Crippen

by John Boyne

‘They claim I am not. They claim that two diplomas earned by correspondence course from Philadelphia and New York are not enough to make one a doctor. Oh, don’t look so amazed, Cora. I’ve come across this attitude before. You know I have. That fool Anthony Lake, he knew it. And that fellow Richard Morton, he said it to my face, like I was a dog without feelings. You’ve said it yourself on more than one occasion. I’ve been battling this for years now. And all because I could not afford to attend proper medical school. That . . . woman’s fault,’ he added bitterly, hissing the words.

  Cora stood up and came towards him, then assumed a kneeling position by his side. She took his hand in hers and stroked it carefully. He looked at her, surprised. Was she actually going to offer him some wifely comfort at last? Was their sterile, bullying relationship about to change in the face of his disappointment? He could hardly believe it. ‘Hawley,’ she said finally in a quiet voice. ‘Señor Berlosci will need eight shillings a week to train me. You have to find it somewhere. Will Munyon’s offer you some more work, do you think?’

  He blinked, unable to believe his ears. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Munyon’s,’ she repeated. ‘At the moment, they pay you enough for us both to live reasonably comfortably, but to earn the extra eight shillings . . . well, you’re going to need to work some extra shifts. Or perhaps Mr Munyon could increase your wages? You have to speak to him about it. It’s important.’

  Hawley loosened his hand from hers and stood up slowly, walking towards the window and breathing heavily, attempting to keep his temper under control. In the four years they had been married, he had never once raised his voice to his wife. He left that side of things to her. All their arguments were based around his inability to fund the lifestyle she felt she deserved. All their fights ended with her screaming at him, berating him, threatening him with frying pans and pots, while he agreed to do whatever she asked, anything so long as she stopped shouting at him. Now, however, he felt an anger grow inside him that he had never felt before. It consumed him from within, like a piece of burning coal smouldering at the base of his stomach, rising through his chest, and charring at his heart. He turned and looked at her while she stared back at him defiantly, aware of the sudden change of temperature in their relationship.

  ‘How heartless you are,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Everything is always about your ambition,your dreams. Never about mine. I receive yet another setback and all you can think about is where I can find an extra eight shillings to fund your singing lessons?’ He was shouting now, but he had underestimated his audience, for she was able to give back as good as she got.

  ‘It’s our way out of this hovel,’ she screeched. ‘Don’t you see? I can be a great star and make us thousands and thousands of pounds. We can—’

  ‘Oh, stop deluding yourself, woman!’ he cried. ‘You’ll never be a star. You’re only a passable singer at the best of times. Dogs in the street have a better chance of—’

  She never found out what dogs in the street had a better chance of doing, because before he could finish his sentence she had stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face. Her lip curled in anger as she stared him down, but his fists curled too and he had to hold himself back from punching her face, an emotion he had never felt before.

  ‘Don’t you ever speak to me like that again, you worthless fool,’ she said quietly, her voice several tones deeper than normal, like a sound emerging from the depths of hell. ‘You’re just bitter because I will be a great star, whereas you will never be a real doctor. And you will find me that eight shillings a week, Hawley Crippen, or I shall want to know the reason why. Do we understand each other?’

  He stared at her, and a million different answers occurred to him. He sought through every corner of his personality to find the strength to choose the words he wanted to say; but as she stood before him, ready to strike again if necessary, if not with her hands then with her tongue, he felt himself collapse within and knew there was only one answer, two words, that would suffice. On this occasion he did not have the strength to stand up to her. He nodded and looked away.

  ‘Yes, Cora,’ he said.

  7.

  The Smythsons and the Nashes

  London: 6 April 1910

  Mrs Louise Smythson and her husband Nicholas arrived in the dining room of the Savoy Hotel a little after four fifteen in the afternoon. Having arranged to meet their friends, Mr and Mrs Nash, for a birthday tea at four o’clock, they were both somewhat embarrassed to be late, but the last few days had been so busy and distressing that they were sure their friends would understand.

  They had slept later than usual that morning. Five days earlier, on April Fool’s Day, Nicholas’s father, Lord Smythson, had died in his sleep. Nicholas had been beside himself with grief since then, but this was nothing compared to what was being endured by his wife—for a very different reason. Her misery was down to the fact that Lord Smythson’s title had passed immediately to her brother-in-law Martin who, despite being forty years younger than his father, was just as sickly. It had been Louise’s fervent desire that Martin would die young, preferably before Lord Smythson, to ensure that the title landed with Nicholas. However, that possibility had now passed and she simply had to wait and hope that nature would take its course.

  The doorbell had rung a little after eleven o’clock that morning and Louise was surprised to be informed by the maid, Julie, that her sister-inlaw Elizabeth had come to call. Elizabeth had married Martin six months earlier and had been embraced by all the family as a perfect English rose and a suitable wife for the eldest son. There was no question that her pretty features and quiet charm exemplified everything that the Smythsons had looked for in breeding stock; their disquiet when Nicholas had introduced his own choice of bride to them was still a sore point for Louise, but she had managed to win them over eventually by proving extremely proficient at hiding her lower-class origins—and her accent—and embracing all the social attitudes of the upper classes as if she had been born to it. Upon their introduction, Elizabeth had immediately sought to become friends with her new sister-in-law, and Louise allowed a deception to continue, that deception being that she actually liked her. In fact, Elizabeth was the enemy; a woman who, if she wasn’t stopped, could provide an heir to the Smythson title and fortune. It was clear that she was passionately in love with her sickly husband, and any issue from the marriage would leave Nicholas and Louise for ever the poor relations. She had to be stopped.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ she exclaimed when the visitor walked into the room, still wearing black in mourning for their late father-in-law. ‘How lovely to see you. And at such an early hour.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my calling around, Louise,’ she said anxiously.

  ‘Of course not,’ the other replied, seeing instantly the look of worry in her face. ‘Sit down. Julie will bring tea. Julie!’ she snapped as if the maid was hard of hearing. ‘Tea!’

  The ladies sat together on the sofa and discussed the events of the previous few days. The funeral of Lord Smythson. The passing of the title. The reading of the will. The constant coughing of Martin as they sat in the cathedral, listening to the service. ‘He’s so very ill at the moment,’ said Elizabeth. ‘The doctors fear it might be pneumonia. I’m beside myself with worry, my dear Louise, I truly am.’

  ‘Only natural,’ said Louise, ushering Julie away delightedly and pouring the tea herself. ‘He shouldn’t have attended the funeral on such a rainy day, you know. It was bound to make him ill.’

  ‘I know. But you were right when you insisted that he come. After all, how would it look for an eldest son not to attend the last service for his dear father?’

  ‘True,’ she replied. ‘Of course I was only thinking of his reputation. I do hope I haven’t damaged his health by doing so.’

  ‘But I almost forgot!’ said Elizabeth, reaching into her bag for a small jewellery box. ‘I brought you a birthday present. I knew you wouldn’t want to celebrate so close to a
family funeral, but I couldn’t let the day pass unmarked.’

  ‘How kind,’ said Louise, snatching the box greedily. ‘And don’t worry, we’re having tea with our friends the Nashes later anyway. Mrs Nash is a friend of mine from the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild. Now let me see this better . . .’ She opened the box and removed the ear-rings from within, holding them up to the light. ‘Well, aren’t they charming,’ she said, not wanting to appear over-excited by the set of sapphire gems. ‘Thank you so much, my dear.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Elizabeth, looking away before her face collapsed suddenly in pain.

  Without warning she burst into tears and Louise could only stare at her, irritated and baffled. ‘Elizabeth,’ she asked, moved to put an arm around her in comfort, but resisting it, ‘whatever’s the matter? You’re not still crying for our father-in-law, surely?’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that,’ she said.

  ‘Martin then.’

  ‘Well, yes, partly. You see, I spoke to the doctor last night and he wants to move him into hospital today for tests and observation. He says it’s the best thing for him.’

  ‘But Elizabeth, surely that’s a good thing,’ said Louise, making a mental note to write to her brother-in-law’s doctor and demand that his wishes to be left alone be respected and that, if he had to die, he should at least be allowed the dignity of dying at home. ‘They can do their best for him in there.’

  Elizabeth nodded but still looked miserable. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I know the doctors there might be able to help him—but to look at him, Louise, is to break my heart. He’s so thin and so pale. And he can hardly breathe sometimes. He’s like a shadow of his former self.’

  For this, and this alone, Louise felt some sympathy. The two women did not socialize together very often, and when she had seen her brother-in-law at the funeral a few days earlier she had been taken aback by his obviously unwell state. He had been brought to the front row of the church in a wheelchair, a blanket covering his pencil-thin legs, and she had pushed along the pew a little way to distance herself from him. Louise was not a woman who felt comfortable among the sick.

  ‘We can only pray for him,’ said Louise, reaching for something positive to say and failing. She glanced at the clock and wished that Elizabeth would finish her tea and leave. She had some letters to write before they left for the Savoy and a romance novel which had been thrilling her for days to finish.

  ‘There is another thing, however,’ said Elizabeth, her voice catching a little in her throat. It sounded as if she was afraid to say it but she needed a confidante.

  ‘Something else?’ said Louise, narrowing her eyes, sensing a secret. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I . . .’ she began, before shaking her head and weeping some more. ‘I shouldn’t say.’

  ‘Of course you should,’ she replied greedily. ‘Why, we’re practically sisters, aren’t we?’

  ‘Well, yes . . .’ said Elizabeth, unsure about this. Although she tried to hide the fact from herself, she often suspected that Louise did not like her.

  ‘Well then. You must tell me everything. Just like I do you.’

  ‘But you never tell me any secrets.’

  ‘That’s because I have none, my dear. Now go ahead. You’ll feel better for getting it off your chest, whatever it is.’

  ‘Well, I can’t be sure about it,’ Elizabeth began hesitantly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Of course it’s early days.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  Elizabeth swallowed and looked her sister-in-law directly in the eyes. ‘I think I may be with child,’ she said.

  Louise’s eyes opened wide and she put a hand to her stomach as she felt it begin to churn. This is it, she thought to herself. This is what it feels like when the blood literally drains from your face. ‘A child?’ she asked, barely able to get the hated words out.

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘I’ve made an appointment with my doctor to confirm it, but I’m almost sure of it. A woman can tell, you know.’

  Louise gasped, unsure what to say. ‘You’re . . . you’re not certain then?’ she said. ‘It might be a mistake.’

  ‘Well not entirely sure, but—’

  ‘Then don’t worry about it for now. It might just be—’

  ‘Louise, you don’t understand. I hope I am pregnant. I desperately want for Martin and me to have a baby together. I’m just worried that he’ll be too sick to be a real father to it. Or worse. What if . . . what if . . . ?’ She could not bring herself to finish her thought and collapsed in further tears, and Louise had to restrain herself from picking her up and slapping her. This went on for another hour before Louise finally persuaded her sister-in-law to return home, seeing her to the door and apologizing after she stepped too close to her, almost pushing her down the wet steps outside. She didn’t tell her husband of this distress, however, as Nicholas would have been delighted at the news. He didn’t seem to care about the title, the attainment of which had been Louise’s mission in life since their marriage. And so she had taken a longer bath than usual and was spoiling for a fight with him afterwards, proclaiming the necklace he had bought her to be gaudy and more suited to a woman from below stairs. By the time they finally left their home, it was almost four o’clock and they were bound to be late. Arriving at the Savoy, Louise was torn between anger and despair and a fervent hope that she could take it out on someone.

  The Nashes were old friends of Nicholas Smythson, and it had been Margaret Nash who had seen to it that the newly married Louise was admitted to the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild, a group which got together once a week to listen to performances, discuss the issues of the day or, more usually, simply to take tea together and discuss the latest fashions. From time to time they organized charitable functions to help the impoverished children of the city, but such events had become few and far between, being troublesome and involving the poor. Andrew Nash had attended Cambridge with Nicholas and he encouraged his wife to champion Louise after their marriage, a task she had taken to gladly. Although originally from quite different backgrounds, they had hit it off well together and became fast friends, for Mrs Nash was every bit the social climber that Louise was and, like her, had married above her station.

  ‘How are you now, Nicholas?’ asked Margaret, who had not seen him since the funeral. ‘Are you coming to terms with your loss yet?’

  ‘Oh yes, quite,’ he replied, although this was not entirely true. He had loved his father very much and already missed him greatly. He had barely slept in recent days, so racked was he with painful memories.

  ‘He was a fine man,’ Andrew said gruffly, affecting the elderly gentleman role to which he aspired, although he was still only in his early forties.

  ‘And Martin, how is he?’ Margaret continued. ‘He looked simply dreadful at the funeral. He will be all right, won’t he?’

  Nicholas shrugged. He didn’t like to think about it. Losing one family member was bad enough. He dreaded the idea of losing Martin too.

  Louise’s lip curled in distaste, unable to rid her mind of the prospect of Elizabeth’s baby, and she changed the subject immediately. It might not be true anyway, she reasoned. Maybe it’s a false alarm.

  ‘My dear,’ she said, reaching across and tapping Margaret on the arm gently. ‘I never told you about my visit to Scotland Yard, did I?’

  ‘No!’ said Margaret. ‘You mean you actually went?’

  ‘Indeed I did.’

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Andrew, puffing away on a cigar. ‘What were you doing at Scotland Yard, for heaven’s sake? Here, Smythson!’ he said in too loud a voice across the table. ‘What’s this wife of yours been up to that we know nothing about? Not some sort of criminal mastermind, is she?’

  ‘Stop it, Andrew,’ said Margaret in a serious tone. ‘You won’t be laughing when you hear about it. Now tell me, Louise. What happened? What did they say?’

  ‘It was about Cora Crippen,’ Louise explained, tu
rning to her friend’s husband, aware that he knew nothing about this. ‘About what happened to her.’

  ‘Cora Crippen? You mean that big, loud woman you’re friends with?’

  Louise sighed and recalled how Mrs Crippen had joined their group in the first place. A year or two after marrying Nicholas, she had been walking along Tavistock Square one afternoon when a woman had stopped and introduced herself as Cora Crippen in such a tone as to suggest that they were old friends.

  ‘Cora Crippen?’ she had repeated, trying to remember, although the face was a little familiar. ‘I’m afraid I don’t—’

  ‘Oh, but you must remember me,’ said Cora. ‘I used to visit the Horse and Three Bells public house when I was performing at the Regency Music Hall. You worked there. Before your marriage.’

  ‘Bella Elmore!’ Louise said, remembering. ‘That was your stage name, if I recollect.’

  ‘That’s right. But it’s Cora Crippen by day.’

  They spoke for some time, and for once Louise did not mind being reminded of her earlier, less exalted days. She and Cora had got along very well in the old days and, when it became clear that they were living not far from each other, it did not seem too much to imagine that they could be part of the same social set. Louise tried out a few names on her to make sure and Cora lied, saying she knew them all.

  ‘And are you still singing?’ asked Louise.

  ‘But of course. I’m hoping to make my debut at the Palladium in the spring.’

  ‘The Palladium? You never are!’

  ‘Well, negotiations are at an early stage, of course, but fingers crossed. My agent is organizing it.’ Naturally there were no negotiations, nor was there an agent, nor was there any risk whatsoever of her playing at the Palladium.

  ‘Cora, you must join our guild,’ said Louise on their second meeting, for tea at Louise’s own house. ‘We have some wonderful members. You must know Anne Richardson-Lewis? Of the Richardson-Lewises? And Janet Tyler? She’s one of the Tylers?’

  ‘Of course,’ lied Cora.