Waxwork

by Peter Lovesey

  Bell spoke first, conceding a small victory to the prisoner. ‘There you are, then. No different in your skin from the rest of us. Better get yourself dry. Don’t want to catch your death—’ She stopped in mid-sentence, smiled to herself, opened a cupboard and pulled out a towel. It was coarse and far from clean. The prisoner took it and used it.

  Hawkins gave her a grey cotton garment, a sort of wrap-overdressing gown, and told her to sit in the cubicle. ‘You have to be seen by the doctor,’ she explained. ‘Weighed, measured, all those things. Regulations. When that’s done, we’ll get you some prison clothes.’

  ‘What will happen to my own things?’

  ‘Miss,’ Bell said with a glare. ‘If you want to speak to an officer, Cromer, address her in the proper fashion.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I forgot.’ A flat statement, neither repentant nor defiant. ‘Will they be returned to my husband, miss?’

  ‘No. They must be kept here. You’ll be permitted to wear them again’—Bell paused—‘at the end.’

  A moment’s silence.

  ‘I see. And after that?’

  ‘You don’t have to worry, do you?’

  ‘I should like to know if they are returned to my husband, miss.’

  In a hard, tight voice, Bell said, ‘I can tell you that they are not. Regulations. But if you suppose they come to any of us, you are wrong. For your peace of mind, I suggest you inquire no further, Cromer.’

  WEDNESDAY, 13th JUNE

  DETECTIVE SERGEANT CRIBB STOOD in his sitting-room facing the clock, flexing the muscles of his legs. He was due for a visit from Chief Inspector Jowett. It was not by invitation. The Police Code stipulated ‘An Inspector is to visit, at least once a month, the lodgings of all sergeants and constables who do not live in Section Houses, to ascertain that the places are fit to reside in, and that there is not any circumstance which makes it improper for the sergeant or constable to live in the house.’ Jack Ottway, the local Inspector for M Division, usually came, drank two cups of tea, and left without moving out of the scullery.

  This time, unaccountably, it was to be Jowett. Cribb had received the news an hour ago in a curt memorandum that arrived at Divisional Headquarters in Blackman Street by the last despatch cart from the Yard. Mystified, he had come home to prepare. Jowett was a big pot now, a Chief Inspector, on three hundred a year. He should have more important things to do than grubbing round men’s homes.

  Ten years before, when they had served together at Stoke Newington, Jowett had been a regular infliction. He would comb the place for signs of damp and vermin while Cribb looked on, red-eyed with resentment. Really nothing personal was intended. Jowett simply treated the Code as an article of faith. By championing it he expected to be chosen for higher things. It had not failed him. He had gone from Second Class Inspector to First Class within a year. They had given him an office of his own at the Yard. And a telephone-set. Now he was one of only three Chief Inspectors in the C.I.D. While Cribb remained a sergeant.

  The Code told him why. ‘Any officer who wishes for early advancement has frequent opportunities of attracting the notice of his superiors by some action evidencing zeal, ability and judgment, by strict attention to duty, sobriety and a smart appearance, and respectful demeanour.’ Cribb’s conduct satisfied each condition but the last. His demeanour was not respectful. Too often he had made it plain that he could not abide Jowett. That impediment to promotion should have been removed when Jowett took up his position at the Yard, but Jowett would not let him alone. Now, not content with calling him to the Yard each time a problem landed on his desk, he was coming out to Bermondsey to persecute him in his home.

  A movement caught his eye. Only the cat, standing up to stretch. He envied its repose. Cribb’s was a restless temperament. It showed in his physique. Fifty now, his hair more grey than black, he was as lean as he had been on the parade-ground at Canterbury in his army days. And practically as fit. He had been stopped a shilling for a day’s sickness perhaps a dozen times in his career, no more. Occasionally he begrudged the Yard his diligence, yet he could no more change it than his nose, which was worthy of an Indian chief. Sharp, too, in speech, quick to spot deceit, his sense of irony kept him tolerant of others in most situations. He often fumed, rarely erupted.

  He eyed the cat circumspectly. Just his luck if it had brought in a flea. He bent closer.

  The sound of carriage wheels outside brought him upright. By looking into the mirror at an angle he watched the hansom draw up outside. Jowett, without a doubt. George Road, Bermondsey, was not a cab-hiring neighbourhood.

  ‘Jerusalem!’

  Jowett had stepped out of the cab. He was wearing a top hat and frock coat.

  Cribb went downstairs in case the docker under him should answer the door.

  Jowett stepped inside without a word, handing Cribb the hat and kid gloves as he passed.

  ‘Upstairs,’ murmured Cribb.

  Jowett took them two at a time. A rake of a man, he moved with an impression of agility. It was physical only.

  ‘In here?’

  ‘Wherever you care to start.’ Cribb was in braces and a collarless shirt: no dressing up for this.

  ‘Is, er, Mrs Cribb … ?’

  ‘Out.’ He had sent Millie to visit her sister in Rotherhithe. She still believed the Yard would make him up to inspector if he treated Jowett right. On an inspector’s wage they could visit the theatre sometimes. Millie’s idea of Heaven was the dress circle at Drury Lane. She could tell you what was running at every theatre in London. If she had known Jowett was coming, she would have put out the best teacups and made some cakes as well.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ said Jowett quickly. ‘Better I should see you alone.’

  ‘I thought it was the house you had come to see.’

  ‘That was the impression I wanted to give. The facts are otherwise.’

  They were facing each other at the top of the stairs.

  ‘If you haven’t come to inspect my living arrangements … ’

  ‘Cribb, we’ve known each other a long time.’

  ‘Twelve years. That doesn’t mean I’m obliged to—’

  ‘Let’s dispense with formalities, shall we?’

  Cribb turned the silk hat thoughtfully in his hands. ‘I generally do in my own house.’

  ‘Is there, by any chance’—Jowett’s eyes darted about—‘anywhere suitable for a confidential chat?’

  Cribb was about to say there was nothing wrong with the landing when Millie’s parting words came back to him. ‘Treat him civilly for my sake, love. If he was one of the criminal class you wouldn’t think twice about buttering him up to smooth the way, now would you?’ He pushed open the sitting-room door. The cat bolted between them and down the stairs. ‘Bit of a change from Whitehall.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jowett flicked up the ends of the coat and sat in Cribb’s armchair. ‘Not much escapes you, Sergeant. I say, you wouldn’t object to my pipe?’

  Cribb was lost for words. The spectacle of Chief Inspector Jowett installed in his own sitting-room tamping that infernal pipe was more than he could stomach.

  ‘You’re absolutely right, of course,’ Jowett went on. ‘I was at the Home Office this morning. Deuced uncomfortable chairs. Nothing like this.’ He brushed some stray shreds of tobacco off his coat. ‘Won’t you sit down? Dammit, let’s forget about rank. It isn’t so long since we messed together at Upper Street. That was a time, Cribb. Real detective work.’

  Cribb said nothing. In his recollection Jowett’s detective work had consisted of writing voluminous reports to Scotland Yard. His career was a testimony to the power of the pen.

  ‘Seems like yesterday,’ Jowett reminisced. ‘Tell me now, would you by any chance recall a constable named Waterlow? Tall chap. Your sort of build, but losing his hair.’

  Waterlow. Cribb remembered. One of Jowett’s kind, forever volunteering to write the Morning Report in lieu of beat
duty. ‘Yes, sir. I heard he was made up to sergeant soon after I left.’

  ‘Inspector now. You knew him tolerably well?’

  This required caution. ‘No better than you, sir. He was one of the bunch at Islington.’ Cribb moved Millie’s linnet out of range of the pipe fumes.

  ‘I must say, I rated him a smart young fellow,’ Jowett went on. ‘A career man, eager to put up a show.’

  ‘That was my impression.’

  ‘Funny, how wrong you can be about a man,’ mused Jowett, staring into the bowl of his pipe. It had gone out.

  ‘Ten years ago, I would have tipped him for a chief inspector’s job.’

  ‘Inspector isn’t anything to be ashamed of,’ said Cribb, keeping himself in check.

  ‘Hm.’ Jowett lowered his voice. ‘Strictly between these walls, Waterlow is somewhat of a disappointment as an inspector. They didn’t think much of him at Bow Street. Made an ass of himself, I’m afraid. He was transferred to V Division. Inspector-in-charge at Kew. A quiet station. It’s a large patch, but most of it is the Botanic Gardens. There isn’t a lot of serious crime. Or wasn’t, until March of this year.’ Jowett paused and looked inquiringly across the room.

  Like everyone else, Cribb had followed the Kew Poisoning Case. He stood at the window staring down at Jowett’s cab. ‘Did Waterlow have a hand in that business? I missed his name in the papers.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It didn’t feature very prominently. He was not called at the trial last week because the woman confessed and pleaded guilty.’

  ‘Convenient for V Division, sir. Another case closed.’

  ‘So it would seem.’ Jowett’s eyes narrowed as he took another match to the pipe. ‘Miriam Cromer is now in Newgate under sentence of death. There is, however, a complication. It may be of no consequence at all, but as it was explained to me this morning by’—he paused, busy with the pipe—‘the Home Secretary’—a flame leapt several inches above the bowl—‘it sounded difficult to account for, Sergeant. Now for God’s sake will you sit down?’

  Cribb let himself slowly into Millie’s armchair, not liking the drift of this in the least.

  ‘You will know if you studied the newspaper reports that Mrs Cromer claimed in her confession that she was being blackmailed by the victim. A most unsavoury business, Cribb. Something about indecent photographs she once posed for under a misapprehension that they were commissioned by Lord Leighton. As an aid to his painting, I must make quite clear. If you ask me—and most of London, come to that—there must have been a damned sight more to the blackmail than that, but no matter. Let’s not blame the woman for salvaging what she could of her reputation. It is when we come to her account of the murder that the problem arises. You will recall that this obnoxious fellow Perceval was poisoned with cyanide. There was a bottle of the stuff in the poison cabinet of the photographic studio where he worked. It was quite clear that he drank the poison in a glass of madeira. The Home Office analyst found traces in the wine glass and a significant amount in the decanter he had poured it from. Cyanide, Cribb, has the reputation of causing instantaneous death. Where would melodrama villains be without it?’ An authoritative note now sounded in the Chief Inspector’s voice. ‘The truth of the matter is different. It can take anything from ten to twenty minutes for the victim to die. Instead of dropping dead at once, as his murderer intended, Perceval caused such a rumpus that the servants found him.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Cribb. ‘Miriam Cromer arrived too late to make it look like suicide.’

  ‘That is what she claims in her confession. Have you studied the confession closely?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say “studied”, sir. I saw it in the Daily News.’

  ‘She states that when Perceval went to lunch she unlocked the poison cabinet, took out the bottle of cyanide and poured a third of the contents into the decanter of madeira. Then she replaced the bottle in the cabinet, locked it again, and went out.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘I don’t see where the problem is, sir.’

  ‘Presently you will. Consider what happened when Miriam Cromer returned to the house. The dying man had been discovered, the alarm raised and the doctor was already there. He recognised the symptoms of cyanide poisoning’—gratuitously, Jowett said—‘the smell of bitter almonds and the bluish colouring of the skin—and asked Mrs Cromer where the bottle was kept. She states in her confession that she unlocked the cabinet and showed it to him. Now, Sergeant.’ Jowett leaned back in the chair with his arms folded. ‘I have always had you down as a practical thinker. If Miriam Cromer is to be believed, what would you infer that she needed to possess to carry out her actions?’

  Cribb gave a shrug. To be labelled a practical thinker was a back-handed compliment. ‘A key?’

  ‘The logical assumption,’ Jowett confirmed. ‘To put you properly in the picture I should explain that the poison cabinet was nothing like the simple wooden box you and I have in our bathrooms—’

  ‘There’s no bathroom here,’ Cribb pointed out.

  ‘That has no bearing on it, Sergeant. I was saying that this was a cabinet of German manufacture, built of steel, with a lock no ill-intentioned individual could force. Cromer was admirably responsible about the storage of his chemicals. He was well aware how dangerous cyanide can be and he was determined there should be no accidents. He insisted that all poisonous substances were locked in the cabinet whenever they were not in use. There were two keys. One he kept for himself and wore on his watch-chain with the idea that he would never leave it lying about. It was small and silver in colour and looked quite as handsome on an albert as a lucky sixpence. The other key was given to Perceval. He had it on a key-ring with his personal keys, which he kept in his pocket. They were among the list of articles found on the body. Do you see the significance? If Miriam Cromer is to be believed, on the day she murdered Perceval she was in possession of one of those two keys.’

  ‘Her husband’s?’ suggested Cribb. ‘He was in Brighton, so he wouldn’t have wanted it.’

  ‘A reasonable inference,’ Jowett said with a tolerant nod. ‘She could have slipped it off the watch-chain at some time when Cromer was not wearing his waistcoat, perhaps early in the morning, before he was up. Perfectly possible. Now examine this.’ With the air of a conjurer one trick ahead of his audience, Jowett took a piece of paper from an inside pocket and handed it to Cribb.

  It was a photo-engraving cut from a magazine. Two men in bowler hats were shown standing at the entrance of what looked like a hotel. The caption read: ‘The Annual Conference of the Portrait Photographers’ League, at Brighton, on 12th March. The Hon. P. R. Deacon-Pratt, President and Mr H. Cromer, Vice-Chairman.’ The date and Cromer’s name were ringed in red ink. More significantly, an arrow had been drawn pointing to the waistcoat of the figure on the right. A key, small, but clearly visible, was shown attached to the watch-chain looped across the front.

  ‘It was cut from the Photographic Journal of 24th March,’ said Jowett. ‘The Home Secretary received it on Monday. It came in an envelope with a West Central postmark. There was no letter of explanation.’

  ‘An explanation isn’t necessary,’ said Cribb. ‘Someone studied Miriam Cromer’s confession and remembered this. There’s no doubt, I take it, that this is one of the keys to the poison cabinet?’

  ‘No doubt whatsoever. The Home Office have studied it minutely. I saw it myself under magnification and compared it with the key found in Perceval’s pocket. The Germans are clever locksmiths, Cribb. That key and its twin were individually cut for the lock on that cabinet. The pattern is intricate, make no mistake. Triple layers of metal, divergent faces—jargon to me, but it means we can eliminate the possibility of a copy having been made.’

  ‘Well, as Cromer was wearing one key on his waistcoat in Brighton, his wife must have opened the cabinet with the other. Is it possible Perceval mislaid it?’

  Jowett shook his head. ‘I just mentioned, didn’t I, that it was on a ring with his o
ther keys. If Perceval had mislaid them, he could not have let himself into the studio that morning. I am assured he did.’

  Cribb’s mind sifted through possibilities. ‘If he removed his jacket while he was working with chemicals—’

  ‘He kept the key-ring in his trouser pocket. It was found there on the body. And we can discount the possibility that she simply asked to borrow his key to the cabinet. That would have alerted him to her intention. She had no conceivable reason for opening the cabinet except to obtain poison. Perceval was no fool, Cribb. He was well aware of the risk he ran in blackmailing her. He was too astute by far to present her with the means of destroying him. Let’s not forget, either, that Miriam Cromer claimed to have taken the poison from the cabinet at lunch time, when Perceval was out. When she saw him next, he was a dead man. If she used Perceval’s key to obtain the poison, how did she return it to the pocket of his trousers after he was dead?’

  Cribb thought for a moment. ‘Just a minute, sir. You said just now that when the doctor asked about poison, Miriam Cromer unlocked the cabinet and showed him the bottle of cyanide. She must have had a key in her possession.’

  Jowett knocked ash into Cribb’s coal-bucket. ‘Obviously you are coming to grips with the problem, Sergeant, but the answer isn’t there, I’m afraid. You see, I am at a slight advantage here. I have read Dr Eagle’s deposition. He states categorically that when he inquired about the cyanide, Mrs Cromer told him the bottle was kept locked in the poison cabinet. He asked to see it and she said she would need Perceval’s key to open it. The doctor himself removed the keys from the dead man’s trouser pocket. Afterwards he replaced them. The whole thing defies rational explanation.’

  ‘Has anyone asked Miriam Cromer about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? She pleaded guilty. She of all people knows what happened.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t do.’

  Cribb rubbed his chin, surprised that a straightforward suggestion should be rejected out of hand.