Waxwork by Peter Lovesey Page B

automatically.’
    â€˜It is of German manufacture,’ Cromer explained. ‘I had it specially imported from Lubeck when I moved here.’
    â€˜That must have put you to some expense, sir.’
    â€˜Where poison is concerned, one has an obligation to take every possible precaution against an accident,’ said Cromer. ‘Of one thing I can assure you: there was no negligence in the tragedy that happened here. We were all aware of the lethal effect of potassium cyanide.’
    â€˜What is its purpose in photography, sir?’
    â€˜We used it a lot more in the wet collodion process than we do now that we work with dry plates. It was then used mainly as a fixing agent, but I still find it indispensable for reducing the density of negatives. Believe me, we are mindful of its dangers. Even the fumes can kill, Sergeant. We always ensure that the room is adequately ventilated when we work with it.’
    Cribb tried the lock again. ‘There are just two keys to this cabinet, yours and Perceval’s—is that correct, sir?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Cromer responded in a way that partially anticipated the next question.
    â€˜On the day Perceval was murdered, you were in Brighton. Where was your key?’
    Cromer put his hand to the front of his waistcoat and groped for the absent watch-chain. His eyes widened momentarily.
    Cribb held it out to him. ‘Thank you, sir.’
    â€˜On the day Perceval died, it never left my person,’ said Cromer as he fixed it in place again. ‘Is there some difficulty over the key?’
    The question was couched just a shade too casually. ‘No,’ said Cribb in an even voice, ‘no difficulty that I can think of.’ He picked up a print from the table, glanced at the picture and turned it over. In the centre of an intricate design of loops and curlicues, between two trumpeting angels, were the words Howard Cromer, Photographic Artist, The Green, Kew. ‘Do you know what I should like to borrow if you have such a thing? A photograph of your wife.’
    Cromer’s face relaxed. ‘You shall have one with my compliments. There is no shortage here of portraits of Miriam.’
    â€˜That’s good,’ said Cribb. ‘The one I want, if you have it in a size convenient for my pocket, is that one upstairs in the drawing room. The one I was looking at when you came in.’

MONDAY, 18th JUNE
    J UST AFTER SEVEN, THE postman came.
    Berry was shaving.
    â€˜Two,’ his wife called up. ‘From London.’
    â€˜Put ’em on t’shelf, then.’
    â€˜Aren’t you going to open them?’
    â€˜In good time, woman. I’m busy just now.’
    When he came downstairs his eggs and bacon were ready. Nothing ever came between Berry and breakfast. While he was eating, his wife took the letters off the shelf, had another look at the handwriting and placed them on the table by his plate.
    One he saw at a glance was from the Sheriff of London. He had got to know the brown envelope with the crest on the flap. There was no reason to open it yet. It was a job, and he knew which one.
    The other interested him more. A white envelope. Copperplate. Since taking up his present office he had received a fair number of letters, most of them from crack-pots. He had learned to recognise them by the way they addressed the envelope— James Berry, Hangman, Yorkshire— something after that style, and spelt wrong as often as not. It was a wonder they reached him. The Post Office did a grand job. He burned them mostly.
    â€˜Do I get tea this morning, or not?’
    As soon as his wife went into the scullery, he opened the white envelope. It was from Madame Tussaud’s. He had never been so surprised in his life. The letter he had spent most of last week putting together was still in his pocket. He felt to make sure. Took it out and checked the writing on the envelope. He had decided not to post it until the Newgate job