Free Waxwork by Peter Lovesey Page A

it if the cyanide had killed the victim instantaneously, as she expected. She could have let herself into the studio when she got back to the house and calmly emptied that decanter and refilled it with fresh madeira. To make quite sure, she could have placed the cyanide bottle beside the corpse. There’s no denying it was done in cold blood, Cribb. The judge made that clear when he sentenced her. Having met her, I believe I understand how she planned it and carried it through. If you ask me what sets her apart from other women, it’s an absence of pity. She is so damned self-possessed that she can’t imagine how other people feel. In all the interviews I had with her, she never expressed a syllable of sympathy for her victim. I’d lay all the money I own that even in the death cell she isn’t wasting a thought on Perceval.’
    â€˜From all accounts, he isn’t worth it,’ said Cribb. ‘She sounds a lot more interesting than her victim. Like you, sir, I find it difficult to understand why a woman of her character should have confessed. Did she make the confession to you?’
    â€˜No, it was done while she was awaiting trial in Newgate. She drew it up with the solicitor, Allingham, and then arrangements were made for her to swear an affidavit before a magistrate. Everyone was taken by surprise. Cheated, you could say. This had every promise of being one of the classic trials of the century.’
    Cribb thought, with Inspector Waterlow of V Division as principal witness for the prosecution. ‘Yes, sir, it must have been a facer after all the work you put in. To see it written down in a confession, all that evidence you spent weeks patiently uncovering. Cruel.’ He solemnly shook his head. Then he said more brightly, ‘I expect it wasn’t wasted. You still had to check that the confession was true.’
    â€˜That wasn’t difficult,’ said Waterlow. ‘The evidence confirmed everything she said. You couldn’t fault it.’
    â€˜I’m sure.’ Cribb paused, about to venture into a sensitive area. ‘You said just now that the reason for the blackmail took you by surprise.’
    â€˜The indecent pictures? That’s true.’
    â€˜Did you by any chance turn up any of these pictures when you looked through Perceval’s possessions, sir?’
    Waterlow gave a sly grin. ‘Care to see one, then? No, Cribb, I didn’t. He sold her the ones he had, and she destroyed them. If you recall, she said in the confession he was offering to buy the plates. £150, wasn’t it?’
    â€˜So there were no pictures or plates in Perceval’s lodgings?’
    â€˜I told you, no. It isn’t important,’ added Waterlow. ‘The details of the blackmail are immaterial. The fact that blackmail took place is admitted, and there is plenty of proof. From the moment I walked into the pawnbroker’s in Brentford we had Miriam Cromer on toast.’
    â€˜No wonder she confessed,’ said Cribb, content to resume the adulation now that the point was clear.
    â€˜I was sorry when it came to an end,’ said Waterlow. ‘I don’t often get challenges here in Kew, but I’m capable of meeting them. Tell them that at Scotland Yard if you like. While they collect statistics, we in the divisions are out on the streets coping with crime from hour to hour.’
    When Cribb got up to go, Inspector Waterlow took his place in the armchair. Justifiably, Cribb reflected when he got outside. The streets of Kew were as deserted as when he had arrived.

SATURDAY, 16th JUNE
    â€˜I REPRESENT M RS M IRIAM Cromer. My name is Allingham.’
    The governor put down his pen to look at the solicitor. Twenty-seven, no more, he guessed. Well turned out, in a light grey suit and purple waistcoat with matching cravat. Black boots and gaiter with white buttons. Hat and valise in hand. Straw-coloured hair, parted and brushed close to the head.