Crippen

by John Boyne

  ‘Well, this will be a front-page story for the next week or so, I would imagine,’ said the captain. ‘They’ll be following this voyage carefully. I had a bunch of them asking me questions earlier on, too. Told them nothing, of course. I’ll leave that to you.’

  ‘Captain Taylor,’ Dew asked, leaning forward, ‘realistically, what chance do we have of catching up with the Montrose?’

  ‘I’ve made some calculations,’ he replied, reaching for a pad of paper. ‘It’s certainly possible, but we’ll have to make very good time. The Laurentic runs at sixteen knots, the Montrose at only twelve. But we’re a slightly heavier ship. Still, we have the advantage of leaving from Liverpool, whereas they left from Antwerp. They have three days on us, Inspector, and will probably dock in Quebec on 31 July. We’re due to arrive the following day.’

  ‘Captain, it’s imperative that we capture them before they reach land. If they disembark in Canada, it will be the devil’s own business trying to get them back again.’

  ‘And the Canadian authorities?’ the captain asked. ‘Couldn’t they simply arrest them when they arrive?’

  Dew shook his head. ‘The crime is outside their jurisdiction,’ he explained. ‘If Dr Crippen sets one foot on Canadian soil, then he has escaped. We have to catch him before then.’

  Taylor nodded. ‘Well, as I say, Inspector, it’s possible. But we have a full day to make up. I’ll do everything I can to get you there, though. I promise you that.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain. Perhaps I’ll go to my cabin now and arrange my things.’

  The captain called over one of his crew members and asked him to show the inspector to the state room. ‘One last thing, Inspector,’ he said as they left the helm, ‘what exactly did the man do? I’ve heard rumours, but nothing for sure.’

  Dew hesitated. Of course he was innocent until proven guilty, but nevertheless the evidence was overwhelming. ‘He murdered his wife,’ he explained. ‘He killed her, chopped her up and buried pieces of her under the stones in his cellar. Then he covered the bones with acid to dissolve them. We haven’t recovered the head yet.’

  Taylor, a squeamish individual at the best of times, gasped. ‘I’ll give you your day, Inspector,’ he said with determination. ‘If I have to push the Laurentic to full capacity, I’ll give it to you. If we’re not in sight of the Montrose by the end of the month, I will consider it a personal failure.’

  Dew smiled. He was pleased to have the man on his side. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ he said. ‘I’ll put my faith in you then.’

  13.

  The Dinner Party

  London: 19 January 1910

  In various parts of London, ten people were preparing for Cora Crippen’s dinner party with varying degrees of excitement. In the upstairs bedroom of a house in Tavistock Square, Mrs Louise Smythson was sitting in front of her dressing table, applying perfume to her neck while examining the skin beneath her eyes for signs of ageing. Some small lines were definitely developing just below the eyelash, hardly visible at all, but nevertheless she sighed, knowing that this was just the beginning. Soon they would spread out while her cheeks sank in. Her hands would become gnarled and liver-spotted, her legs thick-veined and pale. Her breasts would lose their weight and would sag, and the mirror would become a previously close friend whom she no longer wanted to visit. She could hear her husband Nicholas whistling while he got ready in his dressing room next door.

  She had been surprised to receive the invitation to come to dinner. It was a special occasion, Cora Crippen had said: her fifteenth wedding anniversary, and she wanted to celebrate. The invitation had been issued at a meeting of the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild the previous week and she had accepted immediately. During all the time she had known Cora, she had met Dr Crippen only on a handful of occasions and she scarcely knew him at all. She considered him a dry stick, unequipped for social conversation and hardly a suitable dinner companion at all; but he was Cora’s husband, so she could hardly criticize too loudly. Naturally she would have preferred to be invited to a posh restaurant, but Cora had insisted on doing the cooking herself, and Louise had considered such strange behaviour to be part of her friend’s eccentric charm, not knowing that it was merely financial necessity that made her do so. She checked her watch and went next door to fetch her husband. It was time to leave.

  Hawley Crippen himself had been busy all day, preparing for the meal. Cora had only told him about it two nights before, when she had issued her instructions. He had been a little surprised that she had either remembered or wanted to celebrate their wedding anniversary at all, but he had not questioned it. He knew very well that it was merely a way of impressing her friends and insinuating herself further into the society she coveted and had nothing at all to do with him. It was obvious that by inviting couples such as the Smythsons or the Nashes to dinner, they were ultimately obliged to return the invitation. And since neither he nor Cora had ever been invited to dine with either couple in their home, it would be a considerable coup for her to achieve this.

  He stood still in the middle of the kitchen and worked his way through the checklist in his mind. The table was set, the wine was on the dresser, the lamb was cooking in the oven, the potatoes were boiling gently, the vegetables ready to be thrown in a pot at the right moment. The carpet had been thoroughly cleaned by him that morning, a task which had taken almost two hours—and one which was not helped when Alec Heath had walked through it in a pair of muddy boots, ignoring his prostrate landlord, who was scrubbing away at it carefully. He was sure that something was missing but could not think what. Even if he was wrong, Cora would find a way of complaining about it; but he was accustomed to that and, much as it wore him down, at least it never came as a surprise any more. He opened the oven door and stepped back before looking inside when the hot air quickly escaped. The juices of the meat were running down nicely; it smelled wonderful. There was only one thing left to do before he could relax. He took two solid carving knives from the dresser and began to sharpen them, making sure that their blades would slide through the meat without any difficulty. He was reminded of his early days in the McKinley-Ross Abattoir.

  Fifteen minutes’ walk away, Ethel LeNeve was putting the final touches to her outfit, taking off a simple silver necklace which she had bought a month earlier in an effort to cheer herself up and replacing it with her late mother’s pearls. She had hardly slept the night before, so excited was she by the prospect of a dinner party, although she had been totally amazed to receive the invitation. What she didn’t know was that Cora Crippen had spent an evening racking her brain in an attempt to think of a single woman to invite, for without one the numbers were unbalanced. However, all her female friends were married and she could not think of any other suitable choice. It had been Hawley’s suggestion that he invite Ethel along, and she had been initially reluctant. ‘Who?’ she asked. ‘Ethel who?’

  ‘Ethel LeNeve,’ he replied patiently. ‘My assistant at Munyon’s. You’ve met her, my dear, on any number of occasions.’

  ‘What, that little boyish-looking thing with the bloody great scar above her lip?’

  ‘My assistant,’ he repeated, unwilling to answer that question. ‘A delightful woman.’

  ‘Oh, I hardly think she’s suitable,’ said Cora. ‘Isn’t she a bit common?’

  More common than you, who picked me up in a music hall? he wondered. More common than Louise Smythson who used to work as a bar girl? ‘No,’ he said. ‘She’s excellent company.’

  ‘Well, I suppose she is single,’ Cora said doubtfully. ‘I mean, who’d have her, the ugly little creature.’

  Hawley had felt a deep rush of hatred for his wife when she said this but he kept it inside him for now. Finally, she had given her permission and he had invited Ethel the next day at work. Naturally, she said she would be delighted to come. Strolling down the street now towards their home, her umbrella beside her tapping on the pavement, she hoped that tonight she would get along with Cora Crippen a little
better than she ever had before. She’d only met her a handful of times; once, several years before, on the morning when she had first walked into Munyon’s and met her darling Hawley for the first time. Once, a little over a year ago, when she had to return some keys to the dear man and had the misfortune to be interrupted by a furious Cora who had suffered some career setback, she had found out later. Once in Battersea Park on a Sunday afternoon, when she was sitting on a bench reading a book and the Crippens had passed her by. And once when Cora had come to the pharmacy to demand money off her husband and had looked as if she was going to have apoplexy if she didn’t get it immediately. She was a strong-willed woman, there was no question of that. And Cora didn’t like her.

  Passing Ethel in a hansom cab, unaware that she was another dinner guest, Andrew and Margaret Nash chatted amiably to each other as they approached the Crippens’ home. Like the Smythsons, they had been somewhat surprised to be invited to the wedding anniversary, but decorum meant they had to accept.

  ‘Let’s make sure we leave by eleven,’ Andrew said as they pulled up. ‘I have a meeting in the morning quite early and don’t want to be overtired.’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ Margaret said. ‘I’m sure the party will have ended by then. What a charming house,’ she added, looking at the exterior.

  ‘Seems a bit cramped to me,’ he muttered. ‘Are you sure these people are our sort?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know him,’ she admitted. ‘But Cora’s a delightful woman. You couldn’t hope to meet a more refined, elegant lady. Perfect manners. Charming. I’m sure you’ll like her. And he is a doctor, after all.’

  ‘I hate doctors,’ said Andrew. ‘Always looking at you as if you’re going to fall over and collapse in front of them. I don’t hold with it. If you’re going to die, then you’re going to die. Nothing you can do about it. No point trying.’

  ‘Of course, dear. Oh, would you look at that poor unfortunate woman,’ she added, glancing at Ethel, who was now only five or six doors away. ‘The scar on her lip. I bet she drinks.’

  ‘Why?’ Andrew asked, baffled and amused.

  ‘She most likely drinks and fell over one night when inebriated, cutting her lip open. She looks quite common, don’t you think?’

  He turned to look, but she was already upon them and surprised them by announcing herself as one of their fellow guests.

  Alec Heath dragged himself off his bed and stood up, yawning loudly. He had fallen asleep an hour or two earlier, although he had intended to have a bath before dinner. He had stayed out late the night before with one of the chorus girls from the Majestic, an action which had caused Cora some serious injury. She had waited up until two o’clock in the morning for him to return but, exhausted, had given in then and had gone to bed, where she lay awake, waiting to hear his key in the lock, which she eventually heard, some two hours later. He had gone for some beers with a girl, and she had taken him to a late night bar where she knew they served distilled whisky at twopence a glass into the small hours. Afterwards, drunk, she had allowed him to drag her down a dark, wet lane and he had made rapid love to her under the street lamp before returning home. He’d been back at work by eleven that morning, as they were building a new stage set, and he had ignored the girl when he had seen her again, for what need had he of her now? His plan had been to have a long bath before dinner which would refresh him, but instead he had fallen asleep. No matter, he decided, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt and reaching for his tie as he examined his rough appearance in the mirror. He stroked his stubble, which was a little too obvious for decorum, but he decided against shaving. They could take him as he was or not at all. However, he did throw a little water over his face from the rose bowl and decided that was enough preparation. His stomach was growling. He wanted his dinner.

  Cora descended from the heavens into her living room only when she knew that all her guests had arrived. It had been up to Hawley to entertain them until then, and he had done so to the best of his abilities, such as they were, while she had sat at the door of her bedroom, counting them in. She had read somewhere that the hostess should not appear at an intimate dinner party until all the guests had arrived and she was reluctant to go against this in case the Nashes or the Smythsons noticed it and despised her for it. She walked downstairs slowly in a brand-new dress, her hair piled on top of her head, revealing bare, masculine shoulders, far too wide and muscular to be on public display, a fact to which she was always oblivious. The sound of chatter from inside delighted her and she wondered why she had never thrown a party like this before. Now I am a society hostess, she thought to herself in delight. She pushed open the door and, with a fixed smile, stepped inside.

  The dinner was delicious; Hawley had proved to be an excellent cook. Cora dominated the conversation, chatting amiably with all around the table for the first hour, until more wine entered her system and she began to grow a little more lively.

  ‘Mexico,’ she cried, after hearing of Andrew Nash’s plans to build an underground pipe there linking the mines. ‘How exciting.’

  ‘It will be,’ he said, ‘although it will be another eight months before work actually begins.’

  ‘And have you been there yet?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not yet. The company has sent scouts and engineers out there. They’re working on the plans at the moment. Not much for me to do at the moment, I’m afraid. I’d only get in the way.’

  ‘Andrew isn’t really one to get his hands dirty,’ Margaret laughed.

  ‘No point in it,’ he said. ‘I’m an ideas man. I leave the hands-on work to the hands-on people. No, I shall most likely go over there sometime around next April or May. Make sure the work is being completed on time, kick a few workers around if necessary. It’s damnable but we’ll have to employ a lot of Mexicans to do the work.’

  ‘Oh, surely not,’ Cora said, appalled.

  ‘Well, of course. It will take hundreds of men. We’re hardly going to send a shipload of Englishmen over there to do it. Easier to work with the Mexicans. Although I must admit I’m a bit worried about it. I hope they’re up to the task. Cheaper than the English, of course.’

  ‘You need to send an Englishman over there to keep an eye on them,’ Alec Heath said. ‘Someone who can keep them all in line.’

  ‘Indeed. Of course there are a few company men who—’

  ‘I mean someone who isn’t afraid to kick those little bastards around. Not a bunch of upper-class layabouts.’

  ‘Alec,’ Hawley cautioned him from across the table. ‘There are ladies present.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind us,’ said Louise Smythson. ‘Young Mr Heath is right. Company men are surely all about facts and figures. They’ll sit in their offices all day, running through lists of figures, adding them up, down, inside and out, and never making sure that the men outside are doing their jobs properly. Then, of course, the costs rise.’

  ‘You’re quite right, of course,’ said Andrew. ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

  ‘I know what I’d do if they didn’t pull their weight,’ said Alec, leaning forward and suddenly pounding his right fist into the palm of his left hand. ‘That.’

  There was nervous laughter from around the table, except from Ethel who, sitting beside him, had jumped at the power of his punch. Small as she was, she felt quite dwarfed by this muscle-bound boy who had all but ignored her for the last hour except, she noted, to stare down the front of her dress when he thought she wasn’t looking. He was attractive, she could see that, but there was something about his manner that scared her.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll make some coffee,’ Hawley suggested, but Cora waved him down.

  ‘No coffee, you boring man,’ she said, laughing. ‘Fetch another bottle of wine, why don’t you? Make yourself useful for once in your life.’

  ‘Of course, the other problem with these foreigners,’ Margaret Nash explained, ‘is that the slightest headache, and they down tools for the day. They’re so lazy they just pretend to be sick and e
xpect to get paid for it.’

  ‘I haven’t been sick a day in my life,’ said Alec. ‘What’s the point in it? Just get up and get on with your day and stop being a baby, that’s what I say.’

  ‘Some people can’t,’ Hawley explained. ‘If they are truly sick, that is, and not just hung-over.’

  Alec glared at him. ‘And what would you know?’ he asked.

  ‘Hawley is a doctor,’ Ethel said, defending him. ‘He treats many patients. You should see him in our pharmacy some days. Even though we are supposed to be selling the homoeopathic cures, there are many customers who come in with a complaint and Hawley just takes them aside and gives them a little advice, and then off they go to follow it and we never see them again.’

  ‘Maybe they die,’ Cora suggested. ‘Maybe that’s why you never see them again. And if he’d let them alone to buy whatever they wanted, they would have lived.’

  ‘They don’t die,’ said Ethel, pinning her down with a stare. ‘Hawley knows exactly what he’s doing.’

  ‘Here, here,’ said Andrew Nash, lighting up a cigar and offering one to Nicholas and Alec but, for reasons unexplained, ignoring Hawley. ‘I think you have an admirer here, Crippen. Say, Cora, you’d better watch out.’

  Ethel blushed deeply and stared at her plate, feeling the eyes of the entire table upon her. Hawley, aware of her discomfort, thrust his hand out and deliberately knocked over his wine glass, spilling the dark-red claret across the linen tablecloth, thus diverting everybody’s eyes back to him.

  ‘Oh, Hawley, look what you’ve done,’ Cora cried in exasperation, as Alec moved his chair around a little, closer to Ethel, rather than have the spilt wine on his trousers. She didn’t like him coming closer to her. His massive girth was blocking her view of Hawley; she thought the young man like an eclipse, the moon suddenly covering and blocking out the sun.

  ‘No matter, no matter,’ Hawley said, mopping up the mess with a few napkins. ‘It’s only a little wine.’