Waxwork

by Peter Lovesey

  He expected a dresser to answer his knock. He was wrong. She came herself, opening the door just enough to look out. The penetrating stare she gave showed she was capable of dealing with callers.

  ‘Not what you think, miss,’ said Cribb. ‘Police, in fact.’ He took out his photograph of Miriam. Now he would know if his luck had changed. ‘If you have been reading the papers … ’

  The challenge in her face was supplanted by a frown. ‘Do you want to talk to me about her?’ She studied Cribb’s face as if making up her mind.

  ‘I carry a card,’ Cribb said, feeling in his pocket.

  ‘Darling, I can see you’re not carrying champagne,’ she said.

  She stepped back and let him in.

  Lottie Piper thrust flowers into his arms. ‘Hold these while I fill some vases. They must have been lying here for hours. I hate to see things die, don’t you?’

  There were three sets of mirrors in the dressing-room. Clutching the bunches of roses and carnations he looked outlandish from every angle.

  ‘Now.’ Having attended to the flowers, Lottie Piper removed her hat and arranged herself on the chesterfield, gesturing to Cribb to use a tub-chair. ‘I expect my maid by half past four. May we finish by then?’

  ‘I hope so, miss. You did recognise the photograph, then?’

  She nodded. ‘But I don’t recognise you,’ she said sharply. ‘You must have a number, or something.’

  ‘Sorry, miss.’ Cribb reddened. ‘Detective Sergeant Cribb.’

  ‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought there was much call for detection, considering Miriam’s confession was in all the newspapers.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Cribb needed to secure co-operation here. Lottie Piper was used to speaking the best lines. ‘She is due to hang on Monday. Representations have been made to the Home Office on her behalf and it’s my job to see if they hold water.’

  ‘Has madam decided she would like to change her plea?’

  Cribb was unprepared for the venom in the remark. He said tersely, ‘I’ll ask the questions, miss.’

  She giggled nervously and tossed her curls. For a second the star of The Mascotte became Miss Charlotte Piper of Hampstead. ‘As you wish.’ ‘You saw the confession in the papers. A section of it refers to you, though not by name. Am I right?’

  She gave him a long look. ‘Let’s not be coy, Sergeant. You may ask me if I took off my clothes for a photograph. You won’t make me blush, after two years in the theatre.’

  Cribb was not so confident of keeping down his colour. ‘What you got up to, miss, is of, er—’

  ‘No interest? Darling, that is not gallant, even if it may be true. Have you seen any of these deplorable photographs?’

  Cribb admitted he had not.

  ‘I’m not in the least surprised,’ she commented, well in control again. ‘They are the talk of London and nobody has seen them.’ She smiled archly. ‘That three respectable young ladies should so far forget themselves as to pose for pictures of that sort!’

  Cribb fingered his side-whiskers, trying to seem unconcerned. He would not admit to Lottie Piper that he had not made up his mind whether the whole story was moonshine.

  ‘Do you know my difficulty?’ she went on. ‘The stage must have corrupted me dreadfully, because the pictures I remember were absurdly tame. I admit they were not the kind of thing you would hand round at Sunday school, but I can’t imagine they set Holywell Street on fire either. Five minutes from here you can see far worse without paying a halfpenny—at the National Gallery. I am obviously beyond redemption. Dear Miriam took a much more serious stand on the matter, actually poisoning a man on account of it.’ The smile returned.

  Cribb lifted an eyebrow. ‘Do you believe that?’ Before she answered, he said, ‘When did you first know Miriam Cromer, miss?’

  ‘Years ago, as small girls,’ she said. ‘My father met hers in some connection and suggested as she was my age that she should come to the house to play. I should think we were not more than ten years old. We had a huge garden on Hampstead Hill and Papa always said it was no garden without the sound of children playing there, so I was presented with sundry playmates, most of whom I loathed. To be fair, Miriam was easier to tolerate than most. With her fair, straight hair she was unlike me in looks, so there were no invidious comparisons. She tended to look up to me as the rightful occupant of the garden. I think she was conscious of the fact that her people were in trade, even though her father had been mayor, whereas Papa was on the Stock Exchange. Status was very important to Miriam. When I was feeling generous I would play lady’s maid to her, and she was never happier. I don’t pretend we were twin souls. There were times when we were not on speaking terms, and it was usually a relief when the holidays ended and I went back to boarding school, but all in all we put up with each other. As we grew older, we met less, except for church and occasional parties and soirées.’

  ‘You joined the Literary and Artistic Society,’ put in Cribb.

  Lottie Piper smiled. ‘We were Girls of the Period by then—or supposed we were. Life in Hampstead was very confining, you may imagine. Schooldays were over, and the social life revolved around St John’s. We met the same people over and over. When we read in the Express that this new society was being formed in Highgate, we made our fathers’ lives a misery until they agreed to let us join. We knew nothing about literature or art, but we convinced ourselves that people who did would find us enchanting. There was another girl we knew in the parish—Judith Honeycutt. Her father kept the umbrella shop, which was a little infra dig, but Judith was a kindred spirit, so the three of us joined together.’

  ‘That would be 1882, would it?’

  ‘Darling, I have no idea. I don’t have a head for dates. All I remember is that the lectures were a dreadful bore, but the company was a revelation. The place swarmed with velvet coats and feather boas—another world! For half an hour or so at the end there was coffee and homemade cakes and everyone left their seats and mingled. It’s laughable now, but to me at twenty that little hall buzzing with conversation was the Café Royal. I had never experienced anything so exotic. I am certain Miriam and Judith were no less enchanted. We would stay till the last possible minute we could without seeming too desperate to be noticed. Then we would catch the bus home and talk all the way of the exciting people we had met. After that it was just a question of wishing away the days to the next meeting.’

  ‘How did the business of the photographs arise?’ Cribb asked, mindful that the dresser was expected soon.

  ‘Exactly as Miriam described it. We must have been members for six or seven months when we had a talk from someone from the Royal Academy, on Florentine Art. Fearfully boring. Afterwards over the coffee-cups everyone said how stimulating it had been, as we were bound to, and that we couldn’t wait to visit the National Gallery to see the paintings he had described, just as the previous week we had gone away vowing to read every one of Milton’s poems. Nobody ever asked if we did, thank God. Well, as usual on the way home I started telling the other two of the encounters I had made, when Miriam stopped me, saying she had something unbelievably exciting to tell us. I remember being dubious, having noticed she had spent most of the coffee-time with Mrs Rousby, one of the Society’s founders, an over-rouged person with a domineering manner, but I gave way gracefully. I am bound to admit that Miriam’s news was more sensational than any I could supply. Mrs Rousby had said she was delighted to hear that Miriam had enjoyed the lecture, because it showed she had an affinity for art. Painting, Mrs Rousby said, was her passion. She was a personal friend of Sir Frederick Leighton, and she happened to know that the great artist was interested in finding a number of elegantly proportioned young ladies with artistic sensibilities to pose for a vast canvas he was painting on a classical theme.’ Lottie Piper gave a small shrug. ‘You know the rest, of course.’

  Cribb wanted to hear it from her, but he was willing to provide cues. ‘It appealed to you as an adventure, and you felt safe, going togethe
r.’

  She nodded. ‘At the next meeting of the Society, the three of us engaged to pose. We were given an address in West Hampstead, which I questioned, since I happened to know that Sir Frederick’s house was in Kensington, but Mrs Rousby explained that a preliminary study was to be made by one of the artist’s assistants. Left to myself, I should not have gone, but by this time not one of us would have spoiled the adventure for the others. The following afternoon we presented ourselves in West Hampstead and learned that the assistant was not a painter at all, but a photographer.’

  ‘May I ask,’ Cribb put in quickly, ‘whether he was also a member of the Society?’

  ‘He was.’

  This was no time to hesitate. ‘Named Julian Ducane?”

  ‘Yes—until the name became inconvenient. You must know about that.’

  ‘Broadly, miss. First, would you be so kind as to tell me about the pictures he took?’

  She twisted a curl round her finger. ‘You are a very dogged detective. Aren’t you going to spare my blushes?’

  He shook his head. ‘If I understood you just now, there isn’t much to blush about.’

  ‘I blush for my naïveté, Sergeant, not for shame. Have you met Julian?’

  ‘He is known to me as Mr Howard Cromer, miss.’

  ‘Of course. “Julian” was right for Hampstead, but “Howard” is assuredly Kew Green. He would know. He is extremely sensitive in matters of taste. Do not underestimate him. He is silver-tongued, Sergeant. We three girls were on our guard when we arrived at his studio that summer afternoon. In a matter of minutes he had given us a sherry and a homily on the vital contribution photography was making to the perfection of fine art. Spell-binding names were tossed so casually into the conversation that we were convinced he was on intimate terms with them—Bill Frith, Eddy Landseer, Lawrie Alma Tadema. And, of course, Freddy Leighton. Freddy, we were told, was preparing to paint his masterpiece, a canvas ten feet high and fifteen feet in length encompassing all the principal figures of Greek mythology. Some thirty gods, goddesses and nymphs were to be depicted, and Julian had been asked to take a series of photographs as preliminary studies. He showed us a selection he had already taken, and we were reassured to see that the models were without exception decently robed. In short, Sergeant, we consented to pose. The pictures he took that afternoon were unexceptionable and Julian’s behaviour was exemplary. We put up our hair in the Greek fashion and wrapped ourselves in linen sheets for three or four short poses and got half a sovereign apiece for our pains. It needed little persuasion to induce us to return the following week. Do I need to go into that?’

  Cribb lifted his shoulders slightly. ‘You were given an extra glass or two of sherry, I imagine, and told that Sir Frederick was delighted by the previous week’s results.’

  ‘Enraptured was the word,’ said Lottie. ‘So enraptured, in fact, that he had asked if we would model not as anonymous nymphs, but principals. I was to be Sappho, Judith was Helen and Miriam Aphrodite. In each case, our costume amounted to a strip of muslin and a comb. The postures, I repeat, were not offensive. As Julian very reasonably pointed out at the time, how could you possibly depict a Greek goddess in stays? We got a guinea each and giggled all the way home. Quite soon, I had forgotten about it. I remember mixed feelings of disappointment and relief when the picture was not listed in next summer’s Royal Academy show, but it had not crossed my mind that the photographs had been put to any other purpose. That is really all I am able to tell you, darling.’

  ‘There is another matter,’ said Cribb as casually as he could. ‘Your friend Judith died in tragic circumstances two years after this incident. You appeared as a witness at the inquest.’

  Her manner changed abruptly. There was ice in her voice as she said, ‘If you know about that, then you know what I told the coroner. There is nothing more to be said.’

  ‘Touching on Miss Honeycutt’s death? Oh, I’m sure you told the coroner all you were obliged to, miss.’ Cribb looked down at the hat on his knees and rotated it half a turn. ‘But the coroner would not have asked you the things I need to know, such as how Miss Honeycutt came to be in Ducane’s employment at the time of her death.’ He looked up quickly. ‘You can tell me, Lottie.’

  She gave him a guarded look that made him regret the impulse to use her name. ‘This is a free country. She went to work for him.’

  ‘Come now, that’s no help,’ said Cribb without changing his voice a semitone. ‘Judith is dead. Miriam is locked in a death-cell. You are the only one who can tell me how it was that those photographic sittings led to one girl working for the man and the other marrying him. Did he blackmail them?’

  ‘Blackmail?’ Her face rippled into laughter. ‘That’s delicious! Darling, I’m sure you do a marvellous job in the police, but it’s a terrible mistake to account for everything in criminal terms. You evidently need a few elementary lessons in feminine psychology. For a well brought-up girl to take off her clothes, however tastefully, for the first time in the presence of one of the other sex is an experience that is frightening, but not without a measure of excitement. It can stir up unsuspected emotions. Not one of us confessed it to the others, but we were deeply interested in the impression our bodies made on Julian Ducane. When he took our photographs he was scrupulously careful to treat us with equal charm, but we knew, you see, that we should meet him again at the Society. Each one of us in her private thoughts imagined him when he developed the prints becoming intoxicated with her charms. He was almost twenty years our senior and had shown no partiality to any of us, but in our girlish imaginations he was a privileged being. At the meetings we pursued him unashamedly—with what purpose it is difficult to say, because not one of us would have been allowed to walk out with a man our parents had not met. Soon there was an obvious rivalry between us. For convention’s sake we rode to and from Highgate together, but once we entered that hall we were sworn enemies. Julian, poor man, was at a loss. Well, can you imagine being hounded by three starry-eyed females scarcely out of school? He tried to solve the problem by introducing us to his friends. One was his solicitor.’

  ‘Allingham.’

  ‘Simon, yes. There is no doubt Simon was smitten with Miriam, but Julian was the prize she aspired to. Her self-esteem demanded it. I know, because I was similarly afflicted until I came to my senses. We were the three graces in a modern Judgment of Paris. To win was everything. Little by little, Miriam ousted us. She is one of those enviable females who can cast a spell over men. Not one of you is capable of seeing her as she really is. It takes another woman to do that.’

  ‘Speaking for myself, I have never met her.’

  ‘Then she has not made a fool of you, but she would. When I understood this power she had, I saw the futility of competing with her. It was only when I relinquished the contest, so to speak, that I realised how absurd it was to be chasing Julian. He was tolerably successful in his work and dapper in his dress, but a dreadful bore really. And so old! Imagine!’

  ‘A little over forty, I believe,’ Cribb said.

  ‘Grotesque! Well, as I mentioned, I turned my attention elsewhere. Judith, too, soon after appeared to retire from the contest. She started talking to me again, telling me about young men who had tried to flirt with her across the counter in the umbrella shop. It was her way of telling me she was no longer interested in Julian, or so I understood at the time. Judith and I confided in each other a lot; it helped to heal the wounds. She was dark-haired, like me, and vivacious. She had a sense of humour, too. We had a secret joke that Julian must have sold Miriam’s photograph to Burne-Jones, whose women are so solemn and underfed. Cattish, weren’t we? All this went on over many months. The meetings were fortnightly, did I tell you?

  ‘Then one day, to my intense surprise, Judith coolly announced that she had changed her job. She had been taken on by Julian as his assistant. This on the top of a bus to Highgate on the way to a Society meeting. Miriam was speechless. If you could have seen the look in her ey
es, darling! It was naughty of Judith to trot it out so casually, yet I suppose she didn’t want to make an issue of it. I remember Miriam sitting through that meeting stony-faced, and when the coffee came she didn’t even look in Julian’s direction. He came over to make conversation and she just bit her lip and walked away. It was Simon who went after her to find out what was wrong. Julian was utterly at a loss.’

  ‘Feminine psychology isn’t his strong point, either,’ said Cribb.

  She smiled at that.

  ‘So Judith had cut in on Miriam’s game,’ he said. ‘How had she managed that?’

  ‘By sheer resourcefulness. She used the advantage she had over Miriam and me: she was in employment. She noticed in the Express that Julian was advertising for an assistant. She put it to her father that it was time she learned a more creative occupation than selling umbrellas. After that it only remained to convince Julian of the advantages of employing female labour.’

  ‘What are those—apart from things she couldn’t go into?’

  Lottie gave him a level look. ‘As well as being his assistant, she would act as receptionist. And she would bring a woman’s delicacy to the retouching and tinting processes.’

  ‘Smart,’ said Cribb. ‘You have to hand it to her. There she was, installed in the studio with all day to work her charms on Julian, while Miriam sat at home fretting.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Sergeant. Give Miriam credit for more gumption than that. If Julian was taking on an assistant, he would be free to delegate much of the humdrum work making negatives, or whatever they do, and devote more time to photography. Fashionable photographers, as you know, like to put notices in their windows to proclaim the prizes they have won. Julian’s business was expanding, and it was time he started entering for photographic competitions. Of course he would require a model.’

  ‘Ah.’ Cribb understood. ‘While Judith was in the darkroom, Miriam and Julian would be out with a camera and a picnic basket.’

  ‘That’s it. He was always saying she was photogenic, so she offered to pose for him, all very decently, I hasten to add. His Greek art phase was a thing of the past now that he was becoming respectable. Miriam persuaded him to buy her new hats and parasols and strings of beads to assist the photography. She was triumphant—and she had the relish of knowing poor Judith would be developing the pictures. Personally, I would have poured acid on them. Miriam convinced Julian that she was his inspiration. He stopped everything he was doing whenever she visited the studio. I don’t know what excuses she made at home, but she was there two or three times a week.’