‘That’s a lot to deduce from one spot of glue, Sergeant.’
‘It isn’t the only thing, sir. There’s the matter of the photograph the headmaster showed me. The picnic outing on Hampstead Heath. It showed the three girls together, and beside them was Simon Allingham, Cromer’s oldest friend. If Allingham was known to Miriam in the summer of 1882-’
‘That’s speculation,’ cut in Jowett and there was a disagreeable note of triumph in his voice. ‘We cannot draw any such conclusion. The mere fact that they were situated in some proximity in a photograph could be accidental. There is no guarantee that the Allingham in the picture is the same person, since you admitted yourself that the figures were unrecognisable. It won’t do, Sergeant. Do you know what you are guilty of?’ Jowett jabbed his pipe-stem at Cribb. ‘Post hoc ergo propter hoc. Do you have Latin? No matter. In short, your reasoning is founded on a fallacy. You have persuaded yourself that Cromer is not what he purports to be and you are fitting the facts to justify your prejudice.’
‘It’s true there isn’t concrete evidence-’ Cribb began.
‘Evidence of what?’ crowed Jowett without pausing for an answer. ‘That Howard Cromer was formerly known as Julian Ducane? Is that what you hope to prove, Sergeant? Even if he was, there is nothing very sinister in it, is there? People in trade frequently change the names by which they are known as they move up in the world.’
‘There is the matter of Judith Honeycutt’s death.’
‘Exactly! A very good reason for taking on a new name,’ said Jowett. ‘Frankly, if Howard Cromer was unfortunate enough to have had such a tragedy in his former establishment, it isn’t surprising that he is evasive about his past.’
‘He needn’t have been evasive about Brighton.’
Jowett asked, ‘Are you seriously telling me that you suspect him of being involved in Perceval’s death?’
‘It’s possible, sir. If he was in Kew that morning he could have put poison into the decanter as easily as his wife could. More important, he had a key to the poison cabinet, and she didn’t.’
For an interval, only the ticking of the clock was audible in the room.
‘If that were true,’ said Jowett, ‘someone must have seen him in Park Lodge. Have you questioned the servants?’
‘No help there, sir. After nine o’clock, they aren’t allowed upstairs. He doesn’t want clients meeting the domestics.’
Jowett eased a finger round his collar. ‘It’s still in the realm of speculation, then? Just a convenient theory of yours. Sergeant, I cannot emphasise too forcibly that if there is anything in this at all, it won’t convince the Home Secretary without solid evidence to support it. Where is that evidence to come from?’
‘Mrs Miriam Cromer.’
The Chief Inspector’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘What precisely are you saying, Sergeant?’
‘I’m saying this is Thursday, sir. The woman is due to hang on Monday. Our report should be on the Commissioner’s table by tomorrow evening. You are absolutely right-I have no direct evidence that Howard Cromer was implicated in the murder. If this was a regular investigation I’d put a couple of men on house-to-house inquiries to establish Cromer’s movements on the morning of the crime. Someone must have seen him leaving the house or walking to the station or stepping on the train. But even if I established that he was still in the house at noon, after the wine was delivered, it isn’t proof that he was involved in the poisoning. It strengthens the suspicion, no more. There isn’t time to carry out the exercise and, anyway, I don’t have the men. I’m obliged to seek the information another way. Miriam Cromer can tell me. I want permission to interview her, sir.’
Jowett closed his eyes as people do in the split-second before an impact. A decision was unavoidable. ‘To interview the prisoner herself?’ he said in a whisper.
‘In the time we have left, it’s the only way to get at the truth, sir,’ Cribb said, talking fast. ‘She of all people knows what really happened. If anyone can supply the prima facie evidence that her husband was involved, it’s her. I believe I have enough information now to justify asking her to clarify certain things in her confession. I’m not without experience in questioning witnesses. If she is lying, I’m confident I can bring it out in an interview.’
Jowett was shaking his head. ‘It’s out of the question.’
Controlling his voice, Cribb said, ‘With respect, I should like to know why, sir.’
There was another uneasy silence.
Jowett got up from the armchair, walked to the window and looked out. ‘On the slender suspicions we have, it simply isn’t possible to make a formal request to the governor of Newgate for an interview with Mrs Cromer. It would not be countenanced. There is no chance of it.’
‘Surely in the interests of justice-’
‘Justice has had its opportunity, Sergeant. There are other interests to be considered now, not least the state of mind of the prisoner. Miriam Cromer expects to die. Prisoners under sentence of death are not encouraged to entertain the slightest hope of a reprieve. It is easier for everyone concerned if they philosophically accept the inevitable. You must understand yourself that an intervention from us could have a most unsettling effect on the woman.’
The inevitable.
Cribb stared at Jowett’s back, feeling the force of what had been said. The glib phrases echoed in his head.
Justice has had its opportunity … other interests to be considered … easier for everyone concerned.
There was more, much more, behind this than Jowett’s inertia.
‘I don’t know if I understand you, sir. Are you telling me that there is no combination of circumstances that would make it possible for me to question Mrs Cromer?’
Without turning, Jowett answered, ‘Sergeant, I don’t altogether care for that question. It is not for you to speculate on a matter that I made quite clear is not within police jurisdiction.’
‘I asked because I need to know how to proceed,’ said Cribb flatly.
Jowett’s frame stiffened. Cribb had defused the rebuke with a valid point. ‘It would be wise, I think, to address yourself to the matter of the key to the poison cabinet. That, after all, occasioned this inquiry. These other matters you have mentioned have not altered the significance of that.’
Cribb’s eyes widened. Had he not made it crystal clear that he suspected Howard Cromer of opening the cabinet with his own key?
Jowett turned from the window, spreading his hands expansively, yet there was a look in his eyes that he tried not to have there.
‘In short, Cribb, we are required to find out how she did it. Do you follow?’
Cribb followed. This was no inquiry at all. It was an exercise in politics. The Home Office wanted an explanation of the photograph of Cromer wearing his key at Brighton. An explanation that did not conflict with the confession. The Commissioner had handed the job to Jowett, the chief inspector with an unequalled reputation for paperwork. Jowett would oblige and they would hang Miriam Cromer.
After the execution, if anyone raised the question of her guilt, the Home Secretary could stand up in the House and say that he had ordered an independent inquiry after the trial and it had not conflicted with the facts as set out in the confession.
Cribb moistened his lips, scarcely trusting himself to speak. ‘I think I understand your meaning, sir.’
‘I’m glad we are of one mind,’ said Jowett. ‘I am not unappreciative of your work these last few days. If it had produced a shred of firm evidence … ’ He shrugged. ‘There was so little time.’
Cribb picked up Jowett’s hat. He wanted him out of his house.
‘Give this business of the key some thought, then,’ Jowett said, moving to the door. ‘But not too long about it, eh? Come what may, I must have a report from you tomorrow.’
Cribb nodded once.
As if remembering something, Jowett turned when he was halfway downstairs. ‘She did plead guilty. We’d get no thanks from her if we questioned the
verdict. Best let Berry do his work on Monday and we can all heave a sigh of relief.’
FRIDAY, 22nd JUNE
‘I have good news for you,’ said Bell.
The prisoner looked up from her book, a glimmer of interest in her eyes. She made no response.
Bell looked across at Hawkins and rolled her eyes upwards in her long-suffering look. She planted her sewing-basketon the table and repositioned the stool the wardress on the last turn had just vacated. She was in no hurry to surrender the information.
The prisoner waited expressionlessly.
‘You want to hear what it is?’
Bell received the gratification of a nod.
‘There’s a visitor downstairs.’ She took her calico tray-cloth from the basket and shook it with such vigour that it made a sound like a whip. ‘I should finish this by Monday,’ she told Hawkins. From the corner of her eye she watched the prisoner’s lips part as if to ask the obvious. Yet the instant Bell turned in anticipation, the mouth closed again, defying her. Their eyes met. ‘You have some hair showing,’ Bell said, refusing to be bested. ‘Tuck it under your cap.’
Cromer obeyed. She did everything they asked, scrubbed the cell, folded her bedding, washed the tin plate, emptied the slops. They could not criticise her conduct. It was the expression on her face that provoked, and even that was difficult to account for. It was not a brassy look, like some prisoners gave, not holier-than-thou even. No, what was insulting about it was that she treated the officers as if they were not there. She excluded them from her thoughts.
‘Your husband,’ Bell said.
She lowered her eyes to the book.
Bell clicked her tongue and started sorting through the sewing-basket for a thimble. Privately she expected this wall of indifference would topple before the weekend. There were indications already. The wardresses on nights had noticed the prisoner saying things in her sleep, whimpering sometimes and calling out. Inside herself, she was more jumpy than she wanted anyone to know.
Bell was curious to see the husband. He visited Newgate daily, but always late in the afternoon, when Officers Davis and Manks were on duty. There was a story that the first time he had brought a dozen red roses and a nightdress from Swan and Edgar which had been impounded at the prison entrance. It was a mystery to Bell how women without an ounce of passion seemed to draw the devotion of decent men. Her own experiences with the sex were bitter without exception.
Miss Stones unlocked the cell door and brought him in, a worried, pale-complexioned man in a dark suit with his hands clasped tightly in front of him. A large spotted cravat and matching handkerchief tucked into his breast-pocket must have served as emblems of artistry in Kew Green. In Newgate they were so misplaced as to seem clownish. Poor devil-he looked twenty years older than she. Silver-haired, almost, and hollow-eyed. It was the relatives who suffered most, and no mistake.
Cromer had not even stood up to greet him.
To Bell it appeared that all Howard Cromer got in the way of a greeting from his wife was a head-to-foot inspection with the ice-blue eyes. He stood just inside the door, unfastening his hands and fingering his shirt-cuffs.
Hawkins brought the spare stool to the table.
‘My love-’ the man began.
‘Save your love, Howard, and tell me what is happening outside,’ the prisoner said as if she was talking to a servant.
‘Yes, of course.’ His mouth twitched into something like a smile. ‘The petition is being delivered to the Home Office this afternoon. We have thirteen thousand signatures demanding a reprieve. The committee have been tireless in their efforts. There is a public meeting tomorrow on Richmond Green and we are promised a speaker from the Howard Association. I am certain thousands will come. There is a veritable avalanche of sympathy. This morning the postman simply upended a sack of letters-’
‘Sympathy?’ she said in a disbelieving voice. ‘What do you mean-sympathy? I am not dead.’
His hand went to his neck and clutched it. ‘Forgive me, Miriam, dearest. This is a testing time for us all. If you can be patient, my angel, I am confident that justice will be done. I mean, of course … ’ His voice trailed awkwardly away.
‘I know what you meant,’ the prisoner said.
Silence.
The man fidgeted with his cuffs again. The prisoner scrutinised him thoughtfully.
‘Howard, has something else happened?’
He nodded once and moved on the stool so that it made a piercing sound as it scraped the floor.
There was an unmistakable note of urgency as she said, ‘Tell me, then, for pity’s sake!’
He hesitated.
‘I want to know, Howard.’ This was more of an appeal than an order.
‘My dear, we did not wish to raise your expectations prematurely, so I said nothing of this before. It is so easy, you see, to place a significance on things when we are hoping for developments as we are. It could be self-deceiving. Before speaking to you, I wanted to be sure in my own mind that this is significant. Today I am convinced of it, and so is Simon.’ He leaned towards her, resting his hands on the table between them. ‘This week I have received two visitors. On Sunday a detective sergeant came, as he put it, to dot “i”s and cross “t”s-in other words, to check your statement. He put some very searching questions to me and asked me to show him everything, the processing room, the studio. Believe me, he missed nothing. I showed him our album, the mother-of-pearl one, and he took away a photograph of you.’
She frowned slightly. ‘Why should he want a photograph?’
‘He didn’t say exactly. It was a carte of my favourite, the portrait of you in the black gown looking so magnificent.’
‘I was not feeling magnificent.’
He lowered his eyelids and shook his head. ‘Dearest, the image is what matters. The image. Whatever your innermost thoughts were, you looked superb.’
She displayed neither pleasure nor embarrassment at the compliment. ‘What exactly did this detective ask you about?’
‘Oh, everything. He was deeply interested in you. As you know, there is no topic I would rather talk about. I opened the album and there on the first page was the Kilpatrick family. I told him about your father bringing them to Kew for the portrait, and about our courtship. The pictures were all there for him to see. The fair at Hampstead. Our wedding. Trouville.’
Her mouth tightened and she said, ‘Images.’
‘Dearest, what do you mean?’ The husband’s face had creased with concern.
She shook her head. ‘No matter, Howard. Tell me, when the detective had finished looking at the album, what questions did he ask?’
It was cool in the cell, but he took out a handkerchief and patted his forehead. ‘Oh, questions about me-how long I had kept the studio in Kew, when I had first engaged Perceval as my assistant, and so forth. Of course he asked me about the day Perceval died. I told him I was in Brighton at the conference.’
‘You told him-or did he ask?’
‘I believe he asked. He wanted to know which train I caught.’
Her eyes widened. ‘What answer did you give, Howard?’
He returned a quick smile. ‘You know me, dearest, incorrigibly vague about such things. Then I took him to look at the studio. I showed him where the decanters were kept and told him how you filled them each Monday morning after the delivery from Morgan’s. We looked at the processing room, naturally, and he asked to see inside the poison cabinet. Insisted on opening it himself with my key. I treated the fellow throughout with the utmost civility.’
‘He was not hostile towards you?’
‘No, I would not say so. Sharp, yes, but that was his manner, I suspect.’
‘He went away satisfied?’
The husband shrugged. ‘He should have been.’
‘But you formed an impression to the contrary?’ The prisoner watched him keenly. Bell had never seen her so attentive.
The husband drew himself up a little on the stool. ‘Well, my dear, t
here has been a development since which compels me to conclude that the inquiries are continuing.’
‘The second visitor you mentioned?’
‘Yes. He arrived yesterday afternoon.’ He beamed reassuringly. ‘I wish you had seen him, Miriam. He would have amused you. Picture him in the reception room, if you can. A strongly-built fellow with a black beard and a broad face scarred down one side, and rather bulbous eyes. He was in a black suit very shiny from wear and a brand-new butterfly collar on a shirt that was frayed at the cuffs. But, my dear, this is the joke-he was wearing a policeman’s boots!’
The prisoner still declined to smile. ‘What did he want?’
Her husband nodded. ‘That was what I asked him. Do you know what? He answered in a broad north-country accent-his smoking-party turn, I’m ready to wager-that he wished to arrange to have his “photo took”. What do you think of that? For some occult reason Scotland Yard had sent this buffoon to insinuate himself into Park Lodge on the pretext of sitting for his portrait! Well, you know that I suspended work in the studio after what happened in March, except for one or two long-standing appointments. I explained this to my visitor, really to see what he would say. He told me his name was Holly and he was down from Yorkshire for a few days on business. He wanted his “photo took” as a present for his wife, and he would be obliged if I would make an exception and give him a sitting as he had come out to Kew for the purpose, on the recommendation of the proprietor of his hotel. Hotel! In those boots, he wouldn’t get past the commissionaire. However, I am not one to obstruct an officer in the course of his duty, even if he does stoop to subterfuge. I entered into the spirit of the thing and invited him into the studio. As you may suppose, he wasted no time in getting the conversation round to Perceval. He professed great interest in seeing the very room where the “occurrence”, as he described it, took place. I showed him everything I had shown the first detective. I could see it was all he could do to restrain himself from taking out his notebook.’
Waxwork sc-8 Page 12