Waxwork by Peter Lovesey Page A

in a fluster. ‘Do have a drink.’ He started towards the mahogany chiffonier Cribb had indicated. ‘Will it be sherry or madeira?’
    Cribb’s hand shot up to refuse. ‘Thank you, but not on duty, sir. But I would like to see inside if I may.’
    Cromer took a key from his pocket, unlocked one of the doors and showed Cribb two cut-glass decanters. ‘The one containing poison is still in the hands of the police,’ he said. ‘I was told I shall get it back eventually.’
    â€˜Are the decanters always kept locked in here, sir?’
    â€˜Oh no. When clients come, I have them on top, to offer them a glass. It helps to put them at their ease. Photography is an awesome experience to the uninitiated, Sergeant.’
    â€˜But you lock the decanters in here when you are not expecting clients?’
    â€˜That is correct. I do not believe in putting temptation in people’s way.’
    â€˜Servants, you mean?’
    Cromer nodded. ‘Although when it came to secret drinking, I was perfectly sure that my assistant was the principal culprit. He was partial to madeira and it was quite obvious that the level went down each time I left him to work alone in the studio.’
    â€˜He had a key, then?’
    â€˜He had to have one, because there were times when he took charge of sittings,’ Cromer said.
    â€˜I see. And your wife filled the decanters once a week on Mondays. How much goes into one of these, sir? A bottle and a half?’
    â€˜Almost as much as that.’
    â€˜That’s a lot of wine in a week.’
    â€˜I have a lot of clients.’
    â€˜But on the day Perceval died, you had no appointments. Is that right?’
    â€˜Yes. I was going to Brighton. There was plenty of retouching and mounting for Perceval to do, so I kept the day free of sittings.’
    â€˜And that was why the decanters were inside this chiffonier and not on top?’
    â€˜Obviously.’
    â€˜But you were pretty sure Perceval would help himself to some during the day?’
    â€˜It was more likely than not,’ said Cromer. ‘Perhaps you would care to see the other rooms now?’ He opened a door from which a smell of ether came. ‘The processing room. I was working here this morning, so I must ask you to forgive the mess.’
    It was a long room with a table in the centre, a desk and a number of cupboards. There was a lead sink in the corner.
    â€˜So this is where he died?’
    Cromer waved his hand vaguely over a section of the carpeted floor. ‘He was lying here when the servants came in. The chair was on its side by the desk there, and the wine glass had fallen near it.’ He moistened his lips and took a nervous step back as Cribb moved towards the desk.
    â€˜The kitchen is underneath us, I take it,’ said Cribb.
    â€˜It is.’ Cromer frowned. ‘How did you know?’
    â€œThe plumbing. Which one is the poison cabinet, sir?’
    Cromer moved his right forefinger in the direction to Cribb’s left. Cribb went over to the cabinet, which was white like the other cupboards in the room, and tapped it with his knuckle. ‘Sounds solid. Could I see inside, sir?’
    â€˜The cyanide was removed.’
    â€˜I’d still like to look inside.’
    Cromer fumbled with the front of his waistcoat.
    â€˜That’s a capital idea, sir, having the key on your watch-chain,’ Cribb commented. ‘No risk of leaving it about the place.’ He watched Cromer fit the key into the lock. ‘It looks a strong lock, too. May I?’
    With a shrug, Cromer detached the watch-chain from his waistcoat and stepped aside.
    Cribb turned the key. He could tell by the snugness of the fit that it was not the sort of lock you could open in five minutes with a bent hatpin.
    There were perhaps a dozen bottles inside. Cribb gave them a glance, withdrew the key and pushed the door shut. ‘Ah. It locks