‘Really? Who?’ he asked.
‘Inspector Dew from Scotland Yard. Such a nice man, too.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘He came back for that information you were to give him.’
‘That’s right,’ he said quietly. ‘I said he would, didn’t I?’
‘He said he will be coming back on Wednesday night,’ she said. ‘Eight o’clock. He wants to talk to you then.’
Hawley nodded and went into the living room and sat down in the armchair, trembling slightly. He was cold, for he had been standing under a tree for the past fifteen minutes across the road, hidden from both Ethel and Dew, watching them in the window and waiting for the inspector to leave. Wednesday night, he thought. That doesn’t give us much time.
Wednesday, 13 July
The afternoon of Wednesday, 13 July 1910, dragged along slowly for Inspector Walter Dew. He sat in his office overlooking the Embankment and found himself staring out of the window for long periods of time, unable to concentrate on his work. Three folders lay before him, begging to be studied, and to each one he had attempted to give some attention, but he was failing with all three. The first contained the details of the woman who had been found floating in the Thames near Bow, a week earlier; the autopsy suggested that she had been strangled before being thrown into the river, as her lungs held no water. She was sixty-two years old, and he suspected the husband. With older women, it was always the husband who had finally snapped after years of nagging. The second folder contained a report on a series of robberies around Kensington, all late at night, with each disturbed house showing no sign of forced entry. The last concerned a young man who had been a victim of a hit-and-run attack perpetrated by a high-class horse and carriage, one which—according to the victim—carried the insignia of the Prince of Wales. He had placed this folder last in line as it would doubtless be the most difficult. He would require all his diplomatic skills for that one.
None of them mattered right now, however, for he was shortly to leave for another visit to 39 Hilldrop Crescent. He had put on his best suit that morning and even bought a flower from a young girl in the street which he intended to put in his buttonhole as soon as he left the office. During the day he had kept it in a small glass of water on his desk in order to keep it fresh; looking down on it now, it seemed quite forlorn, standing there on its own, a clipped fragrance trying desperately to stay alive against the odds. He examined his reflection in the mirror and was pleased by what he saw. He looked lively and alert, a welcome dinner companion should he be invited to stay for a while by the Crippen-LeNeves, which was his fervent hope. Afterwards, perhaps, he would take a stroll down to the local public house with Hawley Crippen while Ethel washed the dishes, and they would talk men’s talk, setting aside their mutual difficulties of the past and finding more things in common upon which they could build their friendship. He checked his watch again. He didn’t want to be early, but it was now seven fifteen and if he took it slowly he would arrive exactly on time.
‘Going somewhere nice, Inspector?’ PC Milburn asked as the inspector came through the lobby.
‘What’s that?’ Dew said gruffly, barely heeding the remark.
‘I asked whether you were going anywhere nice,’ he repeated. ‘Only, you’re all done up in your Sunday best and even have a buttonhole there to boot. You’re not usually so well turned out, sir.’
‘Not usually so—?’
‘Oh, I don’t mean any offence, Inspector Dew,’ PC Milburn said hastily. ‘I only meant you don’t normally wear as expensive a suit as that. Obviously you always look well.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You’re a very handsome man, sir,’ he added in confusion before immediately regretting the words.
‘Get back to your work, Milburn,’ said Dew.
‘Yes sir,’ he replied, sitting down again.
‘As it happens,’ said Dew, turning around after a moment to inform the constable of his plans—something he did not usually do. ‘I intend to dine with some close friends of mine tonight. A Dr Crippen and his lady friend. I thought it a respectable thing to do to make an effort. You should learn something by my example, Milburn, in case you and that young lady of yours ever get invited anywhere.’
If Dew was surprised to find himself giving Milburn this information, it was as nothing compared to Milburn’s surprise at hearing it. The inspector never made small talk with him; perhaps, he wondered, he has me in mind for promotion? That would be a welcome bonus. ‘Dr Crippen?’ he asked, wrinkling his nose as he thought about it. ‘The name rings a bell with me, sir. Where have I heard it before?’
‘Nowhere, I shouldn’t think,’ said Dew, unwilling to share his new friend with a lowly constable.
‘No, I remember now,’ the PC said, recalling the various visits of Mrs Louise Smythson. ‘He’s the fellow that woman said had killed his wife.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Milburn. The man’s a perfect gentleman. He didn’t kill his wife, I can assure you of that.’
‘But that lady—’
‘That lady, if that is indeed a term we can apply to the likes of her, came in making a spurious allegation that has since been proved wholly ridiculous. I myself am personally acquainted with the doctor and I can assure you he is a man of the very highest calibre.’
‘Oh yes?’ Milburn asked suspiciously. ‘And how’s his wife, then? Still alive?’
‘Alive and residing quite comfortably in America. Florida, to be exact. It was an error on the Smythson woman’s part and the case has been closed.’
‘Glad to hear it, sir,’ Milburn said with a wide grin as Dew turned around to leave. ‘You have a nice evening then, sir.’
Inspector Dew waved a hand as he left the building and he breathed in the fresh air outside, filling his lungs with happiness and anticipation of the evening’s entertainment which lay ahead. It was mid-July and the streets were quite bright still; he passed a park on the way and saw a group of young men playing cricket on the lawn, their voices carrying cheerfully through the trees, and he felt a great joy with life, a surge of excitement for his fellow men, a desire to love and be loved by all. Such emotions were foreign to him and he revelled in his new state. Passing by the Thames, he had an unlikely urge to jump on to an empty bench and burst into song, but he resisted lest he be dragged away to the asylum before he reached the bridge.
He tripped along quite casually, throwing a penny to a homeless man camped out on the corner of Mornington Crescent, and tipping his hat to the ladies he passed. His stomach grumbled slightly and he hoped once again that he might be invited to stay for supper. He had decided earlier in the day that he would not ask Dr Crippen for any more information about the man who had cuckolded him. As far as he was concerned, Cora and her lover could reside in Florida for the rest of their lives, and it was no business of his. He would tell Hawley when he arrived that the matter was now closed and he need not give him the name or address after all. Surely then he would be rewarded with their company and friendship. ‘You need never think of the name Cora Crippen again,’ he would say. He felt as a man might feel when he is about to give another the best news of his life and who knows that he will be rewarded for it in some way. When he had told Police Constable Milburn that the case was closed, he had meant it.
The children were out in force tonight along Hilldrop Crescent, but for once they were playing happily with each other and not tormenting any animals. He was pleased to see that; the last thing he needed in his present mood was to have to discipline wayward children. ‘Good evening,’ he said to them, and they stared at him in disbelief, for it was rare for such a well-dressed gentleman to notice them at all, let alone speak to them.
‘Evening, sir,’ one of them muttered in response, incurring the mocking glances of his friends.
To his surprise and disappointment, the lights were off in the living room of 39 Hilldrop Crescent, but as he stood on the street outside he told himself that his friends might be upstairs dressing for dinner, or perhap
s relaxing in the back garden. The appointment had been made, after all, and it was just eight o’clock now. It was not as if they would not be at home. He practically danced up the steps to the door and rapped on it three times and, as his knuckles made contact with the wood for the third time, he was surprised to find the door give way gently and creak open a few inches, a shaft of light from the street pouring through into Dr Crippen’s dark hallway.
He blinked and waited for any sounds from within; when none came, he reached out and pushed the door open slowly. The hinges creaked like those in a gothic horror story—he was instantly reminded of Jonathan Harker’s first arrival at the castle of Count Dracula—but he stayed outside, leaning forward and calling out: ‘Hawley? Miss LeNeve?’
There was no response and he looked around the street nervously. Although he was a senior inspector with Scotland Yard, he could imagine that someone seeing him enter a house that was not his own might call their local constable out to arrest him, which would be embarrassing for all and would surely irritate his hosts. However, no one seemed to be watching at that moment so, with an agile movement, he slipped inside and closed the door quickly behind him.
The darkness returned and he shivered. It was cold in here, even though it was midsummer. ‘Hawley?’ he cried again. ‘It’s Walter Dew. From Scotland Yard. Miss LeNeve?’ His words seemed to carry through the air and lose themselves in the distance, and he frowned, his disappointment buried for a moment in the mystery of their absence. He opened the door of the living room where he had sat on a couple of occasions, and he looked inside. It was spotlessly clean as ever, but there was something different about it this time. He walked through quickly and into the kitchen, where he put a hand to the side of the teapot. Cold. He looked in the sink and it was entirely dry, implying that it had not been used in at least a day. Biting his lip, he went back to the hallway and strode upstairs, opening doors until he found what appeared to be Dr Crippen’s bedroom, where he opened a wardrobe. It was half filled with clothes still, but there was a number of empty hangers on one side, while those which remained were pushed up close together on the other. His mind began to calculate reasons why this should be so as he went back downstairs to investigate further. He didn’t want to imagine for a moment that there could be any sinister reason for it, even though it was clear that something unusual was going on.
He stood in the hallway with his hands on his hips, wondering what to do for the best, when his attention was attracted by a door under the stairs which he had not noticed before. He stared at it for a moment, before walking towards it and gripping the handle tightly, as if afraid it would come loose in his hand. Opening it, he saw a staircase leading to the cellar and he walked down carefully, switching on the single light bulb which hung near the bottom and which offered some small amount of brightness to the room. ‘Hawley?’ he said again, in a whisper this time, although not expecting an answer for a moment.
The cellar was slightly damp and it had a musty air about it. It was filled mainly with rubbish and he stared at the ground, noting the filthy stone floor. The room chilled him, and he considered leaving for the time being when his attention was taken by the state of the floor in the corner of the room, about ten feet away from him. Although the rest was dusty and the stone flat, here it was broken and clean, as if someone had taken it up, set it aside for a while so that for the first time in years it had a chance to dry out, then laid it back in its home. He swallowed nervously and walked towards it, crouching down as he got closer.
The smell hit his nose even before his fingers gripped the stone, and he gagged, disgusted. Nevertheless, turning his head a little to one side, he reached down under the cracks and managed to prise the stone away; it came out in three sections and he pushed them to the side of the room and peered at what lay underneath. It smelt dreadful but looked perfectly normal; there was a thick, brown, sandy substance which, he presumed, came between all the stone on this floor and the concrete under it. He poked it with the tip of his shoe, expecting to feel the hardness of the floor, but instead it landed on something soft and juicy, something that made a squelching sound, something that sounded unnatural, and he stepped back quickly, looking around the cellar in fright. Holding his breath for a moment, he knelt down on the floor and, using his hands, cleared away the sand carefully. Underneath, he found a number of newspaper-covered packages, thickly wrapped and bound with twine. They smelt foul and his mouth curled in distaste, but he had come this far and could not stop now. His stomach churning, he lifted one out—it slid away easily—and put it on the floor a few steps away. Taking his pocket knife out, he cut the twine and pushed it aside before placing his fingers on either side of the newspaper packaging, prising them slowly apart.
What he saw inside the parcel was about a square foot of human tissue, bone and congealed blood, carefully dissected and chopped up and placed in a neat fashion within the thick layers of paper, which now began slowly to ooze thick, blackish liquid. At the side was what appeared to be a thumb. It was a very tidy package and, like the others, which contained separate parts of a human cadaver, was already rotting.
15.
The Chase
The Atlantic Ocean: Sunday, 24 July–Tuesday, 26 July 1910
Captain Taylor of the Laurentic sat with Inspector Dew of the Yard in the radio room of the ship, having just sent another message to Captain Kendall of the Montrose via the Marconi telegraph. Four simple words, saying little but telling everything: ‘Giving Chase—Keep Mum.’ Afterwards, they went to the captain’s private dining room, where they ate smoked salmon served with a selection of vegetables and potatoes prepared by the Laurentic’s chief cook.
‘I always insist on having him aboard,’ Taylor explained to his guest. ‘These voyages can be very messy sometimes, and one of the few consolations is having a damn good chef on board. First thing I do when I receive the crew log is check who’s cooking, and if it’s not someone I approve of the ship stays in port.’
‘I’m sure your passengers appreciate it,’ said Dew, who had enjoyed the meal immensely.
‘Passengers?’ the captain repeated, spluttering in surprise. ‘Damn the passengers, man. You don’t think I’d waste his talents on a rabble like that, do you? He’s worked in Paris, for heaven’s sake. He’s cooked for Sarah Bernhardt, you know. No, I keep him strictly for the officers and myself. The company thinks he cooks for others as well as us, but we keep mum about that too.’
‘You’re a fortunate man,’ Dew said, laughing. ‘I have to look after myself most evenings.’
‘And your cabin,’ the captain asked. ‘Comfortable enough in there?’
‘Extremely. Thank you again for putting me in such a fine room.’
‘Cabin, Inspector. Cabin.’
‘Of course.’
‘So this Crippen fellow we’re after,’ Taylor said after a moment, picking his teeth with his fingers for a bone from the fish so that his words came out a little muffled. ‘I read about him in the papers before I left Liverpool. Killed his wife, they say.’
Dew nodded. ‘So it would seem,’ he admitted. ‘A shocking business. It was I who discovered the remains.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Chopped her up and buried her in the cellar. It was beyond anything I’d ever seen before.’
‘Do tell, Inspector,’ said the captain, who had a taste for the macabre.
Dew sighed. He had become something of a celebrity in the few short weeks since Crippen’s disappearance, but he disliked having to talk about the matter to others. After finding the first parcels containing Cora’s body hidden under the stone in the basement of 39 Hilldrop Crescent, a crew of police doctors and scientists had come in and ripped the place apart. Further on in the cellar, most of the flooring had been removed and more packages were discovered there. A gruesome jigsaw puzzle was assembled in the mortuary of a local hospital, and within a few days more than two hundred pieces of her body were laid out on a table for the doctors and policemen to e
xamine.
‘It’s a messy job,’ Dr Lewis, the chief pathologist, had told him when he came down to examine the grizzly sight himself. ‘If he really was a trained doctor, you’d think he’d have a better understanding of the way the human body works. Some of the limbs are torn away in the most difficult places. Like a novice carving up a chicken. Mrs Crippen was surely dead before he began the procedure, and that’s a blessing in itself. It’s not been easy putting the pieces back together, although I rather enjoyed the task, if you want to know the truth. Took me back to my days in medical school. My Lord, some of the pranks we pulled there. This one time, my friend Angus and I—’
‘It’s hardly something to take pleasure in, Doctor,’ Dew cautioned him, in no mood to listen to stories about medical school high jinks.
‘Quite, quite. I must admit, though, I’ve brought some of my students in here to take a look at her, and even a few of my colleagues too. I believe the man used to work in an abattoir, is that correct?’
‘I only know what I’ve been reading in the newspapers,’ Dew replied. ‘The same as you.’
‘Well, it just surprises me, that’s all. Believe it or not, an abattoir is an excellent place to learn the craft of dissection. Some of those fellows could open an office in Harley Street if they put their mind to it.’
‘Presumably he was nervous. That would account for his lack of precision.’
‘I expect so.’
‘And she’s reassembled now?’
‘Almost entirely.’
‘Almost?’
Lewis looked at him, surprised. ‘Well, you do know they still haven’t found the head, don’t you?’ he asked.
The head. Over the last few weeks the London newspapers had become obsessed with discovering the whereabouts of Cora Crippen’s head. It was the only piece of her which had not been discovered in the cellar of 39 Hilldrop Crescent, and it had become the final piece in the jigsaw which was needed before her remains could be scooped into a coffin and buried. Every child and urchin in London was opening dustbins and looking in sewers for signs of it, and a gang of men was scattered along the banks of the Thames, waiting to see whether it would float to shore. It was rumoured that the Express was offering £100 to the man, woman or child who could find her head first and bring it to them, and a crowd of Cockney Salomes had answered the call.