Tussaud

by Belinda, Lyons-Lee

  His father said that he would be generous to the family in their loss, so that their remaining daughter, only a young child then, could come into service when she was old enough. And she had: Harriet.

  William had almost dismissed her for being impudent, but he had stopped himself at the last moment – to dismiss her may have stirred it all up again. And as the valet had pointed out, she was a dull child, simple even. The boy didn’t know the great secret that his father kept, the secret that involved Harriet and Elanor. In fact he only knew what was common knowledge in these parts, that a girl called Elanor had disappeared from the estate.

  For this reason Elanor – no, not Elanor, not really, rather the creature impersonating Elanor could not be seen by the maid, or who knew what would unfold. Harriet might feel a strange connection to the thing, some sort of kinship. She might ask questions. Try to talk to it. Or even try to talk to him about it. What if she worked out what had happened to her older sister?

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Marie

  MEETING GRIBBLE AT breakfast that morning had unsettled her so that she kept to her bedchamber most of the day, resting and amusing herself with drawing sketches of Welbeck and its surrounds, including its eccentric owner. Philidor, she assumed, was occupied down in the ballroom with his captive attendants as had become his custom. That evening when Marie went to visit Elanor in the study, she opened the door to find nothing: no lamp, no candle, no girl. The black coffin had gone, and the room had been tidied. Standing on the threshold, she let out a silent scream into the darkness. Someone was playing games with her.

  Back in her bedchamber she rang for the valet while she toyed with the ends of her hair, pulling them slightly to enjoy the sharp twinge on her scalp. When he finally knocked and entered, it was with a self-assured air that she sensed even though she did not turn to face him.

  ‘Where is she?’ Marie asked quietly.

  ‘It’s not a girl – a girl is what I fondle each night at the well, with a warm body and soft breasts. That thing is not a girl. I’ve felt her, she’s not real.’

  ‘I told you not to touch her.’

  ‘My apologies madame, but I did it as an experiment of sorts to help me understand my master better. And you of course, given that you created her. Your skill in replicating life is really most extraordinary. Up close, the chest heaving, it is all very convincing.

  ’ Marie looked at him steadily, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing her real emotion. ‘Thank you for your compliments but I ask again, where is she?’

  ‘I have moved her.’ The corners of his mouth moved upwards in a smirk. Was he trying to out manoeuvre her?

  Marie’s temper strained against its leash, but losing control would not further her cause. Not when she was so close. ‘Where to?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ He sat on her bed casually, as though he was the one who slept in it each night. His continued insolence was infuriating. ‘I can tell you that she lay as stiff as a doll when I visited her. Not my sort of entertainment – I like them to fight a little – but as you reminded me, I pass no judgement on His Grace for wanting her. I’ve made sure her new lodgings are locked with bolt along with a one-sided keyhole. And, naturally, I am the only one with the key.’ He pulled it from where it hung on a leather strap around his neck, then tucked it back behind his shirt.

  ‘You seem to think you are in a position to taunt me monsieur. Have you forgotten that I know all about your attempts to rape the maid?’

  ‘No, I have not forgotten that but it may be time we renegotiated the terms.’ He affected to pick at his fingernails. ‘I’ve been working so terribly hard and I do feel quite undervalued by you.’

  ‘Hard doing what exactly?’

  ‘Reading Philidor’s letters.’

  ‘You read everything that comes in and out of this house, don’t you?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘And so this one for Philidor?’

  ‘The Bank of London.’

  ‘And?

  ‘And no more, until we change the terms of our arrangement.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘You are keeping my secret, this is true but I in turn am privy to information which I know you will find valuable. So, I think we should consider the keeping of my secret paid off, so to speak. From now on, I am happy to tell you what I know but I want something in return.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The only thing I really understand – aside from lust, that is – is money. And I never seem to have enough.’

  ‘I’m tired.’ Marie moved to close the window curtain. ‘No more games.’ She would make a show of conceding to this. She needed to keep him close. ‘Very well. I will consider your secret paid off. Now what is it you know about the commission, about Philidor, and what do you want in return?’

  ‘Here is the first piece of information concerning the commis- sion, as a show of good faith. I will tell you about Philidor after you have agreed on a little task to do for me.’ His eyes narrowed to watch her carefully as he delivered the news. ‘It is not enough in His Grace’s mind to have the thing locked up, he wants to be rid of it altogether. I suggested burying it in the forest, but he wasn’t receptive to that idea.’

  Yes, thought Marie. And I know why. She was careful to keep her face an unmoving mask and let him continue.

  ‘I did hear him muttering about taking her apart himself. Perhaps he plans to dismember her like a pig. Who knows? What he does with her is his own business.’

  The thought of Elanor’s limbs being broken and torn from her body filled Marie with nausea. This was intolerable. Who would do such a thing to a work of art, to a miracle? Surely Cavendish was not capable of such violence. He was in love with Elanor, wanted to keep his prized possession locked away for himself. Although what if he was seized by another delusion, akin to the one that had resulted in the disappearance of the real Elanor? He was delusional, but was he depraved? Perhaps he was capable of more than one murder.

  The valet ignored her silence and kept speaking about himself. He stood in front of her looking glass and began smoothing back his hair. His conceit was tangible. ‘Now as to what I want in return, I know that the duke intends to provide for me in his will. But, I ask myself, is it enough? A small allowance for me to exist on, live according to a budget, limited in my ambitions because I had the misfortune of being born to a servant – no, I deserve more. A man of lesser character would have fled long ago. So it’s only fair that I get what I deserve.’ He straightened his back and faced her. His expression was a challenge.

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Well, that I get it all! He’ll leave Welbeck and Cavendish Square in London to a distant cousin of his, that’s due process. But it’s his personal property that I want. The paintings, the books and the artefacts in the underground museum – together they must be worth thousands. This, plus an allowance, should be enough for me to live comfortably.’ He sat back down on the edge of the bed and flexed his right foot up and down casually.

  ‘And how do you intend on getting it?’ asked Marie. What had he been quietly concocting in this empty house left alone to ruminate on his greedy desires?

  ‘I won’t threaten him, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s frail, the next shock will likely see him off anyway. No, what I’m thinking of is the will. I would like you to create one in his handwriting that makes me the sole beneficiary of all his personal property.’

  ‘You have a copy of his will?’

  ‘I know where one copy is kept in his rooms, the other with his lawyer. But it will be enough to change the one here. His lawyer is well acquainted with the duke’s eccentricities and won’t be unduly surprised, I think, to find that the duke has been suddenly possessed by the conviction to change it without consulting him.’

  ‘But the lawyer will be familiar with the duke’s handwriting.’

  ‘I know you can replicate it – I’ve seen your handwriting. You have such skilful hands.’
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  At that moment the valet put a forefinger to his lips.

  Marie paused – she could hear nothing, but the valet’s open admission of his prying had only confirmed what she suspected. He had carefully thought through his scheme and her place in its execution.

  ‘Somebody is approaching,’ he whispered.

  They both turned to the door and watched as a letter was slipped under it. Marie quickly picked it up without looking at it and placed it on her bureau. She kept her face impassive. Reveal nothing. Silence, then soft footsteps receding.

  ‘Your hearing is impressive,’ Marie said. A compliment to disarm him. And hopefully distract.

  ‘I have lived amongst these hallways my whole life. Receiving mail at this time?’ The valet raised his eyebrows. ‘A little unusual, I would think.’

  ‘It is nothing,’ said Marie. ‘Just a diversion Harriet and I share in, to extend her mind. Now, what were you saying?’ A second attempt to steer the conversation away from the letter.

  ‘What is Harriet doing roaming the hallways after supper? Surely whatever sewing you set her to work on in the evenings has been accomplished? I find it strange, that whenever I seek her out, she has taken to locking herself in her room and refusing to talk to me.’

  Fortunate she was already prepared with a reason to explain Harriet’s behaviour. ‘Tonight she is doing as I instructed her. I have given her my books to read, and she has been a most enthusiastic student in writing her observations of them for us to discuss. Now, let us return to the issue at hand – your proposal. The information about the duke wanting to be rid of the commission completely is timely, but I need her location and the key. You also mentioned a letter to Philidor?’

  A third attempt to restablish the conversation but the letter from Harriet seemed to burn a hole on her bureau – no, she must focus on what was before her, not get distracted and make a mistake by looking over at it.

  ‘You must agree to my terms first madame. You cannot have it all your way all of the time.’ He smiled indulgently at her.

  It might suit her to agree to this proposition of forging the will. She was curious to read it herself but more than that, affecting to agree to the task and carrying it out would buy her some time. ‘Yes, I will do this for you. I have the skills, as you know. Whether it succeeds in the deception in not my responsibility though.’

  ‘You are absolved from the outcome,’ said the valet, with a mocking bow. ‘All I ask is that you complete it with the same determination, skill and perfection as your creations.’

  ‘Now tell me where she is and then I will relieve you of the key. I also want an understanding that I can visit her any time I please without obstruction.’

  ‘The commission is in the tower and here is the key.’ He took it from around his neck and passed it to her. It was warm from where it lay on his chest, she felt uncomfortable with such intimacy so she lay it on top of the letter from Harriet on the bureau. ‘You can come and go as you please without interference from me.’

  ‘And Philidor’s letter?’

  ‘The bank has discovered that Philidor’s diamond is a paste, and it is demanding he immediately pay back the loan. He is ruined.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Marie, she paused. ‘You are playing a most interesting game – and a dangerous one at that.’

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing dangerous about fooling a madman out of his money.’ The valet glanced at her bureau as he shut the door behind him.

  But there may be something dangerous about trying to outmanoeuvre a madwoman, thought Marie. And reached for the letter.

  PART SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland

  ‘GOOD LORD, WHAT do you mean by this?’ William cried. He struggled to sit up in bed while raising his forearm against the blows of sunlight that had already brought a headache.

  ‘You have a visitor, Your Grace,’ said the valet. ‘He insists upon seeing you immediately.’

  ‘But I don’t see anybody. And shut that blasted curtain, you’ve nearly blinded me.’

  ‘I needed to wake you up, sir, and I found I couldn’t rouse you otherwise.’

  ‘Well, I’m awake now.’ William lay back and shut his eyes. ‘Now start from the start, and go slowly. My senses are all jangled – and what time is it?’ The strain of writing a reply to that disturbing letter from the Tussaud woman earlier that morning, as well as the memories it had stirred, had proven too much. He had taken to his bed to restore himself.

  ‘It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, sir. Constable Trickett arrived not ten minutes ago. He says he wants to see you – privately.’

  ‘About what?’ William said, opening his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know, sir. When I pressed him, he shut up like a clam.’

  ‘So, Trickett, is it? The imposter. Not one of us, although he pretends to be.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The very man.’

  ‘I can’t possibly see him. Doesn’t he recall the rules, for goodness sake?’

  ‘Apparently not, sir.’

  ‘I’ll not be swayed by some title he only holds because of his manufacturing money! It means nothing. Tell him no. If he has business to communicate, he can do so through a letter, which I will address in a timely manner at my own convenience. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The valet departed, and William threw back the covers and dressed himself, cursing the sunlight that still made balls of light dance before him. It was enough to send him back to bed for the rest of the day.

  What could Trickett want? It had been years since he’d stepped foot in Welbeck. William peered out the window and saw the carriage, a shabby thing clearly worse for wear having travelled the hour from Worksop to Welbeck.

  The valet reappeared. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but he insists on speaking with you, in the usual manner, right now. He says it’s parish business.’

  ‘Let him wait below for another fifteen minutes, then bring him up to the study. Make sure there is plenty of paper – I intend on telling him exactly what I think of his unpardonable rudeness.’

  William arrived to find that the valet had set up his writing equipment on his desk. In another minute he heard low voices coming up the stairs, then Trickett taking position. Even before William had the quill in his hand, a letter was slipped through the inbox.

  Your Grace,

  It is unfortunate that we meet again under such circumstances. The last time I was here was regarding the disappearance of the Hemmings girl from your estate. Strange that I find myself here again, and for the same reason. I thought it best to visit immediately to ensure this matter stays between us.

  An observation has been made to me, in my position of parish Constable, in person at my home. In short, it is claimed, by one who wishes to remain anonymous, that you are keeping a girl here prisoner. For what purpose it is unclear. Apparently the girl has been sighted imprisoned in your study and bears a striking resemblance to Elanor Hemmings. My visitor conjectured, Your Grace, that you have been keeping her here all along. I searched the property at the time of her disappearance and did not find anything suspicious, as I knew we would not. But the witness was insistent and by agreeing to visit, I hope to dispel any further gossip or rumour that would be harmful to yourself.

  As William read the letter, his neck muscles constricted. He placed the paper on the desk and stared straight ahead. Who had betrayed him? The valet? Unthinkable. Harriet? No, she had not seen the thing. The Tussaud woman. Now that was more likely. She knew enough about his secret to make accusations. It could very well be her. And to think that she was sheltering under his roof! He could not ask the valet for help, for the young man was outside with Trickett – to do so would arouse suspicion. So, claim ignorance? Dismiss it as gossip? Villagers talking? An attempt by a London politician to discredit him? The balls of light that had earlier plagued him returned. He felt slightly dizzy, a high-pitched noise in his ears. But he had to act.

  Dear Sir,r />
  I find your conduct reprehensible and your claims abhorrent. Although you are in a tenuous position of responsibility for the parish, I can assure you, I am not guilty of a crime of such a heinous nature. I have not kept any girl a prisoner, let alone Elanor who did indeed go missing from this estate many years ago.

  As the 5th Duke of Portland and soon to be Peer of the Realm, I pride myself on behaving at all times in an honourable manner. You can be assured that the only people residing at my estate are here by their own free will. A performance operated in my grounds recently that concerned the supernatural, a so-called ‘gathering of ghosts’. I hesitate to guess that it may have caused undue disturbance in the minds of locals, and therefore the story of the disappearing girl has been resurrected.

  His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland

  He posted the letter in the box and waited.

  Your Grace,

  Perhaps the Phantasmagoria has indeed resurrected the ghosts of sensationalist rumours. Please accept my profuse apologies for the disturbance.

  Parish Constable Trickett

  How absurd! William didn’t have to justify himself to a man with a title that meant nothing compared to an inherited one such as his own. What nonsense.

  He pushed back his chair and returned to his bedchamber while the valet saw Trickett to the door. Lying on the bed, William closed his eyes. Trickett had been dealt with, like last time. Still, it brought to mind unfinished business: the Druce woman. It would not be enough to pay her and then vanish. He needed a permanent end to Thomas Charles – what better way to get rid of him than to kill and bury him? Again, he was grateful his position, his money, his pedigree, his name, all of which entitled him to friends in the medical, legal and ecclesiastical realms who would assist without questions. It was time to kill off Thomas Charles. And what of Elanor?.