Waxwork

names began with the letter ‘C’. Constance? It did not matter any more. Finish the report.

‘3. In the second paragraph of her confession, Mrs Cromer referred to certain photographs taken in 1882 which Perceval used for the purpose of blackmail. She stated that she and two of her friends, members like herself of the Highgate Literary and Artistic Society, were induced to pose-’

It would not be Constance. Nor Charity, Cora, Clara. This was profitless. Miss C. Piper. How could he possibly know what it should be? Yet his brain continued to supply names. Mysteriously, he felt he would know if he got it right.

Cynthia, Christine, Caroline.

‘ … unclothed or nearly so for photographs that they were informed were to be used by the distinguished artist Sir Frederick Leighton as preliminary studies for a painting of a classical subject.’

Catherine, Celia, Charlotte.

Charlotte Piper.

It was practically right. Charlotte. Lottie.

Lottie Piper.

Cribb clenched his fist and beat it on the table. He knew how the name had got into his head. Millie had mentioned it that night he had woken from his nightmare and got up to make tea. The comic opera she wanted to see was The Mascotte, with Miss Lottie Piper.

Another blind alley. He cursed his luck. Nothing had gone right for him. Lottie Piper had no connection with the case. But the knowledge that if she had, if he had found Miriam Cromer’s friend, he would have hared off to find her, was mortifying to accept. It was fate giving an extra twist to the knife. He still wanted to discover the truth.

It was too much to hope that Miriam Cromer’s friend had taken up a career on the stage as Miss Lottie Piper.

But he would try to find out.

He took down Millie’s scrapbook from the shelf. Scores of pages were pasted with portraits of actors and actresses. Best to start from the back. He found Lottie Piper’s picture on the second sheet, sketched in pen and ink, wide-eyed, with a skittish look, her face framed in dark curls.

MISS LOTTIE PIPER AS BETTINA IN ‘THE MASCOTTE’

One of the successes of the season is that of Miss Lottie Piper in the leading role of ‘The Mascotte’, the Opera Comique at the Haymarket. This charming actress, the daughter of a Hampstead stockbroker, has graced several productions at provincial theatres and now reveals a talent for comic opera which is delighting audiences in the capital.

Finding a cab in Bermondsey was a tall order, but within minutes Cribb had stopped a four-wheeler.

‘The Haymarket. The Mascotte is still running, is it?’

‘Bless you, sir, that’ll run for months yet.’

So he was at the stage door when her carriage drew up. She got down in a flurry of swansdown and scent, the curls proclaiming who she was, but prettier by far than the artist had made her, in a primrose-coloured skirt, emerald green jacket and matching hat with two black feathers.

‘Gentlemen,’ she announced (Cribb was one of five), ‘how kind of you to come! I am overwhelmed, but I must tell you that I never go for supper after the performance. It’s such a dreadful bore, but I find I need my sleep.’

She had blown a kiss and was through the door before Cribb or the others could put in a word. With fine theatrical timing the doorkeeper appeared from nowhere and stood with arms folded.

Cribb could have shown his identification. Instead, he started the dispersal by strolling up to Piccadilly Circus. In ten minutes he was back. There was no one left outside. Whistling, he walked in and up the stairs. He was not challenged.

He followed the scent of freesias. Her name was on the door. Miss Lottie Piper. Much more chic than Charlotte.

He expected a dresser to answer his knock. He was wrong. She came herself, opening the door just enough to look out. The penetrating stare she gave showed she was capable of dealing with callers.

‘Not what you think, miss,’ said Cribb. ‘Police, in fact.’ He took out his photograph of Miriam. Now he would know if his luck had changed. ‘If you have been reading the papers … ’

The challenge in her face was supplanted by a frown. ‘Do you want to talk to me about her?’ She studied Cribb’s face as if making up her mind.

‘I carry a card,’ Cribb said, feeling in his pocket.

‘Darling, I can see you’re not carrying champagne,’ she said.

She stepped back and let him in.

Lottie Piper thrust flowers into his arms. ‘Hold these while I fill some vases. They must have been lying here for hours. I hate to see things die, don’t you?’

There were three sets of mirrors in the dressing-room. Clutching the bunches of roses and carnations he looked outlandish from every angle.

‘Now.’ Having attended to the flowers, Lottie Piper removed her hat and arranged herself on the chesterfield, gesturing to Cribb to use a tub-chair. ‘I expect my maid by half past four. May we finish by then?’

‘I hope so, miss. You did recognise the photograph, then?’

She nodded. ‘But I don’t recognise you,’ she said sharply. ‘You must have a number, or something.’

‘Sorry, miss.’ Cribb reddened. ‘Detective Sergeant Cribb.’

‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought there was much call for detection, considering Miriam’s confession was in all the newspapers.’

‘Yes, miss.’ Cribb needed to secure co-operation here. Lottie Piper was used to speaking the best lines. ‘She is due to hang on Monday. Representations have been made to the Home Office on her behalf and it’s my job to see if they hold water.’

‘Has madam decided she would like to change her plea?’

Cribb was unprepared for the venom in the remark. He said tersely, ‘I’ll ask the questions, miss.’

She giggled nervously and tossed her curls. For a second the star of The Mascotte became Miss Charlotte Piper of Hampstead. ‘As you wish.’ ‘You saw the confession in the papers. A section of it refers to you, though not by name. Am I right?’

She gave him a long look. ‘Let’s not be coy, Sergeant. You may ask me if I took off my clothes for a photograph. You won’t make me blush, after two years in the theatre.’

Cribb was not so confident of keeping down his colour. ‘What you got up to, miss, is of, er-’

‘No interest? Darling, that is not gallant, even if it may be true. Have you seen any of these deplorable photographs?’

Cribb admitted he had not.

‘I’m not in the least surprised,’ she commented, well in control again. ‘They are the talk of London and nobody has seen them.’ She smiled archly. ‘That three respectable young ladies should so far forget themselves as to pose for pictures of that sort!’

Cribb fingered his side-whiskers, trying to seem unconcerned. He would not admit to Lottie Piper that he had not made up his mind whether the whole story was moonshine.

‘Do you know my difficulty?’ she went on. ‘The stage must have corrupted me dreadfully, because the pictures I remember were absurdly tame. I admit they were not the kind of thing you would hand round at Sunday school, but I can’t imagine they set Holywell Street on fire either. Five minutes from here you can see far worse without paying a halfpenny-at the National Gallery. I am obviously beyond redemption. Dear Miriam took a much more serious stand on the matter, actually poisoning a man on account of it.’ The smile returned.

Cribb lifted an eyebrow. ‘Do you believe that?’ Before she answered, he said, ‘When did you first know Miriam Cromer, miss?’

‘Years ago, as small girls,’ she said. ‘My father met hers in some connection and suggested as she was my age that she should come to the house to play. I should think we were not more than ten years old. We had a huge garden on Hampstead Hill and Papa always said it was no garden without the sound of children playing there, so I