'I don't think so.'
Ethel's eyes flicked towards the patients 'What about her luggage?'
'I suppose she took enough.' Why do women ask so closely about trifles like luggage? he wondered. He added in a low voice, 'She left a note saying I must do what I could to cover up the scandal.'
They looked at each other deeply for some seconds. All they longed for had unexpectedly, unbelievably happened. Remembering his note, she asked, 'Did you want to go somewhere this evening? Frascati's?'
'Perhaps I'd better get home this evening. There may be a wireless from the ship.'
'There must be a lot to clear up.' He nodded. 'Can I come and help?'
'Wait till Monday. We can go to the theatre then. It'll cheer me up.' He placed his hand upon hers by the typewriter, clasped it fiercely and left.
By Saturday, all was done. Sunday was Crippen's bath day. He closed the window, lit the geyser and lay in the hot water, gazing through the steam into the bright morning sunshine, deliciously gemьtlich. His only concern was the Gray's Anatomy, burnt in the kitchen range, with Belle's womb and vagina wrapped in _the News of the World._ He wondered if Dr. Beckett was expecting it back. It would be polite to enquire.
When Crippen did call upon Eliot, a couple of months had passed. Towards two o'clock on the afternoon of Saturday, April 2, he appeared at the People's surgery-which everyone in Holloway called 'The Free Medicine Shop.' Nancy had a coat over her blue-and-white striped nurse's uniform, specially made by Liberty's in Regent Street. She was going with Eliot to the Brecknock Dining Rooms, which served beefsteak pudding, cheese and tea on marble-topped tables for sixpence.
Their usual patients were augmented that morning by venturesome newcomers from the most unfortunate of British classes, the genteel lowest of the lower-middle, who fiercely upheld their distinction from the workmen. They could read. Friday's _Daily Mail_ had given a whole page to the surgery, with an inspiring photograph of Nancy-the young and beautiful daughter of a New York millionaire, sleeps rolled up to bandage and poultice the blemishes of the poor, called throughout Holloway 'The Angel from America.' Eliot had directed, 'Cut it out and send it to your father. Let him enjoy his philanthropy by proxy.'
Eliot greeted Crippen with a started look. The usual colourful tie was replaced by a black one, a broad band of black crepe ringed the sleeve of his light grey overcoat, his expression was of strained solemnity. He removed his bowler. 'I have bad news. I thought you would care to know, as you were acquainted, and live so near. Belle is dead.'
'I'm so sorry.' Eliot used his professional condoling voice. 'When did it happen?'
'The Wednesday before Easter. March 23.'
'I'm sorry, too Dr Crippen,' said Nancy 'When was the funeral?'
'Oh, Belle didn't die here' Crippen came into the shop, which reeked of the crowd that had packed its benches since seven in the morning. 'She died in California. She suddenly had to visit a sick relative, she took a chill on the boat going across, and never shook it off. I was shocked at a letter from her relations, saying she was very ill. Then I had one from Belle herself, telling me not to worry, she wasn't so bad as people said. I didn't know what to think. My head was full of bees,' he complained pathetically.
'Next thing, I had a cable saying poor Belle was dangerously ill with double broncho-pneumonia. I had to consider going over right away. But of course, it's more difficult for me to leave London overnight like she did,' he sighed. 'I sat at home, fearing every minute for another cable saying she was gone. Sure enough, that came the following day.'
Nancy remembered Baby. 'It's always a shock, isn't it? Even when you've grown used to a dear one being gravely ill.'
'Bronchial pneumonia is so more surely fatal than the croupous variety,' Eliot said sympathetically. 'The fever persists so long, and there is nothing we can do except prescribe a jacket-poultice, a steam-kettle and spoonfuls of brandy. Everything turns on the skill of the nursing.'
'Perhaps you would care to see her obituary notice, which I inserted in Era?'_
Crippen took from his overcoat pocket a folded newspaper the size of _The Times._ Eliot noticed he held some envelopes in an elastic band, addressed in his cramped writing and edged with the thick black line of mourning.
Crippen opened the paper called 'The Actor's Bible'. Its first two pages were filled with narrow columns of dignified advertisements by, players. All were 'Mr' or 'Miss' and gave their speciality-'Soubrette' or 'Juggler' or 'Trick Cyclist'-often followed by the telling words, 'Available' or 'Disengaged' or 'At Liberty'. Inside was news of shows in the West End, on the road, in New York, Berlin, Paris, even Australia. It reported meetings of the Actors' Union, the Stage Benevolent Society and the Showman's Guild. There was always a serious editorial-the issue which Crippen unfolded doughtily defended the dry-eyed flippancy of Louis Dubedat's death in _The Doctor's Dilemma._ It had advertisements for dipilatory powder, bronchial troches and Roze-la-Valla wrinkle remover. Each week carried its list of deaths, with ages, and birthdays without. The paid obituary announcements filled a separate half-column. Crippen's finger indicated-
_Elmore-March 23, in California, U.S.A. Miss Belle Elmore (Mrs. H.H. Crippen)._
'As sad a loss for the Ladies' Music Hall Guild as for myself.' Eliot said nothing. He wanted his lunch. 'I'm leaving Hilldrop Crescent when the quarter's notice expires in June-how could I live in a house with so many strong memories of Belle? She seemed to express her character in the decorations, the furniture. Miss Le Neve has meanwhile kindly arranged to leave her position at the office and come as my housekeeper.'
'Why double your grief by enduring solitude?'
'I've just been for a nice little holiday to Dieppe,' Crippen revealed. 'After what happened to Belle, I needed some change of air. Oh, your anatomy book, Dr Beckett. It seems to have been mislaid in the fuss of Belle's departure.'
'I'm sure I know all the anatomy I need.'
Crippen was feeling inside his jacket. 'I should like to make another donation.'
The cheque from his wallet was drawn on the Charing Cross Bank for Ј5.
'That's most generous of you,' Eliot said honestly. He seldom had enough to keep the surgery open more than two or three weeks ahead. He refused more from Nancy than his other supporters-he disliked feeling her father's client, and it was important politically to spread patronage and responsibility as widely as possible. 'We have a tough job, screwing money out of trade union officials, clergymen and the brewers who contribute so much to what we treat.'
Crippen gave Nancy his gentle smile. 'I read the _Daily Mail._ Very touching. I wish I had done something of this nature when a young man, instead of going to Munyon's. Then, perhaps, people would remember me gratefully after my own death. As I'm sure Belle will be remembered. Good day.'
The following Friday morning, a well-dressed woman appeared in the surgery, whom Eliot did not at first recognize against the sunlit street.
'We met at the Crippens,' she introduced herself. 'Mrs Martinetti.' She looked nervously round the waiting patients on the benches. 'Might I speak to you, doctor, in confidence?'
Eliot led her through the inner door. Nancy was on her daily round of bedridden patients. He wondered if she was consulting him for some disease unfit for the ears of her husband. 'I heard the sad news that Mrs Crippen had died,' he told her.
'She has disappeared.' Clara Martinetti sat on the kitchen chair, vast hat on head, back straight, gloved hands clasping the horn handle of her umbrella. 'You know Dr Crippen well-'
'Not particularly.' Eliot sat at the deal table, which was covered with papers, medicine bottles and jam-jars sealed by oiled-silk containing lumps of mouldy bread for his patients' boils.
Clara looked surprised. 'He always made out so. When I read about you in the Mail I decided to come and see you, because I'm terribly worried about Belle.' She hesitated. 'I'm wondering if the story of her death is true.'