Murder at Madame Tussauds

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That means they’re barred from coming into this building, or any of our officers talking to them.’

  Feather frowned, puzzled. ‘In that case, sir, how do we find out what they’re up to?’

  ‘We pull them in for questioning,’ said Armstrong. ‘Not here, of course, but the local station in Baker Street. Jarrett can do it. He and Wilson don’t like one another, so there’s no chance of anyone thinking we’ve helped them, but we have the threat of charging them with obstructing the path of justice if they refuse to tell us what they know.’

  Feather hesitated before saying warily, ‘With respect, sir, neither Daniel nor Abigail—’

  ‘Daniel and Abigail?’ barked Armstrong, angrily.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, Mr Wilson and Miss Fenton. They’re both clever and they’ll find a way to avoid giving Inspector Jarrett what they know if they feel he’s threatening them.’

  ‘Then we’ll charge them!’

  ‘But what with, sir? If we don’t know what it is they’re keeping to themselves, we can’t prove they’re obstructing the police investigation.’

  Armstrong grimaced and smashed his fist down on his desk, with a snarl of ‘Damn!’ He sat there, fuming, and Feather could almost see the superintendent’s brain working as he tried to come up with a way out of this dilemma. Finally, he said, ‘All right, Inspector. You do it.’

  ‘Me?’

  Armstrong nodded, still glowering venomously. ‘He likes you. She likes you. They talk to you.’

  ‘But I’m not on the Tussaud murder case, sir.’

  ‘No, you’re not, and that’s the point. But what you do is pass anything they give you, any hints or suspicions about any avenue they’re looking into, on to Inspector Jarrett. But you do it away from here. And not at Freddy’s, either.’

  ‘Where can I see them, sir?’

  ‘You know where they live.’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Drop in on them, one friend to another.’ He smiled. ‘The good thing about this is that you’re not involved in the Tussauds murder, so you can’t pass anything on to them about the investigation. But you can pick up what they’re up to.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Feather, and Armstrong frowned at the uncertainty of his tone.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he growled.

  ‘Well, if I can’t tell them what’s happening with the Tussauds murder …’

  ‘Because you don’t know,’ grunted Armstrong.

  ‘Agreed, sir.’ Feather nodded. ‘What can I talk to them about? Apart from social chat. Usually when we talk it’s about police business.’

  Armstrong thought, then said, ‘These bank raids. That’s what your job is right now. And there’s no chance of them getting any credit for that because they’re not looking into that. You talk to them about the bank raids, and probe discreetly what they’re up to with this Tussauds murder. Then pass on anything you pick up to Inspector Jarrett.’

  ‘Right, sir. Will you tell Inspector Jarrett what the plan is, or shall I?’

  ‘I will, thank you, Inspector,’ responded Armstrong rather primly. ‘I’m in charge here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  After Feather had left, the superintendent sat scowling at the newspapers. Things had been bad enough with these bank robberies, but now the murder at Tussauds had been added to the mix, everything had got even worse. It was especially bad with those bastards in the press lauding that bloody pair of so-called Museum Detectives to the heavens, making damning comparisons between them and Scotland Yard, and always naming him, Superintendent Armstrong, when they did so. Bastards! He was sure it was these newspaper stories that had led to him being summoned before the Metropolitan Police commissioner on his arrival to Scotland Yard that morning. He’d guessed that the summons presaged bad news, and he was right.

  ‘The bank robberies are bad enough,’ the commissioner had intoned gravely, ‘but this murder at Tussauds is even worse. We’re being made to look fools.’

  ‘I hardly think that’s fair, sir,’ said Armstrong. ‘I’ve put our best man, Inspector Feather, on the bank robberies, and the murder at Tussauds only happened yesterday.’

  ‘I’m talking about how they depict us in the newspapers,’ snapped the commissioner. ‘Comparing us unfavourably to these Museum Detectives.’

  ‘To be fair, sir, they don’t have the same restrictions that we have to operate under.’

  ‘But we have far greater manpower than they do!’ barked the commissioner. ‘There are only two of them! Are you telling me that we, the Metropolitan Police, with hundreds of uniformed officers and a highly experienced detective division, cannot compete with them when it comes to solving crimes?’

  ‘The fact is, sir, that the newspapers have completely exaggerated the accomplishments of Wilson and Fenton. They have been associated with just two investigations of deaths at museums in London, one at the British Museum and the other at the Natural History Museum.’

  ‘And now a third at Madame Tussauds,’ retorted the commissioner.

  ‘And quite unnecessarily,’ defended Armstrong. ‘The murders at the British Museum and at the Natural History were solved by Inspector Feather and myself, with perhaps some assistance from Wilson and Fenton. But to say that Wilson and Fenton solved them and Scotland Yard were baffled is an absolute lie, a complete distortion.’

  ‘Perhaps you can explain that to the prime minister and the home secretary when you meet them later today.’

  Armstrong stared at the commissioner, his mind racing. The prime minister and the home secretary?

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘I was contacted by the prime minister’s office. The government is seriously concerned about these bank robberies. These are obviously not just ordinary robberies. There have been three so far, and each one has happened in a very expensive part of London. Some very important people have lost large sums of money, and important personal documents as well. The government are concerned there might be a political motive involved.’

  ‘If it’s political, sir, then surely that comes under Special Branch.’

  ‘It could well do. That’s why you and the head of Special Branch will attend a meeting with the prime minister and the home secretary at 10 Downing Street at two o’clock this afternoon.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The office of the railway maintenance supervisor at King’s Cross station was a wooden hut at the far end of platform one, backing on to a large brick barn-like structure. It looked like the storehouse for the maintenance work, containing all manner of tools, some light, some heavy. A man wearing a tweed jacket and a tie sat at a desk studying what looked to be workers’ time sheets.

  ‘Mr Edward Hurst?’ asked Daniel. When the man nodded, he added, ‘My name is Daniel Wilson and this is my partner, Abigail Fenton. We are private enquiry agents hired by Madame Tussauds to look into the tragic death of a Mr Eric Dudgeon.’

  Hurst nodded again. ‘I saw it in the papers. Had his head cut off by the guillotine there.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Daniel, ‘although that is still being looked into. We understand that he worked for you, along with Walter Bagshot.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Hurst. He gestured to a chair next to his desk. ‘If you’ve got questions, perhaps the lady would like to take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Abigail, sitting down.

  ‘We’ve been told they worked on the Gasworks Tunnel.’

  ‘They did indeed.’

  ‘What exactly is the Gasworks Tunnel?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘It’s actually three parallel tunnels that carry the East Coast Main Line from King’s Cross terminus north under the Regent’s Canal,’ said Hurst. ‘The first one was built in 1852 as part of the Great Northern. That’s now in the middle, the later two being built either side of it. The second tunnel to the west of it was built in 1878. The third one, to the east, was built in 1892. That’s the one Eric and Wa
lter worked on.’

  ‘What did they actually do?’

  ‘Well, like the name says, they were part of the team that dug the tunnel. It’s what they were used to in the army. You know, being in the Engineers.’

  ‘And they carried on tunnelling?’

  ‘Not once the Gasworks Tunnel was finished.’

  ‘Which was when?’

  ‘Three years ago. Since then they’d been working on general maintenance. Track-laying, keeping the embankments safe.’

  ‘Good workers?’

  ‘Very good,’ said Hurst. ‘Reliable. Honest. Solid.’

  ‘We heard stories that they were caught in a cave-in while they were tunnelling,’ said Daniel.

  Hurst looked at them, frowning. ‘A cave-in? Here?’ He shook his head. ‘There was the occasional fall of earth from the top or the sides, but you get that when you’re tunnelling. Nothing as serious as a cave-in.’

  ‘No workers injured?’

  Again, Hurst shook his head. ‘No, and I’d know if there was. I was a gang foreman at that time when the Gasworks Tunnel was being dug, before I got made up to maintenance manager.’

  ‘Why did Eric and Walter leave?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘I don’t know. They came and said they’d had an offer and that they were going to work at Tussauds waxworks, and they asked for a reference. Which I was glad to give them, they were both good workers.’ He gave a sad shake of his head. ‘Terrible what happened. The papers say the police are looking for Walter for it. You know, for killing Eric. Is that right?’

  ‘There’s some doubt about that,’ said Daniel carefully. ‘That’s why we’ve been asked to look into it.’

  ‘Personally, I don’t believe it,’ said Hurst. ‘Them two were as close as any people I’ve ever known. I can’t believe either would hurt the other. Not like that.’

  Daniel and Abigail elected to walk to Madame Tussauds after leaving King’s Cross, aware that the route along Euston Road, then passing Great Portland Street and coming into Marylebone Road, was quicker on foot rather than by horse-drawn bus.

  ‘Fortunately the fog seems to have vanished today,’ said Abigail.

  ‘So far,’ said Daniel, doubtfully. ‘We’ll see how long that lasts.’

  ‘Mr Hurst was another with nothing bad to say about Eric and Walter,’ observed Abigail.

  ‘It’s interesting that we have two different versions of why Dudgeon and Bagshot left the railway and came to work at the museum,’ mused Daniel. ‘Tussaud said they told him there’d been a cave-in at a tunnel, but Hurst says there was no such cave-in, and they hadn’t worked in a tunnel for the last three years.’

  ‘Hurst also said that Dudgeon and Bagshot had asked him for references because they were going to work at Tussauds, but it appears that was before they actually went to ask at the museum if there were any jobs available.’

  ‘In other words, they knew there would be because they knew that Bruin and Patterson were leaving at short notice.’

  Daniel nodded.

  ‘So we are talking about a conspiracy,’ said Abigail.

  ‘But to what end?’ asked Daniel. ‘And why did it end in Dudgeon’s murder and Bagshot vanishing?’

  ‘You still don’t think that Bagshot killed Dudgeon?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Daniel. ‘But whatever’s going on, the museum is at the heart of it.’

  They were now near to the museum’s main Marylebone Road entrance, and Daniel stopped. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘A bank.’

  There was indeed a bank, not next door to the museum, but separated from it by a newsagent’s and a chemist’s.

  ‘Two former Royal Engineers, both experienced tunnellers, arrive to take up the job of nightwatchmen at a place just three doors away from a bank,’ said Daniel.

  ‘John Feather said the banks that were robbed were next door to a place, and they had adjoining cellars,’ Abigail pointed out.

  ‘If you can break into one cellar, you can break through to the next one further on,’ said Daniel.

  He made for the newsagent’s, where he bought a copy of The Times, and then asked the man behind the counter, ‘Do you have a cellar here?’

  The newsagent looked at him suspiciously, then with equal suspicion at Abigail. ‘Who wants to know?’ he demanded.

  Daniel explained who they were, and that they’d been hired by the museum to look into the recent death of the nightwatchman.

  ‘What’s that got to do with if I’ve got a cellar?’ asked the man, still suspicious. Then he said, ‘This is about that other story in the paper. Them bank robberies. Because of the bank two doors away.’

  ‘We’re wondering if they might be connected,’ said Daniel.

  ‘No, not in any way,’ said the man. ‘For a start, there’s no cellar here. Nothing but solid earth under this shop. And I know, because I watched it being built after they’d finished the museum. There was just a flat area of solid earth and rock from all the soil they dumped after doing the foundations for the museum. The bank was there already, but there was nothing between that and the museum until the chemist’s and this shop were put up.’

  ‘When was that?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Ten years ago,’ replied the man.

  ‘And you never thought of having a cellar put in?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘No,’ said the man. ‘More trouble than they’re worth. When it rains a cellar fills up with water, and what’s the point of that if your stock is newspapers? They’d all be ruined. No, I keep my stock in the shop.’

  Enquiries at the chemist’s next door elicited the same response: there was no cellar beneath the chemist’s, just solid earth and rocks, the spoil from digging the museum’s foundations.

  ‘So that rules that out as a possible motive,’ said Abigail as they left the chemist’s and made for the museum entrance.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Daniel. ‘They were tunnellers, remember.’

  ‘And how long would it take them to tunnel under two shops?’ asked Abigail. ‘Only working at night? Months. Possibly a year. No, Daniel, I agree the museum’s at the heart of it, but no one’s going to spend a year doing something like that, not when they can break through a cellar wall in one night, the way that John described.’

  They entered the museum and stopped when they saw that John Tussaud was engaged in conversation with a tall, portly, well-dressed man in his late thirties, bespectacled and sporting a luxuriant moustache.

  ‘It’s Arthur Conan Doyle,’ whispered Daniel, awed.

  ‘I know,’ Abigail whispered back.

  Tussaud spotted them and hailed for them to join him and Doyle.

  ‘Allow me to introduce Mr Arthur Conan Doyle,’ said Tussaud.

  ‘Who is immediately recognisable.’ Daniel smiled, shaking Doyle’s hand. ‘This is a great pleasure, sir.’

  ‘Tussauds have the honour of making a wax image of Mr Doyle and he is here today for me to take his measurements.’ To Doyle, he said, ‘These are Mr Daniel Wilson and Miss Abigail Fenton. We’ve brought them in to look into the recent tragic murder here.’

  ‘The nightwatchman.’ Doyle nodded. ‘Dreadful! I read about it in the newspapers.’ He smiled at Daniel and Abigail. ‘The Museum Detectives! Your fame goes ahead of you!’ And he offered Abigail his hand.

  ‘Hardly on a par with yours, Mr Doyle,’ murmured Abigail, shaking it.

  ‘Tush!’ Doyle beamed. ‘Miss Fenton, I have to tell you that I’ve not long returned from a trip to Egypt, where your name is still revered. My wife, Louise, and I spent ten months there. We went out in autumn, last year, and have only returned last month.’

  ‘I assume you visited the pyramids.’

  ‘How could anyone go to Egypt and not have that experience?’ boomed Doyle heartily. ‘I climbed the Great Pyramid, and my Lou and I went camel-trekking to many other famous sites, but I still felt we were only touching the surface, so to speak. You have been there and entered inside the Great Pyramid, and others.’

&nbs
p; ‘Alas, it’s been a long time since I was actually on an expedition,’ said Abigail. ‘At least three years. Certainly since I joined Mr Wilson in his detective work.’

  ‘So it’s your fault, Wilson!’ chuckled Doyle. ‘Of course, I knew of your work before this Museum Detectives business. You were part of Abberline’s team investigating the Jack the Ripper killings.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ said Wilson.

  ‘I’d have liked to have been a detective,’ said Doyle with a tinge of regret.

  ‘Surely you’ve already done that through your creation, Sherlock Holmes,’ suggested Abigail.

  ‘Yes and no,’ grumbled Doyle. ‘At first it was a way to earn a crust and support my family. Being a general practitioner wasn’t paying, but in the end Holmes dominated! Even in Egypt, all anyone wanted to ask me about was blasted Holmes!’

  ‘I recall an interview you gave to a magazine in which you said there would be no more Holmes stories,’ said Daniel.

  ‘And there won’t be! I did what I said I’d do and laid him to rest three years ago.’

  ‘“The Final Problem”,’ said Daniel. ‘The Reichenbach Falls and Professor Moriarty.’

  ‘You’ve read it?’ asked Doyle.

  ‘I’ve read every Holmes and Watson story,’ said Daniel.

  ‘And how did you find them? As a professional detective, I mean.’

  ‘Fascinating, and very well reasoned.’

  ‘Did you work out the answers to the mysteries before the denouement?’

  When he saw Daniel hesitate before replying, he barked out in triumph, ‘Of course you did! I expected nothing less. In fact that was one of the things that had begun to irk me, the depiction of Scotland Yard detectives, particularly Lestrade, as fools. That was my editor, you know. He kept insisting on it. Said the public liked it. Well, I didn’t. It was fun at first, giving someone in authority for Holmes to challenge. I’ve never been a fan of authority figures. But the more Scotland Yard detectives I came into contact with, the more I realised I was doing a disservice to some highly intelligent men. Do you know Inspector John Feather?’