head was modelled.
A fee was discussed. It was higher than he had expected. He betrayed no sign that he was pleased. They added another guinea and he accepted. ‘This is a departure from custom, you will appreciate,’ said Mr Tussaud. ‘Those who appear in the Chamber are not usually compensated for the honour.’ There was a gleam of humour in his eye.
The conversation turned quite naturally to the Kew poisoning case. ‘Our model of Miriam Cromer is practically finished,’ said Mr Tussaud. ‘Now that public executions are discontinued, the crowds come here on the morning of a hanging instead of gathering in front of Newgate. We exhibit the figure of the murderer immediately we hear that you have performed your work. A notorious murderer will attract twenty thousand or more. The street outside is impassable for hours. A murderess is a particular attraction. Miriam Cromer had no trial to speak of but I still expect a considerable crowd on Monday morning.’
‘It’s just a job to me,’ Berry made clear. ‘I make no distinction, man or woman, except in calculating the drop.’
‘I understand that a petition with over ten thousand signatures is to be delivered to the Home Office,’ said Mr Tussaud. ‘There is a lot of sympathy for Mrs Cromer. The columns of the newspapers are daily filled with correspondence about the sentence.’
‘That’s to be expected,’ Berry told him. ‘By all accounts, she’s a good-looking woman, and she was being blackmailed. The public are easily swayed by sentiment.’
‘Shall you see her before Monday morning?’
‘It’s my custom to visit them in the condemned cell the day previous. They like to be assured that I do my work without causing them to suffer. It’s thirteen years since Calcraft retired, but the stories of his bunglings persist.’
‘Mr Marwood used to tell us,’ said Mr Tussaud quickly.
‘Every word were true,’ Berry went on. ‘When I were in Bradford and West Riding Police I saw the old man turn off three together in Manchester. He were over seventy then. Forty years and more as public hangman. He had to climb on the back of one to finish him. Strangulation. It should never happen. Marwood changed all that. It’s scientific now. We give them a long drop.’ He talked about his table of body weights, but Mr Tussaud found he had something urgent to attend to elsewhere in the building, so Berry was left in the care of the young man working the clay.
It was a long sitting, but by the end a tolerable likeness emerged. You could not really judge, the young sculptor said, until the eyeballs were in and the hair and moustaches on. Perhaps not, but what was there already was right. Looked at from the side, the face had what his mother used to call the Berry profile, the strong forehead, straight nose and firm jawline. He liked it enough for the thought to enter his mind of asking them to model two and give him the spare to bring home. Just the head.
Thinking it over, he decided against the idea. True, his wife had said she would like his portrait in the front room, but he suspected she would not feel easy with his head in wax, even under a glass dome. Besides, there could be a difficulty travelling with it. He could carry it wrapped in a hatbox, but there were always people ready to put grisly misconstructions on things. If he planned a surprise like that, something was sure to go wrong. He dared not take the risk.
No, the surprise he originally had planned was better. He would have his photograph done in London and take it home as a present. His wife would take it as such, any road. For himself, if things went according to plan, it would be a souvenir fit to take its place in the front room with the great knife used by the executioner of Canton and his other relics.
He was going out to Kew to have his portrait taken by Mr Howard Cromer.
Before lunch, Mr Tussaud returned and some further business was discussed. An offer was made for certain items shortly to come into Berry’s possession. He promised to give the matter his consideration. He would sleep on it and give them an answer in the morning, when he came for another sitting.
Mr Tussaud said that they would put Berry’s figure in the Exhibition on Monday morning. If he had occasion to drop by, he could see it before returning to Bradford. Berry smiled and made no promises.
‘There were these three young ladies,’ said Chief Inspector Jowett.
It might have been the start of a smoking-room story, except that this was Sergeant Cribb’s sitting room in George Road, Bermondsey, and Jowett never told stories to lower ranks. He was putting some order into the verbal report he had just received from Cribb. That was how he would have expressed it, if pressed. Cribb had his own idea what was going on. Jowett had caught the scent of a decision ahead. If he could find a way of avoiding it, he would.
‘Miriam Kilpatrick, Judith Honeycutt and Miss C. Piper,’ said Cribb.
‘And you believe that because they were photographed together on the Literary and Artistic Society outing, they were the three who were tricked into posing for offensive photographs?’
‘The confession mentioned three,’ said Cribb, sidestepping the question.
‘So you went in search of Judith Honeycutt and found that she was dead?’
‘From cyanide poisoning.’
‘The significance had not escaped me, Cribb,’ said Jowett stiffly. ‘But she
‘If it was just one coincidence … ’ said Cribb.
Jowett reddened. ‘Are you keeping something from me, Sergeant?’
‘I was coming to it, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘I was interested in the photographer who employed Miss Honeycutt.’
‘Ducane? How is he significant?’
‘I thought he might be able to tell me some more about the circumstances of Miss Honeycutt’s death.’
Jowett took out his pipe and knocked it noisily on Cribb’s mantelpiece. ‘Dammit, Cribb, isn’t it enough to know that the girl is dead? Our job is to inquire into Perceval’s death and there’s precious little time left for that.’
‘I’m aware of that, sir,’ Cribb said thickly. ‘I’m endeavouring to keep my report as short as possible.’
Jowett sighed and stuffed tobacco into the pipe. ‘Get on with it, then.’
‘I decided to go to West Hampstead, with the intention of calling on Mr Ducane. I found the road all right, but I couldn’t find the studio.’
‘He had sold the business and left, I suppose,’ said Jowett in a voice that had already moved on to other things.
‘Yes, sir. I talked to several of his former neighbours. There was plenty of sympathy for him in West End Lane, but he still lost most of his clients. You know how people are about photography. It’s enough of an ordeal having your portrait done, without going to a place visited by tragedy. Ducane waited only a few weeks, realised he was finished in Hampstead and sold the premises to an optician. Nobody could tell me what happened to him after that, but I had a theory of my own. I asked what Ducane had looked like, and between them they supplied me with a serviceable description. Five foot seven or eight. Medium build. Dark hair going grey. Brown eyes. Dapper in his dress. Aged thirty-eight or so.’
‘I don’t call that serviceable,’ said Jowett scornfully. ‘I could go out now and find you a dozen men like that inside ten minutes.’
‘Not in Bermondsey,’ said Cribb. “You don’t get nobby dressers in this locality, sir. I’ll grant you there are no other outstanding characteristics in the description, but at least it didn’t conflict with my theory.’
‘Which is …?’
‘That after Julian Ducane left Hampstead, he started up again as a photographer in Kew.’
‘My word! Howard Cromer?’
‘Look at it from Ducane’s point of view,’ said Cribb. ‘His business was in danger of collapse if he stayed in Hampstead, so he got out as quickly as he decently could. With his savings and the money from the sale of his studio he could afford to start again in another well-heeled locality. Obviously he didn’t want people to know what had happened in Hampstead, so he chose to live on the other side of London, across the river. And to make sure, I believe he changed his name.’
