Waxwork

SATURDAY, 16th JUNE

‘I represent Mrs Miriam Cromer. My name is Allingham.’

The governor put down his pen to look at the solicitor. Twenty-seven, no more, he guessed. Well turned out, in a light grey suit and purple waistcoat with matching cravat. Black boots and gaiter with white buttons. Hat and valise in hand. Straw-coloured hair, parted and brushed close to the head. An intelligent face, blue-eyed, clean- shaven, distinctly hostile in expression.

‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Allingham? There is nothing untoward, I hope?’

‘I have come from visiting Mrs Cromer.’

‘You found her well?’

‘Considering the circumstances, yes.’

‘Our observation is that she is well in control of herself, Mr Allingham. She appears to have an inner strength that belies her somewhat frail physique.’

‘Governor, I wish to protest at the visiting facilities. It is quite impossible to conduct a conversation through an iron grille with two prison officers at my client’s shoulder.’

If that was the objection, it would soon be remedied. When the Sheriff’s warrant arrived, the prisoner would be moved to the condemned wing, where cell visiting was the rule. If Allingham’s manner had been a shade more civil, the governor would have mentioned this at once. ‘I am sorry you find it inconvenient. It is the usual arrangement. There are regulations we are obliged to conform with, Mr Allingham. I have some two hundred other prisoners in my charge who meet their visitors under similar circumstances. What precisely is the problem?’

Allingham made a sound of impatience. ‘This is a woman under sentence of death. She is entitled to consultations with her solicitor. I have documents I wished to discuss with her. I was prevented even from passing them under the grille for her to inspect.’

‘Which documents were these?’

‘A copy of the petition which is being addressed to the Home Secretary. And yesterday’s edition of The Times.’

‘What bearing, may I inquire, does The Times have on the case?’

‘There were two letters pertaining to the trial. I wanted my client to read them.’

The governor had seen them. Both were sent in protest at the sentence passed on the prisoner. One was from the Howard Association. The other was from a man named Morgan Browne who wrote to the newspapers every time a woman was sentenced to death.

‘Prisoners are not permitted to read newspapers, Mr Allingham.’

‘Dammit, she needs to know what is being done on her behalf.’

‘I am sure you will have acquainted her with that information. As to the visiting arrangements,’ the governor went on, ‘you may anticipate some improvement there. When do you next intend to visit?’

‘Tomorrow. I come each day.’

‘It may well be possible for you to visit the prisoner in a cell. Tomorrow or the next day.’

Allingham nodded, under the impression he had secured a concession. ‘And the wardresses?’

‘There I cannot help. Home Office regulations state that two officers must attend the prisoner day and night.’

‘She tells me that the light in the cell is not put out at night. Sleep is extremely difficult for her.’

The governor nodded. ‘She has mentioned that to me. Unfortunately that is another regulation which is quite unalterable. I recommended her to place a dark handkerchief over her eyes when she wishes to sleep. Believe me, Mr Allingham, I have no desire to subject her to undue suffering. It would help considerably if she could be persuaded to speak to the chaplain. She seems most reluctant to confide in him. He is a man of considerable experience in fortifying prisoners under sentence of death, but he tells me he has found her quite intractable. If you or her husband could possibly convey to Mrs Cromer-’

‘That would be like telling her we are abandoning hope!’ said Allingham in a shocked voice.

‘On the contrary. The hope of redemption-’

‘Hope of a reprieve,’ Allingham broke in. ‘That is what is keeping her from despair.’

There was a silence of several seconds.

‘If I may offer you some advice,’ the governor told the young man, ‘you are doing your client no service by encouraging such expectations. It only defers the moment when she must come to terms with reality, but it makes that moment infinitely harder to bear. She should be using this time to fortify herself for what she must face nine days from now.’

Allingham went pale. ‘She will not die. They would not dare hang her.’

‘I have received no indications to the contrary, Mr Allingham.’

The solicitor started up from his chair, came to the desk and gripped it with his hand. He seemed on the point of saying something, then thought better of it and withdrew his hand.

To cover the awkwardness between them, the governor said, ‘If I hear anything from the Home Office, you may be sure I shall inform you.’

Allingham, tight-lipped, said, ‘You will, sir. I assure you of that.’

SUNDAY, 17th JUNE

In the largest photograph, dominating the wall facing the door, she was standing against a plain backcloth. There was no rustic gate, no chairback for her hand to rest on. The pose was three-quarter length. Austere in a dark dress buttoned to the neck, she stood stiff-backed, hands lightly clasped in front, head tilted a little, eyes focused above the camera. Her left side was in shadow, the features picked out sharply. There was no concession in the photography; the beauty was all her own.

Cribb studied the face minutely. He had quickly taken stock of the other half-dozen photographs round the room. They established her identity, no more. Fastidiously posed, they were in the style of Academy paintings. Under them you could have written ‘Disappointed in Love’, ‘Thoughts of Last Summer’, ‘Waiting for a Letter’. They told more about the photographer than his model.

The tall portrait was different. Not relaxed-no studio photograph could be-but not forced either. In this, Cribb sensed instinctively, were genuine indications of character. A distinct misgiving in the eyes, watchful, wanting to trust, but prepared for disappointment. The lips finely shaped, set almost in a pout, sensuous, defiant. A fine balance of confidence and uncertainty, coolness and passion. The hallmarks of murder?

Cribb had come to Park Lodge without making an appointment. He did not propose conducting a conversation through the family solicitor. It was a detached three-storey building on the fashionable north side of Kew Green. He had given his name to a maidservant and she had shown him up to the private part of the house on the top floor. This was a drawing-room, handsomely furnished in rosewood. There was a Steinway grand in the corner.

Mr Cromer, the girl had said, would not be long. He was finishing some work in the studio. Cribb was content to be alone with the picture. From it he derived an impression of Miriam Cromer. A photograph was no substitute for an interview, but it provided contact of a sort, a chance to see her as she had once looked for a few seconds. The camera was objective. If there was much that it could not convey, at least it made an honest statement. Here is a woman was what it said, not Here is a murderess.

The objectivity ended with the photograph. Cribb used it in a subjective way, beginning by asking himself what could have induced Miriam Cromer to plead guilty to murder. He let the details of that extraordinary confession creep into his mind. He remembered the episode of the improper photographs she had claimed had provoked the blackmail. He could picture her now at twenty, high-spirited, impetuous, taken in by a cheap deception she could not have dreamed would end in murder. He could visualise the outrage in those eyes when Perceval had made his first demand. To be ensnared and physically shamed by a blackmailer could have driven her to devise a way of destroying him.