It was a slum of a street, due for demolition in the proposed improvements to the Strand. One glance along the narrow pavement cluttered with trestle tables surrounded by silent groups of men was sufficient to discourage all but the most determined. In fact not all the trade was pernicious. A jeweller’s and two tobacconists’ provided pretexts for the not so bold to venture there.
Cribb sifted patiently through a tray of photographs of music hall performers until the question he expected was asked: ‘Were you looking for anything in particular, sir?’
He glanced round at the proprietor, a mid-European by his accent, shabby, in carpet slippers and wearing pebble glasses. ‘Yes, these are not exactly to my taste. Artistic subjects interest me more. Do you have anything after the style of Lord Leighton?’
‘Lord Leighton. I think I know what you mean, sir. Something illustrative of the classic myths, eh? If you would care to step inside … ’
The tray he was shown contained about sixty faded photographs of women so well concealed in gauze that they would not have looked out of place at the Lord Mayor’s Banquet. In the next twenty minutes he graduated by trays to what were labelled poses plastiques, arrangements of listless models in thick fleshings.
‘You have nothing more’-he turned his eyes towards the inner part of the shop-‘artistic than these?’
The proprietor shook his head. ‘Not at present, sir. I may, of course, get some. If you could come back on another occasion … ’
This required a different approach. By conventional methods it would take a week to win the confidence of Holywell Street.
Farther up was a shop sporting a green awning with the words Gallery of Fine Art-J. Brodski (prop.) Cribb marched straight in and found J. Brodski.
‘Where can we talk in confidence?’
He was shown to an office at the back. It contained a desk heaped with old newspapers and unwashed crockery. There was a smell of stale cigar smoke.
Brodski looked anxious, a fat, bearded man with restless eyes and bad teeth.
‘You know who I am?’ barked Cribb.
Brodski whispered, ‘Police?’
Cribb flourished his identification.
‘Mr Moser he was here last month,’ protested Brodski in a voice of alarm. ‘So help me, it is true. My case it came up at Bow Street Friday. I was fined twenty-five pounds.’
‘Twenty-five pounds!’ Cribb started to laugh.
‘Please tell me what is funny about that.’
Cribb let him flounder a little. ‘You say you were fined twenty-five pounds!’
The sweat was beading on Brodski’s forehead.
‘I don’t deal in misdemeanours,’ Cribb went on, articulating the word with contempt. ‘Do you think it interests me what smutty little pictures you keep locked in the drawer of this desk? You could have the Queen herself mother-naked on a tigerskin rug. I don’t care a twopenny damn. The crime I’m investigating will get you put away for life, Brodski. That’s if your life is spared.’
Brodski had turned the colour of the awning outside his shop. ‘Please, I do not understand,’ he said in a strangled voice.
‘Of course you understand,’ said Cribb, tight-lipped. ‘There’s a man dead, Brodski. Murdered. He came here last winter to buy pictures of this woman.’ He took out the photograph of Miriam Cromer and pushed it across the desk.
‘Straight, I never see this lady in my life!’ squeaked Brodski. ‘God strike me down, I know nothing of this thing.’
‘You’re lying!’ said Cribb in a snarl. ‘He bought some pictures, three or four at least, one called Aphrodite with Handmaidens. He came back in March and asked to buy the plates.’
‘No, no! I swear it-I never sell such picture. You make the mistake, please believe me.’
Cribb sat grim-faced through the histrionics.
‘You don’t believe?’ finished Brodski.
‘Not a word.’
The fat man pitched into another crescendo. ‘This not the only picture shop in Holywell Street. There is four, five others. Maybe this man go there. You think?’
Cribb shook his head.
‘What will happen?’ asked Brodski in despair. ‘What you do with me now?’
‘Find me an envelope. A clean one.’
Brodski unlocked the desk and rummaged through the drawer, in his confusion uncovering prints enough to put him away for months.
Cribb addressed the envelope to himself at Scotland Yard. ‘I’m giving you one chance, Brodski. We know that a shopkeeper in Holywell Street sold pictures of this woman to the man who was murdered. I shan’t ask you to peach on one of your neighbours. It doesn’t interest me who handled the photographs. What I want from you is the name and address of the supplier-the man who printed the photographs and owns the negatives. You understand? Take this picture, show it to the others in the street, get that information and write it on the back.’ He took out his watch and flicked up the lid. ‘It’s almost half past two. That gives you three and a half hours. Put the photograph in the envelope and see that it catches the six o’clock post at Charing Cross. It will reach me at Scotland Yard by the last delivery, at eight tonight. If it doesn’t come, Brodski, you can expect me here within the hour. It won’t be twenty-five pounds this time.’
The letter reached the Yard by the 8 p.m. delivery. Cribb had sorted through the post before the duty constable knew it had arrived. Such eagerness was exceptional. In the regular way he would have left the thing unopened till next morning. This was not a regular investigation. The only regular thing about it was the time ticking away.
He ripped open the envelope, glimpsing Miriam Cromer’s face before he turned the photograph over. Brodski’s message was written unevenly in the small space under Howard Cromer’s ornate imprint:
Please Mr Cribb this truth. I ask all the street. Nobody know this lady. Brodski.
Cribb’s lips tightened. He believed Brodski. The man had been badly scared. He would have supplied a name if he could. Whether his neighbours had been frank with him was less certain. Cribb had no way of finding out. He had played the trick and lost. He picked up his hat and left Scotland Yard.
He decided to walk the three miles home to Bermondsey. In his present frame of mind he would be no company for Millie.
Tomorrow was Wednesday. Unless there was a reprieve, the execution would take place on Monday morning. By now, the hangman must have received his summons. Miriam Cromer must have been moved into the condemned wing of Newgate, ready to take the short walk to the execution shed.
Unless there was a reprieve … A recommendation to the Queen from the Home Secretary. Something he had once heard passed through his mind, a story that Her Majesty was merciless towards miscreants of her own sex, reluctant ever to sign a reprieve. When a woman had confessed to murder, pleaded guilty and been sentenced to death, it would require more than an element of doubt to save her from the gallows. The abiding principle of British justice no longer applied in this case. Miriam Cromer was guilty unless she was proved innocent.
In reality, Cribb had three days left. If there were grounds for a reprieve, the Home Secretary would need to know before the weekend. He would need to weigh the evidence, make consultations, reach a decision and possibly make a recommendation to the Queen.
Three days.
Darkness was closing in as he took the footway over Hungerford Bridge. The Thames, blood-red and streaked with shadows, moved soundlessly below. The boards vibrated to the rhythms of a train steaming towards Charing Cross. Billowing vapour engulfed him.