He tried to hold her gaze in a way that excluded everyone else. ‘You haven’t met me before, ma’am. I took no part in the original inquiry. I was brought in to take a look at the confession you made. There are certain small matters, details really, that have come to light since your conviction. We can’t square them with your account of things. No-one says you got it wrong. The mistake may be on our side. Must be.’ He chanced a smile. ‘Well, you’re not likely to have got it wrong, seeing that you admitted to the crime.’
Her eyes focused steadily on his, conveying nothing.
‘It’s a fair assumption,’ Cribb went on, compelled to provide his own comment. Already he could see this developing into a monologue. ‘Where would be the sense in twisting facts when you know you’ll end up in this place?’ The question was rhetorical, but he paused before saying, ‘I’d like to talk about that confession, if you don’t mind.’
‘I have a copy here,’ Allingham announced. He leaned forward and put it into her hand. She took it without turning to look at him.
‘I’m obliged to you,’ said Cribb, taking out his own copy from his pocket. ‘Ma’am, I want to ask you if you stand by everything you said in this document.’
She shaped her lips to answer, but Allingham spoke first. ‘Naturally she does. This is an affidavit sworn before a magistrate. I must caution you not to impute perjury to my client, Sergeant.’
Cribb did not shift his eyes from Miriam Cromer’s. ‘May I take it that you are prepared to answer questions, ma’am?’
She nodded.
He went on, ‘I want to make it plain that I’m not here to trap you. What would be the point of that? I don’t go in for trickery.’
She surprised him by saying, ‘You leave that to the other man.’
‘The other man?’ Cribb shook his head, uncertain of her meaning.
In a level voice she explained, ‘The one who pretends he is not a policeman at all. The bearded man with a scar. He was sent to interview my husband on the pretext of having his photograph taken.’
‘Ah. I heard about this person from Mr Allingham,’ said Cribb. ‘Believe me, I know nothing about him. He is not a police officer, whoever he is.’
She twitched her lips into something like a smile. ‘I don’t expect you to admit his existence. You wouldn’t, would you? If he is not a policeman how is it that I am practically certain I saw the same man watching me from a window while I was exercising here? Is it common practice to allow members of the public into Newgate to spy on condemned prisoners, or has this place unhinged my mind?’
Whatever had been going on, it made Cribb’s task infinitely harder. He turned to the governor, who reddened and gave a quick shrug.
Allingham said, ‘Unless this is of any consequence, I suggest we confine ourselves to the affidavit, as the officer proposed.’
She set her mouth in a sullen little line. ‘As you wish.’
Cribb resumed. This would achieve nothing unless he could win her confidence. He decided to gamble. He would let her know that suspicion had shifted away from her. ‘I’ll come to the point, ma’am. Shortly after your conviction, a communication from some unknown person was received at the Home Office. It was a scrap of paper cut from a photographic journal, a picture of your husband taken in Brighton on the day Josiah Perceval was killed. An arrow had been drawn on it in red ink. The arrow was pointing to the key Mr Cromer was wearing on his watch-chain. Inquiries established that it was one of the keys to the poison cabinet. The other was found on the body of the deceased. There’s our first problem: how could you have opened the cabinet if one key was with your husband in Brighton and the other in the pocket of the man you claimed to have murdered?’ He paused.
It was put more as a statement than a question, but he was interested to see how she reacted. From the way she held her expression, eyes steady, brows tilted a fraction, he was convinced she had learned nothing new. She was studying him.
‘My superiors asked me to investigate,’ Cribb went on. ‘I studied your confession. It’s a very lucid statement, if I may say so. You say on page four’-he leafed through his copy-‘“When Mr Perceval went out for lunch at one o’clock, I returned to the studio, unlocked the poison cabinet, found the bottle of potassium cyanide and poured about a third of the contents into the decanter of madeira. I then replaced the decanter in the chiffonier where it was kept with the others, and locked the cyanide bottle in the poison cabinet as before. Soon after, I went out …” One thing you omit to state’-Cribb looked up from the confession-‘is how you obtained the key.’
Allingham put a hand on Miriam Cromer’s arm. ‘Say nothing.’ Addressing Cribb, he said, ‘My client does not wish to add anything to the statement she has already volunteered.’
As if there had been no interruption, Cribb continued, ‘Naturally, I was obliged to check your husband’s movements on Monday, 12th March. I learned that he was not, as we had supposed, in Brighton that morning.’
Allingham cut in again. ‘I think I should point out that there is nothing in the statement suggesting what time of day Mr Cromer arrived in Brighton. Indeed, it would be impossible for Mrs Cromer to supply such information.’
Cribb persisted in addressing his remarks to Miriam Cromer. ‘When I spoke to your husband he seemed unwilling to specify which train he caught to Brighton. I learned that he had engaged to be there by half past two. The delivery of wine was at noon, was it not? On the face of it, he could have doctored the decanter himself before he left. I’ve checked Bradshaw. He could have left the house as late as 12.45 and still caught the fast to Brighton from Clapham Junction at 1.12.’
Allingham made a show of protest. ‘That’s an extraordinary suggestion, officer. If he were here-’
‘He’s not, sir. He left his house yesterday afternoon, carrying a case of clothes. We don’t know where he is.’
‘This is absurd,’ said Allingham. ‘You have no grounds for suggesting that Mr Cromer would have poisoned his own assistant. What possible reason could he have for doing such a thing?’
‘The reason Mrs Cromer provided in her confession,’ answered Cribb. ‘She was being blackmailed. Her reputation, and therefore the reputation of her husband, was at stake. It’s a motive that would serve for either of them.’
Cribb’s eyes had not left hers. She had listened composedly, the colour rising faintly in her face and staying there. She had not registered surprise at anything so far. He had the feeling he was speaking a part she already knew by heart.
It was time to change the lines a little. ‘The man who took those photographs of you and your friends was known as Julian Ducane.’
Her forehead creased.
‘Is this of any relevance?’ Allingham asked.
‘You should know, sir,’ Cribb said without looking at him. ‘He was your best friend.’ To Miriam Cromer he said, ‘And your husband, ma’am.’
Her lips parted and she shifted on the stool.
‘I’m right, am I not?’
After a second’s hesitation she nodded.
‘He didn’t tell me,’ said Cribb. ‘He told me a lot when I questioned him, but he didn’t admit he met you in Highgate. No, I had to find out that for myself.’
She was frowning. ‘How, exactly?’
‘From a photograph,’ Cribb answered. ‘A picnic on the Heath. You were in it, of course, and your friends, Judith and Lottie. Mr Allingham, too.’
She fingered the strings of the prison-cap.
‘It puts a different construction on things, you must admit,’ said Cribb. ‘Mr Allingham’s presence in the picture suggested a link with Mr Cromer, which I was able to confirm later. I confirmed as well that in those days Mr Cromer was known as Julian Ducane, the man who took those unfortunate photographs of you and your two friends. The pictures were taken by the man you later married. Unhappily for you they fell into the hands of Josiah Perceval. He told you he acquired them in Holywell Street. From my inquiries I suspect he mentioned that notorious place to shock you. It’s more likely that he chanced upon them in some photographic dealer’s where your husband had disposed of some of his old stock-but that’s unimportant. The strange thing is that when Perceval produced the pictures and threatened you with blackmail, you said nothing to your husband. It was no secret, surely? You could have confided in him without shame or fear.’