A Question of Guilt

16

On the Friday morning of July 8, a girl wearing a black dress pushed into the surgery. Eliot vaguely recognised her. The 'Free Medicine Shop' was crammed as usual. The warmth of patients' praise lit hopes in others, who came far across London, on foot if they could not afford the tram. Eliot found himself playing Christ at the Pool of Bethesda. He cured where he could and comforted where he could not. He felt that his miraculous aura reflected poorly on the abilities of the rest of the profession.

_'Vous vous rappelez, docteur? Mademoiselle Valentine Lecoq.'_

_'Ah, oui! Vous кtes chez Crippen.'_

The _au pair_ had called with an envelope. It contained a letter of four pages, which Eliot opened in the consulting room.

_39 Hilldrop Crescent,_

Holloway,_

_July 8, 1910_

_Dear Dr Beckett,_

_I am sorry I was not at home when you called two months ago, because I always enjoy conversation with you, who are such a credit to our profession. I should like to see you very much at this moment, because of some troublesome affairs of a personal nature, on which I would welcome your advice.

My position has been made very difficult by Mrs Martinetti and Miss May and the other members of Belle's old committee. They always question me closely about Belle whenever we meet, and of course I cannot cut old friends easily, particularly when their office is so near mine at Albion House. Things came to a head last month when my son Otto in California replied to Miss May's letter enquiring about Belle's last hours etc in his home at Los Angeles, where I had informed her that she died. Otto replied that he had heard of his stepmother's death only through me, and that it occurred in San Francisco.

This caused Mrs Martinetti and Miss May to cross-question me about the place of Belle's death, and I explained that she died in fact in a little town near San Francisco with a Spanish name which slipped my memory. When they pressed me about the crematorium in which she was disposed, I said something about there being four crematoria in San Francisco, and that I had the ashes in my safe at Albion House, with the death certificate.

So far as I know, Belle did not die, but is still alive._

'Great God!' exclaimed Eliot, so loudly the patients outside the door looked up.

He continued reading.

_After our little dinner on January 31, my wife abused me for not taking Mr. Martinetti up to the lavatory. She said, 'This is the finish of it. I won't stand it any longer. I shall leave you tomorrow, and you will never hear of me again.'

She frequently threatened to go right out of my life, to the man better able to support her than I was. I took this to be Bruce Miller in Chicago. On this occasion, Belle did say one thing which she had never said before, viz, that I was to arrange to cover up any scandal with our mutual friends and the Guild the best way I could. When I went home between five and six p. m. that day, I found she had gone.

I sat down to think it over. I wrote a letter to the Guild saying she had gone away, which I also told several people. I afterwards realized that this would not be sufficient explanation of her not coming back. I told people she was ill with pneumonia, and afterwards I told them that she was dead from this ailment. I only put the advertisement in_ Era _as I thought this would prevent people asking a lot of questions.

The Music Hall Guild ladies seemed upset that I took Miss Le Neve to the Benevolent Fund Ball, with my wife's brooch and furs. Belle had so many clothes, I do not know what she took away. As for the jewellery, I had bought it all. Whenever Belle threatened to leave me, she told me she wanted to take nothing from me.

You know how I have looked upon Ethel as my wife these past three and a half years. Now she can take her rightful position in my home. But Belle's old friends do not care for this. They are treating me with such suspicion I am most uncomfortable. I am managing to conceal their unpleasantness from Ethel, who thinks like the rest of the world that Belle is dead.

As you can understand, my head is full of bees. I do not know where to turn. I shall, of course, do all I can to get in touch with Belle, so as to clear this matter up. I shall insert an advert in the Chicago papers, offering twenty-five dollars reward for information of her whereabouts.

I want nothing more than to discuss the whole unfortunate matter with a clear-headed professional man, none better than yourself. I am writing this before business-Ethel is not up. Will you take luncheon with me today in the Holborn Restaurant? I shall be in the foyer at one o'clock sharp. I shall be very pleased and graceful to find you there.

Yours sincerely,

Hawley Harvey Crippen._

Eliot's response was a laugh. 'Poor little man!' Crippen had covered his shameful abandonment and adultery with an elaborate piecrust of gentility, which crumbled to the prod. He wondered about the recipients of the black-edged envelopes. Anyone would anger at tears spilt over a corpse still enjoying life in Chicago, and liable to resurrection with a postcard.

He left Nancy to finish the surgery, found a passing hansom outside in Brecknock Road and arrived at the restaurant early. The elaborately-decorated foyer was busy as a railway-station with dark suited men and a few ladies, staring curiously at Eliot's Norfolk jacket and loose tie. He pulled out his watch. Dr Crippen was quarter of an hour late. Eliot looked up, to find his host approaching through the plate-glass doors. On one side was a burly, beef-faced man in his mid-forties with a heavy moustache, wearing a bowler hat and a blue serge suit. On the other, a younger, thinner pale one in a dark tweed suit with a cap.

Crippen smiled to them. 'This is the friend I was expecting-Dr Beckett, of Holloway. May I introduce Mr Walter Dew?'

The older man shook hands. 'Didn't I read about you in the papers, sir?'

'And Mr Mitchell.' Crippen continued politely. 'Both are from Scotland Yard.'

Eliot looked startled. Crippen continued in his affable way, 'They called this morning at Hilldrop Crescent, and Miss Le Neve brought them along to Albion House. We are all three trying to clear up the mystery of my wife's leaving home. It takes a deal of time, as everything must be written down and read over and signed-isn't that the case, Mr Dew? But we still need our lunch, before we go on. Perhaps we should eat alone, if you'd excuse me?' he apologized to Eliot.

'That would be best, Dr Crippen,' Dew agreed.

'I'll be glad when the whole business is cleared up for good and all. That's why I'm so pleased that Scotland Yard is taking a hand in it,' Crippen ended admiringly.

'I smell a rat,' remarked Nancy that evening. She was reading Crippen's letter.

'Why? He's living with his typist, exactly as I'm living with you. It shows a refreshing disrespect for middle-class convention.'

'The police wouldn't be interviewing him, if they didn't smell one, too.'

'The police don't take suspected criminals out to lunch.'

'Don't they in London? They're so awfully polite.'

When a man is last seen in the company of detectives, his future movements grow in interest. On the Saturday afternoon, Eliot strolled to Hilldrop Crescent with a notion of the tкte-а-tкte denied them at the Holborn Restaurant. Valentine opened the door, in her brown dress without the apron. She seemed distressed. The doctor and madam had gone out, she explained in French, leaving her a letter to deliver. The envelope she took from her skirt pocket Eliot saw was addressed to Wm Long Esq., The Yale Tooth Specialists, Albion House, London W, with _By Hand Urgent_ underscored on the top. Valentine deplored she knew nothing of London, having ventured barely past Regent's Park. Eliot felt the envelope. It contained a door key. He was curious. He comforted the girl that he would take it by cab himself.

Long was the only one in the office.

'I'm worried about Dr Crippen,' he said at once. 'He was here when I arrived at nine-most unusual for him. When I asked what was up, he said, 'Only a little scandal.' We had police officers here yesterday-' He started opening the envelope. 'But only to find if Mrs Crippen had any estate to pay taxes on.'

'Who told you that?' Eliot asked sharply.

Long looked surprised. 'Why, the doctor. Then this morning, he sent me out with a list of clothes to buy.' His voice grew puzzled. 'A brown tweed suit, a brown felt hat, a couple of shirts and collars, tie and boots. And braces. All boy's size. I put them in the back room, No 91. When I came back from my lunch they'd gone. Instead, there was the hat which Miss Le Neve was wearing. I haven't seen either of them since.' He gave a whistle, reading the letter. 'Looks like the doctor's done a bunk.'

Eliot took the closely written page of Yale Tooth Specialists' paper.

_Dear Mr Long,

Will you do me the very great favour of winding up as best you can my household affairs? There is Ј12.10s due to my landlord for the past quarter's rent, and there will also be this quarter's rent, a total due to him of Ј25, in lieu of which he can seize the contents of the house. I cannot manage about the girl. She will have to get back to France, but should have sufficient saved to do this.

After the girl leaves, kindly send the key with a note explaining to the landlord c/o Messrs Lown and Sons. Thanking you in anticipation of fulfilling my wishes. I am, with best wishes for your future success and happiness, yours faithfully,

H H Crippen._

'There's another addressed to Dr Rylance.' Long continued looking startled. 'Do you suppose it's all right to read it?'

Eliot glanced at the second letter, which started, _I now find that in order to escape trouble I shall be obliged to absent myself for a time…_ The other dozen lines were on business, and ended with Crippen's kind wishes for his continuing success.

'What's the game?' asked Long nervously.

'Mrs Crippen is not dead.'

'Cor!'

'She ran off to a lover in America. Dr Crippen put about the story of her death to save scandal, but it stirred up more scandal than ever.'

Long stood open-mouthed, trying to steady himself in the social earthquake. 'Where's he gone?'

'Perhaps to America, too. He could make a fresh start.'

'But why the boy's clothes?'

'Miss Le Neve's obviously gone with him. It may not be thought entirely proper for a doctor to travel with a lady not his wife.'

Long's face brightened. 'Come to think of it, Miss Le Neve was a bit of a tomboy. There were times she'd put on one of the doctor's suits, and go out in the street for a lark.'

On Sunday, Eliot had promised Nancy an excursion to Canterbury. Monday, July 11, was bright and hot, promising a 'scorcher' to Londoners tramping in their bowlers and boaters to work. Concerned about Valentine, Eliot rang the bell at Hilldrop Crescent on his way to the surgery.

The girl received him conspiratorially. _'Voilа, docteur-'_

He stared through the back window. There were the two Scotland Yard men from the Holborn Restaurant. Both had their jackets off, and were digging the garden.

On Thursday, 'The North London Cellar Murder' was created. The newspapers proclaimed that human remains had been found at No 39 Hilldrop Crescent, below loose bricks under the coal. MYSTERIOUS PURCHASE OF SUBTLE DRUG BEFORE TRAGEDY, read the headline of the _Daily Chronicle,_ facing its editor with contempt of court. By Saturday, every London police station bore a poster headed MURDER AND MUTILATION, followed by descriptions, photographs, handwriting specimens of Crippen and Ethel, for whom was offered Ј250 reward each.

'So much for your innocent little doctor,' said Nancy over the breakfast table.

'But he is. I'm sure of it,' Eliot insisted. 'He was giving his wife hyoscine, to dampen her sexual demands. He told me as much. He was so appallingly ignorant, he probably gave her a lethal dose by mistake.'

'Then why did he cut his patient up and bury her in the cellar?'

'He'd still face a manslaughter charge over the hyoscine. Which would have kept him away from the tender Ethel a good few years, if not for the rest of his natural life. Think of the scandal! He's as sensitive towards that as Mrs Keppel. And maybe he had some dark, primitive idea that Belle should silently vanish from the face of the earth, as she so often threatened.'

'It seems a rather drastic way of achieving it.'

'Perhaps he enjoyed it? There's no knowing what strange bats flit in the dark corners of the human belfry. Perhaps he just panicked. It makes human beings do the most wildly illogical things, you know. More die in fires from trying to get through the exit all at once than roast to death.'

'So if he'd rushed out of the house and confessed to the first policeman in sight, everyone would be saying this morning, poor man, how tragic to have slain his own dear wife in error? Rather than calling him the biggest monster since Jack the Ripper.'

'You're perfectly right. And cutting her up wouldn't signify much to him, anyway. You mentioned once at Champette how a doctor sees the body as a watchmaker a watch. He was simply taking a timepiece to bits.'

'You're just making excuses, because you liked him,' Nancy objected.

'But look how perfectly the scheme worked,' Eliot persevered. 'If he hadn't decamped with Ethel, Belle would have lain in rest until they demolished the house. If the police hadn't believed his story, they'd have arrested him over the cheese and biscuits at the Holborn Restaurant.'

'Supposing we had moved into the house, Eliot?' Nancy shuddered. 'Supposing we'd found the body?'

'Oh, we'd have invited the Martinettis-'Come to dinner, we think we can dig up Belle Elmore'.'

Nancy sighed. 'You never take anything outrageous seriously, thank God. Even blowing up the Kaiser.'