Crippen: A Novel of Murder

by John Boyne

  Yours Sincerely,

  Cora Crippen (Mrs).’

  While his wife had been reading the letter to him, Nicholas had stopped fumbling with his cravat and had taken to staring at her in amazement. He had never heard such a piece of prose before and was genuinely shocked. Looking up from the pages, Louise turned to face him with equal astonishment before they both burst into spontaneous laughter which left them both incapacitated with mirth for the best part of three minutes.

  ‘Oh, I’ll wet myself,’ Louise cried eventually, reverting to the gutter in which she had been reared as she tried to call a halt to her laughter.

  ‘Has the woman lost all her reason?’ Nicholas asked. ‘Or has she been reading romance novels with the most purple prose? That has to rank as the strangest apology of all time.’

  ‘And not just that, but her sudden conversion to the rank of dutiful wife beggars belief. What was it she called him? “Kind, thoughtful and beautifully sensitive Hawley.” Do you suppose she was drunk when she wrote this?’

  Nicholas shook his head and shrugged. ‘Hard to tell,’ he said. ‘She never struck me as being the full shilling anyway. Perhaps she’s finally gone over the edge. Anyway, it saves you a job.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, you won’t have to go round there and officially expel her from your club, now will you?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Louise said, growing serious now. ‘It’s rather odd though, isn’t it? I didn’t even know she had relatives in America. To go so quickly, too. She’s never struck me as the Florence Nightingale sort. And all this self-condemning business. It’s so unlike her.’

  ‘Well, if you ask me, it’s for the best,’ he said, standing up and checking his cravat in the mirror. ‘Right,’ he added, pleased that the difficult act of dressing was finally behind him. ‘That’s me ready for the day. Now, if you want me, I’ll be in the study reading the newspaper.’

  ‘All right, my dear,’ she said distractedly as he left the room. She sat down and read the letter through one more time, on this occasion with less hilarity than before. Despite her newly realized contempt for Cora Crippen, she could not help but think that this was an odd situation. Very few people in her experience ever behaved entirely out of character, and every line of this note appeared to be exactly that. While it was her custom to dispose of correspondence after she had dealt with it, she resolved on this occasion to keep the letter in her possession for the time being.

  20 February

  Mrs Margaret Nash never had and never would understand Shakespeare, while her husband Andrew found the theatre a terrific bore. But Señor Eduardo Del Poco, the head of the Mexican firm that was providing much of the labour for his company’s work in that country, considered himself something of a literary man and had specifically asked to be taken to see a Shakespeare production while on holiday in London. To this end, Andrew had acquired four tickets to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream for his wife and himself, along with Señor Del Poco and his travelling companion, an eighteen-year-old muscle-bound youth with a pencil-thin moustache who was known only as Ramon. The play was being performed at the Garrick Theatre and the Nashes had sat through the first three acts with increasing levels of boredom, Margaret at one point amusing herself by trying to recall place names in England beginning with each of the letters of the alphabet. She had got as far as Newcastle before getting stuck on ‘O.’ When the curtain finally fell for the interval, Andrew Nash breathed a sigh of relief and looked forward to visiting the bar.

  ‘Wonderful stuff, eh?’ he said, clapping Señor Del Poco on the back heartily and pushing him out to the aisle. ‘Margaret and I don’t get to the theatre often enough. About time we started, though. I enjoyed that very much. Always been a big Shakespeare fan, of course. The Merchant of Verona, Richard IV, The Tragedy of Errors, wonderful plays, every one. But you know, if we hurry, we could just make it to the Savoy in time for dinner.’

  ‘But it is only an intermission,’ said Señor Del Poco, narrowing his eyes and reading him for the illiterate fool he was. ‘There are another two acts to come yet.’

  ‘Of course there are,’ Andrew replied after a moment, his heart sinking. ‘I was just testing you. No need for food with such wonderful entertainment taking place before us. Long, are they, these other two acts?’

  ‘Perhaps we should get a drink during the interval, Andrew,’ Margaret Nash suggested, ignoring her husband’s faux pas. ‘There’s a bar upstairs. Ramon looks as if he’s about to die of thirst.’

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Señor Del Poco, looking the boy up and down with a mixture of lust and contempt. ‘He is worth less than the dust which clings to the under soles of the lizards which feed on the flies of the Sierra Madre mountains.’

  ‘Right,’ said Andrew cheerfully. ‘Nothing for him, then. But you’ll take a whisky with me, surely?’

  ‘Of course. My mouth feels like a leaf which has been blown from sand dune to sand dune across the Sahara Desert for thousands of years, always in sight of an oasis but never allowed to land on one, due to the cruelty of the Sirocco winds.’

  ‘Bit thirsty myself, old man,’ Andrew replied.

  The four companions made their way to the bar, all chatting amiably enough except young Ramon, who possessed only two words in English. (Señor Del Poco had not brought him to London for his conversational skills.)

  ‘Two whiskies and a sherry, barman,’ said Andrew, propping up the bar and looking around the room distractedly. He didn’t have an awful lot of time for the kind of people who visited the theatre. They seemed a terribly effete lot to him, and there was nothing he could stand less than an effeminate man. He himself had made his money in construction, which he considered to be a real man’s occupation, good, honest work that built muscles and bank accounts. The building work which his firm was undertaking in Mexico had been going on for eighteen months now and he had almost doubled his fortune in that time. A sixth of his earned income from that investment as a matter of course went to Señor Del Poco, who had secured the services of the Mexican peasants at a fraction of their true worth while he himself spent his money on foreign holidays and paid companions such as the two-worded Ramon.

  ‘Andrew, look!’ said Margaret Nash, tapping his arm as her eye was caught by something across the room. ‘Look over there.’

  ‘What?’ he asked as the three of them turned to look in the direction she was indicating. ‘What is it?’

  ‘That’s Dr Crippen, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Dr who?’

  ‘Crippen. Oh, you remember him. We spent that awful evening at his house, some time ago. With Nicholas and Louise. His wife kept arguing with him in public.’

  ‘A wife who argues with her husband should be taken out and strung up at the top of the city while the people throw the stones at her and make her curse the day her father climbed on top of her horse of a mother,’ Eduardo suggested. ‘She should be made an example of.’

  ‘Oh yes. Crippen,’ Andrew said, recalling him only slightly. ‘Well, what of it? Why are you staring at him?’ he asked irritably, not happy that his discourse on the problems of modern Britain had been interrupted by his wife.

  ‘It’s not him I’m staring at,’ she replied defensively, turning to them and stepping forward at the same time to make their group seem more conspiratorial. ‘It’s who he’s with. His wife left him, you see. Apparently she went to tend a sick relative in America, but Louise Smythson and I think there’s more to it than that. Now, here he is at the theatre with another woman.’

  ‘In my country, a man can have the many women,’ said Señor Del Poco with an air of triumph. ‘They are as plenteous as the stars in the sky.’ In truth, it had been many years since he had laid a finger on a woman, but he was not about to admit that. ‘There is only one thing more important to a Mexican man than women. Money. Because with money you can buy anything.’

  ‘It’s a disgrace,’ said Margaret, sneaking another look. ‘He’s escorting that woman who wa
s at the dinner that night. I can’t remember her name but it was something common. She’s an ugly little thing, too. With that hideous scar on her lip. Look at her, all dressed up as if she’s somebody. And his wife doing such a wonderfully charitable act. It’s disgraceful. Do you think I should go over and say something?’

  ‘No, leave him alone,’ said Andrew. ‘He’s a frightful bore anyway if I remember correctly.’

  She waited for as long as she could, but eventually her anger got the better of her and, despite Andrew’s urging her to leave well alone, she excused herself from the three men and walked quickly over to the corner of the room where Hawley and Ethel were chatting and standing close together, his hand affectionately holding her elbow.

  ‘Dr Crippen?’ she said, standing beside them and poking her neck forward like a turkey. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  He looked at her, a little dazed, and his smile faded. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Margaret Nash,’ she said. ‘My husband and I spent a lovely evening in your home some time ago.’

  Hawley nodded and waited a few moments, before realizing that he had no choice but to respond. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Andrew and I do love the theatre so. We come as often as we can. Are you a regular theatregoer?’

  ‘Not really,’ he replied, looking towards the auditorium. ‘Anyway, we must get back to our seats.’

  ‘Oh, do wait a moment,’ she said, blocking his way and turning to look at Ethel. ‘Hello,’ she said, adopting a false smile. ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Ethel.

  ‘Oh yes, of course we have. I remember your face. I remember that scar very well. It’s very distinctive.’

  ‘Miss LeNeve is a colleague of mine,’ said Hawley brusquely. ‘Now we really must get back to our seats.’

  ‘And such a beautiful necklace,’ Margaret said, reaching out and taking a tight hold of the blue sapphire pendant which hung around Ethel’s neck. Holding it any tighter would have choked her. ‘But I’ve seen it before, haven’t I?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Hawley, desperately trying to get away from her.

  ‘Of course I have. It’s Cora’s. As are those beautiful ear-rings you’re wearing. How kind of her to let you wear them while she’s away. So typical of her good nature.’

  She stared at Ethel with a frozen smile, her upper teeth jutting out slightly above her lower lip, while Ethel stared back, refusing to admit anything. ‘It was kind, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘She’s a very charitable woman.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Margaret, flicking open her fan.

  ‘Goodbye then,’ Hawley said abruptly, pushing past her and taking Ethel by the hand to lead her back to their seats.

  Margaret Nash watched them for a few moments, before returning to her party, seething with rage.

  ‘It’s infamous,’ she announced, interrupting their conversation. The three men turned to look at her. ‘The nerve of the woman.’

  ‘What’s she done?’ Andrew asked, surprised to see his wife’s face growing so red. It had been a long time since her passions had been raised to such a pitch.

  ‘That little trollop is parading around on Hawley Crippen’s arm, wearing his wife’s jewellery—which, if you ask me, is more than a little strange, because I don’t know any woman who would go away for any period of time and leave her finest jewellery behind.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get involved if I was you,’ said Andrew, not particularly interested in the comings and goings of people who did not affect him directly. ‘It’s none of our business.’

  ‘But I’m already involved, Andrew. Cora Crippen’s my friend. No, first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll get to the bottom of the matter, I promise you that.’

  The bell rang to announce the imminent start of the next act of the play and they trooped back inside, only one of the four with any sense of excitement. Before the lights went down, however, Margaret Nash looked around, trying to see where Dr Crippen and Miss LeNeve were seated, but she could not spot them anywhere. She did, however, notice two empty seats, some rows ahead of her, which she was sure had been occupied before the interval.

  30 March

  They decided to take a brief holiday together and they spent four days in Paris, their first opportunity to put their old lives behind them and to look forward to a happier future. They stayed in a hotel near the Arc de Triomphe and the receptionist did not bat an eyelid when Ethel announced themselves with different surnames.

  ‘That’s the French,’ Ethel said happily. ‘They don’t care about such things. Only the English couch their hypocrisy with such indignation.’

  Hawley wasn’t so sure; he had tried to persuade her to call herself Ethel Crippen for the duration of their trip, as he still held fast to the idea that they would be shunned by anyone who discovered the truth; but she refused, stating that she would never call herself by that name until it was legally true.

  ‘But it could be a long time before Cora gives me a divorce,’ he pointed out. ‘For one thing, I have to track her down first.’

  ‘Then I will be Ethel LeNeve until then,’ she said. ‘It has been a good enough name for me for the last twenty-five years, it will suffice until we can eventually marry.’ She had not yet worked out how she would surmount this obstacle; after all, there was little chance of a dead woman being able to sign any divorce papers, but naturally there was no way she could tell Hawley the truth about what she had done.

  They spent the next few days in sightseeing. Their first trip was to the Eiffel Tower, which had been constructed only a few years before and which they had read about in the newspapers. Standing underneath it and staring upwards, Hawley was struck by a moment of dizziness and had to sit on the ground with his head between his knees, a position of weakness which embarrassed him. They visited the churches of Notre Dame and Sacré Coeur, lying on the grass in front of the latter in the spring sunshine for hours. Children ran up and down the lawn while old people struggled with the steps leading up to the church. Ethel had brought a picnic lunch with her and they sat eating it, feeling far removed from the violence they had both known in London. Some distance away from them, an old man sat on a bench with a large bag of breadcrumbs. He sat as still as a statue, sprinkling breadcrumbs on his shoulders, head and knees and allowing the pigeons to congregate around him, dining off his body. He never blinked and seemed oblivious to the amused glances of the other visitors.

  ‘Hawley,’ Ethel said as they sat there, after she had considered this for some time and had formulated her argument in her head so that it would not seem too suspicious, ‘I’ve had an idea.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘It’s about Cora.’

  He groaned. ‘We’re having such a lovely afternoon,’ he said. ‘Do we have to talk about her?’

  ‘It’s important,’ she said. ‘It has to do with what you were saying the other day about divorcing her.’

  Hawley sighed and put his sandwich back in the bag. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘It occurred to me that it will be very difficult to find Cora in America. After all, she didn’t tell you the name of the man she ran off with, did she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you have no idea who he was?’

  He shook his head. ‘I was aware of some of her infidelities over the years,’ he admitted, ‘and some of the men she associated with. But this one came as a bit of a surprise. I didn’t know she was seeing anyone. In fact, I thought that a lot of her bad temper at that time was because she was not involved in any infidelity.’

  ‘Which makes it all the more difficult,’ she said. ‘She may not even be in California any more, if that was where she was really going.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Ethel?’

  ‘Only that if we want to have any hope of eventually marrying, it might not be with Cora’s consent. After all, you know what she’s like. Do you really think, if you were abl
e to contact her and tell her that you had found happiness, that she would simply be prepared to let you go? The chances are that she would put every possible obstacle in your way.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see how—’

  ‘I think we should simply carry on as if Cora did not exist any more.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘We could say that she died.’

  ‘Ethel!’

  ‘I mean it, Hawley. Who, after all, do we really need to tell? Not many people. She has no family anywhere. No one will be looking for her. Her friends are few and far between. But we don’t want any more incidents like the one we had with that dreadful Nash woman at the theatre last month. Any time we are seen out together, we will subject ourselves to similar rudeness. And it’s not as if we can spend our entire lives hidden behind the door of Thirty-nine Hilldrop Crescent. We wouldn’t want to anyway. We want to enjoy ourselves. We have lives to live.’

  Hawley considered this. ‘It’s true that it would be easier,’ he said. ‘But how would we get away with it?’

  ‘It’s simple,’ she said, having considered every possibility. ‘We send a telegram to one of her friends, informing them that you have had word from America that Cora has died tragically, and you have decided to take a few days away in order to come to terms with the news. Obviously you’re very upset about what has happened. Then, when we return, we simply avoid all of her friends anyway. We can find new ones. Trust me, I have little ambition towards joining the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild.’