Waxwork

‘She confessed to the murder in Kew, didn’t she?’ Lottie searched Cribb’s features for some sign that he shared her conclusion. ‘Her name was not mentioned once at the inquest, but she could easily have done it. She was used to visiting the studio two or three times a week. If Julian had broken the news of the engagement to Miriam that Thursday evening, she could have gone to the house on Friday knowing he was going to be out and Judith would be alone. It would be natural for them to make tea if, as I suspect, Miriam came giving the impression she wanted to congratulate Judith. She could have created an opportunity of adding the poison to Judith’s cup, and then watched her die. Yes, it’s a hateful thing to say about someone you have known since you were ten years old, but what other explanation is there?’

If Cribb had one, he was not revealing it. He thanked Lottie Piper for seeing him. When he got downstairs, he called in at the box office and bought two upper circle tickets for The Mascotte. For the Monday performance.

Chief Inspector Jowett’s thin fingers drummed the edge of his desk. His eyes roved round the walls of his office, taking in the portrait of Sir Robert Peel, the stag’s head, the volumes of Archbold, Stone and the rest, anything but Sergeant Cribb, seated opposite him.

‘To have come here, in broad daylight,’ he said for the third time.

‘Not possessing a telephone-set,’ said Cribb, eyeing the instrument on the desk, ‘I had no option but to come in person, sir.’

‘You could have left a message downstairs.’

‘Requesting you to come and see me? I doubt if you would have liked that, sir, so soon after yesterday. The matter requires a decision this evening, sir.’

Jowett was too upset even to light his pipe. He unscrewed the mouthpiece and peered through it at Peel. ‘By Heaven, you had better be right, Sergeant. Nothing you have told me so far has altered my opinion of the case. Miss Charlotte Piper’s tittle-tattle is what I would expect from a low comedy actress.’

‘The daughter of a member of the Stock Exchange, sir.’

‘He has my sympathy. What is this decision, for God’s sake?’

‘I want permission to question Miriam Cromer, sir.’

Jowett swung round in his chair, eyes blazing. ‘Damn you, Sergeant, we went into this before! It can’t be done. Do you understand plain English?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I asked you for a written report on your investigations. That was all I asked for, not a rambling account of your adventures at the Haymarket. Where is that report, eh? You haven’t got it, have you? Yet you have the neck to come to Scotland Yard-’

‘There’s something else I should tell you, sir,’ said Cribb in an even tone. ‘There has been a development.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Howard Cromer, alias Julian Ducane, has disappeared from his home. I have reason to believe he is making for one of the Channel ports.’

‘Good Lord!’ A glazed look spread over Jowett’s eyes. ‘Why on earth should he do that?’

‘No fault of mine, sir,’ said Cribb. ‘After my interview with Miss Piper, I took a train to Kew with the intention of putting certain questions to Cromer. I felt I had enough information to get the truth from him this time. I wanted to find out why he had concealed from me the fact that he was on close terms with Miriam Cromer before he ever came to Kew, why he had withheld vital information at the inquest on the late Judith Honeycutt and what he was doing on the morning of the day Josiah Perceval was murdered. When I got to Park Lodge I was informed by a servant that Mr Cromer was not available. I put some further questions to the maid and then effected an entry into the house. From the appearance of Mr Cromer’s bedroom it was clear that he had packed a number of his clothes and personal possessions and taken them with him. This the servant confirmed under questioning. It appears that Mr Cromer left the house at about one o’clock. This morning he had visited his wife in Newgate. He returned, packed a small portmanteau and left within a few minutes without taking lunch or speaking to the servants. I obtained a description, which I have telegraphed to Dover, Newhaven, Folkestone, Holyhead, Harwich and Southampton, with instructions to detain him. There was a copy of Bradshaw on his bed, sir.’

Jowett had gripped his mouth and chin in his right hand and was twisting the flesh without regard to appearance.

Cribb continued, ‘After that I returned to London and went to Mr Simon Allingham’s chambers in Bell Yard. There was a possibility that Mr Cromer had contacted his solicitor.’

Jowett managed to nod.

‘I don’t know if you have met Allingham, sir. He is a forthright young man. Arrogant would not be too strong a word. I asked him whether he had seen Mr Cromer in the last twenty-four hours. He tried to evade the question by asking what right I had to inquire into Cromer’s movements. He wanted to know whether a warrant had been issued. I told him there were certain questions I wished to put to Mr Cromer-’

‘Yes, yes, Sergeant, I’m sure you acted properly,’ broke in Jowett with a sudden shift of emphasis. ‘Did he tell you anything of significance?’

‘He eventually admitted he spoke to Cromer at about noon, sir.’

‘And …?’

‘He was not prepared to disclose the subject of their conversation.’

‘Deuced impertinence! We could have him on an obstruction charge.’

‘I think he knows his rights, sir.’

Jowett spluttered contempt.

‘When I told him Cromer had skedaddled he said he wasn’t in the least surprised considering the way he had been treated by the police.’

‘What?’ Jowett turned from crimson to white. ‘What’s this-intimidation? Cribb, you haven’t used violence on the man?’

Cribb gave Jowett a withering look.

‘I should like to know what the devil has been going on,’ said Jowett, the colour rising again.

‘So should I, sir,’ said Cribb with no attempt to conceal his anger. ‘Things have been happening that I know nothing about. I think I have a right to be informed when another officer is sent to interrogate a witness.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Allingham told me a man arrived yesterday afternoon at Park Lodge and gained admission on the pretext of wanting his portrait taken. From his manner and the interest he took in the details of the crime it was damned clear to Cromer that the man was a detective. Now Cromer has taken fright and cleared off.’ Cribb planted his hands on the edge of Jowett’s desk and leaned over it. ‘I spend a week patiently building up my case, foot-slogging round London, talking to God knows how many insignificant witnesses, all to prepare the ground for a face-to-face with Cromer, and what happens? This nincompoop’-Cribb pulled a photograph from his pocket and tossed it in front of Jowett-‘goes out to Kew and puts the fear of God in him.’

The Chief Inspector picked up the picture. ‘Who gave you this?’

‘Allingham. It’s a print from the plate Cromer made.’

Jowett studied the portrait of James Berry. ‘Sergeant, this man’s face is vaguely familiar, but I cannot place him. I know nothing of this.’

Cribb knew when Jowett was speaking the truth. ‘Someone must have sent him. If it wasn’t you, it must have been the Commissioner.’

Jowett’s hands rose like grouse from cover. ‘Wait, Sergeant. We cannot leap to conclusions. Terribly unwise. I feel quite certain that Sir Charles would not … ’ He covered his eyes and released a huge sigh. ‘Well, if he did, it is not for us to question his decisions. He may be privy to knowledge that we are, er … It will be justified in the fullness of time, I am confident.’

The fullness of time? Cribb shook his head and drew back from Jowett’s desk. Was the man totally insensitive?

‘The question to be decided is how to proceed,’ said Jowett, piling words on his evasion. ‘If Cromer proposes to leave the country we must obtain a warrant. We shall need a charge-something to detain him.’

‘What do you suggest, sir?’ Cribb quietly asked.