by Jim Eldridge
‘There are other wax museums, but we don’t consider them to be rivals; their workmanship is of a far lower standard than here at Tussauds. Wax museums and travelling exhibitions of wax figures have been around for a long time. When my great-grandmother first came to England in 1802, there was already a well-known wax museum in Fleet Street. Mrs Salmon’s Waxworks. In fact it lasted through a change of names as different people bought it until 1831, when it closed for good.’
‘Do you know when it was first established?’
‘I believe it was set up as a travelling exhibition some time during the early 1700s. Mrs Salmon died in 1760, and it was sold to a man named Clark. I heard all this from my father, who was passionate about the history of waxworks.’
‘What about less well-known wax museums? More recent ones who might be jealous of Tussauds?’
‘Frankly, we don’t have much to do with the lesser wax museums. As I said, the quality of their work is generally not up to our standard, so we don’t see them as a threat. An irritant, perhaps, when they advertise themselves as “the original wax museum”, which is a blatant lie, and one even puts out handbills saying “the museum where Madame Tussaud learnt her trade”, which is preposterous! We’ve had to threaten Maurice Greville with legal action, but it doesn’t seem to stop him and his absurd claims.’
‘Maurice Greville?’ asked Abigail.
‘The owner of Greville’s wax museum in Piccadilly Circus,’ said Tussaud. ‘A charlatan. The reputable exhibitions we are very happy to co-exist with. Westminster Abbey, for example, with their wax figures of kings and queens throughout history. Outstanding quality. Not as good as ours, obviously, but close.’
Having had their night’s sleep interrupted, Daniel and Abigail returned home where they managed to refresh themselves by catching a few hours’ sleep, until the noises from the street outside; the rumbling metal wheels of heavy wagons on the cobbles of the road, shouts of hawkers and newspaper sellers, children playing noisily, a mender of pots and pans plying his trade with a plaintive cry of ‘Pots and pans mended!’, made further sleep impossible.
While Abigail took a bath in the tin tub brought in from the scullery and placed before the coal range for warmth, Daniel cooked them a late breakfast of eggs and sausages and fried bread.
‘Do you really think it could be a rival to Tussauds behind this, trying to damage their business?’ Daniel asked as they sat down to their meal.
‘Not really,’ admitted Abigail. ‘I just thought I’d mention it as a possibility. But, on reflection, a man murdered by a guillotine in the Chamber of Horrors, followed by a dead body of another murdered man encased in wax, would most likely have the opposite effect and draw in greater crowds.’
‘Yes, that was my thinking as well,’ said Daniel. ‘With both Dudgeon and Bagshot dead, the key now lies with the previous watchmen, Bruin and Patterson.’
‘You still think it was set up that they left at short notice to make sure that Dudgeon and Bagshot took the nightwatchmen jobs?’ asked Abigail.
‘I do,’ said Daniel. ‘The question is, did the four men arrange it between them, or was there an intermediary?’
‘Someone pulling the strings.’
‘Exactly. And I’m convinced that it revolves around the fact that Dudgeon and Bagshot were engineers.’
‘With tunnelling experience?’
‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m sure that’s in the picture somewhere. But what was the plan? If we know that, we’ll know why they were killed.’
‘Patterson and Bruin,’ said Abigail thoughtfully. ‘We need to find them. They’ll know.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Donald Bruin and Steven Patterson sat on the barge tied to a metal ring set in the concrete wall of the Lee Navigation, the canal to the west of Hackney Marsh, and looked along the towpath towards the footbridge. Thin wisps of silvery mist rose from the waters of the canal and drifted along the towpath and around the moored barges. There were seven barges moored here, end to end along this part of the canal. When a barge being hauled by a horse arrived at this stretch, the horse was de-reined and walked along the towpath, while one of the bargees used a pole to punt their craft past the line of tied-up barges. He then re-attached the horse at the far end of the line.
Beyond the hedge that fringed the towpath, Hackney Marsh stretched for about a mile of flat open land to where the River Lea snaked southwards, to join the Thames.
‘No sign of him,’ said Bruin, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. They’d been disappointed for two days now. Harry Michaels had been due to turn up and pay them, just as he’d paid them the last two Tuesdays, but it was now Thursday and there’d been no sign or word from him.
It had all seemed so straightforward. They’d been in the Parr’s Head, their local in Somers Town, stretching their money out to buy a couple of pints, when a cheerful-looking chubby man in his late twenties, dressed in a suit of brown check material, had come to their table.
‘Mind if I join you, gents?’ he’d asked.
‘Help yourself,’ said Bruin, and the man had sat down, pointing at their half-empty glasses.
‘Can I treat you to a pint?’ he’d asked.
Bruin and Patterson exchanged wary glances, then Bruin shrugged. What the hell, there were two of them and the man in the suit didn’t look like he could take them on. And if he was after something from them that they didn’t want to do, all they had to do was say no.
‘That’d be very amicable,’ said Patterson.
With that, the man got up and walked to the bar, returning almost immediately with three full pint glasses held between his large hands. Again, Bruin and Patterson exchanged glances: the drinks must have been already poured. What was going on? What was the man’s game? Whatever it was, he was providing beer, which was always welcome, especially when – like now – they’d spent their last pennies.
‘My name’s Harry Michaels.’ The man beamed. ‘I believe I’m addressing Mr Bruin and Mr Patterson.’
‘You might be,’ said Bruin carefully. ‘But we’d be interested to know how you came to know our names.’
‘A friend of mine,’ said Michaels. ‘Gerald Carr.’
At this, Bruin’s face tightened and he got to his feet, glaring at Michaels. ‘If you’ve come to threaten us …’ he growled.
‘No no, nothing of that sort, I assure you!’ protested Michaels. ‘The very opposite. I’ve come to offer you a job opportunity which will solve quite a few of your problems, including Mr Carr.’
Bruin sat down again and he and Patterson regarded Michaels suspiciously. Gerald Carr had recently bought their debt from a moneylender called Nat Jackley. In fact, Carr had bought quite a few debts from Jackley. Not that Jackley had wanted to sell them, not for the price that Carr was paying, but when Gerald Carr wanted something, he usually got it. Gerald Carr was not a nice man. He was possibly the nastiest and hardest man in Somers Town, and so far Bruin and Patterson had managed to avoid having anything to do with him. Until now. Now, as a result of Carr buying their debt, they faced a very harsh future. It was said that Carr cut the fingers off people who owed him money – one finger a week until the debt was paid. Carr’s collectors were due to call at their house in two days’ time, and Carr had informed the pair that his people would be armed with a sharp handaxe. Bruin and Patterson had considered leaving London, but they knew that Carr would find them. Carr had contacts everywhere.
Bruin and Patterson’s problems were that they were soft touches, especially when they’d had a bit too much to drink. Sob stories from women tugged at their heartstrings, and their pockets. Both men fell in love too easily and usually with ‘inappropriate women’, the sort that Bruin’s mother had warned him against. And so their money vanished, and so did the women.
‘We never learn,’ Patterson had sighed one time.
‘We’ll be stronger next time,’ said Bruin firmly. ‘Next time we’ll say no. There’s no money to be had from us.’
‘I’ve got a barge moored over at Hackney Marsh on the Lee Navigation canal,’ said Michaels. ‘It’s empty at the moment but in a month’s time I’ll be getting a cargo delivered to be taken to Birmingham. I’m looking for two men to sit on the barge for the next month until the cargo arrives, take delivery of it, and then transport it to Birmingham. There’s good accommodation on the barge, very comfortable. And I’m offering the following: if you take the job, I’ll clear your debts with Gerald Carr, and pay you each week in cash while you’re moored at Hackney Marsh, with a cash payment when the cargo arrives, and the balance when you arrive in Birmingham.’
He then named a sum of money as the final payment that almost made Patterson choke on his beer.
‘I’ll also give you the money for your rent that’s due on your house here in Somers Town.’
Patterson and Bruin looked at one another, eager but at the same time wary. They’d learnt years ago that when an offer was made that was too good to be true, it usually was too good to be true – there was always a catch. But they couldn’t see the catch here. Michaels would pay Carr their debt, getting him off their back. Then he’d pay them a regular sum each week while they minded the barge, then a big payment when the cargo arrived and an even bigger payment when they delivered it to Birmingham.
‘What d’you say?’ asked Michaels. ‘Are you interested?’
‘We are, but with an offer as good as this, what’s the catch?’ asked Bruin.
‘It’s not really a catch,’ said Michaels. ‘But I need you on the barge tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ echoed Patterson.
‘It’s short notice, I know, but that’s why I’m prepared to pay good money,’ said Michaels. ‘If you say yes, I’ll go and see Carr today and clear your debt. And tomorrow I’ll take you out to the barge and pay you your first lot of wages.’
‘Tomorrow?’ repeated Patterson, his tone unhappy. ‘That’ll leave our current employer in a bit of a spot.’
‘Where do you work?’ asked Michaels.
‘Madame Tussauds,’ said Bruin. ‘We’re the nightwatchmen.’
‘When are you due there next?’
‘Tonight.’
Michaels shrugged. ‘It’s up to you,’ he said. ‘That’s my offer, but I need someone on that barge tomorrow.’ He gave them a rueful look. ‘However, if you can’t do it …’
‘No, no!’ said Bruin quickly. ‘We can. It’s just that we’re not used to leaving anyone in the lurch. And Mr Tussaud has been very good to us.’
Michaels said nothing, just sipped his beer as he watched Bruin and Patterson frown as they struggled with their decision.
‘It’s up to you,’ he said again. ‘But I need to have your answer now. If it’s a no, then I need to find a couple of other fellows today.’
Bruin and Patterson looked at one another unhappily, then Bruin nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ll do it.’ But suspicion entered his voice as he added, ‘But we need to make sure you’ve paid Carr off.’
‘No problem,’ said Michaels. ‘You can come along with me to his place and see me do it.’
Bruin and Patterson looked questioningly at one another again, and then Patterson nodded.
‘We’ll do it,’ said Bruin.
And short time later, they looked on as Michaels handed over a bundle of notes to Gerald Carr.
‘Done.’ Michaels beamed at them. ‘We have a deal. Tomorrow make your way to the River Lee Navigation canal by Hackney Marsh. I’ll meet you there by the bridge at noon and take you to the barge.’
A handshake had followed, and then Michaels had left them. Bruin and Patterson then made their way to Madame Tussauds where they told John Tussaud that they had to leave at short notice, and that their work that night would be their last. He tried to get them to change their mind by offering them an increase in their wages, but they were only too aware that they’d made a deal with Michaels which involved getting Gerald Carr off their backs. So they apologised for the short notice but said they had to leave in the morning. They then went to see their landlord and gave him notice, saying they’d be leaving immediately, and paid their back rent with the money Michaels had just given them.
The next day they were lodged on the empty barge, with Michaels giving them their wages, at this early stage enough to survive a week on. The next week he was back with more wages, and the same the following week. They’d been expecting him to repeat this process again two days ago, but this week, for some reason, he hadn’t turned up, and now they were running out of money, just a few pennies left.
‘Here’s someone!’ said Bruin, seeing a man walking along the towpath towards them.
‘It’s not Michaels,’ said Patterson.
‘Maybe he’s sent someone else,’ suggested Bruin.
The man arrived by the barge and studied them. He was tall and muscular, wearing overalls beneath a jacket, dark-haired and with a full beard. He also wore a pair of heavy boots.
‘Have you come from Mr Michaels?’ asked Bruin.
‘Who?’ The man frowned. He shook his head. ‘No, I’ve come for my rent. For this barge.’
‘We don’t pay rent,’ said Bruin. ‘We work for Mr Michaels. This is his barge.’
The man shook his head again.
‘Wrong. It’s my barge. Mr Michaels – if that’s what you call him, though he told me his name was Stafford – asked to rent the boat from me for a month. He said he needed somewhere for a couple of men to stay.’
‘Yes, that’s us,’ said Bruin. ‘He told us he wanted us to keep an eye on the barge until his cargo arrives.’
The man frowned. ‘It’s not his cargo, it’s mine. I told him I’d be needing to move it in six weeks.’
Bruin and Patterson exchanged looks of bewilderment.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Bruin. ‘He said we could stay here rent-free if we looked after the boat for him. And he paid us.’
‘Every week.’ Patterson nodded. ‘That’s why we took the job.’
‘He was due to pay us again on Tuesday gone,’ added Bruin. ‘But we haven’t seen him.’
‘He was due to pay me my rent yesterday, but he never turned up,’ said the man. ‘I always get suspicious when people don’t pay me when they say they will. It suggests they’re not going to.’
Patterson and Bruin looked at him, helplessly.
‘We don’t know anything about that,’ said Bruin. ‘All we’ve told you is true. Mr Michaels – that’s what he said his name was – came and offered us a good deal to come and look after this barge, exactly as we said. For the last two weeks he’s turned up every Tuesday, asked us if everything’s been all right, paid us and gone.’
‘Well, the rent’s overdue now,’ said the man. ‘So pay me the rent that’s due and you can stay, but you can only stay for another three weeks, and then I’ve got to move it. We’re off to Birmingham when my cargo arrives.’
‘We’ll move it for you,’ offered Bruin.
The man shook his head. ‘I’ve got my own crew. They’re going to move it.’ He held out his hand. ‘But pay me my rent and you can stay on it till it goes.’
‘We haven’t got any money,’ said Patterson. ‘We were expecting Mr Michaels to pay us.’
‘You and me both,’ grunted the man. ‘But it looks like he ain’t going to.’ He thought it over, then asked, ‘Where does he live?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Bruin. ‘He never told us. Just paid us the money.’
‘We can look after the boat until you go!’ offered Patterson. ‘We’ll do it in lieu of rent!’
The man shook his head firmly. ‘If you can’t pay the rent, then you’re off. I don’t want people I don’t know living on my barge rent-free.’
‘But Mr Michaels said …!’ appealed Bruin.
‘Mr Mic
haels has gone. If you ask me, there’s no such person. Like I said, he told me his name was Stafford. You’ve been done and I’ve been done, but I’m cutting my losses. I’ll be back with my crew, and I want you out.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Inspector Jarrett scowled at the backs of Joe Hobbs and Dolly Watts as they were led out of his office by Sergeant Ted Pick, on their way down to the reception area at Scotland Yard to be released. There was no doubt in Jarrett’s mind that the pair, whatever they may have been going to get up to in the Chamber of Horrors, had nothing to do with the body of Walter Bagshot being left there, encased in wax, and that annoyed him. It was always so much easier when the culprit was caught red-handed at the scene of the crime. The two nightwatchmen, Dobbley and Moth, could also be disregarded. Moth, particularly, who seemed terrified of his own shadow. Unless he was a very clever actor. But if Moth had been involved, it would have had to be in conspiracy with Dobbley, and Dobbley had an impeccable reputation as straight and honest, according to John Tussaud. No, he’d have to look elsewhere for the murderer, or murderers. Getting Bagshot’s body into the museum and placing it where it had been found was the work of two, maybe three, people. The one thing he was sure of was that whoever they were, at least one of them knew about this wax modelling business; Tussaud had admitted as such.
This thought reminded him of something he’d seen in the notes he’d made after Dudgeon’s body had been found at the museum, and he’d got his sergeant to look into the Tussaud family. He began to sort through the notes on his desk, and as Sergeant Pick re-entered, found what he was looking for and smiled, such a rarity that it took his sergeant by surprise.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ asked Pick.
‘Everything is very all right, Sergeant.’ Jarrett beamed, and he brandished a sheet of paper. ‘Do you remember I asked you to look into the Tussaud family?’
‘I do, sir,’ said Pick.
‘Well according to your notes, there used to be two Tussaud brothers at the museum.’