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charleygirlTitle: The Weeping Waxwork
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words:
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: General, mystery
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A case brought by the proprietor of a famous wax museum may be just what a bored and depressed Holmes needs...
Author's Note: Though Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum features heavily in this story, the members of the family featured are my own creation and bear no resemblance to any of the real Tussauds. I have used as much accuracy in my representation of the museum's history as possible, though I have stuck to Madame Tussaud's own slightly suspect version of her life story, as this would have been known to the public at the time.
THE WEEPING WAXWORK
CHAPTER ONE
When Holmes and I first moved into Baker Street we had a rather illustrious neighbour. Madame Tussaud’s famous wax museum had for some years been resident not far from our rooms, at the Baker Street Bazaar, and almost every time I passed the door I told myself that one afternoon I would pay the two shilling entrance fee and see the much-talked-about models for myself. Life with Holmes being so hectic, however, I never had, and in 1884 the business moved to a purpose-built establishment a short distance away in the Marylebone Road, conveniently close to the underground station.
Though those in charge of the exhibition had requested at regular intervals over the years that Holmes sit to one of their sculptors, he had always refused, quite rightly claiming that, though he enjoyed a certain celebrity thanks to my writings, the accompanying illustrations disguised his features enough for him to continue to operate in relative anonymity. Should his likeness be placed on display in the most celebrated waxworks in the world, his career would be over in an instant.
Thus neither of us had, despite its close proximity to our home, ever darkened the doors of Tussaud’s, and things would likely have remained that way had Mr Louis Tussaud, the director of the exhibition himself, not arrived upon our doorstep one murky evening in October.
***
Cases were scarce for Holmes that autumn, a temporary lull in the stream of clients who had come flocking to our door ever since my friend’s unexpected return to London three years before. As always when idle, Holmes had become depressed and irritable, his increasing bad temper forcing me out of the house for extended periods when I was not employed acting as locum for a colleague in Paddington. Even Mrs Hudson did not escape the sharp edge of his tongue, and informed me only that morning that if she was spoken to in such a manner again she would decamp to her sister’s and we could shift for ourselves.
“You may tell Mr Holmes that from me, sir, and see how he likes it,” she declared before vanishing into her own domain with his refused breakfast on a tray. It was no idle threat, and thus it was in my own interest to prevent such an occurrence, lest we be left to the mercy of my camp cooking, not practised for nearly twenty years.
At a loose end, I spent the day at my club, having managed to leave the house without encountering my fellow lodger. By the time I returned it was growing dark, and the beginnings of a storm were gathering, rain pattering upon the step as I let myself into the house. Above me I heard the mournful wailing of Holmes’s violin and groaned inwardly as the tune (if it could truly be called such) climbed higher and higher in pitch, the notes swirling around in an obscure and complex pattern. Clever it might have been, but easy on the ear it most certainly was not.
Mrs Hudson met me in the hall, tutting and shaking her head when I enquired as to Holmes’s mood.
“I don’t know what’s come over him, Doctor, really I don’t,” she said as she followed me up the stairs. “It’s a wonder he’s still alive, he’s eaten so little these past few weeks.”
“He is bored, Mrs Hudson,” I replied, “He needs a client, a new case.”
She sniffed. “Any normal person would take up a nice hobby,” she pronounced. “You want to tell him that, sir.”
Privately, I thought that I would be unwise to make such a suggestion to Holmes if I valued my future health and wellbeing, but I did not say as much to Mrs Hudson, instead merely assuring her that I would do what I could.
“If that’s all it would take, he should have pulled himself out of that mood by now,” she said as I hung up my coat and hat, “He had a client only this morning.”
“A client?” I repeated, my shock such that I dropped my gloves. “Today?”
“A dapper little Frenchman. He was quite distressed when Mr Holmes sent him off with a flea in his ear. He can’t be that bored, sir, if he can refuse work so easily,” said Mrs Hudson disapprovingly before she retreated below.
I found it hard to believe that Holmes would dismiss a case out of hand when he had no work, and determined to discover for myself exactly what had happened. As I took hold of the door handle I heard a loud snapping sound and a shout of fury followed by a stream of curses in French from the room beyond. Steeling myself for an unpleasant encounter, I opened the door.
The sitting room appeared to have been visited by a whirlwind. Papers littered every available surface: the table, the sofa, even the window sills were covered in folios and scrapbooks, disgorging their contents onto the floor. News-sheets littered the rug, trampled underfoot as my friend paced back and forth before the fire. Holmes’s precious Stradivarius lay abandoned on his desk, one of the strings quite clearly snapped and curling away from the bridge.
Holmes himself was haggard and drawn, the dark circles which had taken up residence beneath his eyes even more pronounced than before. Thick black hair fell over his forehead in an untidy mop, apparently disregarded when he rose that morning. He was wrapped in the familiar defensive armour of his mouse-coloured dressing gown, the day clothes beneath crumpled as though he had slept in them, or rather attempted to sleep as I was sure he had not had a good night’s rest for some time. His appearance was so at odds with his usual cat-like neatness that I could only view it as a physical manifestation of his disturbed state of mind. As I watched, his thin, nervous fingers searched the mantelpiece for a match to put to the cigarette he held in his other hand.
“So,” he said when the search bore fruit and he inhaled a long draught of smoke, “You have at last returned from your self-imposed seclusion.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. “My self-imposed seclusion? You are the one who has not left the house in nigh-on a fortnight!”
“Seclusion from me,” he clarified, throwing himself into his chair on the opposite side of the hearth. “You have been avoiding me.”
“Do you honestly blame me?” I asked unearthing my own armchair from beneath a pile of documents and sitting down. “You have bee prowling this room like a caged tiger for days.”
“I cannot deny it. My mind is racing itself to pieces with no problem to occupy it.”
“Mrs Hudson tells me you had a client this morning.”
He let out a humourless bark of laughter. “Ah, yes, Monsieur Hergé. I regretfully informed him that I could not assist.”
“Surely, with no other matters on hand you must be glad of any diversion,” I said, and received a baleful stare in return.
Holmes withdrew a card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to me. When I opened my mouth to query the action he merely pointed to the white oblong and nodded. I turned my eyes to the legend printed upon the pasteboard surface:
Monsieur Antoine Hergé and his Incredible Performing Poodles
“I believe that should tell you all you need to know about the case,” said Holmes.
“What is Monsieur Hergé’s problem?”
“Apart from his choice of profession? One of his poodles has gone missing. Apparently it is a unique animal, able to recite the alphabet, no less. I did point out to him that a talking dog must be so rare it would be easily spotted asking directions on the streets of London, but he did not appreciate the observation.”
“I should think not. You could at least have made an effort to help the man, Holmes,” I said, aware that I was taking my life in my hands as I did so.
His face contracted, and he exhaled a great cloud of blue smoke, black brows drawing sharply together. “Do the great unobservant public really believe I have nothing better to do with my time than chase around the metropolis after lost dogs?” he demanded. “Is this the depth to which my practice has finally sunk?”
“It would have occupied your attention for a few hours.”
“I pray that I am not yet reduced to scouring the streets for a talking canine in order to gain some entertainment,” he snapped, glaring at me and drawing his dressing gown closer about his spare frame. “I am not that desperate for a diversion.”
“No doubt the loss is important to Monsieur Hergé,” I said.
“I have directed him to Scotland Yard. They have far more experience in the department of missing pets than I if their swift recovery of the Countess of Neston’s cockatiel is anything to go by.”
“Holmes, you know full well that the bird merely happened to fly in through Gregson’s open window,” I told him, knowing that the denizens of the Yard would be less than impressed to find that a horde of distraught owners were likely to descend upon them in search of their beloved animals.
Thankfully, Mrs Hudson chose that moment to enter bearing a tray and I was spared any further discussion of the subject. I could smell something delicious, and my stomach rumbled in anticipation.
“I did not ring for supper,” Holmes declared in annoyance at this intrusion.
“I know,” our good landlady replied, nonchalantly laying the table. “However, though you may be determined upon starving yourself, Mr Holmes, I expect the Doctor is famished. The food at that club can hardly be called nourishing.”
“I am extremely hungry, Mrs Hudson, thank you,” I said, hurrying to take my seat. Holmes favoured us both with a venomous glare and lit another cigarette, stubbing out the remains of the first in an empty coffee cup at his elbow.
“You are very welcome, sir,” said Mrs Hudson, removing the lid from a dish of stew. “There is enough for two, should Mr Holmes feel like ending his abstinence today. God knows, he’ll be a walking skeleton before long if he doesn’t.” With this announcement hanging in the air, she shot Holmes a pointed glance and withdrew.
“Mrs Hudson is right, old man,” I said when the door had closed behind her. “You should eat. You’ll do your nerves no good at all carrying on like this.”
“Food does not interest me. It is my brain which needs sustenance, not my body,” came the expected reply.
I sighed, and turned my attention to my own meal. Though the spectre of the cocaine no longer hovered over us, he had fallen swiftly back into those other habits I recalled and deplored from the leaner days of the past. In truth, I had succumbed to a feeling of trepidation as to his reaction to such enforced idleness now that he could not longer take refuge in the drug – I was thankful that so far Holmes had behaved exactly as he always had before, albeit with an even sharper edge to his temper. Though he was quite clearly sleeping badly, his disturbed nights had not woken me, and I could only hope that he was managing to keep those black demons which plagued him at such times at bay.
“Your brain will not function if your body is deprived and exhausted,” I told him. “For goodness’s sake, sit down and eat. There is far too much here for one.”
He looked mutinous for a moment before drifting over to the window to stare out at Baker Street. It seemed that there was nothing stirring amongst the evening traffic, as he reached up and pulled the blind sharply down to hide the rain that splashed against the glass. His meanderings finally brought him to the table, and I poured him a glass of wine.
“Where have they gone, Watson?” he asked, slumping down in the chair opposite mine. “What has happened to the people with strange and perplexing problems? Has the public finally become tired of me, or have the criminal classes merely lost their ingenuity?”
“I doubt it is either,” I said. “Every profession has its slack time, Holmes, even mine. Why should yours be any exception?”
He gave me a rueful smile. “I suppose there is some truth in what you say. But I would welcome any difficulty at this moment, however trivial.”
“Monsieur Hergé - ” I began, but he silenced me with a look.
“Not that trivial, Watson. Something odd, something recherché, is what I need just now. Something to tempt my jaded palate. I - ” Holmes cocked his head to the side suddenly, listening. “There is someone at the door.”
I listened, too, having heard nothing until that moment but the steady patter of the rain upon the window. Sure enough, the front doorbell rang loudly below us. “Who could that be at this hour?” I wondered.
Holmes was immediately on his feet and disappeared into his bedroom faster than I had seen him move in weeks. Before I could say anything more there was a knock on the door and Mrs Hudson looked in.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Holmes, but there is a gentleman downstairs requesting an interview,” she said.
“His name, Mrs Hudson?” my friend called, slamming the door of his wardrobe. He re-entered the room a moment later, shrugging on his coat, having washed his face and tidied himself up somewhat.
“Mr Tussaud, from the waxworks,” our landlady replied. “He says he has an unusual matter to put before you.”
An old familiar gleam ignited in Holmes’s weary grey eyes, and his nostrils flared in anticipation. I looked at my half-eaten dish of stew and guessed that I would be reduced to a sandwich at some late hour to sate my hunger, as he said eagerly,
“Show him up, Mrs Hudson, show him up!”
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words:
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson
Genre: General, mystery
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: A case brought by the proprietor of a famous wax museum may be just what a bored and depressed Holmes needs...
Author's Note: Though Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum features heavily in this story, the members of the family featured are my own creation and bear no resemblance to any of the real Tussauds. I have used as much accuracy in my representation of the museum's history as possible, though I have stuck to Madame Tussaud's own slightly suspect version of her life story, as this would have been known to the public at the time.
THE WEEPING WAXWORK
CHAPTER ONE
When Holmes and I first moved into Baker Street we had a rather illustrious neighbour. Madame Tussaud’s famous wax museum had for some years been resident not far from our rooms, at the Baker Street Bazaar, and almost every time I passed the door I told myself that one afternoon I would pay the two shilling entrance fee and see the much-talked-about models for myself. Life with Holmes being so hectic, however, I never had, and in 1884 the business moved to a purpose-built establishment a short distance away in the Marylebone Road, conveniently close to the underground station.
Though those in charge of the exhibition had requested at regular intervals over the years that Holmes sit to one of their sculptors, he had always refused, quite rightly claiming that, though he enjoyed a certain celebrity thanks to my writings, the accompanying illustrations disguised his features enough for him to continue to operate in relative anonymity. Should his likeness be placed on display in the most celebrated waxworks in the world, his career would be over in an instant.
Thus neither of us had, despite its close proximity to our home, ever darkened the doors of Tussaud’s, and things would likely have remained that way had Mr Louis Tussaud, the director of the exhibition himself, not arrived upon our doorstep one murky evening in October.
***
Cases were scarce for Holmes that autumn, a temporary lull in the stream of clients who had come flocking to our door ever since my friend’s unexpected return to London three years before. As always when idle, Holmes had become depressed and irritable, his increasing bad temper forcing me out of the house for extended periods when I was not employed acting as locum for a colleague in Paddington. Even Mrs Hudson did not escape the sharp edge of his tongue, and informed me only that morning that if she was spoken to in such a manner again she would decamp to her sister’s and we could shift for ourselves.
“You may tell Mr Holmes that from me, sir, and see how he likes it,” she declared before vanishing into her own domain with his refused breakfast on a tray. It was no idle threat, and thus it was in my own interest to prevent such an occurrence, lest we be left to the mercy of my camp cooking, not practised for nearly twenty years.
At a loose end, I spent the day at my club, having managed to leave the house without encountering my fellow lodger. By the time I returned it was growing dark, and the beginnings of a storm were gathering, rain pattering upon the step as I let myself into the house. Above me I heard the mournful wailing of Holmes’s violin and groaned inwardly as the tune (if it could truly be called such) climbed higher and higher in pitch, the notes swirling around in an obscure and complex pattern. Clever it might have been, but easy on the ear it most certainly was not.
Mrs Hudson met me in the hall, tutting and shaking her head when I enquired as to Holmes’s mood.
“I don’t know what’s come over him, Doctor, really I don’t,” she said as she followed me up the stairs. “It’s a wonder he’s still alive, he’s eaten so little these past few weeks.”
“He is bored, Mrs Hudson,” I replied, “He needs a client, a new case.”
She sniffed. “Any normal person would take up a nice hobby,” she pronounced. “You want to tell him that, sir.”
Privately, I thought that I would be unwise to make such a suggestion to Holmes if I valued my future health and wellbeing, but I did not say as much to Mrs Hudson, instead merely assuring her that I would do what I could.
“If that’s all it would take, he should have pulled himself out of that mood by now,” she said as I hung up my coat and hat, “He had a client only this morning.”
“A client?” I repeated, my shock such that I dropped my gloves. “Today?”
“A dapper little Frenchman. He was quite distressed when Mr Holmes sent him off with a flea in his ear. He can’t be that bored, sir, if he can refuse work so easily,” said Mrs Hudson disapprovingly before she retreated below.
I found it hard to believe that Holmes would dismiss a case out of hand when he had no work, and determined to discover for myself exactly what had happened. As I took hold of the door handle I heard a loud snapping sound and a shout of fury followed by a stream of curses in French from the room beyond. Steeling myself for an unpleasant encounter, I opened the door.
The sitting room appeared to have been visited by a whirlwind. Papers littered every available surface: the table, the sofa, even the window sills were covered in folios and scrapbooks, disgorging their contents onto the floor. News-sheets littered the rug, trampled underfoot as my friend paced back and forth before the fire. Holmes’s precious Stradivarius lay abandoned on his desk, one of the strings quite clearly snapped and curling away from the bridge.
Holmes himself was haggard and drawn, the dark circles which had taken up residence beneath his eyes even more pronounced than before. Thick black hair fell over his forehead in an untidy mop, apparently disregarded when he rose that morning. He was wrapped in the familiar defensive armour of his mouse-coloured dressing gown, the day clothes beneath crumpled as though he had slept in them, or rather attempted to sleep as I was sure he had not had a good night’s rest for some time. His appearance was so at odds with his usual cat-like neatness that I could only view it as a physical manifestation of his disturbed state of mind. As I watched, his thin, nervous fingers searched the mantelpiece for a match to put to the cigarette he held in his other hand.
“So,” he said when the search bore fruit and he inhaled a long draught of smoke, “You have at last returned from your self-imposed seclusion.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. “My self-imposed seclusion? You are the one who has not left the house in nigh-on a fortnight!”
“Seclusion from me,” he clarified, throwing himself into his chair on the opposite side of the hearth. “You have been avoiding me.”
“Do you honestly blame me?” I asked unearthing my own armchair from beneath a pile of documents and sitting down. “You have bee prowling this room like a caged tiger for days.”
“I cannot deny it. My mind is racing itself to pieces with no problem to occupy it.”
“Mrs Hudson tells me you had a client this morning.”
He let out a humourless bark of laughter. “Ah, yes, Monsieur Hergé. I regretfully informed him that I could not assist.”
“Surely, with no other matters on hand you must be glad of any diversion,” I said, and received a baleful stare in return.
Holmes withdrew a card from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to me. When I opened my mouth to query the action he merely pointed to the white oblong and nodded. I turned my eyes to the legend printed upon the pasteboard surface:
“I believe that should tell you all you need to know about the case,” said Holmes.
“What is Monsieur Hergé’s problem?”
“Apart from his choice of profession? One of his poodles has gone missing. Apparently it is a unique animal, able to recite the alphabet, no less. I did point out to him that a talking dog must be so rare it would be easily spotted asking directions on the streets of London, but he did not appreciate the observation.”
“I should think not. You could at least have made an effort to help the man, Holmes,” I said, aware that I was taking my life in my hands as I did so.
His face contracted, and he exhaled a great cloud of blue smoke, black brows drawing sharply together. “Do the great unobservant public really believe I have nothing better to do with my time than chase around the metropolis after lost dogs?” he demanded. “Is this the depth to which my practice has finally sunk?”
“It would have occupied your attention for a few hours.”
“I pray that I am not yet reduced to scouring the streets for a talking canine in order to gain some entertainment,” he snapped, glaring at me and drawing his dressing gown closer about his spare frame. “I am not that desperate for a diversion.”
“No doubt the loss is important to Monsieur Hergé,” I said.
“I have directed him to Scotland Yard. They have far more experience in the department of missing pets than I if their swift recovery of the Countess of Neston’s cockatiel is anything to go by.”
“Holmes, you know full well that the bird merely happened to fly in through Gregson’s open window,” I told him, knowing that the denizens of the Yard would be less than impressed to find that a horde of distraught owners were likely to descend upon them in search of their beloved animals.
Thankfully, Mrs Hudson chose that moment to enter bearing a tray and I was spared any further discussion of the subject. I could smell something delicious, and my stomach rumbled in anticipation.
“I did not ring for supper,” Holmes declared in annoyance at this intrusion.
“I know,” our good landlady replied, nonchalantly laying the table. “However, though you may be determined upon starving yourself, Mr Holmes, I expect the Doctor is famished. The food at that club can hardly be called nourishing.”
“I am extremely hungry, Mrs Hudson, thank you,” I said, hurrying to take my seat. Holmes favoured us both with a venomous glare and lit another cigarette, stubbing out the remains of the first in an empty coffee cup at his elbow.
“You are very welcome, sir,” said Mrs Hudson, removing the lid from a dish of stew. “There is enough for two, should Mr Holmes feel like ending his abstinence today. God knows, he’ll be a walking skeleton before long if he doesn’t.” With this announcement hanging in the air, she shot Holmes a pointed glance and withdrew.
“Mrs Hudson is right, old man,” I said when the door had closed behind her. “You should eat. You’ll do your nerves no good at all carrying on like this.”
“Food does not interest me. It is my brain which needs sustenance, not my body,” came the expected reply.
I sighed, and turned my attention to my own meal. Though the spectre of the cocaine no longer hovered over us, he had fallen swiftly back into those other habits I recalled and deplored from the leaner days of the past. In truth, I had succumbed to a feeling of trepidation as to his reaction to such enforced idleness now that he could not longer take refuge in the drug – I was thankful that so far Holmes had behaved exactly as he always had before, albeit with an even sharper edge to his temper. Though he was quite clearly sleeping badly, his disturbed nights had not woken me, and I could only hope that he was managing to keep those black demons which plagued him at such times at bay.
“Your brain will not function if your body is deprived and exhausted,” I told him. “For goodness’s sake, sit down and eat. There is far too much here for one.”
He looked mutinous for a moment before drifting over to the window to stare out at Baker Street. It seemed that there was nothing stirring amongst the evening traffic, as he reached up and pulled the blind sharply down to hide the rain that splashed against the glass. His meanderings finally brought him to the table, and I poured him a glass of wine.
“Where have they gone, Watson?” he asked, slumping down in the chair opposite mine. “What has happened to the people with strange and perplexing problems? Has the public finally become tired of me, or have the criminal classes merely lost their ingenuity?”
“I doubt it is either,” I said. “Every profession has its slack time, Holmes, even mine. Why should yours be any exception?”
He gave me a rueful smile. “I suppose there is some truth in what you say. But I would welcome any difficulty at this moment, however trivial.”
“Monsieur Hergé - ” I began, but he silenced me with a look.
“Not that trivial, Watson. Something odd, something recherché, is what I need just now. Something to tempt my jaded palate. I - ” Holmes cocked his head to the side suddenly, listening. “There is someone at the door.”
I listened, too, having heard nothing until that moment but the steady patter of the rain upon the window. Sure enough, the front doorbell rang loudly below us. “Who could that be at this hour?” I wondered.
Holmes was immediately on his feet and disappeared into his bedroom faster than I had seen him move in weeks. Before I could say anything more there was a knock on the door and Mrs Hudson looked in.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Holmes, but there is a gentleman downstairs requesting an interview,” she said.
“His name, Mrs Hudson?” my friend called, slamming the door of his wardrobe. He re-entered the room a moment later, shrugging on his coat, having washed his face and tidied himself up somewhat.
“Mr Tussaud, from the waxworks,” our landlady replied. “He says he has an unusual matter to put before you.”
An old familiar gleam ignited in Holmes’s weary grey eyes, and his nostrils flared in anticipation. I looked at my half-eaten dish of stew and guessed that I would be reduced to a sandwich at some late hour to sate my hunger, as he said eagerly,
“Show him up, Mrs Hudson, show him up!”
TBC
