Waxwork (10 page)

‘This unfortunate event must have hit your business hard,' Cribb observed.

A sigh. ‘I fear so. For the present, I am not short of funds. There was a substantial legacy when Miriam's father died which we have not touched.'

‘If she had not pleaded guilty, Cribb reflected, counsel for the defence might have taken a slice of that in fees.' I heard that you built your business up by your own efforts, sir.'

‘That's absolutely true.' A faint look of self-congratulation passed across Cromer's features. ‘I am a self-made man. This studio has a reputation second to none on this side of London, or had, until this happened. Without exaggeration, I could show you portraits enough of the nobility to illustrate
Debrett.
I was planning a second studio in Regent Street.'

‘But you won't give up the trade?'

Cromer looked injured. ‘
Trade
isn't the expression I would use. No, this is my art, and I shall continue to practise it. In twenty-two years I have come a long way in photography. When I began in the sixties, it was the peak of the
carte
mania. Every gentleman insisted on being posed leaning on a cardboard column, top hat in hand and one leg crossed over the other—an excruciating pose to hold for a thirty-second exposure, as the strained attitudes showed. If anything, the experience was worse for the photographer, who had the job of explaining to the sitter that an iron headrest would be necessary to fix the pose, that red hair would come out black so he would have to be puffed, and that a plate was ruined because he had blinked. I have often said I would sooner be the public hangman.'

Cribb let the remark pass. It had slipped off Cromer's tongue as carelessly as his own reference to trade. ‘Have you always lived in Kew, sir?'

‘Four years only. My studio here represents many years of tiresome work photographing vicious little boys in sailor suits.' He gave a cheerless laugh. ‘You would not believe the number of spoilt plates I have sold to glass merchants at a few shillings a ton because of small heads that turned just as I removed the lens cap. At one time I worked from a wooden shed on the promenade at Worthing, but that is in confidence, Sergeant. I would not wish any of my present clients to know of it. I moved about the suburbs a good deal earlier in my career. Bethnal Green, Tooting Bec, Cricklewood—the localities improved with my fortune.'

‘I don't suppose you could afford to employ an assistant in the early days.'

‘Good Lord, no. I was on my own for years. I prepared my own paper, sensitised the plates, acted as receptionist, photographer, developer, printer, retoucher and clerk.'

‘It's a wonder you had time to sleep, sir.'

Cromer grinned. ‘Sleep is not so important when you are young. Eating was more of a problem. I lived on egg-yolks. It takes a devil of a lot of egg-white to albumenise a ream of paper.'

‘Was Josiah Perceval your first assistant, sir?'

‘The second, actually. The first, certainly, with any photographic knowledge. He was a local man, living in Sheen. I took him on soon after I moved here. The worst mistake of my life.' Howard Cromer closed the album and gripped it to his chest. ‘The man was a viper, Sergeant, and I failed to see it. As an assistant he seemed to be competent, reasonably conscientious, good with clients. He was uppish at times, I admit. I knew he helped himself to wine, for instance, and I think he used my stationery for personal correspondence. I ought to have checked him at the outset. I was too indulgent by far. I look for the merits in people and ignore their faults. It was quite beyond imagination that he could be persecuting Miriam. If I had got the smallest suspicion … ' He shook his head slowly. ‘She, poor innocent, suffered alone. She said not a word about him, Sergeant, not one word.'

‘Why was that, sir?'

Cromer drew a deep breath. ‘That is something I have asked myself repeatedly. I have to admit that I failed her. She was afraid to confide in me. My own beloved wife!' His knuckles whitened with the force of his grip on the album. ‘Those words in her confession are seared across my soul.
To confide in my husband was no solution.
She was unable to turn to me in her torment.'

‘There are secrets in most marriages,' Cribb ventured. He had some sympathy for Miriam Cromer. She was more real to this man as a series of photographs than a wife.

‘She was just a child. What secrets could she have had?' said Cromer more to himself than Cribb. ‘I take all the responsibility for what happened. Mine is an excitable temperament, and Miriam was terrified how I would react if I knew that Perceval had the means to destroy my reputation, my livelihood. It was easier for her to pay him than confide in me. And when his demands became intolerable she tried to resolve the problem in her own way, poor child.'

Cribb glanced at the picture on the wall. They were not the eyes of a child.

‘I can't believe she was frightened of you, sir. From what you tell me, you never gave her cause for fear.'

‘Good Lord, no! I have never uttered a word in anger to Miriam.'

‘There were no misunderstandings between you? It's not uncommon in the first year or two of marriage.'

‘Misunderstandings?' Cromer repeated, and thought a moment. ‘Nothing of any consequence. It is fair to say that she had some difficulty in adjusting to the marriage bond, but that was in the first six months or so, and it was my fault, mine entirely. I lacked imagination. I should have seen what a change her life had undergone. For months we had led an extremely active social life, as I told you a moment ago. We moved in a spirited set of young people, doing everything in the social calendar, and more. After our marriage I wanted Miriam to myself. To see her in my own home, talk to her, photograph her was all I desired. I tried to make this house sufficient for all our needs. What I failed to anticipate was that when I was working, as I was obliged to, she became bored. I engaged a companion for her, Miss Poley, a personable lady in her sixties, proficient at needlework, music and many card games, but in a short time Miriam asked me to dismiss her. With reluctance, I agreed. It was not the answer. We tried to find things Miriam could do in the house without usurping the housekeeper. She agreed to arrange the flowers in the studio and fill the decanters—things a lady could legitimately undertake—but there were still hours when she was unoccupied. She started taking solitary walks in Kew Gardens. I was reluctant—the classic example of a middle-aged husband fearful of losing his pretty young wife—but I gave my consent, and she seemed happier as a result. It appears so trivial now!'

‘You gave up your former friends completely after your marriage, did you, sir?'

‘All except Simon. He still came to dinner once a fortnight. To be candid, I was worried Miriam might weary of me and find the younger people more amusing. I am a jealous and possessive man and that is the truth.'

‘But you trusted your wife?'

‘She was a child,' Cromer said again.

‘Her innocence was precious to you?'

‘Supremely.'

Cribb gave a nod. It was not for him to lecture Howard Cromer on the practicalities of marriage, but he understood the vulnerability in the young wife's eyes. And he could see why she had found it impossible to confide her secret.

‘Nothing that has happened has shaken my devotion to her,' Cromer went on. ‘To lose her, Sergeant, will be … ' He stopped, unable to face the possibility. ‘Is there a chance, do you think, that … ?'

Cribb shook his head. ‘I couldn't say what is in the Home Secretary's mind, sir. If it isn't too distressing, I should like to take a look at the studio.'

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.