Waxwork

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘She could tell us, yes,’ Jowett admitted. ‘I cannot fault your logic, Sergeant, but it would be most inappropriate to question Mrs Cromer at this time. Consider her situation. She is condemned to hang twelve days from now. The only thing that can save her is a reprieve. Doubtless she wrote her confession in the hope that it would entitle her to a measure of sympathy. The circumstances of the blackmail were distressing to read, were they not? Here was a decent woman driven to murder through one rather absurd lapse exploited by a vicious blackmailer. On the face of it, there are grounds for mercy. I say on the face of it because her own account is the only one we have. It was accepted by the court because she pleaded guilty and it fitted the available facts. The court had to decide the question of her guilt and she saved them the trouble. Why? In order to give her own account of what happened in the most favourable version possible—else why did she forfeit the right to be defended by an able counsel?’

  ‘It was a gamble, you mean?’

  ‘A gamble for her life, Cribb. At this moment Miriam Cromer is sitting in the condemned cell waiting to see if she has won. Now do you understand why it is out of the question to tackle her about this business of the key? If you or I visited her in Newgate and told her fresh information had come to light, imagine the effect. She would at once conclude that her confession was in doubt—that confession on which she has pinned her hope of a reprieve. It would have a most unsettling effect. The prison staff have difficulty enough calming the minds of the condemned. No, it can’t be contemplated, not merely to clarify a detail. The Home Secretary would refuse to sanction it.’

  ‘He wants an explanation just the same.’

  ‘He most certainly does.’ A clear note of fear sounded in the Chief Inspector’s voice. ‘When he understood the significance of this photograph, he called in the Commissioner.’

  Cribb’s stomach gave a lurch. The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police was Sir Charles Warren. That impetuous old warhorse had earned his knighthood the year before by putting down a demonstration of the unemployed with a force of four thousand police and six hundred guardsmen. But Bloody Sunday was nothing to his battles since in the offices of Whitehall. He had repeatedly skirmished with the Home Secretary and the Receiver. His own Assistant Commissioner, James Monro, was in open revolt against him. It was common knowledge that each was trying to secure the other’s resignation.

  Monro was head of the Criminal Investigation Department.

  ‘The Commissioner?’

  ‘Yes, Cribb. I understand why you have gone pale.’

  ‘Isn’t this a C.I.D. matter?’

  Jowett gave the sigh of a man who had been through this only an hour before. ‘I confess that there is a certain difficulty over that. The investigation at Kew was handled by Inspector Waterlow, who is not a member of the C.I.D. The case was so straightforward, with Miriam Cromer the obvious suspect, that our services were not requested.’

  ‘Until this problem cropped up.’

  ‘Yes. The Home Secretary has ordered a new investigation into the circumstances of Perceval’s death. He wants it carried out by competent detectives, but in the strictest confidence.’

  ‘That’s why you came out to Bermondsey?’ said Cribb. ‘Why aren’t we having this conversation in Mr Monro’s office?’

  ‘I had better not answer that question,’ Jowett primly said. ‘Suffice to say that Sir Charles has assigned me to the case. I shall require your assistance.’

  It could not be worse. Monro, the head of C.I.D., had not been informed.

  ‘The situation is delicate, I admit,’ Jowett blandly went on. ‘As you imply, the Assistant Commissioner is not to be informed at this stage. Knowing how sensitive things are, I made my position clear to Sir Charles. Working as closely as I do to Mr Monro, I could not conceivably carry out a thoroughgoing investigation myself without evincing his interest. As a consequence it was agreed to delegate the day-to-day inquiries to a less conspicuous member of the C.I.D. I nominated you.’

  Less conspicuous—Cribb felt entitled to better than that. He did not thank Jowett. ‘And where do I stand if Mr Monro gets to hear of this?’

  Jowett gave a thin smile. ‘Out of earshot, I suggest. To be serious, Sergeant,’ he added hastily, ‘now that your name has been mentioned to Sir Charles, it would not be in your interest to shrink from the task. By all means request an interview with him if you feel your position is untenable, but I warn you that he may not see it in the same light as yourself. If you were to mention Mr Monro’s name in his office, I would not answer for the consequence.’

  Through Cribb’s burning anger he recognised the truth of this. Jowett’s judgment was unerring when it came to the politics of Scotland Yard. The trap had been sprung and there was no escape. He could accept or resign. Mr Monro would not thank a humble sergeant for making a martyr of himself in the C.I.D. cause. Nor would Millie. From this moment, Cribb’s career was vested in Sir Charles Warren, the man the Pall Mall Gazette described as ‘this hopeless and conspicuous failure.’

  ‘How do you want me to proceed?’

  Jowett’s smile reappeared. ‘That’s the ticket! Well, Sergeant, what it comes down to is whether the confession Miriam Cromer made is reliable. If it isn’t, why the devil did she perjure herself to secure a sentence of death? We have eleven days to find an answer. After that the question will be academic, but the Home Secretary will still require a full report. You can leave that to me. The, er, spadework is your responsibility. Be assured that when you need advice it will not be wanting. However, in the circumstances it would not be wise to contact me at Scotland Yard. Better if I get in touch with you in, say, a week from now.’ He looked unadmiringly round Cribb’s front room. ‘This will have to suffice for a rendezvous.’

  THURSDAY, 14th JUNE

  JAMES BERRY WAS THE first to admit that when it came to letter-writing he was no St Paul. It was not the spelling. He had taken a prize once for spelling, in Heckmondwike Dame School. His copperplate was good, too. In the fifties they had taught you well, soon reddened your knuckles when you blotted out a loop. The finest teacher in any school was fear. What Berry had never learnt, because it was not part of the curriculum, was how to find fancy phrases. He liked to come straight out with things.

  The letter he had been labouring over for the greater part of three days was now about as elegant as anything he had ever put together. He had started it good and early on purpose, knowing that it would not come quickly. The problem was striking the balance. He needed to make it clear that this was business. He wanted no favours, nor was he giving any. But neither did he wish to seem disrespectful. It was necessary to show he knew he was dealing with a gentleman.

  This was how it read:

  1, Bilton Place,

  Bradford

  Yorkshire

  14th June, 1888

  J. Tussaud, Esq., Proprietor,

  Madame Tussaud’s Exhibition of Waxworks,

  Marylebone Road,

  London NW.

  Dear Sir,

  I have not had the privilege of meeting you, but I understand that the former incumbent of the office I presently hold, namely the late Wm. Marwood, Esq., visited you on a number of occasions and transacted business with you which was a cause of satisfaction on both sides. I am informed that his likeness in wax occupies a place of honour in your exhibition and is an object of interest to the public.

  My reason for addressing this communication to your esteemed self is that I have been asked to come to London on or about the 21st inst. in connection with the due enactment of the Law in regard to a case which has received considerable attention in the popular press in recent weeks. I understand that you are accustomed to gratify the public interest in such things by exhibiting the likenesses of certain criminals of note in your Chamber of Horrors. It would seem likely that after the Law has taken its course in the above-mentioned case, you will exhibit a model in wax of the perpetrator of the crime.

  I venture to suggest th
at you must be aware through your dealings with the late Mr Marwood that it has long been a perquisite of the office of executioner to take possession of the clothing last worn by those on whom he has performed his invidious duty. I believe that certain of the models in your exhibition are dressed in the actual clothes of the personages they represent, and that this in no small measure increases the public’s curiosity in them. I should be prepared to discuss the purchase by Tussaud’s of the clothes of the person convicted in this case should you be interested.

  I shall travel to London on Wednesday, 20th inst., and I could, if you desire, attend your office the following morning to discuss the matter. Should you care to meet me, your confirmation by letter will oblige.

  Your humble servant,

  James Berry

  He was in two minds about ‘Your humble servant’. He was not looking for charity. He was in a position to state terms. He had waited long enough for a chance like this. Not one of his clients had been a candidate for Tussaud’s until now. Not one in four years. Bill Marwood had been luckier—Charlie Peace, Kate Webster, Dr Lamson. No wonder they had made a waxwork of Marwood himself, when he had turned off notables like that.

  There was no need to reach a decision yet about how to end the letter. It would have to wait until he heard something definite from the Sheriff of London. Then he would copy it out in his best hand and decide whether he wanted to remain a humble servant.

  What mattered more was the price. He was thinking he might ask twenty for the clothes, which was twice what the Sheriff would pay for the hanging. Twenty was not exorbitant when you reckoned the numbers who would pay to look at the figure.

  Twenty would cover the cost of what he had in mind to do in London and leave some to spare.

  The prisoner Cromer was a deep one, her wardresses had decided. They had confidently expected trouble from her when the truth of her situation had sunk in. The way it took prisoners was variable; all you could count on was that there would be incidents in the first forty-eight hours, anything from fainting-fits to assaults on the staff. The doctor generally gave them something. If they were bad enough they were put in the infirmary for a spell. Once the first crisis was over, they would weep for a day or two and then begin to come to terms with their sentence. Provided visitors did not excite them, they were manageable after that. Passive almost to the finish. A few actually went to that without a murmur.

  Cromer had given no indication of mental turmoil. She appeared to be in command of herself. It was as if Newgate had not touched her yet. In prison uniform, the coarse blue jacket and limp linsey skirt, the plain white mob cap with close-fitting frills, she should have looked like any other felon. She did not. She was different.

  The clothes fitted well enough. She wore the cap exactly as prescribed, with the ends tied in a bow under her chin. If a strand of gold hair slipped loose she was swiftly ordered to tuck it out of sight. Her sleeves were neatly rolled in regulation fashion. Really there was small scope for self-expression in the uniform, and any signs of it were soon corrected.

  Her strangeness was of a more elusive kind, not definable as a breach of prison regulations, but flagrant in a way that offended the wardresses because they were not able to exercise control over it. She accepted the restrictions, the indignities, the scrubbing-brush and the latrine-bucket, without a syllable of protest. She was scrupulously subordinate in her dealings with the staff. Yet she remained remote. The privations should have made her increasingly dependent on her gaolers; it was a process so predictable that they took it as a right. Deprived of it, they could not understand how this prisoner could be simultaneously submissive and indifferent. Certainly there were indications of strain in her features, but she persisted in her aloofness. Her eyes showed no more interest in her attendants than the furniture or the walls.

  The governor had noticed it. On Monday, Cromer’s fourth day in Newgate, he had asked for her to be brought to his rooms as was his custom with newly admitted prisoners. Hawkins and Bell had taken her. It meant walking to the other end of the prison through low stone passages, relics of the eighteenth century, never progressing far before an iron-bolted door had to be unlocked and slammed with a resounding crash after they were through.

  There was a door beyond which you found yourself stepping on carpet instead of stone. Far from producing an impression of comfort, it was so alien to the rest of Newgate that it disturbed even the wardresses. Bell’s knees turned to jelly every time.

  In the carpeted passage they stopped at a panelled oak door with brass fittings polished to military standard. It was Hawkins who knocked.

  ‘Enter.’

  The governor’s room was vast. Vast, that is, compared with cells thirteen feet by seven and corridors so narrow that in places two people could not pass without one stepping aside. The sense of space was unnerving.

  It was panelled in dark wood and furnished with high-backed leather chairs. There were bookshelves to the ceiling, pictures of hunting scenes, stuffed animals’ heads and green velvet curtains. It was warm, so there was no fire burning. The governor was facing a tapestry firescreen.

  ‘If you please, sir, the prisoner Cromer,’ the less nervous wardress announced from the doorway.

  ‘Yes.’ He turned, a grey-haired man with a waxed moustache and blue, watery eyes. ‘Step forward, Cromer.’ His voice was strange to the ear, modulated by carpets and furnishings.

  The prisoner took two steps towards him.

  ‘Over here, if you please. I may be fearsome, but I am not dangerous, I assure you.’

  The wardresses watched her approach to within a yard of him, her face raised to meet his. She was not fearful. Not in the least.

  ‘I make a point of seeing each prisoner who enters Newgate,’ he told her in a voice just audible across the room, ‘and I always begin by making it clear that this institution and others like it exist only to meet the requirements of the law. For that reason I shall say nothing about the events that brought you here. They were the subject of your trial and I imagine you would not care to be reminded of them. My responsibility is to see that the sentence of the law is carried out—to a point, that is. The ultimate responsibility rests with the Sheriff of the City of London. If your sentence is confirmed by Her Majesty I shall be required to deliver you to the Sheriff for the implementation of that sentence. A formality that you need not concern yourself with, unless it comforts you to know that we in Newgate are responsible only for your custody, not, do you understand … ?’

  ‘I understand.’

  Bell caught her breath. The prisoner had failed to address him properly.

  The governor fingered the knot of his necktie. ‘You will wish to know how long you may expect to spend in Newgate. The period prescribed by the Home Office is a little over two weeks. Three Sundays must elapse since the day on which sentence was passed. Assuming there is no intervention’—he crossed the room to his desk—‘I must deliver you to the Sheriff shortly before eight in the morning on, er … ’ He picked up a piece of paper and studied it.

  ‘Monday, 25th June,’ said the prisoner.

  There was a sepulchral silence in the room.

  The governor put down the paper and stood looking at her. From his expression, he was more surprised than annoyed by the interruption. He returned to the fireplace. ‘Doubtless you are resting your hopes on a reprieve.’ His eyes turned to a small plaster bust that stood on the mantelpiece. ‘The Sovereign has been known on occasions to exercise clemency on the recommendation of the Secretary of State for the Home Office. My advice to you, for what it is worth, is to put all such thoughts out of your mind. I have had the unhappy duty of meeting a considerable number of people in circumstances identical to yours at this moment. I have observed that those who endure the experience best are the ones who reconcile themselves to meeting their Maker. The prison chaplain, Father Hughes, is already known to you. I urge you to be guided by his spiritual advice. You are a member of the Church, I trust?’

&
nbsp; She nodded.

  ‘Good. Then I hope you will unburden your soul to him.’

  She said nothing. She had said nothing, either, to the chaplain each time he had visited her in the cell. The tracts he had given her were unopened. The wardresses knew and no doubt the governor knew as well, but he did not press the matter.

  ‘You may also receive visits from your next of kin. That would include your husband, father, mother—’

  ‘My parents are dead.’

  ‘Cromer, it is customary to address me as “sir”. I am sorry about your parents. However, it must be a consolation that they were spared the distress of this time. If you have brothers or sisters—’

  ‘Sir,’ she said in a steady voice, ‘I have no desire to see them in this place. My husband, yes. I believe I am also entitled to visits from my solicitor.’

  The governor distractedly groomed his moustache. ‘Indeed, I was coming to that, but I caution you again that it is most unwise to base any hope on a judicial release from your sentence. Is there any other matter you wish to raise with me?’

  ‘Not for the present, sir.’

  ‘There will be opportunities, anyway, of speaking to me again.’

  With that, the governor had gestured to them to lead her away. Before they had closed the door he had gone to a cupboard and taken out a whisky glass.

  FRIDAY, 15th JUNE

  CRIBB HAD SLEPT BADLY. His brain had floundered for hours in the shallows of oblivion, producing aberrations that jerked him awake. Once he was being ushered in by Jowett to Sir Charles Warren, but instead of the Commissioner at his desk, there was a camera facing them and the little figure that emerged from under the black cloth was female and grey-haired and wearing a crown. He had sat up in bed with such a start that it had disturbed Millie. He had not told her his dream. Instead he had gone to make tea and when he returned with the cup he had distracted her by suggesting they planned a visit to the theatre. He had known she would rise to that. The Mascotte at the Haymarket with Miss Lottie Piper. Millie was so quick with the suggestion that they both laughed. Later, in the darkness, Cribb was troubled. She had not asked him the reason for Jowett’s visit. He had always been frank with Millie. It was as if he was buying her silence for the price of two theatre tickets.