by Jim Eldridge
Because he was too much of a maverick, a law unto himself, going his own way in disobedience of orders, was what Armstrong wanted to say. Instead he said, ‘I really can’t say, sir. Possibly he didn’t want that position.’
And even if he had, he wouldn’t have got it on my watch, thought the superintendent vengefully. Even now, after all this time, that damn Wilson still haunts me!
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was ten to nine in the evening, just ten minutes before Madame Tussauds museum shut. Inside the museum, sixteen-year-old Joe Hobbs led Dolly Watts by the hand away from the crowd of visitors and down some stone steps to a door in a narrow passageway. Dolly was seventeen and had been walking out with Joe for the last two weeks, which had been two weeks of sexual frustration for Joe. She’d allowed him to kiss her, and even put his hand on her breast through her clothes, but nothing more. It had been his pal, Midge, who suggested sneaking into Madame Tussauds Chamber of Horrors after they’d shut for the day. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of horror and thrill to make ’em want to drop their drawers and let a bloke have a go,’ Midge had told him. Joe had checked the museum out two days before, looking for a good place to hide while he and Dolly waited for everyone to go home. He’d found a small cupboard where brooms and other cleaning stuff were kept. He’d checked to make sure that the cleaners wouldn’t be opening the door for materials once the museum had closed, and discovered the cleaning staff came first thing in the morning. The plan was set. Hide in the cupboard, wait till everyone had gone and the nightwatchmen had done their rounds, then make for the Chamber of Horrors, where Dolly would be so excited she’d let him do whatever he wanted. And he knew what he wanted to do. Then, next morning, hide near the entrance and sneak out once the cleaners had opened the door and come in.
‘You sure we won’t get caught?’ whispered Dolly nervously as Joe pulled the door shut once they’d sat down on some boxes.
‘Sure,’ said Joe confidently. ‘I checked.’ He put his hand on her thigh. ‘No one’s going to trouble us.’
He noticed that she didn’t remove his hand. This is going to be great, he thought excitedly.
Daniel and Abigail were in their scullery, Daniel washing the dishes and Abigail wiping following their evening meal, when there was a loud knocking at their front door. Daniel looked enquiringly at Abigail. ‘Are we expecting anyone?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Abigail.
‘I wonder who it can be?’ Daniel frowned.
‘There’s one sure way to find out,’ Abigail pointed out.
Daniel nodded, wiped his hands, and headed along the passageway, opening the front door to find John Feather standing there.
‘John? Are you sure you should be here?’ he said in surprise. ‘Say the local bobby sees you calling at our house and it gets back to Armstrong?’
Feather grinned. ‘It’s all right, it’s been sanctioned by the super himself.’
‘Who is it?’ called Abigail.
‘It’s John Feather!’ Daniel ushered him in. ‘We’re in the kitchen.’
Feather followed Daniel through to the kitchen, where Abigail regarded him, concerned.
‘Isn’t this risky for you?’ she asked. ‘It’s always a pleasure, but after what you told us …’
‘That’s what I said.’ Daniel nodded. ‘But according to John it’s officially fine.’
‘Not officially, unofficially.’ Feather smiled.
He sat down at the table and outlined his conversation with Armstrong. Daniel and Abigail listened, at first bewildered, and then, as they realised how Armstrong had reached his decision, they both grinned and chuckled.
‘You manipulated him!’ laughed Abigail.
‘I just pointed out the reality of the situation,’ said Feather. ‘That it will be to his advantage.’
‘If we share whatever we find with you,’ said Abigail.
‘That’s up to you,’ said Feather. ‘The question will be if Jarrett acts on whatever I pass to him, or if he dismisses it.’
‘Which he’s quite likely to do, knowing Jarrett,’ said Daniel. ‘Here’s one for you to keep up your sleeve. I don’t think Walter Bagshot killed Eric Dudgeon. All the evidence points to Bagshot having been abducted or killed.’ And he told him what he’d found at the men’s lodgings, and the universal view of the men.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Feather. ‘Maybe I’ll pass that on when I think the time’s right and more is known. At the moment, I feel Armstrong’s backing Jarrett. But that’s up to him. I’ll have done what I was asked to do. And we can carry on meeting up.’ He gave a slight scowl. ‘I don’t like being told who I can and can’t socialise with.’
‘Only not at Scotland Yard, and not at Freddy’s,’ noted Daniel.
‘There’s here, and you know where I live. Or, if I’m checking out a bank that’s next door to a shop with a cellar and you might be accidentally walking past …’ He grinned. ‘I’m just obeying orders from the boss.’
‘How’s that going?’ asked Daniel. ‘The bank raids?’
‘It’s almost impossible,’ sighed Feather. ‘The powers-that-be want us to prevent any further raids, but we have no way of knowing where the crooks are going to strike next. I’ve sent out a message to all stations asking for their beat coppers to report where they know of a bank that’s next to a shop that has a cellar, and where there’s no one living at either premises. Do you know how many bank branches fit that description in London alone?’
‘Quite a few, I’d imagine,’ said Daniel.
‘I’ve had reports of at least a hundred so far. We’ve recommended all those banks we’ve identified to hire nightwatchmen to stay in the vault overnight. Some have said they will, but others have said they can’t afford the extra cost.’
‘It will cost them a lot more if they’re robbed,’ said Abigail.
‘That’s what we’ve told them,’ agreed Feather. ‘The problem is that there’s no need for the crooks to limit their activities to London. When they realise that security is being tightened up in the capital I expect them to move elsewhere. Birmingham, Bristol, anywhere.’
Daniel gave a sympathetic sigh. ‘I don’t envy you this case, John. Somehow, murders seem less of a puzzle.’
Inside Tussauds museum, the two temporary nightwatchmen, Paul Dobbley and Gabriel Moth, sat in the watchmen’s room. The rest of the museum was in semi-darkness, the only light that which filtered through from the street lamps outside, and the gas light in their room.
‘What’s the time?’ asked Gabriel Moth nervously.
Paul Dobbley took out his watch and held it close to the gas mantle’s flickering flame. ‘Quarter to midnight.’
Moth gave a shudder. ‘Horrible, innit.’
‘What is?’
‘Being here. In this place at night.’
Dobbley had worked for two years at the museum as a daytime attendant, and after the killing of Dudgeon and the disappearance of Bagshot, Tussaud had asked him if he would consider taking over night watch duties on a temporary basis.
‘Just until I can find regular people to do the job.’ And he’d offered Dobbley an increase in wages to compensate for the unsocial hours he’d be working. But there was a proviso. ‘If you can find someone you can trust to work with you on the night shift. But you have to tell him it’s only a temporary arrangement. Of course, if he turns out to be a good man at the job, I’d be happy to consider him for the job permanently.’
And Dobbley’s thoughts had immediately turned to his brother-in-law, Gabriel Moth. Moth was the laziest person that Dobbley had ever known, shiftless and workshy, with the result that time after time Dobbley’s sister, Evie, kept coming to him begging for a loan so they could pay their back rent, or buy food. Every time, Dobbley wanted to say no, tell her to kick Moth out into the street and tell him to get a job; but he couldn’t. Evie was his little sister, now saddled with four kids, which made her situation even worse. Evie had turned up on the same day that the dead body of Eric Dudgeon h
ad been found, shortly after John Tussaud had asked him to take on the temporary role of nightwatchman, and begged him for the loan of ten shillings. Dobbley knew he’d never see it paid back – but went straight to see his brother-in-law and told him: ‘Gabriel, I’ll lend Evie the ten shillings you’re so desperate for, but on one condition. You come and work with me as nightwatchman at Madame Tussauds for a couple of days until Mr Tussaud finds men for the job permanent.’
‘I can’t!’ bleated Moth. ‘I’ve hurt my back.’
‘You can sit in a chair, can’t you,’ snapped Dobbley. ‘You’re sitting on one now. Well, that’s all you have to do. You sit. If there’s any walking around the museum to do, I’ll do it.’
‘I don’t know,’ whined Moth. ‘I’m not good with responsibility. I get the shakes.’
‘In that case, Evie won’t get the ten shillings she needs for the rent.’
‘But if she don’t pay the rent we’ll be turned out!’
‘Serves you right,’ snapped Dobbley. ‘If you can’t pay your way, being turned out’s what you deserve.’
‘But what about Evie. And the kids!’
‘They can go to the workhouse,’ said Dobbley. ‘And so can you.’
‘The workhouse?’ repeated Moth, shocked. ‘You don’t mean that, Paul!’
‘I do,’ said Dobbley firmly. ‘I’ve been supporting you and your lot for long enough. I can’t afford to keep doing it. So, that’s your choice. Join me at the museum or go to the workhouse.’
‘They’ll make me work at the workhouse!’ moaned Moth. ‘It’ll kill me!’
‘It’s that, or sit in a chair at the museum. It’s up to you.’
And so Moth had reluctantly joined him at the museum, and shown himself even more reluctant once he discovered about the murder.
‘I can’t be in a place where a murder’s been done!’ he said, aghast, when he was told about it on his first shift at nine o’clock at night.
‘I thought you might say something like that,’ Dobbley told him grimly. ‘That’s why I haven’t given Evie that ten shillings yet.’
‘You haven’t?’
‘No. The rent’s due the day after tomorrow, that’s what she told me. So that’s when I hand over the ten shillings, if you’ve been here every night, and only if you have.’
‘You’re a cruel man, Paul Dobbley!’ burst out Moth.
‘No, I’m a near bankrupt, thanks to you,’ snorted Dobbley.
In the basement, Joe Hobbs quietly pushed the door of the cupboard slightly open to listen for any sounds from elsewhere inside the museum. Everything was quiet. He pushed the door open wider and led Dolly out of the cupboard into the passageway, putting his finger to his lips to signify they had to keep quiet. Although dark, there was just enough ambient light filtering through from the windows of the upper floors for them to find their way up the stone steps. On the ground floor they saw the light beneath the door from the room where the nightwatchmen were ensconced, and crept soundlessly past it.
The carpeting to the ground floor and the stairs to the first floor hid their footsteps as they made for the Chamber of Horrors. Joe, holding Dolly’s hand, could feel it trembling as they neared the infamous chamber, and he smiled to himself. Yes! he thought. This is definitely going to be my night!
Inside the chamber were the ranks of the evil, the murderers, some armed with the weapons with which they’d carried out their crimes: knives, swords, pistols, axes, and bottles of poison. In the shadows of the half-light of the street lamps peering through the windows, they looked even more menacing. The dramatic centrepiece that took up a large part of the room was the fearful wooden structure of the guillotine. The blade was down, and heads with bloodied stumps of neck were piled around the basket at the foot of the guillotine. A separate head was in the basket, as bloody as those that lay beside the wicker receptacle.
‘That’s where he was found,’ whispered Joe. ‘The nightwatchman. His head cut off, just like them.’
Dolly gave a shudder and swayed slightly, and Joe put his arm around her to keep her up. I’ll hold her up just for the moment, he thought. Then I’ll let her lie down. His throat tightened in excitement at the thought of what was about to happen between them. It just needed one more thing to push her, make her fanny twitch with excitement.
‘Look at that one,’ he whispered, and he nudged her towards the wax figure of one of the guillotine’s onlookers, a man with a hideous leer on his face. ‘Look at that face.’ He pushed Dolly’s hand towards the wax mask and stroked the grotesque features with her hand, then pushed her fingers into the open drooling mouth. Dolly gave a fearful whimper and recoiled from the figure, and as she did so her fingers caught the wax and a large part of the face fell away, then more crumbled, revealing the head of a man. However, this man was not a wax model, but very real, and very dead: the mouth hanging slackly open, the eyes dead and sightless, the skin a ghastly white.
‘AAAAAAAARGH!!!!!’ screamed Dolly, stumbling back from the awful image.
There was a strangled sound beside her, then Joe fainted and hit the floor with a thud.
CHAPTER NINE
The loud banging on their front door dragged Daniel and Abigail out of sleep.
‘Who the hell’s that?’ slurred Daniel as he pushed himself out of bed and stumbled to the window, pulling back the curtains. A hansom cab was parked at the kerb.
‘Who’s there?’ he called as he opened the window.
The figure of a coachman, dressed in a long cape and wearing a bowler hat, stepped back from their door and looked up, the gas light from the nearest street lamp showing his face.
‘Sorry to trouble you, Mr Wilson, but it’s an urgent message from Mr Tussaud at the waxwork museum. He asks if you and Miss Fenton can come urgently. He said to tell you another body has been discovered.’
‘Very well. We’ll be down as soon as we’ve dressed.’
Daniel shut the window and used the outside light to put a match to the gas mantle before pulling the curtains shut. Abigail was already getting out of bed. She shot a look at the clock.
‘It’s two o’clock,’ she said.
‘Murder doesn’t keep to office hours,’ commented Daniel as he pulled on his clothes.
Abigail pulled her dress over her head. ‘I’m going to look as if I’ve just been dragged out of bed,’ she complained.
‘You have been,’ said Daniel.
‘Yes, but I don’t have to like it.’
‘I’m sure you had worse experiences when you were in a tent in Egypt,’ said Daniel. He lit a candle. Abigail turned off the gaslight and followed him downstairs.
‘I wonder who’s been killed?’ she said.
John Tussaud was waiting for them just inside the entrance to the waxworks museum.
‘I’m terribly sorry to drag you out at this unearthly hour, but I didn’t know what else to do,’ he apologised.
‘That’s all right,’ said Daniel. ‘Who’s been killed?’
‘Walter Bagshot.’
‘Bagshot?’ repeated Abigail in surprise.
‘He was found in the Chamber of Horrors.’
‘The guillotine again?’ asked Daniel.
Tussaud shook his head. ‘Standing up, encased in wax like our models.’
‘Where’s the body?’ asked Daniel.
‘Where it was found.’ He set off up the stairs towards the Chamber of Horrors, Daniel and Abigail following.
‘Have the police been alerted?’ asked Daniel.
‘I informed a local constable who was walking his beat, and he said he’d get a message to Scotland Yard.’
‘When was this?’
‘The same time as I sent the cab for you.’
‘I assume your nightwatchmen discovered the body?’ said Abigail.
‘Actually, it was a couple of intruders,’ said Tussaud. ‘A young man and a young woman. Their screams brought the nightwatchmen to the Chamber.’
‘Where are these intruders now?’
‘The watchmen locked them in a storeroom. They’ll stay there until the police arrive.’
They entered the Chamber of Horrors and saw the body, naked except for a pair of drawers, encased in broken wax, lying on the floor. Abigail and John Tussaud stayed back as Daniel approached the body, careful not to disturb the large fragments of wax scattered around the dead man. He knelt down and studied the body, touching the dead man’s face and the back of his head, before returning to join Abigail and Tussaud.
‘I’d like to examine the body in detail, but that wouldn’t be fair to the police inspector who arrives to examine the scene. When I was with Scotland Yard I often arrived at a murder scene to find there had been efforts by well-meaning people to clean up, or make their own clumsy examinations, which ruined any clues that might be found. One thing I’m sure of is that this man’s been dead for at least two days, though that will need to be verified by the pathologist.’
‘So he was killed about the same time as Eric Dudgeon,’ said Abigail.
Daniel nodded. ‘It looks as if he was killed with a blow to the back of his head by some heavy weapon. And iron bar or a hammer.’
‘The same as with Eric Dudgeon.’
Again, Daniel nodded. ‘And, for some reason, they left Dudgeon’s body here, after decapitating him, but took Bagshot’s body with them.’
‘But why?’ asked Tussaud, bewildered.
‘I suspect so they could do this a few days later, to reinforce whatever message they’re trying to send.’ He turned to Tussaud. ‘As I said, I don’t want to disturb any evidence that may be found, so perhaps we can talk to the nightwatchmen.’
‘Certainly,’ said Tussaud. ‘They’re in their room.’
He led them along a corridor, then down a flight of stairs to a room near the entrance. Inside, the two nightwatchmen, Paul Dobbley and Gabriel Moth, were sitting on wooden chairs. Dobbley sprang smartly to his feet as the visitors entered, but Moth remained hunched on his chair, his face and posture a picture of misery.
Tussaud introduced Daniel and Abigail to the two men, then sat himself down while Daniel gestured for Dobbley to resume his seat.