by Jim Eldridge
The Lady looked on with an indulgent smile as Thomas tucked into a large slice of cake and sipped at the tea, being careful to put the delicate china cup carefully back on the saucer each time. He was the ideal person for what she had in mind. No living relatives, treated dismissively by his fellow workers, and with some experience at working with wax. But not yet known as a wax artist, still just a low-paid apprentice. Bringing him back to her grand and luxurious house was part of her ploy: to show him what sort of lifestyle might await him if he took up her offer.
‘I hear you’re good at working wax,’ she said.
‘Better than many of them at Morton’s,’ he said. ‘Most of them are rubbish. One day I’ll work at Tussauds.’
‘I worked at Tussauds,’ said the Lady.
‘You?’ said Thomas in surprise. He looked around at the elegant furniture, the paintings that adorned the high-ceilinged walls. ‘Is that how you got all this?’
‘In a way,’ said the Lady. ‘It’s how I started.’
‘So I could have all this?’
‘There’s no reason why not,’ said the Lady. ‘The thing is, we do unusual things here. Not just the normal wax models.’
‘What sort of things?’ asked Thomas.
‘Later,’ said the Lady. ‘Does being with dead people bother you?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘One of my first jobs was doing death masks. You know, with plaster of Paris.’
‘Yes, I know. I did that myself.’
‘You have to do it quick before the flesh starts to go rotten,’ said Thomas. ‘And you have to oil the skin to stop it sticking to the plaster.’
‘Yes, you do.’ The Lady nodded. ‘Would you like to work for me? In wax?’
‘I can’t,’ said Thomas. ‘Like I said, I signed a paper. I’m apprenticed to Morton’s.’
‘How about if I bought your apprenticeship from Morton’s.’
Thomas frowned and looked at her, curious.‘Can you do that?’
‘You can,’ she said. ‘It’s all very legal. It’s done all the time, an apprentice moving on to a different master. It’s all a question of money. And I have money.’
‘Don’t I have to sign something?’ asked Thomas.
The Lady smiled. ‘You are a very clever and knowledgeable young man,’ she said. ‘Yes, you do. I’ll draw up the documents. All you have to do is sign to say you wish to transfer to me for the rest of your apprenticeship. I take that to Morton’s and make an arrangement with them and pay them an agreed price, and you work for me. No longer the Boy, but Thomas.’ She saw that his face suddenly turned into a frown as he thought about it, and she realised that he was calculating how real her offer was. At Morton’s he had all the tools of the trade to hand, as well as tuition by experienced wax artists, and in a relatively short time he’d be finished his apprenticeship and could move elsewhere.
‘Would you like to see my wax studio?’ she asked.
Thomas nodded, his head bobbing up and down energetically.
She stood up. ‘This way,’ she said, and swept out of the room. Thomas followed her along the long passage and then out through the back door to a brick-built annexe room in the rear of the main house. Once inside, he stood and looked at what surrounded him, stunned. There was everything any wax artist could want here. It made the studios at Morton’s look shabby by comparison.
‘This is all yours?’ he asked, awed.
‘It is,’ she said. ‘Although I retired from the wax business, I like to keep my hand in. Mostly, these days, I prefer to supervise and teach others.’
‘You’ve had other apprentices?’
‘I have, and they’ve all gone on to greater things,’ said the Lady.
‘How many apprentices have you got at the moment?’ asked Thomas.
‘None,’ said the Lady. ‘My last moved on just a couple of weeks ago, which is why I’m looking for someone to replace them. Someone good. Someone who wants to learn.’ She gestured around her at the expensive equipment on display. ‘Someone who wants all this. Because it would mean staying here.’
‘Staying here?’
‘There is a very comfortable bedroom off the studio, with everything anyone could want. Including your own indoor bathroom, with its own toilet.’ She shrugged. ‘Or, if you prefer, you could return to Morton’s and your present lodgings. It’s up to you.’
‘You sure about the apprenticeship?’ asked Thomas. ‘I’ll still be doing it, only here? And Morton’s will agree?’
‘They will,’ said the Lady. ‘I’ll make them an offer they’ll find hard to refuse.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Next morning, after they’d breakfasted, Daniel headed to the newsagent’s to get the morning newspaper. ‘They were out of The Times,’ he told Abigail when he returned. ‘But I was interested to see what Joe Dalton would be writing in The Telegraph. I also got this.’ He held out a copy of The Whistler to her.
‘What’s this?’ she demanded.
‘The newspaper John mentioned, The Whistler. I thought it might be interesting to see what they say.’
She handed the newspaper back to him, deftly removing the copy of The Telegraph from his fingers at the same time.
‘It looks like a semi-literate rag. If you’re so interested you can look at that while I check The Telegraph.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Daniel. ‘And we’ll swap afterwards.’
He settled down and began to scan the paper. ‘The Tussauds murder is the lead story in this. “Real-Life Horror in the Chamber”, with a rather gruesome drawing of a man’s head separated from his body by a guillotine, while a crowd of ghoulish waxworks look on.’ He read on, then said, ‘They mention us. “We understand Madame Tussauds have brought in the famous Museum Detectives, former Scotland Yard detective Daniel Wilson and renowned Egyptologist Abigail Fenton, to solve the mystery of the murderous phantom of the Chamber of Horrors. Another slap in the face for Superintendent Armstrong and Scotland Yard’s detective division following Wilson and Fenton’s great successes investigating grisly murders at the British Museum, the Fitzwilliam and the Ashmolean, which Scotland Yard had failed to solve.”’
‘I hardly think that’s fair,’ observed Abigail. ‘John Feather was a vital part of the investigations.’
‘But Armstrong was obstructive, just as he’s being now.’
‘They missed out our investigation in Manchester,’ commented Abigail.
‘I doubt if the people at The Whistler know where Manchester is,’ mused Daniel. ‘The paper doesn’t exactly have a literary style. Lots of verbose descriptions, especially emphasising bloody decapitations.’
‘Any interview with Mr Tussaud?’
‘None. “Mr Tussaud promised to speak to us later, when more is known.” It then goes on to say that the dead man was Edward Dungeon, and that his fellow nightwatchman, William Bagstaff, is being hunted by the police for this horrific murder. They say that Inspector Jarrett from Scotland Yard is in charge of the investigation.’
‘At least they got some of the names right.’
‘What’s The Telegraph say about it?’
‘Not a great deal, just the bare bones. Mr Dudgeon, a nightwatchman at Madame Tussauds, was found dead, apparently decapitated by means of the guillotine in the Chamber of Horrors. Scotland Yard, under the direction of Inspector Jarrett, are searching for his fellow nightwatchman, Walter Bagshot, as a possible suspect. It then goes on to mention that we’ve been called in by Tussauds to help in the investigation.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Joe Dalton’s style,’ murmured Daniel.
‘It isn’t,’ said Abigail. ‘It’s by someone called Robert Peake. Your friend Joe has got the lead article, on the bank raids that John told us about.’
‘Ah,’ said Daniel. ‘What does he say?’
‘Pretty much what John told us. That there have been three such bank robberies, each one carried out at night by the thieves breaking into the empty shop next door, making a large hole in the wall of
the shop’s cellar and gaining access to the bank vault. The three robberies all took place in London; one in Mayfair, one in Kensington, and one in Fitzrovia.’
‘All expensive areas where one imagines the money and valuables lodged in those vaults would add up to a pretty penny.’
‘Indeed, although Joe doesn’t say how much was taken.’
‘I doubt if the banks would be keen to let the amounts be known. As it is, there’ll be panic among some very wealthy bank customers. Does he give any details about the actual robberies?’
Abigail passed the newspaper to him. ‘Take a look. The thieves obviously select their targets carefully. The rooms above both the shop and the bank are empty, used for storage. The robberies are discovered the following morning when the bank staff arrive.’ As Daniel read the article, she added, ‘The robbers didn’t appear to try and disguise their method of entry. They didn’t try and repair the wall afterwards.’
‘Waste of time,’ said Daniel. ‘They’d only be able to make the wall in the cellar of the shop look good; the side in the bank vault would still show what they’d done. No, this was all about doing a job at speed. Each one must have taken some planning. They’d have to know that the shop had a cellar, and that no one lived above the premises. They’d also have to know where the bank vault was in relation to the cellar in the shop.’
‘Inside information?’ asked Abigail.
‘Somehow I doubt it. The more people in the know, the greater the risk of people talking. My guess is good observation. Delivering something to the shop which needs to be taken down to the cellar. Asking for documents to be put in store in the bank vault, and being shown them put in safe storage.’ He gave a thoughtful frown.
‘You’ve just thought of something?’ asked Abigail.
‘The newspaper report only mentions money and valuables, which suggests jewellery. I wonder if the thieves also took documents with them. A lot of the documents stored in bank vaults contain private and important information that the people who lodged them don’t wish to be made public.’
‘Opportunities for blackmail?’ asked Abigail.
‘It’s certainly something to consider. If it was me I’d be asking the people who lost things from their bank storage if they’d been contacted to offer their valuables or documents back.’
‘But it isn’t you,’ pointed out Abigail. ‘It’s Inspector Jarrett. Our case is the murder of Eric Dudgeon at Madame Tussauds.’
‘True, but I can’t help but wonder if they might be connected.’
‘How?’
‘It’s the breaking through into the cellar wall, and the previous nightwatchmen at Tussauds leaving so conveniently and two men, former members of the Royal Engineers, taking a job there.’
‘Is Tussauds next to a bank?’ asked Abigail.
‘No,’ admitted Daniel.
‘Then I can’t see a connection.’
‘No, but the business of Dudgeon and Bagshot being on hand to take up the posts worries me. There’s something going on there.’
‘That I agree with,’ said Abigail. ‘But I don’t think it’s anything to do with robbing a bank.’
Superintendent Armstrong banged his fist hard on his desk in annoyance, causing everything on the surface of the desk to shake. The superintendent was a big man in every way: tall, broad, muscular, with powerful and big fists. He was also a man with a bad temper.
‘Have you seen these?’ he demanded of Inspector Jarrett, who stood almost to attention on the opposite side of the superintendent’s desk.
‘These’ were the day’s newspapers.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jarrett. He was in his forties, a short man in stature, with many other things about him also short. His hair was cropped close to his scalp. His moustache was a short bristle of black, resembling a toothbrush. He also had a short temper, and was a man of very few words, most of them sour and delivered curtly with a suspicious look. He invariably wore black, his clothes having a crumpled look, as if he’d slept in them. And, to complete the short theme, his trousers were also a little short, revealing a pair of crumpled grey socks rising up from his heavy boots. ‘Rubbish and tittle-tattle,’ he added.
Armstrong pushed the newspapers aside with an angry grunt. ‘Any word on this Bagshot character?’
‘No, sir,’ said Jarrett. ‘I called at his lodgings, and by all accounts he never went back there. Everything in his room’s the same as when he left to go to work.’
‘Don’t you think that’s strange?’ mused the superintendent. ‘You’d think, if he was going to do a runner, he’d grab his stuff.’
‘Maybe he didn’t want his landlady to see him. If he was the one who cut off Dudgeon’s head, he’d be covered in blood.’ He regarded Armstrong warily. ‘You still think he’s the one who did it, sir?’
‘Has to be,’ said Armstrong. ‘Otherwise, where is he? Was the landlady any help as to where he might have gone?’
‘No, sir. But she did say that Wilson had called on her.’
‘Wilson!’ Again, Armstrong’s fist thudded onto his desk in anger. Then he glared at Jarrett. ‘How come he was there before you?’
‘I can only guess because he’s not tied up with paperwork,’ grunted Jarrett. ‘We have to make sure everything’s done proper. We’re answerable. Wilson’s answerable to no one.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Armstrong scowled.
‘I also found out from the landlady where their local was, the Railway Tavern. So I went round there.’
‘And?’
Jarrett shook his head. ‘Nothing useful. There was a prostitute there who it seems was walking out with Dudgeon. She got all teary-eyed and upset when I started asking her questions.’
Armstrong nodded. ‘It’s never easy breaking bad news to someone.’
Jarrett hesitated, then said awkwardly, ‘Actually, she already knew.’
‘Oh? Who told her?’
‘Wilson, sir.’
‘Wilson again!’
For a moment, Jarrett thought the superintendent was going to get up out of his chair and hit something, possibly him. But instead Armstrong settled down and sat, quietly seething, before he said, ‘Get out there and find Bagshot. And bring him in before Wilson can get his teeth into it! Him and that woman, Fenton.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Jarrett headed for the door, and Armstrong shouted after him, ‘And tell Inspector Feather I want to see him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Jarrett left the office, feeling relieved. When the superintendent was in a bad mood, like now, the best thing to do was stay out of his way, something that Jarrett fully intended to do. He’d go out and try and see if the uniforms had managed to track down Walter Bagshot. But first he had to tell John Feather he was next in the firing line. Which wouldn’t be pleasant, especially after one of the sergeants had told Armstrong he’d spotted Feather sitting in Freddy’s with Wilson and the Fenton woman. Rather him than me, he thought.
He knocked at Feather’s door and poked his head in. Feather was sitting at his desk, making notes. His sergeant, Cribbens, sat at a separate desk, smoking the foul-smelling shag he filled his pipe with.
‘Super wants you,’ said Jarrett.
‘Both of us?’ asked Feather, gesturing towards Cribbens.
‘No, he just mentioned you,’ said Jarrett, and went.
What now? thought Feather, getting up. There was nothing new to report on the bank robberies. The only good thing there was that there hadn’t been another lately. The bad thing was the story on the front page of The Telegraph about the bank raids.
Feather strode along to the superintendent’s office, and at the command ‘Enter!’, walked in. Armstrong looked up at him, sourly.
‘Any news on the robberies?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing, sir. I’ve been going through Inspector Calley’s notes to see if he’s got anything for me worth following up. I’ve also sent notices to all the banks next to shops to put nightwatchmen in, but there’s no wor
d on who’s been doing them. I’ve got everyone asking their informants, but so far with no luck.’
Armstrong nodded, then said, ‘A little bird told me you were seen in Freddy’s, having coffee with Wilson and Fenton.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Feather. He’d been expecting this. ‘I’m afraid it was unavoidable. They came in while I was having a coffee.’
‘You should have walked out!’
‘My coffee had only just arrived, sir. But as soon as I finished it, I left.’
‘I don’t want you talking to them, Inspector.’
‘No, sir. And I told them so. And also that they are not to come to Scotland Yard under any circumstances.’
‘Good.’
‘However …’ said Feather hesitantly.
‘What?’ demanded Armstrong.
‘Well, sir, it occurred to me that sometimes contact might be useful to find out what they’re up to. You know, what they’re looking into.’
‘Because then we can look into it and pip them?’ said Armstrong, his face suddenly showing interest.
‘Yes, sir. That sort of thing. However, you know best, sir, and I’ll make sure that if they do try and get in touch with me, I tell them firmly not to do so again.’
‘No, wait,’ said Armstrong, his expression thoughtful. ‘There might be something in what you say. We’re hampered because we have to work through official channels, but that pair don’t have to follow any rules. That’s what gives them the advantage.’
‘That’s possible, sir,’ agreed Feather.
‘More than possible, it’s a damn certainty!’ Armstrong fell silent, thinking it over. ‘We have to be clever about how we handle this, Inspector. We can’t be seen to be working with them, otherwise they’ll get the credit for whatever we do. We have to keep them at a distance. At least, officially.’