by Jim Eldridge
‘I do indeed,’ said Daniel.
‘A very clever man. He should have been a superintendent by now. But he’s been held back, in my opinion, because the oafs above him need him in place to preserve their inflated positions.’ He glowered slightly as he added, ‘As you will see, I have not gone over completely to the view that the detective squad at Scotland Yard is full of creative intelligences. Have you ever met Inspector Jarrett?’
‘Yes,’ said Daniel.
‘He makes my Lestrade look like an intellectual giant. And as for his boss, Superintendent Armstrong …’ He stopped, then gave them an apologetic smile. ‘Forgive me. I’m getting on my high horse again. One of the reasons I turned to history and the esoteric for my writing. Have you read my Brigadier Gerard stories?’
‘Er …no,’ admitted Daniel.
‘You should,’ said Doyle. ‘That’s where my future lies as a writer. Far better than anything I wrote featuring Holmes.’ He turned to Abigail. ‘And you, Miss Fenton? As an Egyptologist, have you, perchance, read my stories “The Ring of Thoth” and “Lot No. 249”?’
‘I have, and I enjoyed them both enormously.’
‘I envy you, Miss Fenton.’
‘Envy me?’ asked Abigail, puzzled.
‘As I said, you have been inside the pyramids. You were one of the first to see, and actually touch, the ancient artefacts before they were put on public display. Believe me, they still talk of you and your exploits out there. You made an impact!’
Daniel was amused to see the flush of red rising up Abigail’s neck, coupled with her awkward smile of gratitude. It was rare to see her discomfited this way.
‘Actually, Mr Doyle,’ interrupted Tussaud tentatively, ‘we really ought to get on. I’ve got the studio set up to measure your head and do the preparatory clay work, but I wondered how you felt about doing a life mask?’
‘A life mask?’
‘The same as a death mask, but we put straws up your nostrils so that you can breathe, and then we encase your face in plaster. It makes sure we have an exact impression of your features.’
‘Sounds fascinating!’ Doyle beamed. ‘Indeed! Lead on, Mr Tussaud, and let’s prepare the plaster!’ He turned to Daniel and Abigail. ‘And I look forward to further conversations with both of you – with you, Mr Wilson, to talk about detection, and you, Miss Fenton, to explore the topic of ancient Egypt.’ He gave a wistful sigh as he added, ‘It has often struck me—’
‘The studio, Mr Doyle?’ urged Tussaud politely, but obviously worried that once Doyle began talking about Egypt again it would be hard to remove him from Abigail and Daniel’s company.
‘Of course!’ Doyle nodded with a smile, and he followed Tussaud out of the room as they made for Tussaud’s studio.
‘What a fascinating man!’ exclaimed Abigail. ‘An absolute life force!’
‘He is indeed!’ agreed Daniel. ‘And not just as a writer. He’s also a top-class sportsman. Cricket. Boxing. Football. He played in goal for Southsea Football Club. A man of boundless energy.’
‘I pity his poor wife,’ chuckled Abigail. ‘He must be a nightmare to live with.’
‘By all accounts they’re a very happy and devoted couple,’ said Daniel. ‘I have that on the authority of Joe Dalton, who met them both when he interviewed Doyle for The Telegraph.’ He gave her a gentle smile as he added, ‘By the way, I recall you telling me you thought that story about the reanimated mummy, “Lot No. 249”, was tosh. But you told him you enjoyed it enormously.’
‘It would hardly be intelligent to insult someone who our client, Mr Tussaud, esteems so highly,’ countered Abigail. ‘Mr Doyle obviously feels very proud of that story. And “The Ring of Thoth”.’
‘I don’t know that one. What’s it about?’
‘It’s another reanimation from the dead involving ancient Egyptian artefacts in a museum.’
‘Tosh?’
Abigail hesitated. ‘I’m not a literary critic so I’m not qualified to say.’
Daniel smiled.
‘So, as Mr Tussaud is busy, where shall we start today?’ asked Abigail.
‘I’d like to look at the cellar,’ said Daniel.
‘You’re not still harping on about the bank?’ queried Abigail.
‘Two tunnellers?’ said Daniel.
‘It’s a coincidence,’ said Abigail.
‘Humour me.’
He approached one of the attendants, who had been informed of their investigation, and who took them down to the cellar. Inside were a series of large wooden crates, standing on end.
‘Waxworks waiting their turn to go on display,’ explained the attendant. ‘We change the models now and then so that visitors have something different to look at, although it’s the old favourites that keep ’em coming back. The Chamber of Horrors. Nelson. The queen and her family.’ He gestured at the crates. ‘We keep them in boxes to stop the rats getting at them.’
‘You have rats?’ asked Abigail.
‘Every cellar’s got rats,’ said the attendant. ‘Anyway, I’d better get back to work. If you need me, just ask for Denis. I’m here all day.’
Denis left, and Abigail looked carefully around the cellar.
‘You don’t like rats?’ asked Daniel.
‘I can take them or leave them,’ said Abigail. ‘When I was in Egypt they were everywhere. I was thinking that if rats get in, where is their point of entry?’
‘You’re coming round to my way of thinking about the tunnelling?’ asked Daniel.
‘No, but I’ve learnt never to dismiss your ideas. I suggest we examine the wall.’
They began at the doorway, then worked their separate ways around the cellar wall as well as they could without disturbing the crates that were stacked against it, to avoid the risk of accidentally damaging the precious waxworks inside. They met up at the wall opposite the doorway.
‘Well?’ asked Abigail.
‘The part I looked at appears intact, the lime between the layers of bricks looks undisturbed and is covered with dirt and grime.’
‘Same here,’ said Abigail. ‘So how are the rats getting in?’
‘Possibly there’s a gap behind one of the crates. Rats only need the slimmest of spaces to squeeze through. Without a proper investigation, moving the boxes and taking some of the bricks out …’
‘No,’ said Abigail sharply. ‘We’ve just established there’s no sign of this wall being interfered with, and there’s no bank vault next door to this cellar, just solid earth and rocks beneath two shops. This is not connected to the bank robberies.’
‘Then what is it connected to?’ asked Daniel.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Abigail. ‘I suggest we talk to Denis and the rest of the staff and see what they can tell us about Eric and Walter.’
Thomas looked uncertainly at the dead body of the man laid out on the table, naked except for a pair of drawers.
‘He’s dead,’ he said.
‘Yes, he is,’ said the Lady. ‘This is an unusual commission. Someone wants him preserved in wax.’
‘What, all of him?’
She nodded. ‘It’s a big job. As you know, usually we only do the heads and arms of a wax model and the body is made of wood, or sometimes a metal frame. Unless there’s a chest that needs to be exposed. But the client wants this man preserved completely in wax.’
‘It’ll go off,’ said Thomas doubtfully. ‘Bits of it will start falling off.’
‘No. It’s been embalmed using formaldehyde. It will keep the body intact for a good while.’
‘But when that stuff wears off, it’ll start to rot,’ said Thomas.
‘In time,’ agreed the Lady. ‘But this poor man was very highly thought of, and his friends want to remember him as he was for as long as possible. So, under my supervision, your job will be to encase him in wax, and make a mask for his face. Just a thin mask so it echoes his features.’
Thomas looked at the body.
‘It’ll take a lot of wax,’ he
said uncertainly.
‘Fortunately, wax is something we have in good supply,’ said the Lady. ‘Shall we begin?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Superintendent Armstrong looked at the three grim-faced men sitting around the table with him in the conference room at 10 Downing Street. There was also a fourth man at the table, but he wasn’t grim-faced or worried in any way. This was the secretary taking notes of the meeting and his only determination was to record everything that was said as accurately as possible. Although, Armstrong was fairly sure that the minutes of the meeting would be heavily edited before they were entered into the official record, in order to show the prime minister and the home secretary in the best possible light.
Why me? thought Armstrong bitterly. Why me and not the police commissioner? After all, the head of Special Branch is here.
But he already knew the answer: the commissioner was looking for a scapegoat when things went wrong, if the bank robberies couldn’t be stopped.
Directly opposite Armstrong across the table was the Oxford-educated home secretary, Sir Matthew White Ridley, a slight man in his mid-fifties, his thinning hair brushed back and his noticeable side whiskers growing down almost to his chin.
Next to him sat the sixty-six-year-old prime minister, the Marquess of Salisbury. The prime minister was a bulky man, bald and with an enormous beard, who peered closely at the men sitting opposite him, Superintendent Armstrong and William Melville, the head of Special Branch. It was known that Salisbury was very short-sighted, which Armstrong guessed was the reason he peered at them with an intense gaze, rather than from any prejudicial disapproval. This was Salisbury’s third term as prime minister, having previously occupied the position from 1885 to 1886, then from 1886 to 1892 when he and his Conservative party lost the election and the victorious Liberals’ William Gladstone returned to take the premiership for the fourth occasion. The topsy-turvy world of politics, thought Armstrong ruefully. At least there was some sort of job security at Scotland Yard, although right at this moment Armstrong felt his was hanging by a thread.
William Melville, sitting next to the superintendent, was an interesting choice to lead Special Branch, because its original name when it had been formed in 1882 was the ‘Special Irish Branch’, its remit to infiltrate and fight Irish republican terrorism in the form of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. Forty-six-year-old Melville was an Irishman born in County Kerry, although he had moved to England in the 1860s when he was just a boy, joining the Metropolitan Police in 1872.
The superintendent had made a point of finding out as much as he could about the other three men who’d be at this meeting, because he needed to be on his guard to protect his position. He was determined that, whatever the commissioner’s intention, he would not be made the scapegoat for the bank robberies.
‘These bank robberies,’ intoned Salisbury. ‘I understand there have been three so far, all carried out the same way, by breaking into the vault from adjacent premises.’
Armstrong and Melville both nodded in agreement.
‘And the branches targeted were in affluent areas,’ continued the prime minister.
‘That is our information, too, Prime Minister,’ confirmed Melville.
‘And to date there have been no arrests,’ said Salisbury in a flat tone. It was a statement, not a question, but the superintendent knew Salisbury was looking directly at him because he demanded an answer, and a reason why no arrests had been made.
‘No arrests yet, Prime Minister,’ said Armstrong.
‘Why not?’ asked Salisbury.
‘The inspector originally assigned to the case, Inspector Calley, unfortunately suffered a broken leg after the third robbery, which prevented him continuing his investigations. Inspector Feather has now taken over the case and I have high hopes that he will put a stop to these outrages and arrest those responsible.’
‘And recover the money?’
‘That is certainly our aim, Prime Minister,’ said Armstrong.
Although he said this with conviction, he knew it sounded weak. But what else can I say? he thought miserably, but not allowing his negative thoughts to show. He was saved from further questions by the intervention of White Ridley.
‘Do you think it could be terrorist related?’ asked the home secretary. ‘Irish Republicans?’
Armstrong turned and looked at Melville. This was his department.
‘So far we haven’t had any indication that could be the case, sir,’ he said, the soft estiges of his original Kerry accent still there in his careful English.
‘The home secretary’s concern is related to the recent defeats of the Irish Home Rule Bill,’ said Salisbury.
So that’s why we’ve both been brought in, thought Armstrong. It’s Irish politics again.
For years there had been moves within parliament to try and pass a bill to give home rule to Ireland. The most recent had been just three years earlier, in 1893, when William Gladstone was prime minister of a Liberal government intent on giving Ireland the right to govern itself. That bill from Gladstone – the Second Home Rule Bill – had been approved by the House of Commons, but then narrowly defeated in the House of Lords because of domination by the large Conservative majority in the upper house. The following year Gladstone stepped down as prime minister, the defeat of the Home Rule Bill weighing heavily upon him, and his place as prime minister had been taken by the Earl of Rosebery. The following year, 1895, Rosebery led the Liberals at the general election, once again with a policy of Irish Home Rule, but this time those Liberals who opposed the idea broke away from Gladstone and formed their own party, the Liberal Unionists. That election resulted in a coalition government, led by Salisbury’s victorious Conservatives alongside Lord Hartington’s Liberal Unionists. With Salisbury’s victory, the hopes of those who wanted an independent and free Ireland were dashed, and ever since the politicians in England, along with Special Branch, had been watching and waiting for a reaction by Irish Republicans.
‘These are very large sums being taken, millions of pounds,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘Losses of this size could seriously undermine Britain’s financial position, which is why we believe that it could be a political move by those wishing to attack Britain. We also believe that some of the items stolen were documents containing personal details of important people in government. If these were exposed to the public they could do serious harm to the government’s reputation.’
He looked directly at Melville and asked, ‘Do you know of any of these documents surfacing?’
‘No,’ said Melville. ‘We are not aware of any incriminating material being offered for publication.’
‘They may be holding it back and biding their time,’ said Salisbury.
‘Rest assured, my people are keeping a very close watch on known Irish Republican sympathisers in this country,’ said Melville. ‘To date we have had no information that suggests the Irish are involved in these robberies.’
‘So, simply criminals,’ said Salisbury, turning his hard gaze on Armstrong.
‘And, if they are, sir, we will find them and stop them,’ said the superintendent, his voice filled with a grim determination he did not truly feel.
‘There is one other thing, Superintendent,’ said Salisbury. ‘According to the newspapers there was a murder yesterday at Madame Tussauds waxwork museum.’
‘Yes, sir,’ confirmed Armstrong, thinking: What the hell has that got to do with the bank robberies? Surely he doesn’t think that’s also down to Irish terrorism?
‘This is very concerning,’ said Salisbury, his tone and his expression conveying his grave seriousness. ‘As you know, Tussauds are the jewel in the crown of wax images of the great and the good. I am due to have an image of myself modelled in wax for their tableau of British prime ministers. As part of the process, I will be attending the studio at the museum. I would hate to think that the prime minister of this country would be placing himself at risk if there is danger in the museum.’
‘No, sir,’ said Armstrong. ‘You can take my assurance that there will be no danger for you there. The victim as I understand it was one of the two nightwatchmen on duty there. The second nightwatchman is being hunted as the believed perpetrator of this heinous deed.’
‘We see from the newspaper reports that Tussauds have also engaged the assistance of what are termed the “Museum Detectives”. A Mr Daniel Wilson and Miss Abigail Fenton.’
‘Er, yes, I believe that to be the case, sir,’ admitted Armstrong uncomfortably, wondering: Where is this leading?
‘I have heard good reports of Miss Fenton,’ put in White Ridley. ‘I was at Oxford with Gladstone Marriott of the Ashmolean, and he told me of the success she and Mr Wilson had in solving the murder of one of their senior curators.’
‘My question, Superintendent, is why Tussauds feel it necessary to bring in private investigators,’ asked Salisbury. ‘Do they not feel confidence in Scotland Yard’s ability to solve this crime?’
‘I cannot say why Mr Tussaud felt the need to engaged Mr Wilson and Miss Fenton,’ said Armstrong. ‘But I can assure you that, as with the bank robberies, one of our top inspectors, Inspector Jarrett, has been assigned to the case and I am very confident that in a short time he will have the murderer in custody.’
‘This Daniel Wilson,’ pressed White Ridley, ‘he used to be a detective at Scotland Yard, I gather, before he left and became a private investigator.’
‘Yes, sir. That is true.’
‘As he seems to be very successful at what he does, I wondered why he left Scotland Yard?’
Damn, thought Armstrong angrily. That damn Wilson!
‘I believe it may have been because he decided to follow the example of his mentor, Inspector Abberline, who Wilson served under as a sergeant. Abberline took retirement from the police force and set up as a private investigator.’
‘So Wilson was still a detective sergeant when he left Scotland Yard?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why did he never get promotion to inspector?’