London: 6 April 1910
Mrs Louise Smythson and her husband Nicholas arrived in the dining room of the Savoy Hotel a little after four fifteen in the afternoon. Having arranged to meet their friends, Mr and Mrs Nash, for a birthday tea at four o’clock, they were both somewhat embarrassed to be late, but the last few days had been so busy and distressing that they were sure their friends would understand.
They had slept later than usual that morning. Five days earlier, on April Fool’s Day, Nicholas’s father, Lord Smythson, had died in his sleep. Nicholas had been beside himself with grief since then, but this was nothing compared to what was being endured by his wife—for a very different reason. Her misery was down to the fact that Lord Smythson’s title had passed immediately to her brother-in-law Martin who, despite being forty years younger than his father, was just as sickly. It had been Louise’s fervent desire that Martin would die young, preferably before Lord Smythson, to ensure that the title landed with Nicholas. However, that possibility had now passed and she simply had to wait and hope that nature would take its course.
The doorbell had rung a little after eleven o’clock that morning and Louise was surprised to be informed by the maid, Julie, that her sister-inlaw Elizabeth had come to call. Elizabeth had married Martin six months earlier and had been embraced by all the family as a perfect English rose and a suitable wife for the eldest son. There was no question that her pretty features and quiet charm exemplified everything that the Smythsons had looked for in breeding stock; their disquiet when Nicholas had introduced his own choice of bride to them was still a sore point for Louise, but she had managed to win them over eventually by proving extremely proficient at hiding her lower-class origins—and her accent—and embracing all the social attitudes of the upper classes as if she had been born to it. Upon their introduction, Elizabeth had immediately sought to become friends with her new sister-in-law, and Louise allowed a deception to continue, that deception being that she actually liked her. In fact, Elizabeth was the enemy; a woman who, if she wasn’t stopped, could provide an heir to the Smythson title and fortune. It was clear that she was passionately in love with her sickly husband, and any issue from the marriage would leave Nicholas and Louise for ever the poor relations. She had to be stopped.
‘Elizabeth,’ she exclaimed when the visitor walked into the room, still wearing black in mourning for their late father-in-law. ‘How lovely to see you. And at such an early hour.’
‘I hope you don’t mind my calling around, Louise,’ she said anxiously.
‘Of course not,’ the other replied, seeing instantly the look of worry in her face. ‘Sit down. Julie will bring tea. Julie!’ she snapped as if the maid was hard of hearing. ‘Tea!’
The ladies sat together on the sofa and discussed the events of the previous few days. The funeral of Lord Smythson. The passing of the title. The reading of the will. The constant coughing of Martin as they sat in the cathedral, listening to the service. ‘He’s so very ill at the moment,’ said Elizabeth. ‘The doctors fear it might be pneumonia. I’m beside myself with worry, my dear Louise, I truly am.’
‘Only natural,’ said Louise, ushering Julie away delightedly and pouring the tea herself. ‘He shouldn’t have attended the funeral on such a rainy day, you know. It was bound to make him ill.’
‘I know. But you were right when you insisted that he come. After all, how would it look for an eldest son not to attend the last service for his dear father?’
‘True,’ she replied. ‘Of course I was only thinking of his reputation. I do hope I haven’t damaged his health by doing so.’
‘But I almost forgot!’ said Elizabeth, reaching into her bag for a small jewellery box. ‘I brought you a birthday present. I knew you wouldn’t want to celebrate so close to a family funeral, but I couldn’t let the day pass unmarked.’
‘How kind,’ said Louise, snatching the box greedily. ‘And don’t worry, we’re having tea with our friends the Nashes later anyway. Mrs Nash is a friend of mine from the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild. Now let me see this better . . .’ She opened the box and removed the ear-rings from within, holding them up to the light. ‘Well, aren’t they charming,’ she said, not wanting to appear over-excited by the set of sapphire gems. ‘Thank you so much, my dear.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Elizabeth, looking away before her face collapsed suddenly in pain.
Without warning she burst into tears and Louise could only stare at her, irritated and baffled. ‘Elizabeth,’ she asked, moved to put an arm around her in comfort, but resisting it, ‘whatever’s the matter? You’re not still crying for our father-in-law, surely?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that,’ she said.
‘Martin then.’
‘Well, yes, partly. You see, I spoke to the doctor last night and he wants to move him into hospital today for tests and observation. He says it’s the best thing for him.’
‘But Elizabeth, surely that’s a good thing,’ said Louise, making a mental note to write to her brother-in-law’s doctor and demand that his wishes to be left alone be respected and that, if he had to die, he should at least be allowed the dignity of dying at home. ‘They can do their best for him in there.’
Elizabeth nodded but still looked miserable. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘I know the doctors there might be able to help him—but to look at him, Louise, is to break my heart. He’s so thin and so pale. And he can hardly breathe sometimes. He’s like a shadow of his former self.’
For this, and this alone, Louise felt some sympathy. The two women did not socialize together very often, and when she had seen her brother-in-law at the funeral a few days earlier she had been taken aback by his obviously unwell state. He had been brought to the front row of the church in a wheelchair, a blanket covering his pencil-thin legs, and she had pushed along the pew a little way to distance herself from him. Louise was not a woman who felt comfortable among the sick.
‘We can only pray for him,’ said Louise, reaching for something positive to say and failing. She glanced at the clock and wished that Elizabeth would finish her tea and leave. She had some letters to write before they left for the Savoy and a romance novel which had been thrilling her for days to finish.
‘There is another thing, however,’ said Elizabeth, her voice catching a little in her throat. It sounded as if she was afraid to say it but she needed a confidante.
‘Something else?’ said Louise, narrowing her eyes, sensing a secret. ‘What is it?’
‘I . . .’ she began, before shaking her head and weeping some more. ‘I shouldn’t say.’
‘Of course you should,’ she replied greedily. ‘Why, we’re practically sisters, aren’t we?’
‘Well, yes . . .’ said Elizabeth, unsure about this. Although she tried to hide the fact from herself, she often suspected that Louise did not like her.
‘Well then. You must tell me everything. Just like I do you.’
‘But you never tell me any secrets.’
‘That’s because I have none, my dear. Now go ahead. You’ll feel better for getting it off your chest, whatever it is.’
‘Well, I can’t be sure about it,’ Elizabeth began hesitantly.
‘Yes?’
‘Of course it’s early days.’
‘Just tell me.’
Elizabeth swallowed and looked her sister-in-law directly in the eyes. ‘I think I may be with child,’ she said.
Louise’s eyes opened wide and she put a hand to her stomach as she felt it begin to churn. This is it, she thought to herself. This is what it feels like when the blood literally drains from your face. ‘A child?’ she asked, barely able to get the hated words out.
Elizabeth nodded. ‘I’ve made an appointment with my doctor to confirm it, but I’m almost sure of it. A woman can tell, you know.’
Louise gasped, unsure what to say. ‘You’re . . . you’re not certain then?’ she said. ‘It might be a mistake.’
‘Well not entirely sure, but—’
‘Then don’t worry about it for now. It might just be—’
‘Louise, you don’t understand. I hope I am pregnant. I desperately want for Martin and me to have a baby together. I’m just worried that he’ll be too sick to be a real father to it. Or worse. What if . . . what if . . . ?’ She could not bring herself to finish her thought and collapsed in further tears, and Louise had to restrain herself from picking her up and slapping her. This went on for another hour before Louise finally persuaded her sister-in-law to return home, seeing her to the door and apologizing after she stepped too close to her, almost pushing her down the wet steps outside. She didn’t tell her husband of this distress, however, as Nicholas would have been delighted at the news. He didn’t seem to care about the title, the attainment of which had been Louise’s mission in life since their marriage. And so she had taken a longer bath than usual and was spoiling for a fight with him afterwards, proclaiming the necklace he had bought her to be gaudy and more suited to a woman from below stairs. By the time they finally left their home, it was almost four o’clock and they were bound to be late. Arriving at the Savoy, Louise was torn between anger and despair and a fervent hope that she could take it out on someone.
The Nashes were old friends of Nicholas Smythson, and it had been Margaret Nash who had seen to it that the newly married Louise was admitted to the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild, a group which got together once a week to listen to performances, discuss the issues of the day or, more usually, simply to take tea together and discuss the latest fashions. From time to time they organized charitable functions to help the impoverished children of the city, but such events had become few and far between, being troublesome and involving the poor. Andrew Nash had attended Cambridge with Nicholas and he encouraged his wife to champion Louise after their marriage, a task she had taken to gladly. Although originally from quite different backgrounds, they had hit it off well together and became fast friends, for Mrs Nash was every bit the social climber that Louise was and, like her, had married above her station.
‘How are you now, Nicholas?’ asked Margaret, who had not seen him since the funeral. ‘Are you coming to terms with your loss yet?’
‘Oh yes, quite,’ he replied, although this was not entirely true. He had loved his father very much and already missed him greatly. He had barely slept in recent days, so racked was he with painful memories.
‘He was a fine man,’ Andrew said gruffly, affecting the elderly gentleman role to which he aspired, although he was still only in his early forties.
‘And Martin, how is he?’ Margaret continued. ‘He looked simply dreadful at the funeral. He will be all right, won’t he?’
Nicholas shrugged. He didn’t like to think about it. Losing one family member was bad enough. He dreaded the idea of losing Martin too.
Louise’s lip curled in distaste, unable to rid her mind of the prospect of Elizabeth’s baby, and she changed the subject immediately. It might not be true anyway, she reasoned. Maybe it’s a false alarm.
‘My dear,’ she said, reaching across and tapping Margaret on the arm gently. ‘I never told you about my visit to Scotland Yard, did I?’
‘No!’ said Margaret. ‘You mean you actually went?’
‘Indeed I did.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Andrew, puffing away on a cigar. ‘What were you doing at Scotland Yard, for heaven’s sake? Here, Smythson!’ he said in too loud a voice across the table. ‘What’s this wife of yours been up to that we know nothing about? Not some sort of criminal mastermind, is she?’
‘Stop it, Andrew,’ said Margaret in a serious tone. ‘You won’t be laughing when you hear about it. Now tell me, Louise. What happened? What did they say?’
‘It was about Cora Crippen,’ Louise explained, turning to her friend’s husband, aware that he knew nothing about this. ‘About what happened to her.’
‘Cora Crippen? You mean that big, loud woman you’re friends with?’
Louise sighed and recalled how Mrs Crippen had joined their group in the first place. A year or two after marrying Nicholas, she had been walking along Tavistock Square one afternoon when a woman had stopped and introduced herself as Cora Crippen in such a tone as to suggest that they were old friends.
‘Cora Crippen?’ she had repeated, trying to remember, although the face was a little familiar. ‘I’m afraid I don’t—’
‘Oh, but you must remember me,’ said Cora. ‘I used to visit the Horse and Three Bells public house when I was performing at the Regency Music Hall. You worked there. Before your marriage.’
‘Bella Elmore!’ Louise said, remembering. ‘That was your stage name, if I recollect.’
‘That’s right. But it’s Cora Crippen by day.’
They spoke for some time, and for once Louise did not mind being reminded of her earlier, less exalted days. She and Cora had got along very well in the old days and, when it became clear that they were living not far from each other, it did not seem too much to imagine that they could be part of the same social set. Louise tried out a few names on her to make sure and Cora lied, saying she knew them all.
‘And are you still singing?’ asked Louise.
‘But of course. I’m hoping to make my debut at the Palladium in the spring.’
‘The Palladium? You never are!’
‘Well, negotiations are at an early stage, of course, but fingers crossed. My agent is organizing it.’ Naturally there were no negotiations, nor was there an agent, nor was there any risk whatsoever of her playing at the Palladium.
‘Cora, you must join our guild,’ said Louise on their second meeting, for tea at Louise’s own house. ‘We have some wonderful members. You must know Anne Richardson-Lewis? Of the Richardson-Lewises? And Janet Tyler? She’s one of the Tylers?’
‘Of course,’ lied Cora.
‘And Alexandra Harrington is a regular attendee.’
‘Is she one of the Harringtons?’
‘No. She’s one of the other Harringtons.’
‘Oh, better still. I’ve always preferred them anyway.’
‘And Sarah Kenley. Margaret Nash. All wonderful women. I’m sure they’d be delighted for you to become a member.’
Louise had never before sponsored another lady for membership, and she had been on the lookout in recent times for a suitable candidate, the adoption of a new member being something of a status symbol in itself. It meant that within the group there was someone who would always be beholden to you, someone who, by your introducing them in the first place, became your natural inferior. And so, in time, she had brought Cora to a meeting, and she had been accepted by the other ladies. Cora introduced herself as a famous New York singer, now happily married to one of London’s finest doctors, and the rich women, coated in furs and encrusted with jewels, opened their arms en masse and welcomed her into their society, like a school of whales embracing a minnow. It had been one of the happiest evenings of Cora’s life.
‘We saw that Crippen fellow at the theatre, didn’t we?’ said Andrew, looking at his wife.
‘Yes,’ she explained. ‘That’s where all this started. Remember, we were at A Midsummer Night’s Dream and there he was, not a care in the world, despite the fact that his wife had just died only a few weeks before.’
‘Well, a fellow has to get over things, doesn’t he? Can’t go on mourning the poor woman for ever.’
‘But it’s all a bit mysterious, Andrew, don’t you see? Cora left London without a word to anyone, not even any of her friends at the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild. She went to California for a few weeks to visit a sick relative.’
‘That’s what Dr Crippen said anyway,’ said Margaret.
‘And she wrote me a letter from there,’ Louise continued, ‘stating that she would probably stay in California for a few months as this relative, whoever he or she was, was doing very badly. And then, before any of us knew it, her husband announces that she herself has died in California and he’s just received the telegram to tell him so.’
‘Shocking,’ said Nicholas, shaking his head and still thinking of his father. ‘That poor woman. With so much to live for. She was a pretty thing too, wasn’t she?’
‘Well, not really,’ Margaret Nash admitted. ‘She had broad shoulders and coarse hair. But she was a wonderful woman nevertheless. Very kind and thoughtful. An excellent wife. Dr Crippen could hardly have found a more loving companion in this world.’
‘So what’s the mystery then?’ Andrew asked, confused. ‘Where does Scotland Yard come into all this?’
‘When we saw Dr Crippen at the theatre that night,’ said Margaret, ‘he had another woman with him, don’t you remember?’
‘Here’s the heart of it,’ Nicholas said good-naturedly. ‘Jealousy.’
‘A common sort of woman,’ said Louise.
‘Hardly our sort,’ continued Margaret.
‘No name to speak of.’
‘I don’t remember her,’ said Andrew. ‘What did she look like?’
‘A small woman,’ said Margaret. ‘With dark hair. And a scar above her lip. Quite unpleasant. What’s her name, Louise? You know it, don’t you?’
‘Ethel LeNeve,’ said Louise. ‘If you please,’ she added, as if the possession of a name at all on Ethel’s part was something of a presumption.
‘That’s it, LeNeve. Apparently she used to work with Dr Crippen at that mad medicine shop he runs in Shaftesbury Avenue. Well, she was there at the theatre with him that night. Wearing her jewellery. Shameless.’
Margaret and Louise both sat back in their chairs, as if a great jigsaw puzzle had been laid out before them, and the men nodded and thought about it, willing to amuse their wives if necessary by locating the corners for them.
‘So it seems to me,’ said Nicholas, ‘that you’re accusing this Crippen fellow of undue haste in finding a new lady, and her of poor taste in wearing a dead woman’s jewellery. It’s hardly something to bother Scotland Yard with, now is it?’
‘We’re saying,’ said Louise, unwilling to be patronized after the day she had suffered, ‘that a woman does not leave for America without telling her friends. We’re saying that she does not go there and then suddenly die when there was not a thing in the world wrong with her before. And we’re saying that she certainly does not leave her best jewellery behind for any tart or trollop to rifle through, the minute her back is turned. It just doesn’t seem likely, and I don’t believe a word of it for a moment.’
‘You don’t think the fellow’s done her in or something, do you?’ asked Andrew, laughing now. ‘Oh really. I don’t know what you ladies do at these meetings of yours, but it seems to me as if you are letting your imaginations—’
‘Tell me what they said, Louise,’ said Margaret, interrupting her husband. ‘At Scotland Yard. What did they say to you?’
‘I saw Inspector Dew,’ she began.
‘Dew?’ said Andrew. ‘I’ve heard of him. A top man, I believe.’
‘Well, naturally he was very courteous to me, but to be honest I don’t think he was particularly interested. Seemed to think I was worrying unnecessarily. Practically accused me of wasting his time.’
‘Oh Louise! And you the daughter-in-law of Lord Smythson!’
‘Sister-in-law,’ Andrew pointed out.
‘I know, it’s frightful, isn’t it? Anyway, I told him in the end. I told him that this was all far from over and soon he would want my help and that of my friends in locating Cora Crippen, and where would he be then? Standing there with egg all over his face!’
‘My dear, your expressions,’ laughed Nicholas.
‘I’m only saying what we’re all thinking,’ Louise insisted. ‘And what Margaret and I think is that he did away with Cora. And how are we supposed to allow that when she’s a friend of ours?’
‘For a start,’ said Andrew, ‘if he has done away with her, as you put it, then he’s hardly going to have been asking for your permission anyway. And secondly, the man’s a doctor. He helps sustain life, not take it away. He’s hardly going to get himself involved in something like that, is he? Your imaginations really are running away with you. Have you been eating cheese before going to bed? I read somewhere that that’s a common cause of hysteria among the ladies.’
‘Oh Andrew, you must find out though,’ said Margaret.
‘I? What can I do?’
‘Well, you have that business in Mexico next month, don’t you? The mining contract?’ Andrew thought about it. She was referring to a trip he would be making to Central America in a few weeks’ time to ensure that his company was keeping to their timetable on his mining project in Guadalajara.
‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘But I fail to see how—’
‘You could go to California afterwards,’ she said, ‘and find out exactly how Cora died. That’s where it’s supposed to have happened.’
‘Oh yes, Andrew,’ said Louise, clapping her hands together. ‘You could do that.’
‘But I won’t have time,’ he protested. ‘I’ll be too busy with my work.’
‘You can spare one day to catch a killer, can’t you?’
‘He’s not a killer.’
‘But he might be. Oh please, Andrew. Say you’ll do it.’
He sighed and shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you expect me to find out there,’ he said eventually. ‘But if it means that much to you . . .’
‘Oh, you are wonderful,’ said Louise, delighted. ‘Now we’ll find out the truth for sure.’
Having talked him into undertaking the task, they changed the subject to less morbid topics. Only as the evening progressed did Louise return to her unhappier state, remembering the news that her sister-in-law had given her earlier. Maybe I should introduce Dr Crippen to Martin, she thought to herself uncharitably. Maybe he could give him a few ideas.