Waxwork

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘She pleaded guilty and she was sentenced according to the law,’ said the governor flatly. ‘That should be the end of it. If prisoners understood that there was no possibility of a reprieve, our work in Newgate would be distinctly less onerous. This kind of intrusion can only undermine the authority of the law and those of us entrusted to carry it out.’

  They were met by the wardress-in-charge, whose curtsey was an odd refinement in the setting. ‘The prisoner’s solicitor has gone in as you instructed, sir,’ she told the governor. ‘Begging your pardon, we found it impossible to fit chairs for all you gentlemen into the cell.’

  ‘No matter, Miss Stones,’ said the governor. ‘We do not expect to take long over this.’

  The cell door stood open. The governor went in first, Jowett following. Cribb waited in the doorway while the others found positions against the wall. Two wardresses and Allingham were already inside, behind Miriam Cromer, who was the only one seated, watching the influx with interested eyes.

  Cribb’s first impression was that she was smaller than her portrait had suggested. But by no means was she diminished in spirit. In the graceless prison clothes, white mob-cap tied under the chin, coarse blue jacket and skirt, she succeeded still in looking elegant. She was pale from ten weeks’ imprisonment, practically as colourless as the picture in Cribb’s pocket. Her skin had the pellucid look of wax, and she was quite still, except for her eyes. They glinted with something between curiosity and challenge. They were confident, undismayed and, to Cribb, disturbing.

  The governor announced who they were without putting it in so social a form as an introduction. ‘And this is Mr Allingham, the prisoner’s solicitor,’ he added for their benefit.

  Allingham glanced over some papers he was studying and gave the measured nod of a legal man. Here in his black pinstripe and stiff collar he would not care to be reminded of those pictures of picnics when his hand had stolen round his client’s waist.

  ‘Would you begin, Chief Inspector?’ said the governor.

  Jowett cleared his throat. ‘My, er, assistant, Sergeant Cribb, is to put the questions.’

  ‘Then he had better take the stool.’

  Cribb edged between them and sat opposite Miriam Cromer. It was like entering a prize-ring. The situation was inimical to his style of questioning. He liked to find a common footing with those he interviewed, put them at their ease. Small chance of that in this grim place surrounded by officials.

  He tried to hold her gaze in a way that excluded everyone else. ‘You haven’t met me before, ma’am. I took no part in the original inquiry. I was brought in to take a look at the confession you made. There are certain small matters, details really, that have come to light since your conviction. We can’t square them with your account of things. No-one says you got it wrong. The mistake may be on our side. Must be.’ He chanced a smile. ‘Well, you’re not likely to have got it wrong, seeing that you admitted to the crime.’

  Her eyes focused steadily on his, conveying nothing.

  ‘It’s a fair assumption,’ Cribb went on, compelled to provide his own comment. Already he could see this developing into a monologue. ‘Where would be the sense in twisting facts when you know you’ll end up in this place?’ The question was rhetorical, but he paused before saying, ‘I’d like to talk about that confession, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I have a copy here,’ Allingham announced. He leaned forward and put it into her hand. She took it without turning to look at him.

  ‘I’m obliged to you,’ said Cribb, taking out his own copy from his pocket. ‘Ma’am, I want to ask you if you stand by everything you said in this document.’

  She shaped her lips to answer, but Allingham spoke first. ‘Naturally she does. This is an affidavit sworn before a magistrate. I must caution you not to impute perjury to my client, Sergeant.’

  Cribb did not shift his eyes from Miriam Cromer’s. ‘May I take it that you are prepared to answer questions, ma’am?’

  She nodded.

  He went on, ‘I want to make it plain that I’m not here to trap you. What would be the point of that? I don’t go in for trickery.’

  She surprised him by saying, ‘You leave that to the other man.’

  ‘The other man?’ Cribb shook his head, uncertain of her meaning.

  In a level voice she explained, ‘The one who pretends he is not a policeman at all. The bearded man with a scar. He was sent to interview my husband on the pretext of having his photograph taken.’

  ‘Ah. I heard about this person from Mr Allingham,’ said Cribb. ‘Believe me, I know nothing about him. He is not a police officer, whoever he is.’

  She twitched her lips into something like a smile. ‘I don’t expect you to admit his existence. You wouldn’t, would you? If he is not a policeman how is it that I am practically certain I saw the same man watching me from a window while I was exercising here? Is it common practice to allow members of the public into Newgate to spy on condemned prisoners, or has this place unhinged my mind?’

  Whatever had been going on, it made Cribb’s task infinitely harder. He turned to the governor, who reddened and gave a quick shrug.

  Allingham said, ‘Unless this is of any consequence, I suggest we confine ourselves to the affidavit, as the officer proposed.’

  She set her mouth in a sullen little line. ‘As you wish.’

  Cribb resumed. This would achieve nothing unless he could win her confidence. He decided to gamble. He would let her know that suspicion had shifted away from her. ‘I’ll come to the point, ma’am. Shortly after your conviction, a communication from some unknown person was received at the Home Office. It was a scrap of paper cut from a photographic journal, a picture of your husband taken in Brighton on the day Josiah Perceval was killed. An arrow had been drawn on it in red ink. The arrow was pointing to the key Mr Cromer was wearing on his watch-chain. Inquiries established that it was one of the keys to the poison cabinet. The other was found on the body of the deceased. There’s our first problem: how could you have opened the cabinet if one key was with your husband in Brighton and the other in the pocket of the man you claimed to have murdered?’ He paused.

  It was put more as a statement than a question, but he was interested to see how she reacted. From the way she held her expression, eyes steady, brows tilted a fraction, he was convinced she had learned nothing new. She was studying him.

  ‘My superiors asked me to investigate,’ Cribb went on. ‘I studied your confession. It’s a very lucid statement, if I may say so. You say on page four’—he leafed through his copy—‘“When Mr Perceval went out for lunch at one o’clock, I returned to the studio, unlocked the poison cabinet, found the bottle of potassium cyanide and poured about a third of the contents into the decanter of madeira. I then replaced the decanter in the chiffonier where it was kept with the others, and locked the cyanide bottle in the poison cabinet as before. Soon after, I went out …” One thing you omit to state’—Cribb looked up from the confession—‘is how you obtained the key.’

  Allingham put a hand on Miriam Cromer’s arm. ‘Say nothing.’ Addressing Cribb, he said, ‘My client does not wish to add anything to the statement she has already volunteered.’

  As if there had been no interruption, Cribb continued, ‘Naturally, I was obliged to check your husband’s movements on Monday, 12th March. I learned that he was not, as we had supposed, in Brighton that morning.’

  Allingham cut in again. ‘I think I should point out that there is nothing in the statement suggesting what time of day Mr Cromer arrived in Brighton. Indeed, it would be impossible for Mrs Cromer to supply such information.’

  Cribb persisted in addressing his remarks to Miriam Cromer. ‘When I spoke to your husband he seemed unwilling to specify which train he caught to Brighton. I learned that he had engaged to be there by half past two. The delivery of wine was at noon, was it not? On the face of it, he could have doctored the decanter himself before he left. I’ve checked Bradshaw. He could have left
the house as late as 12.45 and still caught the fast to Brighton from Clapham Junction at 1.12.’

  Allingham made a show of protest. ‘That’s an extraordinary suggestion, officer. If he were here—’

  ‘He’s not, sir. He left his house yesterday afternoon, carrying a case of clothes. We don’t know where he is.’

  ‘This is absurd,’ said Allingham. ‘You have no grounds for suggesting that Mr Cromer would have poisoned his own assistant. What possible reason could he have for doing such a thing?’

  ‘The reason Mrs Cromer provided in her confession,’ answered Cribb. ‘She was being blackmailed. Her reputation, and therefore the reputation of her husband, was at stake. It’s a motive that would serve for either of them.’

  Cribb’s eyes had not left hers. She had listened composedly, the colour rising faintly in her face and staying there. She had not registered surprise at anything so far. He had the feeling he was speaking a part she already knew by heart.

  It was time to change the lines a little. ‘The man who took those photographs of you and your friends was known as Julian Ducane.’

  Her forehead creased.

  ‘Is this of any relevance?’ Allingham asked.

  ‘You should know, sir,’ Cribb said without looking at him. ‘He was your best friend.’ To Miriam Cromer he said, ‘And your husband, ma’am.’

  Her lips parted and she shifted on the stool.

  ‘I’m right, am I not?’

  After a second’s hesitation she nodded.

  ‘He didn’t tell me,’ said Cribb. ‘He told me a lot when I questioned him, but he didn’t admit he met you in Highgate. No, I had to find out that for myself.’

  She was frowning. ‘How, exactly?’

  ‘From a photograph,’ Cribb answered. ‘A picnic on the Heath. You were in it, of course, and your friends, Judith and Lottie. Mr Allingham, too.’

  She fingered the strings of the prison-cap.

  ‘It puts a different construction on things, you must admit,’ said Cribb. ‘Mr Allingham’s presence in the picture suggested a link with Mr Cromer, which I was able to confirm later. I confirmed as well that in those days Mr Cromer was known as Julian Ducane, the man who took those unfortunate photographs of you and your two friends. The pictures were taken by the man you later married. Unhappily for you they fell into the hands of Josiah Perceval. He told you he acquired them in Holywell Street. From my inquiries I suspect he mentioned that notorious place to shock you. It’s more likely that he chanced upon them in some photographic dealer’s where your husband had disposed of some of his old stock—but that’s unimportant. The strange thing is that when Perceval produced the pictures and threatened you with blackmail, you said nothing to your husband. It was no secret, surely? You could have confided in him without shame or fear.’

  She shrugged, trying to seem indifferent, but there was concern in the blue eyes.

  ‘It’s a problem,’ said Cribb, as if the worry were all on his side. ‘You made a number of payments to Perceval over a period of four months. You visited a pawnbroker, put your jewellery in hock. It’s evident that you hadn’t spoken to your husband about it. I’m bound to wonder why.’

  ‘She made the reason perfectly clear in her affidavit,’ said Allingham. ‘It could serve no practical purpose except to extend the blackmail to Howard. He is highly-strung, an impulsive man—’

  ‘I’m aware of that, sir,’ Cribb said to cut him short. ‘What I’m coming to, ma’am, is that it wasn’t just the photographs that you believed would alarm your husband. It was the connection with West Hampstead. Something had happened there, something that caused him to shut down his studio and go to Kew with a different name.’ He paused, watching her, hearing her breath quicken. ‘Judith Honeycutt’s death from cyanide poisoning.’

  ‘There was an inquest,’ she said at once. ‘Judith committed suicide.’

  Cribb waited. Her reaction now would be crucial.

  She turned to look towards Allingham. Ripples of tension had formed in her cheeks.

  Allingham slipped his hand on her arm, but said nothing.

  ‘One thing was not made clear at the inquest,’ said Cribb. ‘The coroner was not informed that Judith Honeycutt was engaged to be married to Julian Ducane.’

  ‘What?’ Allingham said in a gasp. He withdrew his hand from Miriam’s arm.

  ‘It was never official,’ she said immediately, more to him than Cribb. ‘There was no ring. For that matter,’ she added, facing Cribb again, ‘how can you know?’

  ‘The day before Judith died, she met Miss Lottie Piper.’

  ‘Lottie?’ she said in amazement. ‘Lottie has spoken to you?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  Her voice changed. It took on a harder resonance. ‘Lottie never liked me. She was absurdly jealous. Do you know why? Because Howard chose me as his model.’ She emphasised it by pressing her hand to her chest. ‘I was the one he wanted to photograph. He wanted me, not Lottie or Judith. Simon, tell him that is true.’

  Before Allingham could speak, Cribb said, ‘Judith was expecting a child.’

  She looked at Cribb and said slowly, spacing her words. ‘And Howard poisoned her.’

  ‘Miriam!’ Allingham barked her name.

  ‘Why deny it now?’ she demanded. ‘The girl was a slut, no better than the creatures on the streets. Worse, because her price included marriage as well as money. Howard allowed himself to be trapped.’

  ‘I suggest you say no more,’ Allingham urged.

  ‘If I don’t speak now, I shall be hanged, Simon. God knows, I have kept silent all this time.’

  ‘This isn’t the way,’ said Allingham through his teeth.

  She hesitated. Cribb watched her twist her fingers into the fabric of her skirt. Whatever Allingham advised, the impulse to talk was too strong to resist.

  With an effort to keep her speech slow, she said, ‘No one can accuse me of disloyalty to my husband. He has condemned himself by running away. You said just now that the motive for murdering Perceval could be attributed to Howard as much as me. You were right. His reputation was at risk, his studio.’ She paused, her eyes ransacking Cribb’s. ‘It was not the photographs of three deluded girls in their skins that caused him to panic. It was the knowledge that Perceval had traced the pictures to Hampstead. Howard lived in dread of his past being uncovered. His nightmare was that someone would discover the real circumstances of Judith’s death. When I told him Perceval intended going to Hampstead to try to trace the plates of those photographs, he was seized with fright. He was certain it would raise questions that had never been asked about Judith and himself. He believed his arrest for the murder of Judith would be inevitable if he did not act. So instead of travelling to Brighton that Monday morning, he remained at Park Lodge and put poison in the decanter. My husband is the murderer of Josiah Perceval. I am innocent.’ She drew back on her stool and widened her glance to take in everyone in the cell. ‘Do you understand? You have condemned an innocent woman to die!’

  Cribb’s eyes switched to Allingham. The young solicitor was deathly pale and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.

  ‘Do you have anything to say, sir?’

  ‘Say?’ Allingham shook his head.

  ‘As Mr Cromer’s solicitor,’ Cribb prompted him.

  Miriam swung round to Allingham. ‘Simon, you must tell him. Howard is guilty. You must confirm it.’

  Allingham’s discomfiture was written on his features. ‘My dear, I cannot do that,’ he told her in a low voice.

  ‘Simon!’

  He looked away.

  ‘Simon, for me. For us.’ She snatched at his hand. One of the wardresses moved to restrain her. ‘Leave me alone!’ she blurted, close to hysteria. ‘Simon, won’t you save me?’

  Averting his eyes, Allingham said tonelessly to Cribb, ‘On the morning of 12th March, Howard Cromer was with me in my chambers here in London. He came to consult me about the blackmail, which Miriam had confided to him at the weekend.
He was with me from half past eleven to just before one, when he left for Victoria, to catch the train to Brighton. My clerk will confirm this.’

  ‘No!’ cried Miriam. ‘It isn’t true!’ She turned back to Cribb. ‘Don’t believe him! They want me to die, both of them. They plotted this between them. Can’t you understand? They made me confess so that Howard should escape. They promised I should be pardoned. They promised!’

  Cribb nodded to subdue her. ‘That I believe, ma’am. You expected to be pardoned.’

  He looked into the pale, attentive face. It was no longer the face in the photograph. The delicate balance of probabilities had shifted. It was beautiful, but it held no mystery. It was the face of a murderess. She was guilty not of one murder, but two. And ready to kill again. She wanted Howard Cromer to hang.

  Cribb saw in her eyes an implacable force: the strength of her will. It was a force that in other circumstances might have made Miriam Cromer a social crusader of her time, for it refused to recognise defeat. But events had turned it inwards. It had become an impulse to self-gratification. She had coveted marriage. She would not be thwarted. She had murdered her own friend. Marriage had brought frustration, not fulfilment. She had discovered what it was to be the object of someone else’s obsession. Isolated and unloved, yet treated with devoted kindness, she had concentrated her will into playing the part of a wife. When blackmail had intervened, she had expunged it ruthlessly. The trial and sentence had provided a fresh challenge for her strength of purpose. She had come within an ace of cheating the hangman.

  Oddly, he felt a measure of respect for her. He did not want this to end in an undignified scene.

  ‘You were cleverly advised,’ he told her. ‘Considering the evidence against you, it’s a marvel that you had us in two minds about your guilt.’

  She looked at him through smouldering eyes, trying to read his face.

  ‘You should have heeded Mr Allingham’s advice,’ Cribb continued. ‘Said nothing, left us to draw conclusions. Mr Allingham would not have told us your husband had an alibi until you were pardoned. But you forced it from him by accusing your husband of murder. You wanted too much out of this—a pardon and your husband’s conviction. A charge of murder against your husband would never stick, and Mr Allingham knows it. The purpose of the plan was to raise enough doubts to secure your release.’