‘I hope so, miss. You did recognise the photograph, then?’
She nodded. ‘But I don’t recognise you,’ she said sharply. ‘You must have a number, or something.’
‘Sorry, miss.’ Cribb reddened. ‘Detective Sergeant Cribb.’
‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought there was much call for detection, considering Miriam’s confession was in all the newspapers.’
‘Yes, miss.’ Cribb needed to secure co-operation here. Lottie Piper was used to speaking the best lines. ‘She is due to hang on Monday. Representations have been made to the Home Office on her behalf and it’s my job to see if they hold water.’
‘Has madam decided she would like to change her plea?’
Cribb was unprepared for the venom in the remark. He said tersely, ‘I’ll ask the questions, miss.’
She giggled nervously and tossed her curls. For a second the star of The Mascotte became Miss Charlotte Piper of Hampstead. ‘As you wish.’ ‘You saw the confession in the papers. A section of it refers to you, though not by name. Am I right?’
She gave him a long look. ‘Let’s not be coy, Sergeant. You may ask me if I took off my clothes for a photograph. You won’t make me blush, after two years in the theatre.’
Cribb was not so confident of keeping down his colour. ‘What you got up to, miss, is of, er-’
‘No interest? Darling, that is not gallant, even if it may be true. Have you seen any of these deplorable photographs?’
Cribb admitted he had not.
‘I’m not in the least surprised,’ she commented, well in control again. ‘They are the talk of London and nobody has seen them.’ She smiled archly. ‘That three respectable young ladies should so far forget themselves as to pose for pictures of that sort!’
Cribb fingered his side-whiskers, trying to seem unconcerned. He would not admit to Lottie Piper that he had not made up his mind whether the whole story was moonshine.
‘Do you know my difficulty?’ she went on. ‘The stage must have corrupted me dreadfully, because the pictures I remember were absurdly tame. I admit they were not the kind of thing you would hand round at Sunday school, but I can’t imagine they set Holywell Street on fire either. Five minutes from here you can see far worse without paying a halfpenny-at the National Gallery. I am obviously beyond redemption. Dear Miriam took a much more serious stand on the matter, actually poisoning a man on account of it.’ The smile returned.
Cribb lifted an eyebrow. ‘Do you believe that?’ Before she answered, he said, ‘When did you first know Miriam Cromer, miss?’
‘Years ago, as small girls,’ she said. ‘My father met hers in some connection and suggested as she was my age that she should come to the house to play. I should think we were not more than ten years old. We had a huge garden on Hampstead Hill and Papa always said it was no garden without the sound of children playing there, so I was presented with sundry playmates, most of whom I loathed. To be fair, Miriam was easier to tolerate than most. With her fair, straight hair she was unlike me in looks, so there were no invidious comparisons. She tended to look up to me as the rightful occupant of the garden. I think she was conscious of the fact that her people were in trade, even though her father had been mayor, whereas Papa was on the Stock Exchange. Status was very important to Miriam. When I was feeling generous I would play lady’s maid to her, and she was never happier. I don’t pretend we were twin souls. There were times when we were not on speaking terms, and it was usually a relief when the holidays ended and I went back to boarding school, but all in all we put up with each other. As we grew older, we met less, except for church and occasional parties and soirees.’
‘You joined the Literary and Artistic Society,’ put in Cribb.
Lottie Piper smiled. ‘We were Girls of the Period by then-or supposed we were. Life in Hampstead was very confining, you may imagine. Schooldays were over, and the social life revolved around St John’s. We met the same people over and over. When we read in the Express that this new society was being formed in Highgate, we made our fathers’ lives a misery until they agreed to let us join. We knew nothing about literature or art, but we convinced ourselves that people who did would find us enchanting. There was another girl we knew in the parish-Judith Honeycutt. Her father kept the umbrella shop, which was a little infra dig, but Judith was a kindred spirit, so the three of us joined together.’
‘That would be 1882, would it?’
‘Darling, I have no idea. I don’t have a head for dates. All I remember is that the lectures were a dreadful bore, but the company was a revelation. The place swarmed with velvet coats and feather boas-another world! For half an hour or so at the end there was coffee and homemade cakes and everyone left their seats and mingled. It’s laughable now, but to me at twenty that little hall buzzing with conversation was the Cafe Royal. I had never experienced anything so exotic. I am certain Miriam and Judith were no less enchanted. We would stay till the last possible minute we could without seeming too desperate to be noticed. Then we would catch the bus home and talk all the way of the exciting people we had met. After that it was just a question of wishing away the days to the next meeting.’
‘How did the business of the photographs arise?’ Cribb asked, mindful that the dresser was expected soon.
‘Exactly as Miriam described it. We must have been members for six or seven months when we had a talk from someone from the Royal Academy, on Florentine Art. Fearfully boring. Afterwards over the coffee-cups everyone said how stimulating it had been, as we were bound to, and that we couldn’t wait to visit the National Gallery to see the paintings he had described, just as the previous week we had gone away vowing to read every one of Milton’s poems. Nobody ever asked if we did, thank God. Well, as usual on the way home I started telling the other two of the encounters I had made, when Miriam stopped me, saying she had something unbelievably exciting to tell us. I remember being dubious, having noticed she had spent most of the coffee-time with Mrs Rousby, one of the Society’s founders, an over-rouged person with a domineering manner, but I gave way gracefully. I am bound to admit that Miriam’s news was more sensational than any I could supply. Mrs Rousby had said she was delighted to hear that Miriam had enjoyed the lecture, because it showed she had an affinity for art. Painting, Mrs Rousby said, was her passion. She was a personal friend of Sir Frederick Leighton, and she happened to know that the great artist was interested in finding a number of elegantly proportioned young ladies with artistic sensibilities to pose for a vast canvas he was painting on a classical theme.’ Lottie Piper gave a small shrug. ‘You know the rest, of course.’
Cribb wanted to hear it from her, but he was willing to provide cues. ‘It appealed to you as an adventure, and you felt safe, going together.’
She nodded. ‘At the next meeting of the Society, the three of us engaged to pose. We were given an address in West Hampstead, which I questioned, since I happened to know that Sir Frederick’s house was in Kensington, but Mrs Rousby explained that a preliminary study was to be made by one of the artist’s assistants. Left to myself, I should not have gone, but by this time not one of us would have spoiled the adventure for the others. The following afternoon we presented ourselves in West Hampstead and learned that the assistant was not a painter at all, but a photographer.’
‘May I ask,’ Cribb put in quickly, ‘whether he was also a member of the Society?’
‘He was.’
This was no time to hesitate. ‘Named Julian Ducane?”
‘Yes-until the name became inconvenient. You must know about that.’
‘Broadly, miss. First, would you be so kind as to tell me about the pictures he took?’
She twisted a curl round her finger. ‘You are a very dogged detective. Aren’t you going to spare my blushes?’