Waxwork (6 page)

Cromer had given no indication of mental turmoil. She appeared to be in command of herself. It was as if Newgate had not touched her yet. In prison uniform, the coarse blue jacket and limp linsey skirt, the plain white mob cap with close-fitting frills, she should have looked like any other felon. She did not. She was different.

The clothes fitted well enough. She wore the cap exactly as prescribed, with the ends tied in a bow under her chin. If a strand of gold hair slipped loose she was swiftly ordered to tuck it out of sight. Her sleeves were neatly rolled in regulation fashion. Really there was small scope for self-expression in the uniform, and any signs of it were soon corrected.

Her strangeness was of a more elusive kind, not definable as a breach of prison regulations, but flagrant in a way that offended the wardresses because they were not able to exercise control over it. She accepted the restrictions, the indignities, the scrubbing-brush and the latrine-bucket, without a syllable of protest. She was scrupulously subordinate in her dealings with the staff. Yet she remained remote. The privations should have made her increasingly dependent on her gaolers; it was a process so predictable that they took it as a right. Deprived of it, they could not understand how this prisoner could be simultaneously submissive and indifferent. Certainly there were indications of strain in her features, but she persisted in her aloofness. Her eyes showed no more interest in her attendants than the furniture or the walls.

The governor had noticed it. On Monday, Cromer's fourth day in Newgate, he had asked for her to be brought to his rooms as was his custom with newly admitted prisoners. Hawkins and Bell had taken her. It meant walking to the other end of the prison through low stone passages, relics of the eighteenth century, never progressing far before an iron-bolted door had to be unlocked and slammed with a resounding crash after they were through.

There was a door beyond which you found yourself stepping on carpet instead of stone. Far from producing an impression of comfort, it was so alien to the rest of Newgate that it disturbed even the wardresses. Bell's knees turned to jelly every time.

In the carpeted passage they stopped at a panelled oak door with brass fittings polished to military standard. It was Hawkins who knocked.

‘Enter.'

The governor's room was vast. Vast, that is, compared with cells thirteen feet by seven and corridors so narrow that in places two people could not pass without one stepping aside. The sense of space was unnerving.

It was panelled in dark wood and furnished with high-backed leather chairs. There were bookshelves to the ceiling, pictures of hunting scenes, stuffed animals' heads and green velvet curtains. It was warm, so there was no fire burning. The governor was facing a tapestry firescreen.

‘If you please, sir, the prisoner Cromer,' the less nervous wardress announced from the doorway.

‘Yes.' He turned, a grey-haired man with a waxed moustache and blue, watery eyes. ‘Step forward, Cromer.' His voice was strange to the ear, modulated by carpets and furnishings.

The prisoner took two steps towards him.

‘Over here, if you please. I may be fearsome, but I am not dangerous, I assure you.'

The wardresses watched her approach to within a yard of him, her face raised to meet his. She was not fearful. Not in the least.

‘I make a point of seeing each prisoner who enters Newgate,' he told her in a voice just audible across the room, ‘and I always begin by making it clear that this institution and others like it exist only to meet the requirements of the law. For that reason I shall say nothing about the events that brought you here. They were the subject of your trial and I imagine you would not care to be reminded of them. My responsibility is to see that the sentence of the law is carried out—to a point, that is. The ultimate responsibility rests with the Sheriff of the City of London. If your sentence is confirmed by Her Majesty I shall be required to deliver you to the Sheriff for the implementation of that sentence. A formality that you need not concern yourself with, unless it comforts you to know that we in Newgate are responsible only for your custody, not, do you understand … ?'

‘I understand.'

Bell caught her breath. The prisoner had failed to address him properly.

The governor fingered the knot of his necktie. ‘You will wish to know how long you may expect to spend in Newgate. The period prescribed by the Home Office is a little over two weeks. Three Sundays must elapse since the day on which sentence was passed. Assuming there is no intervention'—he crossed the room to his desk—‘I must deliver you to the Sheriff shortly before eight in the morning on, er … ' He picked up a piece of paper and studied it.

‘Monday, 25th June,' said the prisoner.

There was a sepulchral silence in the room.

The governor put down the paper and stood looking at her. From his expression, he was more surprised than annoyed by the interruption. He returned to the fireplace. ‘Doubtless you are resting your hopes on a reprieve.' His eyes turned to a small plaster bust that stood on the mantelpiece. ‘The Sovereign has been known on occasions to exercise clemency on the recommendation of the Secretary of State for the Home Office. My advice to you, for what it is worth, is to put all such thoughts out of your mind. I have had the unhappy duty of meeting a considerable number of people in circumstances identical to yours at this moment. I have observed that those who endure the experience best are the ones who reconcile themselves to meeting their Maker. The prison chaplain, Father Hughes, is already known to you. I urge you to be guided by his spiritual advice. You are a member of the Church, I trust?'

She nodded.

‘Good. Then I hope you will unburden your soul to him.'

She said nothing. She had said nothing, either, to the chaplain each time he had visited her in the cell. The tracts he had given her were unopened. The wardresses knew and no doubt the governor knew as well, but he did not press the matter.

‘You may also receive visits from your next of kin. That would include your husband, father, mother—'

‘My parents are dead.'

‘Cromer, it is customary to address me as
“sir”.
I am sorry about your parents. However, it must be a consolation that they were spared the distress of this time. If you have brothers or sisters—'

‘Sir,' she said in a steady voice, ‘I have no desire to see them in this place. My husband, yes. I believe I am also entitled to visits from my solicitor.'

The governor distractedly groomed his moustache. ‘Indeed, I was coming to that, but I caution you again that it is most unwise to base any hope on a judicial release from your sentence. Is there any other matter you wish to raise with me?'

‘Not for the present, sir.'

‘There will be opportunities, anyway, of speaking to me again.'

With that, the governor had gestured to them to lead her away. Before they had closed the door he had gone to a cupboard and taken out a whisky glass.

FRIDAY, 15th JUNE

C
RIBB HAD SLEPT BADLY
. His brain had floundered for hours in the shallows of oblivion, producing aberrations that jerked him awake. Once he was being ushered in by Jowett to Sir Charles Warren, but instead of the Commissioner at his desk, there was a camera facing them and the little figure that emerged from under the black cloth was female and grey-haired and wearing a crown. He had sat up in bed with such a start that it had disturbed Millie. He had not told her his dream. Instead he had gone to make tea and when he returned with the cup he had distracted her by suggesting they planned a visit to the theatre. He had known she would rise to that.
The Mascotte
at the Haymarket with Miss Lottie Piper. Millie was so quick with the suggestion that they both laughed. Later, in the darkness, Cribb was troubled. She had not asked him the reason for Jowett's visit. He had always been frank with Millie. It was as if he was buying her silence for the price of two theatre tickets.

He knew if she heard about this she would jump to the wrong conclusion. She would think the Commissioner had singled him out because he was the best detective in the force. Millie had never doubted it, always believed they were on the point of promoting him. It was no use telling her Warren had gone to Jowett because he was the Judas of Monro's team and Jowett in a blue fit had blurted the first name that sprang to his lips.

Cribb was a realist. After seventeen years on a sergeant's rank, it would take fireworks on the Crystal Palace scale to get him lifted.

He had decided to start with Inspector Waterlow. When he looked up the address of the police station at Kew he found an asterisk against the entry. The footnote below stated
Not continuously manned.
A memory of Waterlow as a constable excusing himself from the beat flitted into Cribb's mind. He drew a long breath, picked up the valise containing the papers on the Cromer case and walked out of Scotland Yard with a maltreated look in his eye.

He took a train from Waterloo on the London and South Western.

He was the only passenger to alight at Kew Gardens. The platform was deserted. Nobody collected his ticket. It was a good thing he needed no help with directions. The address was Station Approach.

Before leaving the booking hall his eye caught a name among the posters advertising local businesses.

HOWARD CROMER

PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST

PARK LODGE, KEW GREEN

The highest class of photographs reproduced under
ordinary conditions of light. Sittings by appointment.
Portraits, cabinet and carte-de-visite, family
groups and wedding parties a speciality.

In pencil, somebody had added
Funerals Arranged.

Station Approach was broad and shaded by trees. The police station was located above a chemist's. Access was up an iron staircase at the side. Cribb opened a door badly in need of paint.

‘Good day, sir,' said a tall, callow constable holding a large ginger cat in his arms. ‘Not a bad day at all. Capital for Ascot. What can we do for you?'

‘You can tell Inspector Waterlow, if he is in, that Sergeant Cribb of Statistics would like a word with him.'

The cat was dropped like a stone.

‘Statistics. Yes, Sergeant. Very good. I'll tell him this minute.' He opened a door behind the desk just enough to put his head and shoulder round. A murmured, agitated exchange took place. He closed the door and turned back to Cribb. ‘The Inspector won't be a moment, Sergeant.' He busied himself with some pieces of paper.

‘This your animal?' Cribb inquired. The cat was leaning on his shins.

‘Just a stray, Sergeant,' the constable answered unconvincingly. ‘We get a lot of them, being next to the butcher's. When you came in, I was ascertaining whether it had a collar, for identification.'

‘I hope you've got it in the occurrence book,' said Cribb tartly.

A bald head and shoulders appeared round the door, hands fastening the top buttons of an inspector's tunic. ‘Cribb, it really is you,' said Inspector Waterlow. ‘What are you waiting there for? Come inside, man.'

The cat was inside first. It hopped on to the window sill and settled proprietorially in the sun. Inspector Waterlow made no attempt to remove it.

Slimly built, with ferocious eyebrows to compensate for baldness, he had altered little in the ten years since Cribb had seen him. The set of his head on an over-long, narrow neck still unaccountably irked.

‘Stoke Newington, wasn't it?' he said unnecessarily. ‘By George, a lot of water has gone under the bridge since those days. Busy times. Sit down, won't you? Have a spell in the armchair. I don't suppose you get much time for that. Where are you now?'

The chair was warm from a recent sitter. ‘The Yard. Statistics Branch, sir.' Some evasion was necessary with Waterlow.

‘Out of the action, then? My word, you've earned a turn behind a desk if anyone has. Do you mean to say they haven't made you up to inspector yet?'

‘I had two commendations a couple of years back. That's all.'

‘Good man,' said Inspector Waterlow, more to the cat than Cribb. He was stroking its head with his forefinger. ‘Confidentially, promotion in the force is a lottery, old boy. I'm the first to admit I was no great shakes as a copper. Got my name mentioned in the right quarters just the same—hang it, there had to be
some
compensation for all the paper-work I did. Soon after you left, I got my stripes. But I didn't see myself as a sergeant, so I er'—he removed his forefinger from the cat and tapped the side of his head—‘submitted a practical suggestion to the Commissioner: to give up issuing truncheon-cases and have a truncheon-pocket sewn into the uniform instead. As you know, it was acted upon two years ago, and I was made up to inspector.'

‘Doesn't sound like a lottery to me.'

‘You're right. I owe it to my inventive mind,' said Waterlow smugly.

‘Where did you go as inspector?'

Waterlow grinned sheepishly. ‘I did a rather calamitous tour of duty at Bow Street. After that they sent me to Kew. I must say, I find it more agreeable than central London.'

Cribb murmured agreement from the armchair and pondered the vagaries of fate.

‘What brings you here?' Waterlow casually inquired. ‘No problem over my statistics, I hope? There isn't a great amount of crime here, you will appreciate. A few incidents in the Royal Botanic Gardens—pilfering orchids, and so forth. We had an indecent exposure in the Water Lily House last month, but I can't in all conscience say we make many arrests. The most exciting thing in years was the poisoning in Kew Green last spring. No doubt you heard. I sorted it out myself. The wife did it, of course. She confessed before the trial. Facing facts, you see. By then I had a cast-iron case against her.'

‘Nice work, sir.' Cribb beamed at Waterlow. This was the opening he needed. ‘As it happens, the Kew Green poisoning is what brings me out here. Someone in the Yard has the notion that we could detect crime more efficiently if we kept a fuller record of felonies committed in the past. As you know, the present practice is to list the number of felonies committed under different headings—housebreaking, robbery with violence, arson and so on. That's a help, but it doesn't tell us what
time
most burglaries are committed, or what class of person raises fires.'