Cora Crippen’s Last Supper by Judy Mitchell

The last people to see Dr Crippen’s wife alive, were their friends Clara and Paul Martinetti, retired music-hall entertainers who were at the Crippen’s house on the night of 31 January 1910 for supper and a game of cards.  Cora Crippen knew the couple through her involvement with the Music Hall Ladies Guild of which she was Treasurer. The Crippen’s house was on Hilldrop Crescent, Holloway, less than half a mile from Holloway women’s prison. It is likely that Cora Crippen was murdered later that night or on the following morning.  Her husband, Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen, who was called Peter by his friends, was hanged at Pentonville in November 1910 for her murder. He had poisoned her and then removed her limbs and head and the bones from her body.  She was buried in the coal cellar of the house. The Crippens lived with a number of cats and, at the time of her death, a dog which she had recently purchased.

‘He is rather cute, don’t you think? Another hopeless boy to feed and clean up after, but I love the attention he gives me and the way he looks at me with those big, droopy eyes. I’m quite besotted, Clara. Let’s clear these things away and then we can go up and have a drink and a game of whist. 

Is Paul unwell? He does look frightfully pale but then winter doesn’t really suit him, does it? I saw Kate at the weekend. They are at the Metropolitan this week alongside Deverez and Terriss who are doing their Vampire Dance. Beats me how that is still doing the rounds, but it seems the public love that type of female domination act. Have you seen it? It’s not so much a dancing entertainment as an interlude. He plays a painter, all studious and engrossed in his art, until she enters, dressed, or should I say, draped in transparent silks. You’ll know Mildred Deverez, of course. Then she does this wild and sensuous routine and he is mesmerised by her undulating form and becomes embroiled in her dance of death. It really is quite passionate in an animal-like way especially at the end when he falls at her feet, they grapple and then she bites his throat and he is lost forever.  

I did wonder what the suffragettes outside the theatre make of such a power-play? We saw them in the West End at Christmas. They were reasonably quiet, selling their Votes for Women paper, but fancy having to carry a billboard for hours on end. Hardly a flattering fashion accessory, I’d say. Some of them seem so downright ugly and wear such drab clothes. I half expected to see them chaining themselves to the railings but they didn’t and the police were happy to stand by and avoid any nasty scenes.  

They say there are women jailed at the prison, every week. You can just see the gatehouse from the upstairs window. Force feeding is so cruel. Monsters those wardresses. When it’s still, especially on a Sunday, I swear you can hear the exercise bell ringing. Peter says I am imagining it. It gets more alarming every time I look in his newspaper. Kate Vulcana says that she has had men challenge their act recently. It seems some men think women shouldn’t be part of a strongman act. One chap stood up in the stalls and taunted poor Kate just when she was about to lift this huge barbel. Atlas said he was ready to swing for the guy.  

Ah, here comes Paul. Let’s go up and find an easy chair. And here comes Mama’s favourite boy, come to Mama, sweetie-pie. Where did Peter get to?  Has he gone to the cellar to get some coal for the fire?  Peter, are you there?  Can you come now and clear these plates? We are going upstairs. Bring us all a drink. Paul will have a whiskey.’