The Notorious Dr Crippen | Devil's Breath | 3

Audible subscribers can listen to all episodes of British Scandal ad free right now. Join Audible today by downloading the Audible app. This episode contains graphic depictions of gore and violence. Listener discretion is advised. What are you up to, Matt? I'm just filling in my passport form. Oh yeah? Obviously, you need to get it counter signed by someone from a credible profession. Someone who is an upstanding member of society. What are you thinking? I was thinking I'd get a lawyer. Yeah, okay. Yeah, I mean not entirely uncontroversial. Good point. Yeah, I need maybe like an industry that's more respected. Unimpeachable. Yes, like maybe maybe journalists or tabloid editors. Oh, I don't know why. That makes me a bit nervous. Oh, a member of the Catholic Church. Why don't we just go back to the drawing board maybe? I see where you're nodding with this. I need to effectively go higher up. Yeah, just untarnished, no controversy. A profession that just like everybody loves and isn't going to kind of raise any eyebrows. How about prints? Just pick carefully out of the ones available. 27th of August, 1910, SS Magantic, just off Liverpool Docks. Ethel follows the water onto the deck, feels her stomach churn with nerves as the huge domed building at the pier head comes into view. She pulls the veil from her hat low over her face and tries not to cry. This last month has been hell. The man she loves arrested, accused of a heinous crime. All she wants to do now is get home. She glances behind her, hopes to catch a glimpse of Hawley, but he's not there. She hasn't spoken to him since Inspector Dew arrested him. She's desperate to see him. Hear him say it's all a terrible mistake that Inspector Dew's got it all wrong. She cranes her neck now as they approach the dock. A massive crowd's crammed onto the quay side. A feeling of dread builds in her stomach as she watches people push their way forward. Vendors weaving through the crowd selling lemonade. Children climb onto their father's shoulders for a better view. A brass band strikes up, their instruments glisten in the sun. Ethel turns to her water, her eyes full of confusion. It's the king here. The woman lets out a short laugh. The king? They ain't here for him love. She grabs the rail, trembling as the gangplank is lowered. Reels as the crowd surges forward. She stares horrified as hundreds of angry, snarling people start booing, throwing eggs and rotten food. Jezebel! Hang Crippen and his whore! It's like Edinburgh, Matt. For me, yeah. Not for everyone. 2016, what are you? You've got to try these things. It was concept. And the concept was, I was trying to be funny, but they didn't get it. She feels the ground give. The water grips Ethel's arm, drags her down the rickety gangway. Hands reach up from the crowd. Someone tears off her veil. Dirty bloody harlot. She flinches as the woman spits in her face. She gazes at her angry eyes, her bared teeth, her hands shake as she wipes herself. A few seconds later, she's in the car, looks back as a crowd of yelling people chase her, her eyes fill with tears as she realizes. They think she helped Hawley murder Bel Crippen. She closes her eyes. She can't have them thinking this. She decides. She's going to clear her name and clear Hawleys. All she has to do is figure out is figure out how. This ad is brought to you by AT&T. You know what makes the master so special? It's not just the legendary shots or the roar of the crowd. It's being connected to every single moment as it happens. Whether you're tracking your favorite golfers round or sharing that unbelievable eagle with your buddies. When the connection matters, it has to be AT&T. AT&T keeps you connected to the game you love, because connecting changes everything. Visit AT&T.com slash connect to change to learn more. Now, Matt, last episode we left Crippen and Dew staring at each other on a ship. Do you think that is the end of the story? No. I've deduced that because this is episode three. But also no, because part of the problem is, what's the actual evidence? Inspector Dew still can't really prove that Crippen has killed his wife. Yes. Apart from running away, of course, and disguising his mistress as a bastard, he's also a real criminal. He's also a criminal. He's also a criminal. Running away, of course, and disguising his mistress as a boy and pretending she was his son. There's actually not an awful lot that's concrete, is there? Yeah. And all that could be quite innocent. I mean, there is the small matter of the body in the cellar. Yeah, but we don't have 100% proof that it's her, do we? No, it's true, because he said his wife had run off. Then he said she was dead. Yeah. So there's lots of confusion. We don't know which way it's going to go. What about Ethel, the aforementioned mistress? How are you feeling about her pity at the moment? What's the emotion? On one hand, yes, because Crippen is a talented con man, and there are all sorts of different power dynamics here. He's 20 years older than her. He's her employer. He's a doctor. This is the 1910s. He's got status over in every single way. And I don't want to minimize the fact that she's effectively been manipulated and groomed by this guy. On the other hand, I do worry she's an idiot. There's no real other way of putting it, is there? Well, we're about to see who she really is. This is episode three, Devil's Breath. The following day, Brixton prison. Inspector Dew pulls down his bowler hat, as his motor cab pushes through the crowd of journalists. Has Dr Crippen confessed his Ethel and Luneve being charged? When will the trial start, sir? Dew grimaces at young boys clinging to the tops of lamp posts, eager for a sight of the notorious Crippen inside the prison. His eyes fall on a headline in the hands of a reporter. Moment of Crippen's arrest. This is before we had pun headlines. This is pre the sun. I mean, this feels flat, doesn't it? Whereas Crippen be trippin' or something. It doesn't really mean anything, but, you know, it's fun. Exactly. What you want to do is deliver horrendous news in a jaunty way. And that's what keeps the public entertained and simultaneously livid. Beneath the headline, a photo of Dew leading Crippen down the gamp flank of the Montrose in Canada. He looks away. It's been 24 hours since the magantic docked in Liverpool and brought Crippen back to Britain. Dew is finally going to interview him today. And this time, he intends to secure a confession. He slides down the seat, waits until they've driven to the prison's side entrance, then jumps out and makes his way into the dark recesses. A few minutes later, Dew is seated in a tiny room with a barred window. He gets to his feet as Crippen walks in, flanked by two burly guards. His hands are manacled. Heavy wool prison flannels swamp his small frame. Inspector, how lovely to see you again. Dew purses his lips at the mockery in Crippen's voice, sits down and plants his hands on the desk. He isn't here for small talk. We've uncovered most of your wife's remains. Crippen blinks at him behind his round spectacle. We don't know what you did with her head or hands, not yet. Crippen says nothing. But we've identified her through her abdominal scar. Dew feels unnerved by Crippen's calmness. Straightening his back, he carries on. Her body was dismembered by someone who knew what they were doing. A professional. A doctor. He lets the word hang, but Crippen's blue eyes don't blink. Dew leans back, reaches into his pocket. Take a look at this. Crippen studies the photograph, then looks up in confusion. What is this? This photograph was taken at the crime scene. Take a closer look, doctor. Dew smiles as a bead of sweat breaks out on Crippen's forehead. He sees Crippen's eyes lock on a piece of fabric contained with Belle's remains. Your pajamas, I believe. Dew watches a sardonic smile appear on his face. Is that so, Inspector? Crippen taps the photograph. A scar on some flesh, a scrap of some mass-produced fabric. Half the men in England have these pajamas. And without a head, you can't even be sure it's Belle. I mean, also, I'm sad looking at this. That's my main feeling actually is, because I'm not psychopath. I mean, I haven't done this, so I am repulsed by this very graphic image. I've never seen anything like this before. And I'm not showing it, and I am focusing on the fabric of the pajamas, but this is distressing. You never brought the pajamas up, so then I had to respond to that. My first, and please, just I want this, I hope these make me feel really sad inside. And I miss Belle. My God, I miss her. Dew feels his blood chill as Crippen's eyes harden. I think I'll take my chance with the jury. Take him out. Dew lights a cigar to calm his anger, rubs at his forehead. The truth is, Crippen's right. Every piece of evidence they have is circumstantial. Dew knows it can all be argued away in a court of law. If the jury believes Crippen, the most famous murder case in Britain will collapse. Scotland Yard will be a laughing stock. Dew will be finished, and Crippen will be free. He jumps to his feet, snatches up his bowler hat, and storms out. If Crippen refuses to talk, then he'll have to find someone who will. A few days later, south end on sea. Ethel Leneve edges to the window, cautiously pulls back the curtain, feels her stomach grip as she looks at the crowd of newspaper men. Mr. Leneve, any words for your father? She jolts back, her face clouds with confusion. She looks at her sister, Nina. Dad, why are they talking about Dad? She rushes to the door, snatches the newspaper from the mat, and gasps in horror at the headline. My daughter and Crippen. The colour drains from Ethel's face as she reads. Her father's words stare back at her from the page, how Hawley used to plier with gifts, flowers, perfume. Later, a full set of false teeth. It notes how she was smitten from the start. How her father warned her not to get involved with the married man. How she was too headstrong to listen. Ethel crushes the paper in her hands, pushes down the bitter feeling of betrayal. She jumps at the bang on the front door, curses under her breath, feels her anger rise as she yanks it open, ready to scream at the reporters, but stops dead in her tracks. It's Inspector Dew. He lifts his bowler hat and bows slightly. A few minutes later, Ethel sits stiffly, staring at her lap while the Inspector calmly stirs his tea. You know I can help you, Ethel. I can clear away all these men, put a policeman on the door, but only if you tell me everything Hawley told you about Belle's death. He didn't hurt her. He couldn't. Not Hawley. But Dew ignores her. How did he kill her, Ethel? Her breath catches. Where did he cut up the body? She begins to shake. Where are the hands? She goes cold. Hot tears run down her face. She hears her terrified voice cry out. Stop it! But he keeps going. Where is the head? Her sister stands up. Enough Inspector. My sister has told you everything she knows. But Dew takes a photograph from his pocket, slams it down in front of her. Ethel looks down. A dark-haired woman gazes back at her from the picture. Ethel, this is Charlotte Crippen, Hawley's first wife. Ethel gasps for breath. Married in San Diego? She told friends he was trying to kill her. She died a few years later, found unconscious. A large bruise at the base of her skull. Have you forgotten this? Crippen has already been married and his first wife also died in suspicious circumstances. Matt, you're being alarmist. We don't know Belle's dead. She's just missing. Yeah, but if... I think if you met someone and said, look, the first wife died in suspicious circumstances. My second wife may be dead. I don't really know. They've got remains that look like her, but what does that prove? Exactly. Do you want to go for dinner? Do you feel reassured by that or not reassured? You know what this tells you though, that a doctor is sexy no matter what? Something about doctors. Sorry, two dead wives. Looks like you did it. Doc, do you say? Look at that stethoscope. Ethel wants to look away, but she can't take her eyes off the woman. Do you snatch as it back? She watches his cold eyes look at the newspaper, then back at her. I can make your life easier, Ethel. Or much, much harder. Her vision blurs with tears. She hears her own shaky voice cry out. I don't know anything. Nina pulls on the parlor door. Get out! Ethel curls in on herself. She can't stop trembling. She can hardly breathe. She looks up as Nina grips her hand. Nina, what if it's true? Ethel wipes her eyes, looks back at the closed door, and decides. She has to hear it from Hawley himself. Look him in the eye, and make him tell her the truth. Five days later outside Brixton Prison, London. Ethel steps down from the pony trap and looks up at the towering prison walls. The small barred windows stare down at her like empty eyes. She feels her stomach grip with fear. She's written to Hawley several times, but this is the first time she'll see him face to face since his arrest. And she's dreading it. A few minutes later, she sits on a narrow bench in the prison visitors' hall. Nervously tugs down her blue woolen jacket. Recoils as a bearded prisoner is led past. She covers her mouth against the sudden stench. Freezes as he stops in front of her. Ethel looks up, startled. Takes in the man's matted hair and pallid skin, his grimy face. Hawley? She wants to reach out, touch him. Instead she forces herself to stutter. Hawley, I... I... She'd had it all planned out. The question she talked through with Nina, but as she sits opposite him, all she can do is shake. He leans forward, gently rests his hands near hers on the table. Ethel, I know why you're here. The things you must have read about me in the newspapers. He shakes his head, sadly. I can't imagine how hard this is for you. A sob escapes her throat. You know I couldn't do any of those terrible things. Those remains could belong to anyone. They could have been there for years. But Inspector Dew said... He leans back, sighs. Inspector Dew has no proof of anything. You can't let him bully you into thinking otherwise, Ethel. Has he been hounding you? She looks at him in surprise. Nods. Yes, he was... She blinks up at him, at his large, mournful eyes. She's about to continue when he cuts in. This is Belle's revenge. She frowns. Belle. He sits forward. She hated that we fell in love. It's her way of punishing me, of punishing us. I believe she's convinced Inspector Dew to... She watches as he pauses. To what, Hawley? Inspector Dew, a man so desperate to save his own reputation, he'll do anything for a win. He leans forward even further, whispers. I'm convinced the Inspector's planted evidence against me. She feels her eyes widen. Inspector Dew, is it possible? She blinks around at the guards near the door, then back at Hawley. She looks at his kind, earnest face. She's framed me, Ethel. Belle's still alive. I know she is. But he holds up his manacled hands. How can I prove it? She jumps with a start as the guards drag him to his feet. Time's up. Here's her own desperate voice call out. Please, just a few more minutes. Oh, go on then. We're so soft in olden time, prisons. You too, lovebirds. Go on. Ethel walks out into the street, gasps as the fresh air hits her face, then looks back at the grimy prison walls and decides, if Paul Hawley can't find Belle himself, then she will. She's going to save the man she loves and get him out of that horrible place if it's the last thing she does. 13th of October, 1910, St Mary's Hospital, Paddington. Inspector Dew slips quietly into the lecture theatre, slides onto a wooden bench at the back. In the centre of the room, Dr Pepper is bent over an elderly male cadaver laid out on a metal table. I've forgotten about Dr Pepper and I googled this. So this is 1910. Dr Pepper was invented in 1885. No. It sort of tastes a bit like it was. It's sort of like a medicinal ye olde beverage, isn't it? You drank the first can. Dew flinches as Pepper prizes open the ribcage of the body. The crack echoes around the room. A few moments later, he holds up the man's blackened lung. As you can see, the tissue is stiff, thickened, traces of scarring throughout. Dew watches the medical students scribble in their notebooks, impatiently taps his fingers against the wooden bench. Causes of death, anyone? A sea of hands shoot up. Dew leans back and lights a cigar. Dew is here to speak with the pathologist. Crippen and Ethel are both refusing to cooperate, so he's hoping Dr Pepper has some good news. When the lecture's over, Dew heads down to the dissecting table. Watch as the doctor scrub his hands in a tiny sink. I got your message. You said it was urgent. Pepper dries his hands, then takes a sheet of paper from his briefcase. The drug psychology report on Mrs. Crippen. It's finally come back. We've found traces of Hyacinohydrobromide in the viscera. Dew raises an eyebrow. Which is... ...commonly known as Devil's Breath. Dew, she was poison. A few grains of this and a drink. She stood no chance. Dew gasps. You're certain? Pepper nods. From the amount still in her body, I'd say she was given one hell of a dose. A small amount would have put her in a stupa, but the amount we found would have led to agitation and delirium. Terrible way to die. Dew looks at the report in his hand, at the words Hyacinohydrobromide, then back at Pepper. Doctor, where can I get a list of suppliers? The following day, Dew stands in front of a closed shop in New Oxford Street, feels his shoulders slump. He's been to every chemist on the list. None have a record of selling Hyacinohydrobromide to Hawley Crippen. He bangs on the door one last time, when he notices a curtain move at the window. A thin, elderly man stares out at him. Dew looks down at his notes. Arthur, borrow. He sees a flash of fear in the chemist's eyes before the man flips the closed sign to open. Dew's hit by a pungent smell of cloves, wet sawdust and ether as he enters. He takes in the apothecary jars lining the shelves, a taxidermied baby crocodile, and a turtle shell hanging from a rafter. Chemists have changed. Sounds like big boots to me. I might go to the chemist as a kid. They would sell, obviously, medicine and prescriptions, and then tons of sweets. It's a fuel-based culture now. Fuel and it's fragrance. They're basically, you know, of your ill, what you need is... Two spritzes of Brittany by Brittany. Yeah. Dew leans on the counter. I'm Inspector Dew. I know who you are. I've read about the case. Just show me the ledger. Dew takes the giant book. His finger runs down a list of names. But his excitement starts to fade as he turns page after page until he stabs a name with his fingernail. Dr. Crippen. Again and again and again. Crushed blister beetles, brain oil, leeches, and then finally Hyacine hydra bromide. I wouldn't have sold him anything if I'd known what he was capable of. But Dew isn't listening. Purchased on the 19th of January this year, one month before Bill Crippen disappeared. Dew stares at Crippen's name at his signature, proof directly linking Crippen with Bell's cause of death. He spins, sees DS Mitchell in the doorway, Dew grins until he spots a look of confusion on Mitchell's face. Mitchell walks towards him, leans forward, and whispers in his ear. We've received new information, sir. Dew looks at him as Mitchell lowers his voice even further. Sir, it's Bell Crippen. She's still alive. I'm Leon Nefok, best known as the host and co-creator of podcasts Slow Burn, Fiasco, and Think Twice, Michael Jackson. I'm here to tell you about my show Final Thoughts, Jerry Springer, whose name is synonymous with outrageous guests, taboo confessions, and vicious onstage fights. But before the Jerry Springer show became a symbol of cultural decline, its namesake was a popular Midwestern politician and a serious-minded idealist with lofty ambitions. Through dozens of intimate and revealing interviews with those who knew Springer best, I examined Springer's lifelong struggle to reconcile his TV persona and his political dreams and aspirations. Named one of the best podcasts of the year by The New Yorker and Rolling Stone, Final Thoughts, Jerry Springer, is a story about choices, how we make them, how we justify them to ourselves, and how we transcend or doubt. Listen wherever you get your podcasts or binge the whole series ad-free right now on Audible. Start your Audible subscription in the Audible app. The following day, Clara Martinetti's house, Central London. Inspector Dew studies the photograph on the mantelpiece. Clara Martinetti dressed in satin as a fairy godmother in a pantomime. Then watches her pour two cups of tea. He reaches into his pocket for the letter Bell sent to Brixton Prison. Turns it over in his hands. He needs to know who else Bell has reached out to. He also needs to keep it out of the press. Showing Bell's old friend Clara Martinetti is a gamble, but it's one he has to take. He pushes the letter towards her, watching her eyes dart across the page. When she looks up at him, her eyes are shining. Oh my goodness, she's alive! Her eyes scan the letter, then Dew sees a darkness cloud her face as she reads. Your life is worthless to me, Hawley. However, I don't want to be responsible for your demise. I'm happy now. I wish you no ill. When she looks back at him, her expression has crumpled. That's not her. Dew feels a jolt. He watches Clara stand, rush to her bureau, then returns with a bundle of letters, holding one out to him. This is the last thing I ever received from Bell. It's a meme of... A monkey. Now, we use it for when somebody gets a new coat or feels quite flush in something. And I replied with that one of the guy tapping his forehead like that because I thought it was a very clever meme. She sits next to him, puts the two letters together. Dew studies the neat hand with its flourishes and curls. It looks identical, but Clara points her to sentence, traces it with her finger. The slant here on the jeez. It's different. The capital eaves see the loops. It's missing here. Dew's neck muscles bunch. He gets to his feet, his anger rising. He stares at the postmark. I can't understand how he's done that. Clara snaps back without missing a beat. Can't you? He stares at her. If I were you inspector, I'd start with that harlot typist of his. Two hours later, Dew sits with Ethel Lanieve in her sister's house. He grits his teeth, fights hard to contain his fury. I need you to make a written statement. Everything Hallie's told you about Bell's disappearance. She purses her lips. Her eyes slide to the writing bureau, then back to him. I've already done that. He slams down a blank sheet onto the desk. Now! He watches her nervously pick up the pen and start to write. After a few sentences, Dew snatches the paper, reaches into his pocket, unfolds the letter. His shoulders tighten as he compares the writing. He glares at her, holds up the letter. She starts to tremble. You forged this. I... I don't know what you mean. He snarls. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't arrest you now. She covers her face with her hands. I only wanted to help him. Dew storms out. He won't waste another minute on this nonsense. His focus must be on Crippen. He waits until his nerves have calmed. His mind clicks into place. He's got Bell's remains. He's linked the poison directly to Crippen. His man tried to flee halfway around the world. It must be enough. He's got three days until the trial starts. And when it does, he's going to nail Crippen. 18th of October, 1910, outside the Old Bailey. Hawley steps down from the black police van. It's the first day of his trial. And he's determined to prove once and for all that every piece of evidence that wretched Inspector Dew thinks he might have is entirely circumstantial. He feels a sharp tug on his handcuffs as a policeman drags him through the yelling crowd. I work for our readers, Dr. Crippen. Is it true your wife's still alive? An hour later, he crosses the floor of the hushed courtroom, smiles politely at the jury. A dozen well-dressed men stare back at him. He grips the stand as the prosecution barrister, Richard Muir KC, tightens his thin lips and sweeps towards him. On the morning of February 1st this year, were you alone at home with your wife? He blinks through his glasses, keeps his gaze steady. Yes, I was. Do you know of anyone in the world who's seen her alive since? He raises his eyebrows. Bell told me she was leaving me, that she was going back to the States. Muir nods, his voice sharpens. Weren't you unfaithful to your wife, Dr. Crippen? Hawley blinks at the gallery. Ethel is staring down at him, her face pale, her eyes wide. I fell in love with another woman. That's not illegal or unusual. I'm sure other men can attest to that. Call my first witness. Men. Just all men. He hears a few shuffles and seats until Muir steps towards him. Did you buy five grains of Hyacinth hydrobromide on the 19th of January this year? His pulse starts to race. Hyacinth... Muir holds the ledger above his head like a trophy. It's a poison, Dr. Crippen, as I'm sure you're aware. Hawley blinks as Muir raises his booming voice. Found in the abdomen and intestines of the remains discovered in your cellar. His fist tightens as Muir strides towards him, his cloak billowing. This is the sales ledger from Lewis and Burroughs Chemist in New Oxford Street. You bought five grains one month before your wife disappeared. Why did you buy so much poison, Dr. Crippen? It's good to have it in, isn't it? I hate buying it as you go. You don't want to nip out for a poison. You want to buy an iron pack. Economy of scale, the. Hawley glances over at Alfred Tobin, his sharply dressed lawyer. Watches his eyes dart around in panic. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself. Clears his throat. I needed it to prepare my remedies for travel sickness. Of course, some of my patients prefer champagne for C-sickness. I believe that also works. He smiles as a ripple of laughter runs around the room. Fills his shoulders soften a little. Muir purses his lips, nods to a court usher. He watches alarmed as the usher carries a large white pudding dish over to the jury. He squints as the lid is lifted. He reels back in horror as they take in a lump of gray flesh. It's part of a human abdomen. His heart jumps to his throat as it's passed along the jury. One of the men prods at the body part. Another starts to wretch. The room chills. He feels the walls close in as Muir barks at him. You poisoned your wife, buried her remains in your cellar, then ran off to Canada with your mistress. Did you not, Dr. Crippen? Hawley catches Inspector Dew's eye, staring at him with glee. This is Dyer. He needs to find a way to distance himself from these remains and fast. Because if he doesn't, he's a dead man. The following day, old Bailey, Dew pushes his way through the clamouring reporters, snaps out. I've nothing to say, gentlemen. Excuse me. He ducks inside, takes his seat as Crippen is led into the courtroom. He lets a smile spread across his face, then feels it freeze when he catches sight of the glint in Crippen's eye. Dew looks up, startled, as a new witness is called to the stand. Dr. Gilbert Turnbull, Director of the Pathological Institute at the London Hospital. Dew frowns, watches Crippen's barrister, Alfred Tobin, gesture to the remains in the white dish. You have examined the evidence, have you not, Dr. Turnbull? Turnbull's bold head glistens under the electric lights as he nods. And in your professional opinion, is this a scar on an abdomen? Turnbull shakes his head. I'd say it's a fold in the flesh. In fact, it may not be part of the abdomen at all. It could be part of a thigh. Dew feels sweat pool under his armpits. He stares at Turnbull, horrified, as Tobin presses on. And judging by these remains, can you date the time of death for us? Turnbull juts out his bearded chin. They could have been lying there for months, even years. Tobin sweeps around to the jury. Could they predate Dr. Crippen and his wife moving into the house in Hilldrop Crescent in 1905? Dew lurches forward, feels his heart race as Turnbull answers. In my opinion, yes, it's impossible to give them a precise date. I mean, isn't that part of the problem that your evidence is a piece of decomposing flesh? With modern tools, of course, you would be able to judge how long that had been there. Yeah, you just swipe your iPhone over it and it's give you the exact time, date and cause of death. And a lovely montage of memories with that cadaver. I don't like the music they've said it to. Dew staggers to his feet, rushes into the corridor, leans against a cool marble pillar and tries to stop his heart racing. He spots Dr. Pepper, catches his arm. Could it be true? Pepper raises his thick eyebrows. I'm afraid whoever mixed quick lime with water preserved the remains. So yes, it is possible. Dew reels back, then spits out. But the poison in her system, surely that can't be ignored. The higher scene could have been there for years too. Unlikely, but impossible. He watches Pepper walk away. Dew stands winded. He reaches out to steady himself for a moment, takes a breath, then straightens up and marches out. 30 minutes later, he stands in his office. He stares at the evidence board, at the jumble of pictures and notes. Follows a line of red string from the photograph of Bell's remains to the poison. Follows another to the pajama fabric. He stands back, lights a cigar. Tries to figure out what he's missing. He must be able to date the remains. He stares at the photographs of the abdomen. His eyes widen as it hits him. The pajamas. He's always taken Krippen's word that they're mass produced. But what if they weren't? He snatches down the photograph, studies it hard, then grabs his bowler hat and marches out. This trial ends tomorrow. And right now, his entire case is in danger of collapsing. But if he can find out who's sold Krippen those pajamas and when, he just might be in with a chance. The next day, the old Bailey, poorly straightens his back, folds his hands behind him, looks directly at his barrister. Turnbull's testimony has gone down even better than his own. And today, he's determined to paint a picture of his miserable marriage and get as much sympathy from the jury as he can. We took in lodgers, two young men. My wife, she had sex with them both. She made me serve them their food, polish their shoes. She treated me like a servant. He lets his voice catch. It was beyond humiliating. It was beyond humiliating. And then more people came and she had sex with them. Muggins there was in the kitchen the whole time. None for me, your honour. None for me. He watches a few men in the jury box shake their heads, scribble down notes. That's why I was happy when she left me. My crime, if it is one, was to fall in love with Miss Lanneve. Krippen jumps as Inspector Dew bursts in. Watch is alarmed as he whispers something to the prosecution barrister. The courtroom is silent. Then Mure rises to his feet, holding something above his head. Hawley screws up his eyes trying to see what it is. You own a pair of pajamas in this fabric, do you not? Hawley stares at it, feels his pulse quicken. Yes, along with most other men in England. I've explained to Inspector Dew. But Mure ignores him and holds the fragment high. You, or your wife, bought two pairs in this fabric from June's brothers, delivered to you on the 5th of January this year. This particular piece was found wrapped around the remains dug from your basement. Hawley feels his heart start to thump. As I said, sir, a lot of men own this type of pajama. Mure raises an eyebrow. Not so, Doctor. Are you aware this particular pattern is very new? In fact, it didn't exist until 12 months ago. Hawley reels back as Mure fixes him with a glare. In fact, you were one of the first to buy it. Which means the remains in your cellar were buried after January this year. Hawley feels the color drain from his face. The room spins as Mure barks at him. You killed Belle, didn't you? With poison you bought. Dismembered her body, wrapped her remains in your new pajamas, and buried her under the cellar floor. Did you not, Doctor Crippen? Hawley can't breathe. Hawley can hear it's his heart thudding in his ears. Before he can stop himself, Hawley starts to breathe. He yells, I'm innocent, innocent! Half an hour later, he's led back to the dock for the verdict. His neck pulses as he stares at the jury. He wipes his sweating palms on his jacket as the jury foreman steps forward. We find the prisoner guilty. The courtroom erupts around him. He looks up, sees Ethel collapse sobbing. He grabs the side of the dock for support. And Usher calls for silence. Hawley feels the ground give from under his feet as the judge puts a black cap on his head and turns to him. Hawley, Harvey Crippen, you have been convicted upon evidence that you cruelly poisoned your wife, mutilated her body, disposed of her remains. You will be taken to Pentonville Prison. He tries to stay upright as the words pierce him. From thence to a place of execution, and that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead. He jolts forward, yells at the judge, I didn't do it, I didn't do it! But a pair of hands drag him away and bundle him down to the dark cells below. A week later, Finchley Cemetery. Dew takes a deep breath, looks down into the freshly dug grave, folds his hands in front of him as the coffin is lowered into the ground. He's surrounded by hundreds of dead bodies. He's been found in the dark cells, and he's been found in the dark cells. He's been found in the dark cells, and he's been found in the dark cells. He's surrounded by hundreds of mourners, mostly women in black taffeta, their faces covered by veils. He glances at the cemetery gates, at the crowd beyond. Like him, they've all turned out to pay bell-crippin' their respects. He looks back at the polished oak and brass coffin. It's covered in bells' favourite flowers, white chrysanthemums, carnations, lily of the valley. He bows his head now, as the priest sprinkles holy water on it before it's covered with earth. Afterwards, he shakes hands with women from the Music Hall Ladies Guild. Clara Martinetti lifts her black veil. Her eyes are raw with grief. She thanks him quietly, then stares off into the middle distance. All those lies he told about Belle, she didn't have an affair, inspector. And he never cleaned up after any lodges. Every word he said in that courtroom was a lie. Dew opens his mouth, but he's not sure what to say. Instead, he shakes her hand, nods, then makes his way back to Scotland Yard. He steps into the building, his head bowed. He suddenly feels exhausted. A thought flickers. Perhaps it's time to retire. Leave these grisly murders for younger men to solve. He's about to walk into his office when he stops in his tracks. Uniformed officers line the corridor, their black hats under their arms. What the blaze is this going on? He steps back, slack jawed as everyone starts to applaud. People smiling, clapping him on the back. Dew's face flushes. He looks up at the wall, at a framed photograph of him arresting Crippen on the SS Montrose. The weight of it hits him. Catching that monster is a victory for the entire force. For Murow, the Met's reputation. And if he admits it, his own pride. But most of all, he's a hero. He's finally got justice for Belle Crippen. 23rd of November, 1910, Pentonville Prison. Hawley sits at the tiny wooden desk, stares at the scuffed, dirty wall in front of him. His last breakfast of boiled eggs sits untouched in front of him. So I asked for soft boiled. I guess you could play for time. I'm a six-minuteer. Keep sending the eggs back, mate. I don't have it. I'm just working. I've been here six months. In a few minutes, he'll be taken from his cell to the executioner. He wants to spend his final minutes writing to Ethel, but he can't stop shaking. He takes a breath, tries to push down his growing terror, starts to write. My darling, my heart is bursting with the pain of longing for you. Your love has been the best thing in my life. My only happiness. However vile I am, I am grateful to the end you loved me. However vile I am, it feels like a confession. Being vile is just one of the strings on my bow. Is it a crime? The crime to be vile is frowned upon, sure. He looks up with a start, sees the warden, and behind him a Catholic priest trailing behind him. The warden steps forward. It's time. Halley Rises follows them both across the foggy courtyard, every step heavy. Walks slowly up to the scaffold and stands in front of the masked hangman. Seconds later, a white hood is in front of him. Stop. He looks at the warden, tries to stop his voice cracking. I have letters and photographs from Ethel in my cell. Will you bury them with me? The warden nods. The hangman shoves the hood over Halley's head, plunges him into darkness. He can hear the priest praying at his side, his own heartbeat thudding in his ears. All he wants in his final moments is to see Ethel's image. He feels someone guide him now above the trapdoor, feels the straps tighten around his legs. He closes his eyes, tries to conjure up her smiling face, but it's Belle who fills the darkness. Belle, on the night he murdered her, her face, her whole body twisted in agony from the poison he gave her in her nighttime brandy. Halley, please, help me! How she arrived in agony for an hour. Two, how endless it felt. How terrified he was she'd recover. He feels the rope tighten around his neck, sees his own hand load bullets into his gun, the terror in her eyes, her pleading voice. Halley, no! The rope around his neck tugs sharply as he puts the gun between her eyes, squeezes the trigger as the trapdoor opens, and hurtles through the darkness. Inspector Dew became an international celebrity after solving the Crippen case. In December 1910 he retired from the Metropolitan Police to become a private detective. After Crippen's execution, Ethel Lanieve tried to start a new life in Canada, but returned to London within a year. In 1915 she married Stanley Smith, a man said to look exactly like Halley Crippen, and had two children. She died in Croydon in August 1967. Her children had no idea about her past life until it was revealed who she really was by a crime journalist in the 1980s. Some argue that she not only knew about Bell's death, but that she played a part in her murder. The debate over Crippen's guilt has never entirely faded. Some have echoed his portrayal of Bell as an overbearing wife, despite contrary accounts from those who knew her. In 2007, tests suggested that the remains in the cellar may have traces of male DNA. However, this finding was not peer reviewed and remains highly contested. From Audible Originals and Summers That Audio, this is the third 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 Halley Rubenhold, and Dr Crippen, The Infamous London Cellar Murder of 1910 by Nicholas Connell. A British scandal is hosted by me, Alice Levine. And me, Matt Ford. Written by Karen Laws. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor was James Maniac. Sound Design by Daniel King. Our engineer was Jai Williams. For Summers That, our series producer was Chica Reyes. Our assistant producer was Louise Mason. Our senior producers were Joe Sykes and Dasha Lisetsina. Executive producers for Audible with Theodora Leludis and Estelle Doyle.