Murder at Madame Tussauds Read online

  MURDER AT MADAME TUSSAUDS

  JIM ELDRIDGE

  To Lynne, as always, for always

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY JIM ELDRIDGE

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1896

  The dense, slimy tendrils of green and grey acrid fog, a real ‘pea-souper’ in the local parlance, floated along Marylebone Road, as it did through the rest of central London, choking everything in sight. The few people who’d braved it held handkerchiefs or cloths to their mouths and noses and blinked to clear the burning tears from their eyes. The fog had held London in its grip for three days now. It was so thick that no horses were on the roads for fear of them stumbling into something – people, other horses, buildings. There were no wagons, no omnibuses, no hansom cabs, no carriages, just people shuffling along with their faces masked and their heads down, trying to spot where the pavement ended and the road began.

  Safe from the fog inside the Chamber of Horrors in Marylebone Road’s Madame Tussauds, Daniel Wilson and Abigail Fenton stood alongside the manager of the museum, John Theodore Tussaud, a great-grandson of Madame Tussaud, as he pointed a trembling finger at the guillotine; the centrepiece of the French Revolution tableau.

  ‘Eric’s body was found right there, his head lying by the blade,’ he told them.

  The fog had stopped the usual flow of visitors to the famous museum. Though even if any had attempted to call, they would have found the Chamber of Horrors closed to the public as a result of this particular real-life horror: the discovery of the headless body of one of the museum’s two nightwatchmen, Eric Dudgeon.

  Daniel and Abigail took in the scene, the guillotine and the unnervingly lifelike wax figures which stood around looking at the deadly wooden machine and its vicious blade, the sharp edge smeared red. Most of the figures’ faces bore the bloodthirsty expressions of rabid revolutionaries from the time of the French Revolution. Others represented members of the royal family and other aristocrats standing in positions of horror beside the guillotine, their faces showing such vivid fear and revulsion at what awaited them that Abigail had to remind herself they were just wax models and not real people.

  At first sight, the two appeared a mismatched couple. Daniel was a former detective at Scotland Yard, a stocky muscular man in his thirties whose north London accent betrayed his working-class roots. Abigail was tall, slender and elegant with an air of confidence that came with gaining a first-class Classics degree at Cambridge. She also had a reputation as one of the world’s leading archaeologists and Egyptologists. But those who knew them soon discovered that despite their apparent differences, there was a strong bond between them – not just as private investigators, but in life. All that remained, they constantly reminded one another, was to marry, and they’d frequently drawn up serious plans to execute this, but somehow things seemed to turn up and force a deferment.

  ‘Are we doing this for us, or for society’s demands of respectability?’ Abigail had asked on one occasion.

  ‘For us,’ Daniel had replied.

  But then something had intervened, as it usually did. This time, it was a headless body discovered in the Chamber of Horrors, which led to a call from John Tussaud.

  ‘Is the blade really sharp enough to slice someone’s head off?’ asked Daniel, perturbed.

  ‘No,’ said Tussaud. ‘It’s been blunted to avoid accidents.’ He was a very precise man in his late thirties, formally dressed in frock coat and black tie, and whose usual precision had been turned into unhappy agitation by this tragic turn of events.

  ‘But there’s blood on its edge,’ Abigail pointed out.

  ‘We believe whoever killed Eric daubed his blood on it after they’d cut his head off, to create the impression he’d been guillotined,’ said Tussaud.

  ‘I assume the police took the body away,’ mused Daniel.

  Tussaud nodded. ‘A Superintendent Armstrong was here. From Scotland Yard. We contacted the police as soon as we discovered the body.’

  ‘When you say “we”…?’ enquired Daniel.

  ‘Myself and the cleaners. I like to open the museum and let the cleaners in.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Eight o’clock. They work for an hour and a half, and we open to the public at ten o’clock. I come in to inspect everything in case there’s been an accident or something during the night.’

  ‘And does that often happen?’ asked Abigail.

  Tussaud shook his head.

  ‘No. We’ve had problems in the past with thrill-seekers trying to break in, or hiding in the museum just before we close, in order to spend the night here. Some people have this desire to boast that they spent the night in Madame Tussauds’ Chamber of Horrors, but we usually find them hiding in the conveniences and turf them out with a warning that they’ll be prosecuted if they try it again. That usually does the trick. And our watchmen have always been alert for any intruders.’

  ‘Except for last night,’ murmured Daniel. ‘Mr Dudgeon was one of your watchmen?’

  ‘He was,’ confirmed Tussaud. ‘Along with Walter Bagshot.’

  ‘Who you say has disappeared.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tussaud nodded unhappily. ‘Superintendent Arm­strong said it was obvious what had happened: Eric and Walter must have had an argument. Walter killed Eric, then fled. He said this was backed up by wounds to the back of Eric’s head indicating that he’d been struck with a heavy metal object. Also by the fact that the keys to the museum had gone. He said Walter must have taken them with him.’

  ‘Is that likely?’ asked Abigail. ‘The argument?’

  Tussaud shook his head.

  ‘No. Absolutely not. Eric and Walter were as close as any two people could be, like brothers.’

  ‘Brothers have been known to fall out,’ commented Daniel.

  Tussaud bristled at this.

  ‘If you’re suggesting that myself and my brother Louis …’ he snapped, glaring at Daniel.

  ‘No, no,’ Daniel assured him hastily. ‘I was just mentioning the possibility that Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot may have had some sort of disagreement.’

  ‘It would have to be something especially serious for Walter to do something as hideous as this.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Daniel nodded. He looked apologetically at Tus­saud. ‘And I do assure you, Mr Tussaud, that I intended no reference to anything to do with your family. To be honest, al­though I’m obviously aware of Tussauds waxwork museum, I’m not acquainted with your family’s history. Except for the fact that your great-grandmother was the one who established the museum here in London, after she left France.’
r />   ‘Many years after she left France,’ stressed Tussaud. Seeming slightly mollified, he enlarged. ‘She sought refuge in England when things became too dangerous for her after the revolution. She was forced to make wax models of the heads of people she had known and who were dear to her, including the queen, Marie Antoinette and the king, Louis XVI. When she saw that the insatiable guillotine was taking the lives of many around her, she brought her wax models across the Channel and toured with them around England, Scotland and Ireland, before settling in London.’

  ‘How long did she tour for before establishing herself in London?’ asked Abigail, keen to keep the conversation amicable, determined to repair any damage Daniel’s comment may have caused. It didn’t do to upset a client.

  ‘Twenty years,’ said Tussaud.

  ‘What can you tell us about Eric and Walter?’ asked Daniel. ‘How long had they been working for you?’

  ‘Not long at all,’ said Tussaud. ‘Barely two weeks, now I come to think about it.’

  ‘How did you find them?’

  ‘I didn’t, they found me. Our previous nightwatchmen, Donald Bruin and Steven Patterson, suddenly announced they were leaving the next day.’

  ‘Did they tell you why?’

  ‘They said they’d been offered an opportunity to make more money.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘They didn’t say. I must admit, I was too stunned to enquire further. I asked them how much more they’d been offered, because I was prepared to meet the sum. They’d both shown themselves responsible and reliable …’

  ‘Until they left,’ murmured Abigail.

  ‘Yes. But they said their minds were made up, and they’d be leaving after they’d finished their night shift.’

  ‘It could have been worse, they might have just not turned up.’

  ‘True, but – as I say – they’d always struck me as responsible men. The next morning when I arrived for work and to let the cleaners in, they took the wages they were due, shook me by the hand, and left. As you can imagine, I felt absolutely helpless. I’d still hoped they might change their mind.’

  ‘Had there been any ill-feeling between you? Or them and anyone at the museum?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. Everything had been amicable right from the start.’

  ‘How long had they been with you?’

  ‘Almost nine months, which is why it came as such a shock.’

  ‘And how did Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot enter the picture?’

  ‘They called later that same morning and asked if we had any vacancies.’

  Abigail and Daniel exchanged intrigued glances, Daniel saying blandly, ‘That was very opportune.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Tussaud. ‘I did wonder afterwards if perhaps the two watchmen who’d left hadn’t informed Eric and Walter that they were leaving.’

  ‘It’s certainly possible,’ said Daniel. ‘Did Eric and Walter mention the previous watchmen at all?’

  Tussaud shook his head. ‘No. And I must admit, I was so relieved that I didn’t ask. I asked for their references, of course, and they had excellent ones from their previous employers.’

  ‘Where had they worked before?’

  ‘On the railways, as labourers. They told me there’d been a cave-in while they were digging a tunnel in which some of their fellow workers had been seriously injured, which made them decide to look for something less dangerous.’

  ‘Where was the tunnel?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Tussaud. ‘To be frank, I was so relieved to find them that I hired them on the spot.’

  ‘And had there been any difficulties with them since they started working for you?’

  ‘None at all. Their timekeeping was excellent, so was their attitude. No complaints.’

  Abigail gestured at the guillotine. ‘I understand that the guillotine is an original, brought by your great-grandmother from France.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tussaud, ‘and not just the machine, but the figures of the French royal family, Louis and Marie Antoinette and her sister. And of the revolutionaries, Danton and Robespierre and the others.’ He looked admiringly at the waxwork images, his voice full of pride. ‘Can you imagine the responsibility on the shoulders of a relatively young woman at that time, to transport all of this from country to country, town to town? And this was before the advent of the railways, so everything had to be hauled in wagons across what were often very poorly-constructed roads. All while continuing to expand the exhibition. She was an astounding woman!’ He gestured at the figures on display, all unnervingly lifelike. ‘Burke and Hare, the bodysnatchers. William Marwood, the hangman. Charles Peace. Mary Ann Cotton. Any one of them capable of sending terror through any visitor.’

  ‘Hence the challenge to spend a night here, I imagine,’ observed Abigail.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Tussaud. ‘Charles Dickens was a great admirer of my great-grandmother and her work,’ he added. ‘She was the model for Mrs Jarley, the waxworks owner in The Old Curiosity Shop. And he was a frequent visitor to her exhibitions. It is said that the display you see before you of the guillotine and the revolution in France was the inspiration for his A Tale of Two Cities. We have an incredibly lifelike mannequin of the great man in our literary gallery. I do urge you to see it.’

  ‘We will,’ Daniel assured him. ‘But to return to the two previous nightwatchmen, Donald Bruin and Steven Patterson. Do you have their addresses? And those of Mr Dudgeon and Mr Bagshot?’

  ‘Those last two I can certainly give you, but I’m not sure if Bruin and Patterson will still be at the address they gave us. I got the impression their new appointment meant them travelling further afield. If we go to my office, I’ll let you have all the details on file.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Armed with the address of Dudgeon and Bagshot at a house in Marylebone, and one for Bruin and Patterson at a house in Somers Town, Daniel and Abigail left the museum, promising John Tussaud they’d be in touch as soon as they had any news.

  ‘The fog appears to be lifting,’ observed Daniel.

  Indeed the thick, green mass had risen from the ground and was now at head height, which meant they were able to watch their step, provided they moved slowly and kept their heads down. They both pulled their scarves over their mouths.

  ‘A bit suspicious, don’t you think?’ asked Abigail as they made their way carefully down Baker Street. ‘Bruin and Patterson leave with barely a moment’s notice, and within a few hours, two men turn up looking for work.’

  ‘Very suspicious. I think we need to look into both pairs of men.’

  ‘We also need to be careful of what we say. That was a sticky moment when you mentioned his brother, Louis.’

  ‘I didn’t mention him! I was just talking about brothers in general. Many do fall out, Cain and Abel being the best-known example. I didn’t know there was bad feeling between him and his brother.’

  ‘We’re not sure there is.’

  ‘Well, he certainly acted as if there was something there,’ Daniel grumbled. ‘I think we need to find out more about the family. I obviously touched on a nerve when I mentioned brothers falling out, and I don’t want to do something similar again because of my ignorance and put this case at risk.’

  ‘Can I suggest you leave that to me,’ said Abigail. ‘I can look into the background of the Tussaud family, while you dig into the lives of the two nightwatchmen.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Especially as it could involve going into pubs in the Marylebone area where they lived, and women tend to get viewed with suspicion in those sort of pubs. They’re usually taken to be prostitutes or religious do-gooders spreading the gospel of abstinence from alcohol. But before we do that, I suggest calling on John Feather at Scotland Yard to tell him we’re on the case, and swap information.’

  By the time they arrived at Scotland Yard, the fog had lifted further, although it still hung in thin grey strands just above their heads.

  ‘It is definitely thinn
ing,’ said Abigail. ‘Let’s hope this is the last we’ll see of it.’

  ‘We said that yesterday,’ said Daniel. ‘And the day before.’

  ‘It can’t stay this way for ever,’ said Abigail.

  ‘I remember a few years ago we had thick fog for a month,’ Daniel told her. ‘The city was the quietest I’ve ever known it. No sound at all. Everyone stayed indoors, with their coal fires on, throwing out even more foul-smelling smoke to add to the mix.’

  They entered the reception area and Daniel was relieved to see that someone he knew, Sergeant Riley, was manning the desk.

  ‘Good morning, Sean.’ He smiled, and was surprised to see that, instead of the usual welcoming smile in return, the sergeant looked back at him, obviously uncomfortable.

  ‘Mr Wilson.’ He nodded, but his attitude and facial expression remained polite but distant.

  We have a problem, thought Daniel. But aloud he asked in pleasant tones, ‘Is Inspector Feather available?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Sergeant Riley.

  ‘Do you know when he will be?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘I believe he’ll continue to be unavailable,’ replied Riley, and Daniel saw the discontent in the sergeant’s eyes at being forced to say the words.

  We’re barred, he realised. He smiled, nodded, and said, ‘I understand. Thank you, Sergeant.’ He began to turn away, then stopped and enquired, ‘Would it be all right for me to leave a message for him to say that I called?’

  Riley hesitated, looked around to see if he was being observed by anyone, before muttering, ‘If you give me the note, I’ll have it sent to his office.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Daniel smiled. He took his notebook from his pocket, tore out a page and wrote, We’re in reception. Yrs. Daniel. He folded the paper over and handed it to Riley, who passed it to a constable, grunting, ‘Take this to Inspector Feather’s office.’

  As Daniel and Abigail walked away from the desk towards the main doors, Abigail asked, ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘We’re barred,’ whispered Daniel.

  ‘Why?’ asked Abigail.