Jowett’s frame stiffened. Cribb had defused the rebuke with a valid point. ‘It would be wise, I think, to address yourself to the matter of the key to the poison cabinet. That, after all, occasioned this inquiry. These other matters you have mentioned have not altered the significance of that.’
Cribb’s eyes widened. Had he not made it crystal clear that he suspected Howard Cromer of opening the cabinet with his own key?
Jowett turned from the window, spreading his hands expansively, yet there was a look in his eyes that he tried not to have there.
‘In short, Cribb, we are required to find out how she did it. Do you follow?’
Cribb followed. This was no inquiry at all. It was an exercise in politics. The Home Office wanted an explanation of the photograph of Cromer wearing his key at Brighton. An explanation that did not conflict with the confession. The Commissioner had handed the job to Jowett, the chief inspector with an unequalled reputation for paperwork. Jowett would oblige and they would hang Miriam Cromer.
After the execution, if anyone raised the question of her guilt, the Home Secretary could stand up in the House and say that he had ordered an independent inquiry after the trial and it had not conflicted with the facts as set out in the confession.
Cribb moistened his lips, scarcely trusting himself to speak. ‘I think I understand your meaning, sir.’
‘I’m glad we are of one mind,’ said Jowett. ‘I am not unappreciative of your work these last few days. If it had produced a shred of firm evidence … ’ He shrugged. ‘There was so little time.’
Cribb picked up Jowett’s hat. He wanted him out of his house.
‘Give this business of the key some thought, then,’ Jowett said, moving to the door. ‘But not too long about it, eh? Come what may, I must have a report from you tomorrow.’
Cribb nodded once.
As if remembering something, Jowett turned when he was halfway downstairs. ‘She
FRIDAY, 22nd JUNE
‘I have good news for you,’ said Bell.
The prisoner looked up from her book, a glimmer of interest in her eyes. She made no response.
Bell looked across at Hawkins and rolled her eyes upwards in her long-suffering look. She planted her sewing-basketon the table and repositioned the stool the wardress on the last turn had just vacated. She was in no hurry to surrender the information.
The prisoner waited expressionlessly.
‘You want to hear what it is?’
Bell received the gratification of a nod.
‘There’s a visitor downstairs.’ She took her calico tray-cloth from the basket and shook it with such vigour that it made a sound like a whip. ‘I should finish this by Monday,’ she told Hawkins. From the corner of her eye she watched the prisoner’s lips part as if to ask the obvious. Yet the instant Bell turned in anticipation, the mouth closed again, defying her. Their eyes met. ‘You have some hair showing,’ Bell said, refusing to be bested. ‘Tuck it under your cap.’
Cromer obeyed. She did everything they asked, scrubbed the cell, folded her bedding, washed the tin plate, emptied the slops. They could not criticise her conduct. It was the expression on her face that provoked, and even that was difficult to account for. It was not a brassy look, like some prisoners gave, not holier-than-thou even. No, what was insulting about it was that she treated the officers as if they were not there. She excluded them from her thoughts.
‘Your husband,’ Bell said.
She lowered her eyes to the book.
Bell clicked her tongue and started sorting through the sewing-basket for a thimble. Privately she expected this wall of indifference would topple before the weekend. There were indications already. The wardresses on nights had noticed the prisoner saying things in her sleep, whimpering sometimes and calling out. Inside herself, she was more jumpy than she wanted anyone to know.
Bell was curious to see the husband. He visited Newgate daily, but always late in the afternoon, when Officers Davis and Manks were on duty. There was a story that the first time he had brought a dozen red roses and a nightdress from Swan and Edgar which had been impounded at the prison entrance. It was a mystery to Bell how women without an ounce of passion seemed to draw the devotion of decent men. Her own experiences with the sex were bitter without exception.
Miss Stones unlocked the cell door and brought him in, a worried, pale-complexioned man in a dark suit with his hands clasped tightly in front of him. A large spotted cravat and matching handkerchief tucked into his breast- pocket must have served as emblems of artistry in Kew Green. In Newgate they were so misplaced as to seem clownish. Poor devil-he looked twenty years older than she. Silver-haired, almost, and hollow-eyed. It was the relatives who suffered most, and no mistake.
Cromer had not even stood up to greet him.
To Bell it appeared that all Howard Cromer got in the way of a greeting from his wife was a head-to-foot inspection with the ice-blue eyes. He stood just inside the door, unfastening his hands and fingering his shirt- cuffs.
Hawkins brought the spare stool to the table.
‘My love-’ the man began.
‘Save your love, Howard, and tell me what is happening outside,’ the prisoner said as if she was talking to a servant.
‘Yes, of course.’ His mouth twitched into something like a smile. ‘The petition is being delivered to the Home Office this afternoon. We have thirteen thousand signatures demanding a reprieve. The committee have been tireless in their efforts. There is a public meeting tomorrow on Richmond Green and we are promised a speaker from the Howard Association. I am certain thousands will come. There is a veritable avalanche of sympathy. This morning the postman simply upended a sack of letters-’
‘Sympathy?’ she said in a disbelieving voice. ‘What do you mean-sympathy? I am not dead.’
His hand went to his neck and clutched it. ‘Forgive me, Miriam, dearest. This is a testing time for us all. If you can be patient, my angel, I am confident that justice will be done. I mean, of course … ’ His voice trailed awkwardly away.
‘I know what you meant,’ the prisoner said.
Silence.
The man fidgeted with his cuffs again. The prisoner scrutinised him thoughtfully.
‘Howard, has something else happened?’
He nodded once and moved on the stool so that it made a piercing sound as it scraped the floor.
There was an unmistakable note of urgency as she said, ‘Tell me, then, for pity’s sake!’
He hesitated.
‘I want to know, Howard.’ This was more of an appeal than an order.
‘My dear, we did not wish to raise your expectations prematurely, so I said nothing of this before. It is so easy, you see, to place a significance on things when we are hoping for developments as we are. It could be self- deceiving. Before speaking to you, I wanted to be sure in my own mind that this
She frowned slightly. ‘Why should he want a photograph?’
‘He didn’t say exactly. It was a
