Peter Lovesey - Waxwork

‘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 is significant. Today I am convinced of it, and so is Simon.’ He leaned towards her, resting his hands on the table between them. ‘This week I have received two visitors. On Sunday a detective sergeant came, as he put it, to dot “i”s and cross “t”s-in other words, to check your statement. He put some very searching questions to me and asked me to show him everything, the processing room, the studio. Believe me, he missed nothing. I showed him our album, the mother-of-pearl one, and he took away a photograph of you.’

She frowned slightly. ‘Why should he want a photograph?’

‘He didn’t say exactly. It was a carte of my favourite, the portrait of you in the black gown looking so magnificent.’

‘I was not feeling magnificent.’

He lowered his eyelids and shook his head. ‘Dearest, the image is what matters. The image. Whatever your innermost thoughts were, you looked superb.’

She displayed neither pleasure nor embarrassment at the compliment. ‘What exactly did this detective ask you about?’

‘Oh, everything. He was deeply interested in you. As you know, there is no topic I would rather talk about. I opened the album and there on the first page was the Kilpatrick family. I told him about your father bringing them to Kew for the portrait, and about our courtship. The pictures were all there for him to see. The fair at Hampstead. Our wedding. Trouville.’

Her mouth tightened and she said, ‘Images.’

‘Dearest, what do you mean?’ The husband’s face had creased with concern.

She shook her head. ‘No matter, Howard. Tell me, when the detective had finished looking at the album, what questions did he ask?’

It was cool in the cell, but he took out a handkerchief and patted his forehead. ‘Oh, questions about me-how long I had kept the studio in Kew, when I had first engaged Perceval as my assistant, and so forth. Of course he asked me about the day Perceval died. I told him I was in Brighton at the conference.’

‘You told him-or did he ask?’

‘I believe he asked. He wanted to know which train I caught.’

Her eyes widened. ‘What answer did you give, Howard?’

He returned a quick smile. ‘You know me, dearest, incorrigibly vague about such things. Then I took him to look at the studio. I showed him where the decanters were kept and told him how you filled them each Monday morning after the delivery from Morgan’s. We looked at the processing room, naturally, and he asked to see inside the poison cabinet. Insisted on opening it himself with my key. I treated the fellow throughout with the utmost civility.’

‘He was not hostile towards you?’

‘No, I would not say so. Sharp, yes, but that was his manner, I suspect.’

‘He went away satisfied?’

The husband shrugged. ‘He should have been.’

‘But you formed an impression to the contrary?’ The prisoner watched him keenly. Bell had never seen her so attentive.

The husband drew himself up a little on the stool. ‘Well, my dear, there has been a development since which compels me to conclude that the inquiries are continuing.’

‘The second visitor you mentioned?’

‘Yes. He arrived yesterday afternoon.’ He beamed reassuringly. ‘I wish you had seen him, Miriam. He would have amused you. Picture him in the reception room, if you can. A strongly-built fellow with a black beard and a broad face scarred down one side, and rather bulbous eyes. He was in a black suit very shiny from wear and a brand-new butterfly collar on a shirt that was frayed at the cuffs. But, my dear, this is the joke-he was wearing a policeman’s boots!’

The prisoner still declined to smile. ‘What did he want?’

Her husband nodded. ‘That was what I asked him. Do you know what? He answered in a broad north-country accent-his smoking-party turn, I’m ready to wager-that he wished to arrange to have his “photo took”. What do you think of that? For some occult reason Scotland Yard had sent this buffoon to insinuate himself into Park Lodge on the pretext of sitting for his portrait! Well, you know that I suspended work in the studio after what happened in March, except for one or two long-standing appointments. I explained this to my visitor, really to see what he would say. He told me his name was Holly and he was down from Yorkshire for a few days on business. He wanted his “photo took” as a present for his wife, and he would be obliged if I would make an exception and give him a sitting as he had come out to Kew for the purpose, on the recommendation of the proprietor of his hotel. Hotel! In those boots, he wouldn’t get past the commissionaire. However, I am not one to obstruct an officer in the course of his duty, even if he does stoop to subterfuge. I entered into the spirit of the thing and invited him into the studio. As you may suppose, he wasted no time in getting the conversation round to Perceval. He professed great interest in seeing the very room where the “occurrence”, as he described it, took place. I showed him everything I had shown the first detective. I could see it was all he could do to restrain himself from taking out his notebook.’