by Jim Eldridge
‘Good news, Inspector. Who is it?’
‘Mr Louis Tussaud, sir. Younger brother of John Tussaud. My reasoning is that whoever did that with Bagshot’s body, putting it in wax, has got to be practised at the wax business.’
‘There’s more than one wax museum in London other than Tussauds,’ pointed out Armstrong. ‘Lots of people working in wax.’
‘Yes, sir. But why pick on Tussauds? Louis Tussaud was part of the family business at the Marylebone Road museum, before he got edged out by his brother. Reason for resentment there I feel, sir.’
‘Possibly, but murder’s a severe reaction if it’s just resentment about being pushed out.’
‘True, but after he left he set up his own waxworks, which shortly after was burnt to the ground. Although there was no evidence to suggest that John Tussaud, or anyone at Tussauds, was responsible for the fire, Louis Tussaud must have suspected it and let that suspicion fester, gradually building up to a desire for revenge, hence the murders.’
Armstrong looked doubtful. ‘It’s possible, Inspector,’ he said carefully.
‘It’s the only one that fits, sir,’ said Jarrett. ‘I’ve discovered that he fled to Blackpool, so I’ve telegraphed to there for him to be apprehended and brought back to Scotland Yard to be questioned. I’ve detailed Sergeant Pick to bring him back.’
Armstrong nodded thoughtfully.
‘Good work, Inspector,’ he said. ‘But there’s another line of enquiry it might be worth you looking into. It appears that the two men who worked at Tussauds as watchmen before Dudgeon and Bagshot, a Donald Bruin and a Steven Patterson, have turned up at Marylebone Road. There’s a suggestion that they might have been part of a conspiracy to get Dudgeon and Bagshot in as watchmen, a conspiracy that involved a man called Harry Michaels, and also Gerald Carr, someone – as you know – we’ve never been able to nail for anything.’
‘Where did that suggestion come from, sir? About the conspiracy?’ asked Jarrett.
‘One of the informers out on the street heard it and passed it to the local beat constable in Somers Town,’ lied Armstrong.
‘Right, sir,’ said Jarrett. ‘I’ll bring Bruin and Patterson in and talk to them while I’m waiting for Louis Tussaud to arrive.’
‘And Carr,’ said Armstrong firmly. ‘If we can put him inside that will be a big feather in our cap. If he’s involved, let’s nail him. Oh, and someone mentioned something that might be associated with the Tussaud murders.’ He handed the piece of paper with Thomas’s details on it to Jarrett. ‘Apparently some boy who was an apprentice at Morton’s of London Wax Museum has disappeared. There was talk that he might have been involved in encasing the dead body of Bagshot in wax.’
‘Talk from who, sir?’ asked Jarrett, looking at the details on the piece of paper.
‘Some un-named source.’ Armstrong shrugged. ‘Someone with an axe to grind, I suspect, who just wants to stir up trouble. I leave it to you to look into, Inspector.’
John Feather sat in the bank manager’s office chair that was usually occupied by Septimus Morris and regarded Arthur Crum as the bank clerk entered and sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. Crum was nervous and edgy, Feather noticed. Derek Wilson and Margaret Bannister had been upset at what had happened, Bannister to the point of tears at what would happen to them as a result of the bank robbery, but there was something about Crum that was different to the other two clerks. He was on the defensive even as he sat down.
‘I’ve got just a few questions for you, to make sure I’ve covered everything,’ said Feather, adopting a sympathetic tone to see if it would make Crum feel at ease. It didn’t.
‘I don’t know anything,’ Crum blurted out. ‘Just what Mr Morris told us.’
‘You didn’t go down and look at the vault?’
Crum swallowed, then nodded. ‘Yes. We all went because Mr Morris shouted and called for us to come and look. It was terrible.’
‘Indeed,’ said Feather sympathetically. ‘You must have been quite shaken up by it.’
‘More than just a bit,’ said Crum defensively. ‘It could have happened when we were here! At work during the day!’
‘What makes you say that, Mr Crum?’ asked Feather.
‘Well, isn’t that when most bank robberies happen? When banks are open?’
‘Not this kind of robbery,’ said Feather. ‘Haven’t you seen about the recent spate of bank robberies carried out this way?’
‘No,’ said Crum.
‘It was in the newspapers.’
‘I don’t read the newspapers,’ said Crum.
‘But your colleagues do,’ said Feather. ‘Both Mr Wilson and Miss Bannister said they’d read about the recent bank robberies being carried out this way, at night, through the next-door cellar. Didn’t they mention it to you?’
‘Not that I can recall.’
‘That seems strange. After all, you all work at one of the most prestigious branches of this bank, here in Belgravia, I would have thought it would have entered the conversation at some point.’
‘We don’t have time for casual conversation,’ said Crum primly. ‘We’re too busy.’
‘I understand.’ Feather nodded. ‘It was just I was sure that Miss Bannister and Mr Wilson said they’d mentioned it to you because they were quite nervous about the prospect of it happening here.’
Crum hesitated, then said nervously, ‘Perhaps they did, but – as I said – I can’t recall it. To be honest, I don’t have a lot to do with my colleagues. We discuss work, and that’s about it.’
‘I would have thought discussion of these bank robberies would have constituted talk about work. After all, you all knew that the shop next door has a cellar adjacent to your bank’s vault …’
‘I didn’t know that!’ said Crum quickly. Too quickly, thought Feather.
‘So you don’t have much to do with your colleagues outside of work?’ asked Feather.
‘No,’ said Crum.
‘What do you do?’ asked Feather. ‘Outside of work?’
‘I don’t understand the question,’ said Crum, bewildered.
‘Who are your friends and acquaintances? Family? Are you married?’
‘I don’t see what enquiring about my private life has to do with this robbery,’ Crum rebuked Feather sternly.
‘I’m just trying to get the whole picture, Mr Crum,’ said Feather. ‘I’m asking the same questions of everyone.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I shan’t be answering those sorts of questions,’ said Crum stiffly. ‘My personal life is my affair and has nothing to do with what happened here. Now, I would like to leave. I have work to do.’ And he rose to his feet.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Feather politely. ‘But I hope you’ll reconsider when we talk again.’
‘Talk again?’ asked Crum, and now his concern was apparent. ‘Why would we talk again?’
‘Because we have not yet apprehended the people who committed this crime,’ said Feather. ‘Someone knows something, and it’s my job to identify who, and what they know.’ He gave Crum a smile. ‘And who they might have talked to.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lowndes Square consisted of a large central garden, planted with a variety of exotic blooms, bounded by a terrace of grand houses in stucco and white, fronted with Romanesque pillars, along with another imposing series of buildings, equally grand, that had been built as apartment blocks.
‘It looks as if Mrs Dixon has definitely achieved her ambition,’ said Daniel as they approached the address they’d been given by Joe Dalton.
He tugged at the bell pull and they heard the sonorous chimes from inside the house. The door was opened by a butler formally dressed in a long frock coat over a striped waistcoat. The butler peered at them, an imperious, almost disdainful look on his face.
‘Good day,’ said Daniel. ‘My name is Daniel Wilson and this is my partner, Miss Abigail Fenton. We wonder if it would possible to see Mrs Caroline Dixon.’
‘Mrs D
ixon does not see anyone without an appointment,’ said the butler coldly. He then added, equally coldly, ‘And she does not make appointments with people she does not know except in exceptional circumstances.’
‘I understand,’ said Daniel politely. ‘We would like to make an appointment, and these are exceptional circumstances. Perhaps you’d inform Mrs Dixon that we are not just casual callers – we are admirers of her work on behalf of the Nightingale Fund and were given her address by Mr Joe Dalton from The Telegraph.’
The butler hesitated, then said, ‘If you’d wait, I’ll see what Mrs Dixon’s instructions are.’
With that he closed the door on them.
‘Well, her money hasn’t made her a more welcoming person,’ said Daniel sourly.
‘Don’t be judgemental,’ said Abigail. ‘The butler’s job is to protect his mistress from unsolicited callers. He may not be representing her attitude, just his own.’
‘I’ve usually found that servants reflect the characteristics of their employers,’ said Daniel.
They waited, and a short while later the door opened again and the butler looked out at them.
‘Mrs Dixon will see you,’ he said, though his manner towards them was no less hostile.
‘See?’ whispered Abigail as they followed the butler along a luxuriously decorated corridor, hung with paintings by French masters.
‘I reserve judgement,’ Daniel whispered back.
The butler led them into a large drawing room, decorated in the French style with ornate plasterwork adorning the walls and ceiling and heroic statues placed around the room. Daniel was reminded more of a gallery in a museum than a place to live. Caroline Dixon was in her early fifties, a handsome woman dressed in clothes that stressed her wealth: a voluminous purple dress finished with white lace, and enough gold jewellery on her fingers and around her neck to feed a small nation for a year. She gestured at an Imperial-style chaise longue near to the gilt and floral armchair where she sat.
‘Please, sit,’ she said. Her tone, though polite, was reserved. As they sat she said, ‘I understand you are here about the Nightingale Fund?’
‘Er, not exactly, Mrs Dixon,’ said Daniel. ‘My name is Daniel Wilson and this is Miss Abigail Fenton. We’ve been hired by John Tussaud at Tussauds wax museum to investigate two tragic deaths that occurred there recently.’
She looked at them, a puzzled expression on her face. ‘But you told my butler that Mr Dalton from the Telegraph had sent you.’
‘Forgive my contradicting your butler, Mrs Dixon, my actual words were that we had been given your address by Mr Dalton. I quoted him, with his approval, to show that we are great admirers of you and your work. I have known Joe Dalton for many years, and I’m sure he would verify our good characters to you.’
She stood, studying them. ‘I’m still not sure what the purpose of your visit is? Who exactly are you?’
Once again, Daniel gave her their names. ‘For many years I was a detective at Scotland Yard working with Inspector Abberline. Miss Fenton is the renowned archaeologist and Egyptologist, known particularly for her work on the great pyramids of Egypt with Flinders Petrie.’
She gave a vague smile. ‘I’m sorry, these names are unfamiliar to me. But do please tell me how I can help you?’
Briefly, Daniel related the circumstances of the two murders at the museum.
‘How ghastly!’ She shuddered. ‘But, and I repeat again, I’m still not sure what I can contribute.’
‘The second body was found encased in wax, which suggests that the person who did it may have had some experience working with wax. We understand that you once worked at Tussauds, and also at Greville’s.’
‘I beg your pardon!’ Her sharp tone showed her anger. ‘If you are daring to suggest that I—’
‘No, no,’ said Abigail hastily. ‘Not at all. We have come for your advice as an expert. We are also talking to everyone we meet who works with wax or has worked with wax, to see if they can think of why anyone would want to carry out this campaign against Tussauds. To be honest, we’re clutching at straws here.’
Dixon looked at her, then at Daniel, her expression cold as she told them, ‘I’ve had nothing to do with the world of wax since I married my late husband. I’m glad to say that it is well behind me now and I can concentrate on my dedicated aim, which is to raise funds for the wonderful work that dear Miss Nightingale is doing to train nurses. And not just for this country, but for the world.’ She picked up a small, golden bell from the small table beside her and rang it. ‘And now, my butler will show you out. I would appreciate it if you do not trouble me again. If you do, you will not be received.’
As they walked away from the house, Daniel said, ‘She’s lying.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Abigail.
‘I saw some copies of The Telegraph neatly bundled up awaiting disposal just inside a cupboard. She must have read about the murders, and about our role as the Museum Detectives.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Abigail. ‘Not everyone knows of us, Daniel.’
‘A woman who used to be a sculptor in wax at Tussauds and who takes The Telegraph?’ said Daniel. ‘The headline of the story would be enough to make sure she reads it. In which case, she would be aware of who we are.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘Why would she lie?’
‘There are plenty of people who take the newspapers but deliberately avoid the sensational stories,’ insisted Abigail.
‘I agree,’ said Daniel. ‘But there’s still something there that doesn’t ring true.’
‘Look at it from her point of view,’ continued Abigail. ‘Previously she struggled to make a good living as an artist in wax. Her ambition was to make money. She achieved that by marrying a very rich man, and when he died she became a very rich widow. I doubt if she wants to be reminded of her previous life, so us coming to talk to her about her time working at Tussauds would be very uncomfortable for her. Something she doesn’t want or need to be confronted with. Her image of herself is of a woman being a philanthropist, providing financial help to the very admirable work that Florence Nightingale is doing.’
‘You may be right,’ admitted Daniel. ‘But I still feel there’s something not right here.’
‘Your copper’s nose?’ Abigail smiled.
He gave a rueful grin. ‘Old habits die hard.’
Jarrett scowled as he read the telegram from the Blackpool police informing him that Tussaud gone abroad. Said to be on Continent.
‘Doesn’t that strike you as even more suspicious, Sergeant?’ said Jarrett, passing the telegram to Sergeant Pick.
‘I suppose it does, sir,’ said Pick. ‘But these arty types are always going off to the Continent.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ grunted Jarrett. ‘In the meantime, let’s go and bring in these two watchmen from Tussauds, Bruin and Stevenson, and see what they’ve got to say. And at the same time we’ll have Gerald Carr brought in.’
‘Gerald Carr?’ said Pick warily. ‘He’s a nasty character, sir. I doubt he’ll come easy.’
‘Then we’ll bring him in wearing shackles,’ growled Jarrett. ‘And, if he resists, we’ll bounce a truncheon or two off him.’
‘He’s got a gang who protect him,’ said Pick, still cautious.
‘We’ve got a gang as well, Sergeant. It’s called the police force. If they put up a fight they’ll get one, as well as finding themselves charged with resisting arrest.’ He smiled. ‘We’ll see how Mr Gerald Carr likes that. But first, let’s go and bring in these watchmen.’
Gerald Carr sat in the first-floor room that doubled as his living space and the office he ran his business from. Or, as he viewed it, his empire. He was a short, stocky man with a round, almost babyish face, accentuated by the fact he was virtually bald, just a few long strands of hair going from side to side on the top of his scalp. The baby-face image vanished as soon as one saw his eyes. The eyelids were hooded and the eyes beneath were black and malevolent, reminiscent of
a cobra’s and just as menacingly calculating.
The room was spartan, with very little in the way of decoration. A desk, a few wooden chairs, wooden filing cabinets and a long couch that doubled as a bed. The only adornment was a bust of Napoleon on Carr’s desk. The Emperor Napoleon was Carr’s hero, the figure he’d decided to model himself on when he set out to rule. This yard in Somers Town was his base, his headquarters, his fortress. From his quarters on the first floor he looked out on the yard, with various buildings forming three sides of a square and two tall wooden gates directly opposite his quarters in the fourth wall, which were locked and barred at night, making his fortress impregnable. It needed to be. Like his hero, Gerald Carr had enemies who’d like nothing better than to see him dead. Fortunately, as a result of ruling his empire by fear and physical pain, very few dared to make attempts on him. And, in case anyone tried, he had his faithful bodyguards in the barn beneath his quarters keeping watch. He had thought of having dogs patrol the yard, but he’d heard incidents of some savage dogs turning on their masters. And what was the use in having a guard dog if it wasn’t savage? So instead he had bodyguards, working on a rota in pairs from the moment the tall gates opened early in the morning to when they closed in the evening. Now and then, if Carr felt the need to entertain a female acquaintance, the bodyguards stayed until it was time for her to go.
It was a system that had kept him safe for years, strengthened every time someone tried to cheat him and received their due punishment as an example to others. Or if they refused a request or an offer of business. Like Nat Jackley, who’d initially rejected his offer of letting him buy his money-lending business. Jackley said the price offered was too low. Carr had Jackley brought into one of his barns and his bare feet placed on a coal brazier, the flames peeling off his skin as he howled and screamed. When Carr finally let his men haul Jackley’s feet out of the burning coals, he told Jackley that the price of his refusal to cooperate, which had put Carr to unnecessary work in arranging the brazier, was that the price offered for his business would now be one penny. Any further refusals and the rest of his body would be subject to the hot coals; first his feet and legs, then his hands and arms.