A Question of Guilt

14

No. 39 Hilldrop Crescent was equidistant from the church in Oseney Crescent across Brecknock Road, and another at the angle of Camden and Caledonian Road. With the laziness of London clocks, each chimed in succession, not synchrony. Crippen woke as usual while they were announcing seven. He was so late to bed, he had set the double-belled American alarm clock for seven-thirty, and he fumbled to press off the switch.

It was over a half-hour till sunrise. He felt for a vesta and lit the bedside candle. He was in clean pyjamas, one of the three identical green-striped pairs Belle had bought at the winter sale of Jones Brothers, Shirtmakers, Holloway. He lay still on the narrow brass bed in the cold small room with pink dog-roses twining up the wall-paper. Was it a dream?

He reached for his round, gold-rimmed glasses, stood up, stretched, crossed the lino to the bathroom. He lit the gas. It was clearly not a dream. Belle's clipped head stared at him from between her feet, the pile of entrails peeped glisteningly from the wrapping of pyjama jacket. His problem was where to shave. He collected his razor, turned off the gas, and descended to the kitchen.

By seven-thirty he was dressed, his steaming cup of Camp coffee wedged among last night's dirty crockery on the kitchen table. He felt Belle was as usual asleep under the bright pink coverlet of her bed with pink bows on the corners. As far as the world would know, she was. By his usual homecoming time she would be going to America. It was fascinating, living her life for her.

He bolted the tradesman's entrance and locked the front door behind him. No one would call. Mrs. Harrison visited only when invited. As they used condensed milk the milkman knocked only on Sunday, the baker left a loaf on the side step Wednesdays and Saturdays. He took his usual way to Caledonian Road Underground station, skirting the Cattle Market. He arrived before nine at Aural Remedies at Craven House in Kingsway. Miss Ena Balham, thirtyish, in black serge, with pince-nez and a faint moustache, was behind her big, square black typewriter.

'Did you say "White rabbits"?' Crippen looked mystified. 'It's February the first,' she chided him.

He took her inch-thick sheaf of newly opened letters. Aural Remedies was a correspondence clinic. People with bad ears responded to advertisements in Tit-Bits or _John Bull_-enclosing postal order with stamped addressed envelope-and Crippen dispatched the remedies. He flicked through them silently, pencilling code-numbers for which letter Miss Balham should write, or which bottle of ear-drops dispatch.

'You quite well this morning, doctor?' she asked kindly.

'Perfectly.'

She gave a slight laugh. 'You seem so quiet. Not your usual self.'

'I've some urgent business at the Tooth Specialists.'

He hurried towards Oxford Street. A few minutes, and he would be seeing Ethel. Now they were really hub and wifie. They could live under the same roof. The future shone like a summer sunrise.

The shiny black leatherette cover stood on her machine. 'Where's Ethel?' he asked explosively.

The office contained only Miss Marion Curnow, the middle-aged manageress, in white blouse and check skirt. She looked surprised. 'She just phoned from Constantine Road. She's a little poorly this morning.'

Ethel was often poorly. They called her behind her back, 'Not Very Well, Thank You.'

'Well, doctor, it's an important day in your life.'

Crippen started. 'Why?'

'You're freed from slavery to Munyon's.'

Crippen nodded distractedly. He had drawn dwindling commission as an agent since Munyon's office in Oxford Circus failed.

'You don't take it hard, doctor, my continuing as Munyon's London manageress?' Miss Curnow accepted his manner as pique.

'No, not at all. The money was hardly a king's ransom.' He paused. All four who worked in his office knew that Crippen had been short of funds since Christmas. His wife's dresses alone…Miss Curnow had thought severely. 'I'm expecting quite a considerable sum coming in from America.'

Crippen went to his room.

He left before noon. 'Tell Dr Ryland I shan't be back today,' he instructed Miss Curnow.

The head would be a difficulty. It needed cutting into fairly small bits, and he had not the luxury of time. Perhaps some other approach would suggest itself. The limbs should sever easily at the joints, with assistance from the Arthrology section in Gray. He hurried to Shaftesbury Avenue, turned into No 1 King Edward's Mansions, and rang the bell of the Martinetti's flat.

'How's Paul?' he asked Clara at the door.

'He's just gone into a nice sleep. If you don't mind I shan't waken him. How's Belle?'

'Oh, she's all right.'

'Give her my love.'

'Yes, I will.'

The next day was Wednesday, and the weekly meeting of the Music Hall Ladies' Guild. The morning was bitter and overcast, gas flaring in the shop windows as Crippen made his way to work. He went directly to the Tooth Specialists. Miss Curnow was unpinning her hat. He set a packet on Ethel's typewriter, and left immediately for Aural Remedies round the corner.

Ethel arrived ten minutes later. She wore under her overcoat a blue serge costume trimmed with black braid. She sat at her typewriter, unhurriedly opening the packet. Inside was an envelope addressed to her. 'Well I never!' she exclaimed. 'She's gone to America.'

'Who has?'

'Mrs. Crippen.'

'Hasn't she been threatening to for years?'

Crippen's note asked her to pass an enclosed package to Miss Melina May, secretary of the Music Hall Ladies' Guild on the floor below. He would look in later. They could have a pleasant little evening.

The errand seemed unurgent. Ethel passed over the package at ten to one, on her way to lunch. 'Mrs Martinetti's just telephoned,' remarked Miss May, at her desk with her typewriter and wire baskets of correspondence. 'She can't come to the meeting, her husband's still poorly.'

Miss May opened the packet. She was dark, pale, pretty, once broke her leg, developed a limp, had to renounce the stage. She was surprised to find the Guild's cheque book, pass book and paying-in book. Two letters were addressed from Hilldrop Crescent and dated that day.

_Dear Miss May,_ said the first.

_Illness of a near relative has called me to America on only a few hours' notice, so I must ask you to bring my resignation as treasurer before the meeting today, so that a new treasurer can be elected at once._

She frowned. The writing was not Belle's. She looked at the foot.

Yours,_

_Belle Elmore, p.p. H.H.C._

Miss May resumed,

_You will appreciate my haste when I tell you that I have not been to bed all night packing, and getting ready to go. I hope I shall see you again a few months later, but cannot spare a moment to call on you before I go. I wish you everything nice till I return to London again. Now, good-bye, with love, hastily._

'Well, really!' complained Miss May.

The other letter was longer, addressed to the Committee-'Dear Friends'-explaining the sudden flight, submitting Belle's resignation, urging the rules be suspended for election of another treasurer that very day, sending 'my pals' her loving wishes. It was in the same handwriting as the other. Miss May was cross. Everyone liked the ebullient Belle. Anyone merited sympathy over a sick relative. But suddenly changing the treasurer meant enormous unnecessary fuss.

Crippen had two mornings' work in one at Aural Remedies. Eardrops must be made up and packed in their pasteboard cases. The January accounts needed sending to Eddie Marr-the New York advertising man who put up Aural Remedies' money. He longed to see Ethel but dared not reach Albion House before the Music Hall Ladies' Guild dispersed at about four. He strolled down Oxford Street to Attenborough's, with the three brass balls outside. He pawned seven diamond rings, a pair of diamond earrings and a diamond brooch, taking the Ј195 in banknotes. He signed the contract note readily. He was well known in the pawnshop. He often brought Belle's jewellery for repair.

It was only three-thirty. He turned the opposite way to Albion House, towards Shaftesbury Avenue. He was surprised to find Mrs Martinetti in, not at the meeting.

'Well, you're a nice one,' she greeted him at the door. 'Belle gone to America, and you didn't let us know anything about it. Melinda phoned from the Guild. I couldn't leave Paul in bed, though he's much better.'

Crippen came into the flat, which was small, mahogany-panelled and embellished with framed photographs of other theatricals, all ebulliently and lovingly autographed. 'Why didn't you send us a wire?' She was more curious than scolding. 'I would have liked to go to the station, and bring some flowers.'

'There wasn't time. The cable came late last night. I had to look out a lot of papers-legal and family papers. The rest of the night we were busy packing.'

She said with resignation, but unable to suppress annoyance, 'Packing and crying, I suppose?'

'We have got past that,' he said vaguely.

'Did she take all her clothes with her?'

'One basket.'

Clara was amazed. 'But that wouldn't be nearly enough, to go all that way.'

'She can buy something over there.'

Clara stood holding the rounded back of a chair. Crippen was edging towards the door. The doctor was always busy. 'Belle's sure to send me a postcard from the ship,' she said more agreeably. 'Or she'll write when she gets to New York.'

'She doesn't touch New York. No, she goes straight on to California.'

'Whereabouts? To your son?'

'Around Los Angeles.' He made a broadly embracing gesture. 'Up in the hills. Right up in the mountains.'

Clara concentrated perplexity and irritation into a small sigh. 'I suppose you won't be wanting tickets for the Benevolent Fund Ball now? It's the twentieth, Sunday fortnight. At the Criterion, as usual.'

'I'll take a couple anyway,' he said generously.

She picked up a book of tickets from the cloth-draped mantelpiece. 'They're half a guinea each.'

He opened his wallet, taking care she did not see the pawnbroker's Ј5 notes. 'Perhaps somebody else would like to go,' he suggested absently.

He waited until five before reappearing at the Yale Tooth Specialists. Miss Curnow had gone home. Ethel was alone with two men in office suits, who were peering earnestly at the magazines while waiting for Dr Rylance. She arched her eyebrows. 'She's gone?'

'When I got home last night, she'd vanished.'

'She'll come back.'

'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.'

'Why shouldn't it be?' asked Eliot in surprise. 'To catch cold on a boat and die of catarrhal pneumonia six weeks later is tragic, but perfectly reasonable. The patient even has spells feeling much better as the temperature falls-exactly as Mrs Crippen wrote to her husband. The disease may clear in one part of the lung, you see, only to break out afresh in another. I have seen many cases, and I can tell you that none recovered.'

To Eliot's irritation, she stayed unconvinced. 'I heard of it yesterday fortnight. I had this telegram. It was sent from Victoria Station.'

From her crocodile handbag came a buff form stuck with paper strips. Eliot read-

BELLE DIED YESTERDAY AT SIX O'CLOCK PLEASE TELEPHONE ANNIE SHALL BE AWAY A WEEK PETER.

'Annie is Mrs Stratton, one of our committee. Like Mrs Smythson and Mrs Davis and Miss Way, we're most concerned. We called at Albion House directly after Easter last week, to offer our condolences and ask where poor Belle died. Dr Crippen said in Los Angeles, with his own relations. We asked the address because we wanted to send a letter of sympathy and an everlasting wreath. He said it wasn't necessary. None of Belle's friends in America would ever have heard of the Music Hall Ladies' Guild. Really!'

Eliot felt that Crippen's gravest offence.

'Anyway, he gave us his son Otto's address in Los Angeles-you knew the doctor was twice married?' Eliot nodded. The woman was stealing time from his patients. 'He said his son was with Belle when she died. Naturally I asked about the funeral. Would you believe what he said? She wasn't buried. She was cremated. He was having the ashes sent over. He said we could 'have a little ceremony then'. Cremated! It's unnatural.'

'They're very go-ahead in these matters in America.'

Her voice accelerated under the steam of her indignation. 'I asked him what ship Belle went by. He said it was the French line, something like _La Tourenne _or _La Touvйe. _The doctor speaks French of course. So I went down to the offices of the French Atlantic Shipping Line in the City. Oh, yes, they had a liner sailing from New York to Havre called _La Touraine._ But it hadn't arrived on February the second. That was the day Belle left. And it went straight into dry-dock for repairs,' she ended triumphantly.

'But Dr. Crippen is always vague, and must have been dreadfully agitated,' Eliot told her impatiently. 'He simply got the ship's name wrong.'

Clara leant over the table. 'That telegram was sent as Dr Crippen left for Dieppe with his lady typist, Miss Le Neve.'

Eliot nearly laughed. 'To save your embarrassment, I know all about Miss Le Neve.'

'I don't think you do, Dr Beckett. At our Benevolent Fund Ball in February-after Belle had left, before there was the slightest suggestion that she was ill-the doctor appeared with Miss Le Neve. She was wearing one of Belle's dresses, magenta silk, I recognized it beyond doubt. She had Belle's fox fur. Belle's muff. Belle's earrings. And Belle's brooch she was so fond of, the one with the rising sun. She wore it the evening you and the nice American lady came to dinner. And Belle's gold watch. A ring with four diamonds and a ruby, Belle's I swear. And a wedding-band.'

Eliot rose. Any woman felt outraged at a friend who was ousted by another prettier and younger than them both. He put his arm round her shoulders. 'It's easy to think terrible things when someone you love dies far away in the lawless wilds of California. But we are men and women of the world, Mrs Martinetti. Surely the theatrical profession well knows the temptation of a pretty girl to an older man? To use his wife's ornaments to decorate her is appalling bad taste, but nothing worse.'

'She's moved in with him,' she exclaimed accusingly.

'A man must have a housekeeper. After twenty years of married life, you can hardly expect Dr Crippen to "batch" it, surely? Weren't Mrs Crippen and Miss Le Neve perfectly friendly? It's only natural the doctor should turn to her for condolence.' Eliot opened the consulting-room door. 'Why, you'll be suggesting the good little doctor murdered his wife.'

'No, I'm not suggesting that.' He felt she made her reply unnecessarily thoughtfully.

'A gossip, a malicious gossip,' he pronounced to Nancy that evening.

Eliot sprawled on the sofa in Camden Road, Norfolk jacket off, in his red socks, reading _The Times._ The sunny day brought an evening cold enough for a fire. They now had two rooms in the big house-always empty except for the visitor who arrived unexpectedly, stayed secretly and left hurriedly.

'What misery is occasioned by people who stir the mud in the murky little puddles of others' lives,' he commented.

'And what pleasure.' Nancy was at the table, writing an order for Allen and Hanbury's, the surgical suppliers across at Bethnal Green.

'I have the utmost compassion for people with stunted bodies, but not with small minds,' Eliot observed into the pages of his newspaper. 'Belle was a nymphomaniac,' he revealed.

'What's that?'

'Morbid uncontrollable sexual desire in the female. The deranged women furiously embrace every man they can get at. It's been a well recognized condition for over a century. Dr Crippen had to dose her with hyoscine. That's the usual drug, it's either a sedative or a strait-jacket. They get in awful trouble with the law otherwise.' He turned the page. 'Crippen's was a happy release.'

'I'm not so sure. I've seen a woman crazy with grief across the body of her husband, killed in an East Side knife-fight. Yet everyone in the neighbourhood heard her screams, night after night, when he beat her up.'

'Dr Crippen is like a divalent atom, with two combining powers. He chose to link himself with a pair of elements as different as the violently explosive fluorine and the totally inert platignum.'

'What's Miss Le Neve like?'

'I believe she's a very good typist.'