by Amanda Quick
“Would you like a word of advice?” Tobias asked mildly.
“From you? Not particularly.”
“Nevertheless, I am going to give you some words of wisdom, which you will do well to heed if you elect to continue in your new career.”
Unwillingly she dragged her attention away from the gloomy street. He was an expert, she reminded herself.
“What advice do you have for me, sir?”
“It is never a good idea to cry when clients tell you their tales of woe. It gives them the impression that you will believe whatever they say. In my experience, clients tend to lie quite regularly. There is no reason to encourage them with tears.”
She stared. “Are you saying you think Mrs. Dove lied to us?”
He shrugged. “Clients always lie. If you continue in this profession for long, you will soon learn that simple fact of business.”
She gripped the edges of her cloak very tightly. “I do not believe for one moment that Mrs. Dove invented her story.”
“How would you know?”
She raised her chin. “I have a keen sense of intuition.”
“I shall take your word for it.”
He never failed to annoy her, she thought.
“Allow me to tell you, sir, that my parents were both skilled practitioners of mesmerism. I became their assistant at a very early age. After their deaths I continued to make my living for some time giving therapeutic treatments. Intuition is a requirement for success in that field. Indeed, my father told me on a number of occasions that I had a talent for the business.”
“Bloody hell. I have a practitioner of animal magnetism as a partner. What did I do to deserve this?”
She gave him a thin smile. “I am glad that you are amused, sir, but it does not change the fact that I believe Mrs. Dove’s story.” She paused. “Most of it in any event.”
He shrugged. “I will allow that she probably did not invent all of it. I suspect she is smart enough to know that interweaving fact with fiction makes for a more genuine-sounding tale.”
“You are very cynical, Mr. March.”
“It is an asset in this business.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I will tell you one thing for certain. She was not lying about her love for her late husband.”
“If you remain in this career for long, you will eventually learn that all clients lie when it comes to the subject of love.”
The hackney rattled to a halt before she could pursue the matter. Tobias opened the door and made to alight. He did not drop lightly to the street, she noticed. Rather, he eased himself out of the vehicle with the air of a man who was in some pain. But when he turned to assist her, his face was impassive.
A small shock of awareness went through her when she felt the strength in his hand. She allowed him to bundle her into the shelter of a doorway and tried to cover her unsettling reaction by pretending a deep interest in their surroundings.
Half Crescent Lane was a cramped, curved passage. It twisted through a narrow, densely shadowed valley formed by looming stone walls. It was probably never a sunny place, but on a day such as this it was drenched in stygian gloom.
Tobias rapped sharply on the door. Footsteps sounded from within. A moment later an aged housekeeper appeared. She squinted at Tobias.
“What is it ye want?” she inquired in the very loud tones used by those who were hard of hearing.
Tobias winced and took a step back. “We’re here to see Mrs. Vaughn.”
The housekeeper cupped her ear with one hand. “What’s that?”
“We’re here to see the modeler in wax,” Lavinia said, enunciating her words very carefully.
“Ye’ll ’ave to purchase a ticket,” the housekeeper announced in ringing accents. “Mrs. Vaughn doesn’t let anyone into her gallery without a ticket anymore. Too many folks takin’ advantage, y’know. Claim they want to give her a commission but once they’re inside they just have themselves a good look at the sculptures and then they leave.”
“We’re not here to view her waxworks,” Lavinia said loudly. “We wish to speak with her on another matter.”
“I’ve ’eard all the excuses. None of ’em will work with me and that’s a fact. No one gets in without a ticket.”
“Very well.” Tobias dropped a few coins into the woman’s hand. “Is that enough to get us two tickets?”
The housekeeper examined the coins. “That’ll do, sir, that’ll do.”
She stepped back. Lavinia walked into the small, poorly lit hall. Tobias followed her. When the door closed behind him, the shadows intensified.
The housekeeper moved off down a darkened corridor. “This way, if ye please.”
Lavinia glanced at Tobias. He made a slight movement with his hand, motioning her to precede him down the hall.
Without a word, they followed the housekeeper to the end of the passageway. She opened a heavy door with a theatrical flourish.
“Go right in,” she shouted. “Mrs. Vaughn will be with you in a moment or two.”
“Thank you.” Lavinia stepped into the dimly lit chamber and came to an abrupt halt when she saw that a number of people were gathered there. “I didn’t realize Mrs. Vaughn already had guests.”
The housekeeper cackled and shut the door, leaving Tobias and Lavinia inside the crowded room.
Heavy drapes were drawn across the two narrow windows, shutting out what little light might have managed to seep into the chamber from without. The only illumination came from the two tapers in the large, ornately worked candelabra that sat atop the piano. There was a decided chill in the atmosphere. It seemed to emanate from the dense shadows around the visitors. Lavinia saw that there was no fire on the hearth.
The other guests stood and sat in a variety of poses. A man with an elegantly tied cravat read quietly in a wing-back chair, although he did not have a candle beside him to throw light on the page. His legs were casually crossed at the ankle. A comfortably rounded woman dressed in a long-sleeved gown trimmed with a crisp white ruff occupied the piano bench. She wore a large white apron. Her thick gray hair was pinned in a heavy knot beneath a lace cap. Her fingers hovered in the air just above the keys as though she had just finished one piece and was about to begin another.
Near the unlit hearth sat a man with a half-finished glass of brandy in his hand. Next to him two other gentlemen were engaged in a game of chess.
An eerie stillness cloaked the long, narrow chamber. No heads turned to look at the new arrivals. No one moved. No one spoke. The piano remained silent. It was as if everyone in the chamber had been frozen forever in a moment of civilized pursuit.
“Good heavens,” Lavinia breathed.
Tobias moved past her and crossed to where the chess players sat at a game that would never be finished.
“Astonishing,” he said. “I have seen other examples of waxworks but none so close to life as these.”
Lavinia walked slowly toward the figure reading the small volume. The waxwork head was tilted at a realistic angle. The glass eyes appeared to be absorbed with the print on the page. There was a small frown between the brows, and tiny hairs rose from the back of the veined hands.
“One almost expects them to speak or move,” she whispered. “I vow, there is even a slight bluish tint to the veins, and just look at the pale cast of that woman’s cheek. It is unnerving, is it not?”
“Your niece told us that most workers in wax use clothing and jewelry and other items to achieve the effect of a living image.” Tobias moved to a woman dressed in a fashionable gown. The fingers of the figure’s hand toyed negligently with a fan. She seemed to smile coyly. “But Mrs. Vaughn is a master in her profession, an artist who need not rely on tricks. These statues are brilliantly modeled.”
The figure in the apron and cap seated at the piano bowed from the waist.
“Thank you, sir,” she said with a merry chuckle.
Lavinia swallowed a small shriek and took a hasty step back. She came up against a dandy who f
rowned at her through a quizzing glass. She jerked herself aside as if the figure had reached out to touch her. In the process she nearly dropped the package she had brought with her.
She caught her balance, feeling foolish, then shook out the folds of her cloak and summoned a determinedly polite smile.
“Mrs. Vaughn, I presume?” she said briskly.
“Yes, indeed.”
“I am Mrs. Lake and this is Mr. March.”
Mrs. Vaughn rose from the piano bench. Her smile dimpled her cheeks. “Welcome to my exhibition chamber. I invite you to examine my figures for as long as you please.”
Tobias inclined his head. “My congratulations, madam. This is an amazing collection.”
“Your admiration is extremely gratifying, sir.” Mrs. Vaughn looked at Lavinia, amusement sparkling in her bright eyes. “But something tells me that Mrs. Lake is more reserved in her opinion.”
“Not at all,” Lavinia said quickly. “It is just that the impact of your art is . . . unexpected. Striking, I should say. I mean, it is as if this room is filled with people who are . . . well . . . uh—”
“People who are not quite alive and yet not quite dead, is that what you mean?”
Lavinia smiled weakly. “Your skill is extremely impressive.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lake. But I can see you are one of those who are not entirely comfortable with my art.”
“Oh, no, really, it is just that these figures are so very lifelike.” Corpselike would have been a more accurate description, she thought. But she did not want to appear critical. After all, the woman was an artist. Everyone knew they were eccentric and inclined to be temperamental.
Mrs. Vaughn’s dimples appeared again. She waved a hand in a reassuring gesture. “You need not worry about offending me, Mrs. Lake. I am well aware that my work is not to everyone’s taste.”
“They are certainly interesting,” Tobias said.
“Nevertheless, I gain the impression you are not proposing to give me a commission for a family portrait, either.”
“You are a very astute woman, Mrs. Vaughn.” Tobias studied the elegantly modeled throat of the woman with the fan. “Perhaps that is why your figures achieve such a semblance of life.”
Mrs. Vaughn gave another bubbling chuckle. “I do pride myself on an ability to read the truth that lies just beneath the surface. You are quite right—that skill is key to achieving an accurate portrayal. But it requires more than insight to bring a figure to life. It takes a great amount of detail work. The little lines at the corner of the eye. The accurate placement of the veins so they appear to throb with blood. That sort of thing.”
Tobias nodded. “I see.”
Lavinia thought about the extraordinary degree of detail in the waxwork picture she clutched and went very still. What if fate had led them directly to the killer? Across the room, she caught Tobias’s eye. He shook his head slightly.
She took a deep breath to compose herself. He was right, of course. It was simply too much of a coincidence to believe they had come straight to the killer seeking answers about a death threat she had sent. Then again, how many expert workers in wax were there in London? The number could not be large. Emeline had put Mrs. Vaughn at the top of the list of the most skilled without any hesitation.
As if she had read Lavinia’s mind, Mrs. Vaughn glanced at her with a knowing expression and smiled broadly.
Lavinia shook off the cobwebs of unease that had settled over her senses. What on earth was the matter with her? She was allowing her thoughts to become disordered. It was impossible to envision this small, cheerful woman in the role of murderess.
“We came here today to consult with you about that very subject, Mrs. Vaughn,” she said.
“Artistic details?” Mrs. Vaughn beamed. “How intriguing. There is nothing I love to discuss more than my art.”
Lavinia put the package on the nearest table. “If you would be so kind as to examine this waxwork and tell us what you can about the artist who created it, we would be extremely grateful.”
“The work is unsigned?” Mrs. Vaughn moved closer to the table. “How unusual.”
“I think you will comprehend why the artist did not inscribe his signature when you see the picture,” Tobias said dryly.
Lavinia untied the string that bound the cloth. The material fell aside to reveal the unpleasant scene.
“Oh my.” Mrs. Vaughn removed a pair of silver spectacles from the pocket of her apron and pushed them onto the bridge of her nose. She did not take her gaze off the picture. “Oh my.”
Troubled lines appeared between her brows. She picked up the picture and carried it across the room to put it down on top of the piano. Lavinia followed. She stood behind Mrs. Vaughn and watched as the tapers in the candelabra cast a flaring light across the miniature ballroom and the dead woman in the green gown.
“Can I assume that this is not intended to illustrate a scene from a play or novel?” Mrs. Vaughn asked without looking away from the waxwork.
“You assume correctly.” Tobias came to stand next to Lavinia. “We believe it was meant as a threat. We wish to find the artist who made it.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Vaughn whispered. “Indeed. I can certainly understand your desire to do that. There is great malevolence in this little piece. Great anger. Great hatred. Was it sent to you, Mrs. Lake? No, that cannot be. The hair is blond caught in the process of turning slowly silver. You are a younger woman and your hair is quite red, is it not?”
Tobias gave Lavinia’s hair an enigmatic glance. “It is very red.”
She scowled at him. “There is no need for personal remarks, sir.”
“Merely an observation.”
It was more than an observation, Lavinia thought. She wondered if Tobias was one of those men who disliked red-haired women. Perhaps he actually believed all that nonsense about fiery tempers and difficult dispositions.
Mrs. Vaughn looked up. “How did this little picture come into your hands?”
“It was left on the doorstep of an acquaintance,” Tobias said.
“How odd.” Mrs. Vaughn hesitated. “I must say, the piece is very elegantly modeled, for all its unpleasantness.”
“Have you ever seen workmanship of this quality?” Lavinia asked.
“Other than my own, do you mean? No.” Mrs. Vaughn slowly removed her spectacles. “I cannot say I have. I make it a point to tour the galleries and exhibitions of my competitors. I would have remembered such skill.”
“Do you think we can assume, then, that the artist is not exhibiting to the public?” Tobias asked.
Mrs. Vaughn frowned. “I would not assume any such thing, sir. An artist possessed of this degree of talent would find it extremely difficult not to exhibit his creations. There is a need to have one’s work seen and appreciated.”
“One can hardly make a living otherwise,” Lavinia said.
Mrs. Vaughn shook her head decisively. “It is not simply the money, Mrs. Lake. Indeed, if the artist is wealthy, the money is the least of it.”
Lavinia glanced at the nearest of the fascinating waxworks. “I understand.”
“There really are not that many expert modelers in wax, you know,” Mrs. Vaughn continued. “I fear waxwork is rapidly declining from the level of true art to a type of entertainment meant to appeal primarily to bloodthirsty schoolboys and apprentice lads. I blame the late, unpleasant business in France. All those death masks Madame Tussaud was obliged to make after the guillotine had done its work. It gave the public a taste for art that produces horrid thrills in the viewer.”
As if her own work did not create a few cold chills, Lavinia thought. “Thank you very much for giving us your opinion on this waxwork.” She picked up the picture and began to rewrap it. “I had hoped you would be able to give us some clues. But it appears we shall have to pursue another avenue of inquiry.”
Mrs. Vaughn’s round face lost much of its bright-eyed good cheer. “You will be cautious, I trust.”
Cold
interest sparked in Tobias’s expression. “What do you wish to imply, madam?”
Mrs. Vaughn watched Lavinia tie a knot in the string. “Whoever modeled that picture was clearly intent on inducing terror in the heart of the person who received it.”
Lavinia thought about the stark dread she had seen in Mrs. Dove’s eyes. “If that was, indeed, the artist’s goal, I assure you he or she was successful.”
Mrs. Vaughn pursed her lips. “I regret I cannot tell you the name of the artist who created this picture. But I can tell you that you are looking for someone who is consumed with a desire to inflict revenge or, perhaps, punishment. In my experience, there is only one thing that can turn so completely to hate.”
Lavinia stilled. “What is that, Mrs. Vaughn?”
“Love.” Mrs. Vaughn smiled again. The sparkling cheer-fulness returned to her eyes. “It really is quite the most dangerous of all the emotions, you know.”
Almost everyone had a strong opinion on love today, Lavinia reflected.
eight
“I don’t know about you, Mr. March,” Lavinia declared as she swept through the door of her study a short time later, “but I vow I am sorely in need of something of a medicinal nature to settle my nerves. Mrs. Vaughn and her collection of waxworks left me with a most unpleasant sensation.”
Tobias closed the door very deliberately and looked at her. “For once, Mrs. Lake, we are in complete agreement.”
“I do not believe that a pot of hot tea will be effective in this instance. A stronger tonic is required.”
She crossed the room and opened an oak chest to reveal the cut-glass decanter inside. It was nearly full.
“We are in luck.” She seized the decanter. “I believe I have found a remedy for what ails us. If you will see to the fire, sir, I shall pour us both a glass.”
“Thank you.” Tobias walked to the hearth and went stiffly down on one knee. His expression tightened.