charleygirl | Fic | Sherlock Holmes | The Weeping Waxwork 2/?

Title: The Weeping Waxwork 2/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1946
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: Mr Tussaud tells a tale...
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.

Chapter One

THE WEEPING WAXWORK

CHAPTER TWO

Between us, Holmes and I hurriedly tried to put the room in some sort of order, shoving papers and commonplace books behind chairs and under the table. Holmes took a huge pile of news-sheets and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor of his bedroom, quickly shutting the door to hide the resultant mess. I was pushing a teetering pile of folios beneath the sofa when Mrs Hudson returned with our unexpected visitor.

Tussaud’s had been one of the sights of London for fifty years, and I knew that the director of such a prosperous business would not be calling upon us without good reason. Mr Louis Tussaud, grandson of the great Madame Marie, was a man of middling height in late middle-age, his round face dominated by a pair of large brown eyes and a shock of snow-white hair, with impressive whiskers to match. He had the air of a successful, if somewhat harassed, man of business: impeccably dressed but with obvious lines of stress upon his forehead.

“I am sorry to bother you at this hour, Mr Holmes,” he said, his gaze sweeping around the room and resting upon the abandoned dishes on the table. “I have interrupted your supper - ”

“Think nothing of it, Mr Tussaud,” Holmes declared, waving a dismissive hand. His lethargy had dissipated in an instant, the demons banished by the most effective medicine available: work. “Pray sit down and tell us what brings you here in advance of closing time. It must be something of importance for you to have walked from the Marylebone Road in such weather without a pair of galoshes.”

I glanced at the clock, and also surreptitiously at Tussaud’s ankles – his trouser legs were soaked, and the time was a quarter to eight. The waxworks did not usually close until nine o’clock in the evening.

“Quite so, Mr Holmes, quite so,” said Tussaud as he sat down upon the sofa. “My daughter asked that I come and lay the facts before you. It did not seem like a matter for the police, and as we are practically neighbours - ”

Holmes smiled and threw himself into his armchair. “Yes, indeed. Do tell me – I am all attention.” He folded his hands together and closed his eyes.

Tussaud looked surprised at this behaviour, and glanced at me in consternation. I knew the pose of old, and that despite appearances to the contrary it did indeed signify that Holmes was listening intently – I nodded encouragingly, so the waxworks director shrugged and said, “Well, I am sure you are aware of my family’s history, gentlemen – my grandmother’s business was founded upon her survival of the Revolution in France, and we have always endeavoured to maintain that connection. In addition to the wax models she brought with her from Paris, we have built up an extensive collection of items associated with Napoleon Bonaparte, which has always proved popular with visitors.”

“So I believe,” I said, recalling the recommendation of the exhibition to me by one of my patients some years ago. He had been quite delighted at being allowed to sit in the very coach captured from the emperor on the battlefield of Waterloo. I privately doubted the long-term survival of such relics if they continued to be treated as playthings.

“My youngest daughter looks after the models’ clothes,” Tussaud continued. “We are a family firm, always have been, and we all have our own speciality. My son Jacques and daughter Louise are accomplished sculptors, for example. Madeleine is our costumier – every morning before we open to the public she checks that all the clothes are clean and tidy and as they should be. She takes particular care of the French royal family, one of our most enduring tableaux.”

“King Louis XVI, Queen Marie Antoinette, the Dauphin – later Louis XVII – and Madame Royale, who became Duchess de Anglouemé,” said Holmes swiftly.

Tussaud looked impressed. “Exactly so, Mr Holmes.”

“Holmes also has a French grandmother,” I told him, earning myself a scowl from my friend.

“The likenesses were modelled by the late Madame Marie Tussaud, were they not?” he asked.

“They were indeed, from life at Versailles before the Revolution. During the Terror my grandmother was forced by the Commune to make death masks of the royal couple following their executions, but those are displayed separately in the exhibition,” said Tussaud. “However, it was not of our history that I came to speak. The fact is, Mr Holmes, that my daughter Madeleine believes the galleries may be haunted!”

“Haunted?” I repeated in surprise.

Holmes opened one eye. “Do you agree with this pronouncement?”

“No, Mr Holmes, I do not,” the director said firmly. “Though we may display the likenesses of many famous figures from times past, I am sure that they would have better things to do in the hereafter than skulk around our humble exhibition.”

“Exactly what form does this alleged haunting take?”

“The wax model of Marie Antoinette has been found in the morning with tears upon its cheeks. I do not believe it to be possible for a wax image to cry, Mr Holmes, no matter what the apparent evidence from religious shrines around the world,” Tussaud said. “I have never heard of such a thing happening in any wax museum before, but Madeleine is adamant that she has seen the tears, and our night-watchman has apparently heard weeping in the Grand Chamber as he makes his rounds. What am I to make of that?”

“What indeed..?” murmured Holmes, smiling slightly.

“How long has this strange phenomena been going on?” I asked, quite amazed by the story.

“For a week, so I am told. I have been in France for the past few days giving my opinion on an exhibition in Paris, or I would have been told of it sooner. At first my daughter thought that there might be a leak in the ceiling above the Marie Antoinette figure, but she had the maintenance men check the roof and they found nothing. It was only after Harrison mentioned the noises he had heard that she came to me,” Tussaud explained. “She specifically asked that I should put the matter before you, but I can only apologise for bringing such a trivial matter to your attention.”

There was a long pause when our visitor ceased to speak – Holmes said not a word, his brow furrowed in concentration, fingers steepled before his lips. Tussaud watched him for some moments, perplexed at his lack of reaction, and finally started up from his seat, declaring,

“I am sorry to have wasted your time, Mr Holmes - ”

“Not at all, not at all!” my friend exclaimed, leaping up to take the director by the elbows and lead him back to the sofa. “This story is most intriguing to be sure. Your night-watchman is quite certain that it was a human voice he heard in the gallery?”

“So he believes. Harrison is not a fanciful man.”

Holmes nodded. “When would it be convenient for me to view the Marie Antoinette figure and speak with both your daughter and Mr Harrison?” he enquired.

Tussaud’s face blossomed with surprise, his bushy eyebrows rising towards his hairline. “You take this matter seriously?”

“Indeed I do, Mr Tussaud. It contains some most interesting points.”

“Well, tomorrow morning before the exhibition opens would be the best time for you to come – my daughter will be checking the figures and Harrison does not end his shift until eight o’clock.”

“Excellent.” Holmes smiled broadly. “Shall we say a quarter to eight, then?”

Tussaud agreed, and the arrangement was made, much to my dismay.

“Holmes, a quarter to eight in the morning - ” I protested when our client had left us to return to his wax charges. “That is - ”

My friend’s smile became a smirk. “My dear fellow, I can easily go alone. If you prefer to remain within the arms of Morpheus I would not dream of preventing you. But - ”

I sighed, shaking my head. “Of course not.”

“Bravo, Watson!” He tapped my shoulder delightedly and skipped past me to the door, throwing it open and practically singing out, “Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson…”

“Mr Holmes?” The good woman’s voice, heavy with resignation, came drifting up the stairs.

Holmes leaned over the banisters. “Would you possibly have something a little more substantial for a late supper?” he asked with a persuasive smile and a wheedling tone he sometimes used upon me. “I suddenly find I have an appetite.”

There was a long pause. After her previous treatment, Mrs Hudson was not about to give in without a little resistance. “And what exactly did you have in mind, sir?” she enquired eventually.

“Well, I do seem to recall seeing a brace of pigeon in your basket this morning…”

“Pigeon? Mr Holmes, do you have any idea how long it will take to roast a bird? It will be nearly ten before you eat!”

“That is of no matter! Watson and I have other things to occupy us for the moment, do we not, Doctor?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” I agreed, thinking wistfully of my now-cold stew and trying to ignore the rumbling that was still making itself felt in my stomach.

Mrs Hudson sighed, but I could imagine the smile that must have been trying to creep onto her face. “Very well, Mr Holmes.”

“Thank you! Well, Watson,” said he as he packed his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper, “what do you make of our client’s tale?”

“Surely it is fantastical and utterly impossible,” I said. “A waxwork is not a living thing – it cannot talk, move or weep.”

“And yet there is something uncomfortably lifelike about a wax figure, is there not? There is that moment of uncertainty when one is not sure whether it will move, just after we have glanced away.”

“But it will not,” I insisted. “It cannot!”

“Of course.” His pipe drawing to his satisfaction, Holmes moved to the bookshelf above my desk and took down one of the biographical dictionaries which stood there. His long fingers flickered through the pages until he found whatever it was he sought. “Now, that is interesting.”

“What is?” I asked, glancing at the table and wondering whether the cold stew was in any way still edible.

“The date, Watson, the date.” He presented me with the book and tapped the open page. “Does that not strike you as significant?”

“No, why should it?” I looked at the entry, which was a rather long and involved one, my eyes searching for a likely set of numbers. At the foot of the page, a date did at last leap out at me: the 16th of October 1793. I returned to the top and realised that the piece was a history of Queen Marie Antoinette.

“In two days’ time it is the anniversary of the French queen’s execution,” said Holmes.

“What of it? Surely there is no one living now who would wish to commemorate such an event!”

“You would be surprised, Watson. Remember your own initial assessment of the Six Napoleons affair?”

I blinked in surprise that he should mention my diagnosis, as he had swiftly dismissed it at the time. “The idée fix? You think we may be dealing with someone of diseased mind this time?”

He smiled slightly and shook his head. “I did not say that.”

“Then what do you think?”

“At present, I think nothing. As I have said before, it is a capital mistake to theorise in advance of the facts. We shall see what Marie Antoinette herself can tell us tomorrow.”

TBC