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charleygirlTitle: The Weeping Waxwork 4/?
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 3246
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: Holmes has a plan...
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 Chapter Three
THE WEEPING WAXWORK
CHAPTER FOUR
I believe it is in the main part due to my experiences on the battlefield that I did not cry out in alarm at the sight of the thing. Instead I took a step backwards, my hand still upon the doorknob, and bellowed for Holmes. After a very long moment he emerged from his bedroom, the Evening Standard open before his face as he peered intently at one of the pages.
“Good evening, Watson,” he said absently without either a glance at me or the grisly object upon the table. “You could not find a cab for three streets, I perceive.”
“That is not important, Holmes,” I replied, after an attempt to find my voice once more. “What the devil is that doing there?”
He raised his head at last and scanned the room with a bemused gaze. “What is what doing where?”
“That!” I persisted, pointing to the head, which seemed quite suddenly vaguely familiar to me. I was sure I had seen the plump, slightly supercilious features before somewhere. “Where in God’s name did it come from?”
“Oh, this?” Holmes discarded the newspaper and lifted the head without a trace of distaste from the table. As he held it I finally realised that it was not a real, human head at all, but one from the waxworks – there was no bloody stump where it had been severed from the body, merely a wooden seating and peg to connect it to a frame. Holmes turned it and I recognised it as belonging to the broken model of George IV I had seen being moved in the corridor that morning. “Fascinating, is it not?” he asked.
Relief surged through me and I sat down limply at the table. “Miss Tussaud has lent it to you?”
“I have made a study of it for the past few hours, and I believe I can replicate the appearance of the wax sheen.” Holmes, appearing in a rather macabre manner like an executioner holding up the head of his victim for the appreciation of a bloodthirsty crowd, carried the wax over to the mantelpiece and set it there amongst the litter of pipes and paper. It surveyed the room blankly, the hint of a disdainful smile upon its lips.
“Why ever should you wish to?” I asked in amazement.
“You will not have seen this article in the evening paper.” Holmes placed the folded Standard before me and pointed to a paragraph at the foot of the page. “It would appear that someone within Tussaud’s is using the ‘haunting’ to their advantage.”
The few lines told succinctly if somewhat sensationally of a ghost stalking the galleries of the exhibition, the author wondering finally if the spirit of Marie Antoinette was attempting to exact revenge upon her executioners. Beside the article was a large advertisement for Tussaud’s.
“Piffle,” I said. “Why should anyone believe such rot?”
“The great gullible public will, if not actually believe it, then at least be sufficiently intrigued to visit the exhibition and pay their two shillings to see the weeping queen. It will not matter to them that if she wished to revenge herself she would doubtless have done so far sooner than a century after her death, and would have more success haunting her old palaces in Paris,” said Holmes.
“Then this story has been given to the press purely for publicity purposes?”
He looked thoughtful. “It is interesting, is it not, that despite Miss Tussaud and Mr Harrison having told very few people of their experiences, the tale still finds its way into the popular press.”
“Well, surely someone on the staff saw the opportunity and took it. Publicity is publicity, after all.”
“Yes, but Tussaud’s have always been quite capable of ensuring everyone is aware of them – they have retained advertising space on the side of omnibuses for many years, for instance. Why should they be grasping at such a dubious opportunity now, and who upon the staff would have the knowledge and the connections to give such a story to the newspapers? That, I believe, is the key to the mystery.” Holmes went to the door and took his hat from the stand on the landing. “I shall see you later. Mrs Hudson has trout for your dinner, I believe.”
“Dare I ask where you are going?” I enquired. “Do you need - ”
“Sit down and rest, Doctor. I will not have need of your companionship tonight.” He smiled and shut the door behind him, leaving me alone with the disembodied royal head.
***
I did not see him again until the following morning.
Upon descending from my room I stepped out to buy a paper, and, my curiosity piqued, took a rather longer route than usual up to the Marylebone Road. To my surprise, given the relatively early hour, a queue had already formed outside the premises of Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.
“It is incredible,” I said as I hung up my hat and coat a few minutes later, “that so many people will believe such a ludicrous story!”
Holmes was at the breakfast table, smoking his disgusting early morning pipe and filling the room with a noxious fug. I immediately moved to open a window.
“The press is a valuable tool if one knows how to use it,” he replied from behind the Telegraph. “For instance, if you turn to page six of your newspaper you may find something there to interest you.”
“Really?” Intrigued, I sat down and turned the Morning Chronicle to the right page. There appeared to be nothing of any particular significance to me until my eye alighted upon a short paragraph in the bottom left-hand corner. “‘Madame Tussaud’s Wax Exhibition is proud to announce that from tomorrow morning their permanent display will be enlarged to include a representation of the famous private detective Mr Sherlock Holmes.’ Is this true?”
Holmes chuckled and lowered the Telegraph. “It certainly will be this evening.”
“But you have always refused their overtures upon the subject, with good reason. What has happened to change your mind now?”
“Watson, Watson, do think for a moment. Have I given any sittings to a sculptor? Have you heard me mention anything of this matter until just now?”
“Well, no, but - ”
“A wax portrait takes some time to accomplish, particularly those of such skill and delicacy as we observed yesterday. I very much doubt that anyone could produce an accurate likeness between the time the story was given to the press and tomorrow morning when the figure is to be displayed.”
I frowned, hopelessly confused. “Then how - ?”
“I have a piece of work tonight which should see the solution to this mystery. I take it I can rely upon your support?” Holmes asked.
“Of course. But can you tell me nothing now?”
I have a few more enquiries I need to pursue, so I will say nothing more until tonight if you will forgive me. I will meet you at the rear entrance of Tussaud’s at eleven o’clock – bring a dark lantern, and you had better slip your revolver into your pocket. I do not anticipate violence, but one can never be certain in these cases.”
***
“Is that thing still there, Doctor?” Mrs Hudson asked a little later as I was leaving the house.
I regretfully informed her that it was – unable to spend the day alone in the sitting room with it, I had decided to retreat to my club. Holmes, of course, had vanished again, intent in his investigations.
“I will be informing Mr Holmes that until he removes that monstrosity from the house he’ll be getting no service from me,” declared our landlady, and from the steely glint in her eye it was obvious that she meant it. “Not one foot will I put over the threshold of the sitting room until it is gone. Very near frightened me to death last night when I came up to set the table!”
I could not argue with her, for I felt much the same about it myself. It was quite incredible the emotions stirred up by something which, if viewed prosaically, was nothing more than a glorified candle. I left her muttering to herself as she bustled away into her own domain, and spent a relaxing few hours in the masculine haven of the bar and the billiard room. It was mid-evening by the time I returned to Baker Street, and, predictably, there was no sign of Holmes. Even though I knew it was there, I could not help starting involuntarily when I caught sight of the head on the mantelpiece. I was by now rather hungry, and found myself wondering what I could do with it so that Mrs Hudson might relent and bring me my dinner.
The somewhat childish but satisfying idea of leaving it in Holmes’s bed had just come to me when there was a knock at the door and Mrs Hudson’s voice could be heard through the wood. “Doctor? I will not come in, but there is a young lady come to collect the offending article.”
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” I fairly sprang towards the door, but was surprised when I opened it to reveal not the delicate, mousy Miss Madeleine Tussaud as I had expected, but a tall, willowy blonde with laughing brown eyes and a somewhat faded hat and coat.
Her gaze swept the room, and she smiled, seeing the head upon the mantelpiece. “I’m sure you would prefer it if I took that away, Doctor,” she said, crossing the room to scoop it up and place it in a baize bag. “They do tend to unnerve those who aren’t used to dealing with them.”
“That is certainly true,” I agreed, relieved to finally have the thing out of sight. “Thank you, Miss…?”
“Tussaud. Louise Tussaud. You met my sister yesterday, I believe.” She held out a hand, and shook mine firmly. Her gloves, like the rest of her attire, were well-used and worn. I was beginning to get the impression that Louis Tussaud did not pay his children very much for their work.
“Oh, yes, of course. Delighted to meet you, Miss Tussaud.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Doctor,” she replied, adding as I opened my mouth to respond, “I won’t stay, if you don’t mind - I really must be getting back to finish up for the day. Do thank Mr Holmes for the wax he sent to me – I have been able to patch up the bullet hole in the forehead, and I believe it will do very well. I will ensure that everything is as he requested for tonight.”
Puzzled, I thanked her on Holmes’s behalf, and saw her to the door. Not for the first time, I wondered exactly what my friend could be planning.
***
I confess that, following an excellent dinner, I dozed off in front of the fire, the evening newspaper on my lap. Shortly before eleven o’clock Mrs Hudson was forced to wake me, evidently having been given instructions by Holmes, and she helped me on with my hat and coat, having already summoned a hansom for my short journey to the Marylebone Road.
“You will be careful, won’t you, sir?” she asked as she saw me off from the doorstep. “I know what Mr Holmes is like when he gets an idea into his head.”
As did I, of which I assured her. “There is no need to stay up to wait for us, Mrs Hudson. I doubt if we will be back before morning.”
“Very good, Doctor. Do try to keep Mr Holmes out of trouble, if you can.”
“I will certainly do my best.” Knowing Holmes as I did, I had little hope of succeeding, but the words seemed to mollify her and she went back inside the house. I departed, it taking little time to reach my destination – I could quite easily have walked, but Holmes had been very precise in his orders, which I found pinned to my bedroom door that evening.
All was quiet around the museum as I was set down. I was paying off the cabbie when I was startled to hear a sharp hiss from behind me - turning warily, I found the familiar tall figure of Holmes waving to me from the shadows of the rear doorway, his hat pulled low over his face.
“Quickly, Watson,” he whispered, his hand suddenly between my shoulder-blades and propelling me towards a dark square which I realised was the open door. On the other side stood Thomas Harrison, a half-shuttered dark lantern on the low table beside him.
“Holmes,” I said as he joined us and Harrison shut and bolted the door behind him, “What - ”
He held up a gloved hand. “I will explain when we are safely upstairs in the gallery,” he murmured. “Not a word until then.”
“But, Holmes - ”
“Not a word. Lead the way, Mr Harrison.”
This the night-watchman did, taking us up the same narrow staircase we had climbed the previous morning. I was grateful that the doors to the workrooms were closed, as the darkness and the dancing shadows made me feel absurdly nervous, and a multitude of glass eyes staring at me in such an atmosphere was not something I wished to encounter. After what seemed to be an interminable journey, we arrived in the Grand Chamber and wound our way stealthily amongst its dark occupants. The shadows thrown by the dark lanterns were even more unnerving here, and more than once I had to prevent a very unmanly cry from escaping my throat as I convinced myself irrationally that one of the figures had moved.
Holmes looked at me as I jumped for what must have been the fourth time, and arched an eyebrow. “Is everything all right, Watson?” he enquired, his lips twitching in obvious amusement.
I struggled to regain my composure. “Perfectly, thank you.”
“Do not forget, my dear fellow, that it is impossible for waxworks to move.”
I glared at him for throwing my own maxim back at me, and straightened my tie. “Now that we are here, precisely what is your plan of action?”
“Miss Tussaud has set everything up for you over here, Mr Holmes,” Harrison called softly. As he lifted his lantern I realised that he was standing over towards the wall, not far from the alcove where the French royal family sheltered. The light glanced from a figure seated in a chair between Sir Robert Peel and Lord Tennyson, and to my amazement a very familiar silhouette was thrown onto the mirror behind. I looked to my left, expecting to see no one there, but Holmes was still at my side. He smiled.
“Excellent, Mr Harrison,” he said, and started towards the apparition. I followed, and on closer inspection discovered the source to be the wax bust Holmes had brought from the continent three years before. Miss Tussaud had indeed mended the damage wrought upon it by Colonel Sebastian Moran and his airgun, and with no little skill fixed it upon a frame and dressed the whole in a passable approximation of Holmes’s usual attire of black tailcoat and trousers, the tie as always tucked under the soft collar of the shirt. The figure sat, one arm resting upon the back of the chair, the head upon the hand, in thoughtful pose. It was also looking straight towards the model of Marie Antoinette. Holmes had also noticed this, and his smile widened. “That is perfect - an unrivalled view of their wax majesties.”
“She thought you’d rather sit down than have to stand still for hours,” Harrison said.
“Miss Louise Tussaud is a most considerate lady. I thank her for her foresight,” Holmes replied, and turned to me. “No doubt you are wondering what this means, Watson.”
“A little, though it is obvious that you have recruited Miss Tussaud the sculptress to assist in this plan,” I said, to his surprise. “But what does it all have to do with the ‘ghost’?”
“I hope, in a few short hours, to introduce you to her,” he responded. “Until she makes her appearance, however, we have some tedious waiting ahead of us.”
“But why all this…what is the purpose of this subterfuge? Surely we need only hide behind the figures and catch her as she enters the room?”
Holmes shook his head. “Subtlety is the key here, Watson. For more than a week she has believed she is unobserved as she makes her nightly visit. Therefore it is likely that she should immediately sense the presence of other living beings amongst the wax and retreat. We have to lure her out by making her believe that all is well.”
“And that?” I enquired, pointing to the figure in the chair.
“When I left you yesterday morning, I requested that Mr Harrison here introduce me to Miss Louise Tussaud, having already questioned him about the various familial relationships within the business. Miss Louise is the elder sister, a very forthright young woman of considerable talent, but who also does not see eye to eye with brother Claude. I surmised that she might therefore be willing to assist in my little scheme – to my delight she was more than happy, and lent me the wax head you took such exception to. I in turn provided her with my wax from Grenoble, which she has used to great effect, as you can see.” Holmes glanced at Harrison. “Have the staff all seen this model?”
The night-watchman nodded. “They were surprised, as they’d heard nothing about it, but Miss Louise told ‘em it was a secret commission. Mr Claude was a bit put out – it’s always him that sends the announcements to the press, you see, sir. He was angry that Miss Louise hadn’t told him about it.”
I was still hopelessly confused. “But how is this model to be of any assistance in catching the intruder?”
“Because, Watson, I intend to pose as my own likeness,” said Holmes.
“Your – what on earth….” I stared as he removed his hat and muffler – in the light from the lantern his face was at last revealed to me, and what a ghastly countenance it was. He had not looked well lately, but in the glow he now appeared positively deathly, his skin pale and strangely dull, but with a sheen that was almost… “Waxen,” I said, suddenly understanding the purpose of the head in our sitting room. He had been studying it to discover how he might use make-up to give himself the appearance of a wax dummy.
“Precisely,” he said. “Now, if you will both help me to stow my wax self somewhere out of sight, I will keep watch here, while you patrol the building as normal. If I am correct, then our nocturnal visitor will appear between two and three o’clock, for that is when Mr Harrison is normally engaged in checking the ground floor. You, Watson, will be in the room directly across the hall by then, but take the utmost care to remain out of sight.”
“Across the hall?” I repeated. “But surely that is - ”
“The Horrors,” said Harrison with an apologetic grimace. “Don’t worry, Doctor, you won’t notice ‘em in the dark.”
“That is very reassuring,” I replied, unconvinced.
The next few hours were going to be long indeed.
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 3246
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: Holmes has a plan...
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 Chapter Three
THE WEEPING WAXWORK
CHAPTER FOUR
I believe it is in the main part due to my experiences on the battlefield that I did not cry out in alarm at the sight of the thing. Instead I took a step backwards, my hand still upon the doorknob, and bellowed for Holmes. After a very long moment he emerged from his bedroom, the Evening Standard open before his face as he peered intently at one of the pages.
“Good evening, Watson,” he said absently without either a glance at me or the grisly object upon the table. “You could not find a cab for three streets, I perceive.”
“That is not important, Holmes,” I replied, after an attempt to find my voice once more. “What the devil is that doing there?”
He raised his head at last and scanned the room with a bemused gaze. “What is what doing where?”
“That!” I persisted, pointing to the head, which seemed quite suddenly vaguely familiar to me. I was sure I had seen the plump, slightly supercilious features before somewhere. “Where in God’s name did it come from?”
“Oh, this?” Holmes discarded the newspaper and lifted the head without a trace of distaste from the table. As he held it I finally realised that it was not a real, human head at all, but one from the waxworks – there was no bloody stump where it had been severed from the body, merely a wooden seating and peg to connect it to a frame. Holmes turned it and I recognised it as belonging to the broken model of George IV I had seen being moved in the corridor that morning. “Fascinating, is it not?” he asked.
Relief surged through me and I sat down limply at the table. “Miss Tussaud has lent it to you?”
“I have made a study of it for the past few hours, and I believe I can replicate the appearance of the wax sheen.” Holmes, appearing in a rather macabre manner like an executioner holding up the head of his victim for the appreciation of a bloodthirsty crowd, carried the wax over to the mantelpiece and set it there amongst the litter of pipes and paper. It surveyed the room blankly, the hint of a disdainful smile upon its lips.
“Why ever should you wish to?” I asked in amazement.
“You will not have seen this article in the evening paper.” Holmes placed the folded Standard before me and pointed to a paragraph at the foot of the page. “It would appear that someone within Tussaud’s is using the ‘haunting’ to their advantage.”
The few lines told succinctly if somewhat sensationally of a ghost stalking the galleries of the exhibition, the author wondering finally if the spirit of Marie Antoinette was attempting to exact revenge upon her executioners. Beside the article was a large advertisement for Tussaud’s.
“Piffle,” I said. “Why should anyone believe such rot?”
“The great gullible public will, if not actually believe it, then at least be sufficiently intrigued to visit the exhibition and pay their two shillings to see the weeping queen. It will not matter to them that if she wished to revenge herself she would doubtless have done so far sooner than a century after her death, and would have more success haunting her old palaces in Paris,” said Holmes.
“Then this story has been given to the press purely for publicity purposes?”
He looked thoughtful. “It is interesting, is it not, that despite Miss Tussaud and Mr Harrison having told very few people of their experiences, the tale still finds its way into the popular press.”
“Well, surely someone on the staff saw the opportunity and took it. Publicity is publicity, after all.”
“Yes, but Tussaud’s have always been quite capable of ensuring everyone is aware of them – they have retained advertising space on the side of omnibuses for many years, for instance. Why should they be grasping at such a dubious opportunity now, and who upon the staff would have the knowledge and the connections to give such a story to the newspapers? That, I believe, is the key to the mystery.” Holmes went to the door and took his hat from the stand on the landing. “I shall see you later. Mrs Hudson has trout for your dinner, I believe.”
“Dare I ask where you are going?” I enquired. “Do you need - ”
“Sit down and rest, Doctor. I will not have need of your companionship tonight.” He smiled and shut the door behind him, leaving me alone with the disembodied royal head.
***
I did not see him again until the following morning.
Upon descending from my room I stepped out to buy a paper, and, my curiosity piqued, took a rather longer route than usual up to the Marylebone Road. To my surprise, given the relatively early hour, a queue had already formed outside the premises of Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.
“It is incredible,” I said as I hung up my hat and coat a few minutes later, “that so many people will believe such a ludicrous story!”
Holmes was at the breakfast table, smoking his disgusting early morning pipe and filling the room with a noxious fug. I immediately moved to open a window.
“The press is a valuable tool if one knows how to use it,” he replied from behind the Telegraph. “For instance, if you turn to page six of your newspaper you may find something there to interest you.”
“Really?” Intrigued, I sat down and turned the Morning Chronicle to the right page. There appeared to be nothing of any particular significance to me until my eye alighted upon a short paragraph in the bottom left-hand corner. “‘Madame Tussaud’s Wax Exhibition is proud to announce that from tomorrow morning their permanent display will be enlarged to include a representation of the famous private detective Mr Sherlock Holmes.’ Is this true?”
Holmes chuckled and lowered the Telegraph. “It certainly will be this evening.”
“But you have always refused their overtures upon the subject, with good reason. What has happened to change your mind now?”
“Watson, Watson, do think for a moment. Have I given any sittings to a sculptor? Have you heard me mention anything of this matter until just now?”
“Well, no, but - ”
“A wax portrait takes some time to accomplish, particularly those of such skill and delicacy as we observed yesterday. I very much doubt that anyone could produce an accurate likeness between the time the story was given to the press and tomorrow morning when the figure is to be displayed.”
I frowned, hopelessly confused. “Then how - ?”
“I have a piece of work tonight which should see the solution to this mystery. I take it I can rely upon your support?” Holmes asked.
“Of course. But can you tell me nothing now?”
I have a few more enquiries I need to pursue, so I will say nothing more until tonight if you will forgive me. I will meet you at the rear entrance of Tussaud’s at eleven o’clock – bring a dark lantern, and you had better slip your revolver into your pocket. I do not anticipate violence, but one can never be certain in these cases.”
***
“Is that thing still there, Doctor?” Mrs Hudson asked a little later as I was leaving the house.
I regretfully informed her that it was – unable to spend the day alone in the sitting room with it, I had decided to retreat to my club. Holmes, of course, had vanished again, intent in his investigations.
“I will be informing Mr Holmes that until he removes that monstrosity from the house he’ll be getting no service from me,” declared our landlady, and from the steely glint in her eye it was obvious that she meant it. “Not one foot will I put over the threshold of the sitting room until it is gone. Very near frightened me to death last night when I came up to set the table!”
I could not argue with her, for I felt much the same about it myself. It was quite incredible the emotions stirred up by something which, if viewed prosaically, was nothing more than a glorified candle. I left her muttering to herself as she bustled away into her own domain, and spent a relaxing few hours in the masculine haven of the bar and the billiard room. It was mid-evening by the time I returned to Baker Street, and, predictably, there was no sign of Holmes. Even though I knew it was there, I could not help starting involuntarily when I caught sight of the head on the mantelpiece. I was by now rather hungry, and found myself wondering what I could do with it so that Mrs Hudson might relent and bring me my dinner.
The somewhat childish but satisfying idea of leaving it in Holmes’s bed had just come to me when there was a knock at the door and Mrs Hudson’s voice could be heard through the wood. “Doctor? I will not come in, but there is a young lady come to collect the offending article.”
“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” I fairly sprang towards the door, but was surprised when I opened it to reveal not the delicate, mousy Miss Madeleine Tussaud as I had expected, but a tall, willowy blonde with laughing brown eyes and a somewhat faded hat and coat.
Her gaze swept the room, and she smiled, seeing the head upon the mantelpiece. “I’m sure you would prefer it if I took that away, Doctor,” she said, crossing the room to scoop it up and place it in a baize bag. “They do tend to unnerve those who aren’t used to dealing with them.”
“That is certainly true,” I agreed, relieved to finally have the thing out of sight. “Thank you, Miss…?”
“Tussaud. Louise Tussaud. You met my sister yesterday, I believe.” She held out a hand, and shook mine firmly. Her gloves, like the rest of her attire, were well-used and worn. I was beginning to get the impression that Louis Tussaud did not pay his children very much for their work.
“Oh, yes, of course. Delighted to meet you, Miss Tussaud.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Doctor,” she replied, adding as I opened my mouth to respond, “I won’t stay, if you don’t mind - I really must be getting back to finish up for the day. Do thank Mr Holmes for the wax he sent to me – I have been able to patch up the bullet hole in the forehead, and I believe it will do very well. I will ensure that everything is as he requested for tonight.”
Puzzled, I thanked her on Holmes’s behalf, and saw her to the door. Not for the first time, I wondered exactly what my friend could be planning.
***
I confess that, following an excellent dinner, I dozed off in front of the fire, the evening newspaper on my lap. Shortly before eleven o’clock Mrs Hudson was forced to wake me, evidently having been given instructions by Holmes, and she helped me on with my hat and coat, having already summoned a hansom for my short journey to the Marylebone Road.
“You will be careful, won’t you, sir?” she asked as she saw me off from the doorstep. “I know what Mr Holmes is like when he gets an idea into his head.”
As did I, of which I assured her. “There is no need to stay up to wait for us, Mrs Hudson. I doubt if we will be back before morning.”
“Very good, Doctor. Do try to keep Mr Holmes out of trouble, if you can.”
“I will certainly do my best.” Knowing Holmes as I did, I had little hope of succeeding, but the words seemed to mollify her and she went back inside the house. I departed, it taking little time to reach my destination – I could quite easily have walked, but Holmes had been very precise in his orders, which I found pinned to my bedroom door that evening.
All was quiet around the museum as I was set down. I was paying off the cabbie when I was startled to hear a sharp hiss from behind me - turning warily, I found the familiar tall figure of Holmes waving to me from the shadows of the rear doorway, his hat pulled low over his face.
“Quickly, Watson,” he whispered, his hand suddenly between my shoulder-blades and propelling me towards a dark square which I realised was the open door. On the other side stood Thomas Harrison, a half-shuttered dark lantern on the low table beside him.
“Holmes,” I said as he joined us and Harrison shut and bolted the door behind him, “What - ”
He held up a gloved hand. “I will explain when we are safely upstairs in the gallery,” he murmured. “Not a word until then.”
“But, Holmes - ”
“Not a word. Lead the way, Mr Harrison.”
This the night-watchman did, taking us up the same narrow staircase we had climbed the previous morning. I was grateful that the doors to the workrooms were closed, as the darkness and the dancing shadows made me feel absurdly nervous, and a multitude of glass eyes staring at me in such an atmosphere was not something I wished to encounter. After what seemed to be an interminable journey, we arrived in the Grand Chamber and wound our way stealthily amongst its dark occupants. The shadows thrown by the dark lanterns were even more unnerving here, and more than once I had to prevent a very unmanly cry from escaping my throat as I convinced myself irrationally that one of the figures had moved.
Holmes looked at me as I jumped for what must have been the fourth time, and arched an eyebrow. “Is everything all right, Watson?” he enquired, his lips twitching in obvious amusement.
I struggled to regain my composure. “Perfectly, thank you.”
“Do not forget, my dear fellow, that it is impossible for waxworks to move.”
I glared at him for throwing my own maxim back at me, and straightened my tie. “Now that we are here, precisely what is your plan of action?”
“Miss Tussaud has set everything up for you over here, Mr Holmes,” Harrison called softly. As he lifted his lantern I realised that he was standing over towards the wall, not far from the alcove where the French royal family sheltered. The light glanced from a figure seated in a chair between Sir Robert Peel and Lord Tennyson, and to my amazement a very familiar silhouette was thrown onto the mirror behind. I looked to my left, expecting to see no one there, but Holmes was still at my side. He smiled.
“Excellent, Mr Harrison,” he said, and started towards the apparition. I followed, and on closer inspection discovered the source to be the wax bust Holmes had brought from the continent three years before. Miss Tussaud had indeed mended the damage wrought upon it by Colonel Sebastian Moran and his airgun, and with no little skill fixed it upon a frame and dressed the whole in a passable approximation of Holmes’s usual attire of black tailcoat and trousers, the tie as always tucked under the soft collar of the shirt. The figure sat, one arm resting upon the back of the chair, the head upon the hand, in thoughtful pose. It was also looking straight towards the model of Marie Antoinette. Holmes had also noticed this, and his smile widened. “That is perfect - an unrivalled view of their wax majesties.”
“She thought you’d rather sit down than have to stand still for hours,” Harrison said.
“Miss Louise Tussaud is a most considerate lady. I thank her for her foresight,” Holmes replied, and turned to me. “No doubt you are wondering what this means, Watson.”
“A little, though it is obvious that you have recruited Miss Tussaud the sculptress to assist in this plan,” I said, to his surprise. “But what does it all have to do with the ‘ghost’?”
“I hope, in a few short hours, to introduce you to her,” he responded. “Until she makes her appearance, however, we have some tedious waiting ahead of us.”
“But why all this…what is the purpose of this subterfuge? Surely we need only hide behind the figures and catch her as she enters the room?”
Holmes shook his head. “Subtlety is the key here, Watson. For more than a week she has believed she is unobserved as she makes her nightly visit. Therefore it is likely that she should immediately sense the presence of other living beings amongst the wax and retreat. We have to lure her out by making her believe that all is well.”
“And that?” I enquired, pointing to the figure in the chair.
“When I left you yesterday morning, I requested that Mr Harrison here introduce me to Miss Louise Tussaud, having already questioned him about the various familial relationships within the business. Miss Louise is the elder sister, a very forthright young woman of considerable talent, but who also does not see eye to eye with brother Claude. I surmised that she might therefore be willing to assist in my little scheme – to my delight she was more than happy, and lent me the wax head you took such exception to. I in turn provided her with my wax from Grenoble, which she has used to great effect, as you can see.” Holmes glanced at Harrison. “Have the staff all seen this model?”
The night-watchman nodded. “They were surprised, as they’d heard nothing about it, but Miss Louise told ‘em it was a secret commission. Mr Claude was a bit put out – it’s always him that sends the announcements to the press, you see, sir. He was angry that Miss Louise hadn’t told him about it.”
I was still hopelessly confused. “But how is this model to be of any assistance in catching the intruder?”
“Because, Watson, I intend to pose as my own likeness,” said Holmes.
“Your – what on earth….” I stared as he removed his hat and muffler – in the light from the lantern his face was at last revealed to me, and what a ghastly countenance it was. He had not looked well lately, but in the glow he now appeared positively deathly, his skin pale and strangely dull, but with a sheen that was almost… “Waxen,” I said, suddenly understanding the purpose of the head in our sitting room. He had been studying it to discover how he might use make-up to give himself the appearance of a wax dummy.
“Precisely,” he said. “Now, if you will both help me to stow my wax self somewhere out of sight, I will keep watch here, while you patrol the building as normal. If I am correct, then our nocturnal visitor will appear between two and three o’clock, for that is when Mr Harrison is normally engaged in checking the ground floor. You, Watson, will be in the room directly across the hall by then, but take the utmost care to remain out of sight.”
“Across the hall?” I repeated. “But surely that is - ”
“The Horrors,” said Harrison with an apologetic grimace. “Don’t worry, Doctor, you won’t notice ‘em in the dark.”
“That is very reassuring,” I replied, unconvinced.
The next few hours were going to be long indeed.
TBC
