A QUESTION OF GUILT

Nancy remembered Baby. 'It's always a shock, isn't it? Even when you've grown used to a dear one being gravely ill.'

'Bronchial pneumonia is so more surely fatal than the croupous variety,' Eliot said sympathetically. 'The fever persists so long, and there is nothing we can do except prescribe a jacket-poultice, a steam-kettle and spoonfuls of brandy. Everything turns on the skill of the nursing.'

'Perhaps you would care to see her obituary notice, which I inserted in Era?'_

Crippen took from his overcoat pocket a folded newspaper the size of _The Times._ Eliot noticed he held some envelopes in an elastic band, addressed in his cramped writing and edged with the thick black line of mourning.

Crippen opened the paper called 'The Actor's Bible'. Its first two pages were filled with narrow columns of dignified advertisements by, players. All were 'Mr' or 'Miss' and gave their speciality-'Soubrette' or 'Juggler' or 'Trick Cyclist'-often followed by the telling words, 'Available' or 'Disengaged' or 'At Liberty'. Inside was news of shows in the West End, on the road, in New York, Berlin, Paris, even Australia. It reported meetings of the Actors' Union, the Stage Benevolent Society and the Showman's Guild. There was always a serious editorial-the issue which Crippen unfolded doughtily defended the dry-eyed flippancy of Louis Dubedat's death in _The Doctor's Dilemma._ It had advertisements for dipilatory powder, bronchial troches and Roze-la-Valla wrinkle remover. Each week carried its list of deaths, with ages, and birthdays without. The paid obituary announcements filled a separate half-column. Crippen's finger indicated-

_Elmore-March 23, in California, U.S.A. Miss Belle Elmore (Mrs. H.H. Crippen)._

'As sad a loss for the Ladies' Music Hall Guild as for myself.' Eliot said nothing. He wanted his lunch. 'I'm leaving Hilldrop Crescent when the quarter's notice expires in June-how could I live in a house with so many strong memories of Belle? She seemed to express her character in the decorations, the furniture. Miss Le Neve has meanwhile kindly arranged to leave her position at the office and come as my housekeeper.'

'Why double your grief by enduring solitude?'

'I've just been for a nice little holiday to Dieppe,' Crippen revealed. 'After what happened to Belle, I needed some change of air. Oh, your anatomy book, Dr Beckett. It seems to have been mislaid in the fuss of Belle's departure.'

'I'm sure I know all the anatomy I need.'

Crippen was feeling inside his jacket. 'I should like to make another donation.'

The cheque from his wallet was drawn on the Charing Cross Bank for Ј5.

'That's most generous of you,' Eliot said honestly. He seldom had enough to keep the surgery open more than two or three weeks ahead. He refused more from Nancy than his other supporters-he disliked feeling her father's client, and it was important politically to spread patronage and responsibility as widely as possible. 'We have a tough job, screwing money out of trade union officials, clergymen and the brewers who contribute so much to what we treat.'

Crippen gave Nancy his gentle smile. 'I read the _Daily Mail._ Very touching. I wish I had done something of this nature when a young man, instead of going to Munyon's. Then, perhaps, people would remember me gratefully after my own death. As I'm sure Belle will be remembered. Good day.'

The following Friday morning, a well-dressed woman appeared in the surgery, whom Eliot did not at first recognize against the sunlit street.

'We met at the Crippens,' she introduced herself. 'Mrs Martinetti.' She looked nervously round the waiting patients on the benches. 'Might I speak to you, doctor, in confidence?'

Eliot led her through the inner door. Nancy was on her daily round of bedridden patients. He wondered if she was consulting him for some disease unfit for the ears of her husband. 'I heard the sad news that Mrs Crippen had died,' he told her.

'She has disappeared.' Clara Martinetti sat on the kitchen chair, vast hat on head, back straight, gloved hands clasping the horn handle of her umbrella. 'You know Dr Crippen well-'

'Not particularly.' Eliot sat at the deal table, which was covered with papers, medicine bottles and jam-jars sealed by oiled-silk containing lumps of mouldy bread for his patients' boils.

Clara looked surprised. 'He always made out so. When I read about you in the Mail I decided to come and see you, because I'm terribly worried about Belle.' She hesitated. 'I'm wondering if the story of her death is true.'

'Why shouldn't it be?' asked Eliot in surprise. 'To catch cold on a boat and die of catarrhal pneumonia six weeks later is tragic, but perfectly reasonable. The patient even has spells feeling much better as the temperature falls- exactly as Mrs Crippen wrote to her husband. The disease may clear in one part of the lung, you see, only to break out afresh in another. I have seen many cases, and I can tell you that none recovered.'

To Eliot's irritation, she stayed unconvinced. 'I heard of it yesterday fortnight. I had this telegram. It was sent from Victoria Station.'

From her crocodile handbag came a buff form stuck with paper strips. Eliot read-

BELLE DIED YESTERDAY AT SIX O'CLOCK PLEASE TELEPHONE ANNIE SHALL BE AWAY A WEEK PETER.

'Annie is Mrs Stratton, one of our committee. Like Mrs Smythson and Mrs Davis and Miss Way, we're most concerned. We called at Albion House directly after Easter last week, to offer our condolences and ask where poor Belle died. Dr Crippen said in Los Angeles, with his own relations. We asked the address because we wanted to send a letter of sympathy and an everlasting wreath. He said it wasn't necessary. None of Belle's friends in America would ever have heard of the Music Hall Ladies' Guild. Really!'

Eliot felt that Crippen's gravest offence.

'Anyway, he gave us his son Otto's address in Los Angeles-you knew the doctor was twice married?' Eliot nodded. The woman was stealing time from his patients. 'He said his son was with Belle when she died. Naturally I asked about the funeral. Would you believe what he said? She wasn't buried. She was cremated. He was having the ashes sent over. He said we could 'have a little ceremony then'. Cremated! It's unnatural.'

'They're very go-ahead in these matters in America.'

Her voice accelerated under the steam of her indignation. 'I asked him what ship Belle went by. He said it was the French line, something like _La Tourenne _or _La Touvйe. _The doctor speaks French of course. So I went down to the offices of the French Atlantic Shipping Line in the City. Oh, yes, they had a liner sailing from New York to Havre called _La Touraine._ But it hadn't arrived on February the second. That was the day Belle left. And it went straight into dry-dock for repairs,' she ended triumphantly.

'But Dr. Crippen is always vague, and must have been dreadfully agitated,' Eliot told her impatiently. 'He simply got the ship's name wrong.'

Clara leant over the table. 'That telegram was sent as Dr Crippen left for Dieppe with his lady typist, Miss Le Neve.'

Eliot nearly laughed. 'To save your embarrassment, I know all about Miss Le Neve.'

'I don't think you do, Dr Beckett. At our Benevolent Fund Ball in February-after Belle had left, before there was the slightest suggestion that she was ill-the doctor appeared with Miss Le Neve. She was wearing one of Belle's dresses, magenta silk, I recognized it beyond doubt. She had Belle's fox fur. Belle's muff. Belle's earrings. And Belle's brooch she was so fond of, the one with the rising sun. She wore it the evening you and the nice American lady came to dinner. And Belle's gold watch. A ring with four diamonds and a ruby, Belle's I swear. And a wedding- band.'

Eliot rose. Any woman felt outraged at a friend who was ousted by another prettier and younger than them both. He put his arm round her shoulders. 'It's easy to think terrible things when someone you love dies far away in the lawless wilds of California. But we are men and women of the world, Mrs Martinetti. Surely the theatrical profession well knows the temptation of a pretty girl to an older man? To use his wife's ornaments to decorate her is appalling bad taste, but nothing worse.'

'She's moved in with him,' she exclaimed accusingly.

'A man must have a housekeeper. After twenty years of married life, you can hardly expect Dr Crippen to 'batch' it, surely? Weren't Mrs Crippen and Miss Le Neve perfectly friendly? It's only natural the doctor should turn to her for condolence.' Eliot opened the consulting-room door. 'Why, you'll be suggesting the good little doctor murdered his wife.'

'No, I'm not suggesting that.' He felt she made her reply unnecessarily thoughtfully.

'A gossip, a malicious gossip,' he pronounced to Nancy that evening.