Crippen

by John Boyne

  ‘Don’t “my dear” me,’ she snapped. ‘Have you spoken to those Anderson fellows yet?’

  He closed his eyes, his heart sinking as he remembered. ‘I forgot,’ he admitted, unable to think up a suitable excuse.

  ‘You forgot? You forgot?’ she cried, her voice rising. ‘For heaven’s sake, you useless creature. They’re supposed to arrive tomorrow morning first thing, and they told me they would not come if you did not provide the inventory in advance. What use are you exactly? Can you tell me that? I give you the simplest task to perform and instead you just—’

  ‘My dear, may I introduce Miss LeNeve,’ Hawley interrupted her quickly, embarrassed by her coarseness and hoping to contain her a little by pointing out that at present they were not alone in South Crescent, where her tirades could run until she grew tired or became hungry, but were in a place of business, with strangers present. Cora looked quickly at Ethel, sizing her up in a glance.

  ‘Charmed,’ she said in a cold voice.

  Ethel swallowed and said nothing.

  ‘Miss LeNeve is applying for a position,’ he explained. ‘Miss Aldershot’s old position.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Cora. ‘You don’t want to work for him,’ she added, nodding in the direction of her husband. ‘He’s as useless as a sack full of rotten potatoes. If you take my advice, dear, you’ll continue down the road and see whether more suitable employment can be found elsewhere.’

  ‘Cora, really,’ said Hawley, laughing a little as if to suggest that she was only joking, which she was clearly not.

  ‘Hawley, the Andersons!’ she insisted, not interested at all in the life and career of Ethel LeNeve. ‘What’s to be done about them?’

  ‘I have the list in my coat pocket,’ he said. ‘I’ll go round to their offices immediately after I shut the shop.’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother. Just give it to me and I’ll take it around now. They might be closed later. Honestly, Hawley. I don’t know why I bother sometimes. I really don’t. If a stagehand in the theatre behaved with as much stupidity as you, they’d be dismissed immediately as an incompetent.’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ said Hawley, retrieving the list she wanted and handing it to her. She glanced at it to make sure it was the right one and seemed almost disappointed that it was; anything else and she could have attacked him again.

  ‘You take my advice, Miss LeNeve,’ she said, turning around and offering a parting shot. ‘Find a different employer. Lord knows I wish I could find a different husband.’ And with that she stormed out again, slamming the door behind her so hard that they both jumped in shock.

  Ethel turned slowly to look at Hawley, embarrassed for him, wishing that the scene had never taken place.

  ‘My wife,’ he said with a gentle laugh, as if that explained everything. ‘She’s under a little pressure at the moment. We’re moving house tomorrow, you see, and the removal men needed the inventory. Otherwise they won’t . . . they won’t . . .’ He lost track of his train of thought, wishing she would just leave him alone now to feel miserable.

  ‘How lovely,’ she said in a cheerful voice, aware of his embarrassment. ‘And where are you moving to, might I ask?’

  He looked up at her, encouraged by her kindness. ‘Hilldrop Crescent,’ he said, ‘in Camden. We’ve been living in Bloomsbury for some time, but we were only able to afford the top floor of a house, so it will be nice to have a home to ourselves. We’re very excited by it.’

  ‘And so you should be,’ she said. ‘It’s only natural that your wife’s spirits would be high under the circumstances.’

  Hawley nodded and knew instantly that he had found a new friend. And perhaps a typist too. ‘So, Miss LeNeve,’ he began.

  ‘Please call me Ethel,’ she said.

  ‘Ethel, then. You’re still interested in the position?’

  9.

  Mrs Louise Smythson’s Second Visit

  to Scotland Yard

  London: 30 June 1910

  Police Constable Peter Milburn glanced up when the front door to Scotland Yard opened and he saw two middle-aged women striding towards him like army officers, left, right, left, right in unison, clutching their bags in front of them with both hands, their hats set at identical angles, one wearing a dark red dress, the other green, like a pair of conflicting traffic lights. He sighed and put his time sheets away, then looked up at them with a resigned smile.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said, and he would have offered more but the lady on the left in the red dress, Mrs Louise Smythson, interrupted him.

  ‘We’ve met before, young man,’ she said. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  He blinked. He dealt with at least a hundred people at this desk every day and could scarcely remember any of them when they had gone from his line of vision, but on this occasion there was something about her that was familiar. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked, ignoring the question.

  ‘You can help me by answering my question,’ she demanded, never one to be put off. ‘Do you remember meeting me before?’

  ‘Of course, ma’am. It was in connection with . . . ?’

  ‘I came to see you at the end of March. In connection with a missing person, Cora Crippen. I received no satisfaction then, but not today, I assure you. This is my friend, Mrs Margaret Nash.’

  PC Milburn looked towards the companion, whose stern face broke into a three-second smile while she uttered the monosyllable, ‘Charmed.’

  ‘Mrs Nash,’ said PC Milburn with a nod of the head. ‘And Mrs—?’

  ‘Smythson. Mrs Louise Smythson. Honestly, don’t you have a memory in that head of yours? I don’t know what kind of people we are employing in our police constabulary today, I really don’t. Children. Idiots, most of them.’

  Immediately a memory returned to PC Milburn of Louise’s last visit. She had been particularly rude to him then, demanding to see one of the inspectors, despite the fact that her case was one entirely of supposition and guesswork. She had also made him feel a little uncomfortable, for after inviting her to sit in the lobby he had felt her eyes lingering on him relentlessly. Although he might often have felt flattered by such attentions, at the time he was particularly in love with a young florist named Sally Minstrel and had not enjoyed it. When he had finally allowed her in to see Inspector Dew, she had given him a suggestive wink and he had blushed scarlet.

  For her part, Louise was pleased that PC Milburn was on duty again. In the three months since she had last visited Scotland Yard she had thought of him on more than one occasion. Although fifteen years her junior, he was exactly the kind of man who made her go weak at the knees. Tall, swept-back dark hair, deeply chiselled cheekbones and a uniform. Although she was very fond of her husband Nicholas, and was extremely fond of his house, his money and his potential title, he had never been the sort of fellow to inspire passion in a woman. Not like this ravishing lad. Or like Stephen Dempsey, the boy who tended the gardens for them at Tavistock Square and was not averse to visiting her boudoir when invited. Or like Jim Taylor, the young man who delivered the vegetables on a Tuesday morning and who could always be relied upon to fix a leak in her upstairs bathroom. Or like any of the other tradesmen and boys whom she had seduced over the years. Much though she desired membership of the upper class and would not have given it up for all the world, her passions tended to run to her more humble roots. And PC Milburn was exactly the sort of fellow she craved. It was beyond her, however, to show him any form of civility.

  ‘Well, how can I help you this morning, Mrs Smythson?’ he asked, offering her a gentle smile through which she could see a row of perfectly white teeth.

  ‘We wish to see Inspector Dew,’ she announced. ‘I believe we have some additional evidence for the case.’

  ‘Has the inspector been investigating the lady’s disappearance, then?’

  ‘No, not that I know of,’ Louise admitted.

  ‘Then there is no case at present,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t play word games with me, you young pup
,’ she said in a loud voice. ‘I won’t stand for it.’

  ‘Disgraceful,’ Mrs Nash muttered in solidarity.

  ‘Inspector Dew will want to hear the evidence, believe me. It is most incriminating. We can prove, in fact, that a murder has been committed!’

  She stood back a little to allow the word to settle and Mrs Nash gave a slight gasp at the drama of the moment, even though she knew full well what they were there to say. She hoped that PC Milburn would jump to attention when the word ‘murder’ was used, perhaps call the entire troop of inspectors out to speak to them, but he appeared unmoved, as if this kind of thing happened every day. Which, in fact, it did. She admired his casual air; it made her want him even more.

  ‘A murder,’ he said, taking a piece of paper and writing on it. ‘And who do you think has been murdered exactly?’

  ‘Why, Cora Crippen of course. Just like I said last time. But this isn’t a case for a boy like you. I demand to speak to Inspector Dew immediately.’

  ‘The inspector is a very busy man, Mrs Smythson. He’s—’

  ‘Is he in the building?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Is Inspector Dew at Scotland Yard at this moment?’ she demanded, and with a sigh he consulted his time sheets, hoping that the inspector was out on an assignment so that he could send her home again without having to resort to a lie. Unfortunately, this was not the case.

  ‘He is,’ he admitted. ‘But he’s—’

  ‘Then send for him, Milburn, send for him. I won’t be fobbed off this time. Not when a woman’s life is at stake.’

  ‘I thought you said she’s been murdered,’ said PC Milburn.

  ‘And what if I did?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that if she has been murdered, then her life is not at stake, now is it? She’s already dead.’

  Louise leaned in closer so that he could smell the cheese-and-pickle lunchtime sandwiches on her breath. What lovely skin, she thought as she scrutinized him. What full lips. ‘Young man, are you trying to be clever with me?’ she asked.

  ‘No, ma’am, I’m simply pointing out that—’

  ‘There he is!’ Louise cried, noticing a white-bearded, kindly-looking man of about fifty passing through the office beyond. ‘Inspector Dew,’ she cried out, ‘Inspector Dew.’

  PC Milburn turned around and saw the inspector looking at the three of them suspiciously. He continued to examine some papers, but Louise was not going to be denied. ‘Inspector,’ she called. ‘If I could just have a moment of your time, please.’

  Sighing and making a mental note to instruct the young constable to keep the office door closed behind him in future, Inspector Walter Dew adopted a smile of resignation and stepped out towards the desk. ‘Yes, madam,’ he said, placing his hands firmly on the desk. ‘And how can I be of assistance?’

  ‘Inspector, I hope you remember me,’ she said. ‘Mrs Louise Smythson. Wife of Nicholas Smythson. Daughter-in-law of the late Lord Smythson. My brother-in-law Martin now has the title. For the time being.’

  Dew stared at her, a memory of the early chapters of the Bible returning to him, in which the lineage of everyone in Christendom is traced from Adam to Jesus. ‘We’ve met before,’ he said, his voice not betraying whether this was a question or a statement.

  ‘We have, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I came to see you at the end of March to tell you about my friend Mrs Cora Crippen. That she’d disappeared. Well, I have proof, conclusive proof, Inspector, that the poor woman has been murdered by her husband. It’s imperative that we speak today. This instant in fact.’

  Dew narrowed his eyes and considered the matter. He was aware that a large number of hysterics and madmen came into Scotland Yard each day and it was the job of the constables to sift through them, not his. He was a busy man with several cases on the go. However, when two well-dressed ladies appeared and mentioned their connections, it was difficult not to humour them for a few minutes. The chances were that she or one of her friends would be dining with the Police Commissioner later that night, and if she decided to complain about him he would have to go through the irritation of defending himself. Having only a vague memory of their earlier meeting, he looked across at Mrs Smythson’s friend, who was staring at him fervently. ‘And you are?’ he asked.

  ‘Margaret Nash,’ she said quickly. ‘Mrs Charmed.’

  ‘And you’re a friend of the missing woman too?’

  ‘Oh, a very good friend.’

  ‘I’m her best friend,’ said Louise, determined to keep some of the glory for herself. ‘Really, Inspector. If you could just spare us five minutes. I promise it won’t take—’

  ‘Certainly, certainly,’ he said, realizing it would be easier simply to hear them out and then send them on their way. ‘Constable, let these ladies through, will you? Follow me.’

  PC Milburn opened the hatch and Mrs Nash walked through first, followed by Mrs Smythson, who saw her opportunity to pinch the young constable’s behind while he had his back to her. Turning around in surprise, he watched her disappear down the corridor, stopping only to give him another lascivious wink. The blood rushed to his face once again and he began to wonder whether he would not be better off simply making an honest woman of Sally Minstrel. After all, she was a decent, respectable sort and never caused him embarrassment like this. Some of these other ladies could be so crude, and he detested that. He sat back down at his desk, as confused as ever.

  Inspector Dew’s office was just as she remembered it. Once again he opened the window overlooking the Embankment when they stepped inside, but this time, as they sat down in the armchairs facing him, they dispensed with the small talk and moved straight to the matter at hand.

  ‘So,’ said Dew. ‘Remind me of our earlier meeting.’

  ‘I came to see you at the end of March,’ said Louise, a little exasperated that he had not kept every detail of their earlier encounter lodged at the forefront of his mind since then. ‘My friend Cora Crippen had gone missing but her husband had been seen at the theatre with his mistress wearing Cora’s jewellery.’

  ‘Her husband?’

  ‘The mistress.’

  ‘It was my husband and I who saw them together,’ said Mrs Nash, determined to play her part. ‘It was I who told Louise, Mrs Smythson, about it.’

  ‘The woman had died, had she not?’ asked Dew, recalling it a little better now. ‘On a walking tour of Europe, if I recall. I remember it now.’

  ‘It was in America, Inspector,’ said Louise. ‘She had gone to California to tend a sick relative, and then a telegram arrived for Dr Crippen, her husband, informing him that she had died. And that was the last we heard of her. Only I for one never believed it because a woman simply does not leave all her best jewellery behind when she goes away. Who knows what functions she might be invited to?’

  ‘I thought she was looking after a sick person,’ said Dew. ‘What would she need her jewellery for under those circumstances?’

  ‘Inspector, are you married?’ Louise asked sweetly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, surely you know the ways of women. Can you imagine any lady going abroad and leaving her finest necklaces and ear-rings behind in her home? Can you?’

  He considered it; alas, he knew almost nothing about the ways of women and he could hardly imagine what their habits might be.

  ‘As I told you last time, Mrs Smythson,’ said Dew. ‘If the lady died in America, then there’s really nothing we can do. The American authorities would have—’

  ‘But that’s just it, Inspector,’ said Louise, delighted to get to the point at last. ‘We don’t believe she did die in America. We don’t believe she ever went there at all. We believe he done her in!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her husband, of course. Dr Crippen.’

  Dew smiled. ‘Dr Crippen,’ he said doubtfully. ‘It hardly sounds like the name of a wife murderer, now does it?’

  ‘Well, I don’t expect they’re all called Jack the Ripper, are the
y?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ he admitted. ‘But what has changed to bring you back here? Where’s your new evidence?’

  Louise sat back and looked at Margaret Nash, who had agreed to take up this part of the story.

  ‘My husband is Mr Andrew Nash,’ she began. ‘He owns the Nash Trading and Mining Company. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?’

  ‘No,’ said Inspector Dew.

  ‘Well, he’s very well known in business circles,’ she replied, a little put out. ‘Anyway, he had business in Mexico recently and agreed to travel on to California to find out the truth about Cora’s death. When he got there he went straight to the authorities and told them the date she had supposedly arrived in the country and the date of her apparent death. It seems that visitors have to register with the police after they arrive. She never did. In fact there was no evidence of her arrival in California at all. Nor was there any record of her death. Andrew went directly to city hall and they checked the deaths register for the weeks surrounding the date that Dr Crippen said she died. There was no one answering her description whatsoever. Nothing at the mortuaries, nothing at the funeral parlours. Nothing anywhere to suggest she had ever been there, let alone died there.’

  ‘Nor do we know the name of the relative that Cora was supposedly attending,’ said Louise.

  ‘She didn’t even tell us she was going,’ said Margaret. ‘And we’re her best friends.’

  ‘I’m her particular best friend,’ said Louise.

  Inspector Dew sat back in his chair and thought about it, stroking his beard as he considered their story. ‘These Crippens,’ he said finally. ‘What sort of couple are they? Do you know them well?’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Margaret Nash. ‘Cora is part of our Music Hall Ladies’ Guild. And she’s a well-known singer. She was going to be a star, you know. Before he done her in!’ she added dramatically.