Waxwork (5 page)

‘It was cut from the
Photographic Journal
of 24th March,' said Jowett. ‘The Home Secretary received it on Monday. It came in an envelope with a West Central postmark. There was no letter of explanation.'

‘An explanation isn't necessary,' said Cribb. ‘Someone studied Miriam Cromer's confession and remembered this. There's no doubt, I take it, that this
is
one of the keys to the poison cabinet?'

‘No doubt whatsoever. The Home Office have studied it minutely. I saw it myself under magnification and compared it with the key found in Perceval's pocket. The Germans are clever locksmiths, Cribb. That key and its twin were individually cut for the lock on that cabinet. The pattern is intricate, make no mistake. Triple layers of metal, divergent faces—jargon to me, but it means we can eliminate the possibility of a copy having been made.'

‘Well, as Cromer was wearing one key on his waistcoat in Brighton, his wife must have opened the cabinet with the other. Is it possible Perceval mislaid it?'

Jowett shook his head. ‘I just mentioned, didn't I, that it was on a ring with his other keys. If Perceval had mislaid them, he could not have let himself into the studio that morning. I am assured he did.'

Cribb's mind sifted through possibilities. ‘If he removed his jacket while he was working with chemicals—'

‘He kept the key-ring in his trouser pocket. It was found there on the body. And we can discount the possibility that she simply asked to borrow his key to the cabinet. That would have alerted him to her intention. She had no conceivable reason for opening the cabinet except to obtain poison. Perceval was no fool, Cribb. He was well aware of the risk he ran in blackmailing her. He was too astute by far to present her with the means of destroying him. Let's not forget, either, that Miriam Cromer claimed to have taken the poison from the cabinet at lunch time, when Perceval was out. When she saw him next, he was a dead man. If she used Perceval's key to obtain the poison, how did she return it to the pocket of his trousers after he was dead?'

Cribb thought for a moment. ‘Just a minute, sir. You said just now that when the doctor asked about poison, Miriam Cromer unlocked the cabinet and showed him the bottle of cyanide. She
must
have had a key in her possession.'

Jowett knocked ash into Cribb's coal-bucket. ‘Obviously you are coming to grips with the problem, Sergeant, but the answer isn't there, I'm afraid. You see, I am at a slight advantage here. I have read Dr Eagle's deposition. He states categorically that when he inquired about the cyanide, Mrs Cromer told him the bottle was kept locked in the poison cabinet. He asked to see it and she said she would need Perceval's key to open it. The doctor himself removed the keys from the dead man's trouser pocket. Afterwards he replaced them. The whole thing defies rational explanation.'

‘Has anyone asked Miriam Cromer about it?'

‘No.'

‘Why not? She pleaded guilty. She of all people knows what happened.'

‘No, it wouldn't do.'

Cribb rubbed his chin, surprised that a straightforward suggestion should be rejected out of hand.

‘She could tell us, yes,' Jowett admitted. ‘I cannot fault your logic, Sergeant, but it would be most inappropriate to question Mrs Cromer at this time. Consider her situation. She is condemned to hang twelve days from now. The only thing that can save her is a reprieve. Doubtless she wrote her confession in the hope that it would entitle her to a measure of sympathy. The circumstances of the blackmail were distressing to read, were they not? Here was a decent woman driven to murder through one rather absurd lapse exploited by a vicious blackmailer. On the face of it, there are grounds for mercy. I say on the face of it because her own account is the only one we have. It was accepted by the court because she pleaded guilty and it fitted the available facts. The court had to decide the question of her guilt and she saved them the trouble. Why? In order to give her own account of what happened in the most favourable version possible—else why did she forfeit the right to be defended by an able counsel?'

‘It was a gamble, you mean?'

‘A gamble for her life, Cribb. At this moment Miriam Cromer is sitting in the condemned cell waiting to see if she has won. Now do you understand why it is out of the question to tackle her about this business of the key? If you or I visited her in Newgate and told her fresh information had come to light, imagine the effect. She would at once conclude that her confession was in doubt—that confession on which she has pinned her hope of a reprieve. It would have a most unsettling effect. The prison staff have difficulty enough calming the minds of the condemned. No, it can't be contemplated, not merely to clarify a detail. The Home Secretary would refuse to sanction it.'

‘He wants an explanation just the same.'

‘He most certainly does.' A clear note of fear sounded in the Chief Inspector's voice. ‘When he understood the significance of this photograph, he called in the Commissioner.'

Cribb's stomach gave a lurch. The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police was Sir Charles Warren. That impetuous old warhorse had earned his knighthood the year before by putting down a demonstration of the unemployed with a force of four thousand police and six hundred guardsmen. But Bloody Sunday was nothing to his battles since in the offices of Whitehall. He had repeatedly skirmished with the Home Secretary and the Receiver. His own Assistant Commissioner, James Monro, was in open revolt against him. It was common knowledge that each was trying to secure the other's resignation.

Monro was head of the Criminal Investigation Department.

‘The Commissioner?'

‘Yes, Cribb. I understand why you have gone pale.'

‘Isn't this a C.I.D. matter?'

Jowett gave the sigh of a man who had been through this only an hour before. ‘I confess that there is a certain difficulty over that. The investigation at Kew was handled by Inspector Waterlow, who is not a member of the C.I.D. The case was so straightforward, with Miriam Cromer the obvious suspect, that our services were not requested.'

‘Until this problem cropped up.'

‘Yes. The Home Secretary has ordered a new investigation into the circumstances of Perceval's death. He wants it carried out by competent detectives, but in the strictest confidence.'

‘That's why you came out to Bermondsey?' said Cribb. ‘Why aren't we having this conversation in Mr Monro's office?'

‘I had better not answer that question,' Jowett primly said. ‘Suffice to say that Sir Charles has assigned me to the case. I shall require your assistance.'

It could not be worse. Monro, the head of C.I.D., had not been informed.

‘The situation is delicate, I admit,' Jowett blandly went on. ‘As you imply, the Assistant Commissioner is not to be informed at this stage. Knowing how sensitive things are, I made my position clear to Sir Charles. Working as closely as I do to Mr Monro, I could not conceivably carry out a thoroughgoing investigation myself without evincing his interest. As a consequence it was agreed to delegate the day-to-day inquiries to a less conspicuous member of the C.I.D. I nominated you.'

Less conspicuous—Cribb felt entitled to better than that. He did not thank Jowett. ‘And where do I stand if Mr Monro gets to hear of this?'

Jowett gave a thin smile. ‘Out of earshot, I suggest. To be serious, Sergeant,' he added hastily, ‘now that your name has been mentioned to Sir Charles, it would not be in your interest to shrink from the task. By all means request an interview with him if you feel your position is untenable, but I warn you that he may not see it in the same light as yourself. If you were to mention Mr Monro's name in his office, I would not answer for the consequence.'

Through Cribb's burning anger he recognised the truth of this. Jowett's judgment was unerring when it came to the politics of Scotland Yard. The trap had been sprung and there was no escape. He could accept or resign. Mr Monro would not thank a humble sergeant for making a martyr of himself in the C.I.D. cause. Nor would Millie. From this moment, Cribb's career was vested in Sir Charles Warren, the man the
Pall Mall Gazette
described as
‘this hopeless and conspicuous failure.'

‘How do you want me to proceed?'

Jowett's smile reappeared. ‘That's the ticket! Well, Sergeant, what it comes down to is whether the confession Miriam Cromer made is reliable. If it isn't, why the devil did she perjure herself to secure a sentence of death? We have eleven days to find an answer. After that the question will be academic, but the Home Secretary will still require a full report. You can leave that to me. The, er, spadework is your responsibility. Be assured that when you need advice it will not be wanting. However, in the circumstances it would not be wise to contact me at Scotland Yard. Better if I get in touch with you in, say, a week from now.' He looked unadmiringly round Cribb's front room. ‘This will have to suffice for a rendezvous.'

THURSDAY, 14th JUNE

J
AMES
B
ERRY WAS THE
first to admit that when it came to letter-writing he was no St Paul. It was not the spelling. He had taken a prize once for spelling, in Heckmondwike Dame School. His copperplate was good, too. In the fifties they had taught you well, soon reddened your knuckles when you blotted out a loop. The finest teacher in any school was fear. What Berry had never learnt, because it was not part of the curriculum, was how to find fancy phrases. He liked to come straight out with things.

The letter he had been labouring over for the greater part of three days was now about as elegant as anything he had ever put together. He had started it good and early on purpose, knowing that it would not come quickly. The problem was striking the balance. He needed to make it clear that this was business. He wanted no favours, nor was he giving any. But neither did he wish to seem disrespectful. It was necessary to show he knew he was dealing with a gentleman.

This was how it read:

1, Bilton Place,
Bradford
Yorkshire
14th June, 1888

J. Tussaud, Esq., Proprietor,
Madame Tussaud's Exhibition of Waxworks,
Marylebone Road,
London NW.

Dear Sir,
I have not had the privilege of meeting you, but I understand that the former incumbent of the office I presently hold, namely the late Wm. Marwood, Esq., visited you on a number of occasions and transacted business with you which was a cause of satisfaction on both sides. I am informed that his likeness in wax occupies a place of honour in your exhibition and is an object of interest to the public.

My reason for addressing this communication to your esteemed self is that I have been asked to come to London on or about the 21st inst. in connection with the due enactment of the Law in regard to a case which has received considerable attention in the popular press in recent weeks. I understand that you are accustomed to gratify the public interest in such things by exhibiting the likenesses of certain criminals of note in your Chamber of Horrors. It would seem likely that after the Law has taken its course in the above-mentioned case, you will exhibit a model in wax of the perpetrator of the crime.

I venture to suggest that you must be aware through your dealings with the late Mr Marwood that it has long been a perquisite of the office of executioner to take possession of the clothing last worn by those on whom he has performed his invidious duty. I believe that certain of the models in your exhibition are dressed in the actual clothes of the personages they represent, and that this in no small measure increases the public's curiosity in them. I should be prepared to discuss the purchase by Tussaud's of the clothes of the person convicted in this case should you be interested.

I shall travel to London on Wednesday, 20th inst., and I could, if you desire, attend your office the following morning to discuss the matter. Should you care to meet me, your confirmation by letter will oblige.

Your humble servant,
James Berry

He was in two minds about
‘Your humble servant'.
He was not looking for charity. He was in a position to state terms. He had waited long enough for a chance like this. Not one of his clients had been a candidate for Tussaud's until now. Not one in four years. Bill Marwood had been luckier—Charlie Peace, Kate Webster, Dr Lamson. No wonder they had made a waxwork of Marwood himself, when he had turned off notables like that.

There was no need to reach a decision yet about how to end the letter. It would have to wait until he heard something definite from the Sheriff of London. Then he would copy it out in his best hand and decide whether he wanted to remain a humble servant.

What mattered more was the price. He was thinking he might ask twenty for the clothes, which was twice what the Sheriff would pay for the hanging. Twenty was not exorbitant when you reckoned the numbers who would pay to look at the figure.

Twenty would cover the cost of what he had in mind to do in London and leave some to spare.

The prisoner Cromer was a deep one, her wardresses had decided. They had confidently expected trouble from her when the truth of her situation had sunk in. The way it took prisoners was variable; all you could count on was that there would be incidents in the first forty-eight hours, anything from fainting-fits to assaults on the staff. The doctor generally gave them something. If they were bad enough they were put in the infirmary for a spell. Once the first crisis was over, they would weep for a day or two and then begin to come to terms with their sentence. Provided visitors did not excite them, they were manageable after that. Passive almost to the finish. A few actually went to that without a murmur.