Thunderstruck

BLUE SERGE

FOR TWO OF BELLE’S FRIENDS, John Nash and Lil Hawthorne, the news of Belle’s death came as an especially harsh surprise. On March 23, 1910, the day before Crippen telegraphed the news, Nash and his wife had set sail for America, after a doctor recommended a sea voyage to ease Hawthorne’s nerves. No one thought to send them word by wireless. After their arrival in New York, they paid a visit to Mrs. Isabel Ginnette, president of the guild, who also was in New York. To their shock, the Nashes now heard that Belle had died.

Nash promised Mrs. Ginnette that on his return to England he would go and talk to Crippen. Once safely back in London, the Nashes got together with their friends in the guild and discovered that no one believed Crippen’s account of what had happened. Nash was appalled that his friends had done little to learn the truth. “I came over here and found that no one had had the courage and pluck to take up this matter,” Nash said. “I therefore felt it my duty to take action myself.”

Nash and his wife stopped by Crippen’s office. “It was the first time we had seen him since his wife’s death,” Nash said. “He seemed much cut up—in fact, sobbed; he seemed very nervous, and was twitching a piece of paper about the whole time.”

Crippen told him that Belle had died in Los Angeles, but then corrected himself and said it had happened in “some little town” around San Francisco. Nash knew San Francisco and pressed Crippen for a more precise location. Exasperated, Nash said, “Peter, do you mean to say that you don’t know where your wife has died?”

Crippen said he could not remember but thought the place was called “Allemaio.”

Nash changed direction. “I hear you have received her ashes.”

Crippen confirmed it and said he had them in his safe. Nash did not ask to see them. Instead, he asked for the name of the crematorium and whether Crippen had received a death certificate.

“You know there are about four Crematoria there,” Crippen said. “I think it is one of those.”

“Surely you received a certificate.”

Crippen became visibly nervous.

Nash said later, “I began to feel there was something wrong, as his answers were not satisfactory when a man cannot tell where his wife died or where her ashes came from.”

Two days later, June 30, Nash and his wife set out to visit a friend who worked at New Scotland Yard. No mere functionary, this friend was Superintendent Frank C. Froest, head of the Yard’s Murder Squad, established three years earlier as a special unit of its Criminal Investigation Department or CID.

ANYONE APPROACHING THE HEADQUARTERS of the Metropolitan Police from the north along the Victoria Embankment saw a building of five stories topped by a giant mansard roof, with Westminster Hall and Big Ben visible two blocks south. Huge rectangular chimneys marched along the top of the roof. Turrets formed the corners of the building and imparted the look of a medieval castle, giving their occupants—one of whom was the police commissioner—unparalleled views of the Thames. The lower floors were sheathed in granite quarried by the residents of Dartmoor Prison; the rest up to the roofline was brick.

The Nashes were anxious, but being creatures of the theater, they were also excited by the prospect of their interview with Froest. The building and its setting conveyed melodrama, and Froest himself was a man of some fame, for his pursuit in the mid-1890s of a crooked financier, Jabez Balfour, whom he captured in Argentina.

Froest listened with care as Nash and Lil Hawthorne told their story, then summoned a detective from the Murder Squad, one of its best. When the man entered, Froest introduced the Nashes and explained they had come because a friend of theirs seemed to have disappeared. Her name, he said, was Mrs. Cora Crippen, though she also used the stage name Belle Elmore and was a member of the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild. Her husband, Froest said, was a physician “out Holloway way,” named Hawley Harvey Crippen.

“Mr. and Mrs. Nash are not satisfied with the story the husband has told,” Froest said. “Perhaps you had better listen to the full story.”

The detective took a chair.

HIS NAME WAS WALTER DEW; his rank, chief inspector. He was a tall man, built solid, with blue eyes and a large cow-catcher mustache, neatly groomed. He had joined the force at nineteen; he now was forty-seven. He had received his detective’s badge in 1887 and shortly thereafter won the nickname “Blue Serge” for always wearing his best suit on duty. He took part in the Yard’s investigation of the Ripper killings in 1888 and had the good luck, or bad, to be one of the detectives who discovered the remains of Jack’s last and most horribly mutilated victim, Mary Kelly. “I saw a sight which I shall never forget to my dying day,” Dew wrote in a memoir. “The whole horror of that room will only be known to those of us whose duty it was to enter it.” What stayed with him most keenly, he wrote, was the look in the victim’s eyes. “They were wide open, and seemed to be staring straight at me with a look of terror.”

Now Nash told Dew his story:

“When we got back from America a few days ago, we were told that Belle was dead. Our friends said she had gone suddenly to America without a word of good-bye to any of them, and five months ago a notice was out in a theatrical paper announcing her death from pneumonia in California. Naturally, we were upset. I went to see Dr. Crippen. He told me the same story, but there was something about him I didn’t like. Very soon after his wife’s death Dr. Crippen was openly going about with his typist, a girl called Ethel Le Neve. Some time ago they went to a dance together and the girl was actually wearing Belle’s furs and jewelry.”

He told Dew, “I do wish you could make some inquiries and find out just when and where Belle did die. We can’t get details from Dr. Crippen.”

Froest and Dew asked a few more questions, then Froest said, “Well, Mr. Dew, that’s the story. What do you make of it?”

Under ordinary circumstances, Dew would have been inclined to reject the inquiry and turn it over to the uniformed branch for handling as a routine missing-person case. Dew did not suspect foul play and sensed that the Nashes also did not. “What was really in the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Nash, what prompted them to seek the assistance of Superintendent Froest, I cannot say, but it is quite certain that neither of them dreamt for a moment that there was anything very sinister behind the affair,” Dew wrote. “It is probably that they were actuated more than anything else by Crippen’s lack of all decency in placing another woman so soon and so completely in the shoes of his dead wife.”

But the Nashes were personal friends of Superintendent Froest, and Lil Hawthorne was a well-known music hall performer. It seemed important to demonstrate that Scotland Yard was taking their concerns seriously. Also, his own experience on the force had taught him, as he put it, “that it is better to be sure than sorry.”

Dew said, “I think it would be just as well if I made a few inquiries into this personally.”