London: Friday, 8 July–Wednesday, 13 July 1910
Friday, 8 July
Inspector Walter Dew walked along Camden Road towards Hilldrop Crescent, irritated that he had to make this visit at all. Making rash promises was part of what being a Scotland Yard inspector was all about; in the course of any given day he was forced to deal with so many hysterics and fabulists that if he was to investigate all their wild claims he would never have time for actually solving any real crimes. He had planned on sending a police constable to the house to take any details which were necessary. A phone call from the London Police Commissioner, however, had put an end to that idea.
‘Dew?’ he asked, shouting down the phone as if he had still not grown accustomed to its use. “What’s all this about some Crippen fellow you’re supposed to be investigating?’
‘Crippen?’ he asked, surprised that the name had reached his superior. ‘There’s nothing to investigate there, sir. Just a couple of women with overactive imaginations believing the poor man has murdered his wife. That’s all.’
‘That’s all, eh? You think murder’s not a serious thing, do you?’
‘Of course I don’t, sir. I meant that their claims don’t sound too serious. It seems to me they just have a little too much time on their hands and have been reading too many mystery novels.’
‘Well, that’s as may be,’ grunted the commissioner. ‘But look here, I’ve just had a phone call from Lord Smythson, who says that one of these women is his sister-in-law and that she’s upset because you haven’t done anything about it yet. So she got on to him about it as she knew we were in the same club. Now Smythson’s a weak fellow, but he’s asked me to look into it and I can hardly say no. And I’ll have to tell him something soon, just to shut him up. So call round there and find out what’s going on, will you, there’s a good fellow.’
‘But sir, I have a lot on at the moment. I can’t just drop everything because some—’
‘Just do it, Dew,’ the other said, exasperated. ‘And don’t question me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, replacing the receiver with a sigh.
The internal politics of the Yard were a source of constant irritation to the inspector. There were real crimes and murders taking place daily among the working classes but no one gave them any thought the moment something troublesome happened among the rich. That very morning he had received a report of a body floating in the Thames near Bow and a woman who had been stabbed at her flower stall in Leicester Square. And instead he was stuck with this.
He rang the bell of 39 Hilldrop Crescent and turned around as he waited for the door to be opened, staring at the dying flowers in the front garden which had not been watered in some time. A group of children were running along the street, chasing a small dog. The malnourished mutt was barking weakly and seemed to be lame. He frowned and watched as they caught it and lifted it in the air, and he was about to go over and intervene before they did the animal any further harm when the door opened behind him and he turned around quickly instead.
‘Can I help you?’ Hawley asked, adjusting his pince-nez to look more closely at the smartly dressed middle-aged man who was standing before him, holding his hat in front of him in his hands. Somehow, before even a word was said, he knew that this someone was here on official business.
‘Dr Crippen?’ asked Dew.
‘Yes.’
‘Inspector Walter Dew,’ he said. ‘From Scotland Yard.’ Dew was well aware that one of the most important moments in any investigation was the one taking place at that very moment. Typically, a person would either look frightened when confronted by an officer of the Yard, or they would look confused. He could generally tell in an instant whether someone had anything to hide. On this occasion, however, there was no perceptible difference in Dr Crippen’s face, a rare feat for anyone.
‘And how may I help you, Inspector?’ he asked, his arm blocking entry into the house as they stood there.
‘I wonder if I could take a few moments of your time,’ Dew replied. ‘Inside.’
Hawley hesitated for only a moment before opening the door wider and inviting the inspector in. The house was deathly quiet and dark, and Dew looked around uneasily as he stood in the hallway.
‘Please. Come into the living room,’ Hawley said in a relaxed tone. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied, looking around. He was trained to observe his surroundings quickly in case they might be of use in solving a crime. The room was spotlessly clean and a bowl of fruit stood in the centre of the table. The cushions on the sofa and chairs were arranged at neat angles and the fireplace had been recently cleaned. It struck him how orderly the house was in comparison to the garden. ‘I hoped I’d find you at home,’ said Dew, raising his voice so that Hawley could hear him in the kitchen. ‘I wasn’t sure whether you’d be at work or not.’
‘Normally I would be at this time,’ he said, coming back into the room and laying out some cups on the table. ‘I haven’t been feeling very well this week, however, and my assistant has taken over.’
‘And where is that?’ asked Dew.
‘Where is what?’
‘Where you work?’
‘Oh. Munyon’s Homoeopathic Medicines,’ Hawley replied, pouring the tea. ‘Perhaps you know it? A pharmacy in New Oxford Street.’
Dew nodded. He had seen a number of such stores popping up around London but he didn’t hold with them. The type of man who had never been sick a day in his life, he wasn’t interested in miracle cures and eastern medications.
‘I confess, I have never been visited by a member of the force before,’ said Hawley, as they sat down. ‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’
‘Nothing too serious, I hope,’ said Dew, removing a notebook from his pocket and licking the top of his pencil out of habit. ‘I just wanted to ask you a few questions, that’s all.’
‘Certainly.’
‘About your wife.’
Hawley blinked and hesitated for a moment. ‘My wife?’ he asked.
‘Yes. We’ve had a complaint brought to us and—’
‘About my wife?’ He appeared to be amazed.
‘Your wife died recently, did she not?’ Inspector Dew asked, preferring to put the questions rather than answer them.
‘Sadly, yes.’
‘Can you tell me about that, please?’
‘Of course. What would you like to know?’
‘The details surrounding her death, mainly. When it took place. Where. Anything you might want to tell me in fact.’
Hawley thought about it. He’d been aware that a moment like this might arrive and had prepared a speech for the occasion, but the unexpectedness of it now had made him a little forgetful.
‘Cora,’ he began, ‘Mrs Crippen, that is. She had a relative in America. In California. An uncle. And he wrote to say that he was very ill and had only a month or two left to live. This was some months ago, of course. She had been very close to him as a girl, and naturally she was very upset.’
‘Naturally,’ said Dew.
‘So she decided to visit him.’
‘All the way to America?’ he asked. ‘It seems a long way to go for just a brief stay. Didn’t he have any family closer to home?’
‘None at all. He had never married, you see, and was entirely alone. And as I said, Inspector, they had been very close once, and so he contacted her. She couldn’t bear to think of him dying without anyone to comfort him at the end. So she decided to go herself.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘And where was this exactly?’
‘California.’
‘So she went to California to look after him and then—?’
‘I believe she caught a virus on board the boat and was feeling ill when she arrived in New York. She cabled me from there to tell me about it but said she was sure she would feel better once she got to her uncle’s.’
‘Do you still have that wire?’
‘I’m afraid not. I usually throw things like that away. I had no idea I might need it.’
‘Quite, quite,’ he said, making a note. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, then she had to travel across the States, from the east coast to the west. That must have taken it out of her further, I expect. I didn’t hear from her for about a week or two after that, but then the Californian authorities wired me to tell me that she had died suddenly. Her uncle had outlived her by only a few days and they were buried together.’
Inspector Dew nodded and continued to make notes, even though Hawley had fallen silent. The inspector didn’t want to say anything yet; it was his habit to let the person he was interrogating say as much as possible in the hope that they might incriminate themselves. Sometimes the pressure of the silence made them say more than they had intended. The ploy worked, for after a whole minute and a half with neither man speaking, Hawley finally found his voice again.
‘It was quite devastating for me,’ he said. ‘I never would have let her go if I’d known what would happen. I have heard those transatlantic boats can be death traps. I travelled on one once myself, when I left America for London, but I would not want to do so again.’
‘You’re an American?’ Inspector Dew asked, surprised.
‘I was born in Michigan.’
‘I’d never have guessed it. You don’t have any trace of an accent.’
Hawley smiled. ‘I’ve lived here a long time,’ he said. ‘I think it’s faded.’
‘It’s been reported that there is no record of your wife being in California,’ Dew said after a moment, licking his lips and watching Hawley’s face for any perceptible change.
‘How’s that?’ he asked.
‘Foreigners are obliged to report to the authorities on arrival in a state,’ the inspector explained. ‘It seems there is no record of a Cora Crippen arriving in California.’
‘No record,’ Hawley repeated, thinking this through.
‘Nor, for that matter, is there a death certificate. Or any evidence of a funeral.’
‘I see,’ he said, nodding his head.
Silence ensued again for a few moments, but on this occasion it was Inspector Dew who broke it.
‘Perhaps you could shed some light on that,’ he said.
‘I assume, Inspector,’ Hawley said, ‘that what you are saying is there is no record of a Cora Crippen arriving in, or dying in, California.’
‘Just so.’
‘The thing is, my wife was a rather unusual case in that she had a number of, how shall I put this, pseudonyms.’
‘Really?’ Dew said, arching an eyebrow. ‘And why would she do that? Was she a novelist?’
‘No, certainly not,’ Hawley said with a laugh. ‘She was a performer. A singer in a music hall. And in the world of the stage she called herself Bella Elmore. So it is possible she used that name in California. Or even her maiden name, Cora Turner. Or there again, it is entirely possible that her passport had her listed as Kunigunde Mackamotski.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Kunigunde Mackamotski,’ he repeated. ‘Her birth name. She was of Russian-Polish descent, you see. She changed her name to Cora Turner when she was about sixteen as she felt that such an ethnic name would hinder her chances in life. Perhaps she was right, I don’t know. But it’s perfectly possible that that was the name on her passport, since it would have necessarily been the name on her birth certificate. Unfortunately, I never saw the document so I can’t be sure. But there we are, you see. She could have been using any of those names over there. To tell the truth, Cora Crippen is one of the less likely.’
Dew nodded and closed his notebook. ‘I believe that was the only name which was looked for,’ he said, satisfied with Hawley’s answer. ‘I think that’s probably all I needed to know, so I’ll take my leave of you. I’m sorry to have disturbed you and had to ask you such personal questions. I’m sure you’re still in mourning for Mrs Crippen.’
‘It was no trouble at all, Inspector,’ Hawley said, standing up and ignoring the second part of Walter Dew’s comment.
‘And my condolences too, of course, on the death of your wife.’
Hawley acknowledged this with a handshake. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But can I ask you a question?’ Dew nodded. ‘What brought you around here to ask me these questions in the first place? How had Scotland Yard heard about Cora’s death?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t go into that, Doctor,’ he replied. ‘All I can say is that a certain party or parties were worried that Mrs Crippen might have come to harm. But rest assured, I will be speaking to the parties concerned later today and I doubt if we will be taking the matter any further.’
They walked to the door and Hawley opened it, amazed that it had been as easy as this.
‘Just one last thing before I go,’ said Dew, before stepping outside.
‘Inspector?’
‘The wire.’
Hawley stared at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The wire from the Californian authorities. Informing you of your poor wife’s death. I just need to take that with me for the file, to prove there was no funny business. You understand.’
‘The wire,’ Hawley repeated, his face growing a little paler as he licked his lips and thought about it. ‘I’m not sure if—’
‘Oh come, come, Dr Crippen,’ Inspector Dew said in a friendly tone of voice. ‘I can understand your disposing of your wife’s wire from New York informing you that she had got there safely. But surely you would have held on to such an important document as this.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose I would.’
‘Then if you could just get it for me,’ he said, closing the door again so that they were standing in the darkness of the hallway again. For the first time, Dew realized that there might be more to this than met the eye. They stood there together for a moment before Hawley raised his eyes from the carpet and looked the inspector in the face.
‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘I had better tell you the truth.’
‘Yes, Doctor,’ he replied, a frisson of surprise running through his body. ‘I think you’d better.’
‘You’ve caught me in a lie, you see.’
‘Perhaps we should go back inside,’ suggested Dew, his interest picking up somewhat now. Had she really come to mischief? Was there to be a sudden and unexpected confession?
They went back into the living room and sat down. Hawley had never thought through his fiction up to this point before, but, sitting there now, an idea sprang into his head and he scrambled through the implications in his mind to make sure it made sense before saying anything. For his part, Inspector Dew was watching him with some sympathy. Although he had only been in his company a short time, he had already appraised the doctor in his mind. He seemed a harmless, polite and mild-mannered fellow, far removed from the degenerates whom he had to deal with on a daily basis. He doubted that this man would be capable of what Mrs Louise Smythson and Mrs Margaret Nash had suggested.
‘My wife,’ Hawley began, taking a deep breath before continuing. ‘You see, Inspector, my wife is not dead at all.’
Dew raised an eyebrow and took his notebook out of his pocket again. ‘Not dead,’ he said in a flat voice.
‘No. In fact, she is very much alive.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Dr Crippen,’ said Dew. ‘But weren’t you the one who told her friends that she had died?’
‘Just so.’
‘Perhaps you can explain, then?’
‘Cora has indeed gone to America,’ he said. ‘Although whether she is in California or not, I do not know. If I had to make a prediction, I would be inclined to think Florida, but that’s pure guesswork on my part.’
‘Florida? Why on earth Florida?’
‘Because that’s where he was from, you see.’
‘He?’
Hawley bit his lip and looked away, shaking his head sadly. ‘It’s scandalous, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Which is why I didn’t want anyone to know.’
‘Please, Doctor, if you could just tell me the truth, it would make things a lot easier.’
‘She left me for another man, you see. As I told you, my wife was a music-hall singer and she met this fellow at a show one evening. He was a wealthy American and had been travelling the world. England was his last stop before going home. Anyway, she betrayed me with him and fell pregnant.’
‘I see.’
‘And then she told me that she was in love with the fellow and that he was taking her back to America with him. Naturally I was devastated. I loved my wife very much, Inspector. Truly I did. Although I think she found my lifestyle not as exciting as the one she craved. She often accused me of holding her back. This other fellow offered her something more, I expect. Money, glamour, a new life in America. I said I would forgive her and bring up the child as my own, but she wasn’t interested. One evening she was here, Inspector, and the next morning she was packing her bags and left London entirely. I didn’t know what to do. If the news broke, there would be a scandal. I am a doctor and need my patients in order to make a living. If they heard about this, well, my practice would disintegrate overnight. And . . .’ Here he wiped a tear from his eye as he looked more and more bereft. ‘If I am to be truly honest with you, I will admit that I was embarrassed. I felt it made me look like only half a man. I couldn’t bear it, Inspector. To be cuckolded by a man from my own country. It was more than I could deal with.’
Inspector Dew reached across and patted Hawley on the elbow; the last thing he wanted was to be drying the man’s tears, but he could see how sorrowful this fellow was, and he was not immune to another’s suffering.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Crippen,’ he said. ‘I can see this is painful for you.’
‘No, it is I who am sorry,’ he replied, shaking his head quickly. ‘I should never have come up with such an elaborate story in the first place. It was wrong of me. I think that in the back of my mind I actually wished she had died rather than left me. Does that sound a terrible thing to say?’
‘Completely understandable, I think,’ said Dew. ‘No, it’s unforgivable. Perhaps I didn’t make her happy.’
‘You can’t blame yourself.’
‘But I do, Inspector. And now look at the trouble I’ve caused. I have Scotland Yard interrogating me, and now the truth is bound to come out. Everyone will find out. I’ll be pitied and despised in equal parts. And I have only myself to blame.’
‘I’m afraid the truth always outs, Doctor,’ Dew admitted. ‘But the fact is that some of your wife’s friends have not entirely believed your story anyway. Perhaps it would be best if you told them yourself? Remember, you are the injured party here, not the victim. Perhaps they will show you sympathy.’ He scarcely believed his own words but thought they had to be said. He glanced at his watch. It was almost one o’clock. ‘I was planning on having a little lunch before returning to the office,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d care to join me?’
‘Really?’ Hawley asked, surprised at the inspector’s friendliness. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Certainly. I don’t care for cases like this, if I’m to be honest with you. Prying into another fellow’s domestic arrangements. Makes me feel shabby.’
Hawley thought about it. Given the choice, he would have preferred for Inspector Dew to leave Hilldrop Crescent immediately and never return, but that didn’t seem to be an option. The only way out of this mess appeared to be by seeing his deception through to the end.
‘I don’t like leaving you in this condition either,’ said Dew, real concern showing in his voice.
‘All right, Inspector,’ he said finally. ‘Thank you, I’d be delighted. I’ll fetch my coat.’
He left the room and Dew stood by the window, looking out into the street. The children had disappeared now, and so had the lame dog, and he wondered whether he should have intervened earlier in their game of torture. The poor creature was probably dead by now. His stomach grumbled a little and he glanced around to see where his companion was. The poor man, he thought. Having to reveal all that to a total stranger. He thought about Mrs Louise Smythson and Mrs Margaret Nash and despised them a little; if they had simply kept their noses out of Dr Crippen’s business, he thought, then this innocent would not have had to reveal such personal information. It was too bad. He wished for a moment that he could charge them for wasting police time, but he knew that such a thing was impossible.
‘Are you ready, Inspector?’ Hawley asked, opening the front door.
‘Ready,’ he said, following the man out of Hilldrop Crescent and into the street, the darkness and silence within guarding the secrets that the house contained.
They dined at a small restaurant not far from Hawley’s Camden home and quickly discovered that they had a great deal in common. For one thing, Inspector Dew—who was only a year older than Dr Crippen—had struggled to join the police force in much the same way as he had struggled to become a doctor.
‘My parents were the problem,’ Dew told him, cheerfully eating a piece of rare steak with mushrooms and fried potatoes, sweeping the whole thing up with a slice of bread and leaving white portions of plate visible beneath. ‘Well, my mother in particular. She was convinced that it was not a suitable job for a respectable young man. She wanted me to go into the law as a barrister or join the clergy, neither of which appealed to me. Didn’t like the outfits, you see. Wigs for one, skirts for the other. I didn’t think so. So I stood by my guns, and here I am today. Inspector Dew of the Yard, if you please. She never fully approved, though. Even when I started to get promoted through the ranks, she was still disappointed in me.’
‘My mother was much the same,’ Hawley admitted. ‘But she considered the medical profession an insult to God. She thought anyone who attempted to cure a disease was tampering with His will. “God’s glorious work,” she called it. She never took any medicine herself, wouldn’t even stem a cut with a bandage. She used to burn my copies of Scientific American, you know.’
‘Good Lord. But she must have been proud of you when you graduated, surely? It’s not every man has the brain power to become a doctor.’
He thought about it. ‘I don’t believe she was,’ he replied, ignoring the rather obvious fact that he had never actually graduated as a doctor. (This was, however, something he had long ago convinced himself had actually happened. If he tried hard enough, he could even remember scenes from the day. Collecting his degree. Shaking hands with the head of the university. They were all there in his imagination, feigning reality.) ‘Actually, we haven’t spoken in many years.’
‘You shouldn’t let that be the case,’ said Dew. ‘I mean, I still have lingering resentment towards my mother for putting so many obstacles in my path along the way, but by God I wouldn’t be without her.’
‘She’s still alive then?’
‘Oh yes. Eighty-four years old and the constitution of an ox. I have dinner with her once a week and she still acts as if she could put me over her knee if I don’t finish my vegetables.’ He smiled a little and shook his head. ‘And I never did much care for them, either. Still, I wouldn’t have her any other way,’ he said.
‘I expect mine is still in Michigan,’ Hawley said, unmoved by the memory. ‘At least, I haven’t heard anything to the contrary.’
‘And aren’t you interested at all? Don’t you want to stay in touch?’
‘It seems to me, Inspector, that most of the people in whom I have ever put any trust in life have let me down. Particularly the women. If I am to be honest with you, I believe that my own character has been formed by these people and certain incidents associated with them, and my character is not one that I am always proud of.’
Dew frowned, intrigued by what the other had said. ‘How so?’ he asked.
‘I think I am a weak man,’ Hawley admitted, amazed that he could speak so openly to the inspector, but sensing in him a kindred spirit. ‘I find it difficult to stand up for myself in difficult situations. My first wife was a kind soul, but had she lived—’
‘Your first wife?’ Dew asked, surprised. ‘I was not aware you had been married before.’
‘Oh yes. Back in America. Many years ago now, when I was a young man. Charlotte Bell was her name. A pretty girl and perfectly pleasant. We were only married a few years, however, when she was taken from me. A traffic accident. It was quite tragic really.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s a long time ago and I have no lingering feeling. I mention her merely to point out the fact that, had she lived, I believe she would have dominated me very much. She was very different from Cora, but she would have made certain . . . demands, I think. I don’t know what would have happened between us in the end, but I’ve often thought it might well have ended badly.’
‘As it did between you and Cora?’
‘Indeed,’ Hawley said, finishing his meal and pushing the plate away. ‘Although I should, of course, have expected it. Can I tell you something, Inspector? Something just between you and me?’
Dew nodded. He forgot, for a moment, that he had originally met Dr Crippen with his professional hat on and he felt that during this short afternoon they had become something close to friends. ‘Of course, Hawley,’ he said, employing his Christian name for the first time. ‘You can trust me entirely.’
‘This American fellow she ran off with,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t the first one, you see. I know of at least three other people that Cora had enjoyed affairs with. An Italian music teacher for one. An actor she met once at a party. A boy not yet twenty who lodged with us for a time. And I’m sure there were others too. She had an active social life. She worked at the music hall, you see.’
‘Yes, you mentioned that.’
‘I think she used the stage name Bella Elmore because Cora Crippen wasn’t good enough for her. She had to sound grand. She always had to be someone she wasn’t. That was her problem, you see. She couldn’t stand for a moment to think that she might be just a regular, common human being. No frills. No adornments. Nothing special. Just a run-of-the-mill person whose dreams get shattered and crushed in the gutter like everyone else’s.’ His tone had changed to one of bitterness and Inspector Dew noticed it, but he felt only sympathy for him, not suspicion.
‘You’ve been very honest with me, Dr Crippen,’ he said. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘I apologize if I’m embarrassing you. It’s just that, having told so many people that she had died, it’s something of a weight off my mind to tell the truth for once. It’s remarkably liberating.’
‘You haven’t embarrassed me at all. Quite the contrary.’
Hawley smiled. He wondered for a moment whether he should consider a career in fiction writing; not only had he managed to invent a credible story on the spot, one which could fool a successful inspector from Scotland Yard, but he seemed to have gained a friend out of it too.
‘Actually,’ Dew said, considering the matter, ‘and I’m sorry to go on about it, but there is just one other thing I need.’
‘Yes?’
‘The name of the fellow she ran off with. And where he was staying in London. Just to close the file, you understand. I’m sorry, but my superiors can be terrible sticklers about these things.’
Hawley blinked. Had he fooled Dew, or had Dew fooled him with his friendly air? He considered the matter quickly; there was no way out of it.
‘Well, I don’t have it on me, of course,’ he said.
‘Naturally, naturally, but at home?’
‘I think so,’ Hawley said hesitantly. ‘Yes, I believe I might have it written down somewhere for emergencies.’
‘Then if you could just give that to me, we can let the matter drop.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, nodding, barely listening to the inspector as he thought the matter through. He thought about the house, about the letter. He looked at Dew and wondered what he would say when the policeman realized how much he had embellished the story once again, and how much he had invented. ‘Shall we go then?’
‘Certainly.’
The two men rose and Inspector Dew paid the bill at the counter, refusing Hawley’s offer to share the expense. They stepped out of the restaurant, and it had started to rain. Neither man had an umbrella with him and Dew cursed under his breath suddenly as he looked at his watch. He spotted a hansom cab approaching and hailed it immediately. ‘I’m sorry, I’d forgotten I have an appointment at three,’ he explained. ‘And in this weather I think I’d better take a cab or risk being late. Can I call around in a day or so and collect those details?’
‘Certainly, Inspector,’ Hawley said, relieved, stretching out his hand. ‘In the evening preferably. After work.’
‘Of course. Well, I’ll see you then. And again, Dr Crippen—’
‘Hawley.’
‘Again, Hawley, I do apologize for having to put you through that ordeal. And I appreciate your frankness with me. Let me assure you I will be as discreet about the matter as possible.’
‘Thank you, Inspector. I’ll see you soon then.’
‘Yes. Goodbye.’ He jumped into the waiting cab and drove off, waving a hand out the window as he left, as impressed with Hawley Crippen as he had ever been with any suspect in his career. Standing in the rain, however, watching him as he drove away, Hawley was less sure. ‘This,’ he muttered to himself as he turned around and made for home, ‘is all far from over.’
Monday, 11 July
It was three days before Inspector Dew was able to call back at 39 Hilldrop Crescent, and he had left it until the evening, not just because Dr Crippen had suggested that this was the best time to catch him at home, but because his own working day was over by then and he hoped to interest Hawley in a drink at the local pub. His life contained few friends and he believed that he might have discovered one in this pleasant fellow. It was totally unlike him to encourage a new friendship, but their conversation at lunch had energized him and stirred memories. In the intervening days he had set about putting the minds of his most recent tormentors at rest regarding the supposed disappearance of Cora Crippen, and for the first time in his career he did so without discovering any evidence to prove the suspect’s innocence first. To his irritation, the Police Commissioner, who had so insisted in the first place that he call around to investigate, scarcely seemed to remember the original query when he contacted him.
‘Crippen?’ he shouted down the phone. ‘What Crippen? What on earth are you talking about, Dew?’
‘Doctor Crippen,’ he replied. ‘You asked me to investigate the matter of his wife’s disappearance?’
‘I asked you? When did I? Have you gone mad?’
‘A few days ago,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Lord Smythson had spoken to you about it.’
‘Smythson? Oh yes, rings a bell somewhere,’ he grunted. ‘Well, what of it? Did he do it or didn’t he?’
Dew laughed. ‘He’s no more guilty of murdering his wife than I am,’ he said. ‘He’s a perfectly pleasant man in fact. A few personal troubles, but nothing to push him to that extreme.’
‘And where’s the wife, then? Back home already, is she? Come to her senses?’
‘Not exactly, Commissioner. It seems she ran off with another fellow. He was a bit embarrassed about it, so he told everyone she’d died. Not clever, but not criminal either.’
There was silence on the other end of the line; his colleague had not reached such an elevated position without some sleuthing abilities of his own. ‘He told you that, did he?’ he asked. ‘And you believed him?’
‘Yes, I believed him,’ Dew replied.
‘Why?’
‘Because I can read a man, Commissioner. I’ve been in this game long enough and I can promise you that Dr Crippen is absolutely innocent of any wrongdoing. He knows he’s made a stupid mistake and I gave him a good telling-off for it,’ he lied. ‘I don’t think he’ll be doing anything like that again.’
‘Right,’ said the commissioner, not entirely convinced. ‘Well, get on to that woman and let her know that everything’s all right, will you?’
‘The Smythson woman. The one who started this whole thing off in the first place. Tell her we’ve investigated thoroughly and there’s no case to answer. Hopefully she’ll stop bothering us all then.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, irritated that he had to perform this task when it had been the Police Commissioner who had agreed to her request that he should investigate in the first place. He was about to suggest, humorously but hopefully, his idea of arresting her for wasting police time, but the line had already gone dead. He flicked through the small file he had created on Dr Crippen and picked up the phone again to call Mrs Louise Smythson.
Hilldrop Crescent was a lot quieter than it had been the last time he’d seen it. The children were nowhere to be seen and the street outside Hawley Crippen’s home was almost deserted. He looked at the row of neat, terraced houses and wondered for a moment why his own life had not led him to a home like this.
He paused at the window of number 39 and peered inside, and he was surprised to see the figure of a young boy in the distance, tidying up in the kitchen. He squinted his eyes for a better look, but it was difficult to make him out. Did Dr Crippen have a son he hadn’t mentioned? he wondered to himself, stepping up to the door and knocking.
When it opened he was surprised, and a little embarrassed, to see that it was not a young man at all who had been inside, but a young woman with a slim, boyish build standing before him. She was wearing a pair of Hawley’s old trousers, their turn-ups rolled up, and they hung baggily on her, giving her an urchin-like appearance that Dew found strangely appealing. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ he said, doffing his hat and blushing a little at her strange appearance. ‘Sorry to disturb you. Inspector Walter Dew. Scotland Yard. Is Dr Crippen in, do you know?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘He’s at his surgery tonight. Can I help you at all?’
‘Oh,’ Dew said, disappointed. ‘And you are . . . ?’
‘Ethel LeNeve,’ she replied, breaking into a wide smile that made him notice for the first time the scar above her lip. His policeman’s mind made him wonder where she had acquired it. A childhood accident? A violent father? An argumentative lover?
‘Oh, Miss LeNeve,’ he said, nodding. ‘Yes, of course. I’ve heard your name mentioned.’
She cocked her head to one side in surprise and stared at him. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘Might I ask where?’
That had been less than tactful of him and he regretted it. He could hardly tell her that there were certain ladies in society who considered her to be a harlot and a thief; that would hardly be polite. For once he was lost for words, but she saved him by not waiting for an answer. ‘Perhaps we should go inside,’ she said. ‘Rather than talk in the street.’
‘Certainly,’ he agreed. ‘Thank you.’
She ushered him into the living room where he had talked with Dr Crippen a few days before. He waited for her to sit down before taking the same seat he had used on that occasion.
‘You’ll have to forgive my appearance,’ she said, looking down at her manly clothes and more than aware of the dirt and perspiration on her face. ‘I decided to do some cleaning and borrowed some of Hawley’s old things. I must look a fright.’
‘Not at all, Miss LeNeve,’ he said. ‘On the contrary. Hard work never makes anyone look any the worse.’
She smiled, put at ease by his manner. ‘Hawley told me you’d been to see him,’ she said after a brief silence, ready to set aside the small talk and get down to business. ‘Actually, he was quite taken with you, I think.’
Dew felt pleased and encouraged that he did not have to hide the reason for his visit. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Well, I’m delighted to hear it. I must admit that in all my years in the force I never felt quite so foolish as I did when I understood the kind of man Dr Crippen is. I was only following instructions to follow up the lead, you understand.’
‘Of course. But might I ask—who suggested such a monstrous thing in the first place?’
The inspector thought about it. Strictly speaking he should not tell her, but already he had developed an idea that he and the Crippen-LeNeves were going to become fast friends. He recalled the conversation he had endured with Mrs Louise Smythson over the phone and knew that he could barely tolerate her.
‘Innocent?’ she had cried, horrified when he told her the case against Dr Crippen was closed. ‘Hawley Crippen innocent? Presumably only in a language where “innocent” actually means “guilty.” For heaven’s sake, he killed her, Inspector Dew. As sure as eggs is eggs, he slit her throat from ear to ear and drank her blood. I’m sure of it.’
‘I don’t think so, Mrs Smythson,’ he replied, part of him trying to keep his temper in check, the other part trying not to laugh at her lurid fantasies. ‘I’ve spoken to Dr Crippen and he has assured me that—’
‘Oh please,’ she said interrupting him. ‘He’s assured you that he didn’t do it, so that’s an end to the matter, is that it? So tell me, Inspector, if you fellows ever manage to catch Jack the Ripper slashing up some poor tart, his arms dripping in blood, and he says, “honestly, it wasn’t me,” then you’ll set him free? Is that the way Scotland Yard conduct their business these days? Oh my! Maybe he is Jack the Ripper!’
‘Mrs Smythson, we have strict guidelines to follow when undertaking an investigation,’ Dew said. ‘Unfortunately I am not at liberty to outline them to you at this time. However, rest assured that I have spoken to Dr Crippen and have learned a little more about this case than you might currently know, and I am simply informing you that he has no charges to answer. Also, I think perhaps you are letting your imagination run away with you a little and that, I promise you, can be a dangerous thing.’
‘Inspector, from the day I met that man I knew there was something fishy about him. It’s in his eyes! The way he looks at you! It’s clear he can’t be trusted.’
‘Nevertheless—’
‘Ha!’ she said, exasperated with him and not a little disappointed that there was not going to be a more gruesome end to this tale.
‘Nevertheless, Mrs Smythson, if you require any further information, I suggest you talk to Dr Crippen himself and not to the police authorities.’
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ she said haughtily. ‘He’d probably come after me with a bread knife if he knew I’d been talking. Heavens!’ she added, startled. ‘You didn’t tell him, did you? You didn’t say it was I or Mrs Nash who came to see you?’
‘Of course not,’ he said, wishing he had. ‘Such conversations as the ones that we have had are always kept strictly confidential. And when you went above my head and asked your brother-in-law to speak to one of my superiors, that’s kept confidential too, so you needn’t worry.’ He had thrown that in as a reprimand and to prove that there was solidarity of a sort among officers. ‘However, that’s an end to the matter now, once and for all.’
‘It’s an end to Cora Crippen,’ she said. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Inspector.’
‘I believe I have, Mrs Smythson. Now I must urge you to let the matter drop. Any spurious allegations on your part could lead to criminal proceedings.’
‘But that’s exactly what we’re looking for!’
‘Against you, Mrs Smythson. You can’t just go around accusing innocent people of murder whenever you feel like it. There are laws against slander, you know.’ There was a silence at the other end of the phone for a few moments and eventually he was forced to say ‘Hello?’ to discover whether she was still there or not. When she finally spoke, her voice was deep and angry.
‘I hope you’re not threatening me, Inspector Dew.’
‘Certainly not. I’m simply trying to help you by pointing out—’
‘You are aware who my brother-in-law is?’
‘Only too well. However, the facts are the facts and I’m afraid that’s all I can offer you now.’
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘But when you find that you were wrong and I was right and that conniving miscreant is swinging at the end of a rope, perhaps you’ll see your way to offering me an apology. You’ve let me down once too often now, Inspector Dew.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he replied, exhausted. ‘And thank you for your interest, Mrs Smythson. Goodbye.’ He hung up promptly, stepping away from the phone lest it jump up and bite him.
‘Let’s just say,’ said Inspector Dew, choosing his words carefully, ‘that certain members of Cora Crippen’s circle of friends disapprove of Dr Crippen.’
Ethel smiled. ‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘I said as much to Hawley. I said it would be someone from that chattering bunch of idle women. Nothing else to do, so they make up ridiculous allegations and waste everyone’s time pursuing them.’
‘Obviously it would be wrong of me to say that I agree heartily with every word you say,’ he replied with a smile, ‘so I won’t say so.’
Ethel laughed and looked down at the table, chipping away a small candle-wax smudge with the nail of her finger. ‘I think we understand each other, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Would you like some tea?’
He shook his head. ‘I won’t stay long,’ he said. ‘What time do you expect Dr Crippen home?’
‘Any time now,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘Oh, do stay. I know he’d be sorry to have missed you.’
‘Perhaps a few more minutes,’ he said. He licked his lips and wondered whether it would be forward of him to ask the question which was hovering around in his mind. He decided in favour of it; after all, they were getting along well and she appeared to have nothing to hide. ‘Tell me it’s none of my business if you like,’ he began, ‘but what exactly is your position in this household?’
‘My position?’
‘Yes,’ he said, feeling himself begin to blush a little at the personal nature of the question. ‘Have you been helping Dr Crippen keep his house in order since his wife left him?’
She thought about it and decided on honesty. ‘Hawley and I have worked together for many years,’ she explained. ‘At Munyon’s, you know.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’
‘I was his assistant there, you see. Well, I still am in point of fact. And we’ve become fast friends. And since Cora left, well, it’s true that we’ve built on that friendship.’
‘You’re living here then?’
‘I care for him very much, Inspector.’
‘Of course. I wouldn’t have suggested otherwise.’
‘I think I can make him happy,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘And he can do the same for me. Although, considering the relationship he’s just got out of, it wouldn’t take much to be an improvement.’
Dew raised an eyebrow. ‘You knew Cora Crippen well then?’ he asked.
‘Not very well,’ she replied, regretting her last comment. ‘But well enough. Well enough to know that she was the devil’s own hound. And that she was only put on this earth to make poor Hawley’s life a living nightmare.’ Inspector Dew nodded and pursed his lips. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I know it sounds as though I’m going too far and becoming melodramatic, but you didn’t know her. She made his life a misery. Every moment of every day she mistreated him.’
‘He seemed quite fond of her when he spoke to me,’ Dew said doubtfully.
‘Well, that’s Hawley for you,’ she explained. ‘He won’t be rude about her to anyone, not even to me. He’s that kind of a man. The old school. No matter what she did, he forgave her. She cheated on him, she insulted him, she beat him—’
‘She beat him?’
‘Many times. I saw the scars myself. On one occasion I was sure he needed stitches on his face, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It took months for the wound to heal properly. Oh, this is him now, I think,’ she added, straining her neck to see out of the window and spying Hawley walking down the street towards them.
Dew shook his head. ‘I hadn’t realized,’ he said. ‘He had confided in me something about her . . . infidelities, but nothing about the violence.’
‘Of course if we want to be Christian,’ said Ethel, ‘we could suggest that there was something wrong in her head, something that made her behave like that despite herself. But I’m not sure I do want to be Christian, Inspector. Does that make me sound hard?’
‘You care about him,’ he said. ‘It’s understandable.’
‘The truth is, I don’t believe that it’s the case anyway,’ she said. ‘I think she was just so frustrated in life that her only way to survive it was to cause misery for someone else. All she wanted was to be a star, you see. A singing sensation, as she kept telling everyone. Her biggest ambition in life was to see her name splashed across the front pages of the newspapers. To go down in history. To have people write books about her. She was deluded.’
‘And you don’t believe it will ever happen.’
‘Of course not, Inspector. She was a second-rate talent. She could hold a tune, but I can draw a little. It doesn’t make me Monet.’
Dew laughed and looked around, wondering why the front door had not opened yet. ‘He’s on his way?’ he asked.
Ethel looked out through the window again, but she couldn’t see her lover anywhere in the street. ‘Oh!’ she said, a little surprised. ‘I was sure I saw him. I must have been mistaken. But please do wait, Inspector. I’m sure he’ll be along soon.’
He glanced at his watch and shook his head. ‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tell him from me that I’ll call around again on Wednesday evening. Say about eight o’clock? If he could be in then, I’d appreciate it.’
He stood up and reached for his hat, and she walked ahead of him to the door. ‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘I’ll make sure he’s here. He’ll be very sorry he missed you.’
‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘But if he could be here then, I’d appreciate it.’
‘Of course.’
He walked down the steps and was about to step out into the street when she stopped him. ‘Inspector?’ she called, and he looked back at her, waiting for her to continue. ‘You do see it, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘You see what a good man he is? What a gentle man? It’s not just me, I mean.’
He thought about it and envied Hawley the love of this woman. Hesitating for only a moment, he smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, Miss LeNeve,’ he said. ‘Yes, I believe I do.’
She smiled now, relieved, and stepped back into the house, closing the door behind her. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She considered returning to the garden but it was getting late now and she was feeling too tired to work, so she went upstairs to change instead.
Within five minutes she heard the front door open and stepped out on to the landing. ‘Hawley,’ she said, delighted to see him. ‘You’ve just missed our visitor.’
‘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 perhaps 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.