Murder at Madame Tussauds

by Jim Eldridge

‘He was. And strict about it! He loathed alcohol. Said it muddled the mind. But the policeman who came to tell me the news said he was drunk as anything. Too drunk to walk properly, he said, that’s what they thought had happened. He was so drunk that when he was walking beside the canal he fell in. But that’s wrong on so many counts. He never drank. And he’d never have been walking beside the canal.’

  ‘Pardon me for asking, Mrs Pugh, but had anything happened lately to unsettle him?’

  ‘Only the bank robbery, that made him very upset. Not so much the robbery but the fact he was questioned by the police. He said the inspector who quizzed him was rough in his manner, aggressive and nasty.’

  ‘So the fact he was questioned may have unsettled him enough to—’

  ‘No!’ she said quickly. ‘If you’re thinking he did it deliberately, you’re wrong. Arthur would never do something like that. He always said that life is God’s gift to us, and those who take their own life are committing one of the biggest sins against almighty God that a man can do, for which they would burn in hell for all eternity.’ She wiped her eyes again. ‘Arthur had very strong opinions about lots of things.’

  ‘Had anything changed for him lately?’ asked Feather.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, had he recently come into money, for example.’

  For the first time, she looked awkward. ‘Well, now you come to mention it, it did seem to me that he had more money than he usually had. Not lots, but enough to buy me a little treat now and then. Nothing special or big, just some chocolates. He knows – knew – I like chocolates, but as a widow I haven’t got the money to waste on fripperies. Not that he didn’t pay his way. He did. He was very good like that, was Arthur.’

  ‘When did this happen? The chocolates?’

  ‘About two weeks ago. And then, last week, he bought me a handkerchief. A lovely one it was. Lovely material with edging.’ She gave a thoughtful frown. ‘To be honest, I wondered what had brought this on. Really, Arthur was a rather frugal person, not given to fancy things.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘I wondered whether he hadn’t met some woman and that’s what had changed him. Softened him, so to speak.’

  ‘Did he talk about this woman?’

  ‘Oh no. And I might be wrong. But it’s just that …well, he seemed different. And then once, when he came home from somewhere – and he didn’t say where he’d been – I could have sworn there was an aroma of perfume on him.’

  ‘What sort of perfume?’ asked Feather. ‘Cheap perfume? Expensive?’

  ‘Oh, very expensive!’ said Mrs Pugh. ‘That’s why it struck me. And it made me wonder if Arthur hadn’t got involved with someone who was above his station. You know, that maybe he was out of his depth. And maybe that’s what happened to make him …do something so out of character. That whatever and whoever this woman was, that somehow it had gone wrong.’

  Daniel stood in the kitchen of Mrs Wicksteed’s house as she prepared a stew.

  ‘I make sure that all my charges are well fed,’ she said. ‘I give them porridge for breakfast and a good hot meal when they come home.’

  ‘How many lodgers do you have?’ asked Daniel.

  She looked at him with disapproval.

  ‘I don’t speak of them as lodgers,’ she told him. ‘They are my guests. The one thing I stipulate is that they are in employment. I have five with me at the moment, since Thomas disappeared.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘I still can’t get my head round that. He was always so steady. As all my charges are. In answer to your question, I usually have six at a time: three girls and three boys. I have two rooms, very clean, and they share a bed, three boys in one, the three girls in the other.’

  ‘And have there been any issues between Thomas and any of the others lately? Rows? Disagreements, that sort of thing.’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘The thing is, Mr Wilson, that these children are either orphans, or ones whose parents can’t look after them. If it wasn’t for me taking them in they’d be in the workhouse or on the streets. They know that and they’re grateful. If any of them ever does anything like have a tantrum – which happens very, very rarely – I remind them of that fact, and the awful fate that awaits them if I have to ask them to leave.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Daniel.

  ‘It’s a system that works,’ said Mrs Wicksteed.

  ‘And the children pay you for their rent and keep from their wages?’

  ‘They do. Although it’s barely enough to cover the costs, so the local church contributes, on the understanding that the children attend services on Sunday.’

  ‘On the day that Thomas disappeared, was there anything unusual about him? Anything that suggested he was planning to run away?’

  ‘Absolutely not. He had his porridge as usual, then he set off to walk to work. He’s normally home by five o’clock. When he hadn’t arrived by half past five I sent one of the others to Morton’s wax museum to see if anything had happened to him. If he’d been taken ill, or something. When the child came back – Stanley Hopkiss it was – he had Mrs Morton with him, who was most disturbed when she heard that Thomas hadn’t arrived home.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve spoken to Mrs Morton and she told me how worried she was about him,’ said Daniel. ‘She told me she’d reported his disappearance to the police.’

  ‘Who have done nothing in response,’ said Mrs Wicksteed, again with heavy disapproval.

  ‘What do you think has happened to him?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘The only thing I can think of is that someone’s abducted him. It does happen to children, you know. Especially those who look young. And Thomas did look young, being particularly small for his age.’

  Inside the dining room at the Langham Hotel, Abigail supped her French onion soup, while Doyle tucked into his starter of partridge with pears, elaborating on the proposed expedition to the sun temple in between bites.

  ‘I’m curious if we might find much there,’ he said. ‘You know, ancient artefacts. Will there be any for us?’

  ‘I think that’s quite likely. There are quite a few different opinions about how long Niuserre reigned for, with some saying it was for over thirty years, while others believe he was only on the throne for perhaps ten. My own feeling is to opt for the longer period based on the number of pyramids he built: three for himself and his queens, plus a further three for his father, mother and brother, all of them in the necropolis at Abusir. He also built the largest surviving temple to the sun god Ra. If you consider that in addition he completed the Sun Temple of Userkaf in Abu Ghurob and the valley temple of Menkaure in Giza, all of this will have taken many years, it indicates towards the longer reign.’

  ‘Has there been much work done on the sun temple already?’

  ‘Only relatively superficial examinations. Do you know about the work of Karl Lepsius?’

  ‘No,’ said Doyle. ‘Is he important?’

  ‘He’s generally considered to be the greatest Egyptologist.’

  ‘Then he’s the man for us!’ exclaimed Doyle. ‘How can we contact him?’

  Abigail smiled. ‘Through a medium, if you believe in that kind of thing. Lepsius died in 1884.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Doyle.

  ‘He and his team spent three years from 1842 exploring most of the pyramid sites of Egypt. It’s only now, after his death, that his very detailed notes are going to be published, with the first volume due to appear next year.’

  ‘But he visited Abu Ghurob?’

  ‘He did. In his work he listed the pyramid that Niuserre built for one of his queens, or possibly the queen of his brother, Neferefre, something that’s still being debated, as pyramid number twenty-four. Another rather unusual construction, which looks like two pyramids squashed together, and is on the south-eastern edge of the necropolis is known as Lepsius XXV.’

  ‘But did he explore the sun temple?’

  ‘As I mentioned earlier, there are two sun temples at the site. The one
Niuserre built himself, and the one he completed which was begun by Userkaf. Both are dedicated to Ra. Am I right in thinking it’s the god Ra that you’re interested in?’

  ‘It is indeed!’ said Doyle. ‘From what I’ve read of ancient Egyptian religion, Ra seems the most important.’

  ‘Along with the sky god, Horus,’ said Abigail. ‘Often you’ll find the two gods merged into one and called Ra-Horakhty. But I agree that Ra had prime of place, as befitted the god of the sun. The Egyptians believed that Ra ruled all parts of the created world, that he created every form of life, including humans.’

  ‘And we might well find examples of his power inside the sun temple at Abu Ghurob,’ said Doyle, his face lighting up with excitement at the thought.

  ‘We might find examples that showed the Egyptians’ belief in his powers,’ said Abigail, her tone cautious.

  ‘Tell me about the pyramids,’ urged Doyle.

  ‘What, exactly?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘Their restorative powers. That’s what I was told they were for, not just as burial tombs to honour the pharaohs.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Abigail. ‘That’s what the ancient Egyptians believed. You have to know that the Egyptians believed that the human form is made up of different components, the chief of which are the ka, which is seen as the life force, the ba, which is viewed as the soul, and the physical body. In death these become separated. The pyramid was seen as a cosmic machine which unites the parts which had become separated, and when these parts were unified an akh was the result, a being of light, a powerful living embodiment of the pharaoh in the afterlife as a god.’

  ‘Rebirth,’ said Doyle.

  ‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘Although what I’ve given you is very much an abbreviated version of the process.’

  ‘There has to be a reason for the tales told, especially about Ra,’ said Doyle. ‘Surely no belief system lasts for that many thousands of years unless it’s based on something real.’

  ‘Humans have the ability to ascribe supernatural events to many that are often explained by science,’ countered Abigail. ‘Your Sherlock Holmes stories often show that, when there is a crime committed and the only answer seems to be a supernatural agency at work, until your hero explains the concrete reality of what happened.’

  ‘Pish to Holmes!’ said Doyle dismissively. ‘I’m saying that there might be more to these beliefs than just folk tales. There might be something real and tangible behind them.’ He leant forward intently. ‘I have been a member of the Society for Psychical Research for the last three years, and long before I joined I was aware of extraordinary events taking place that could not be explained in practical terms. The dead do talk to us. I have experienced this myself at seances conducted under the strictest rules of observation. No trickery. Remember what Shakespeare said in Hamlet: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy”.’ Who is to say the sceptics are right, or that modern mediums and the ancient Egyptians are wrong?’

  Inspector Jarrett and Sergeant Pick made their way through Scotland Yard reception and then out through the back door to the rear courtyard, where the carriages, vans and horses were kept. They found the stable master, Bill Harris, polishing the lamps on one of the carriages.

  ‘Ah, Harris!’ said Jarrett imperiously. ‘I want a van made ready.’

  ‘Certainly, Inspector. How big?’

  ‘Big enough to bring back at least half a dozen prisoners,’ said Jarrett. He gave a wink and added with a smug smile, ‘We’re going after Gerald Carr.’

  ‘Carr?’ said Harris, impressed. ‘If you want one with cells in you’ll have to wait until one comes back in. They’re all out at the moment.’

  Jarrett shook his head. ‘No, just one with benches in it will do. We’ll have them handcuffed to the bars inside, so they won’t cause any trouble.’

  ‘I’ll get one ready for you,’ said Harris. ‘Give me ten minutes to get the horses in and reined up.’

  ‘We’ll be back in ten minutes,’ said Jarrett. He headed back to the main building, Sergeant Pick trailing along beside him. ‘Right, go and pick two good uniformed men to come with us,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Pick. Then, warily, he added, ‘Do you think that was wise, sir?’

  ‘What was wise?’ asked Jarrett.

  ‘Telling Bill Harris where we were going. I’ve heard rumours that he earns backhanders from tipping off people if a raid’s about to take place.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ snorted Jarrett. ‘I’ve known Bill Harris for years. And one thing I’ve learnt, Sergeant, it does to impress the non-uniform staff with what we do. It makes them feel involved.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Pick.

  ‘Now go and fix up those uniforms.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Pick.

  Back at the vans, Bill Harris was scribbling a note on a piece of paper. As soon as he finished it, he nipped out the rear entrance to where the hansom cabs were lined up, waiting for custom. He spotted the driver he wanted at the rear of the queue and hurried over to him.

  ‘Get to Gerald Carr’s yard in Somers Town and give him this,’ he said. ‘Urgent.’

  Daniel stood in the cellar at Madame Tussauds museum and looked around at the brick walls and the solid cement floor. His hopes of finding any clues as to what had happened to young Thomas Tandry were drying up, so he had returned to the museum. He was sure that this place held the key to the murder of Dudgeon and Bagshot. Despite what both Abigail and John Feather said, he felt in his bones it was to do with the fact that Michaels had arranged for them to work at Tussauds because they were tunnellers, and Tussauds was only two shops away from a bank. Yes, he and Abigail had examined the walls, but that had only been a superficial look; any proper investigation had been impossible because of the crates containing the surplus wax mannequins which were stored against the walls.

  He left the cellar and made his way upstairs to Tussaud’s office and found the museum manager at his desk.

  ‘Mr Tussaud, I wonder if I can have your permission to examine the cellar here at the museum.’

  ‘I thought you already had,’ said Tussaud, puzzled.

  ‘A surface examination only. With your permission I’d like some of the crates that are stacked against the walls moved away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s this business of Dudgeon and Bagshot being tunnellers. You know about the bank robberies that have been taking place?’

  ‘Of course, but those have been where a bank is next to a cellar. The nearest bank to us is two shops apart, with solid earth between.’

  ‘Exactly, sir. And tunnellers dig through solid earth.’

  ‘Not that distance, surely.’

  ‘Dudgeon and Bagshot worked on the Gasworks Tunnel just north of King’s Cross station. That tunnel was 1,590 feet long. The distance from Tussauds to the bank is much shorter than that.’

  ‘But surely it would take more than two men.’

  ‘Not necessarily, sir. Yes, to dig a tunnel a railway train can pass through, but not for a man to crawl through.’

  ‘But there’d be spoil from the digging,’ pointed out Tussaud. ‘How would they get rid of it?’

  ‘I’m sure there are ways,’ said Daniel. ‘Please, Mr Tussaud, I may be wrong, but I need to know. I only need the crates moved away from the east wall.’

  ‘Why that one?’

  ‘Because it’s the one that faces in the direction of the bank.’

  ‘You feel it’s a possibility?’

  ‘I do,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Very well,’ said Tussaud. ‘I’ll have those crates moved away from the wall. I’ll detail two men to do it now.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Daniel.

  As he walked back down to the cellar, he thought ruefully: If I’m wrong and there’s nothing, I shall be thought of as an idiot. And if it gets back to Scotland Yard, I’ll never live it down.

  Feather and Cribbens walked away from the Mayfai
r branch of Paget’s Mercantile Bank, still taking in what they’d just been told by the manager about the tragic accident that had led to the death of Derek Parminter a week before.

  ‘He seems he fell in the canal and sadly drowned,’ the manager had told them.

  ‘Which canal?’ asked Feather.

  ‘The Grand Union, the section that runs parallel to Royal College Street in Camden Town. Do you know it?’

  ‘I do,’ said Feather. ‘Did Mr Parminter live in Camden Town?’

  ‘No,’ said the manager. ‘He lived in Kentish Town. I don’t know what he was doing in Camden Town. Visiting someone, I expect.’

  ‘Do you have his last address?’

  ‘I do,’ said the manager.

  ‘Did he have family?’

  ‘I believe he was a bachelor who lived in lodgings.’

  With that, the manager had checked his records and handed Feather an address in Kentish Town.

  ‘So, Sergeant,’ said Feather as they returned to the police van. ‘What do you think of that? Two bank clerks, both fall into the canal, one at Regent’s Park, the other in Camden Town.’

  ‘I think it smacks a bit too much of a coincidence,’ said Cribbens.

  ‘So do I,’ agreed Feather. ‘Especially as both seemed very edgy when they were quizzed about the bank raids.’

  ‘Think someone bumped them off, sir?’

  ‘Unless clumsiness while walking along canal towpaths is a sudden popular new trend amongst blank clerks. We’ll talk to Parminter’s landlady and see what she has to tell us about him.’

  Daniel looked at the bare east wall of the wax museum’s cellar, fully exposed now the crates had been moved into the centre of the floor. Shutting the cellar door to cut out any external noise, he crouched down and began to knock against the brickwork, listening out for any change in the sound which would indicate a hollowness behind the bricks. Slowly, he worked his way along the length of the wall, tapping and listening. There was no change in tone.

  Am I wrong? he asked himself in angry desperation. Are Abigail and John right, that I’m clutching at straws over an obsession, chasing shadows?

  He stood up and looked at the bricks. They were smeared with the dirt of ages, as was the lime mortar between the bricks.