myself what could account for that. Am I going too fast?’
‘I’m keeping up,’ said Cribb. ‘You realised someone else was responsible for the poisoning.’
‘Exactly. If Perceval had poisoned himself, he wouldn’t have put cyanide in the decanter. He would have put it straight into the wine glass. There was no question of it, Cribb-I had a case of murder on my hands. That’s a devil of a thing to discover when you’re the man in charge of a station, with other responsibilities and precious little assistance. Possibly I should have asked the C.I.D. for help, but, dash it, I didn’t want the Yard taking over my office. And candidly I considered I was capable of handling the case myself. As I saw it, the murderer had to be a member of the household at Park Lodge. Already I had checked that there were no visitors on the day of the murder. Mr Howard Cromer was in Brighton. Unless he had tampered with the decanter before he left, only his wife or the servants could have done it. I made an appointment to visit Park Lodge, asking that every member of the household should be available to answer questions.’ Waterlow gave a sigh. ‘In retrospect, I can see that I should not have let them know that I was coming.’
‘Was someone not available?’
‘No, they were all present, but so was Allingham, the family solicitor. I would have got a lot more done without him. He knows his job, does young Allingham. I had met him already on the day of the murder. He was present when I interviewed Miriam Cromer the first time. I believe Dr Eagle had sent for him, the wily old cove. Well, on this occasion Allingham raised so many objections to my questions that he came close to obstructing me in the course of my duty. You may find this difficult to believe, but it took over an hour to establish who had filled the blasted decanter, and at what time.’
‘Miriam Cromer?’
Waterlow nodded. ‘By sheer persistence I managed to extract the information. She admitted it was a regular task of hers-responsibility, she called it-filling the decanters after the wine arrived on Monday mornings. By Friday they were empty, so there was a standing order with the wine merchant. On the day of the murder the wine arrived at noon and she went with it to the studio as usual.’
‘Was Perceval working there?’
‘So she told me. In the next room, the processing room, where the poison cabinet was situated. It was obvious that she couldn’t have obtained the cyanide while he was working there-if she was telling the truth. As Perceval was dead, I could not confirm the statement. Clever. The solicitor made damned sure she didn’t say any more. Anything else would have to be discovered by patient detective work.’
‘Did you question the others, sir?’
‘Yes. I told you Cromer spent the day in Brighton at a conference. The three servants, all females, didn’t venture upstairs until they felt they couldn’t ignore the racket Perceval was making in his convulsions. Cromer doesn’t like his clients to see the domestics, so they were supposed to keep below stairs. By the time they got to him, the poor beggar was paralysed and bereft of speech. That’s about all I got from the servants, except the alibis they provided for each other. Oh, they did confirm that there wasn’t a visitor to the house all day, apart from tradesmen. There was only one conclusion I could draw, and that was that Miriam Cromer was a murderess.’ Waterlow paused for dramatic effect. ‘You can imagine my predicament, Cribb. Here was a respectable married woman of the genteel class, or not far short of it. Their neighbours are people like the Duchess of Cambridge. A Major-General lives next door and the Director-General of Kew Gardens is close by. You can’t ask people of that class whether they have noticed anything irregular.’
‘You must have gone back to the servants.’
‘Yes, I’m coming to that,’ Waterlow peevishly said. ‘I did, and I don’t mind telling you that I managed it without creating the least suspicion in the family. Two of the servants lived in, but a third, a housemaid of thirteen named Margaret Booth, resided in Brentford. “Resided” isn’t quite the word now that I recall the squalor of the street, but that’s of no importance. Margaret had been warned by Allingham in peril of her job not to make a statement of any kind to the police.’ He gave a belly-laugh. ‘Young Margaret wasn’t prepared for me to be seated in her own parlour beside her father when she came home. The old man describes himself as a docker. If you ask me, the only dock he regularly sees is the one at Brentford Police Court. He is habitually drunk. I was lucky to find him vertical, more or less, when I picked him up at the pub on the corner. By the time his daughter Margaret came home, I made sure Albert Booth was a sober and frightened man, and so was his wife. They were convinced I would get him sent down for three months’ hard if I didn’t get cooperation. Margaret’s resistance didn’t last long. She gave me what I wanted: a tolerable account of Miriam Cromer and her dealings with Josiah Perceval.’
‘She knew about the blackmail, did she?’
‘Lord, no, nothing so helpful as that. She told me that it was no secret below stairs that Mrs Cromer had a strong dislike for Perceval. Nobody knew why exactly, just that it had got worse in recent weeks. There were sometimes arguments upstairs when Mr Cromer was out, and Perceval seemed to get the better of them, which surprised the servants. They had thought of their mistress as iron-willed, more than a match for the likes of Perceval. What was said was not audible in the servants’ quarters, but they could tell when voices were raised, and they also knew by the state of Mrs Cromer’s eyes when she had been reduced to tears. That was as much as I got from Margaret Booth about what went on upstairs, but’-Waterlow beamed in self-congratulation-‘I persuaded her to talk about the other servants.’
Cribb tried to appear impressed. Waterlow in the old days had put in less time on the beat than anyone at Stoke Newington. The titbits of gossip any bright young constable picked up automatically from making conversation at doorways were outside his experience. He had never been invited in for a slice of rabbit pie in his life. So it was a triumph to have coaxed a few confidences from Margaret Booth. Cribb listened and made an occasional note. He could raise no interest in how the housekeeper embezzled the accounts and what the parlourmaid got up to with the grocer’s boy. He wanted to know about Miriam Cromer.
What was she like, this woman who would hang unless he found a flaw in her confession? In any regular investigation he would have started by interviewing her, forming an impression of her character. There was more to detective work than clues and statements. It involved people, their ambitions and fears, innocence and guilt. You needed solid evidence to determine the truth, but you could divine a lot by meeting them face to face. Whatever had happened that afternoon in Park Lodge, the question for Cribb was whether Miriam Cromer had done what she claimed. She was the focus of his investigation, but because authority deemed it inappropriate he was prevented from meeting her. He was obliged to glean what he could at second hand, from people whose recollection would be coloured by their own conceits and prejudices. Waterlow was the first.
‘When I visited the house that evening to put my information to practical use,’ the self-advertisement ran on, ‘I used the tradesmen’s entrance, naturally. Nobody upstairs knew I was making a second visit to Park Lodge. I relied on what I knew to keep the servants’ tongues from wagging.’
‘What did the housekeeper tell you?’ Cribb asked, his patience on the ebb.
Waterlow smacked his lips. ‘She was a frightened woman before I was through, I can tell you, Cribb. What did I learn from her? Why, the very thing I needed: the dates when Mrs Cromer had gone into the studio to talk to Perceval and their raised voices had been heard downstairs. She knew exactly when it happened because the meetings took place when the master of the house was out for the day and not expected back till late in the evening. She has to keep a note of his days out to get her catering right. She keeps a calendar in the kitchen on which such things are marked. There were four occasions between October and March when Mrs Cromer and Perceval had a “ruction”, as she called it. I noted them carefully in my pocket-book.’
‘What form did these ructions take?’ asked Cribb.
‘There was a difference of opinion about that. Everyone in the servants’ quarters agreed that there were raised voices, and the parlourmaid told me Mrs Cromer was reduced to tears, but the housekeeper insisted that they never heard weeping. She said the mistress was red-eyed with anger. I think she was probably right. I don’t see Miriam Cromer dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief, do you?’
‘I haven’t met the lady.’
Waterlow accepted this with a nod. ‘Well, as I say, I preferred to believe the housekeeper, but the parlourmaid did give me another piece of information that I put to good use. She had twice observed that on days after these scenes her mistress went out for a morning walk. There may seem nothing remarkable to you in that, Sergeant, but it was a departure from normal practice. She was in the habit of taking a daily constitutional in the Botanic Gardens. This is where local knowledge came in useful. The Gardens being part of my patch, I happen to know that they don’t open in the morning. One o’clock till sunset are the hours. I asked the parlourmaid if she had observed which direction Mrs Cromer had taken. She told me she had watched from the breakfast room. She was
