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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Museum Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
London, 1896. Madame Tussauds opens to find one of its nightwatchmen decapitated and his colleague nowhere to be found. To the police, the case seems simple: one killed the other and fled, but workers at the museum aren't convinced. Although forbidden contact by his superior officer, Scotland Yard detective John Feather secretly enlists 'The Museum Detectives' Daniel Wilson and Abigail Fenton to aid the police investigation. When the body of the missing nightwatchman is discovered encased within a wax figure, the case suddenly becomes more complex. With questions over rival museums, the dead men's pasts and a series of bank raids plaguing the city, Wilson and Fenton face their most intriguing and dangerous case yet.
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MURDER AT MADAME TUSSAUDS
JIM ELDRIDGE
To Lynne, as always, for always
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
London, 1896
The dense, slimy tendrils of green and grey acrid fog, a real ‘pea-souper’ in the local parlance, floated along Marylebone Road, as it did through the rest of central London, choking everything in sight. The few people who’d braved it held handkerchiefs or cloths to their mouths and noses and blinked to clear the burning tears from their eyes. The fog had held London in its grip for three days now. It was so thick that no horses were on the roads for fear of them stumbling into something – people, other horses, buildings. There were no wagons, no omnibuses, no hansom cabs, no carriages, just people shuffling along with their faces masked and their heads down, trying to spot where the pavement ended and the road began.
Safe from the fog inside the Chamber of Horrors in Marylebone Road’s Madame Tussauds, Daniel Wilson and Abigail Fenton stood alongside the manager of the museum, John Theodore Tussaud, a great-grandson of Madame Tussaud, as he pointed a trembling finger at the guillotine; the centrepiece of the French Revolution tableau.
‘Eric’s body was found right there, his head lying by the blade,’ he told them.
The fog had stopped the usual flow of visitors to the famous museum. Though even if any had attempted to call, they would have found the Chamber of Horrors closed to the public as a result of this particular real-life horror: the discovery of the headless body of one of the museum’s two nightwatchmen, Eric Dudgeon.
Daniel and Abigail took in the scene, the guillotine and the unnervingly lifelike wax figures which stood around looking at the deadly wooden machine and its vicious blade, the sharp edge smeared red. Most of the figures’ faces bore the bloodthirsty expressions of rabid revolutionaries from the time of the French Revolution. Others represented members of the royal family and other aristocrats standing in positions of horror beside the guillotine, their faces showing such vivid fear and revulsion at what awaited them that Abigail had to remind herself they were just wax models and not real people.
At first sight, the two appeared a mismatched couple. Daniel was a former detective at Scotland Yard, a stocky muscular man in his thirties whose north London accent betrayed his working-class roots. Abigail was tall, slender and elegant with an air of confidence that came with gaining a first-class Classics degree at Cambridge. She also had a reputation as one of the world’s leading archaeologists and Egyptologists. But those who knew them soon discovered that despite their apparent differences, there was a strong bond between them – not just as private investigators, but in life. All that remained, they constantly reminded one another, was to marry, and they’d frequently drawn up serious plans to execute this, but somehow things seemed to turn up and force a deferment.
‘Are we doing this for us, or for society’s demands of respectability?’ Abigail had asked on one occasion.
‘For us,’ Daniel had replied.
But then something had intervened, as it usually did. This time, it was a headless body discovered in the Chamber of Horrors, which led to a call from John Tussaud.
‘Is the blade really sharp enough to slice someone’s head off?’ asked Daniel, perturbed.
‘No,’ said Tussaud. ‘It’s been blunted to avoid accidents.’ He was a very precise man in his late thirties, formally dressed in frock coat and black tie, and whose usual precision had been turned into unhappy agitation by this tragic turn of events.
‘But there’s blood on its edge,’ Abigail pointed out.
‘We believe whoever killed Eric daubed his blood on it after they’d cut his head off, to create the impression he’d been guillotined,’ said Tussaud.
‘I assume the police took the body away,’ mused Daniel.
Tussaud nodded. ‘A Superintendent Armstrong was here. From Scotland Yard. We contacted the police as soon as we discovered the body.’
‘When you say “we”…?’ enquired Daniel.
‘Myself and the cleaners. I like to open the museum and let the cleaners in.’
‘At what time?’
‘Eight o’clock. They work for an hour and a half, and we open to the public at ten o’clock. I come in to inspect everything in case there’s been an accident or something during the night.’
‘And does that often happen?’ asked Abigail.
Tussaud shook his head.
‘No. We’ve had problems in the past with thrill-seekers trying to break in, or hiding in the museum just before we close, in order to spend the night here. Some people have this desire to boast that they spent the night in Madame Tussauds’ Chamber of Horrors, but we usually find them hiding in the conveniences and turf them out with a warning that they’ll be prosecuted if they try it again. That usually does the trick. And our watchmen have always been alert for any intruders.’
‘Except for last night,’ murmured Daniel. ‘Mr Dudgeon was one of your watchmen?’
‘He was,’ confirmed Tussaud. ‘Along with Walter Bagshot.’
‘Who you say has disappeared.’
‘Yes,’ Tussaud nodded unhappily. ‘Superintendent Armstrong said it was obvious what had happened: Eric and Walter must have had an argument. Walter killed Eric, then fled. He said this was backed up by wounds to the back of Eric’s head indicating that he’d been struck with a heavy metal object. Also by the fact that the keys to the museum had gone. He said Walter must have taken them with him.’
‘Is that likely?’ asked Abigail. ‘The argument?’
Tussaud shook his head.
‘No. Absolutely not. Eric and Walter were as close as any two people could be, like brothers.’
‘Brothers have been known to fall out,’ commented Daniel.
Tussaud bristled at this.
‘If you’re suggesting that myself and my brother Louis …’ he snapped, glaring at Daniel.
‘No, no,’ Daniel assured him hastily. ‘I was just mentioning the possibility that Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot may have had some sort of disagreement.’
‘It would have to be something especially serious for Walter to do something as hideous as this.’
‘Indeed.’ Daniel nodded. He looked apologetically at Tussaud. ‘And I do assure you, Mr Tussaud, that I intended no reference to anything to do with your family. To be honest, although I’m obviously aware of Tussauds waxwork museum, I’m not acquainted with your family’s history. Except for the fact that your great-grandmother was the one who established the museum here in London, after she left France.’
‘Many years after she left France,’ stressed Tussaud. Seeming slightly mollified, he enlarged. ‘She sought refuge in England when things became too dangerous for her after the revolution. She was forced to make wax models of the heads of people she had known and who were dear to her, including the queen, Marie Antoinette and the king, Louis XVI. When she saw that the insatiable guillotine was taking the lives of many around her, she brought her wax models across the Channel and toured with them around England, Scotland and Ireland, before settling in London.’
‘How long did she tour for before establishing herself in London?’ asked Abigail, keen to keep the conversation amicable, determined to repair any damage Daniel’s comment may have caused. It didn’t do to upset a client.
‘Twenty years,’ said Tussaud.
‘What can you tell us about Eric and Walter?’ asked Daniel. ‘How long had they been working for you?’
‘Not long at all,’ said Tussaud. ‘Barely two weeks, now I come to think about it.’
‘How did you find them?’
‘I didn’t, they found me. Our previous nightwatchmen, Donald Bruin and Steven Patterson, suddenly announced they were leaving the next day.’
‘Did they tell you why?’
‘They said they’d been offered an opportunity to make more money.’
‘Doing what?’
‘They didn’t say. I must admit, I was too stunned to enquire further. I asked them how much more they’d been offered, because I was prepared to meet the sum. They’d both shown themselves responsible and reliable …’
‘Until they left,’ murmured Abigail.
‘Yes. But they said their minds were made up, and they’d be leaving after they’d finished their night shift.’
‘It could have been worse, they might have just not turned up.’
‘True, but – as I say – they’d always struck me as responsible men. The next morning when I arrived for work and to let the cleaners in, they took the wages they were due, shook me by the hand, and left. As you can imagine, I felt absolutely helpless. I’d still hoped they might change their mind.’
‘Had there been any ill-feeling between you? Or them and anyone at the museum?’
‘No, absolutely not. Everything had been amicable right from the start.’
‘How long had they been with you?’
‘Almost nine months, which is why it came as such a shock.’
‘And how did Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot enter the picture?’
‘They called later that same morning and asked if we had any vacancies.’
Abigail and Daniel exchanged intrigued glances, Daniel saying blandly, ‘That was very opportune.’
‘Indeed,’ said Tussaud. ‘I did wonder afterwards if perhaps the two watchmen who’d left hadn’t informed Eric and Walter that they were leaving.’
‘It’s certainly possible,’ said Daniel. ‘Did Eric and Walter mention the previous watchmen at all?’
Tussaud shook his head. ‘No. And I must admit, I was so relieved that I didn’t ask. I asked for their references, of course, and they had excellent ones from their previous employers.’
‘Where had they worked before?’
‘On the railways, as labourers. They told me there’d been a cave-in while they were digging a tunnel in which some of their fellow workers had been seriously injured, which made them decide to look for something less dangerous.’
‘Where was the tunnel?’ asked Abigail.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Tussaud. ‘To be frank, I was so relieved to find them that I hired them on the spot.’
‘And had there been any difficulties with them since they started working for you?’
‘None at all. Their timekeeping was excellent, so was their attitude. No complaints.’
Abigail gestured at the guillotine. ‘I understand that the guillotine is an original, brought by your great-grandmother from France.’
‘Yes,’ said Tussaud, ‘and not just the machine, but the figures of the French royal family, Louis and Marie Antoinette and her sister. And of the revolutionaries, Danton and Robespierre and the others.’ He looked admiringly at the waxwork images, his voice full of pride. ‘Can you imagine the responsibility on the shoulders of a relatively young woman at that time, to transport all of this from country to country, town to town? And this was before the advent of the railways, so everything had to be hauled in wagons across what were often very poorly-constructed roads. All while continuing to expand the exhibition. She was an astounding woman!’ He gestured at the figures on display, all unnervingly lifelike. ‘Burke and Hare, the bodysnatchers. William Marwood, the hangman. Charles Peace. Mary Ann Cotton. Any one of them capable of sending terror through any visitor.’
‘Hence the challenge to spend a night here, I imagine,’ observed Abigail.
‘I suppose so,’ said Tussaud. ‘Charles Dickens was a great admirer of my great-grandmother and her work,’ he added. ‘She was the model for Mrs Jarley, the waxworks owner in The Old Curiosity Shop. And he was a frequent visitor to her exhibitions. It is said that the display you see before you of the guillotine and the revolution in France was the inspiration for his A Tale of Two Cities. We have an incredibly lifelike mannequin of the great man in our literary gallery. I do urge you to see it.’
‘We will,’ Daniel assured him. ‘But to return to the two previous nightwatchmen, Donald Bruin and Steven Patterson. Do you have their addresses? And those of Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot?’
‘Those last two I can certainly give you, but I’m not sure if Bruin and Patterson will still be at the address they gave us. I got the impression their new appointment meant them travelling further afield. If we go to my office, I’ll let you have all the details on file.’
CHAPTER TWO
Armed with the address of Dudgeon and Bagshot at a house in Marylebone, and one for Bruin and Patterson at a house in Somers Town, Daniel and Abigail left the museum, promising John Tussaud they’d be in touch as soon as they had any news.
‘The fog appears to be lifting,’ observed Daniel.
Indeed the thick, green mass had risen from the ground and was now at head height, which meant they were able to watch their step, provided they moved slowly and kept their heads down. They both pulled their scarves over their mouths.
‘A bit suspicious, don’t you think?’ asked Abigail as they made their way carefully down Baker Street. ‘Bruin and Patterson leave with barely a moment’s notice, and within a few hours, two men turn up looking for work.’
‘Very suspicious. I think we need to look into both pairs of men.’
‘We also need to be careful of what we say. That was a sticky moment when you mentioned his brother, Louis.’
‘I didn’t mention him! I was just talking about brothers in general. Many do fall out, Cain and Abel being the best-known example. I didn’t know there was bad feeling between him and his brother.’
‘We’re not sure there is.’
‘Well, he certainly acted as if there was something there,’ Daniel grumbled. ‘I think we need to find out more about the family. I obviously touched on a nerve when I mentioned brothers falling out, and I don’t want to do something similar again because of my ignorance and put this case at risk.’
‘Can I suggest you leave that to me,’ said Abigail. ‘I can look into the background of the Tussaud family, while you dig into the lives of the two nightwatchmen.’
‘That’s a good idea. Especially as it could involve going into pubs in the Marylebone area where they lived, and women tend to get viewed with suspicion in those sort of pubs. They’re usually taken to be prostitutes or religious do-gooders spreading the gospel of abstinence from alcohol. But before we do that, I suggest calling on John Feather at Scotland Yard to tell him we’re on the case, and swap information.’
By the time they arrived at Scotland Yard, the fog had lifted further, although it still hung in thin grey strands just above their heads.
‘It is definitely thinning,’ said Abigail. ‘Let’s hope this is the last we’ll see of it.’
‘We said that yesterday,’ said Daniel. ‘And the day before.’
‘It can’t stay this way for ever,’ said Abigail.
‘I remember a few years ago we had thick fog for a month,’ Daniel told her. ‘The city was the quietest I’ve ever known it. No sound at all. Everyone stayed indoors, with their coal fires on, throwing out even more foul-smelling smoke to add to the mix.’
They entered the reception area and Daniel was relieved to see that someone he knew, Sergeant Riley, was manning the desk.
‘Good morning, Sean.’ He smiled, and was surprised to see that, instead of the usual welcoming smile in return, the sergeant looked back at him, obviously uncomfortable.
‘Mr Wilson.’ He nodded, but his attitude and facial expression remained polite but distant.
We have a problem, thought Daniel. But aloud he asked in pleasant tones, ‘Is Inspector Feather available?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Sergeant Riley.
‘Do you know when he will be?’ asked Daniel.
‘I believe he’ll continue to be unavailable,’ replied Riley, and Daniel saw the discontent in the sergeant’s eyes at being forced to say the words.
We’re barred, he realised. He smiled, nodded, and said, ‘I understand. Thank you, Sergeant.’ He began to turn away, then stopped and enquired, ‘Would it be all right for me to leave a message for him to say that I called?’
Riley hesitated, looked around to see if he was being observed by anyone, before muttering, ‘If you give me the note, I’ll have it sent to his office.’
‘Thank you.’ Daniel smiled. He took his notebook from his pocket, tore out a page and wrote, We’re in reception. Yrs. Daniel. He folded the paper over and handed it to Riley, who passed it to a constable, grunting, ‘Take this to Inspector Feather’s office.’
As Daniel and Abigail walked away from the desk towards the main doors, Abigail asked, ‘What was all that about?’
‘We’re barred,’ whispered Daniel.
‘Why?’ asked Abigail.
‘I have no idea,’ he sighed.
Just before they reached the doors, he stopped and crouched down to retie his shoelaces, keeping his eyes on the reception desk. As he finished his second shoe, he saw the constable returning down the stairs, holding a piece of paper in his hand. The constable was about to go to the reception desk, when he caught sight of Daniel. The constable handed him the small, folded piece of paper. ‘From Inspector Feather.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. He unfolded the paper and read: Freddy’s. Ten minutes.
‘Hopefully we’ll find out what’s going on,’ he said as he led Abigail out of the reception area and into the street.
Daniel and Abigail had taken a table at Freddy’s Coffee Shop, opposite Scotland Yard and ordered three coffees. Their coffees had just been delivered to their table by the waitress, when Daniel saw the figure of John Feather emerging from Scotland Yard and crossing the road. The fog was thinning and now consisted of light grey fronds hanging in the air just above head height.
‘Here he comes,’ he said.
He and Abigail both stood and shook Feather’s hand as he joined them. Feather sat down, lifted his cup and took a sip. He was a short, slim and genial man in his early forties; clean-shaven, but his dark hair was already turning grey at the sides. The result of having a harsh boss as his superintendent, as well as the responsibility of a large family to provide for.
‘I needed that,’ said Feather.
‘So, going on?’ asked Daniel. ‘Are we persona non grata again at Scotland Yard?’
‘Superintendent Armstrong’s orders,’ said Feather. ‘If he knew I was here with you I’d be getting a rocket.’
‘Why?’
‘There was an article in one of the cheaper tabloids a couple of days ago, The Whistler. I don’t know if you saw it?’
Both Daniel and Abigail shook their heads.
‘It questioned how much of Scotland Yard’s success in recent murder cases at museums in London was actually due to you two, or “The Museum Detectives”, as it calls you.’
‘That was nothing to do with us,’ said Abigail.
‘We have no control over what the papers say,’ added Daniel.
‘Be that as it may, the super was furious, so he’s given an order that neither of you are allowed into Scotland Yard, and no one in the police force is to have any contact with you. Not in a positive way, at least. I expect he’d be quite pleased if someone arrested you.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ said Abigail. ‘Aren’t we all supposed to be on the same side? Fighting crime! Catching criminals?’
‘The super doesn’t see it that way,’ said Feather. ‘As far as he’s concerned you’re competition, and he’s compared unfavourably to you.’ He sipped his coffee and looked anxiously at the door. ‘I’d better not stay too long in case anyone comes in and reports back to Armstrong that they’ve seen me with you.’
‘What will you do if that happens?’ asked Abigail.
‘I’ll say that I was in here for a coffee, and you two sat down at my table.’ He looked at them quizzically. ‘So, you must have wanted to see me for a reason?’
‘The murder this morning at Madame Tussauds,’ said Daniel.
Feather shook his head. ‘That’s not my case.’
‘Why not? You’re Armstrong’s best detective, and this is a famous museum, so it’ll be high-profile.’
‘Armstrong wants me on something else that he feels is more important. As far as he’s concerned, the Tussauds murder is straightforward. He’s sure that Bagshot killed Dudgeon and then did a runner. He’s instituted a search for him.’
‘What’s this case he’s put you on that’s more important than a murder?’
Feather hesitated, looked around to make sure they couldn’t be overheard, then whispered. ‘Officially I can’t tell you, but I’m fairly sure it’s going to made be public very soon. In recent weeks there have been a series of bank robberies where the criminals have broken into the vaults at night, through the cellars of adjoining premises.’
‘I haven’t seen anything in the newspapers about that,’ said Daniel.
‘There hasn’t been …so far,’ said Feather. ‘The banks and the government have kept it secret because they don’t want panic to spread about their security measures. Otherwise people might start to take their money out, which could lead to a run on the banks. But your reporter friend, Joe Dalton, has uncovered the story and I believe it’s going to be in The Telegraph tomorrow. Armstrong hasn’t only got the banks on his back, but the Bank of England and the government as well. Originally the robberies were in the hands of Fred Calley, but he fell off the back of a lorry and broke his leg. He’s going to be out of action for a good while. The superintendent put me in charge just a few days ago.’
‘So who is in charge of the Tussaud case?’
‘Jim Jarrett.’
Daniel groaned. ‘Is he still around?’
‘Armstrong likes him. Jarrett does what he wants.’
‘Badly. What do you know about the man who was killed, and the other nightwatchman – Walter Bagshot?’
‘Apart from their names, nothing. Like I said, Armstrong’s keeping me away from the case; he wants all my attention on these bank robberies. And he’ll want something by the end of the day so he’s got some kind of answer when the article comes out.’ He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘If I do hear anything, I’ll put a note through your letterbox at home.’
‘And we’ll meet up?’
‘If we do, I suggest somewhere other than here. Too many coppers calling, eager to pass on things to Armstrong so they can get a leg up the ladder.’
‘Like Jim Jarrett?’
‘Exactly like Jim Jarrett.’
He tipped his hat to them, and left.
‘It looks like we’re out in the cold,’ observed Daniel.
‘We’ve been here before,’ Abigail pointed out.
‘Yes, but at least we had someone inside. With John being cut out of the Tussauds case, that’s gone.’
‘What’s this Jim Jarrett like?’
‘Inspector Jarrett,’ sighed Daniel. ‘Narrow-minded. Bigoted. Thick as a brick. Couldn’t find his backside with both hands. But he follows orders.’
‘Will we meet him?’
‘I’m sure we will, sooner or later. But don’t expect any scintillating conversation.’ He finished his coffee. ‘Right now, I suggest we set about our separate tasks. You go and research the Tussaud family.’
‘And you find out about the two sets of nightwatchmen.’
CHAPTER THREE
A middle-aged lady wearing an apron opened the door to Daniel’s knock at the Marylebone address John Tussaud had given him.
‘Mrs Pershore?’ enquired Daniel with a smile.
‘Yes.’
‘I believe this is where Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot live?’
‘Yes,’ she replied again. ‘But they’re not in at the moment.’
Daniel hesitated. He’d have expected that the police would have made the men’s address their first port of call, but obviously that hadn’t been the case. Inspector Jarrett at fault, he suspected.
‘Then the police haven’t been, I assume,’ he asked.
Mrs Pershore gave a worried frown. ‘No? Why would the police be calling here?’
‘I’m afraid there’s been an incident at the museum,’ said Daniel. He produced one of his business cards and handed it to the woman. ‘My name’s Daniel Wilson and I’m a private investigator. I’ve been asked by Madame Tussauds to look into the tragic death of Mr Dudgeon and the disappearance of Mr Bagshot that occurred some time during the night.’
Mrs Pershore’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Dead? Mr Dudgeon’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘What happened? Did he have an accident?’
Again Daniel hesitated before answering; then, sure that the murder would be in the next day’s newspapers, he said, ‘It appears he was murdered.’
‘Murdered?! How? Who did it? Surely not Mr Bagshot!’
‘That’s something the police are looking into.’
‘No!’ she burst out. ‘I can’t believe Mr Bagshot would harm Mr Dudgeon in any way. There must be some mistake.’
‘There may be about Mr Bagshot’s disappearance, but I’m afraid there’s no mistake about Mr Dudgeon being killed.’
‘How?’ she repeated, more insistent this time.
‘Someone cut his head off and left it beside the guillotine in the Chamber of Horrors at the museum.’ As Daniel saw Mrs Pershore sway, he said, ‘I’m sorry to be so brutal. Please, shall we go inside and you can sit down.’
Dazed, Mrs Pershore walked into the house and down the short passageway to the kitchen, where she stumbled to the table and sat down heavily on one of the wooden chairs.
‘Are you …are you sure it wasn’t an accident?’ she asked weakly. ‘He might have been playing a joke and the blade slipped?’
‘According to Mr Tussaud, the blade has been made deliberately blunt,’ said Daniel. ‘Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ she said, still stunned. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Some time last night. Mr Tussaud discovered it when he opened the museum at eight o’clock this morning.’
‘But no one came to tell me!’ she said, angry.
‘I expect Mr Tussaud thought the police would be doing that. Look, I can see you’re upset, so I’m happy to come back later. All I’m trying to find out is something about the two men. What they were like. People they mixed with.’
‘They were lovely,’ she said. ‘Absolute gentlemen. It’s not always the way with men who’ve been in the army, or who is involved in building work, but Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot were two of the nicest men you could ever find.’
‘How long had they been with you?’
‘Two years, and never a hint of trouble. Always paid their rent on time.’
‘You say they were in the army.’
‘Yes, although they left it some years ago. Mr Dudgeon took a bad injury to his leg in some foreign place, and got invalided out. He had a limp when he walked, but it didn’t stop him working. Oh no, he was a worker, Mr Dudgeon was. As was Mr Bagshot.’
‘Do you know which section of the army they were in?’
‘The Royal Engineers. They were always very proud of their regiment. They had a little kind of flag from it hung on their mantelpiece.’
‘Would you mind if I went and looked around their room. I’m hoping to find something that might tell us why Mr Dudgeon was killed, and where Mr Bagshot might have gone. I promise I won’t make a mess. You can watch me, if you like.’
She shook her head. ‘No. You go ahead. I’ll sit here and get myself sorted out. It’s a lot to take in. It’s the first door on the right upstairs.’ She went to a dresser, took a key from a hook and gave it to him.
The first thing Daniel saw when he entered the room was the small cloth banner hanging from the mantelshelf bearing the legend Ubique Quo Fas Et Gloria Ducunt. He took out his notebook and made a note of it, intent on asking Abigail for a translation later. Then he set to search the dressing table and the wardrobe. One thing was sure, if Walter Bagshot had gone missing of his own volition, he hadn’t thought to take anything to carry his belongings in; there were two military-style knapsacks in the wardrobe, one bearing the name ‘Bagshot’, the other ‘Dudgeon’. It also looked as if Bagshot had left his clothes behind as well. Again, like many former army men, they’d had their names inked inside the collars. There were two jackets hanging up, worn but of reasonable quality, which Daniel guessed were the men’s best for Sundays and special occasions. There were also two pairs of trousers hanging in the wardrobe.
If Walter Bagshot did a runner, he did it without coming back and picking up his belongings, mused Daniel. No, something else happened to him. But what? If whoever killed Dudgeon also killed Bagshot, why didn’t they leave his body in the Chamber of Horrors, as they had Dudgeon’s? Could Bagshot have given chase to the killers and caught up with them away from the museum, and then been killed? But if so, the same question remained: why didn’t they leave his body behind?
He finished his inspection of the room, then went back downstairs.
‘Thank you,’ he said, handing the key back to Mrs Pershore. ‘I’m sure the police will want to do the same.’
She shook her head, still in a state of shock.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Who’d want to do such a thing?’
‘That’s what we’re hoping to find out,’ said Daniel. ‘One last question: was there any particular local pub that Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot used to go visit?’
‘Yes. The Railway Tavern. They liked that one because of the name. They used to work on the railways, see.’
‘Yes. I was told they were labourers.’
‘I think they were a bit more than that. You know, proper building work. It came from them being engineers when they were in the army, I suppose.’
As Abigail walked between the towering Roman columns that fronted the British Museum, she felt that same thrill she’d always experienced. The British Museum, along with the Fitzwilliam in Cambridge, felt like a home to her. Every time she visited, the displays in the Egyptian, Greek and Roman rooms brought back memories of her time before she’d become, almost accidentally, a full-time detective alongside Daniel. All those periods in Egypt, months at a time, exploring newly opened pyramids, joining in the digging of the sites around the pyramids and examining the items unearthed. She felt a tinge of sadness when she realised how long it had been since she’d been ‘in the field’. Four years. Too long an absence for any archaeologist. Her time at the Fitzwilliam, curating their exhibition of Egyptian artefacts, had been intended as a stopgap before she embarked on another expedition, but then she’d met Daniel, and her life had changed completely. The newspapers still referred to her as ‘the noted archaeologist’, but only when writing about her current exploits solving murders with ‘Daniel Wilson, famed as one of Inspector Abberline’s team of Scotland Yard detectives during the hunt for the notorious Jack the Ripper’. Her career as an archaeologist had been cut short, and she felt sad that it was unlikely to resume, even though that sadness was very much tempered with the happiness of her life with Daniel. I may have lost a career, but I have found love, she reminded herself.
It had been on one of those archaeological digs that she’d first made the acquaintance of Erasmus Black. They’d both been part of a team led by Flinders Petrie at Hawara, but with different areas of expertise. For Abigail it had been items made of clay, votive offerings; for Erasmus it had been the wax figurines used in funeral rites and buried with the pharaoh. There was no one else who knew as much about wax figures as Erasmus did. Not just those from ancient Egypt, but throughout history, and right up to the present day. If anyone could tell her about the Tussauds and any family intrigues, it was Erasmus.
The Railway Tavern was nearly empty, just a few drinkers at the tables and the barman wiping glasses behind the bar. Daniel looked at the clock. Twelve o’clock, noon. The pub was close to Marylebone railway station, and Daniel guessed that much of the business would be railway workers. It had all the hallmarks of a pub for working men, rather than one with a middle-class clientele, such as office clerks. There were even spittoons by the bar, and some at the far wall. All it lacked was sawdust on the floor.
Daniel strode up to the barman, who regarded him warily. They don’t get many strangers here, thought Daniel. This must be a pub for regulars.
‘Good afternoon. I believe Eric Dudgeon and Walter Bagshot are customers here?’
The barman shrugged and scowled at Daniel while he continued to wipe the glasses.
‘Never heard of ’em,’ he grunted.
‘That’s a pity,’ said Daniel, ‘because I have news of them. Tragic news.’
The barman stopped wiping the glasses and looked at Daniel warily.
‘Police?’ he asked.
‘I was,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m now a private investigator. I’ve been hired by Madame Tussauds museum to look into the murder of one and the disappearance of the other.’
The barman stared at Daniel, his mouth falling open in shock. Then he recovered himself and leant forward, keeping his voice low, at the same time shooting an urgent look past Daniel’s shoulder towards the tables by the wall. Daniel looked into the mirror and saw a woman sitting on her own, a glass of port in front of her, a vacant look on her face. She was in her forties, Daniel guessed. Her frilled blouse displayed ample cleavage which, along with her dyed hair and excessively-applied make-up, marked her out as a lady of the night, though it was early afternoon.
‘Who got murdered?’ asked the barman in a whisper.
‘Eric,’ said Daniel, also keeping his voice low.
‘And Walter?’
‘Vanished. I’m trying to find out what happened to them, so I need to get some background on them.’
‘You’re looking for Walter?’
‘Eventually. The police are. I’m just trying to find out what they were like and what they were involved in.’
‘They’re good blokes,’ said the barman. ‘How was Eric killed?’
‘His body was found this morning at Madame Tussauds, next to the guillotine in the Chamber of Horrors. His head had been cut off.’
The barman gave a shudder.
‘It can’t have been Walter who did it,’ he said firmly.
‘That’s Mr Tussaud’s opinion as well,’ said Daniel. ‘He said they were like brothers.’
‘They were.’ The barman nodded. ‘Rock solid.’
‘But brothers can fall out.’
‘Not Eric and Walter.’
‘How close were they?’ asked Daniel carefully.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the barman suspiciously.
‘When Eric had to leave the army because he was injured, Walter went with him. They seemed to do everything together. They shared a room. I get the impression they were …particularly close.’
The barman glared at Daniel, angry.
‘There was nothing like that!’ he snapped. ‘If you don’t believe me, ask Elsie over there.’
Daniel turned and looked at the woman, sipping at her port. Every now and then she turned to look at the clock, then at the door, before turning back to her drink.
‘Whose was she?’ asked Daniel. ‘Eric’s or Walter’s?’
‘Eric’s. That’s why she’s here. He usually comes in around this time.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘Will you tell her? But be gentle. She was very fond of him. They were almost like a married couple.’
‘Almost?’
‘Well, she has her own business to look after.’
‘Does she have a minder?’
The barman shook his head. ‘Eric wouldn’t allow it. You know what these minders can be like.’
Daniel nodded; he knew only too well from his time at Scotland Yard. He’d lost count of the number of prostitutes whose bodies he’d viewed at the mortuary, most killed by a client, or more often than not, by their so-called minder.
‘Elsie what?’ he asked.
‘Harkness.’
‘What’s she drinking? Port?’
The barman nodded. Daniel produced a coin, but the barman waved it away, then poured a port. ‘This one’s on the house,’ he said. ‘Eric spent more than enough here.’
Daniel carried the glass of port across to the table.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, I’m waiting for a friend.’
‘Yes, so I understand. Eric Dudgeon.’ She looked up at him, concern on her face. Daniel put the glass of port on the table in front of the woman. ‘I believe you’re Elsie Harkness.’
‘You got a message from Eric?’ she asked.
‘In a way,’ said Daniel, sitting down opposite her. ‘My name’s Daniel Wilson and I’m a private investigator hired by Madame Tussauds wax museum.’
‘That’s where Eric works,’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.’
‘Bad news?’
Daniel looked at her and gave a sympathetic sigh. ‘I’m afraid there’s no easy way to say this, but there’s been a tragic accident at the museum. Eric’s dead.’
She stared at him, her mouth dropping open in shock, and then she shook her head.
‘No,’ she said, firmly. ‘I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it until I hear it from Walter.’
‘And Mr Bagshot has disappeared,’ said Daniel.
‘Disappeared?’ she repeated, bewildered.
‘Eric was found this morning in the Chamber of Horrors, dead. There’s been no sign of Walter Bagshot, but I’ve been told the police are looking for him.’
‘No!’ she whispered in horror. ‘Not Walter! He’d never hurt Eric! Never!’ Suddenly she began to cry, her whole upper body shaking as tears rolled down her heavily-rouged cheeks. Daniel produced a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.’
She refused his offer of the handkerchief and instead lifted the sleeve of her fur coat and buried her head in it, sobbing, before wiping the sleeve across her face. She looked at Daniel, still uncomprehending, her make-up smeared and smudged. ‘He was my Eric,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Daniel. ‘That’s why I need to find out as much as I can about him in order to catch the person who did it. Had you known him long?’
‘About a year,’ she said.
‘Before he went to work at Madame Tussauds?’
She nodded. ‘When him and Walter were on the railways.’
‘Did they work here at Marylebone?’ asked Daniel.
‘No, they were mainly at King’s Cross and St Pancras. They worked on the Gasworks Tunnel.’
‘The Gasworks Tunnel?’ queried Daniel.
‘At King’s Cross. I don’t know what they did there; they told me but I didn’t follow it. I don’t know much about that sort of work.’
‘Why did they leave the railways and go to work at Madame Tussauds?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Were the wages better?’
‘I can’t see how,’ said Elsie. ‘They were getting good money on the railway. I remember when they told me they were changing jobs, it was about three weeks ago. Walter started to say how there’d be a lot of money coming, but Eric shut him up, then made a joke about it. But I could tell there was something in it. Walter had had a bit too much to drink that night and it had made him a bit merry. It was like he was celebrating something.’
‘What?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. And I didn’t ask. They were always coming up with ideas for making money, ideas they’d joke about and laugh at, but really they were happy living the way they did. Earning enough to pay their rent and have a good night out. Though all that changed when they started doing the night job at Tussauds, of course. They had to be at work for nine o’clock at night, so there weren’t any late nights boozing any more. But they used to come in after they’d finished their shift. Well, lunchtime, after they’d gone home and got a few hours’ kip.’
‘Did they ever talk about their army experiences?’
She gave a soft, sad chuckle. ‘All the time. I think that was when they were happiest. They went all over the world, you know.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The Boy first encountered the Lady when leaving work. He walked out of Morton’s of London Wax Museum and found a smartly-dressed man standing by the kerb next to an expensive-looking carriage. The man moved away from the carriage to join him.
‘Someone wants to see you,’ he said. ‘She’s inside.’
‘What’s she want with me?’ asked the Boy, puzzled and also wary.
‘She’ll tell you that herself,’ said the man, and he took the Boy by the arm and steered him towards the carriage.
‘Who is she?’ asked the Boy, apprehensively, wondering: what is this? What have I done wrong?
‘She’s the Lady,’ said the man, and he opened the door.
The Boy looked in, suspiciously. A very well-dressed woman in her early fifties sitting inside smiled at him and said, ‘Do come in. You’ll find it far more comfortable than walking.’
The Boy climbed in, still wary, then sat on the seat opposite her. The man shut the door and the Boy heard him climbing up to the driver’s seat, then the carriage began to roll.
‘Where are we going?’ asked the Boy.
‘That depends on you,’ said the Lady. ‘I can take you to your home, or we can go to my house where we can have tea and cake.’
‘Why?’ asked the Boy suspiciously.
‘Because I have a proposition to make to you,’ said the Lady.
‘What sort of proposition?’
‘About your work. In wax. I’ve heard good things about you. I understand they call you the Boy.’
The Boy nodded, but with a scowl.
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirteen,’ said the Boy.
‘And you are an apprentice at Morton’s wax museum.’
‘Yes,’ said the Boy.
‘What’s your real name?’
‘Thomas.’
‘Which do you prefer to be called: Thomas or the Boy?’
‘Thomas,’ he said. ‘The Boy makes me sound like a pet or something. I think it started as a joke because I was younger than everyone else, and I’m small for my age, but they all started calling me it.’
‘And you don’t like it.’
‘No.’
‘Why don’t you work somewhere else? Somewhere where they’ll call you by your name?’
‘Because I’ve got to finish my apprenticeship. I signed a paper.’
‘You can write?’
The boy nodded.
‘I’ve been told that you’re an orphan,’ said the Lady.
Again, he nodded.
‘And you live in lodgings with a Mrs Wicksteed in Paddington.’
Again, the Boy – Thomas – looked at her suspiciously. ‘How do you know so much about me?’
‘I made it my business, especially after I heard good things about you. So, do you want me to take you to your lodgings, or would you like to come home with me and have tea and cake and listen to my proposition?’
‘Your place,’ said Thomas.
The Lady smiled. ‘Excellent,’ she said.
Daniel’s last port of call was to the address in Somers Town he’d been given for Donald Bruin and Steven Patterson. As he expected, he was told they’d left two weeks previously, and left no forwarding address.
‘A pity to see them go,’ said their landlord, a Mr Possick. ‘Decent blokes. Always paid their rent. But there you are. That’s people for you.’
‘Did they give any idea of where they were going?’ asked Daniel. ‘Or what they’d be doing?’
Possick shook his head. ‘No, and I didn’t ask. Ask questions and you get a reputation for being nosey, and tenants don’t like landlords who are nosey.’
From Somers Town it was just a few minutes’ walk home, and Daniel found Abigail already there and with the kettle on the range.
‘How did you get on?’ she asked.
‘Bruin and Patterson seem to have vanished, and I’m not at all sure that Walter Bagshot has run off, as Inspector Jarrett seems to think.’ He filled her in on what he’d discovered at the men’s lodgings, and at the Railway Tavern. ‘It’s not just that everyone says how close the two men were, it’s the fact he left everything behind. Including a regimental flag.’ He pulled out his notebook and read the motto. ‘Ubique Quo Fas Et Gloria Ducunt.’ He looked at her enquiringly. ‘I’m guessing it’s Latin.’
‘It is,’ she said. ‘It means “Everywhere whither right and glory lead”.’ She frowned. ‘But I don’t know what it means, in this context.’
‘It’s the motto of the Royal Engineers,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s obviously precious to both men, so that’s another reason I don’t think Walter ran off of his own accord. I can’t see him leaving that behind.’
‘So what do you think’s happened to him?’
‘I think he was either killed or abducted. What about you? How did you get on?’
‘I went to see a friend of mine at the British Museum, Erasmus Black. We met when we were on a dig together at Hawara. He was making a study of wax modelling in ancient Egypt.’
‘It goes that far back?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Abigail. ‘Wax figures of the deities were used in funeral rites, and many are on display in museums.’
‘They last that long?’
‘They do indeed. Beeswax is a wonderful medium. Anyway, as I hoped, Erasmus, who’s got a passion for wax modelling, knows all about the Tussaud family and their wax museum. Right from the very early days.’
‘Do we have to know about their early days?’ asked Daniel apprehensively.
‘Yes, we do,’ Abigail told him firmly.
‘It always takes so long,’ complained Daniel.
‘The more we know about the past the better we can understand the present,’ said Abigail.
‘Yes, but …’ began Daniel. Then he gave a resigned sigh. ‘All right.’
‘It seems that Marie Grosholtz – that was Madame Tussaud’s maiden name – was born in Strasbourg, France on 1st December 1761. Nothing is really known about her father except his name, Joseph. Marie claimed he was a soldier who died two months before she was born. Her mother, Anne Marie, was eighteen years old and in domestic service. Soon after Marie was born, her mother went to work as a housekeeper for a young bachelor doctor, Philippe Guillaume Curtius, who was Swiss. Curtius was also a very skilful maker of wax miniatures. One of his admirers invited him to move to Paris to develop his work in wax, and exploit it. Which Curtius did, taking with him his housekeeper and her young daughter, who was now six years old. She showed an aptitude for also working in wax, and she became Curtius’s apprentice. By her teens she was at least as good as he was in modelling lifelike figures. The thing she learnt from Curtius was getting the flesh tones right.’
‘This is all very interesting, but I’m not sure how it relates to the murder,’ posed Daniel.
‘You’re the one who’s always said we need to know the background of the people involved,’ countered Abigail.
‘Yes, but there’s background and there’s ancient history,’ Daniel complained.
‘Unless you know everything, you won’t know which parts to ignore and which bits are relevant,’ insisted Abigail.
I can already tell, thought Daniel wearily, but wisely he chose not to say that aloud.
‘Curtius’s wax displays became the talk of Paris, with all the leading people coming to see them, and sitting for their likenesses to be made,’ Abigail continued. ‘This included the French royal family; the king and queen and their immediate relatives, and you couldn’t get any higher than them. And then came the revolution.’
‘With the royal family going to the guillotine,’ said Daniel.
