediately. He looked across at her, impressed and intimidated at the same time by her size. She was over a hundred and eighty feet in length, with a beam span of seventy feet. The name of the ship was emblazoned in massive black letters along the side. Dew swallowed nervously; he had never crossed the ocean before and in truth was not a fan of sailing. Like Tom DuMarqué on the Montrose, he felt secure only when his feet were rooted firmly on solid ground. He grabbed his bag now and, muttering a grudging ‘Thank you’ to PC Delaney for politeness’ sake, made for the ship.
A crowd of men was gathered by the gangplank and he gave them only the briefest glance as he walked towards it; however, when he was no more than ten feet away, one of the men turned around, stared at him, pointed a finger and then let out a roar, shocking Inspector Dew and making him turn to check whether someone famous had appeared behind him. ‘There he is,’ the man called. ‘That’s him!’
At this, the others all gathered together—about fifteen men in total—and rushed towards him, notebooks and pens at the ready, firing questions rapidly while three photographers almost blinded him with their flashbulbs. Dew could barely register what they were saying, so surprised was he by this sudden attention.
‘Inspector, is it true you’re on your way to capture Dr Crippen—?’
‘Did he really chop up his wife—?’
‘Do you think you can catch up with the Montrose—?’
‘Who’s he going there to see—?’
‘Do you want to see him hang—?’
‘Who’s the woman he’s travelling with—?’
‘Have you found the head yet—?’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ Dew cried, holding up his hands in surprise and irritation. ‘One at a time, please. One at a time.’ He turned around and glared at PC Delaney, who had followed him to the ship. ‘Reporters,’ he hissed. ‘Who leaked this story?’
‘No one said it was a secret,’ the younger man said with a detached air. ‘Sorry.’
‘You will be if this goes awry.’ He turned back to the gathered press and smiled at them. ‘Just one or two questions, please,’ he said. ‘I have to board.’
‘Inspector Dew,’ one of them said, stepping forward from the pack as their representative. ‘Can you tell us why you’re boarding the Laurentic? Is it true you’re chasing the wife-killer, Dr Crippen?’
Dew licked his lips and thought about it. There was no chance that anyone on board the Montrose could possibly find out what was happening on land. Nor could they know that he was giving chase as long as Captain Kendall kept his mouth shut. Surely there would be no harm in telling the truth now. It might even present a good impression of Scotland Yard—the fact that he was willing to travel halfway across the world in order to get his man.
‘It has been brought to our attention,’ he said, ‘that a man and woman travelling on board the SS Montrose towards Canada answer the description of Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen and Miss Ethel LeNeve, who are wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of Cora Crippen. My task is to apprehend them before they reach their destination and bring them back to England for justice.’
‘Sir, the ship has been gone for three days now. Do you really think you can—?’
‘That’s all for now, gentlemen, I’m afraid,’ he said, making his way up the gangplank just as the sailor at the top was preparing to close the doors. ‘I’ll be telegraphing back to Scotland Yard news of our progress, so stay in touch with them if you want to follow the story.’
They continued to shout questions at him as he disappeared out of sight, but he had no more time to answer them. The sailor checked his ticket and nodded at him quickly. ‘Inspector Dew,’ he said. ‘Yes, we’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Thank you. I was afraid you’d sail w
ithout me.’
‘The captain requested that you go directly to see him, once you boarded. We’re about to set sail now, but if you walk towards the deck and take the steps up to the wheelhouse, you’ll find him there.’
Dew nodded and walked in the direction indicated, brushing past the crowds of passengers who were standing at the side of the ship, waving to the people gathered below to see them off. For a moment he had the strange idea of leaning over and waving to the reporters, when they could perhaps take another photograph as he set sail in search of the killer, but he decided against it. That would involve leaning over the side, and it was entirely possible that some unruly child might rush past him and knock him over, which would make a terrible front-page story.
He found the wheelhouse without much difficulty and knocked on the open door, announcing himself to the crew members gathered inside. ‘Inspector Dew,’ he said. ‘Scotland Yard. Here to see the captain.’
‘Inspector,’ said a tall, bespectacled fellow, who was younger than he had expected and who was walking towards him. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Captain David Taylor. Welcome aboard the Laurentic.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Good trip from London, was it?’
‘Long and tiring. I’ll be glad of a rest in my cabin, to be honest.’
Taylor laughed. ‘You’re lucky,’ he said. ‘We had a cancellation at the last minute for one of our state rooms, so I’ve put you in there. One of the nicest cabins on board, in fact. Nicer even than my own.’
‘Excellent,’ he said, pleased that if he had to travel by sea then it would be in some comfort. ‘I’m grateful for your help, Captain.’
‘No trouble, no trouble at all. I see there was a reception committee waiting for you down below. Sorry about that.’
Dew nodded, shaking his head as if he disapproved of such things, even though in truth he quite enjoyed the publicity. ‘Damn scoundrels,’ he said. ‘One sniff of a story and they’re all over it like a bee around honey. You can’t keep a secret in a police station these days, it seems. Not like in the old days. Don’t know what the world’s coming to.’