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charleygirlTitle: The Weeping Waxwork 5/7
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2955
Characters involved: Doctor Watson
Genre: General, mystery
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Night at the museum...
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 Chapter Four
THE WEEPING WAXWORK
CHAPTER FIVE
The time did indeed pass slowly.
With Harrison as my companion, the first stage of my vigil went well enough: having seen Holmes take his place in the Grand Chamber, I accompanied the watchman on his first round of the night. The building was large, empty and full of echoes, all of which served to place an added strain upon my already jangling nerves. It was quite ludicrous, but I could not rid myself of the sensation that someone was following me. How Holmes could sit, alone and unconcerned, amongst the waxworks I had no idea, and I found my admiration for his iron self-control growing once again. I knew that I could not have done it myself, and I was dreading my turn later that night.
We patrolled the offices, the workrooms and the storerooms (all of which I allowed Harrison to enter by himself, as I was embarrassingly afraid of what I might find) before making our way to the main foyer where I made the acquaintance of the night porter – a Mr Alfred Rigsby, late of the Metropolitan Police.
“Sergeant I was, sir,” he said, offering me a mug of coffee from a thermos which I declined as politely as I could, having seen the condition of the proffered receptacle. “Let me go two years ago on account of my age and the fact I’ve lost me puff. Couldn’t chase after the young ne’er do wells no more, you see.”
“You’re doing your duty here instead, eh, Alf?” said Harrison good-naturedly. “He’s a rare watchdog, Doctor – raised the alarm quick as you like when a group of bosky lads tried to steal the queen’s garters.”
“Aye, aye, we caught ‘em good and proper,” agreed Rigsby. He peered at me a little myopically. “Are you a medical man, then, sir?”
“Retired army surgeon,” I replied, bracing myself for the inevitable.
“Have you seen a doctor about that problem of your yet, Alf?” Harrison asked, cocking an eyebrow.
The older man shook his head. “Ain’t had time, have I?”
“It’s been a week, mate, you can let it go on any further without getting checked out.”
“What exactly is the difficulty?” I enquired with a little trepidation. Long experience had taught me that once someone discovered the nature of my profession they were often frighteningly quick to trot out their ailments for my medical opinion. I sincerely hoped that Rigsby would not be one of these, or Holmes might find his plan derailed by a persistent and garrulous patient.
“He keeps falling asleep,” said Harrison.
“That’s not so unusual.”
“No, sir, he falls asleep on duty. Don’t you, Alf?”
The porter nodded. “It’s never happened to me before. Night duty’s always been my lot, even when I was in the force – been doing it regular for nigh-on thirty years. Just this week, though, I’ve been nodding off halfway through the night. When I do wake up it’s a real effort to open me eyes.”
“Do you get enough sleep during the day, before you begin your shift?” I asked.
“A good seven or eight hours, like clockwork. Once I’m home I can fall asleep at the drop of a hat, but I ain’t used to it happening on duty, sir.”
I found myself frowning. “And you eat regular meals? You take plenty of exercise?”
The porter smiled. “I live in Camden, sir, so I’ve a fair walk to work of an evening. I reckon that keeps me fit.”
“Of course, of course. Well, it sounds as though this warrants further investigation,” I said, admittedly somewhat perplexed. I could not smell alcohol on the man’s breath, and there were none of the tell-tale physical signs which might point towards heavy drinking. I do not like a mystery any more than Holmes, and so I handed him one of my cards. “I am currently acting as locum for Doctor Clarke in Paddington. If you come along to the surgery in the next day or two I will make an examination and look into it further.”
Rigsby thanked me profusely, carefully stowing the card away in his waistcoat pocket. Leaving him with his coffee for company, Harrison and I ascended the main staircase, a broad, sweeping affair like those found in the grandest of houses. The light from the lantern bounced back and forth across the gilded surfaces of the banisters. As I walked I became aware that I was dragging my steps. I immediately knew why: the time had come for Harrison to conduct me to my hiding place, the infamous Chamber of Horrors…
***
He assured me that it really wasn’t as bad as it first appeared, but I confess I did not believe him.
Upon first sight of the place by the flickering glow of the dark lantern, I felt myself fully justified in this: depraved faces leered at me from the surrounding darkness; above my head a man swung from a gibbet, his features hideously contorted; just to my left some poor soul had fallen victim to the rack, another the thumbscrews, and yet more the sort of tortures one reads about in history books but hopes never to experience first-hand. All around were the figures of notorious criminals, the majority of which Harrison could put names to, and did so in an effort to reassure me. It did not work – the names only served to remind me that Holmes had figured in the foiling and capture of many of them, and, had they known of my presence, they would surely have been anxious to wreak some form of revenge upon me for my assistance in their downfall. No doubt, had anyone truly been aware of his appearance, Moriarty would have taken pride of place there, and with good reason.
“They won’t do you any harm, Doctor. All they are is tallow and wood, when it comes down to it,” said Harrison, knocking his knuckles against the man on the rack and smiling with satisfaction as the torso replied with a sharp sound which indicated it was hollow.
“That’s very easy to say,” I replied, trying not to look too closely at my surroundings. Having seen some real horrors, both on the battlefield and during my long association with Sherlock Holmes, I could not understand the public fascination with all things chilling and macabre. It has always pained me to think that there is the capacity within the human soul to derive entertainment from the suffering of others, both real and imagined.
Harrison led me through the cavern – for such it was, with what appeared to be flagstones underfoot and walls which gave it the appearance of a vault – until he came to the exit, where he stopped. To one side of us was a guillotine, its occupant still thankfully in possession of his head; to the other the body snatchers Burke and Hare, a Hessian-wrapped bundle carried between them. “If you have a seat here, Doctor, you’ll be able to see if anyone enters the gallery,” the night-watchman said helpfully, moving a chair away from the wall for me. “There’s always an attendant on duty in here, just in case anyone’s overcome – that’s where they sit. You can see the landing, but no one can see you if you keep your light shuttered.”
I was not entirely sure which would be more uncomfortable: sitting in the glow of the lamp with things leering at me from the shadows, or remaining in the dark, imagining that they were doing so. Since Holmes’s instructions were quite clear upon the matter, I had no choice but to submit to the darkness. I found it ironic that I was the one stuck here when he would no doubt have appreciated this particular part of the exhibition.
Before he left, Harrison withdrew a hip flask from his pocket and offered it to me. “Something to keep out the cold, Doctor?”
I accepted gratefully before I realised that the content of the flask was not brandy but gin. I knocked it back; trying to ignore how much my hand was shaking, and then fell to coughing as the spirits burned the back of my throat. My eyes watering, I handed him back the flask, but he closed my fingers over it.
“Looks as though you need it more than me, sir,” he said, peering at me in concern. I could not blame him – I must have looked decidedly unwell, and not just from the effects of the gin. “I’m off to check on old Boney now – are you sure you’ll be all right?”
I could do little more than assure him that I was quite able to take care of myself, hoping that I sounded convincing. He did not look as if he believed me, but he departed, taking his light with him and leaving me quite alone in the cold, curiously dank chamber. As he moved away, I caught sight of a shelf behind the guillotine, half obscured by the grotesquely lolling figure of Marat in his bath, Charlotte Corday’s dagger protruding from his chest. Upon the shelf, I managed to glimpse as the light receded, were two heads which must be those mentioned by Madeleine Tussaud of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI taken after their deaths. I found it curious that there was more than two feet of empty space upon the shelf, and small white cards affixed to the edge, suggesting that more heads usually stood there. But if that was the case, why had they been removed, and where were they now?
***
I freely confess that the next two hours rank as possibly the longest of my life.
Forbidden light, I could do little more than sit and become prey to my rather colourful imagination as it took hold of my uncomfortable surroundings and twisted them for its own nefarious purposes. Unable even to see my watch, I had no concept of time, and the more I wished my ordeal to be at an end, the further the minutes seemed to stretch.
I am not a fanciful man, and I would hope that I have my share of courage, but there were moments during that lonely vigil when I became convinced that something truly horrible was reaching out of the claustrophobic darkness towards me. My eyes had adjusted enough for me to be able to discern the grotesque figures of my unwished-for companions, and I felt to my great shame the icy fingers of terror crawling their way up my spine.
Truly, had I been able I would have flung the door wide and run from the room, anxious to put as much space as possible between myself and the waxworks, but I had agreed to help Holmes in his plan and I would not jeopardise it by going back on my word. I have endured much for my friend, but this would rank as one of the worst experiences I had undergone on his behalf.
Before long I convinced myself that I could hear voices: mutterings, and then moans accompanied by the clanking of chains. I thought that I saw from the corner of my eye the hanging man sway slightly in a nonexistent breeze, his slack jaw stretching in a hideous parody of a smile. Before me the blade of the guillotine loomed out of the darkness, poised to fall. I could hear the creaking of the rack as it was turned the groans and cries of anguish from its poor victim. Surely, were I to remain there for long I would go mad with the suggestion, insane from the creations of my own mind. For the first time in my life, I found myself cursing the imagination upon which I prided myself and which Holmes routinely mocked as my ‘romantic nature’. There was nothing even remotely romantic in the impressions my mind was presently conjuring, and I fervently wished for a way to shut it off.
I had heard of young men who laid bets that they would not be able to spend the night in the Chamber of Horrors, but I was not aware of anyone who had ever done so successfully. This fact did not surprise me in the least. I had been there little more than an hour and already I wondered how much longer I would be able to stand it.
***
Time passed gradually. I have no idea how long I spent in that dreadful place before I at last became aware that the footsteps just on the edge of my hearing were real and not yet another product of my over-active imagination.
Unaccountably relieved, I got stiffly to my feet and moved a little closer to the door in time to see a small figure muffled in a cloak making its way towards the door of the Grand Chamber. Harrison had not returned, evidently making his second round of the building, and so, taking up my lantern and patting my pocket to reassure myself that my revolver still nestled there, I stealthily made my way out into the gallery as the door shut behind the nocturnal visitor.
I got no further than the doorway, forced to stop almost immediately and press myself against the wall, as a second figure followed the first: a rather taller, stockier silhouette in an overcoat. For a moment I held my breath as he passed me, but whoever it was paid me no attention, pulling open the door and slipping inside. I waited ten seconds before moving to do the same. As I did, however, a hand descended upon my shoulder and I would have cried out had not another clapped swiftly over my mouth to muffle the sound.
“It’s all right, Doctor, it’s me,” a voice I belatedly recognised as Harrison’s hissed in my ear. I nodded and ceased my automatic struggles, grateful to be released.
“I followed him up the stairs,” the night-watchman whispered. “Old Rigsby’s asleep again – I can’t wake him.”
It struck me that the porter’s slumbers were incredibly convenient to the intruders, but I had no time to consider the circumstance further. “There are two of them,” I said softly. “Did they come through the main door?”
“Must have done – Mr Holmes bolted the back entrance himself.”
Concern hit us both at the same moment, and despite the darkness we exchanged a glance.
“Holmes!”
He had been expecting a single female – this unknown man could ruin the whole carefully-laid trap. Without waiting for Harrison, I was across the hall and turning the door-handle before I was even aware of what I was doing.
Before I could open the door more than an inch, however, I was brought up short by voices coming suddenly from the room beyond. The first speaker was the woman – she was young, and to my astonishment I realised that the voice belonged to Miss Madeleine Tussaud. It was quite clear that she was more than a little distressed, for it shook and wavered, sounding almost on the verge of tears.
“No, Claude!” she exclaimed. “I won’t do it, not any more. Not now Mr Holmes is involved. I know what you said, but it’s not right! It’s not…morally right to do this.”
Her companion, a man a little older, said angrily, “You know why we’re doing this, Maddie. It’s for the business, for Papa, for all of us! What will we do if this place goes down? We’ll all go with it, be on the streets. What harm’s a little deception? It’s not hurting anyone.”
“But all those people who came today…so many of them, and we took their money under false pretences! Even great-grandmére would never have done anything like this.”
The man – Claude Tussaud it would seem – laughed harshly. “Don’t be naïve, Maddie! She used to claim that half the French nobility were her patrons, and conveniently most of them weren’t alive to contradict her. How do we even know her claims that she knew the royal family were true? Great-grandmére was an expert in exaggeration – how is this any different?”
“Because Mr Holmes knows what we’re doing, that’s why! When he came yesterday he searched this room and he found something, I know he did! He’s bound to tell Papa, and then where will we be?” Madeleine asked. “I wish you’d never made me ask Papa to consult him. Why did you do it?”
“To bring in more paying customers, of course. If the world’s most famous detective is on the case, it makes the public even more interested! You know how Louise and the other laps up the stories in The Strand. That’s why she’s been working on that likeness all this time in secret, the scheming little…”
“You were a fool, Claude. He sees everything – we’ll be ruined!”
“Oh, for the love of God, Maddie, it’s only a harmless little deception - ” Claude said, exasperated, but she cut him off, crying,
“I don’t care! I won’t have anything more to do with it. You can be the one to play the ‘ghost’ for a change!”
Small feet pattered towards the door and Harrison and I hurriedly drew backwards lest we be seen. The sound of breathless sobs reached our ears as she came towards us.
“Maddie!” Tussaud shouted. “Don’t be so – oh, good God!”
The footsteps stopped abruptly. We waited, uncertain how to act. I was torn - should we confront the pair, or was Holmes intending to make a move himself? This situation was completely unexpected.
Before we could even consider what to do, however, there was a scream of sheer terror from inside the Grand Chamber, followed the unmistakeable thud of a body hitting the floor.
TBC
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 2955
Characters involved: Doctor Watson
Genre: General, mystery
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Night at the museum...
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 Chapter Four
THE WEEPING WAXWORK
CHAPTER FIVE
The time did indeed pass slowly.
With Harrison as my companion, the first stage of my vigil went well enough: having seen Holmes take his place in the Grand Chamber, I accompanied the watchman on his first round of the night. The building was large, empty and full of echoes, all of which served to place an added strain upon my already jangling nerves. It was quite ludicrous, but I could not rid myself of the sensation that someone was following me. How Holmes could sit, alone and unconcerned, amongst the waxworks I had no idea, and I found my admiration for his iron self-control growing once again. I knew that I could not have done it myself, and I was dreading my turn later that night.
We patrolled the offices, the workrooms and the storerooms (all of which I allowed Harrison to enter by himself, as I was embarrassingly afraid of what I might find) before making our way to the main foyer where I made the acquaintance of the night porter – a Mr Alfred Rigsby, late of the Metropolitan Police.
“Sergeant I was, sir,” he said, offering me a mug of coffee from a thermos which I declined as politely as I could, having seen the condition of the proffered receptacle. “Let me go two years ago on account of my age and the fact I’ve lost me puff. Couldn’t chase after the young ne’er do wells no more, you see.”
“You’re doing your duty here instead, eh, Alf?” said Harrison good-naturedly. “He’s a rare watchdog, Doctor – raised the alarm quick as you like when a group of bosky lads tried to steal the queen’s garters.”
“Aye, aye, we caught ‘em good and proper,” agreed Rigsby. He peered at me a little myopically. “Are you a medical man, then, sir?”
“Retired army surgeon,” I replied, bracing myself for the inevitable.
“Have you seen a doctor about that problem of your yet, Alf?” Harrison asked, cocking an eyebrow.
The older man shook his head. “Ain’t had time, have I?”
“It’s been a week, mate, you can let it go on any further without getting checked out.”
“What exactly is the difficulty?” I enquired with a little trepidation. Long experience had taught me that once someone discovered the nature of my profession they were often frighteningly quick to trot out their ailments for my medical opinion. I sincerely hoped that Rigsby would not be one of these, or Holmes might find his plan derailed by a persistent and garrulous patient.
“He keeps falling asleep,” said Harrison.
“That’s not so unusual.”
“No, sir, he falls asleep on duty. Don’t you, Alf?”
The porter nodded. “It’s never happened to me before. Night duty’s always been my lot, even when I was in the force – been doing it regular for nigh-on thirty years. Just this week, though, I’ve been nodding off halfway through the night. When I do wake up it’s a real effort to open me eyes.”
“Do you get enough sleep during the day, before you begin your shift?” I asked.
“A good seven or eight hours, like clockwork. Once I’m home I can fall asleep at the drop of a hat, but I ain’t used to it happening on duty, sir.”
I found myself frowning. “And you eat regular meals? You take plenty of exercise?”
The porter smiled. “I live in Camden, sir, so I’ve a fair walk to work of an evening. I reckon that keeps me fit.”
“Of course, of course. Well, it sounds as though this warrants further investigation,” I said, admittedly somewhat perplexed. I could not smell alcohol on the man’s breath, and there were none of the tell-tale physical signs which might point towards heavy drinking. I do not like a mystery any more than Holmes, and so I handed him one of my cards. “I am currently acting as locum for Doctor Clarke in Paddington. If you come along to the surgery in the next day or two I will make an examination and look into it further.”
Rigsby thanked me profusely, carefully stowing the card away in his waistcoat pocket. Leaving him with his coffee for company, Harrison and I ascended the main staircase, a broad, sweeping affair like those found in the grandest of houses. The light from the lantern bounced back and forth across the gilded surfaces of the banisters. As I walked I became aware that I was dragging my steps. I immediately knew why: the time had come for Harrison to conduct me to my hiding place, the infamous Chamber of Horrors…
***
He assured me that it really wasn’t as bad as it first appeared, but I confess I did not believe him.
Upon first sight of the place by the flickering glow of the dark lantern, I felt myself fully justified in this: depraved faces leered at me from the surrounding darkness; above my head a man swung from a gibbet, his features hideously contorted; just to my left some poor soul had fallen victim to the rack, another the thumbscrews, and yet more the sort of tortures one reads about in history books but hopes never to experience first-hand. All around were the figures of notorious criminals, the majority of which Harrison could put names to, and did so in an effort to reassure me. It did not work – the names only served to remind me that Holmes had figured in the foiling and capture of many of them, and, had they known of my presence, they would surely have been anxious to wreak some form of revenge upon me for my assistance in their downfall. No doubt, had anyone truly been aware of his appearance, Moriarty would have taken pride of place there, and with good reason.
“They won’t do you any harm, Doctor. All they are is tallow and wood, when it comes down to it,” said Harrison, knocking his knuckles against the man on the rack and smiling with satisfaction as the torso replied with a sharp sound which indicated it was hollow.
“That’s very easy to say,” I replied, trying not to look too closely at my surroundings. Having seen some real horrors, both on the battlefield and during my long association with Sherlock Holmes, I could not understand the public fascination with all things chilling and macabre. It has always pained me to think that there is the capacity within the human soul to derive entertainment from the suffering of others, both real and imagined.
Harrison led me through the cavern – for such it was, with what appeared to be flagstones underfoot and walls which gave it the appearance of a vault – until he came to the exit, where he stopped. To one side of us was a guillotine, its occupant still thankfully in possession of his head; to the other the body snatchers Burke and Hare, a Hessian-wrapped bundle carried between them. “If you have a seat here, Doctor, you’ll be able to see if anyone enters the gallery,” the night-watchman said helpfully, moving a chair away from the wall for me. “There’s always an attendant on duty in here, just in case anyone’s overcome – that’s where they sit. You can see the landing, but no one can see you if you keep your light shuttered.”
I was not entirely sure which would be more uncomfortable: sitting in the glow of the lamp with things leering at me from the shadows, or remaining in the dark, imagining that they were doing so. Since Holmes’s instructions were quite clear upon the matter, I had no choice but to submit to the darkness. I found it ironic that I was the one stuck here when he would no doubt have appreciated this particular part of the exhibition.
Before he left, Harrison withdrew a hip flask from his pocket and offered it to me. “Something to keep out the cold, Doctor?”
I accepted gratefully before I realised that the content of the flask was not brandy but gin. I knocked it back; trying to ignore how much my hand was shaking, and then fell to coughing as the spirits burned the back of my throat. My eyes watering, I handed him back the flask, but he closed my fingers over it.
“Looks as though you need it more than me, sir,” he said, peering at me in concern. I could not blame him – I must have looked decidedly unwell, and not just from the effects of the gin. “I’m off to check on old Boney now – are you sure you’ll be all right?”
I could do little more than assure him that I was quite able to take care of myself, hoping that I sounded convincing. He did not look as if he believed me, but he departed, taking his light with him and leaving me quite alone in the cold, curiously dank chamber. As he moved away, I caught sight of a shelf behind the guillotine, half obscured by the grotesquely lolling figure of Marat in his bath, Charlotte Corday’s dagger protruding from his chest. Upon the shelf, I managed to glimpse as the light receded, were two heads which must be those mentioned by Madeleine Tussaud of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI taken after their deaths. I found it curious that there was more than two feet of empty space upon the shelf, and small white cards affixed to the edge, suggesting that more heads usually stood there. But if that was the case, why had they been removed, and where were they now?
***
I freely confess that the next two hours rank as possibly the longest of my life.
Forbidden light, I could do little more than sit and become prey to my rather colourful imagination as it took hold of my uncomfortable surroundings and twisted them for its own nefarious purposes. Unable even to see my watch, I had no concept of time, and the more I wished my ordeal to be at an end, the further the minutes seemed to stretch.
I am not a fanciful man, and I would hope that I have my share of courage, but there were moments during that lonely vigil when I became convinced that something truly horrible was reaching out of the claustrophobic darkness towards me. My eyes had adjusted enough for me to be able to discern the grotesque figures of my unwished-for companions, and I felt to my great shame the icy fingers of terror crawling their way up my spine.
Truly, had I been able I would have flung the door wide and run from the room, anxious to put as much space as possible between myself and the waxworks, but I had agreed to help Holmes in his plan and I would not jeopardise it by going back on my word. I have endured much for my friend, but this would rank as one of the worst experiences I had undergone on his behalf.
Before long I convinced myself that I could hear voices: mutterings, and then moans accompanied by the clanking of chains. I thought that I saw from the corner of my eye the hanging man sway slightly in a nonexistent breeze, his slack jaw stretching in a hideous parody of a smile. Before me the blade of the guillotine loomed out of the darkness, poised to fall. I could hear the creaking of the rack as it was turned the groans and cries of anguish from its poor victim. Surely, were I to remain there for long I would go mad with the suggestion, insane from the creations of my own mind. For the first time in my life, I found myself cursing the imagination upon which I prided myself and which Holmes routinely mocked as my ‘romantic nature’. There was nothing even remotely romantic in the impressions my mind was presently conjuring, and I fervently wished for a way to shut it off.
I had heard of young men who laid bets that they would not be able to spend the night in the Chamber of Horrors, but I was not aware of anyone who had ever done so successfully. This fact did not surprise me in the least. I had been there little more than an hour and already I wondered how much longer I would be able to stand it.
***
Time passed gradually. I have no idea how long I spent in that dreadful place before I at last became aware that the footsteps just on the edge of my hearing were real and not yet another product of my over-active imagination.
Unaccountably relieved, I got stiffly to my feet and moved a little closer to the door in time to see a small figure muffled in a cloak making its way towards the door of the Grand Chamber. Harrison had not returned, evidently making his second round of the building, and so, taking up my lantern and patting my pocket to reassure myself that my revolver still nestled there, I stealthily made my way out into the gallery as the door shut behind the nocturnal visitor.
I got no further than the doorway, forced to stop almost immediately and press myself against the wall, as a second figure followed the first: a rather taller, stockier silhouette in an overcoat. For a moment I held my breath as he passed me, but whoever it was paid me no attention, pulling open the door and slipping inside. I waited ten seconds before moving to do the same. As I did, however, a hand descended upon my shoulder and I would have cried out had not another clapped swiftly over my mouth to muffle the sound.
“It’s all right, Doctor, it’s me,” a voice I belatedly recognised as Harrison’s hissed in my ear. I nodded and ceased my automatic struggles, grateful to be released.
“I followed him up the stairs,” the night-watchman whispered. “Old Rigsby’s asleep again – I can’t wake him.”
It struck me that the porter’s slumbers were incredibly convenient to the intruders, but I had no time to consider the circumstance further. “There are two of them,” I said softly. “Did they come through the main door?”
“Must have done – Mr Holmes bolted the back entrance himself.”
Concern hit us both at the same moment, and despite the darkness we exchanged a glance.
“Holmes!”
He had been expecting a single female – this unknown man could ruin the whole carefully-laid trap. Without waiting for Harrison, I was across the hall and turning the door-handle before I was even aware of what I was doing.
Before I could open the door more than an inch, however, I was brought up short by voices coming suddenly from the room beyond. The first speaker was the woman – she was young, and to my astonishment I realised that the voice belonged to Miss Madeleine Tussaud. It was quite clear that she was more than a little distressed, for it shook and wavered, sounding almost on the verge of tears.
“No, Claude!” she exclaimed. “I won’t do it, not any more. Not now Mr Holmes is involved. I know what you said, but it’s not right! It’s not…morally right to do this.”
Her companion, a man a little older, said angrily, “You know why we’re doing this, Maddie. It’s for the business, for Papa, for all of us! What will we do if this place goes down? We’ll all go with it, be on the streets. What harm’s a little deception? It’s not hurting anyone.”
“But all those people who came today…so many of them, and we took their money under false pretences! Even great-grandmére would never have done anything like this.”
The man – Claude Tussaud it would seem – laughed harshly. “Don’t be naïve, Maddie! She used to claim that half the French nobility were her patrons, and conveniently most of them weren’t alive to contradict her. How do we even know her claims that she knew the royal family were true? Great-grandmére was an expert in exaggeration – how is this any different?”
“Because Mr Holmes knows what we’re doing, that’s why! When he came yesterday he searched this room and he found something, I know he did! He’s bound to tell Papa, and then where will we be?” Madeleine asked. “I wish you’d never made me ask Papa to consult him. Why did you do it?”
“To bring in more paying customers, of course. If the world’s most famous detective is on the case, it makes the public even more interested! You know how Louise and the other laps up the stories in The Strand. That’s why she’s been working on that likeness all this time in secret, the scheming little…”
“You were a fool, Claude. He sees everything – we’ll be ruined!”
“Oh, for the love of God, Maddie, it’s only a harmless little deception - ” Claude said, exasperated, but she cut him off, crying,
“I don’t care! I won’t have anything more to do with it. You can be the one to play the ‘ghost’ for a change!”
Small feet pattered towards the door and Harrison and I hurriedly drew backwards lest we be seen. The sound of breathless sobs reached our ears as she came towards us.
“Maddie!” Tussaud shouted. “Don’t be so – oh, good God!”
The footsteps stopped abruptly. We waited, uncertain how to act. I was torn - should we confront the pair, or was Holmes intending to make a move himself? This situation was completely unexpected.
Before we could even consider what to do, however, there was a scream of sheer terror from inside the Grand Chamber, followed the unmistakeable thud of a body hitting the floor.
TBC
