Murder at Madame Tussauds

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘That’s right, sir. John, the elder, and Louis, the younger.’

  ‘And after the firm got taken over and the elder brother was put in charge, the younger one went off and set up on his own, with his own museum in Regent Street, but inside of a year it burnt down and everything was destroyed.’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’ Pick nodded.

  ‘The question is: who burnt it down, Sergeant?’

  ‘From what I can gather, it was an accident, sir.’

  Jarrett gave a wicked smile. ‘There are no accidents, sergeant. Every event has a cause.’ He tapped the sheet of paper. ‘Two brothers against one another. Family rivalries. It’s one of the oldest stories in history. Look at all the kings who bump off their brothers.’

  Pick looked at him, puzzled. ‘I’m not sure what you’re saying, sir. Do you think that Louis Tussaud was responsible for the murders at the museum?’

  ‘It fits, Sergeant. One brother gets the plum job and the other is given the boot.’

  ‘With respect, sir, Louis Tussaud left of his own volition. And on good terms with his brother.’

  ‘On the surface, Sergeant! On the surface! But what’s beneath? I’ll tell you. Resentment. Are you seriously telling me Louis Tussaud’s museum burnt down by accident?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You don’t think that big brother John saw it as a threat and had it burnt? And, in turn, that Louis decided to have his revenge?’

  ‘Louis Tussaud’s museum burnt down in 1891, sir. That’s five years ago.’

  ‘Plenty of time for him to build up this feeling of anger and resentment. I’ve got a feeling about this, Sergeant. I think it’s time to have a word with Mr Louis Tussaud. Go and pick him up and bring him in.’

  ‘Shall I tell him why, sir?’

  ‘Tell him we’re investigating the recent tragic events at the Marylebone Road Tussauds, and we’d like to talk to him to get his professional advice. That should do the trick. We’ll see how he reacts. If he’s innocent, he’ll come in very happily. If he gets stroppy and refuses, that’ll be a sign of guilt, and then we put the squeeze on him.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ He held out his hand. ‘Can I have that piece of paper, sir. I wrote Louis Tussaud’s address on it.’

  Jarrett handed the sheet of paper to Pick.

  ‘There you are, Sergeant. Go out and bring him in.’

  ‘I’m still not convinced this visit is worth our time,’ observed Abigail doubtfully. She and Daniel were standing outside the garish purple and yellow entrance to Greville’s Famous Waxworks in Piccadilly Circus. ‘We’ve already dismissed the idea of a rival waxwork killing the nightwatchmen in an attempt to discredit Tussauds. We both agreed it’s more likely to attract the sort of ghoulish people who haunt the Chamber of Horrors.’

  ‘The person who did the murders, certainly the person who encased Bagshot, has experience of working in wax,’ explained Daniel.

  ‘So we visit every wax museum in London?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘If necessary,’ said Daniel. ‘That’s what much police work is about, walking miles and asking questions. That’s why policemen have flat feet.’

  They entered the museum, passing three waxworks of soldiers from history who seemed to be on guard just inside the main doors – a Roman, a Viking, and a British redcoat – and came upon a stout, florid-faced man wearing a light brown suit with a pattern of large, checked squares, along with a large purple bow tie, engaged in conversation with a blonde woman in her fifties sitting in a booth marked ‘Box Office’. The pair looked up as Daniel and Abigail walked towards them.

  ‘We’re not yet officially open,’ explained the man, coming towards them. ‘Half an hour and the cleaners will be gone.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not here to see the exhibition,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m Daniel Wilson and this is my partner, Abigail Fenton.’

  ‘The Museum Detectives!’ exclaimed the man delightedly. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Maurice Greville, proprietor and artist-in-chief at Greville’s Famous Waxworks. I read in the newspapers that Tussauds had hired you.’ His smile vanished to be replaced by a look of mourning and sympathy. ‘What a tragedy! That could have been us!’

  ‘Why?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘We have a Chamber of Horrors here, too. Certainly the equal of Tussauds. With a guillotine.’

  ‘Do you have nightwatchmen?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Well, no,’ admitted Greville. ‘But if we did, it could have been one of them found with his head in a basket.’

  ‘You don’t feel the need of having nightwatchmen?’ enquired Abigail.

  ‘The expense is not one we feel is justified,’ said Greville. ‘We are a small museum. And being in a prominent position here in Piccadilly Circus, which has a lot of activity at night, affords us a good measure of security.’

  Daniel gave Abigail an amused look, aware that ‘night activity’ in Piccadilly Circus meant the bustling trade in prostitutes of both sexes, along with their clients.

  ‘Perhaps it would be better to continue this conversation in my office?’ suggested Greville with a smile. He turned to the blonde woman. ‘If anyone wants me, Doris, tell them I’m engaged temporarily.’

  Daniel and Abigail followed Greville down a corridor to a door with the words ‘Manager, Strictly Private’, and led them in. It was a small room, dominated by a large desk with three chairs ornately decorated with red cushions and gilt woodwork. The walls were crammed with framed photographs of famous figures in wax, with Maurice Greville standing proudly beside each. Greville gestured for them to sit, then asked, ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘It would appear that the person who committed the atrocities at Tussauds has a talent for wax sculpture.’

  ‘Oh?’ Greville frowned. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘A second body has been found there, encased in wax.’

  ‘A second body?’

  ‘The other nightwatchman. His body was discovered in the Chamber of Horrors. The head, in particular, had been sculpted in wax.’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean the deed was done by a wax artist,’ said Greville defensively.

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ agreed Daniel. ‘But it is a skill that has to be learnt. Someone just couldn’t do that kind of work without training and knowledge.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Greville uncomfortably. ‘But if you’re suggesting that myself or any of my team of artists …’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Daniel quickly. ‘We’ve come to you because you know the trade.’

  ‘The art,’ Greville corrected him.

  ‘The art.’ Daniel nodded. ‘And, therefore, the artists. Can you think of anyone who might have a grudge against Tussauds? Anyone, for example, who might have left them, possibly under a cloud, who then came to work for you?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Greville firmly. ‘Most of my artists I’ve trained up myself. There has been only one who joined us from Tussauds, and she certainly didn’t leave under a cloud; she was one of their better people and only moved on to improve her prospects.’

  ‘Who was this?’

  ‘Caroline Duckworth. A true artist!’ He gave a sigh. ‘Sadly, we lost her.’

  ‘She died?’ said Abigail, shocked.

  ‘No. She got married. Gave up the wax business completely.’ He sighed again. ‘A great loss to the profession!’

  ‘Being in the business, as it were, I wonder what you can tell us about Louis Tussaud?’

  ‘Louis?’ Greville frowned. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Do you know why he left Tussauds to set up on his own?’

  ‘I assume because his nose had been put out of joint after the old man sold the place and John was given the job of manager and chief model artist by the new owners.’

  ‘His own wax museum burnt down, I understand.’

  ‘Yes. A tragedy. But these things happen.’

  ‘We’d quite like to talk to him. Do you have an address for him?’’

/>   ‘About his brother?’

  ‘Not necessarily. In the same way we’re hoping you might be able to shed light on things in the wax business.’

  ‘The art of wax,’ Greville corrected him primly.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Daniel. ‘My apologies. You see, we’re both very much newcomers to the world of wax.’

  ‘You really think these murders were committed by someone from our world?’ asked Greville.

  ‘We don’t know, but there’s certainly a connection.’

  ‘Well, if you think that Louis might have had anything to do with what happened at Tussauds, you’re very wrong,’ said Greville. ‘For one thing, he’d never do anything to hurt his brother, or his family. In the second, I happen to know he’s been out of London for the past month.’

  ‘Oh? Do you know where?’

  ‘Yes. Blackpool. I believe he’s considering opening his next venture there and he wants to explore what possibilities the town may hold.’ He leant forward, an attempt at an ingratiating smile on his face as he said to Daniel, ‘Actually, Mr Wilson, as you’re here, there’s something I’d like to ask you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve decided that our own Chamber of Horrors could do with something a bit special, something that Madame Tussauds seem to have overlooked, for some bizarre reason.’

  ‘Oh?’ asked Daniel, intrigued.

  ‘Who is the most notorious murderer, the most bloodthirsty, that this city has seen this century?’

  Daniel looked at Abigail, his face clouding with a hint of annoyance. He knew where this was leading. As if to prove him correct, Greville announced in ringing tones: ‘Jack the Ripper! And you, Mr Wilson, are the one man with intimate knowledge of him.’

  ‘He was never caught,’ pointed out Daniel.

  ‘But not for want of your trying, I’m sure,’ enthused Greville. ‘I want to design a tableau depicting Jack the Ripper in all his horror, which will send shivers down the spines of everyone who sees it. It will be the talk of the town. Nay, of the nation! And as you and Inspector Abberline were such crucial figures in the investigations, we’d like you to be represented. Effigies of yourself and Mr Abberline.

  ‘I’ve written to him asking if he would agree for his representation to be exhibited, but so far we’ve not had a reply from him. We wonder if you would approach him about it.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bruin and Patterson trudged along the towpath away from the barge, watched by the barge’s owner and the four men he’d brought with him in case they resisted their eviction.

  ‘I thought it was too good to be true,’ sighed Bruin. ‘Better money than we were getting at Tussauds and a big cash payout at the end.’

  ‘Michaels conned us.’

  ‘But why?’

  Bruin shrugged. ‘No idea. But whatever plans he had are out of the window now. He’s done a runner.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We could try going back to the museum. We left on good terms. And Mr Tussaud complimented us on what good workers we’d been and said there’d always be an opportunity there for us again.’

  ‘Yes, but we left him at short notice. He may not forgive us for that.’

  ‘Only because we had short notice ourselves,’ pointed out Bruin. ‘What else were we to do? Mr Michaels turns up with a wad of banknotes and saves us and our fingers from that Carr bloke, but he needs us to start the very next day. We didn’t know it would turn out this way. We both thought he was genuine.’ He nodded determinedly. ‘That’s what we do. We go and see Mr Tussaud.’

  Abigail had to hurry to keep up with Daniel as he stomped away from Greville’s wax museum, his face like thunder.

  ‘You’re angry,’ she said.

  ‘Angry doesn’t cover it,’ snapped back Daniel.

  ‘He’s a businessman,’ pointed out Abigail. ‘He’s talking about a business opportunity. After all, he made a good point: Tussauds haven’t featured Jack the Ripper in their Chamber of Horrors. There is a gap in the market.’

  ‘I will not allow myself to be portrayed in wax by that oaf,’ snorted Daniel. ‘Did you see those wax models of his on display? They were appalling. Second-rate.’

  ‘You’re comparing them to Tussauds,’ said Abigail.

  ‘Yes I am.’

  ‘I admit that some of them didn’t look much like the person they were depicting …’

  ‘Didn’t look like them?’ echoed Daniel indignantly. ‘His Queen Victoria looked more like the Duke of Wellington! I dread to think what I’d end up looking like. And I certainly wouldn’t dream of contacting my old guv’nor and try and persuade him to be part of this appalling charade.’

  ‘Abberline might be flattered at the idea.’

  ‘If he was he’d have written back to indicate his agreement. His silence speaks volumes.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Abigail. ‘If that’s how you feel. Where are we going now?’

  ‘Morton’s of London Wax Museum,’ said Daniel. ‘They’re the next on the list.’

  ‘Let’s hope they, and the rest of them, don’t ask you to get measured for a wax effigy for a Jack the Ripper tableau.’ Abigail smiled. ‘Otherwise you’ll be in the foulest possible mood by the time we get home.’

  Inspector Jarrett looked up from his desk at his sergeant, as Pick returned from his assignment. Jarrett frowned as he saw the sergeant was on his own.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked. ‘In the cells?’

  ‘Blackpool,’ said Pick.

  ‘Blackpool?’

  Pick nodded.

  ‘You mean he’s done a runner?’

  Pick looked doubtful. ‘I don’t think you can describe it like that, sir. I went to the address we had for him, and was told that he went to Blackpool about a month ago. So he was in Blackpool when the first watchman was killed, and when the body of Walter Bagshot was sneaked into the wax museum, so he can’t have done it.’

  ‘Accomplices, Sergeant!’ said Jarrett. ‘Send a telegraph to the Blackpool police. I want Louis Tussaud apprehended and taken into custody pending you bringing him back to London.’

  ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘As soon as we get word that Tussaud is in custody there, you head north and bring him in. And take a constable with you, in case he’s difficult. These arty types have sometimes got the strength of ten men.’

  It was nearly six o’clock by the time Daniel and Abigail finished visiting the other four wax museums in London, and it was Abigail who remarked that the standard of work seemed to deteriorate more with each one. Two of the museums employed people who’d both worked at Tussauds: Ernest Maxim at Worple’s Waxworks and Deirdre le Faux at the London Wax Museum. Both were in their twenties, and although they proudly showed off their work to Daniel and Abigail, afterwards both Daniel and Abigail agreed that the reason both had left Tussauds was because neither could actually be described as a top-notch wax artist.

  ‘But we’re not looking for a top-notch artist,’ pointed out Abigail. ‘We’re looking for someone who knows how to use wax.’

  ‘In that case we’ll bear them in mind,’ said Daniel. ‘But, in my opinion, neither of them would have the stomach for what was done to Dudgeon and Bagshot. But we’ll see what John Tussaud has to say about them.’ He frowned and added, ‘The one intriguing thing we turned up was the boy who’s disappeared.’

  ‘From Morton’s,’ said Abigail. ‘Their thirteen-year-old apprentice.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Daniel. ‘Thomas Tandry. According to Morton’s he just didn’t turn up for work a few days ago.’

  ‘Perhaps he got fed up with it,’ said Abigail. ‘Apprentices don’t exactly earn a great deal, and they usually get given the worst jobs to do.’

  ‘But he’d not given any indication he didn’t want to work there any longer. And what’s more mysterious is him vanishing from his lodgings the way he did, according to Mrs Morton.’

  ‘You think something’s happened to him?’

  ‘I do,’ sai
d Daniel.

  ‘Connected with the case?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Daniel admitted. ‘I agree that thirteen-year-old boys can suddenly vanish for all manner of reasons. It could all be just a coincidence. Maybe I’m so wrapped up in this I’m seeing everything we come across as forming part of this whole case, whether it is or not. But I’d like to find out what’s happened to him.’

  ‘Perhaps John Feather might be able to help,’ suggested Abigail.

  ‘He might, although I can see him saying that with all that’s going on, searching for a runaway thirteen-year-old boy is pretty low down on Scotland Yard’s list of priorities.’

  On their arrival at Tussauds they were met by one of the attendants, who told them, ‘Mr Tussaud told me to watch out for you. He’s in his office and asked that you go straight up as soon as you arrived.’

  Abigail gave Daniel a puzzled frown as they walked up the stairs to Tussaud’s office. ‘Did you know he was expecting us to call?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ admitted Daniel. ‘Which suggests something else has happened.’

  Tussaud leapt to his feet from behind his desk, a look of relief on his face, as Daniel and Abigail entered his office.

  ‘Thank heavens you got my message!’ he said.

  ‘Message?’ queried Daniel. ‘No.’

  ‘I sent a messenger to your home.’

  ‘We’ve been out all day talking to people at the other wax museums,’ explained Abigail. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Daniel Bruin and Steven Patterson arrived here a few hours ago, asking if they could have their old jobs back. Apparently their new job opportunity didn’t work out. After what happened last night I’m delighted to have them back. I told them what happened to Dudgeon and Bagshot, and they were shocked. I think they feel it could have been them as the victims. I’ve asked them to wait here because I was sure you’d want to talk to them, which was why I sent a message to your home to tell you about them.’

  ‘We’ll definitely talk to them,’ said Daniel. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In the watchmen’s room,’ said Tussaud. ‘The same place you saw Dobbley and Moth.’