out to lunch and dinner and for walks. Gradually he learned her story. Her father, a Russian Pole, had died when she was a toddler; her German mother had remarried, but now she too was dead. Cora was fluent both in German and in English. Her stepfather, Fritz Mersinger, lived on Forrest Avenue in Brooklyn. Crippen learned that for one of her birthdays Mersinger had taken her into Manhattan to hear an opera, and the experience had ignited an ambition to become one of the world’s great divas.
As Crippen got to know her, he learned too that her passion had become obsession, which in turn had led her down a path that diverged from the savory. She lived alone in an apartment paid for by a man named C. C. Lincoln, a stove maker who was married and lived elsewhere. He paid for her food and clothing and voice lessons. In return he received sex and the companionship of a woman who was young, vivacious, and physically striking. But a complication arose: She became pregnant. The problem that brought her to the office of Crippen’s employer, Dr. Jeffrey, was not some routine female complaint. “I believe she had had a miscarriage, or something of that kind,” Crippen said. But this may have been code for a circumstance even more wrenching.
Nonetheless Crippen was entranced, and Cora knew it. With each new encounter, she came increasingly to see him as a tool to help her break from Lincoln and achieve her dream of operatic stardom. She knew how to get his attention. During one of their outings she told him that Lincoln had just asked her to run away with him. Whether true or not, the news had the desired effect.
“I told her I could not stand that,” Crippen said.
A few days later, on September 1, 1892, the two exchanged vows in a private ceremony at the home of a Catholic priest in Jersey City, New Jersey. Presumably the priest knew nothing of the past pregnancy.
Soon after the wedding Cora gave Crippen his first glimpse of a trait in her character that would become more salient as the years passed: She liked secrets. She told him her real name was not Cora Turner—though the name she now gave seemed hardly real, more like something concocted by a music hall comedian. Her true name, she said, was Kunigunde Mackamotzki.
She planned, however, to keep calling herself Cora. It had been her nickname since childhood, but more importantly Kunigunde Mackamotzki was hardly a name to foster success in the world of Grand Opera.
Almost immediately the newlyweds found themselves battered by failed decisions and forces beyond their control.
HAWLEY HARVEY CRIPPEN was born in Coldwater, Michigan, in 1862, in the midst of two wars, the distant Civil War and closer to home the war against Satan, an enemy deemed by most people in the town to be as real, if not as tangible, as the gray-uniformed men of the South.
The Crippen clan came to Coldwater early and in force, their arrival described in a nineteenth-century history of Branch County, Michigan, as “the coming of a colony of methodists.” They spent generously toward the construction of a Methodist church in Coldwater, though at least one prominent member of the family was a Spiritualist. In this he had company, for Coldwater was known as a hotbed not just of Protestant but also of Spiritualist belief, the latter apparently a product of migration. Like so many of their neighbors, the Crippens had moved to Michigan from western New York, a region eventually nicknamed the “burnt-over district” for its willingness to succumb to new and passionate religions.
Crippen’s grandfather, Philo, arrived in 1835 and after courting with alacrity married a Miss Sophia Smith later the same year. He founded a dry goods store, which expanded to become one of the most important businesses in town and a significant presence on Chicago Street, the main commercial corridor, where the Chicago Turnpike sliced through. Soon Crippens seemed to be taking over. One operated a flouring mill on Pearl Street; another opened a store that sold produce as well as general merchandise. A Crippen named Hattie played the organ at the Methodist church, and still another, Mae, became a principal in the city’s schools. There was a Crippen Building and a Crippen Street.
The town of Coldwater grew rapidly, thanks to its location both on the turnpike and on the main line of the Lake Shore Michigan Southern Railroad, and Chicago Street became the center of commerce in southern Michigan. A man with money strolling the street could buy nearly anything from an array of specialized shops that sold boots, guns, hats, watches, jewelry, and locally made cigars and carriages, for which the town was becoming increasingly famous. The most prestigious industry was horse breeding. One farm cultivated racing horses that achieved fame nationwide, among them Vermont Hero, Hambletonian Wilkes, and the most famous, Green Mountain Black Hawk.
Coldwater was wealthy, and its residents built houses to reflect the fact, studding the town’s core with graceful homes of wood, brick, and stone, many destined to survive into the twenty-first century and transform Coldwater into a mecca for students of Victorian architecture. One early edition of the Coldwater city directory observed, “The pleasant drives and parks shaded perfectly by magnanimous maples, the many miles of well kept walks, the brilliantly lighted streets, the neat and substantial residences, the urban appearing business places all in part go to make up this city so fortunately inhabited with well educated, intelligent and thoughtful people whose actions both publicly and privately are devotedly American.”
Philo Crippen and his wife soon had a son, Myron, who in turn married a woman named Andresse Skinner and eventually took over the family’s dry goods empire, while also serving as tax assessor for the city’s first ward and an agent for a sewing machine company. In 1862 Myron and Andresse had their first child, Hawley Harvey, who arrived in the midst of national tumult. Every day the Coldwater newspapers reported the ebb and flow of shed blood, as the country’s breeders shipped off horses to support the Union effort, in all three thousand horses by the war’s end. The
DESPITE THE WAR HAWLEY enjoyed a childhood of privilege. He grew up in a house at 66 North Monroe, one block north of Chicago Street, at the edge of an avenue columned with straight-trunked trees having canopies as dense and green as broccoli. In summer sunlight filtered to the ground and left a paisley of blue shadow that cooled the mind as well as the air.
Sundays were days of quiet. There was no Sunday newspaper. Townspeople crossed paths as they headed for their favored churches. In the heat of summer cicadas clicked off a rhythm of somnolence and piety. Hawley’s grandfather, Philo, was a man of austere mien, which was not unusual in Coldwater among the town’s older set. A photograph taken sometime after 1870 shows a gathering of about twenty of Coldwater’s earliest residents, including Philo himself. It is true that in this time people set their faces hard for photographs, partly from custom, partly because of deficits in photographic technology, but this crowd might not have smiled for the better part of a century. The women seem suspended in a state somewhere between melancholy and fury and are surrounded by old men in strange beards that look as if someone had dabbed glue at random points on their faces, then hurled buckets of white hair in their direction. The day on which this photograph was taken must have been breezy because the longest and strangest beard, stuck on the oldest living citizen, Allen Tibbits, is a white blur resembling a cataract. Grandfather Philo stands in the back row, tall and bald at his summit, with tufts of white hair along the sides of his head and the ridge of his jaw. He has prominent ears, which fate and blood passed downward to Hawley.
A man of strong opinion and Methodist belief, Grandfather Philo exerted on the Crippen clan a force like gravity, suppressing passion and whim whenever he entered the room. He hunted evil in every corner. Once he asked the Methodist council to “prevent the ringing of bells for auctions.” In those days members of the congregation paid the pastor for their seats, with the highest-priced pews in front selling for forty dollars a year. It was an impressive sum—over $400 today—but Philo paid it and made Hawley and other members of the family join him every Sunday. In matters involving the Lord, no expense was too great.
Worship did not end with the pastor’s amen. At home Grandfather Philo read the Bible aloud, with special emphasis on the gloomy fates that awaited sinners, in particular female sinners. Years later Hawley would tell an
