Murder at Madame Tussauds

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘No police?’

  ‘There’ll be no need as far as we’re concerned,’ said Daniel.

  The man scowled. ‘All right. You’d better come aboard.’

  Daniel and Abigail walked up the narrow gangplank and joined the man on the deck of the barge, following him through the door and down a short flight of stairs to the cabin below. It was small but neat and tidy with two bunks, one on each side of the cabin with a table in between, fixed to the floor. There was a small, pot-bellied stove with a flue that went up and through the roof of the cabin. The man gestured for them to sit on one of the bunks, then took the other opposite.

  ‘Wilson and Fenton?’ he grunted.

  ‘That’s us,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Both of you are detectives?’

  ‘We are,’ said Abigail. ‘Have you heard about the murders at Tussauds?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Who got done?’

  ‘Two nightwatchmen,’ said Daniel. ‘You know our names. May we have yours?’

  ‘Marshall,’ said the man. ‘Herbert Marshall.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Marshall. We’re interested in the man who rented the barge from you.’

  ‘He said his name was Stafford.’

  ‘Did he say why he wanted to rent it, and for how long?’

  ‘He just said he needed somewhere to put a couple of his blokes up for a few weeks and he’d heard that I wouldn’t be moving it for a month.’

  ‘Where did he hear that from, did he say?’

  Marshall shook his head. ‘No, but he could have picked it up from asking around. Everyone knows everyone else’s business on the canals. It’s how we keep in touch if needed.’

  ‘Can you describe Mr Stafford?’ asked Abigail.

  The word picture Marshall painted of Stafford was the same as that Bruin and Patterson had given for Michaels, right down to his suit of brown check material.

  ‘Did he give any address where you could get hold of him, if you needed to?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘No,’ said Marshall.

  ‘You say that everyone knows everyone else’s business in the canals,’ said Abigail. ‘I’m guessing that when he didn’t turn up to pay you the money he owed you, you asked around about him?’

  ‘I did,’ said Marshall. ‘No one knew who he was. But it was how I found out how he knew about my barge. He’d been asking around if anyone had a boat that might be available for rent, but staying moored here.’

  ‘So, in short, you’d never seen him before, and you have no idea where he could be got hold of.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Marshall. ‘As long as he paid up, I wasn’t interested in what he was up to.’

  ‘He might have been planning something criminal with your barge,’ said Abigail. ‘Or even planning to steal it.’

  Marshall chuckled. ‘You don’t know canal people. The only way to move this barge is by hitching a horse to it. If that had happened, word would have got to me. Or if something suspicious was going on. Us on the canal, we watch out for one another. But here was nothing, just those two blokes living here, causing no bother. Until Stafford didn’t arrive with the money.’

  ‘At which point you turfed them off.’

  ‘I did.’

  John Feather stood in Superintendent Armstrong’s office and gave his report on that morning’s discovery of the bank robbery at Billings Bank in Belgravia. ‘Same method as the others. The bank vault broken into through the cellar in the next-door property, a chemist’s shop.’

  ‘No one saw or heard anything?’ asked Armstrong.

  ‘No,’ said Feather. ‘Apparently the chemist is closed for the morning every other day, only opens at noon. Today was one of those half-days.’

  ‘Who knew he’d be closed this morning?’ asked Armstrong.

  ‘Anyone who can read,’ said Feather. ‘He’s got a notice on his shop door with his opening hours.’

  ‘Damn!’ growled Armstrong. ‘Why don’t these people have nightwatchmen patrolling the premises?’

  ‘We did send a letter out to every bank branch recommending them to do just that, sir, but it seems the attitude of so many of them is “It won’t happen to us”.’

  ‘Anyone living nearby notice anything overnight? Unusual activity? Vehicles? They must have used a horse and carriage to transport the loot away.’

  ‘I’ve got the local constables asking questions, but so far no one has reported seeing anything.’

  ‘Do we know how much was taken?’

  ‘The manager, a Mr Morris, is going through his ledgers to give me a final total. But he believes it could be as much as half a million pounds in cash.’

  ‘Half a million!’

  ‘It is Belgravia, sir. Apparently there was quite a bit lodged relating to some property transactions that were due to take place later today.’

  ‘Inside information, do you think? One of the bank staff knowing there’d be a particular large amount of cash in the vault on that particular night?’

  ‘It’s always a possibility, sir, although Mr Morris swears to the loyalty and honesty of his staff.’

  ‘He would, of course,’ said Armstrong sourly. ‘He’s protecting himself. If it turned out that he’d employed someone who’d leaked bank details to the robbers, he’d be for the boot himself.’

  ‘I’ve arranged to see the staff concerned later today, sir. If there is anything suspicious there, I’ll find it.’

  ‘I hope you do, Inspector. This is becoming a nightmare. God knows what the newspapers will make of it!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Feather. He looked at his watch. ‘I’d better get back there, sir, to talk to them. I just wanted to come and make my report to you first, in case questions are asked.’

  ‘Of course bloody questions will be asked!’ snarled Armstrong angrily. ‘Those blood-suckers are on my back about it! Not just the press, the Bank of England, the government …’ He subsided, then waved his hand at Feather. ‘Off you go, Inspector. Let’s hope that one of them turns out to be the rotten apple in the barrel.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Feather. ‘There’s one more thing, before I go.’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Armstrong suspiciously.

  ‘You remember your proposal for me to keep contact with Wilson and Fenton and winkle out if they get any leads about the Tussauds murders.’

  ‘And?’ asked Armstrong warily.

  ‘They have, sir. They’ve located the two nightwatchmen who left at short notice, that led to the two dead watchmen taking the job. Donald Bruin and Steven Patterson.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Wilson and Fenton believe the two men left at short notice as part of a conspiracy to get Dudgeon and Bagshot in.’

  ‘What makes them think that?’

  ‘Because Bagshot and Dudgeon lied about their reasons for leaving their previous jobs on the railway. Wilson believes they had been lined up to take the jobs at Tussauds.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘Wilson isn’t sure but he thinks it’s to do with both Dudgeon and Bagshot having been in the army, in the Royal Engineers. Wilson was trying to find the watchmen they replaced because he thought they might throw light on the issue: namely, who persuaded them to quit so abruptly so that he could get Bagshot and Dudgeon in. It appears it was a man called Michaels.’

  Armstrong frowned. ‘It all sounds a bit complicated.’

  ‘I agree, sir, but I thought I’d pass on what I heard, as you asked. You pointed out yourself, sir, that sometimes Wilson comes up with the goods with no apparent reason.’

  Armstrong nodded thoughtfully. ‘So in this case he thinks these two previous watchmen were involved?’

  ‘Only incidentally, not as part of the conspiracy itself. At least, that’s his opinion. He discovered that Bruin and Patterson were paid to leave at short notice and live on a barge on the Lee Navigation canal, ostensibly to take care of the barge’s cargo by this man, Michaels. Michaels seems to be the man behind it. Currently, Bruin and Patterson are back at
Madame Tussauds.’

  Armstrong looked bewildered by this. ‘What? Guilty men returning to the scene of the crime, do you think?’

  ‘As I said, sir, Wilson doesn’t seem to think Bruin and Patterson are guilty of anything except leaving at short notice. It seems they’ve returned to Tussauds and asked for their old jobs back. Do you want me to pass this on to Inspector Jarrett, or will you?’

  ‘I will, Inspector,’ said Armstrong firmly. ‘We don’t want too many people knowing how we’re handling this. I’ll get Jarrett to bring this Bruin and Patterson in and question them. Well done, Inspector. But remember, we’ll keep this just between us.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Wilson also seems to think that the murders – especially the sudden and mysterious reappearance of the dead body of Walter Bagshot – might be connected to the disappearance of a thirteen-year-old boy called Thomas Tandry.’

  ‘What makes him think that?’

  ‘Tandry was an apprentice wax worker at Morton’s of London Wax Museum.’

  ‘So? there must be loads of wax workers.’

  ‘But this one’s disappeared.’ He gave the piece of paper with the boy’s details to the Superintendent.

  Armstrong looked at it, then said, ‘I’ll mention it to Jarrett. I’m sure it means nothing, but you never know when it comes to Wilson.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Do you still want me to keep in touch with him and Fenton?’

  ‘Yes, I do! We’re going to get the credit for this one, Inspector, not them.’

  ‘Oh, there’s another thing that Wilson mentioned. He thinks there might be a tie-up between this bloke Michaels and Gerald Carr.’

  ‘Carr? That vicious snake! What evidence has Wilson got?’

  ‘None, as far as I know. I think it’s one of his intuitions. I just thought I’d mention it. If Carr was involved in these murders and he was done for it …’

  ‘That would be a feather in our cap!’ Armstrong beamed. ‘I’ll tell Jarrett to bring Carr in and grill him. See what he coughs up.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Daniel and Abigail crossed the busy thoroughfare that was Fleet Street, the home of London’s newspapers, doing their best to avoid stepping in the piles of horse droppings that dotted the roadway.

  ‘One of the problems with trying to cross any of the major roads in London on foot,’ complained Abigail, ‘is that you invariably end up with your shoes and the bottom of your dress caked in horse manure.’

  ‘There used to be crossing sweepers,’ said Daniel. ‘Usually children, often orphans and waifs and strays who’d managed to make a broom by tying twigs to a stick and who’d clear the horse dung for you for a penny when crossing the road.’

  ‘Why did they stop?’ asked Abigail. ‘I would have thought there was a fortune to be made at that job.’

  ‘Because the amount of traffic increased to such a degree that it was deemed dangerous. Carriages, cabs, omnibuses, heavy wagons, all in a hurry. Some of the children got run over. Now sweepers go out at night and collect up the manure in carts, which they sell to people for growing their vegetables.’ He looked up at the building in front of them, which bore a proud sign of metal letters announcing that this was the home of The Telegraph. They entered and at reception asked if Joe Dalton was available. Fortunately, he was, and a few moments later they were sitting at his desk in the main room, a large open hall with a high ceiling where the overriding smell was that of ink.

  Dalton was a portly, jovial figure who’d grown a big, bushy beard since the last time Daniel and Abigail had seen him.

  ‘What’s with the beard?’ asked Daniel. ‘If it’s a disguise to avoid being spotted by people who might be upset by what you write about them, it’s a waste of time. The rest of you is very distinctive.’

  Dalton chuckled. ‘I’d always wanted to be a pirate,’ he told them. ‘This is my respectable version of that dream. Although it started when I realised how much time I spent shaving every morning, valuable time when I could be chasing stories. In this business the first one there gets the inside track.’

  ‘The bank robberies,’ said Abigail.

  ‘At the moment,’ said Dalton. ‘But I can’t imagine you’re here about that. But the murders at Tussauds aren’t my brief; that’s Robert Peake’s.’

  ‘Yes, so we saw,’ said Daniel. ‘But we don’t know Mr Peake.’

  ‘I can introduce you,’ offered Dalton. He looked around the large, bustling room, where everyone seemed to be engaged in different sorts of feverish activity. ‘Though it looks like he’s out at the moment.’

  ‘Actually, it’s more information about high society we’re after,’ said Daniel. ‘You move in those circles.’

  Dalton laughed. ‘Hardly move in them. I’m tolerated because they can get their names in the paper.’

  ‘We’re trying to find a Caroline Duckworth.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ want to talk to as many people as we can who are insiders in the wax business,’ said Abigail. ‘She used to work at Tussauds, and then at Greville’s wax museum, and she’s said to be quite good.’

  ‘We believe she may have married someone with money,’ added Daniel.

  Dalton chuckled. ‘You can say that again!’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘She became Mrs Dixon. She married Charles Dixon, a very rich cove who had a big house in Lowndes Square in Belgravia. He died about three months ago. Heart attack. So Mrs Dixon is now a very rich widow.’

  ‘Where did his money come from?’

  ‘I’m guessing it must have been inherited. He didn’t appear to work.’ He looked at them quizzically. ‘Is she a “person of interest”, as Scotland Yard are fond of saying?’

  ‘We’re not considering her as a suspect, more as someone who might be able to suggest anyone she knows who might have a reason for what happened. Some kind of anti-Tussaud motive. Do you have her address?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dalton, pulling a small box towards him. He flipped the top of the box open to reveal a load of cards. ‘My contacts list,’ he explained. ‘Addresses of the rich and powerful.’

  ‘Some burglar would pay a fortune for that box,’ observed Daniel.

  ‘Not really. Any reporter worth their salt has the same information.’ He rifled through the cards until the found the one he wanted. ‘Here we are. Mrs Caroline Dixon.’ He wrote the address on a piece of paper and passed it to them. ‘She’s also well known for her charitable work. Organising social evenings to raise money for good causes.’

  ‘What sort of good causes?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Her main one is raising funds for the Nightingale Fund to train nurses.’ He gave a smile of admiration. ‘Wonderful woman.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Abigail. ‘Caroline Dixon or Florence Nightingale?’

  ‘Both,’ said Dalton. ‘Nightingale is that very rare creature, a totally honest and good person. Did you know she was called Florence because she was born in Florence in Tuscany?’

  ‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘So she’s really Italian?’

  ‘No, her parents are English, very well-connected with their own estate here, which is where she was brought up.’

  ‘And Caroline Dixon?’

  ‘The fact that she puts so much energy into raising funds for Nightingale says all there is to know about her character. Another excellent woman.’

  ‘Interesting,’ mused Daniel. ‘We were told that she’s money-grabbing.’

  ‘If she is, she’s doing it for a good cause,’ said Dalton.

  ‘Have you met her?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘I have,’ said Dalton. ‘I was invited to a soiree she was giving. Again, it was to raise funds for Nightingale’s nurses. I think she hoped the publicity would lead to more of the upper classes opening their wallets and purses.’

  ‘Did it?’

  Dalton gave a smile of satisfaction. ‘I believe it did. At least, I had a note of thanks from Mrs Dixon afterwards. As I say, a lovely and gracious lady.’ He loo
ked at the clock. ‘Ah, a deadline approaches. I’m afraid I have to get back to the grindstone of wordery.’

  Daniel and Abigail smiled and stood.

  ‘Thank you, Joe, you’ve been very helpful,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Always happy to be of assistance,’ said Dalton. ‘And if you do get any information on the Tussaud murders, I’d be happy to pass it on to Robert.’ He smiled. ‘It would mean he’d owe me one.’

  As Daniel and Abigail walked away from the Telegraph offices, Daniel observed thoughtfully, ‘It’s interesting that we have two very different opinions of Caroline Dixon. Both John Tussaud and Greville described her as money-grabbing and fiercely ambitious to be rich. But according to Joe, she’s the exact opposite, a veritable philanthropist, giving it away.’

  ‘Possibly that’s because she was left a rich widow,’ said Abigail. ‘She achieved her ambition and now she’s in a position to do something positive with that money.’

  ‘Having money doesn’t necessarily change people’s characters,’ said Daniel. ‘Grabbing, acquisitive people often continue to be grabbing and acquisitive however much money they have.’

  ‘But not always,’ countered Abigail. ‘There are many instances of people who’ve been poor and received a sudden windfall which they’ve shared with others who are less fortunate.’

  ‘But those sort of people are often generous-natured to start with,’ said Daniel.

  ‘People can change,’ insisted Abigail.

  ‘I agree,’ said Daniel. ‘But this is such a massive about-turn. I think I’d like to meet with Mrs Dixon and see for myself.’

  ‘We’ll meet with her,’ Abigail corrected him. ‘I can see that you’re already prejudiced against her. At least one of us will need to have an open mind.’

  Superintendent Armstrong looked up from his desk as Inspector Jarrett entered and snapped smartly to attention.

  ‘I’m here to report developments, sir,’ he said crisply. ‘I believe we may have a suspect in the Tussaud killings.’