As Berry and I Were Saying (26 page)

“Well, there we are. The trustee who has no idea of his duties – doesn’t dream that he’s got any duties, is very nearly as bad as the wilfully defaulting trustee. Shakespeare, as always, has him perfectly taped – ‘But man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority; Most ignorant of what he’s most assured, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As make the angels weep.’ No one could call me an angel, but the tricks I’ve seen them playing have damned near made me weep. In more than one case that I’ve come across, beneficiaries have been refused information. They have been told, ‘That is the trustees’ affair.’ Such a refusal was a breach of trust. But neither the trustees nor the luckless beneficiaries knew that.”

“D’you mean to say,” said Daphne, “that, if a trustee is asked to retire, he’s got to?”

“Of course. And if he won’t, you can apply to the High Court of Chancery. And unless the trustee can show that your demand is prompted by some improper motive, the Court will order him to retire, approve someone to take his place and direct him to pay the costs of the application.”

“I’m sure,” said Daphne, “most people don’t know these things.”

“Of course they don’t,” said her husband. “They grunt and sweat under a weary life – and all the time, the remedy’s in their hands. But there you are. Ignorance is responsible for half the ills that flesh is heir to.”

“What is responsible for the other half?”

“Lack of moral courage. Will anyone say I’m wrong?”

“I won’t,” said I.

“You find it everywhere. Look at the way in which people go on with a doctor, whose prescriptions do them no good, in whom they have lost faith. ‘Oh, it’s so awkward.’ They can’t even nerve themselves to desire a second opinion.” Berry shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it’s their body. If they like to pay for it to be mucked about by someone in whom they have no confidence, they can.” He looked at me. “
Sir Andrew Plague
was my money. He had no lack of moral courage. Allow me to quote an extract from one of his letters, which always appealed to me.

“‘I regret to say that the manners of the first veterinary surgeon who arrived left much to be desired. I therefore ordered his removal and sent for another.’

“That always did my heart good.

“Oh, I knew there was something. I’ve meant to return to it for ages, but, till now, it has always escaped me. Darling, the Home Secretary, Stinie Morrison and his reprieve. At the end of that gobbet of scandal, I meant to interrogate you. But before I had time, you ran out – a vile and vulgar practice, which I have always deplored.”

“‘Ran out’?” said Jill.

“Ran out. A racing metaphor. Before he had consumed one subject, he fell upon another. Like a dog on a garbage heap.”

“I suppose you must be bestial.”

“My sweet,” said Berry. “I am a realist. And now don’t make me run out. The point is this. In his report, Darling said, ‘This conviction is just. The man deserves to die. But I am by no means sure that, but for the incompetence of his counsel, he would have been found guilty.’”

“Please,” said I, “allow me to emphasize this, as I did when I told the tale. I cannot vouch for that. I have no means of knowing what Darling said. I was told that he had said that; but I can’t remember by whom. Personally, I believe it to be true. But I can’t put it higher than that.”

“Good enough,” said Berry. “And now allow the mountain to bring forth its mouse. What I wanted to say was this – that if every prisoner, who would have been acquitted but for the incompetence of his counsel, were to be reprieved, half the jails would be empty.”

“That is perfectly true. That’s what made the Home Secretary’s action so childish. You see, you must never forget what I said – oh, ages ago, that it is perfectly fair to say that no innocent man was ever indicted. I remember the laughter in The Temple over one Colchester Assize. There was a local barrister there who collected briefs for the defence. And he was no earthly. When the Assize was finished, somebody added up the years of penal servitude awarded to his clients during that week. They came to sixty-seven. Some men have the knack of defending: other men haven’t. Muir, as I’ve said, was no good. George Elliot was excellent. He was of the Old Bailey. It may truly be said of him, ‘And many a burglar he restored to his friends and his relations.’ Juries loved George Elliot. But that was natural, because he was lovable. He was the nicest man. Very simple and charming and gentle, and he had a delightful smile. He was by no means brilliant: but he had the pleasantest ways. And then at last he took silk – and faded away. George Elliot wasn’t a leader. But I think he’d made his fortune and wished to retire. But he wanted the honour of silk. I may be wrong. He was one of the old school, and I am quite sure that all who remember George Elliot, remember him with affection. I may have spelled his name wrong. I can’t remember.”

“Another flash,” said Jill, “to take us to bed.”

“That’s right,” said Daphne. “What is the most dramatic case that you have ever known?”

“The one in which I was junior to Gill and Wild. Easily. But I can’t talk about that.”

“The next one, then.”

“You must give me a moment to think… Oh, I know. Yes. But it’s going to be disappointing. I was not concerned, and I can tell you no more than the papers did. But the silly thing is this – that at the time at which it happened, the Crippen Case was on, and nobody had any eyes for anything else. But, although this came to nothing, it really was life.

“A lady of easy virtue was living south of the river – I think, perhaps, in Clapham: I can’t be sure. Like her virtue, her circumstances were easy: hers was a nice little house, which I think was detached. She was not, on the whole, promiscuous, but she was the mistress of three men. Each of the three believed that she was his mistress, and his alone. For some time she played very well this something difficult hand: and then things began to go wrong. Let me call the men, A, B, and C. Of course she took infinite care so to arrange their visits that none of them met: but something occurred to make – not only A, but also B suspect that, when he was not with her, the lady was receiving another man. Both were jealous men. And both determined to lay that other man out. Accordingly, unknown to each other, both proceeded stealthily to the lady’s house on an evening when neither was expected. A arrived first and was endeavouring to scale the porch in the hope of entering or looking through a lighted window above, when B arrived. B was a violent and passionate man. To his mind, his worst suspicions were confirmed. And here was his hated rival. He laid hold of A and pulled him down to the ground. A, very naturally, showed fight. After a very short struggle, B drew a revolver and shot A dead. Then B took to his heels. In fact, at that very time C was in the house. When the shot was fired just outside, the lady was frightened to death. She immediately associated the shot with the dangerous game she had been playing. She besought C to go down and see what had occurred. C did so, only to stumble over the body of A. The night was dark, and he could see no more than that the man was dead. When he ran in and told the lady, she fell down in a faint. Whilst he was attending to her, the police arrived. They, too, had heard the shot. At once they took charge. One of the first things they did was to ask C if he knew who the dead man was. He said, no, that he had not seen his face.

“‘Come and see it now,’ said the sergeant.

“He followed the sergeant down, and the light of a lantern was thrown upon A’s face.

“C started violently. Then–

“‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

“In fact, he had. On very many occasions.
It was his own father
.

“That statement might have cost him dear. People who tell lies, when murder has just been done, are regarded with grave suspicion. He withdrew it the same evening.

“Within the hour, two taxi drivers reported that, while they were waiting on a rank some seventy yards from the house, a man had scrambled over a neighbouring garden wall and disappeared. They had not seen his face. Immediate investigation showed traces on walls and flowerbeds, which left no doubt at all that the man was B. He had scaled three garden walls, to make good his escape.

“Only one person knew who B was: and she would not tell. She swore she had had but two lovers, father and son. No arrest was ever made. An inquest, of course, was held, at which the son and the lady gave evidence. And, as I say, the case was duly reported, but hardly read. But I think it may fairly be called a dramatic case.

“On second thoughts, I must take back something I said: for I seem to remember more than was ever reported by the Press. But at the time in question, I was in touch with the Yard: and I was probably told it by one of the police.”

With infinite care, Berry lighted a cigar.

Then –

“Last night you mentioned a case for which we have all been waiting in some impatience. I think that the time has come when this duty should be discharged.”

I groaned.

“I knew that was going to happen.”

“Sorry, but you must do it. For this is history. The case was world-famous. And the great probability is that you know more about it than anyone else. You were in it from the word ‘Go’ – in fact, you beat the pistol. And you never left it, until the man was sent down. You know it inside and out. Such knowledge should be placed on record, once for all.”

“It’ll take a long time,” I said.

“The night,” said Berry, “is young. And your very beautiful wife shall keep your glass charged.” Jill rose, to set the decanter within my reach. “That precaution was supererogatory. Supposing I want some more.”

“You’ve had enough port,” said Daphne. “And you know Boy’s throat gets sore, when he talks for long.”

“Ugh,” said Berry. “President of the OUDS, and he can’t produce his voice.”

“Well, you can’t, either,” said Jill.

“I don’t have to,” said Berry. “My voice is like a spring that rises, clear as crystal, out of the marvelling earth. When I was Ahasuerus, Esther used to call me her ouzel. I always enriched the palace, while she was pressing my beard.”

“For heaven’s sake, start, Boy,” said Daphne.

“By way of introduction,” said I, “let me say this. The Crippen Case attracted much attention – I never quite know why: but the fact remains. It was the handbill, I think, that gave it a flying start.
WANTED FOR MURDER AND MUTILATION
. (Who it was that drafted that bill, I never knew: but I need hardly say that the crime of mutilation is quite unknown to the law.) Then, of course, it was ‘the silly season’, when papers were hard up for news: then, the woman-in-the-case was arrested, disguised as a boy: finally, it was the first case in which wireless was ever used to lay a man by the heels. Anyway, it attracted such attention as had no other case since the famous Tichborne Trial in 1872. The papers went mad. The whole of each day’s proceedings were reported, word for word.
The Evening Standard
would give up as much as eight pages, to get it all in. Nobody seemed to talk of anything else.

“On the day on which Crippen and le Neve appeared for the first time at Bow Street, an admirable photograph was taken from the back of the court. The next morning this appeared in the middle of
The Daily Mirror
. It occupied the whole of two pages. It was really of considerable interest, for several of the big shots of the CID had come down from Scotland Yard, to have a look at Crippen: and there they all were in a bunch. Of less interest is the fact that it included an excellent portrait of me: I was sitting in counsel’s box on the Magistrate’s left and I was at the moment leaning forward to try and see le Neve’s face.”

“You would be,” said Berry.

“So,” said I, “would you. (She was wearing a flat hat, at that time sometimes worn by women who were to drive in an open car: and a veil was, as usual, drawn down tight about it, so that her face could only be seen from the front.) As a result, I was recognized right and left: and strangers would accost me in restaurants, to ask for the latest news of the Crippen Case.

“That’s forty years ago, but I don’t think the interest has really died today, for the name is still remembered as that of a
cause célèbre
. For twenty years afterwards, it was certainly very strong, and it very often figured in books on crime. I don’t suppose that I saw all such accounts, but I can honestly say that more rubbish has been written and published about the Crippen Case than ever has been written and published about any case in the world. Attempts have actually been made to palliate the crime. What is the truth? It was the sordid and barbarous murder by her husband of the Honorary Secretary (or Treasurer) of The Ladies’ Music Hall Guild, to whom her many women-friends were deeply attached. Crippen had fallen for his typist: but, because a man falls for his typist, he doesn’t have to murder his wife. Why, then, did Crippen do it? Partly because he wished to take the typist to live in his own house, but mainly because he wished to acquire the valuable jewellery which his wife possessed. I have read that Mrs Crippen led him a dog’s life. Of that, there was not a tittle of evidence. She certainly had her interests, and he had his. On the night on which she died, they had entertained two old friends. And he used to come and fetch her from The Ladies’ Music Hall Guild. What was their private relation, nobody ever knew.

“And now let me say two things. As always, I shall tell you nothing but the truth. I am in a position to tell you certain things which have never been told before. And I shall tell you them. But even at this distance of time, I cannot tell you the whole truth about this case, for there are one or two things which I have no right to disclose. Secondly, all this happened some forty years ago, and upon some details my memory may be at fault. I never held a brief in the case, but I was Travers Humphreys’ junior from first to last. With him, I worked upon the case in Chambers, day after day and often till late at night: with him, I attended every hearing at the Coroner’s Court, Bow Street and the Old Bailey: with him, I visited the house in Hilldrop Crescent, at which the murder was done: and I never left the case, until Crippen had been sentenced to death. So I do know what I’m talking about, when I deal with the Crippen Case.

“One of my duties was to reconstruct the crime, so I may sometimes state as a fact something which is founded on assumption, and not upon proof. But such assumption was well-founded. Let me give you one example of what I mean. Everyone knows that the luckless woman’s remains were found in a grave. Although the head was missing, among the remains was a very little of her hair. This had been torn out. Mrs Crippen was a heavy woman, and there is little doubt that her husband had to get her body down stairs. It was, therefore, assumed that he had dragged her down stairs by the hair of her head.

“And now I will tell you what happened – so far as anyone knows.

“Hawley Harvey Crippen was an American citizen. He was known as Dr Crippen. In fact, he held some diploma which was not recognized. I don’t think he practised as a doctor, but he had an office where he made up various specifics, for which there was some slight demand. His wife had been a music-hall artiste. I don’t think she ever appeared in the West End, but she was popular in the provinces for several years. Then she threw in her hand and retired. She seems to have been what is called ‘a very good sort’. Anyway, she had many friends. Her stage-name was Belle Elmore, and, as I have said before, she was the Hon. Secretary (or Treasurer) of The Ladies’ Music-Hall Guild. The Crippens lived in a house in Hilldrop Crescent, not far from Holloway Prison, to which women were usually sent. For some years all went well: then Crippen engaged a typist, whose name was Ethel le Neve. With her, he fell in love. And, after a while, he determined to rid himself of his wife. To which, if any, of the decisions which Crippen took, le Neve was admitted, no one will ever know.

“On, I think, the 31st January, 1910, Paul Martinelli and his daughter spent an agreeable evening at the Crippens’ house. If I remember, Martinelli had been a juggler; but he was now retired. They rose to leave about eleven o’clock. As it was raining, Crippen left the house in search of a cab. He returned with one, and the Martinellis left. That was the last occasion on which anyone, except Crippen, saw Mrs Crippen alive.

“Now what happened at Hilldrop Crescent, when the Martinellis had gone, must, to a great extent, remain surmise. That certain things happened we know: exactly how they happened, we cannot be sure. Though much of what I tell you must be assumed, every conclusion was most carefully drawn, and myself I have no doubt that the very gruesome picture which I shall present differs hardly at all from the tale which would have been told, had someone been there to see.

“Belle Elmore was partial to stout. Whilst she was in her bedroom, getting undressed, Crippen brought her a glass of stout. But into the stout, he had put some hyoscine. Hyoscine is one of the alkaloids. It is a deadly poison, inducing convulsions and coma, preceding death. It is very slightly bitter, but stout would conceal the taste. Hyoscine was among the drugs which Crippen employed in the preparation of his specifics.

“Belle Elmore drank the stout, and Crippen undressed. By the time that coma had supervened, Crippen was in his pyjamas. He seized his wife’s hair and dragged her out of the room and down the stairs. She was still in her underclothes.

“All this was according to plan, for the crime was premeditated. The grave he had dug was waiting, under the coal-cellar’s floor. He had also procured some lime – two sacks, I think.

“Well, he dragged the body downstairs and into the kitchen. He got it on to the table, above which was burning a lamp. This must have meant a great effort for the body was a dead weight and Belle Elmore was not a small woman by any means. That done, he stripped the body, in which, as like as not, there was still some life. His knives and scalpels were ready, and so he cut her throat. The blood he caught in a bucket and poured away. When the veins had been drained, he cut off her head.

“How he disposed of her head, no one will ever know. And a human head is a difficult thing to destroy. And nobody had any theories. The head was gone.

“He then dissected his wife from A to Z. Only a man who had had some surgical training could have done this: and only a very strong man could have completed her dissection within a very few hours. But Crippen, though he was small, was immensely strong. Chief Inspector Dew told me that. It was Dew who brought him back from Canada. During the voyage, he was never out of Dew’s sight. So upon several occasions Dew saw him stripped. And I remember his saying, ‘Well, I’m a much heavier man, but I should have been very sorry to have had to take Crippen on.’

“When the dissection was done, Crippen proceeded to remove the flesh from the bones. This, too, was a formidable task. But he undertook it because he proposed to bury the flesh, but burn the bones. He could not trust his lime to destroy the bones: and he could not trust the fire to destroy the flesh. By now the monster was working stripped to the waist, for the labour was very heavy, and he was up against time.

“As he removed the flesh, he took the pieces and laid them in the grave. They were difficult to handle – they slipped: so he used the top of his pyjamas, to carry them in. But one piece of flesh, he laid aside. For he dared not trust that piece even to lime.

“Years before, Belle Elmore had had an operation which women sometimes have. It was a major operation. And the scar which it left ran right up the middle of the abdomen. When the operation was performed, she may have been slim. But as she grew stout, the scar stretched, until it became a thin, isosceles triangle – I should say, eight inches in length. Such a scar may fairly be termed ‘a distinguishing mark’. So Crippen had to make sure that that scar was destroyed. Accordingly, from the abdomen he cut out a slab of flesh some ten inches square. And this, as I have said, he laid to one side.

“For hours the work went on. At six o’clock in the morning, he’d very nearly done. And then something – no one will ever know what – something occurred, to make Crippen lose his nerve. I always think it likely that it was some sound – a milkman’s cry, perhaps…which showed that the world was stirring…that people were waking up. Be that as it may, panic was Crippen’s portion for half an hour. And his one idea was to get what was left away and out of sight. Almost all the flesh was gone, except the slab which was bearing the tell-tale scar. In his frenzy, he snatched this up and thrust it into the grave. It was, in fact, the very last piece of flesh which he put in. In went his pyjama-top, too, and Belle Elmore’s underclothes, and tufts of hair, some false as well as real. But never a bone.

“And now let’s go back for a moment.

“I told you that he had ready two sacks of lime. One sack was in the cellar, ready and open for use. And each time he laid a portion of flesh in the grave, he sprinkled it lavishly with lime. He had also a bucket of water. And so often as he sprinkled his lime, he soused that lime with water – he slaked his lime. The lime he had bought was quick lime: by sousing it with water, he turned it into slack lime. He did this thoroughly. He knew what lime could do.

“Well, the last slab of flesh went in, with the other bits and pieces as I have said. Then he threw in lime by the handful, covering everything thick and thrusting lime down by the sides of the shocking heap. And then he slaked the lime, drenching it all with water, as fast as he could. He had some earth ready, some earth he had taken out, when he dug the grave. In this went, on the top and down the sides: and when all was tight and level, back went the bricks with which the cellar was floored. He laid these roughly in lime, for the lime was there. Then he smeared the coal-dust over the top of the grave. Where he hid the bones for the moment, I’ve no idea. But during the days that followed he burned them in the back-garden, bit by bit.

“And that was the end of Belle Elmore – as Crippen thought. In fact, he was wrong; for he’d made one shocking mistake, which, as a medical man, he should never have made. As I have said, he knew what lime could do. He knew that lime consumes – devours human flesh. In the old days, the bodies of men who were hanged were buried in lime.
But not in slack lime
:
in quick lime
. Quick lime destroys and devours.
But slack lime preserves
…

“The lime in the sacks was quick lime. Had he put it in, as it was, in a very short space of time the remains would have disappeared. The tell-tale scar, the organs containing poison – all would have gone to dust. But Crippen was very careful to slake his lime… By doing which,
he preserved, in perfect condition, all that he meant to destroy
. When, nearly six months later, the grave was opened up, all that was in the grave was as good as new.”