Nor were there newspaper reporters on the platform at Euston to pester him. Coming down to London two days earlier had definite advantages. Instead of the usual pantomime of changing cabs and doubling back to give the press the slip, he was able to take a leisurely ride by the direct route to his usual lodging in Wardrobe Place, off Carter Lane, which he always found convenient for his work, being just up the hill from Newgate, right in the shadow of St Paul’s.
The press had never succeeded in tracing him to Mrs Meacham’s. He had made it his rule when visiting the prison to approach it indirectly walking the wrong way up Ludgate Hill and cutting through Bread Street to Cheapside and so down to Newgate Street. He could not avoid them at the prison gate, but they had not the slightest notion where he had come from. When he came out, if he suspected he was being followed, he took a couple of turns round St Paul’s and dodged out by the southwest door, under the clocktower. They didn’t reckon on a hangman visiting a cathedral.
This Wednesday afternoon, though, he arrived in style in Wardrobe Place, and gave the cabman a threepenny tip for helping him with his baggage. Mrs M. had tripe and onions cooking. She greeted him by name. He had never stooped to using a false identity with her. She was a fine woman, no busybody. She had never made inquiry as to the purpose of his visits to London, though he would have been surprised if she had not guessed by now.
After the meal he took a quiet walk round the City and retired early. Thursday would be an important day.
THURSDAY, 21st JUNE
It took him first to Tussaud’s. He travelled by the underground railway to Baker Street, a journey that recaptured in smells and sounds his first visit, as a lad twenty years before. Since then London had shrunk in his mind to Euston Station, Mrs Meacham’s and the execution shed.
He arrived an hour before his appointment, for a good reason. He wanted to take a quiet look round before he met Mr Tussaud. So he paid his shilling at the turnstile like everyone else.
He was pleased to note that the Exhibition had moved from the old Baker Street Rooms into more commodious premises in the Marylebone Road. It was altogether more palatial than he remembered. He mounted a marble staircase into the Hall of Kings, a dazzling place with Richard the Lionheart, Henry and his six wives and every crowned head up to her Imperial Majesty. He felt a tremor of pride at joining them, albeit in a different room. The figures were so finely modelled that he might have walked up and introduced himself. Most riveting of all was a tableau of the Prince of Wales tiger-hunting on his Indian tour. His Royal Highness was up there on a howdah on the back of a stuffed elephant. He was in the attitude of firing both barrels into a tiger which his mount had cleverly pinned to the ground. Berry stood in front of the exhibit and imagined himself aiming the shotgun.
His steps took him next past the statesmen of the civilised world to the Chamber of Horrors, for which he discovered he had to pay sixpence more. That amused him. You could see the Royals and Mr Gladstone, Lord Beaconsfield and President Lincoln for a shilling, but to clap eyes on Burke and Hare and their companions it was a tanner extra. No-one seemed to mind stumping up. Only a few faint hearts waited upstairs while their bolder escorts had sixpennyworth of horrors.
The Chamber was cunningly lit with mantles of coloured glass set low on the wall to give a more horrid aspect to the figures. It was smaller down there than Berry expected. Quite a crush, in fact. The attendant kept asking people to move along as they came to the notorieties in the dock: Palmer, Peace, Kate Webster, Muller, Lefroy and the rest. The lighting apart, nothing had been done to make the figures grotesque. Most of them looked unexceptional. Murderers generally were, in Berry’s experience. There were faces more villainous among the public filing past. The horror lay in discovering that those they had come to see were no different from anyone else.
He soon found Bill Marwood-his effigy, that is to say. It was a marvellous likeness. The eyes had that mild, almost dreamy look and the mouth was set in a downward curve that followed the line of the tobacco-stained moustache. He was in his own black bow and stand-up collar. Marwood to the life. The only fault was that he was holding the pinioning-strap all wrong, more like a butler with a tray than a hangman ready for work. This technicality did not disappoint those who had come to look. Out of interest, Berry lingered close to the figure to eavesdrop on the comments. Curiously, Bill Marwood with his strap had a more chilling effect than all the murderers together. One young woman visibly shuddered at the sight of him. ‘Don’t be alarmed, dearest,’ her chinless escort said. ‘That is only Marwood. He is dead. Berry has the job now.’
He decided against introducing himself.
So, fresh from seeing the show, he went back to the entrance at half past ten to keep his appointment. Mr Joseph Tussaud, grandson of the Exhibition’s founder, his son, John, and five others were waiting in an office. Berry guessed that most of them were there to say that they had shaken him by the hand, which they did, to a man. There was not much said. One of them asked him if it had been raining in Yorkshire. Champagne was served by a liveried footman. Then Mr Tussaud Senior proposed a tour of the Exhibition. It would have been discourteous to disclose that he had just been round it.
Actually he was glad of the conducted tour, because he learned a lot from Mr Tussaud. The Chamber of Horrors was closed to the public for half an hour to allow the official party a private view. It was like being the Prince of Wales.
He found the place noticeably more gruesome this time. The glass eyes of the figures seemed to watch his approach and move with him. Mr Tussaud told him that visitors were sometimes convinced one of the figures had moved, and they were right, because the Metropolitan Line was sited below the Chamber and sometimes caused vibrations.
They told him he would always be welcome there. Bill Marwood and the grizzled old mongrel he had kept as a pet had been frequent visitors. They knew Marwood’s taste for gin and had always provided him with a glass and a pipe of tobacco.
Berry wanted to be satisfied that they would exhibit his model like Marwood’s, in a position that made it clear that he was not a lawbreaker, so he raised the matter with Mr Tussaud. ‘I should not wish to be an object of abomination and disgust,’ he said pointedly.
Mr Tussaud drew back in surprise. ‘My dear Berry, you need have no anxiety on that score,’ he answered. ‘Mr Marwood selected the spot where he wished his figure to stand and so shall you. But even if by some mischance your likeness was taken for a murderer, I doubt very much whether it would excite the emotions you describe. Far from disgust, our patrons tend to regard the figures with awe and veneration. This may surprise you, but when we remove the clothes from the models to clean them, we often find handkerchiefs in the pockets. They are ladies’ handkerchiefs, lace-edged and still smelling of perfume.’
It did not surprise him. He had long since ceased being surprised by the morbid inclinations of the fair sex. He had not forgotten that his business in London this time was with one of them. Nor had Mr Tussaud.
When the tour was done, the guests shook his hand again and departed. He was taken to the modelling-room. He saw scores of disembodied heads ranged on shelves along the walls. Some he recognised from newspaper illustrations. He supposed Marwood’s head would soon be deposited there. ‘This place is grimmer than the Chamber of Horrors,’ he told his host.
They told him how the figures were modelled, using clay, from which a plaster cast was made. The wax was poured into the mould so formed. When it had hardened, the plaster was removed. The wax did not come into contact with the sitter. All that was required were measurements and sketches and a degree of patience while the head was modelled.
A fee was discussed. It was higher than he had expected. He betrayed no sign that he was pleased. They added another guinea and he accepted. ‘This is a departure from custom, you will appreciate,’ said Mr Tussaud. ‘Those who appear in the Chamber are not usually compensated for the honour.’ There was a gleam of humour in his eye.
The conversatio
n turned quite naturally to the Kew poisoning case. ‘Our model of Miriam Cromer is practically finished,’ said Mr Tussaud. ‘Now that public executions are discontinued, the crowds come here on the morning of a hanging instead of gathering in front of Newgate. We exhibit the figure of the murderer immediately we hear that you have performed your work. A notorious murderer will attract twenty thousand or more. The street outside is impassable for hours. A murderess is a particular attraction. Miriam Cromer had no trial to speak of but I still expect a considerable crowd on Monday morning.’
‘It’s just a job to me,’ Berry made clear. ‘I make no distinction, man or woman, except in calculating the drop.’
‘I understand that a petition with over ten thousand signatures is to be delivered to the Home Office,’ said Mr Tussaud. ‘There is a lot of sympathy for Mrs Cromer. The columns of the newspapers are daily filled with correspondence about the sentence.’
‘That’s to be expected,’ Berry told him. ‘By all accounts, she’s a good-looking woman, and she was being blackmailed. The public are easily swayed by sentiment.’
‘Shall you see her before Monday morning?’
‘It’s my custom to visit them in the condemned cell the day previous. They like to be assured that I do my work without causing them to suffer. It’s thirteen years since Calcraft retired, but the stories of his bunglings persist.’
‘Mr Marwood used to tell us,’ said Mr Tussaud quickly.
‘Every word were true,’ Berry went on. ‘When I were in Bradford and West Riding Police I saw the old man turn off three together in Manchester. He were over seventy then. Forty years and more as public hangman. He had to climb on the back of one to finish him. Strangulation. It should never happen. Marwood changed all that. It’s scientific now. We give them a long drop.’ He talked about his table of body weights, but Mr Tussaud found he had something urgent to attend to elsewhere in the building, so Berry was left in the care of the young man working the clay.
It was a long sitting, but by the end a tolerable likeness emerged. You could not really judge, the young sculptor said, until the eyeballs were in and the hair and moustaches on. Perhaps not, but what was there already was right. Looked at from the side, the face had what his mother used to call the Berry profile, the strong forehead, straight nose and firm jawline. He liked it enough for the thought to enter his mind of asking them to model two and give him the spare to bring home. Just the head.
Thinking it over, he decided against the idea. True, his wife had said she would like his portrait in the front room, but he suspected she would not feel easy with his head in wax, even under a glass dome. Besides, there could be a difficulty travelling with it. He could carry it wrapped in a hatbox, but there were always people ready to put grisly misconstructions on things. If he planned a surprise like that, something was sure to go wrong. He dared not take the risk.
No, the surprise he originally had planned was better. He would have his photograph done in London and take it home as a present. His wife would take it as such, any road. For himself, if things went according to plan, it would be a souvenir fit to take its place in the front room with the great knife used by the executioner of Canton and his other relics.
He was going out to Kew to have his portrait taken by Mr Howard Cromer.
Before lunch, Mr Tussaud returned and some further business was discussed. An offer was made for certain items shortly to come into Berry’s possession. He promised to give the matter his consideration. He would sleep on it and give them an answer in the morning, when he came for another sitting.
Mr Tussaud said that they would put Berry’s figure in the Exhibition on Monday morning. If he had occasion to drop by, he could see it before returning to Bradford. Berry smiled and made no promises.
‘There were these three young ladies,’ said Chief Inspector Jowett.
It might have been the start of a smoking-room story, except that this was Sergeant Cribb’s sitting room in George Road, Bermondsey, and Jowett never told stories to lower ranks. He was putting some order into the verbal report he had just received from Cribb. That was how he would have expressed it, if pressed. Cribb had his own idea what was going on. Jowett had caught the scent of a decision ahead. If he could find a way of avoiding it, he would.
‘Miriam Kilpatrick, Judith Honeycutt and Miss C. Piper,’ said Cribb.
‘And you believe that because they were photographed together on the Literary and Artistic Society outing, they were the three who were tricked into posing for offensive photographs?’
‘The confession mentioned three,’ said Cribb, sidestepping the question.
‘So you went in search of Judith Honeycutt and found that she was dead?’
‘From cyanide poisoning.’
‘The significance had not escaped me, Cribb,’ said Jowett stiffly. ‘But she was employed as a photographer’s assistant. We know that potassium cyanide is used in photography. It is not uncommonly used by people committing suicide. We must beware of reading too much into this. Coincidence is a snare, Sergeant, a snare.’
‘If it was just one coincidence … ’ said Cribb.
Jowett reddened. ‘Are you keeping something from me, Sergeant?’
‘I was coming to it, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘I was interested in the photographer who employed Miss Honeycutt.’
‘Ducane? How is he significant?’
‘I thought he might be able to tell me some more about the circumstances of Miss Honeycutt’s death.’
Jowett took out his pipe and knocked it noisily on Cribb’s mantelpiece. ‘Dammit, Cribb, isn’t it enough to know that the girl is dead? Our job is to inquire into Perceval’s death and there’s precious little time left for that.’
‘I’m aware of that, sir,’ Cribb said thickly. ‘I’m endeavouring to keep my report as short as possible.’
Jowett sighed and stuffed tobacco into the pipe. ‘Get on with it, then.’
‘I decided to go to West Hampstead, with the intention of calling on Mr Ducane. I found the road all right, but I couldn’t find the studio.’
‘He had sold the business and left, I suppose,’ said Jowett in a voice that had already moved on to other things.
‘Yes, sir. I talked to several of his former neighbours. There was plenty of sympathy for him in West End Lane, but he still lost most of his clients. You know how people are about photography. It’s enough of an ordeal having your portrait done, without going to a place visited by tragedy. Ducane waited only a few weeks, realised he was finished in Hampstead and sold the premises to an optician. Nobody could tell me what happened to him after that, but I had a theory of my own. I asked what Ducane had looked like, and between them they supplied me with a serviceable description. Five foot seven or eight. Medium build. Dark hair going grey. Brown eyes. Dapper in his dress. Aged thirty-eight or so.’
‘I don’t call that serviceable,’ said Jowett scornfully. ‘I could go out now and find you a dozen men like that inside ten minutes.’
‘Not in Bermondsey,’ said Cribb. “You don’t get nobby dressers in this locality, sir. I’ll grant you there are no other outstanding characteristics in the description, but at least it didn’t conflict with my theory.’
‘Which is …?’
‘That after Julian Ducane left Hampstead, he started up again as a photographer in Kew.’
‘My word! Howard Cromer?’
‘Look at it from Ducane’s point of view,’ said Cribb. ‘His business was in danger of collapse if he stayed in Hampstead, so he got out as quickly as he decently could. With his savings and the money from the sale of his studio he could afford to start again in another well-heeled locality. Obviously he didn’t want people to know what had happened in Hampstead, so he chose to live on the other side of London, across the river. And to make sure, I believe he changed his name.’
Jowett simply stared at Cribb, holding his unlighted pipe an inch from his mouth.
‘When I interview
ed Howard Cromer earlier this week,’ Cribb continued, ‘he went to no end of trouble to cooperate-showed me over the studio, talked about his wife and got out their family photograph album. I’m not used to being treated like that by people of his sort, who like to think they have arrived in society. Usually as soon as I give my rank, it’s “Very well, officer, go to the kitchen and ask cook to give you a mug of tea and I’ll answer your questions when I can spare a minute.” I couldn’t decide what Cromer was up to-trying to sweeten me or lead me up the garden path. I’m inclined to think it was both. He didn’t lie to me exactly, but some of his statements could only be described as misleading, and that’s charitable. I wanted to find out which train he caught to Brighton on the day of the murder. I couldn’t get a straight answer, except that he left the house before ten. He may have done, but the fact is that he wasn’t expected in Brighton till half past two.’
‘There may be an innocent explanation for that,’ Jowett pointed out. ‘What was the phrase he used in the letter to the Portrait Photographers’ League?’
‘Prevented by another commitment.’
‘Have you asked him what the commitment was?’
‘I haven’t talked to him since Sunday, sir.’ Cribb pretended not to notice one of the Chief Inspector’s eyebrows shoot up. If Jowett wanted to criticise his conduct of the case, he could damned well come out with it in plain English. ‘But that wasn’t the only statement intended to mislead me. When he showed me the photograph album, he tried to give me the impression he first met Miriam in April, 1885, on the day her father brought the family to the studio at Kew for a group portrait. I believe he must have known her three years earlier than that.’
‘Really?’ Jowett sounded unconvinced. ‘What grounds do you have for saying that?’
‘First, I was suspicious of the album itself, sir. I noticed two of the pages were stuck together. Cromer had to separate them with a knife. He said something about glue on the mount, but as it was a photograph of the wedding, two and a half years ago, I couldn’t understand how glue had got on to it unless it had recently been pasted into the album. That set me thinking that he might have put the entire album together in the last day or so in order to illustrate his story, the story he wanted me to believe. He put the damned thing into my hands at the first opportunity, telling me it was his most precious possession. Naturally the first picture in it was the portrait of the Kilpatrick family.’
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