Thunderstruck by Erik Larson
Cora arrived in August, and at once Crippen sensed a difference. “I may say that when she came to England from America her manner towards me was entirely changed, and she had cultivated a most ungovernable temper, and seemed to think I was not good enough for her, and boasted of the men of good position traveling on the boat who had made a fuss of her, and, indeed, some of these visited her at South Crescent, but I do not know their names.”
IN BLOOMSBURY CRIPPEN HAD CHOSEN a neighborhood in which an array of forces then driving deep change in Britain were fully at play. Just east lay Bloomsbury Square and Bloomsbury Road, where within a few years Virginia and Vanessa Stephen, critic Roger Fry, John Maynard Keynes, and other members of their cadre of writers, poets, and gleaming personalities would become legendary as the Bloomsbury Group. Virginia would marry and take her husband’s name, Woolf. A few blocks to the west, across Tottenham Court Road, was territory soon to be claimed by the visual arts counterpart to Bloomsbury, the Fitzroy Street Group, whose members converged on the Fitzroy Tavern, built in 1897 at the corner of Charlotte and Windmill streets, four blocks due west of the Crippens’ new home. The group’s most prominent and eventually most infamous member was the painter Walter Sickert, who from time to time in the years following his death would be considered a suspect in the Ripper murders. The Crippens shared the sidewalk with the brightest intellects of the day, including G. K. Chesterton, H. G. Wells, and Ford Madox Hueffer (later Ford Madox Ford), and the scholars of University College and the British Museum.
The neighborhood vibrated with sexual energy. Among the Bloomsbury Group, once it achieved full intellectual flower, conversation about sex flowed easily. The trigger, according to Virginia Woolf, was a moment when Lytton Strachey, the critic and biographer, walked into a drawing room where she and her sister Vanessa were seated.
Virginia wrote, “The door opened and the long and sinister figure of Mr. Lytton Strachey stood on the threshold. He pointed his finger at a stain on Vanessa’s white dress.
“‘Semen?’ he asked.
“Can one really say it? I thought and we burst out laughing. With that one word all barriers of reticence and reserve went down.”
The dividing line between Bloomsbury and Fitzrovia, as the neighborhood around the Fitzroy Tavern eventually became known, was Tottenham Court Road, which happened also to be a fault line in the world’s political crust and a part of London of no small interest to New Scotland Yard and the French Sûreté. For years the basement at No. 4 Tottenham had housed the Communist Working Men’s Club, where firebrands of all stripe had spoken, raved, and cajoled. Nearby at No. 30 Charlotte was the equally notorious, though more radical, Epicerie Française, a center of the international anarchist movement, kept under periodic watch by French undercover detectives. Here men seethed at the rift between the poor and the rich that was then so glaring in Britain.
Each morning, as Crippen made his way to work at the sumptuous Munyon’s office in Shaftesbury Avenue, he walked down Tottenham Court Road, past the notorious basement and past the Special Branch and Sûreté detectives who kept watch on the street and its surroundings.
None took the least notice of the little doctor, his eyes large behind his glasses, his feet thrown out to his sides as he walked, oblivious to the forces simmering around him.
CORA CRIPPEN NOW LAUNCHED her bid for fame in the variety halls of Britain. She had one significant advantage: British audiences loved acts from America. She resolved to make her debut in a brief musical of her own creation, in which of course she would play the leading role. She asked Crippen to pay the production costs, and he gladly assented, for the work seemed to improve Cora’s outlook and her behavior toward him, though she remained prone to dramatic swings of mood, as if she believed volatility were as necessary to a diva as a good voice and an expensive dress, the purchase of which Crippen also cheerfully funded.
Cora drafted a libretto for her show but recognized that it needed work. She arranged a meeting with a woman named Adeline Harrison, a music hall actress and part-time journalist who also worked as an adviser helping other performers craft new acts and improve scripts. Crippen may have had something to do with recruiting Harrison, for the two women met at Munyon’s suite of offices on Shaftesbury.
Harrison recalled her first glimpse of Cora. “Presently the green draperies parted and there entered a woman who suggested to me a brilliant, chattering bird of gorgeous plumage. She seemed to overflow the room with her personality. Her bright, dark eyes were twinkling with the joy of life. Her vivacious rounded face was radiant with smiles. She showed her teeth and there was a gleam of gold.”
A photograph from about this time captured Cora in a pose for the stage. It shows her seated and singing from a songbook, beside a basket heaped with flowers of some lush species, possibly orchids or calla lilies, or both. She is on the far side of plump, with thick fingers and almost no neck. Her dress and the many layers underneath make her appear still larger, more weapon than woman. The dress is printed with daggerlike petals. Its billowing shoulders amplify the breadth of her bodice but also highlight the impossible narrowness of her abdomen, corseted perhaps in the famous “Patti” from the Y.C. Corset company, named for Adelina Patti, one of the world’s most beloved sopranos. Cora wears an expression that conveys both confidence and self-satisfaction. Not quite haughty, but vain and smug. Mighty.
Harrison read Cora’s script. There wasn’t much of it—“a few feeble lines of dialogue,” Harrison wrote.
Cora told Harrison she wanted to make the act longer and asked how that might be achieved. Cora wanted it to be more of a freestanding operetta than a simple variety turn.
“I suggested that a little plot might improve matters,” Harrison said.
The resulting show was called The Unknown Quantity and debuted at the Old Marylebone Music Hall, not quite the tier of theater Cora had hoped for. The Marylebone had developed something of a reputation for favoring melodramas that featured coffins, corpses, and blood, but it nonetheless was a known and credible venue that would give her an opportunity to show off her talents. That was all she wanted. Once London got a look at her, her future would be made.
A program from this period identified Cora as Macà Motzki—her maiden name divided in two—and as a principal in “Vio & Motzki’s American Bright Lights Company, From the Principal American Theatres.” Her foil was to be an Italian tenor named Sandro Vio, identified in the program as “General Manager and Sole Director.” Crippen too was on the program, as “Acting Manager.” The plot involved romance and extortion and required Cora at one point to hurl a fistful of banknotes at Vio. She insisted the cash be real, though the resulting first-night scramble by the audience caused the management to command that fake money be used in future performances. The show lasted one week. Cora demonstrated a lack of talent so complete that at least one critic mocked her as “the Brooklyn Matzos Ball.”
The failure humiliated Cora and caused her to give up variety, at least for the time being.
THE CRIPPENS MOVED FROM South Crescent to Guildford Street, a block or so from where Dickens once lived, but soon afterward, around November 1899, Professor Munyon called Crippen back to America to run the company’s Philadelphia headquarters for a few months. He left Cora in London.
Something happened during that stay, though exactly what isn’t clear. When Crippen returned to London in June 1900, he was no longer employed by Munyon’s. He took over management, instead, of another patent medicine company, the Sovereign Remedy Co., on nearby Newman Street. At about this time, he and Cora moved back to Bloomsbury, this time to Store Street, where a century earlier Mary Wollstonecraft had lived. The Crippens’ new apartment was only half a block away from their old home on South Crescent and a brief walk to Crippen’s new office.
Crippen learned to his displeasure that while he was in America Cora had begun singing again, at “smoking concerts for payment.” She told him, moreover, that she intended to try once more to establish hersel
And Cora—now Belle—told him. She revealed that during her husband’s absence she had met a man named Bruce Miller and, Crippen said, “that this man visited her, had taken her about, and was very fond of her, and also she was fond of him.”
THE GERMAN SPY
KAISER WILHELM II HAD INDEED taken notice of Marconi’s achievements. He long had resented Britain’s self-proclaimed superiority, despite the fact that he himself happened to be a nephew of Edward, the Prince of Wales, who would succeed Queen Victoria upon her death. He made no secret of his intention to build Germany into an imperial power and to hone his army and navy with the latest advances in science, including, if merited, wireless communication.
In the midst of a new series of tests at Salisbury Plain, during which Marconi set a new distance record of 6.8 miles, a German named Gilbert Kapp wrote to Preece to ask a favor. He was doing so, he stated, on behalf of a friend, whom he identified as “Privy Councillor Slaby.” This was Adolf Slaby, a professor in Berlin’s Technical High School. Kapp described him as “the private scientific adviser to the Emperor,” and wrote: “Any new invention or discovery interests the Emperor and he always asks Slaby to explain it [to] him. Lately the Emperor has read of your and Marconi’s experiments…and he wants Slaby to report on this invention.”
Kapp had two questions:
“1) Is there anything in Marconi’s invention?
“2) If yes, could you arrange for Slaby and myself to see the apparatus and witness experiments if we come over to London toward the end of next week?”
He added: “Please treat this letter as confidential and say nothing to Marconi about the Emperor.”
Even though by now Marconi’s fear of prying eyes was more acute than ever, Preece invited Slaby to come and observe a round of experiments set for mid-May 1897, during which Marconi would attempt for the first time to send signals across a body of water.
IN THE MEANTIME MARCONI contemplated a surprise of his own, for Preece.
Until now Marconi had considered that a contract with the post office might be the best way to profit from his invention and at the same time gain the resources to develop it into a practical means of telegraphy. But ever aware of each moment lost, Marconi had grown uneasy about the pace at which the post office made decisions. He told his father, “As far as the Government is concerned, I do not believe that they will decide very soon whether to acquire my rights or not. I also believe that they will not pay a great deal for them.”
In the wake of Preece’s lectures, investors had begun approaching Marconi with offers. Two Americans offered £10,000—equivalent to just over $1 million today—for his United States patent. Marconi evaluated this and other early proposals with the cold acuity of a lawyer and found none compelling enough to accept. In April, however, his cousin Henry Jameson Davis came to him with a proposal to form a company with a syndicate of investors linked to the Jameson family. The syndicate would pay Marconi £15,000 in cash—about $1.6 million today—and grant him controlling ownership of company stock, while also pledging £25,000 for future experiments.
Marconi gave the proposal the same scrutiny he had given all previous offers. The terms were generous. At the time £15,000 was a fortune. In H. G. Wells’s novel Tono-Bungay one character exults in achieving a salary of £300 a year, because it was enough to provide a small house and a living for himself and a new wife. Best of all, Jameson Davis was family. Marconi knew him and trusted him. The investors, in turn, were known within the Jameson empire. It was too compelling to refuse, but Marconi understood that by accepting the offer he risked alienating Preece and the post office. The question was, could anything be done to keep Preece’s sense of hurt from transforming the post office into a powerful enemy?
What followed was a carefully orchestrated campaign to depict this offer as something that Marconi himself had nothing to do with but that as a businessman he was obligated to take seriously, in the interests of his invention.
Marconi enlisted the help of a patent adviser, J. C. Graham, who knew Preece. On April 9, 1897, Graham wrote to Preece and told him the terms of the offer and added that Marconi had “some considerable doubts about closing with it lest apparently he should be doing anything which even appears to be ungrateful to you, for I understand from him that he is under a great debt of gratitude to you in more than one respect.
“As the matter is evidently weighing heavily on his mind, and as he appears to have only one object in view, viz., to do the right thing, I thought it was just possible that a letter from me might be of some use. I, of course, know nothing more of the case than I have set out above.”
From the text alone, Graham’s motive for writing the letter was far from obvious, and Preece must have read it several times. Was he asking Preece’s opinion, or was his intent simply to notify Preece obliquely that Marconi intended to accept the offer and hoped there would be no hard feelings?
The next morning, Saturday, Marconi stopped by the post office building but found Preece gone. After returning to his home in Talbot Road, Westbourne Park, Marconi composed a letter to Preece.
He began it, “I am in difficulty.”
The rest of the letter seemed structured to follow a choreography established by Marconi, Jameson Davis, and possibly Graham. It struck the same notes as Graham’s letter and, like Graham’s, said nothing about the fact that Jameson Davis happened to be Marconi’s cousin.
Marconi referred to Jameson Davis and his syndicate as “those gentlemen” and couched the letter in such a way that anyone reading it would conclude that all of this was happening without his involvement, certainly without his encouragement—that this poor young man had suddenly found himself pressed to respond to an offer from the blue, one so generous that he found himself forced to consider it, though it gave him no joy to do so.
After setting out the details, Marconi added, “I beg to state, however, that I have never sought these offers, or given encouragement to the promoters.”
Afterward he wrote to his father that he believed, based on what he had heard from Preece’s associates, “that he will remain friends with me.” In so doing, he revealed a trait of his character that throughout his life would color and often hamper his business and personal relationships: a social obtuseness that made him oblivious to how his actions affected others.
For in fact Preece felt deep personal hurt. Years later in a brief memoir, in which for some reason he described himself in the third person, Preece wrote, “Marconi at the end of 1897 naturally came under the influence of the business men who were financing his new Company, and it was no longer possible for Preece as a Government officer to maintain those cordial, and frequently almost parental, relations with the young inventor. No one regretted this more than Preece.”
The depth of his hurt and its consequences would not become apparent for several months. For the moment Marconi’s news did nothing to shake Preece’s intention to make Marconi the centerpiece of his talk at the Royal Institution in June; nor did Preece immediately withdraw his support for Marconi’s experiments. The new company had not yet formed, and Preece believed there was still a chance the government could acquire Marconi’s patents. A decade later a select committee of Parliament would conclude that Preece should have tried harder. Had he done so, the committee reported, “an enterprise of national importance could have been prevented from passing into the hands of a private company and subsequent difficulties might have been avoided.”
IN APRIL 1897, with Marconi’s over-water tests still a month off, Britain was again wracked by a spasm of fear about the mount
The world was growing more chaotic and speeding up. Rudyard Kipling could be spotted in his six-horsepower motorcar thundering around at fifteen miles an hour. The race among the great shipping companies to see whose liners could cross the Atlantic in the shortest time intensified and grew more and more costly as the size and speed of each ship increased and as the rivalry between British and German lines became freighted with an ever-heavier cargo of national pride. In April 1897 at the Vulcan shipyard in Stettin, Germany, thousands of workers raced to prepare the largest, grandest, fastest oceanliner yet for its launch on May 4, when it would join the stable of ships owned by North German Lloyd Line. Everything about this new liner breathed Germany’s aspiration to become a world power, especially its name, Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse, and its decor, which featured life-size portraits of its namesake and of Bismarck and Field Marshal Helmuth von Moltke, whose nephew all too soon would lead Germany into global war. The launch was to be overseen by Kaiser Wilhelm II himself.
In early May, Adolf Slaby sailed from Germany for Britain and made his way to the Bristol Channel, between England and Wales, where Marconi, with the help of a postal engineer named George Kemp, prepared for his next big demonstration.