Waxwork sc-8

by Peter Lovesey

  Cromer got up at once. ‘I am absolutely at your disposal. It is on the ground floor.’

  As they made their way down a carpeted staircase, Cribb asked, ‘Where were you on the day Perceval died, sir?’

  Cromer gave him a sharp glance. ‘In Brighton, Sergeant. The Portrait Photographers’ League was holding its annual conference. I am Vice-Chairman.’

  ‘Of course. Should have remembered. I read it in the statement your wife made.’ Cribb paused to look out of a window. ‘What time did you leave the house that day, sir?’

  ‘Early,’ answered Cromer. ‘I cannot be exact as to the time.’

  ‘You were catching a particular train?’

  ‘No particular one. The Brighton service is frequent, as you must know.’

  ‘What time did the conference begin, sir?’

  ‘At eleven, Sergeant.’

  ‘Then you must have started early. It would take the best part of two hours to get to Brighton from here. You were there in time, I hope?’

  ‘The trains are most reliable,’ Cromer answered, pushing open a door. ‘This is the reception room. The entire ground floor suite has been converted into studio accommodation.’

  Cribb stepped inside, expecting a row of chairs and a pile of magazines. He swiftly learned not to confuse photography with dentistry or men’s haircutting. This was no common waiting-room. It was high and spacious, with a pink and white wall-covering that looked like brocade. The design was repeated in pale blue and yellow in the fabric covers of a carved gilt sofa and chairs in the Louis XIV style. The opulence extended to twin cut-glass chandeliers, an ebonised occasional table and a display cabinet crowded with fine porcelain. Round the walls were ranged framed photographs of purposeful-looking men in frock coats standing beside tall-backed chairs as if they had just risen to make statements of surpassing interest.

  ‘The doors to right and left lead to the dressing-rooms,’ Cromer explained. ‘The ladies in particular use the powder-puff up to the last possible moment, while no gentleman will submit himself to the lens without straightening his tie.’ He pushed open a pair of doors flanked by tall vases of pampas grass and announced, ‘My studio, Sergeant.’

  It was as large as the booking-hall at Kew Gardens station. What had once been a spacious drawing-room had been more than doubled in size by removing the north-facing wall and extending the room outwards into the garden. Besides giving additional space, the extension was obviously designed to admit as much natural light as possible. It was formed largely of glass and dominated by a broad skylight that could be blocked out by a blind operated with pulleys and a cord.

  ‘Fit for the Queen herself!’ ejaculated Cribb. He strode to the centre to examine a camera large enough to seat a cabman. Ahead was the podium where clients could be posed in suitable attitudes among profile props that included a stile, a church steeple and a rowing-boat. ‘I’m no authority on photography,’ he said conversationally, ‘but I don’t under-estimate its possibilities. We photograph habitual criminals to assist us in detecting crime, did you know that? Half-profile, to get the shape of the nose, you understand, and in their own clothes, naturally. I don’t suggest the results could be compared with yours. We don’t take much trouble over posing the sitters, and retouching isn’t included, but the character comes through. There’s no artistry in it, of course,’ he tactfully added.

  Cromer had already moved through the room to another door. He seemed keen to make the tour as quick as possible.

  ‘That cabinet to your left,’ said Cribb. ‘Would that by any chance be where the wine is kept? I see you have some glasses on the top.’

  ‘I do beg your pardon,’ said Cromer, in a fluster. ‘Do have a drink.’ He started towards the mahogany chiffonier Cribb had indicated. ‘Will it be sherry or madeira?’

  Cribb’s hand shot up to refuse. ‘Thank you, but not on duty, sir. But I would like to see inside if I may.’

  Cromer took a key from his pocket, unlocked one of the doors and showed Cribb two cut-glass decanters. ‘The one containing poison is still in the hands of the police,’ he said. ‘I was told I shall get it back eventually.’

  ‘Are the decanters always kept locked in here, sir?’

  ‘Oh no. When clients come, I have them on top, to offer them a glass. It helps to put them at their ease. Photography is an awesome experience to the uninitiated, Sergeant.’

  ‘But you lock the decanters in here when you are not expecting clients?’

  ‘That is correct. I do not believe in putting temptation in people’s way.’

  ‘Servants, you mean?’

  Cromer nodded. ‘Although when it came to secret drinking, I was perfectly sure that my assistant was the principal culprit. He was partial to madeira and it was quite obvious that the level went down each time I left him to work alone in the studio.’

  ‘He had a key, then?’

  ‘He had to have one, because there were times when he took charge of sittings,’ Cromer said.

  ‘I see. And your wife filled the decanters once a week on Mondays. How much goes into one of these, sir? A bottle and a half?’

  ‘Almost as much as that.’

  ‘That’s a lot of wine in a week.’

  ‘I have a lot of clients.’

  ‘But on the day Perceval died, you had no appointments. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. I was going to Brighton. There was plenty of retouching and mounting for Perceval to do, so I kept the day free of sittings.’

  ‘And that was why the decanters were inside this chiffonier and not on top?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘But you were pretty sure Perceval would help himself to some during the day?’

  ‘It was more likely than not,’ said Cromer. ‘Perhaps you would care to see the other rooms now?’ He opened a door from which a smell of ether came. ‘The processing room. I was working here this morning, so I must ask you to forgive the mess.’

  It was a long room with a table in the centre, a desk and a number of cupboards. There was a lead sink in the corner.

  ‘So this is where he died?’

  Cromer waved his hand vaguely over a section of the carpeted floor. ‘He was lying here when the servants came in. The chair was on its side by the desk there, and the wine glass had fallen near it.’ He moistened his lips and took a nervous step back as Cribb moved towards the desk.

  ‘The kitchen is underneath us, I take it,’ said Cribb.

  ‘It is.’ Cromer frowned. ‘How did you know?’

  “The plumbing. Which one is the poison cabinet, sir?’

  Cromer moved his right forefinger in the direction to Cribb’s left. Cribb went over to the cabinet, which was white like the other cupboards in the room, and tapped it with his knuckle. ‘Sounds solid. Could I see inside, sir?’

  ‘The cyanide was removed.’

  ‘I’d still like to look inside.’

  Cromer fumbled with the front of his waistcoat.

  ‘That’s a capital idea, sir, having the key on your watch-chain,’ Cribb commented. ‘No risk of leaving it about the place.’ He watched Cromer fit the key into the lock. ‘It looks a strong lock, too. May I?’

  With a shrug, Cromer detached the watch-chain from his waistcoat and stepped aside.

  Cribb turned the key. He could tell by the snugness of the fit that it was not the sort of lock you could open in five minutes with a bent hatpin.

  There were perhaps a dozen bottles inside. Cribb gave them a glance, withdrew the key and pushed the door shut. ‘Ah. It locks automatically.’

  ‘It is of German manufacture,’ Cromer explained. ‘I had it specially imported from Lubeck when I moved here.’

  ‘That must have put you to some expense, sir.’

  ‘Where poison is concerned, one has an obligation to take every possible precaution against an accident,’ said Cromer. ‘Of one thing I can assure you: there was no negligence in the tragedy that happened here. We were all aware of the lethal effect of potassium cy
anide.’

  ‘What is its purpose in photography, sir?’

  ‘We used it a lot more in the wet collodion process than we do now that we work with dry plates. It was then used mainly as a fixing agent, but I still find it indispensable for reducing the density of negatives. Believe me, we are mindful of its dangers. Even the fumes can kill, Sergeant. We always ensure that the room is adequately ventilated when we work with it.’

  Cribb tried the lock again. ‘There are just two keys to this cabinet, yours and Perceval’s-is that correct, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cromer responded in a way that partially anticipated the next question.

  ‘On the day Perceval was murdered, you were in Brighton. Where was your key?’

  Cromer put his hand to the front of his waistcoat and groped for the absent watch-chain. His eyes widened momentarily.

  Cribb held it out to him. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘On the day Perceval died, it never left my person,’ said Cromer as he fixed it in place again. ‘Is there some difficulty over the key?’

  The question was couched just a shade too casually. ‘No,’ said Cribb in an even voice, ‘no difficulty that I can think of.’ He picked up a print from the table, glanced at the picture and turned it over. In the centre of an intricate design of loops and curlicues, between two trumpeting angels, were the words Howard Cromer, Photographic Artist, The Green, Kew. ‘Do you know what I should like to borrow if you have such a thing? A photograph of your wife.’

  Cromer’s face relaxed. ‘You shall have one with my compliments. There is no shortage here of portraits of Miriam.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Cribb. ‘The one I want, if you have it in a size convenient for my pocket, is that one upstairs in the drawing room. The one I was looking at when you came in.’

  MONDAY, 18th JUNE

  Just after seven, the postman came.

  Berry was shaving.

  ‘Two,’ his wife called up. ‘From London.’

  ‘Put ’em on t’shelf, then.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to open them?’

  ‘In good time, woman. I’m busy just now.’

  When he came downstairs his eggs and bacon were ready. Nothing ever came between Berry and breakfast. While he was eating, his wife took the letters off the shelf, had another look at the handwriting and placed them on the table by his plate.

  One he saw at a glance was from the Sheriff of London. He had got to know the brown envelope with the crest on the flap. There was no reason to open it yet. It was a job, and he knew which one.

  The other interested him more. A white envelope. Copperplate. Since taking up his present office he had received a fair number of letters, most of them from crack-pots. He had learned to recognise them by the way they addressed the envelope-James Berry, Hangman, Yorkshire- something after that style, and spelt wrong as often as not. It was a wonder they reached him. The Post Office did a grand job. He burned them mostly.

  ‘Do I get tea this morning, or not?’

  As soon as his wife went into the scullery, he opened the white envelope. It was from Madame Tussaud’s. He had never been so surprised in his life. The letter he had spent most of last week putting together was still in his pocket. He felt to make sure. Took it out and checked the writing on the envelope. He had decided not to post it until the Newgate job was confirmed. He put it back. He would not need to send it now.

  They wanted to make a waxwork of him.

  ‘No doubt you are aware,’ their letter stated, ‘that your predecessor in the office of executioner, the late Mr Marwood, permitted us the privilege of modelling his portrait from life on more than one occasion. The figure was an object of unfailing interest to our patrons, among whom we have been honoured to welcome the members of our own Royal Family and the Sovereigns and Rulers of many nations of the world. We would deem it a privilege if you would consent to sit for us and permit us to include your likeness in the Exhibition.

  ‘Should you contemplate a visit to London in the weeks to come, we would be honoured to arrange for you to visit the Exhibition. If you should consent to sit for your portrait, an appointment could be made at any time convenient to yourself. Be assured that in the presentation of its exhibits Madame Tussaud’s has ever observed the highest standards of good taste.’

  That was clear from their letter. Beautifully turned phrases. Not a hint that old Marwood was down in the Chamber of Horrors with Burke and Hare and Charlie Peace and the wickedest villains in the annals of crime. Not that Berry objected to that. When you had put the straps on a few and seen them off, it was no disgrace to stand beside them in a waxwork show. From what he remembered of his only visit to Tussaud’s they stood the murderers in rows in a representation of the dock. Marwood’s figure was quite separate, facing them, his pinioning-strap at the ready. An object of unfailing interest to our patrons.

  Before his wife came back with the tea he slipped his letter out of sight, behind the frame containing his murderers in the front room. It was the one place where she would never look.

  He went back to finish breakfast. The brown envelope from the Sheriff of London was still there on the table. In the excitement he had clean forgotten it.

  ‘Look alive, Cromer!’

  Prison Officer Bell watched as the condemned woman removed the handkerchief from her eyes and turned her head. The fine hair strewn across the grey calico sheet shimmered with the movement.

  ‘You have to see the governor. Nine sharp.’

  ‘The governor has asked to see me?’ She made it sound like an invitation to dinner.

  ‘Isn’t that what I said? On your feet, now. I want you washed, dressed and fed, your cell scrubbed and your bedding tidied first.’

  Without another word the prisoner obeyed. To Bell’s way of thinking, it was unnatural, the way she acted, as if she was indifferent to Newgate. It was impossible to dredge up sympathy for her. She had not shed a tear since the day she came in, nor looked to the wardresses for comfort. Bell could be generous with comfort if it was appreciated. She could talk anyone round to a happier frame of mind. There was no call for comfort from this one.

  The wardresses had discussed it in their room. Hawkins had said it was good breeding, that a lady was trained to bottle up her feelings. To that, Bell had said she always understood ladies were taught to make conversation. ‘Not to the likes of us,’ Hawkins had replied. That had rankled with Bell. What business had a common murderess acting as if she was superior to them? Cromer was a cold-blooded killer and the story that her victim had been blackmailing her made no difference. It made it worse, in Bell’s view, for what was the cause of the blackmail? Lewd photographs. ‘If that’s a lady,’ she told Hawkins, ‘show me a whore.’

  At a quarter to nine they escorted her through the ill-lit passages to the governor’s room. They stood by the door waiting for the bell of St Sepulchre to strike the hour.

  In spite of herself, Bell started whispering words of comfort. ‘The governor ain’t such a hard man really. We’ve seen a lot of him, Hawkins and me. He’s one of Nature’s gentlemen.’

  ‘A trump,’ Hawkins concurred.

  They need not have troubled. Cromer gave no sign that she had heard one word. Yet she was not completely oblivious to what was going on. At the first stroke of nine, she gave a small shudder of tension.

  Hawkins knocked.

  In greeting the prisoner, the governor called her Mrs Cromer. ‘You may step forward.’

  He had a piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘You are sleeping better now, I hope?’ he said. ‘How long is it that you have been in Newgate?’

  In a clear voice she answered, ‘Ten days since the trial, sir.’

  ‘Ten days,’ he repeated absently. He looked down at the paper. ‘I asked to see you because I have received a communication concerning you.’

  Bell noticed the prisoner’s hands clench suddenly.

  The governor continued, ‘You will remember that when I spoke to you in this room
on your first day here I cautioned you to reconcile yourself to the sentence of the law. You have tried to follow that advice, I trust?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ There was a note of expectation in her voice, as if she could not wait for him to come to the point.

  ‘This is from the Sheriff of the City of London. It is the warrant for your execution. It will take place a week from today at eight in the morning.’

  How gently spoken, Bell thought. He might have been telling her he had tickets for the Lyceum.

  The prisoner stood numbly. For an instant Bell thought she was going to sway.

  ‘Do you wish to sit down?’ the governor asked her.

  A shake of the head.

  ‘It is simply a stage in the legal procedure,’ he went on. ‘So far as you are concerned, it will mean that you return now to a different part of the prison, a different cell. The same officers will be in attendance. You may exercise when you wish, accompanied by them. And you may receive visitors in the cell-your husband, and your solicitor, if you wish. The regulations forbid you from receiving any form of gift from them, or from physical contact. Do you understand?’

  She was standing still with her eyes closed.

  ‘Did you hear what I said, Mrs Cromer?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I shall continue to visit you each day and you may speak to me or the chaplain if anything troubles you. I urge you again to commend your soul to the Almighty. He receives those who repent their sins.’ He signalled to the wardresses.

  They stepped forward, gripped her firmly by the arms and guided her out.

  As they walked, Bell was tempted to tell the prisoner that if she had been willing to confide in those who knew about prison routine, they could have spared her some of the pain of that experience, but she checked herself. Words would be wasted on this one. Better to see what difference the condemned cell made to Mrs Miriam Cromer.

  ‘Upstairs here.’

  They mounted one of Newgate’s iron staircases, Bell leading to unlock the door of the condemned block. ‘This way, your ladyship. If you take a look through here’-they had stopped by a window too narrow even to be fitted with bars-‘you can see the exercise yard.’