Waxwork (18 page)

At the table again, his eyes ran through the first paragraph of Miriam Cromer's confession. A general statement of her guilt. No comment necessary on that. Second paragraph.

‘Some time in 1882, when I was twenty years of age and lived at my family home in Hampstead, I injudiciously agreed to take part with two friends in a group photograph … '

Two friends.
Judith Honeycutt, now dead, and Miss C. Piper.

The newspaper report of the inquest on Judith Honeycutt had given Miss Piper's address at Kidderpore Avenue. It was a long street in West Hampstead, off the Finchley Road. Cribb had gone there on Wednesday evening after making his inquiries about Ducane. No family by the name of Piper was known in Kidderpore Avenue. Somebody had suggested Miss Piper might have been the young lady who had lodged at old Miss Marchant's for a few months. She had been about twenty and had come there after a disagreement of some sort with her family. She had not stayed long. By 1885 she he moved out of London. And Miss Marchant had died soon after. The house was now occupied by a family of Russian immigrants. They had no forwarding address for Miss Piper. Cribb had abandoned the search. There were scores of people with that name in London, hundreds throughout the provinces. He remembered a C.S.M. Piper from his army days, and a pet shop in Islington called Piper and Son. Hopeless, trying to locate one girl with that name in the short time left to him. He did not even know her Christian name. She could be married by now.

Wherever she was, soon after eight on Monday morning she would be the sole survivor of the three young girls who had light-heartedly agreed to pose for a photographer six years before. If the episode had ever occurred.

He felt in his pocket and took out the photograph of Miriam Cromer. He would need it presently for the spelling of Brodski's name on the reverse. He put it face upwards on the table in front of him. He remembered first seeing it, enlarged, in the drawing room at Park Lodge, and trying to read her character in it: an unlikely achievement. For the camera, people put on their best expressions like Sunday clothes. Hers, to be sure, was less rigid a look than photographs generally captured. That was why he had asked for a copy of this print. It conveyed something more than the stilted studio pose. But was the conflict written on her features any guide to the way she thought and behaved?

Looking at the picture now, he could not be objective. He saw it in terms of what he had learned. There were dangers, he knew, in speculating, but he saw the face of a young woman trapped. She was married to a man in love with her image. He prized her, treated and cosseted her not as his wife, but a subject for his camera. His bedroom was filled with her photographs. His adulation and excessive kindnesses only fomented her frustration, for how was she to express her resentment towards a husband who was infinitely kind?

When Perceval had added to her torment, she had found a focus for her bitterness. In murdering him, had she also been destroying her husband?

Theories. He would never know.

Truthfully, he could not tell if it was the face of a murderess.

He turned back to the report. Three girls: Miriam Kilpatrick, Judith Honeycutt and Miss C. Piper. So many names began with the letter ‘C'. Constance? It did not matter any more. Finish the report.

‘3. In the second paragraph of her confession, Mrs Cromer referred to certain photographs taken in 1882 which Perceval used for the purpose of blackmail. She stated that she and two of her friends, members like herself of the Highgate Literary and Artistic Society, were induced to pose—'

It would not be Constance. Nor Charity, Cora, Clara. This was profitless. Miss C. Piper. How could he possibly know what it should be? Yet his brain continued to supply names. Mysteriously, he felt he would know if he got it right.

Cynthia, Christine, Caroline.

‘
…
unclothed or nearly so for photographs that they were informed were to be used by the distinguished artist Sir Frederick Leighton as preliminary studies for a painting of a classical subject.'

Catherine, Celia, Charlotte.

Charlotte Piper.

It was practically right. Charlotte.
Lottie.

Lottie Piper.

Cribb clenched his fist and beat it on the table. He knew how the name had got into his head. Millie had mentioned it that night he had woken from his nightmare and got up to make tea. The comic opera she wanted to see was
The Mascotte
, with Miss Lottie Piper.

Another blind alley. He cursed his luck. Nothing had gone right for him. Lottie Piper had no connection with the case. But the knowledge that if she had, if he had found Miriam Cromer's friend, he would have hared off to find her, was mortifying to accept. It was fate giving an extra twist to the knife. He still wanted to discover the truth.

It was too much to hope that Miriam Cromer's friend had taken up a career on the stage as Miss Lottie Piper.

But he would try to find out.

He took down Millie's scrapbook from the shelf. Scores of pages were pasted with portraits of actors and actresses. Best to start from the back. He found Lottie Piper's picture on the second sheet, sketched in pen and ink, wide-eyed, with a skittish look, her face framed in dark curls.

MISS LOTTIE PIPER AS BETTINA IN ‘THE MASCOTTE'

One of the successes of the season is that of Miss Lottie Piper in the leading role of ‘The Mascotte', the Opera Comique at the Haymarket. This charming actress, the daughter of a Hampstead stockbroker, has graced several productions at provincial theatres and now reveals a talent for comic opera which is delighting audiences in the capital.

Finding a cab in Bermondsey was a tall order, but within minutes Cribb had stopped a four-wheeler.

‘The Haymarket.
The Mascotte
is still running, is it?'

‘Bless you, sir, that'll run for months yet.'

So he was at the stage door when her carriage drew up. She got down in a flurry of swansdown and scent, the curls proclaiming who she was, but prettier by far than the artist had made her, in a primrose-coloured skirt, emerald green jacket and matching hat with two black feathers.

‘Gentlemen,' she announced (Cribb was one of five), ‘how kind of you to come! I am overwhelmed, but I must tell you that I never go for supper after the performance. It's such a dreadful bore, but I find I need my sleep.'

She had blown a kiss and was through the door before Cribb or the others could put in a word. With fine theatrical timing the doorkeeper appeared from nowhere and stood with arms folded.

Cribb could have shown his identification. Instead, he started the dispersal by strolling up to Piccadilly Circus. In ten minutes he was back. There was no one left outside. Whistling, he walked in and up the stairs. He was not challenged.

He followed the scent of freesias. Her name was on the door.
Miss Lottie Piper.
Much more
chic
than Charlotte.

He expected a dresser to answer his knock. He was wrong. She came herself, opening the door just enough to look out. The penetrating stare she gave showed she was capable of dealing with callers.

‘Not what you think, miss,' said Cribb. ‘Police, in fact.' He took out his photograph of Miriam. Now he would know if his luck had changed. ‘If you have been reading the papers … '

The challenge in her face was supplanted by a frown. ‘Do you want to talk to me about her?' She studied Cribb's face as if making up her mind.

‘I carry a card,' Cribb said, feeling in his pocket.

‘Darling, I can see you're not carrying champagne,' she said.

She stepped back and let him in.

Lottie Piper thrust flowers into his arms. ‘Hold these while I fill some vases. They must have been lying here for hours. I hate to see things die, don't you?'

There were three sets of mirrors in the dressing-room. Clutching the bunches of roses and carnations he looked outlandish from every angle.

‘Now.' Having attended to the flowers, Lottie Piper removed her hat and arranged herself on the chesterfield, gesturing to Cribb to use a tub-chair. ‘I expect my maid by half past four. May we finish by then?'

‘I hope so, miss. You did recognise the photograph, then?'

She nodded. ‘But I don't recognise
you
,' she said sharply. ‘You must have a number, or something.'

‘Sorry, miss.' Cribb reddened. ‘Detective Sergeant Cribb.'

‘Really? I wouldn't have thought there was much call for detection, considering Miriam's confession was in all the newspapers.'

‘Yes, miss.' Cribb needed to secure co-operation here. Lottie Piper was used to speaking the best lines. ‘She is due to hang on Monday. Representations have been made to the Home Office on her behalf and it's my job to see if they hold water.'

‘Has madam decided she would like to change her plea?'

Cribb was unprepared for the venom in the remark. He said tersely, ‘I'll ask the questions, miss.'

She giggled nervously and tossed her curls. For a second the star of
The Mascotte
became Miss Charlotte Piper of Hampstead. ‘As you wish.' ‘You saw the confession in the papers. A section of it refers to you, though not by name. Am I right?'

She gave him a long look. ‘Let's not be coy, Sergeant. You may ask me if I took off my clothes for a photograph. You won't make me blush, after two years in the theatre.'

Cribb was not so confident of keeping down his colour. ‘What you got up to, miss, is of, er—'

‘No interest? Darling, that is not gallant, even if it may be true. Have you seen any of these deplorable photographs?'

Cribb admitted he had not.

‘I'm not in the least surprised,' she commented, well in control again. ‘They are the talk of London and nobody has seen them.' She smiled archly. ‘That three respectable young ladies should so far forget themselves as to pose for pictures of that sort!'

Cribb fingered his side-whiskers, trying to seem unconcerned. He would not admit to Lottie Piper that he had not made up his mind whether the whole story was moonshine.

‘Do you know my difficulty?' she went on. ‘The stage must have corrupted me dreadfully, because the pictures I remember were absurdly tame. I admit they were not the kind of thing you would hand round at Sunday school, but I can't imagine they set Holywell Street on fire either. Five minutes from here you can see far worse without paying a halfpenny—at the National Gallery. I am obviously beyond redemption. Dear Miriam took a much more serious stand on the matter, actually poisoning a man on account of it.' The smile returned.

Cribb lifted an eyebrow. ‘Do you believe that?' Before she answered, he said, ‘When did you first know Miriam Cromer, miss?'

‘Years ago, as small girls,' she said. ‘My father met hers in some connection and suggested as she was my age that she should come to the house to play. I should think we were not more than ten years old. We had a huge garden on Hampstead Hill and Papa always said it was no garden without the sound of children playing there, so I was presented with sundry playmates, most of whom I loathed. To be fair, Miriam was easier to tolerate than most. With her fair, straight hair she was unlike me in looks, so there were no invidious comparisons. She tended to look up to me as the rightful occupant of the garden. I think she was conscious of the fact that her people were in trade, even though her father had been mayor, whereas Papa was on the Stock Exchange. Status was very important to Miriam. When I was feeling generous I would play lady's maid to her, and she was never happier. I don't pretend we were twin souls. There were times when we were not on speaking terms, and it was usually a relief when the holidays ended and I went back to boarding school, but all in all we put up with each other. As we grew older, we met less, except for church and occasional parties and
soirées.
'

‘You joined the Literary and Artistic Society,' put in Cribb.

Lottie Piper smiled. ‘We were Girls of the Period by then—or supposed we were. Life in Hampstead was very confining, you may imagine. Schooldays were over, and the social life revolved around St John's. We met the same people over and over. When we read in the
Express
that this new society was being formed in Highgate, we made our fathers' lives a misery until they agreed to let us join. We knew nothing about literature or art, but we convinced ourselves that people who did would find us enchanting. There was another girl we knew in the parish—Judith Honeycutt. Her father kept the umbrella shop, which was a little infra dig, but Judith was a kindred spirit, so the three of us joined together.'