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charleygirlTitle: The Weeping Waxwork 3/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2957
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: An audience with Her wax Majesty...
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 Chapter Two
THE WEEPING WAXWORK
CHAPTER THREE
And so it was that we presented ourselves punctually at a quarter to eight the following morning at the tradesman’s entrance of Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, the public doors not opened until nine o’clock sharp.
We were met by a small, timid woman in conservative clothes who introduced herself as Madeleine Tussaud, costumier and youngest daughter of the director. Her pale brown hair, slight build and the drab shade of her gown put me in mind of a wren, and her quick, darting movements were just as bird-like. She explained that her father thought it best she should show us the model exactly as she had found it that morning, and we would be joined there by Harrison the night-watchman.
“Thank you for coming, Mr Holmes,” she said as she led us through the warren of passages and workrooms which lay behind the glossy veneer of the exhibition. On our journey I glimpsed rooms full of ghoulishly decapitated and discarded bodies in various states of undress; another which seemed to contain no more than shelf upon shelf of disembodied heads, the eyes of which all appeared to be directed at me; yet another packed with costumes of all kinds, rather like the tiring room of a prestigious theatre. It was certainly a fascinating, if somewhat unnerving, place.
“It is my pleasure, Miss Tussaud,” Holmes replied, betraying none of the disquiet I myself felt. His eyes darted back and forth, taking in every detail of our surroundings.
“I do not think my father believes my story,” the lady continued, a little nervously. “It is fanciful, I know, but I cannot deny what I have seen this past week.”
“Your father told us you initially sought a rational explanation,” I remarked, narrowly avoiding a collision with a gesticulating figure of George IV which was being pushed along the corridor on a trolley, the head lolling drunkenly to one side.
“Of course, Doctor Watson. What else could I do? I am not a person who usually believes in the supernatural.”
“But the men who made the examination of the roof found nothing,” said Holmes.
“Nothing at all. Above the Grand Chamber is a network of storerooms and offices, and no leak could be found in any of them. The ceiling directly over Marie Antoinette is also completely sound,” Miss Tussaud replied. “It was when the workmen were making their investigations that Harrison came to me and told me he had heard someone crying in the chamber at night.”
“Who has access to the building following the closure of the exhibition at nine o’clock?”
“Only the night-watchman and the porter who stays on duty at the entrance. We have had drunken attempts to liberate some of the figures in the past,” she added in explanation. “My father of course has keys to all the doors, but he is only called out in an emergency after hours. Otherwise, his deputy has access to the main doors.”
“This deputy being - ?”
“My brother Claude.”
“So no one else would have been able to enter the building after hours?”
Miss Tussaud shook her head. “Even I would not be able to get inside without first securing the assistance of someone with a key.”
“The porter and the night-watchman are I take it trustworthy men?”
“They have been with us many years and can be trusted implicitly.”
Holmes nodded. “Quite so. Ah, this I take it is the end of the working area.”
We quite abruptly had found ourselves in the public section of the building: only a green baize door separated slightly shabby and bustling back room from stately elegance. Via a long gallery we made our way through to the space termed the Grand Chamber, a large Rococo-style room lined with tall mirrors and liberally gilded, filled with carefully-posed tableaux of wax figures. Between these were set ottomans and comfortable seating for those who wished to meet and converse while viewing the models. Over the entrance was a small promontory, where the music stands and chairs led me to assume that at some time during the day an orchestra would provide added entertainment.
I knew that Holmes would not be interested in the identities of the wax portraits through which we made our way, but for my part I noticed amongst others Lord Nelson and the buxom Lady Hamilton; the Duke of Wellington; Florence Nightingale; the Swedish Nightingale, Jenny Lind; Ellen Terry and Henry Irving as their characters in Macbeth, and many more I will not try the reader’s patience by listing here. The figures had been executed with the skilled delicacy of touch for which Tussaud’s was justly famous. I found myself recalling my friend’s words of the night before, and my own dismissive response – now, however, surrounded by such lifelike figures on all sides, I found myself wondering whether one of them might have moved just a little.
“These are new models taken from the original moulds made by my great-grandmother in Paris,” said Miss Tussaud as we reached a group of four models set aside in an alcove. The king was seated, opulent in his coat of primrose satin, diamond-buckled shoes and powdered wig; behind and slightly to his right stood the queen, her towering headdress topped with the ostrich feathers familiar from many of her portraits. Before them, almost in an attitude of play, were their two children: the doomed Dauphin, Louis Charles, innocent and angelic; his sister Marie Thérese, the only member of the family to survive the Revolution, rather more serious.
“Exactly what form do these ‘tears’ take?” asked Holmes, his sharp eye running over the little family group.
“You may see for yourself, Mr Holmes – they appeared again this morning,” Miss Tussaud responded.
I followed Holmes to the side of the French queen. To my surprise and astonishment, quite plainly upon her waxen cheeks were the tracks of teardrops. Water lingered around her eyelids and lashes, the slight upturn of her lips giving the impression that she was smiling through her grief.
I must have been staring open-mouthed at the sight, for Holmes glanced at me in amusement. “Any thoughts, Watson?” he enquired.
“Eh?” I shook myself, startled back to reality. “Oh…I have never seen anything like it. How is it achieved?”
“Not through any supernatural agency, of that I am sure,” he replied as he reached inside his coat and withdrew his magnifying glass. He then proceeded to make an examination which anyone unaware of Holmes’s general aversion to women may have found uncomfortable to watch. I had never seen him in such proximity to a member of the fair sex before, and am sure I will never see it again, his closeness on this occasion being entirely due to the fact that the woman in question was made of wax rather than living flesh.
Miss Tussaud watched his examinations with an understandable expression of bemusement. Holmes himself paid no attention to his audience, consumed with concentration as he peered intently into the French queen’s face, and then proceeded to investigate every fold of her elaborate clothing.
This procedure went on for so long that at last I felt compelled to make some sort of conversation. “You say your great-grandmother made these models herself?” I asked our guide.
She nodded, coming alive a little when talking of her family’s history. “They were sculpted at Versailles, in the years leading up to the Revolution. My great-grandmother was teacher of wax modelling to Madame Elisabeth, the king’s sister. The moulds were brought to England at the turn of the century when Madame Marie decided to take the collection she had inherited from her mentor Monsieur Curtuis across the Channel to make some money. Before she settled here in London she spent more than thirty years travelling up and down the British Isles - she would exhibit in theatres and assembly rooms.”
“And this exhibition grew from those humble beginnings?”
“Yes, indeed, although there were at least two grand salons in Paris in the 1770s and 80s. Even during the Terror one of them remained open, the heads of the wax figures changing almost as quickly as the real ones were removed by Madame Guillotine,” said Miss Tussaud with a shudder. “My great-grandmother’s prowess as a wax modeller was the only reason she was allowed to keep her own head. We have some of the death masks she made at the gravesides in the Chamber of Horrors, if you would care to see them.”
I was wondering how best to respond to this grisly invitation when Holmes, evidently having completely his investigation of Marie Antoinette’s person, said, “May we speak with Mr Harrison the night-watchman now?”
***
Miss Tussaud hurried off through the wax throng to fetch the man.
Left alone, Holmes dropped to the floor and began a minute examination of the expensive carpet, his lens barely an inch from its surface. Waiting for him to find whatever it was he was apparently expecting to find, I glanced around the large room, feeling uncomfortable and a little claustrophobic with so many glass eyes upon me. The mirrors hanging from every wall gave the impression that the space was many times bigger than was actually the case, the reflections continuing on into infinity as they bounced back and forth.
At length, Holmes sat back with a cry of triumph. I turned to see what he had discovered and found him lifting Marie Antoinette’s voluminous skirts.
“Holmes!” I scolded, quite scandalised that he should do such a thing, even to a model. “Have a little respect, please!”
He rolled his eyes. “There is nothing beneath but wood and straw, Watson. Come and look,” he said, handing me the glass and pointing to the carpet.
Reluctantly, I took the lens and crouched down to look. To my surprise, not only did Marie Antoinette have no feet, there being instead two sturdy beams of wood under her skirts, but there was also a very definite footprint upon the carpet which had been concealed by the hem of her dress.
“Made last night, I should say, given the consistency of the mud and the state of the weather,” Holmes announced.
“But, surely it could just have been made by a late visitor,” I objected.
“No, no, no, the model has been very carefully moved to hide it. You can see here the indentation in the pile of the carpet where her Gallic majesty is accustomed to stand. Someone shifted the figure ever so slightly to conceal this mark.” Holmes tapped a finger thoughtfully against his lips. “Our nocturnal visitor is a clever woman.”
“A woman?” I sat back upon my heels. “How can you possibly tell that?”
Holmes smiled slightly and reached into his pocket once more to draw out a tape measure, which he used to check the length of the footprint. “Seven and a half inches. And you see the delicately pointed toe and the faint impression of the heel? That style of boot was very fashionable some five or six years ago. If I am not mistaken, this light-footed lady, whoever she is, has come upon difficult times.”
I would have asked him to explain further, but just then we were rejoined by Miss Tussaud, accompanied by a stocky, upright gentleman with a balding head and a crooked nose who could only be the exhibition’s night-watchman.
“This is Mr Thomas Harrison,” Miss Tussaud said. “He has worked for the firm for many years and is of exemplary character – you may believe his word to be the absolute truth.”
“Thank you, Miss Tussaud,” Holmes replied, and she withdrew, leaving us with Mr Harrison. An old soldier such as myself could immediately recognise the parade ground in the manner in which he stood at ease with his hands folded behind his back, and I was not surprised when Holmes said, “It must have been a bitter blow for you to have been invalided from the army at such a young age, though am sure your obvious talent in the ring made up for it in part.”
Harrison looked dumbfounded for a moment, before a slow smile crept over his battered face. “I see it’s just as they say, Mr Holmes. You’re a wizard and that’s a fact.”
My friend gave that twitch of the lips which approximated a smile. “Were that the truth I would need no assistance in solving this mystery. It is no trick – your very person tells me all I need to know about you.”
“Is that the truth? I never knew my body said so much, sir.”
Holmes glances at me and arched an eyebrow. “Watson?”
“Your military bearing is obvious,” I said, “as is the limp which is very pronounced in your right leg.”
“And the fact that you are quite naturally and comfortably accommodating that limp makes it clear that the injury was inflicted some considerable time ago,” Holmes added.
“That’s quite true, sir, quite true,” said Harrison, nodding. “There was an accident with the loading of a musket – Johnnie Raw put in too much powder and the thing went off early. Discharged a round straight into my thigh, it did. I was lucky not to lose the leg. But the boxing, sir?”
“Your upper body is considerably more developed than the lower. When I observe that you have quite the cauliflower ear and your nose has been broken in at least three places at different times, the matter becomes even simpler. Shall we?” Holmes gestured to a nearby ottoman, and we sat, Harrison looking a little uncomfortable at taking a rest in the main gallery when still on duty. “Will you tell me exactly what occurred in this room on the night you first heard the weeping?”
“Very well, sir. I come on duty when the exhibition closes at nine - it’s my job to lock up and make sure there’s no stragglers left behind in the galleries,” the night-watchman said. “It’s a lonely job, as you can imagine – me and the porter who stays on watch at the front entrance are the only living souls left in the building. There’s some here not stayed above a week because they find it uncomfortable to be near the figures too long, but you gets used to them. We’re old friends now – many’s the night old Boney and I have shared a drink to keep out the cold.”
“Quite. Do you patrol the building in a regular pattern every night?”
“I start on the ground floor and work my way up, check the offices and the workrooms and then come up the main staircase to the galleries. I come in here, move on to the Napoleon rooms and then finally the Horrors. That can set you hair on end in the dead of night, sir, believe you me!”
“I can imagine it would,” I agreed with a shudder. “Not something I would like to do!”
Holmes ignored me. “And you make this circuit…?”
“Three times in a night, sir. It was on my second trip round that I heard a strange noise in here,” said Harrison. “I called out, but there was no answer, so I turned on the lights.”
“And you saw no one?”
“No one at all, sir. The next night it happened again, and again there was no one to be seen. It wasn’t until the third time I heard it that I realised it was the sound of a woman crying. The following day I mentioned it to Mr Claude, but he just told me I must be imagining it.”
“And so you told no one else until you became aware of Miss Madeleine Tussaud’s discovery of tears upon the wax figure of Marie Antoinette.”
“Exactly, sir. It seemed like too much of a coincidence.”
Holmes nodded. “It was indeed. Tell me, what is your own theory as to the cause of these strange events?”
The old soldier was quiet for some moments before he looked most seriously at us both. “Ordinarily I’m not a fanciful man, Mr Holmes, but with no rational reason for the sounds I heard…I can only think that this place really is haunted!”
“I very much doubt that,” said Holmes with another of his swift smiles. “If that were indeed the case then the solution would be quite beyond my means, and I do believe I will have the solution shortly.”
Harrison looked surprised. “You do, sir? What do you think it is?”
“Ah, I regret that I cannot say as yet. I have several clues which I must put to the test before I can give anyone an answer. I will, however, need to speak with Miss Tussaud before I leave, if you would be so good as to show me the way..?” Holmes glanced at me. “I will meet you back at Baker Street, Watson.”
With that he hurried off, and I returned to 221B alone, puzzled but relieved to be away from the fixed stares of the horribly life-like models. I remained there for an hour but Holmes did not reappear. He was still not back by the time I was due to start upon my rounds and so I left the house and took a cab to Paddington to begin my locum work.
I was away for most of the day, and when I did reach Baker Street once more it was raining. I was wet and cold and desperate for my dinner. By now I expected Holmes to have returned, and I was not disappointed in this.
What I did not expect to meet my eyes, however, in the centre of our dining table and surrounded by neatly-laid crockery and china, was a severed head.
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2957
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: An audience with Her wax Majesty...
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 Chapter Two
THE WEEPING WAXWORK
CHAPTER THREE
And so it was that we presented ourselves punctually at a quarter to eight the following morning at the tradesman’s entrance of Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, the public doors not opened until nine o’clock sharp.
We were met by a small, timid woman in conservative clothes who introduced herself as Madeleine Tussaud, costumier and youngest daughter of the director. Her pale brown hair, slight build and the drab shade of her gown put me in mind of a wren, and her quick, darting movements were just as bird-like. She explained that her father thought it best she should show us the model exactly as she had found it that morning, and we would be joined there by Harrison the night-watchman.
“Thank you for coming, Mr Holmes,” she said as she led us through the warren of passages and workrooms which lay behind the glossy veneer of the exhibition. On our journey I glimpsed rooms full of ghoulishly decapitated and discarded bodies in various states of undress; another which seemed to contain no more than shelf upon shelf of disembodied heads, the eyes of which all appeared to be directed at me; yet another packed with costumes of all kinds, rather like the tiring room of a prestigious theatre. It was certainly a fascinating, if somewhat unnerving, place.
“It is my pleasure, Miss Tussaud,” Holmes replied, betraying none of the disquiet I myself felt. His eyes darted back and forth, taking in every detail of our surroundings.
“I do not think my father believes my story,” the lady continued, a little nervously. “It is fanciful, I know, but I cannot deny what I have seen this past week.”
“Your father told us you initially sought a rational explanation,” I remarked, narrowly avoiding a collision with a gesticulating figure of George IV which was being pushed along the corridor on a trolley, the head lolling drunkenly to one side.
“Of course, Doctor Watson. What else could I do? I am not a person who usually believes in the supernatural.”
“But the men who made the examination of the roof found nothing,” said Holmes.
“Nothing at all. Above the Grand Chamber is a network of storerooms and offices, and no leak could be found in any of them. The ceiling directly over Marie Antoinette is also completely sound,” Miss Tussaud replied. “It was when the workmen were making their investigations that Harrison came to me and told me he had heard someone crying in the chamber at night.”
“Who has access to the building following the closure of the exhibition at nine o’clock?”
“Only the night-watchman and the porter who stays on duty at the entrance. We have had drunken attempts to liberate some of the figures in the past,” she added in explanation. “My father of course has keys to all the doors, but he is only called out in an emergency after hours. Otherwise, his deputy has access to the main doors.”
“This deputy being - ?”
“My brother Claude.”
“So no one else would have been able to enter the building after hours?”
Miss Tussaud shook her head. “Even I would not be able to get inside without first securing the assistance of someone with a key.”
“The porter and the night-watchman are I take it trustworthy men?”
“They have been with us many years and can be trusted implicitly.”
Holmes nodded. “Quite so. Ah, this I take it is the end of the working area.”
We quite abruptly had found ourselves in the public section of the building: only a green baize door separated slightly shabby and bustling back room from stately elegance. Via a long gallery we made our way through to the space termed the Grand Chamber, a large Rococo-style room lined with tall mirrors and liberally gilded, filled with carefully-posed tableaux of wax figures. Between these were set ottomans and comfortable seating for those who wished to meet and converse while viewing the models. Over the entrance was a small promontory, where the music stands and chairs led me to assume that at some time during the day an orchestra would provide added entertainment.
I knew that Holmes would not be interested in the identities of the wax portraits through which we made our way, but for my part I noticed amongst others Lord Nelson and the buxom Lady Hamilton; the Duke of Wellington; Florence Nightingale; the Swedish Nightingale, Jenny Lind; Ellen Terry and Henry Irving as their characters in Macbeth, and many more I will not try the reader’s patience by listing here. The figures had been executed with the skilled delicacy of touch for which Tussaud’s was justly famous. I found myself recalling my friend’s words of the night before, and my own dismissive response – now, however, surrounded by such lifelike figures on all sides, I found myself wondering whether one of them might have moved just a little.
“These are new models taken from the original moulds made by my great-grandmother in Paris,” said Miss Tussaud as we reached a group of four models set aside in an alcove. The king was seated, opulent in his coat of primrose satin, diamond-buckled shoes and powdered wig; behind and slightly to his right stood the queen, her towering headdress topped with the ostrich feathers familiar from many of her portraits. Before them, almost in an attitude of play, were their two children: the doomed Dauphin, Louis Charles, innocent and angelic; his sister Marie Thérese, the only member of the family to survive the Revolution, rather more serious.
“Exactly what form do these ‘tears’ take?” asked Holmes, his sharp eye running over the little family group.
“You may see for yourself, Mr Holmes – they appeared again this morning,” Miss Tussaud responded.
I followed Holmes to the side of the French queen. To my surprise and astonishment, quite plainly upon her waxen cheeks were the tracks of teardrops. Water lingered around her eyelids and lashes, the slight upturn of her lips giving the impression that she was smiling through her grief.
I must have been staring open-mouthed at the sight, for Holmes glanced at me in amusement. “Any thoughts, Watson?” he enquired.
“Eh?” I shook myself, startled back to reality. “Oh…I have never seen anything like it. How is it achieved?”
“Not through any supernatural agency, of that I am sure,” he replied as he reached inside his coat and withdrew his magnifying glass. He then proceeded to make an examination which anyone unaware of Holmes’s general aversion to women may have found uncomfortable to watch. I had never seen him in such proximity to a member of the fair sex before, and am sure I will never see it again, his closeness on this occasion being entirely due to the fact that the woman in question was made of wax rather than living flesh.
Miss Tussaud watched his examinations with an understandable expression of bemusement. Holmes himself paid no attention to his audience, consumed with concentration as he peered intently into the French queen’s face, and then proceeded to investigate every fold of her elaborate clothing.
This procedure went on for so long that at last I felt compelled to make some sort of conversation. “You say your great-grandmother made these models herself?” I asked our guide.
She nodded, coming alive a little when talking of her family’s history. “They were sculpted at Versailles, in the years leading up to the Revolution. My great-grandmother was teacher of wax modelling to Madame Elisabeth, the king’s sister. The moulds were brought to England at the turn of the century when Madame Marie decided to take the collection she had inherited from her mentor Monsieur Curtuis across the Channel to make some money. Before she settled here in London she spent more than thirty years travelling up and down the British Isles - she would exhibit in theatres and assembly rooms.”
“And this exhibition grew from those humble beginnings?”
“Yes, indeed, although there were at least two grand salons in Paris in the 1770s and 80s. Even during the Terror one of them remained open, the heads of the wax figures changing almost as quickly as the real ones were removed by Madame Guillotine,” said Miss Tussaud with a shudder. “My great-grandmother’s prowess as a wax modeller was the only reason she was allowed to keep her own head. We have some of the death masks she made at the gravesides in the Chamber of Horrors, if you would care to see them.”
I was wondering how best to respond to this grisly invitation when Holmes, evidently having completely his investigation of Marie Antoinette’s person, said, “May we speak with Mr Harrison the night-watchman now?”
***
Miss Tussaud hurried off through the wax throng to fetch the man.
Left alone, Holmes dropped to the floor and began a minute examination of the expensive carpet, his lens barely an inch from its surface. Waiting for him to find whatever it was he was apparently expecting to find, I glanced around the large room, feeling uncomfortable and a little claustrophobic with so many glass eyes upon me. The mirrors hanging from every wall gave the impression that the space was many times bigger than was actually the case, the reflections continuing on into infinity as they bounced back and forth.
At length, Holmes sat back with a cry of triumph. I turned to see what he had discovered and found him lifting Marie Antoinette’s voluminous skirts.
“Holmes!” I scolded, quite scandalised that he should do such a thing, even to a model. “Have a little respect, please!”
He rolled his eyes. “There is nothing beneath but wood and straw, Watson. Come and look,” he said, handing me the glass and pointing to the carpet.
Reluctantly, I took the lens and crouched down to look. To my surprise, not only did Marie Antoinette have no feet, there being instead two sturdy beams of wood under her skirts, but there was also a very definite footprint upon the carpet which had been concealed by the hem of her dress.
“Made last night, I should say, given the consistency of the mud and the state of the weather,” Holmes announced.
“But, surely it could just have been made by a late visitor,” I objected.
“No, no, no, the model has been very carefully moved to hide it. You can see here the indentation in the pile of the carpet where her Gallic majesty is accustomed to stand. Someone shifted the figure ever so slightly to conceal this mark.” Holmes tapped a finger thoughtfully against his lips. “Our nocturnal visitor is a clever woman.”
“A woman?” I sat back upon my heels. “How can you possibly tell that?”
Holmes smiled slightly and reached into his pocket once more to draw out a tape measure, which he used to check the length of the footprint. “Seven and a half inches. And you see the delicately pointed toe and the faint impression of the heel? That style of boot was very fashionable some five or six years ago. If I am not mistaken, this light-footed lady, whoever she is, has come upon difficult times.”
I would have asked him to explain further, but just then we were rejoined by Miss Tussaud, accompanied by a stocky, upright gentleman with a balding head and a crooked nose who could only be the exhibition’s night-watchman.
“This is Mr Thomas Harrison,” Miss Tussaud said. “He has worked for the firm for many years and is of exemplary character – you may believe his word to be the absolute truth.”
“Thank you, Miss Tussaud,” Holmes replied, and she withdrew, leaving us with Mr Harrison. An old soldier such as myself could immediately recognise the parade ground in the manner in which he stood at ease with his hands folded behind his back, and I was not surprised when Holmes said, “It must have been a bitter blow for you to have been invalided from the army at such a young age, though am sure your obvious talent in the ring made up for it in part.”
Harrison looked dumbfounded for a moment, before a slow smile crept over his battered face. “I see it’s just as they say, Mr Holmes. You’re a wizard and that’s a fact.”
My friend gave that twitch of the lips which approximated a smile. “Were that the truth I would need no assistance in solving this mystery. It is no trick – your very person tells me all I need to know about you.”
“Is that the truth? I never knew my body said so much, sir.”
Holmes glances at me and arched an eyebrow. “Watson?”
“Your military bearing is obvious,” I said, “as is the limp which is very pronounced in your right leg.”
“And the fact that you are quite naturally and comfortably accommodating that limp makes it clear that the injury was inflicted some considerable time ago,” Holmes added.
“That’s quite true, sir, quite true,” said Harrison, nodding. “There was an accident with the loading of a musket – Johnnie Raw put in too much powder and the thing went off early. Discharged a round straight into my thigh, it did. I was lucky not to lose the leg. But the boxing, sir?”
“Your upper body is considerably more developed than the lower. When I observe that you have quite the cauliflower ear and your nose has been broken in at least three places at different times, the matter becomes even simpler. Shall we?” Holmes gestured to a nearby ottoman, and we sat, Harrison looking a little uncomfortable at taking a rest in the main gallery when still on duty. “Will you tell me exactly what occurred in this room on the night you first heard the weeping?”
“Very well, sir. I come on duty when the exhibition closes at nine - it’s my job to lock up and make sure there’s no stragglers left behind in the galleries,” the night-watchman said. “It’s a lonely job, as you can imagine – me and the porter who stays on watch at the front entrance are the only living souls left in the building. There’s some here not stayed above a week because they find it uncomfortable to be near the figures too long, but you gets used to them. We’re old friends now – many’s the night old Boney and I have shared a drink to keep out the cold.”
“Quite. Do you patrol the building in a regular pattern every night?”
“I start on the ground floor and work my way up, check the offices and the workrooms and then come up the main staircase to the galleries. I come in here, move on to the Napoleon rooms and then finally the Horrors. That can set you hair on end in the dead of night, sir, believe you me!”
“I can imagine it would,” I agreed with a shudder. “Not something I would like to do!”
Holmes ignored me. “And you make this circuit…?”
“Three times in a night, sir. It was on my second trip round that I heard a strange noise in here,” said Harrison. “I called out, but there was no answer, so I turned on the lights.”
“And you saw no one?”
“No one at all, sir. The next night it happened again, and again there was no one to be seen. It wasn’t until the third time I heard it that I realised it was the sound of a woman crying. The following day I mentioned it to Mr Claude, but he just told me I must be imagining it.”
“And so you told no one else until you became aware of Miss Madeleine Tussaud’s discovery of tears upon the wax figure of Marie Antoinette.”
“Exactly, sir. It seemed like too much of a coincidence.”
Holmes nodded. “It was indeed. Tell me, what is your own theory as to the cause of these strange events?”
The old soldier was quiet for some moments before he looked most seriously at us both. “Ordinarily I’m not a fanciful man, Mr Holmes, but with no rational reason for the sounds I heard…I can only think that this place really is haunted!”
“I very much doubt that,” said Holmes with another of his swift smiles. “If that were indeed the case then the solution would be quite beyond my means, and I do believe I will have the solution shortly.”
Harrison looked surprised. “You do, sir? What do you think it is?”
“Ah, I regret that I cannot say as yet. I have several clues which I must put to the test before I can give anyone an answer. I will, however, need to speak with Miss Tussaud before I leave, if you would be so good as to show me the way..?” Holmes glanced at me. “I will meet you back at Baker Street, Watson.”
With that he hurried off, and I returned to 221B alone, puzzled but relieved to be away from the fixed stares of the horribly life-like models. I remained there for an hour but Holmes did not reappear. He was still not back by the time I was due to start upon my rounds and so I left the house and took a cab to Paddington to begin my locum work.
I was away for most of the day, and when I did reach Baker Street once more it was raining. I was wet and cold and desperate for my dinner. By now I expected Holmes to have returned, and I was not disappointed in this.
What I did not expect to meet my eyes, however, in the centre of our dining table and surrounded by neatly-laid crockery and china, was a severed head.
TBC
