Waxwork

unnerving.

It was panelled in dark wood and furnished with high-backed leather chairs. There were bookshelves to the ceiling, pictures of hunting scenes, stuffed animals’ heads and green velvet curtains. It was warm, so there was no fire burning. The governor was facing a tapestry firescreen.

‘If you please, sir, the prisoner Cromer,’ the less nervous wardress announced from the doorway.

‘Yes.’ He turned, a grey-haired man with a waxed moustache and blue, watery eyes. ‘Step forward, Cromer.’ His voice was strange to the ear, modulated by carpets and furnishings.

The prisoner took two steps towards him.

‘Over here, if you please. I may be fearsome, but I am not dangerous, I assure you.’

The wardresses watched her approach to within a yard of him, her face raised to meet his. She was not fearful. Not in the least.

‘I make a point of seeing each prisoner who enters Newgate,’ he told her in a voice just audible across the room, ‘and I always begin by making it clear that this institution and others like it exist only to meet the requirements of the law. For that reason I shall say nothing about the events that brought you here. They were the subject of your trial and I imagine you would not care to be reminded of them. My responsibility is to see that the sentence of the law is carried out-to a point, that is. The ultimate responsibility rests with the Sheriff of the City of London. If your sentence is confirmed by Her Majesty I shall be required to deliver you to the Sheriff for the implementation of that sentence. A formality that you need not concern yourself with, unless it comforts you to know that we in Newgate are responsible only for your custody, not, do you understand …?’

‘I understand.’

Bell caught her breath. The prisoner had failed to address him properly.

The governor fingered the knot of his necktie. ‘You will wish to know how long you may expect to spend in Newgate. The period prescribed by the Home Office is a little over two weeks. Three Sundays must elapse since the day on which sentence was passed. Assuming there is no intervention’-he crossed the room to his desk-‘I must deliver you to the Sheriff shortly before eight in the morning on, er … ’ He picked up a piece of paper and studied it.

‘Monday, 25th June,’ said the prisoner.

There was a sepulchral silence in the room.

The governor put down the paper and stood looking at her. From his expression, he was more surprised than annoyed by the interruption. He returned to the fireplace. ‘Doubtless you are resting your hopes on a reprieve.’ His eyes turned to a small plaster bust that stood on the mantelpiece. ‘The Sovereign has been known on occasions to exercise clemency on the recommendation of the Secretary of State for the Home Office. My advice to you, for what it is worth, is to put all such thoughts out of your mind. I have had the unhappy duty of meeting a considerable number of people in circumstances identical to yours at this moment. I have observed that those who endure the experience best are the ones who reconcile themselves to meeting their Maker. The prison chaplain, Father Hughes, is already known to you. I urge you to be guided by his spiritual advice. You are a member of the Church, I trust?’

She nodded.

‘Good. Then I hope you will unburden your soul to him.’

She said nothing. She had said nothing, either, to the chaplain each time he had visited her in the cell. The tracts he had given her were unopened. The wardresses knew and no doubt the governor knew as well, but he did not press the matter.

‘You may also receive visits from your next of kin. That would include your husband, father, mother-’

‘My parents are dead.’

‘Cromer, it is customary to address me as “sir”. I am sorry about your parents. However, it must be a consolation that they were spared the distress of this time. If you have brothers or sisters-’

‘Sir,’ she said in a steady voice, ‘I have no desire to see them in this place. My husband, yes. I believe I am also entitled to visits from my solicitor.’

The governor distractedly groomed his moustache. ‘Indeed, I was coming to that, but I caution you again that it is most unwise to base any hope on a judicial release from your sentence. Is there any other matter you wish to raise with me?’

‘Not for the present, sir.’

‘There will be opportunities, anyway, of speaking to me again.’

With that, the governor had gestured to them to lead her away. Before they had closed the door he had gone to a cupboard and taken out a whisky glass.

FRIDAY, 15th JUNE

Cribb had slept badly. His brain had floundered for hours in the shallows of oblivion, producing aberrations that jerked him awake. Once he was being ushered in by Jowett to Sir Charles Warren, but instead of the Commissioner at his desk, there was a camera facing them and the little figure that emerged from under the black cloth was female and grey-haired and wearing a crown. He had sat up in bed with such a start that it had disturbed Millie. He had not told her his dream. Instead he had gone to make tea and when he returned with the cup he had distracted her by suggesting they planned a visit to the theatre. He had known she would rise to that. The Mascotte at the Haymarket with Miss Lottie Piper. Millie was so quick with the suggestion that they both laughed. Later, in the darkness, Cribb was troubled. She had not asked him the reason for Jowett’s visit. He had always been frank with Millie. It was as if he was buying her silence for the price of two theatre tickets.

He knew if she heard about this she would jump to the wrong conclusion. She would think the Commissioner had singled him out because he was the best detective in the force. Millie had never doubted it, always believed they were on the point of promoting him. It was no use telling her Warren had gone to Jowett because he was the Judas of Monro’s team and Jowett in a blue fit had blurted the first name that sprang to his lips.

Cribb was a realist. After seventeen years on a sergeant’s rank, it would take fireworks on the Crystal Palace scale to get him lifted.

He had decided to start with Inspector Waterlow. When he looked up the address of the police station at Kew he found an asterisk against the entry. The footnote below stated Not continuously manned. A memory of Waterlow as a constable excusing himself from the beat flitted into Cribb’s mind. He drew a long breath, picked up the valise containing the papers on the Cromer case and walked out of Scotland Yard with a maltreated look in his eye.

He took a train from Waterloo on the London and South Western.

He was the only passenger to alight at Kew Gardens. The platform was deserted. Nobody collected his ticket. It was a good thing he needed no help with directions. The address was Station Approach.

Before leaving the booking hall his eye caught a name among the posters advertising local businesses.

HOWARD CROMER

PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST

PARK LODGE, KEW GREEN

The highest class of photographs reproduced under

ordinary conditions of light. Sittings by appointment.

Portraits, cabinet and carte-de-visite, family

groups and wedding parties a speciality.

In pencil, somebody had added Funerals Arranged.

Station Approach was broad and shaded by trees. The police station was located above a chemist’s. Access was up an iron staircase at the side. Cribb opened a door badly in need of paint.

‘Good day, sir,’ said a tall, callow constable holding a large ginger cat in his arms. ‘Not a bad day at all. Capital for Ascot. What can we do for you?’