Waxwork

‘I’d still like to look inside.’

Cromer fumbled with the front of his waistcoat.

‘That’s a capital idea, sir, having the key on your watch-chain,’ Cribb commented. ‘No risk of leaving it about the place.’ He watched Cromer fit the key into the lock. ‘It looks a strong lock, too. May I?’

With a shrug, Cromer detached the watch-chain from his waistcoat and stepped aside.

Cribb turned the key. He could tell by the snugness of the fit that it was not the sort of lock you could open in five minutes with a bent hatpin.

There were perhaps a dozen bottles inside. Cribb gave them a glance, withdrew the key and pushed the door shut. ‘Ah. It locks automatically.’

‘It is of German manufacture,’ Cromer explained. ‘I had it specially imported from Lubeck when I moved here.’

‘That must have put you to some expense, sir.’

‘Where poison is concerned, one has an obligation to take every possible precaution against an accident,’ said Cromer. ‘Of one thing I can assure you: there was no negligence in the tragedy that happened here. We were all aware of the lethal effect of potassium cyanide.’

‘What is its purpose in photography, sir?’

‘We used it a lot more in the wet collodion process than we do now that we work with dry plates. It was then used mainly as a fixing agent, but I still find it indispensable for reducing the density of negatives. Believe me, we are mindful of its dangers. Even the fumes can kill, Sergeant. We always ensure that the room is adequately ventilated when we work with it.’

Cribb tried the lock again. ‘There are just two keys to this cabinet, yours and Perceval’s-is that correct, sir?’

‘Yes,’ Cromer responded in a way that partially anticipated the next question.

‘On the day Perceval was murdered, you were in Brighton. Where was your key?’

Cromer put his hand to the front of his waistcoat and groped for the absent watch-chain. His eyes widened momentarily.

Cribb held it out to him. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘On the day Perceval died, it never left my person,’ said Cromer as he fixed it in place again. ‘Is there some difficulty over the key?’

The question was couched just a shade too casually. ‘No,’ said Cribb in an even voice, ‘no difficulty that I can think of.’ He picked up a print from the table, glanced at the picture and turned it over. In the centre of an intricate design of loops and curlicues, between two trumpeting angels, were the words Howard Cromer, Photographic Artist, The Green, Kew. ‘Do you know what I should like to borrow if you have such a thing? A photograph of your wife.’

Cromer’s face relaxed. ‘You shall have one with my compliments. There is no shortage here of portraits of Miriam.’

‘That’s good,’ said Cribb. ‘The one I want, if you have it in a size convenient for my pocket, is that one upstairs in the drawing room. The one I was looking at when you came in.’

MONDAY, 18th JUNE

Just after seven, the postman came.

Berry was shaving.

‘Two,’ his wife called up. ‘From London.’

‘Put ’em on t’shelf, then.’

‘Aren’t you going to open them?’

‘In good time, woman. I’m busy just now.’

When he came downstairs his eggs and bacon were ready. Nothing ever came between Berry and breakfast. While he was eating, his wife took the letters off the shelf, had another look at the handwriting and placed them on the table by his plate.

One he saw at a glance was from the Sheriff of London. He had got to know the brown envelope with the crest on the flap. There was no reason to open it yet. It was a job, and he knew which one.

The other interested him more. A white envelope. Copperplate. Since taking up his present office he had received a fair number of letters, most of them from crack-pots. He had learned to recognise them by the way they addressed the envelope-James Berry, Hangman, Yorkshire- something after that style, and spelt wrong as often as not. It was a wonder they reached him. The Post Office did a grand job. He burned them mostly.

‘Do I get tea this morning, or not?’

As soon as his wife went into the scullery, he opened the white envelope. It was from Madame Tussaud’s. He had never been so surprised in his life. The letter he had spent most of last week putting together was still in his pocket. He felt to make sure. Took it out and checked the writing on the envelope. He had decided not to post it until the Newgate job was confirmed. He put it back. He would not need to send it now.

They wanted to make a waxwork of him.

‘No doubt you are aware,’ their letter stated, ‘that your predecessor in the office of executioner, the late Mr Marwood, permitted us the privilege of modelling his portrait from life on more than one occasion. The figure was an object of unfailing interest to our patrons, among whom we have been honoured to welcome the members of our own Royal Family and the Sovereigns and Rulers of many nations of the world. We would deem it a privilege if you would consent to sit for us and permit us to include your likeness in the Exhibition.

‘Should you contemplate a visit to London in the weeks to come, we would be honoured to arrange for you to visit the Exhibition. If you should consent to sit for your portrait, an appointment could be made at any time convenient to yourself. Be assured that in the presentation of its exhibits Madame Tussaud’s has ever observed the highest standards of good taste.’

That was clear from their letter. Beautifully turned phrases. Not a hint that old Marwood was down in the Chamber of Horrors with Burke and Hare and Charlie Peace and the wickedest villains in the annals of crime. Not that Berry objected to that. When you had put the straps on a few and seen them off, it was no disgrace to stand beside them in a waxwork show. From what he remembered of his only visit to Tussaud’s they stood the murderers in rows in a representation of the dock. Marwood’s figure was quite separate, facing them, his pinioning-strap at the ready. An object of unfailing interest to our patrons.

Before his wife came back with the tea he slipped his letter out of sight, behind the frame containing his murderers in the front room. It was the one place where she would never look.

He went back to finish breakfast. The brown envelope from the Sheriff of London was still there on the table. In the excitement he had clean forgotten it.

‘Look alive, Cromer!’

Prison Officer Bell watched as the condemned woman removed the handkerchief from her eyes and turned her head. The fine hair strewn across the grey calico sheet shimmered with the movement.

‘You have to see the governor. Nine sharp.’

‘The governor has asked to see me?’ She made it sound like an invitation to dinner.

‘Isn’t that what I said? On your feet, now. I want you washed, dressed and fed, your cell scrubbed and your bedding tidied first.’

Without another word the prisoner obeyed. To Bell’s way of thinking, it was unnatural, the way she acted, as if she was indifferent to Newgate. It was impossible to dredge up sympathy for her. She had not shed a tear since the day she came in, nor looked to the wardresses for comfort. Bell could be generous with comfort if it was appreciated. She could talk anyone round to a happier frame of mind. There was no call for comfort from this one.

The wardresses had discussed it in their room. Hawkins had said it was good breeding, that a lady was trained to bottle up her feelings. To that, Bell had said she always understood ladies were taught to make