Chapter 2 used to start with the Seddons and then go forward through my grandmother to my parents. I actually prefer that order, but to give the chapter the momentum that came from my dad's search for a ring I needed to start with the first marriage whose ring he looked for (his own) and go backward from there. Here's how chapter 2 used to open.
I hate black and white movies.
In fact, I don’t like old movies in general; while I make a few exceptions for the classics (Gone With the Wind, Star Wars, the epiphany that is Vincent Price’s Dr. Phibes Rises Again), my standard cutoff point is 1984. Any movie made before then I’m not much interested in watching. I find the pacing slow and the acting turgid. But I’m even worse with black and white movies. Mike will say, “Oh, sweetheart, TiVo picked up this 1930 comedy starring Ronald Colman and Loretta Young!” and I know that if I’m not alert enough to tell a convincing lie (“Don’t you remember, honey, we watched that together a couple years ago when you had a fever and we ate all that Cherry Garcia ice cream?”) I will be subjected to two hours of gray people unenhanced by special effects who speak to each other between pauses longer than the Reagan presidency. Please don’t be mad at me; I understand that many of these movies are masterpieces the likes of which will never be seen again. I just hate them.
Which is why I find it odd that I have spent the last three hours watching black and white movies online. (Well, to be exact, I’ve spent the last three hours watching black and white television episodes online, but it was just as unpleasant, so I feel I ought to be allowed some terminological leeway.) I’ve been looking for—and finally found, thank God, or I was going to start baying at the moon—“Waxwork,” episode twenty-seven of season four of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, the episode that first aired on April 12, 1959, the episode about my great-great-grandparents the poisoners.
Strictly speaking, it’s not about my great-great-grandparents the poisoners. It’s about a guy named Hewson who spends the night in the Murderers’ Den of the wax museum so he can write a newspaper story about the experience and use his fee to pay off a gambling debt. I hope you’ll forgive me for ruining the ending, but, shockingly, Hewson does not survive the night; he gets his throat slit by a waxwork of Dr. Bourdette, the (fictional) “French Jack the Ripper.”
In addition to Bourdette, however, the Murderers’ Den contains representations of several other killers notorious at the time: Henry Crippen, of course, who in 1910 poisoned his wife, dismembered her, incinerated her limbs in the stove, dissolved her organs in acid in the bathtub, buried her body in the basement, threw her head overboard while at sea on a day trip to Dieppe, and set sail for the United States with his secretary and lover, Ethel Le Neve, disguised as his son.
And then there were my great-great-grandfather, Frederick Henry and Margaret Seddon. They are far outweighed in terms of extravagence by Crippen, but what they lack in flair they almost make up in avarice.
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