Free Waxwork by Peter Lovesey

commented.
    Grudgingly, Waterlow agreed. ‘But it’s not the sort of thing you expect from the daughter of a mayor of Hampstead,’ he went on. ‘If a well-bred woman has a secret, nine times out of ten it’s a lover. You have to have a theory to work on, don’t you? The walks she took in the Botanic Gardens interested me. I would have put my money on some sort of assignation among the rhododendrons. As a matter of fact, I had practically convinced myself it was young Allingham, the solicitor. He is more of her own generation than her husband. Did you know that she is sixteen years younger than Cromer? Allingham’s connection with the family goes back a few years, I gather. He was in the social set they moved in before the marriage. He is the only one they have kept up with, I suppose because of the professional connection. It still seemed to me—and, I think, the housekeeper, who is a shrewd woman—that Mr Simon Allingham was taking a closer interest in Miriam Cromer than you would expect from the family solicitor. There was nothing you could describe as flagrant, simply looks that passed between them and the way he put his hand on her arm to prevent her answering my questions.’ He shrugged. ‘I have to admit to a slight misjudgment there. As I say, the real reason for the blackmail took me by surprise.’ Having admitted his fallibility, Waterlow absolved himself. ‘That’s of no importance. I’m sure we would have secured a conviction on the evidence we had. The prosecution didn’t need to go into the details of the blackmail. In fact, it could have been detrimental to the case to dwell on the business. All in all, I believe I was entitled to expect a commendation in court for the work I did.’
    Cribb was near the limit of his tolerance, but he still had one crucial question to put. ‘As a matter of interest, what sort of person is Miriam Cromer?’
    Waterlow blinked, jogged out of his train of thought. ‘You seem to be taking this job seriously, Cribb. I thought it was statistics you came to ask me about.’
    With an effort to be amiable, Cribb said, ‘You’ve got me interested in the case, I can’t deny it, sir. Miriam Cromer makes a fascinating study. A woman who will kill is a rare one.’
    â€˜Rare—my word, yes.’ Inspector Waterlow perched himself on the edge of his desk and took the cat into his lap, stroking it as he talked. ‘Exquisitely good-looking. Entirely in command. Questions wouldn’t shake her. Look how she stood up in court and faced old Colbeck when he sentenced her to death. I tell you, he was paler than she was. An astonishing woman by any reckoning. To be candid, I have a secret hope that the Home Secretary will commute the sentence to penal servitude for life. Miriam Cromer is altogether too remarkable to consign to the hangman’s rope. There’s a world of difference between a woman like her and that creature in Richmond a year or two ago who murdered her employer and boiled her body in the copper.’
    â€˜Kate Webster? No comparison, sir.’
    â€˜You know, I’m still unable to understand what induced Miriam Cromer to confess. The case I put together was overwhelming, I admit, but a decent counsel, Sir Charles Russell, for instance—the family could afford him, for God’s sake—might have raised points that would have helped towards a reprieve. As it stands, there’s simply her confession. I can’t believe the prospect of a long trial unnerved her. Whatever she is, she is no coward.’
    â€˜Possibly she reckoned it would save her from the gallows,’ Cribb suggested. ‘A frank admission of guilt is something in a prisoner’s favour.’
    â€˜Not in the eyes of the law. The details of the crime in her own words are very damning. It was not an impulsive crime. She planned it. There’s little doubt she would have got away with