The Notorious Dr Crippen | Operation Handcuffs | 2

This episode contains an explicit depiction of violence and may not be suitable for all listeners. Please be advised. Matt, what's with the suitcase? Oh, that's my box of disguises. Disguises? Yeah, I'm going to go undercover on other big podcasts so that we can stay ahead of them, get intel on them so that we can beat them. You know I don't like to back you up on things, but that's actually not a bad idea. Thank you very much. I've got like a curly wig and some glasses, so I'm going to do Josh Whidicum and Rob Beckett will never know. I'll just be there going, oh, I don't think I should be a parent, Rob. This is genius. Absolutely. You could do a whole episode, to be honest. Yeah, I'm going to go on off-menu. I've got a ginger wig. I'm going to go as James A. Caster. I'll be like, ah, Ed, Papa, I'm on bread. They're all sort of the same impression, but I think it'll work. And then I'm going to go on diary of a CEO. Oh, I don't... That feels a bit inappropriate, if I'm honest. I'm not going to dress as Tim Butler, don't worry. I'm going to go as the bottle of fuel. Genius. 31st of July, 1910, 4.30 a.m., off the coast of Canada. Inspector Dew pushes the heavy oars through the dark water, shudders at the cold. His eyes strain for sight of the SS Montrose, but the fog is too thick. He glances at the shadowy figures of the other men in the small boat, feels the tension grow as everyone sits in silence. He puts his head down, pulls back the oars. He needs to reach that ship before the sun rises. He shouts through the fog to the harbour pilot. Speed it up! But the man spits over the side of the boat. Steady does it. He pushes the oar, tries not to vomit as a huge wave crashes against the boat's bow. His heart smacks in his chest. His stomach knots at the thought of a watery grave. Montrose, ahead! Dew's eyes widen as an enormous dark shape emerges through the fog. It's vast iron hull cutting through the water. He's travelled over 2,000 nautical miles for this moment. He takes a deep breath as his tiny boat scrapes alongside the Montrose. Gets to his feet, grabs the rope ladder, hauls himself up. He cries out as a wave hits him. For a moment, he's blinded. The wet rope burns his hands. He blinks down at the crashing sea below, forces himself to look up and climb. His arms are shaking. The deck edges inches closer. Finally, he hauls himself over the boat. Finally, he hauls himself over the iron rail, collapsing onto the deck. A shaft of sunlight hits his eyes. He pulls down his cap, then stops dead in his tracks. He's standing opposite a slightly built man. His chin is covered with a sandy beard. His blue-watery eyes stare in shock. And Dew realises, for a second his mind fills with images of the cellar in Hill Drop Crescent. The stench of it, the lumps of gray flesh, the last trace of bell-crippen. He watches the man's hand shoot into his pocket. He remembers the warning from the Montrose's captain. He knows he's got a gun. But he's raced across the Atlantic to catch this man. And he isn't backing down now. He locks eyes and marches towards him. He's going to get his man. Not even a bullet will stop him arresting Dr. Hawley-crippen. From Audible Originals, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Fault. And this is British Scandal. MUSIC OK, Matt, give me your thoughts on Dr. Hawley-crippen. Interesting character. Selling things that you really think surely no one's going to fall for this. And then you check your Instagram and you think people are still falling for this. So he's selling penis enlargement drops and false teeth. On top of that, he seems to have a thing for younger women. So all in all, you just think if you were alive at the same time, potentially you'd be mates? Oh, he's my kind of guy, for sure. At the end of the last episode, we were left with the question, though, did he murder his wife? Yes, because his version of events keeps changing. So at first, he was telling people she was dead. Then he says, oh, she just went back to America, she's still alive. But now a body's been found in his basement. So I don't know what's going on. And I don't know why people are still asking questions. It feels like an open-shut case. He's explained himself. Inspector Joe will not let it go. He found the body, krippin' did a runner. Now he's on this tale. This is episode two, Operation Handcuffs. Three weeks earlier, the World Fair brussels. Ethel Leneve steps off the roller coaster with Hawley. Laugh as she catches her breath. She's never had so much fun in her life. She's so happy she could kiss him. But she knows she can't, not while she's dressed as a boy. She tugs down her jacket, adjusts her straw boater. Her eyes catch a sign, the zoo. She grabs Hawley's arm. Can we? But his face clouds. He's staring at something in the distance. She follows his gaze. What is it? Before he can answer, a merchant's call grabs her attention and she turns. She rushes over to a small wooden store. A man holds out some waxy yellow fruit. Banana, Monsieur? What is it? What is it? See, this is the thing. Whenever you're with a man and he's staring off into the middle distance, you can always try and guess what on earth is on his mind. It's food. Every single time, he's just thinking, I think I could smell sausages. I wonder if I could have three. She peels the skin, bites into the thick flesh. It's so sweet. She turns to show Hawley, but he's gone. Panic grips her stomach. He's nowhere to be seen. She pushes forward through the crowd, feels the banana slip from her hand. She wants to stop someone, ask for help. But she doesn't know how, tries to call out his name. Hawley! Hawley! She feels like headed, overwhelmed. The endless faces, the sickly smells of perfume and tobacco. She needs to sit down. She heads towards the refreshment tent. She finds a barstool at the counter, expects the men to catcall her. Then remembers, she's wearing a boy's suit. She needs a drink, puts on a deep voice, orders. The barmaid pours out a shot of clear liquid. She downs it in one, like the men around her. She snatches up a newspaper to hide her watering eyes. Then stares in horror at a drawing of Hawley's face on the front cover. For a moment, she can't make sense of it. She picks out the words in the French headline. Wanted for the murder of Belle Cricket. She reels back. Belle, dead. Murdered. Because she doesn't know. Because obviously Hawley had said that she was dead, and then when confronted by her mate, had said, oh, she's just done a runner. You say Athol doesn't know. I mean, it would definitely raise suspicions. Also, maybe don't wear her brooches, maybe don't wear her jewels, maybe don't wear her anaclases until you know. That's just a good piece of advice from Alice Levine. If you're going to wear someone else's brooch, just be clear whether they're dead or not. She feels the blood drain from her face as she stares at the picture of her fiance. It can't be. Why would they print such a thing? Hawley couldn't hurt a fly. He's gentle, kind. Her vision blurs. The ground sways beneath her feet. Suddenly, a hand grabs her shoulder. She spins startled. It's Hawley. A mixture of relief and fear hits her both at once. Her eyes fall on the newspaper. When he looks at her, his face is hard, cold. There's a look in his eyes she's never seen before. A new panic grips her. What if she doesn't know this man? What if she looks back at the headline, then at him? Her eyes fill with tears as she stutters out. Please, Hawley, tell me this isn't true. A few minutes later, world fair, brussels. Hawley's eyes dart over the newspaper. He rips it from her hands, tries to push down his rage as his mind scrambles. He needs to convince Ethel it's all a pack of lies. He smooths his expression, softens. I can't understand it. It's a dreadful mistake. It has to be. He blinks at her with wide eyes. I would never hurt Belle. Never. You know that. He reaches for her hand, but she pushes him away. Runs out. He traces after her, out onto the dust-covered street. He yells, Ethel! Ethel! He grabs her arm, yaks her clear, just in time as a green trampund has passed. He holds her to him as she starts to song. You're safe. Pulls her closer. You're safe with me. A few minutes later, he presses a glass of wine into her shaking hands, watches her drink. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost hoarse. BLEEEEER PATHETIC. Get it out, you system! To be fair, the correct response to this, if you were an innocent... BLEEEER ..can't even do it. BLEEEER So good. My horse isn't very well. BLEEEER You know me better than anyone, Ethel. You know I couldn't do this. He stares up at her. He lets his voice crack. Belle, love me. You know that. And those remains, there could be anything. An animal even. Oh, God. He covers his face with his hands, starts to weep. Feels Ethel's hand on his knee. Horley, people are looking. He lowers his head, glances to the table next to theirs, wipes his nose with his sleeve, draws a shuddering breath. I know I'm eccentric. Odd even, but I'm no killer. He watches her face soften. Her lip trembles. But the newspapers, Horley, they named you. He slowly shakes his head. No, Inspector Dew did. When he came to the house, what did he see? A married man in love with his typist. And the rest, he made up. He gazes into her eyes, holds his breath. Oh, Horley. Relief crashes through him as she takes his hand. He lets out a juddering sigh, wipes his eyes, and decides. Inspector Dew won't give up on this case. With his picture in every paper, nowhere in Europe is safe now. Tomorrow morning, as soon as the red starline ticket office opens, he'll book a cabin on the first ship out. He'll start again, build a new life on the other side of the world. And he'll take Ethel with him. The following day, Chapel of Ease, Holloway Road, London. Inspector Dew forces his way through the crowd of reporters, pushes down the temptation to snap back. Are there any similarities with the Ripper murders? What state was the body in? Have you let the killer slip away again, Inspector? He marches towards the solid, brown brick church and storms through the door. Dew's whole body aches with exhaustion. He spent another sleepless night combing through Crippin's past. Old press cuttings from the Salt Lake Tribune. How Crippin's first wife, Charlotte, died mysteriously. How she was found with a huge dark bruise at the base of her brain. How Crippin disappeared shortly after. He strides along the whitewashed corridor, then down to war. He shivers as he enters the mortuary. The air is cold and damp. In the centre of the room is a marble slab lit by oil lamps. The pathologist, Dr Augustus Pepper, raises an eyebrow as he walks in. Dr Pepper. And he's talking to Inspector Dew. Yeah. Mountain Dew. What is going on? Yes, I should come clean. We are integrating a little bit of product placement to the Inspector Dew. Dew watches him lift a sheet of white paper from the table. He stares at the remains on the table. He Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian Australian on the slab. Four lumps of grey flesh, a section of windpipe, five stopper jars. Their clear liquid preserves a liver, a heart, kidneys and a spleen. In another he sees a lump of dark hair wrapped tightly around a curler. Some blood-soaked fragments of a lady's camisole. He reaches out for the cold stone wall. He lights a cigar, takes a few breaths to steady himself as Pepper starts to speak. The murderer went to extraordinary lengths to hide the victim's identity. There's no head, no hands. The sex organs have been removed. Dew sways slightly, tries to push down his rising bile. Cause of death? Pepper shakes his head. We sent a specimen of the flesh to toxicology. Dew watches him sprinkle carboleic powder over the remains. Whoever dissected the body heard considerable anatomical knowledge. However, they failed to understand how quicklime works. Dew empties his lungs of cigar smoke. Meaning, meaning they mixed it with water when they buried the remains, preserved the flesh instead of destroying it. They've done the exact opposite of what they intended. Exactly. And what does that mean about the person who did it? Are they an idiot? The murderer is an idiot. Release it to the press. Police are on the hunt for what they describe as a moron. Dew grabs a lantern, holds it above the remains on the table, makes out the faint trace of a scar on the abdomen. He looks closer. There's something he hadn't seen before. He lifts up the mound of flesh, slides out a tiny strip of fabric, stares at the pattern. It's familiar. His mouth opens. It's the same pattern as Crippen's pyjamas. Make sure this fabric's preserved. He looks back at what's left of this poor soul and feels his fingers curl into a fist. He can't wait to get his hands on the vile monster who did this. He looks up as the door bursts open. DS Mitchell stands breathless in the doorway. Dew watches his eyes fall on the slab. Mitchell takes off his hat, clears his throat. Telegraph from Brussels, sir. Crippen's been sighted in a hotel. Dew's eyes shine with excitement. What they've got him? But Mitchell looks at his feet, shuffles awkwardly. Police went in first thing, but he's disappeared, sir. Mitchell's eyes fall back on the slab. He swallows hard, then adds, And sir? He's taken Miss Lenev with him. 21st of July, 1910, the SS Montrose. Captain Henry Kendall stands on the bridge, studies his charts, frowns. He needs to guide the Montrose safely through the English Channel. He yells at his helmsman. Keep us steady! Feels his shoulders relax as the ship steadies. Sir, passenger list as requested. Kendall lets out an impatient sigh. 11 days to Quebec. 11 evenings dining with every single upper-class passenger on board. As if he didn't have enough to do. What a nightmare. 11 dinners. God. Another beast? Those coal miners don't know how lucky they've got it. He puts the list down. Tamps and lights his pipe. Let's his eyes wander to the starboard porthole. And jumps with a start. Two men are standing on the deck, holding hands. He reels back, gasps as the passengers kiss each other. On the lips. The pipe dangles from his mouth as he stares in horror. Dear God in heaven! He can't believe his eyes. Homosexuals on his ship. His jaw tightens. A few seconds later, he marches along the deck. Watch as the couples spring apart. The boy blushes. He's about to tell them in no uncertain terms that there'll be no homosexual hanky-panky on his ship. When the man smiles. Holds out his hand. Captain, pleased to finally get to meet you. John Robinson, this is my son George. Great cover story. No, I was just kissing my son. It's all a misunderstanding. It's very European. Kendall stops in his tracks and stares at the sun. He sways on his heels. He's so shocked he can't speak. He takes in Mr. Robinson's short stature, his slight frame, his bulging watery eyes. There's a ridge on the top of his nose where spectacles usually sit. He turns to the boy in his ill-fitting suit and realizes, he's a girl. He stares in disbelief. Then jumps too, as his name is shouted from the bridge. Mutters out an excuse. I'm needed. Excuse me. His stomach nods as he heads for his cabin. He pours himself a large rum, swirls it in his glass. He stares at Robinson through the porthole. There's something about the man's face. It's the eyes. Kendall feels a flicker of recognition. Then a headline crashes back into his mind. He scrabbles around his desk for yesterday's English newspaper, finds the one he bought in Antwerp. And there they are. Two sketches stare back at him, one of Dr. Hawley Crippen, the other of his typist, Ethel Lanneve. His jaw drops at the headline. Body in the cellar, murderer on the run. He looks out the small window at John Robinson. It's him. He's sure. They're aboard his ship. He's sailing a murderer across the Atlantic. He rubs at his forehead as he tries to work out his next step. His gaze shifts to the ship's Marconi wireless mast, new technology that's barely been used. OK, so this was like the internet of the day? Yes, it's hard to overstate how revolutionary this was. So it didn't require cables under the water, which meant you had to be in certain places. It was slow. This technology means that everybody could talk to everybody else, globally. And it was the kind of basis for radio broadcasting, as you say, the internet. So all the problems we face as a society now are all Marconi's fault? Yeah, exactly. Before this, ships were just waving flags at each other. Which seems like a terrible system. Although we have gone back to the red flag system. That's all we talk about now. So, you know, these things are in cycles. He makes his decision. Snatching up the newspaper, he marches to the wireless room. He's going to send an urgent message to Scotland Yard. Tell them, Krippin's on board. And then, he's going to lay a trap to catch him. A few minutes later, shipping company, Liverpool. 21-year-old Samuel Miller sits in the canteen, stares into his tea. Then it mables Jackson on the table opposite. He watches her flush as she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear. He should get back to his desk as a wireless operator, but he's been building up the courage to ask her out. Now's his chance. He gets to his feet, heads to her table. He can feel his heart beating in his ears. His eyes fall on the paper she's reading, the Daily Mirror. At the headline, body found in cold cellar, cruel fate of American actress, killer on the run. It's so horrible, it's like Jack the Ripper all over again. Keep it light, Samuel. Trying to get a date here, mate. She looks at the paper, the paper, the paper. She looks at the paper, then at him. Well, maybe you could walk me home tonight. It's worked. What do I know? He grins, feels his heart leap. He bows slightly. I'll keep you safe, I promise. A few minutes later, he's in his office. He fixes on his headset, tries to concentrate as the high-frequency Morse code starts to beep in his ears. He frowns. It's a message from a ship, but the radio signals weak. He strains to hear. From SS Montrose, urgent, assistance required. His stomach goes cold. His pulse races at an image of the Montrose sinking. He scribbles down the ship's coordinates. 130 miles west of Lizarre. He frowns. The ship is out of the treacherous coastal waters. He stares at the page. Strong suspicion that London cellar murderer and accomplice aboard, notify Scotland Yard immediately. Samuel grabs his code book, verifies each sequence, blinks down again at his notebook. It must be Crippen. He rips off his headset, runs up to Mabel's desk. Is the director in? Mabel blinks up at him. You look like you've seen a ghost. He blurts out that he's just had an urgent message. About Dr. Crippen? I know where he is. Mabel rolls her eyes. If that's your idea of a joke, Samuel Miller, then I don't want anything to do with you. He feels his face reddened, is about to reply when... Anyway, the director's gone for the day. She goes back to her typing. His shoulders slump as he slopes back to his office. He picks up his own copy of The Daily Mirror. He can't ignore the message and he can't wait for approval either. He feels his resolve hardened as he scans for the name of the inspector dealing with the case. Then adjusts his headset, puts his finger on the telegraph key. No authorization, no director, just him, Samuel Miller. He presses down and starts tapping out a telegram to Scotland Yard. Through the attention of Inspector Dew, urgent, Crippen, cited above the SS Mentros, destination, Quebec City, Canada. One hour later, central London. Inspector Dew strides up the gravel path towards the assistant commissioner, Sir Melville MacNauton's house. His cigar burns low between his fingers. He looks down at the telegram from the Liverpool Marconi office. Crippen cited above the SS Montros. His guts twist with anxiety. If Crippen steps off that ship, he'll vanish. He needs to find a way to board that boat, but he needs Sir Melville's authorization to do so. He glances through the window. Sir Melville's face is illuminated by electric lamps as he entertains his dinner guests. Dew's eyes widen as he spots the Arthur Conan Doyle smoothing his handlebar mustache. He's sitting opposite the home secretary, Winston Churchill. This is incredible. Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes. Winston Churchill, creator, effectively of modern Britain. God, this is like a fantasy dinner party. Creator's summit. Dew feels his shoulders slump. He's worked closely with Sir Melville since the Ripper murders, and one thing he hates is being interrupted on his literary evenings. Dew wraps on the door with his cane. He takes off his bowler hat as a maid ushers him into the library. He gazes at the shelves stacked with leather-bound books, tries to stay calm as Sir Melville marches towards him, and throws down his notes. Make a quick dew. I'm reciting Horace's satires. Dew clears his throat, hands over the telegram. His crippling, sir. He's been spotted on the SS Montrose, an ocean liner heading for Quebec. Canada? Christ, man. Sir, if I catch the SS Laurentiq, I'll reach Quebec two days before the Montrose dogs, but only if I leave... Sir Melville cuts in. How do we know it's our man? Dew's heart thuds. Sir, the captain is certain. It's Crippen and Miss Leneve. He watches Sir Melville raise his eyebrows. If this goes sideways, we'll be a bloody laughing stock. Dew holds his breath. Watch as Sir Melville pour himself a whiskey and down it in one. He keeps his eyes on the glass when he speaks. I don't want a word of this leaking. You keep this out of the press. Dew nods. Yes, sir. He heads for the door. Here's Sir Melville's cold voice behind him. And Dew, if you fail, you fall on your sword. Understood? Right, so you get the whiskey. I take all the risk, including getting on a boat with a murderer, and in return, you're going to keep that quiet. And if it goes wrong, it's all my fault and I have to resign. Have a good trip. Outside Dew lights a cigar. He's got nine hours before that steamer leaves from Liverpool and he'll have to board that ship in disguise. But if all goes well, he'll reach Canada in six days, in time to meet Crippen in Quebec. He lowers his head, hurries off into the night. Operation Handcuffs has begun. Four days later, the Montrose. Hawley grabs the guardrail, blinks at the ocean. He looks across at Ethel, staring off into the distance. She's been quiet since they set foot on this ship. Reserved even. You having second thoughts about this, Ethel? About us? She glances around, then whispers. I don't know anyone in Canada. What am I going to do then? I'm sick of it, Hawley. All this lying. I'm sick of pretending and I'm sick of this stupid suit. He waits until a couple have walked by, tips his hat as they pass, then whispers. Only two more days until we dark. Is it too much to ask that you just keep? Mr Robinson! Hawley spins, sees Captain Kendall, feels his eyes water. Kendall's a damn nuisance. Every time he comes on deck, he's a real nuisance. Every time he comes on deck, he's there, quizzing him about his plans in Canada, or talking to Ethel about cricket or soccer. I wonder if you and your son would do me the honour of dining with me this evening. Hawley goes cold. It's the last thing he wants. I'm afraid my son's feeling unwell. He's very seasick. Kendall grips Ethel's shoulder. Nonsense! He's got his sea legs already. I can see it. 7.30. I'll look forward to it. He watches Kendall stroll away. His hands clasped behind him, curses under his breath. Damn him! He glares at Ethel. Let me do all the talking tonight. Don't say a word. Fine. You chat to the captain, and all those boring wallies and tuxedos. I love my turkey drumstick chips and spaghetti hoops. She has ordered from the kids menu, and that is what it is. A few hours later, he sits at the captain's table, explains how his son, George, has a rare throat condition. It's much worse this evening. It hurts him very much to talk. He watches Ethel lower her eyes, but Kendall ignores him. What are you studying, young George? What's your favourite subject? Hawley tenses as Ethel clears her throat, mumbles in a low voice. Mathematics. Ah, I loved Pythagoras at school. I imagine you must have studied his theory. Hawley cuts in. Are we making good progress, captain? Kendall's eyebrows raise. Storms load is a little, but we're on course to dock the day after tomorrow. Hawley smiles, cuts into his stake, watches the pink juice spread over the white plate. But Kendall leans forward. Why didn't you and your son join me on deck at sunrise when we dock? I could show young George how we navigate the river. I'm sure that'll interest you, eh, George? Applied mathematics? I mean, any ordinary passenger would be like, why do you want to spend so much time with me and my son? Come on, man. We're meant to go to karaoke tonight. I'll join you! He watches Ethel's eyes widen in panic. Hawley again jumps in. Of course. He tries to smile, but a sick wave of nausea washes over him. He's fooled enough people himself to know when something's not right. He chooses stake and decides he'll spend the next two days in his cabin. Then he'll go up on deck with Ethel at sunrise, watch for the first sight of land. And if Kendall, or anyone else, tries to spring a surprise, he won't hesitate to play his final card, the pistol he's been carrying with him ever since he stepped foot on this boat. Ten minutes later, the SS Laurentiq. OK, so this is the other boat that's going to get ahead of the Montrose, because presumably the Montrose is the stopping service. Yes, exactly. And he's going direct. Yes, the SS Laurentiq is the express service, and this is sort of like the opposite of the Fast and the Furious. This is sort of the slowest chase ever. Inspector Dew pulls on his deerstalker hat, buttons up his green Ulster coat, and clamps a bulldog pipe between his teeth. He studies himself in the mirror now, and feels his heart drop. This outfit seemed like a good idea when he left Liverpool. Now he realizes he looks just like Sherlock Holmes. He sighs. He won't have to keep this up for long. By his calculations, the Laurentiq should reach Quebec two days before Crippen's ship. Dew's stomach growls. He heads down to the carpeted corridor towards the dining room. Lowers his head as passengers pass. But then a man grabs his hand, shakes it. Good luck, Inspector. I hope you catch the rotter. Dew gasps, steps back, blurts out. I don't know what you mean. My name is Dr Dewhurst. But the man winks. My apologies. A doctor. Dew quickens his step. The man must have been drunk. He tries to push it to the back of his mind as he passes the lounge. He blinks in at the open doorway. A woman in evening dress sits at the piano. A man in a smoking jacket leans against it, singing. How's anybody here seen Crippen? C-R-I-D-P-E-N. He's done a bunk to Canada. His wife's in the Cosella, Crippen from Camden Town. The music stops. Everyone turns and stares at Dew. People start to whisper to each other. He reels back as the singer puts his cigarette in his mouth and applauds him. His heart thuds. He staggers back, tries to make sense of it. He's in a nightmare. Inspector Dew. He spins, gets ready to snap out a denial. Feels his shoulders drop with relief at the sight of the captain. But his face is grave. I'm afraid we have a problem. He stares at the captain. It seems one of our passengers, a journalist, has recognized you. Dew follows him to the wireless room. Watches him snatch up a telegram from the desk and hold it out. Dew's vision swims as he reads. For the attention of the captains, what is Inspector Dew doing? Is he sending wireless messages? Joining him with the activities on board? Are other passengers excited about the chase? A nerve pulses in his eye. He stares at the captain. How the hell did this happen? The captain raises a thick eyebrow. It seems this passenger has sent a coded telegram to the news of the world. The press have been intercepting our messages ever since. How far back does that news of the world scandal go? They've been out here for a hundred years. And also so effective if everybody on the boat knows already, what are they doing getting alerts? His eyes fall on the black wireless boxes on the desk. He looks at the captain. It's an open wireless system. Anyone can listen. Dew's tways slightly as he takes it in. Then snaps out. Shut it down immediately. Essential messages only. I don't want another word leaking to the press. He looks back at the wireless system. He'll have to send an urgent telegram to the SS Montrose. Demand Captain Kendall do the same. Total blackout. But his stomach nods as he realises. He might already be too late. 11.30pm, 30th of July. The Laurentic off the coast of Canada. Inspector Dew stands with the captain on the bridge of the SS Laurentic. Scans the horizon. He takes out his pocket watch. He's only a few hours ahead of Crippen. And there's still no sign of land. He glances at the deck below. A small group of excited passengers look up at him. They've been following him everywhere since they found out who he was. He just hopes the same isn't happening on the SS Montrose. He lets out a sigh of relief as the frog rolls back and a small port finally comes into view. Canada at last. He takes in the lighthouse. A few wooden shacks. He'll hide out there. Then when Crippen's ship comes in at dawn, he'll get on a rowing boat and arrest him. He narrows his eyes as another sound starts to carry in the air. It's coming from the shore. At first he can't make sense of it. Then his blood runs cold as he realizes it's a mob and they're all chanting his name. News of Crippen aboard the SS Montrose has reached Canada. He hangs his head. As soon as he's on the gangway, photographers surround him. A man grabs his arm, raises it. Three chairs for Inspector Dew. Hip hip hooray! Crippen shrugs him off, puts his head down, tries to push through. But the press jostle with each other, shove their cameras in his face. Do you know what? Once it's got to that level, you've just got to enjoy it. Crowdsurf. Yeah! Wave, kiss a few babies. Dew, Dew, Dew and you're starting it yourself. You're just dancing along. You're starting it yourself. What are your plans to arrest Crippen? You know Miss Lanavis dressed as a boy. Did you know your wife has been following your journey through the English press? He snarls. Out of my way! He tries to push through when someone blocks him. He balls his fist, gets ready to fight, when he sees a uniformed policeman. Sir, this way. A few seconds later, he's in a small hut. Two men in heavy overcoat stand up. Introduce themselves as Chief Officer McCarthy and Detective Dennis of the Quebec City Police. Dew snaps at them. How the hell am I going to arrest Crippen with this bloody circus? Chief Officer McCarthy raises an eyebrow. May I remind you, Inspector, you're on Canadian soil. We're doing the arrest. He fills his stomach grip. His jaw tightens with anger. He wipes his hand over his face as McCarthy leans back. But we're the least of your problems. He gestures to the window. The press are going to sail to the Montrose tomorrow at dawn. Dressed as harbor pilots. They're going to get the scoop of the century. Dew peers out of the window. Jumps back as a camera flashes in his face. It almost blinds him. He rubs at his eyes. He can't let the press get to that ship first. He rocks on his heels. Tries to figure out what to do. Then an idea hits him. He'll disguise himself as a harbor pilot too. He'll head out with the press in their small boat, away from the crowds. He turns to the detectives, raises himself to his full height. Tells them they can join him. But I'll make the arrest. He watches the men glanced at each other. It's one of the Canadian detectives this time who breaks the silence. He shrugs his heavy frame. Takes a piece of paper from his coat pocket. You should know Captain Kendall's son a telegram. Dew unfolds it and feels his heart stop when he reads. Crippen armed, gun sighted, be careful. Dew feels his blood chill. But he's determined. He'll bring that murderer to justice. Dead or alive. The Monteroes 31st of July, 5am. The Monteroes. Hawley stands shivering on the deck. He puts up his collar against the thick fog and squints out at the ocean. He lets out a breath as the sun breaks through. Tips up his face to feel the warmth. He smiles over at Ethel. In a few hours, there'll be just another anonymous couple in Quebec City. Then they can ditch their disguises, all the pretents, and finally live as man and wife. There, look! He squints, sees a flash of a lighthouse. His heart leaps. He looks down at the small boat emerging from the fog, tries to focus on it. Oh, they're harbour pilots! He spins to see Captain Kendall. They'll guide us along the St. Lawrence to Quebec City. A tricky river to navigate. Hawley blinks, stares down, counts six burly men in pilot's uniforms. He shoots a look at Kendall. Six of them. The Captain's eyes stay on the boat, but he doesn't answer. Hawley feels his chest tighten. His heart thumps as the boat pulls up alongside. He's travelled in line as many times before, but he's never seen this many harbour pilots board a ship. He takes in the shadows of the men, shoves his hand in his pocket, feels for his gun, then realises to his horror he's left it behind. Idiot, that was his one big plan. That was his final card, famously. You like keys? Well, I found a gun. He turns, tries to go back to his cabin, but Captain Kendall blocks his way. Hawley watches breathless as one of the men jumps onto the deck. For a moment, they lock eyes. He wants to run, but he's frozen to the spot. He stares at the man's thick, dark moustache, those piercing eyes. His stomach turns ice cold as he realises. It can't be. He hears his own feeble voice. Inspector Dew. He's blinded by a flashbulb as a camera's shoved in his face. He staggers back, then flinches as Dew grabs him, snaps iron handcuffs around his wrists. His vision swims as he looks over at Ethel. She's white, shaking. He wants to say something, but the words won't come. Instead, he hears Dew's voice booming above the crashing waves. Hawley Crippen, I'm arresting you for the murder and the mutilation of your wife, Belle Crippen. His legs give as he catches sight of the gleaming coastline now, lit with bright sunshine. At a future he's lost. He realises it's going to take everything he has to talk his way out of this. Because if he doesn't, he's going to hang. From Audible Originals and Samus.Audio, this is the second episode in our series, The Notorious Dr Crippen. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Story of a Murder by Hallie Rubenhold and Dr Crippen by Nicholas Connell. British scandal is hosted by me, Alice Levine. Written by Karen Laws. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor was James Maniac. Sound design by Rich Evans. Our engineer was Jai Williams. For Samus.At, our series producer was Chica Ayres. Our assistant producer was Louise Mason. Our senior producers were Joe Sykes and Dasha Lizzetsina. Executive producers for Audible were Theodora Leludis and Estelle Doyle. The Notorious Dr Crippen.