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  ‘The doubts have not all been removed,’ she said with iron control. ‘You seem to forget that if Howard was with Simon, as he claims, then travelled straight to Brighton, I could not possibly have unlocked the poison cabinet, since I did not possess a key.’

  Cribb nodded tolerantly. ‘That’s a puzzle that exercised me a lot, ma’am. There’s only one conclusion possible, and that is that you used Josiah Perceval’s key.’

  With an air of mockery, she said, ‘I am supposed to have asked him for it, am I? And he, a blackmailer, meekly handed me the means of his destruction? You had better improve on that.’

  ‘That is what happened in effect,’ said Cribb, ‘except that it was not the poison cabinet you said you wanted to unlock. It was the chiffonier where the decanters were kept. That was kept locked. Your husband being out when it was time for you to attend to the wine, you must have borrowed Perceval’s key to open it. An innocent-sounding request which he was unlikely to refuse, seeing that he was partial to madeira. Perceval’s keys were on a ring. On that ring was also the key to the poison cabinet.’

  ‘I returned the keys to him after unlocking the chiffonier,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Without the key to the cabinet, which you had slipped off the ring,’ said Cribb. ‘At lunchtime, when Perceval was out, you obtained the cyanide and put some in the decanter.’

  ‘If that is true,’ she persisted, ‘how do you explain that the key of the poison cabinet was found on the key-ring in Perceval’s pocket after he was dead?’

  ‘When you returned to Park Lodge and found the doctor there and Perceval dead, you still had the key in your possession. The doctor asked to look in the cabinet. If you had simply produced the key, it would obviously have looked suspicious. You were clever enough to tell him that the keys were in Perceval’s pocket. He removed them and handed them to you to open the cabinet. You held them in your palm in such a way that the loose key appeared to be attached to the ring as you turned the lock. While the doctor was examining the poison bottles, you covertly re-attached the key to the ring. The doctor himself returned the bunch to the dead man’s pocket, where it was found when the police arrived.’ Cribb brought his hands together. ‘I don’t suggest you acted as you did to incriminate your husband. At the time, you were interested only in contriving the appearance of a suicide. When that became impossible, the other plan was worked out.’ He shot a glance at Allingham. ‘A gamble, that was, but a calculated one. And infernally clever. There is not a single detail I can fault in that confession. It happened just as you described it, ma’am. There were things you didn’t go into, but the law can’t touch you for something you don’t say. No, if the strategy had worked, and you had got your pardon, we couldn’t have brought a charge of perjury later, not for one syllable of that confession. It was absolutely true.’ He folded his copy and replaced it in his pocket. ‘Thank you, ma’am, for hearing me out.’

  Miriam Cromer for a moment stared expressionlessly at Cribb. Then she said in a low voice, ‘You had better leave me, all of you.’

  The governor, forgotten, touched Cribb’s shoulder. By a consensus of looks it was agreed to go.

  Allingham injudiciously lingered. ‘Miriam—’

  ‘Get out!’ she said in a spasm of anger. ‘Stay away from here!’ She wrenched at her finger and flung her wedding-ring at him. ‘And tell him to stay away. Get out, get out, get out!’

  For the return to Scotland Yard, Jowett and Cribb sat in uncomfortable proximity in a hansom.

  ‘It flies in the face of protocol,’ Jowett remarked, ‘but I think it might be diplomatic to go to the Commissioner’s club at once to make a verbal report on this affair. He said he would stay in London for the weekend in case of developments. I can disabuse him now of the notion that Miriam Cromer is innocent.’

  ‘Is that what he believes, sir?’ Cribb mildly asked.

  Jowett turned abruptly to look at him. ‘That was the advice I tendered yesterday evening, after my conversation with you. He was not at all pleased to hear it. Some of the things he said were simply sulphurous.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘By Jove, Cribb, if I thought you sent me in to see him with intent to mislead—’

  ‘Not at all, sir. You drew your own conclusions from the information we had at the time.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Jowett stared thoughtfully at the shoppers along the Strand. Presently he gave a slightly embarrassed cough into his hand and said, ‘It is not impossible that the Commissioner may be extremely relieved by what I have to tell him. He may express an interest in meeting you.’

  ‘Should I accompany you to his club, sir?’

  ‘I think not,’ Jowett answered at once. ‘I shall give him only the briefest summary of our findings at this stage. I doubt if your name will come up. However, I shall assure Sir Charles that a full written report will follow in due course. We shall not need to hurry over that.’

  No, thought Cribb. A report to the Commissioner would take at least a week of Jowett’s time. It would be polished into a model of penmanship, rational and cogent. All loose ends would be excised. And with them, the name of Cribb.

  ‘Now that we may speak freely,’ Jowett said, at his most amiable, ‘I should like to know your opinion of the husband in this case. The woman’s guilt is established beyond doubt. Merely out of curiosity, what construction do you put on Howard Cromer’s actions?’

  Cribb was not deceived. Jowett was planning that report. In case charges of conspiracy were mooted, he wanted to be certain there was a case to be made.

  He answered forthrightly, ‘I’ll give you my opinion, sir. Cromer and Allingham are guilty men, but they plotted this so cleverly that I can’t see the Director of Public Prosecutions taking it up. I believe it happened like this. The murder of Josiah Perceval was Miriam Cromer’s decision alone. During the weekend she had told her husband she was being blackmailed. How he took the news can only be guessed at, but his remedy was to discuss the matter with his solicitor, which he did that Monday, sacrificing his morning in Brighton. Miriam may have been dissatisfied with Howard’s remedy, or she may have decided to settle the matter in her own way on an impulse—when she had Perceval’s keys in her hand. She had the means of faking a suicide, and if you want the truth, I think she would have got away with it if the poison had acted as she expected. It didn’t, and ultimately even Inspector Waterlow could not escape the conclusion that he had a case of murder on his hands.’

  Jowett clicked his tongue. ‘That’s an unnecessary slur on a fellow officer, Sergeant.’

  Without altering his tone, Cribb said, ‘As it’s unnecessary, I withdraw it, sir. Once it became a murder inquiry, and the evidence of blackmail was uncovered, Miriam Cromer needed something quite remarkable to save her from the gallows. I believe Allingham set out to provide it. He knew the case against her was so damning that she was practically certain to be convicted. But if she confessed and pleaded guilty, capitulated, as it were, she might, on the contrary, be saved. It meant, you see, that she would be convicted on her own account of what happened, not the prosecution’s. This provided the opportunity of writing a confession that was true in everything it said, but left a vital piece of information unexplained.’

  ‘The business of the key,’ put in Jowett.

  ‘Yes, Allingham must have analysed the facts of the case and seized on this as the best chance of introducing an element of doubt. No one would mention it until after the trial. If it was brought to the Home Secretary’s attention, it would have to be investigated. The plan was to divert suspicion towards Howard Cromer. Circumstances made him the only alternative suspect, but circumstances had produced two bonuses: the picture in the Photographic Journal and the fact that Cromer was not in Brighton on the morning of the murder. The picture was sent to the Home Secretary. In due course, I was sent to see Cromer. He was evasive about his movements. He hedged about the train he caught to Brighton. They must have known we would check the minutes of the A.G.M. and discover he was absent in the morning. And they stil
l had their trump to play.’

  ‘Cromer’s disappearance?’

  Cribb nodded. ‘That was calculated to force us into action. With Howard on the run like a guilty man, we would need to consider extradition. The gamble was that in order to obtain a warrant, we would have to arrange a pardon for Miriam Cromer. As soon as she was pardoned Howard would surrender to the police. He would announce that he had an alibi for the morning of the murder, and Allingham would confirm it.’

  ‘But that would confirm his wife’s guilt,’ said Jowett.

  Cribb had waited for this. ‘Autrefois Convict.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Don’t you have French, sir? A legal expression. It dates back to common law. A person cannot be prosecuted twice for the same offence. Even if we knew Miriam Cromer was a murderess and brought her up before a magistrate, she could plead Autrefois Convict and walk out a free woman.’

  ‘I am aware of the law, Cribb,’ said Jowett sourly. ‘It was the terminology that escaped me.’

  In case something else escaped the Chief Inspector, Cribb said, ‘It was a very cunning idea, sir, not easy to unravel. But like all ideas it depended on people to carry it out. Their nerves were tested to the limit. Miriam Cromer in the death-cell waiting for Howard to make his move. Howard, who had to tread the tightrope between supplying information and concealing it. Allingham, the architect of the plan, knowing either of the others could ruin it and destroy his career. Howard was the first to put a foot wrong. The unforeseen intervened, in the person of the bearded man they decided was a detective. I still don’t know who he was—probably never will. I was livid when I heard about him, but on consideration I have to admit he did us a good turn. Howard Cromer was so anxious for an indication that the police had taken his bait that he assumed this visitor was one of ours, instead of some morbidly-inclined member of the public. By inviting the man in, humouring him and taking his picture, he showed how desperate he was to interest the police in himself. And of course I heard of it from Allingham, who was no less interested to confirm whether the man was from the Yard. It was an instructive incident, and it need never have happened if Cromer had politely sent the man away. It made me think.’

  ‘I must say, I thought it suspicious myself.’

  Cribb disregarded the contribution. ‘The next day Howard Cromer vanished.’

  ‘The trump card.’

  ‘I couldn’t ignore it,’ said Cribb. ‘I decided to make use of it myself—to secure the meeting with Miriam Cromer. She surprised me. I didn’t expect to be confronted by a woman so fully in command of herself. The only way I could see of getting at the truth was persuading her that we had swallowed the story and simply wanted evidence of Howard’s guilt. I thought she might become over-confident. That, as you know, is what happened. She wasn’t satisfied with the original plan. She had thought of an improvement. Instead of letting us draw our own conclusions as to Howard’s guilt, she proceeded to confirm them, and she expected Allingham, out of regard for her, to withhold the alibi. Then she would be pardoned; Howard would hang and she could begin a new life with Allingham, who had always admired her. She believed she could count on Allingham’s co-operation by convincing him that Howard had murdered Judith Honeycutt and so deserved to hang.’

  ‘For another murder?’ said Jowett. ‘That’s perverted logic, if ever I heard it.’

  ‘Ten weeks in custody had given her time to fashion the facts to suit her purpose,’ said Cribb. ‘She overreached herself. Allingham might have allowed emotion to over-rule his judgment until he heard what Lottie Piper had confided to me—that Howard had engaged to marry Judith Honeycutt. Nothing had been said at the inquest about that betrothal, nor had Allingham been told of it. He saw in a flash that Miriam had had the motive for murdering Judith: she had wanted Howard for herself.’

  Jowett stared bolt-eyed at Cribb. ‘She murdered the Honeycutt girl as well?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. Proving it now would help nobody, but it’s the only explanation. Consider how she behaved under the threat of blackmail. For weeks she said nothing to her husband about her ordeal. She made her own arrangements to meet Perceval’s demands—and it’s no light matter for a woman of her class to enter a pawnshop. Yet why didn’t she take Howard into her confidence? He knew about the photographs: he was the photographer. If the danger were simply the threat of scandal to their livelihood it would have been natural for her to turn to him, but she didn’t. There was a greater danger that only Miriam Cromer understood. Imagine what Howard Cromer’s reaction would have been to the news that the wife he worshipped was threatened with blackmail by his assistant. He would have been outraged. To submit to a cheap threat of that sort was unthinkable. I believe he would have dismissed Perceval instantly from his employment and threatened him with prosecution. Howard, you see, could not appreciate the greater danger to his wife—that Perceval by chance had unearthed a link in the chain that led to Judith Honeycutt’s murder. It was safer, Miriam Cromer decided, to make the payments herself, buy the photographs and say nothing to Howard, who still believed Judith’s death was due to suicide. So that was what she did, until the fateful day when Perceval told her he was going to Hampstead to try to buy the plates. The thing she feared most was about to happen. Perceval would trace the name of Julian Ducane and very probably learn the story of Judith’s death. What Miriam had thought was buried was about to be disinterred. She decided to poison Perceval as she had poisoned Judith.’

  ‘So callous!’ Jowett exclaimed. He shook his head. ‘And such a fine-looking woman. A picture.’

  ‘A picture,’ Cribb repeated, thinking his own thoughts.

  The cab turned left in Great Scotland Yard. ‘Sergeant, I salute you!’ Jowett said in a fit of generosity. ‘Between us, by Jove, we have saved the law from a contemptible plot. I shall put you down here. You may be sure that everything you have told me will be conveyed to the Commissioner. In my own words. Depend upon it, I shall omit nothing of importance.’

  Cribb got out of the cab, touched his hat and made his way unimportantly home.

  MONDAY, 25th JUNE

  TOWARDS MIDNIGHT, JAMES BERRY turned the latchkey and let himself into his house in Bilton Place, Bradford. He was quiet about it. Upstairs the three youngsters and his mother-in-law would be asleep.

  His wife came along the passage with a candle. He put down his leather bag and kissed her. ‘You’re later than usual,’ she said. ‘Nothing went wrong?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It were a woman, weren’t it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘She deserved to go, didn’t she?’

  ‘It were never in doubt,’ said Berry.

  ‘What kept you in London, Jim?’

  ‘Business.’ He had finished his work in Newgate by ten; it had taken almost an hour to penetrate the crowd outside Tussaud’s. One of the police had told him ten thousand were massed in the Marylebone Road. ‘Average in my experience,’ the constable had said. ‘Funny old world, isn’t it, when ten thousand turn up to see one more sinner installed in the Chamber of Horrors? I know they are the actual clothes she wore in the dock, but it’s still only a waxwork. That’s all they’ve come to see—one figure in wax.’ Berry had murmured, ‘Two,’ and modestly moved on.

  ‘I kept some stew,’ his wife said. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’

  ‘Put it on table and see.’ He hung his coat on the hallstand.

  ‘Jim! That’s a new suit!’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You do look nobby! Grand! But where’s the other?’

  ‘I left it behind.’

  She frowned. ‘There was some wear in it yet.’

  ‘Ay.’ He went to the mantelpiece and picked up the letters from behind the clock. ‘Anything in this lot?’

  ‘Only that large one. Postman had to knock for that. Came Saturday.’

  Berry examined it, a large white envelope, too stiff to bend, his address inscribed in a fastidious hand. It was postmarked ‘Kew
’.

  ‘You can open it, love,’ he said.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  Sunday, 15th April

  Wednesday, 6th June

  Friday, 8th June

  Wednesday, 13th June

  Thursday, 14th June

  Friday, 15th June

  Saturday, 16th June

  Sunday, 17th June

  Monday, 18th June

  Tuesday, 19th June

  Wednesday, 20th June

  Thursday, 21st June

  Friday, 22nd June

  Saturday, 23rd June

  Monday, 25th June