Wax

Book 823: Murder Room

by Ethel Lina White

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

The residents of the British town of Riverpool are disturbed by a series of murders in the local waxworks museum. As tensions mount, local journalist Sonia Thompson determines to investigate - but when she spends the night alone at the museum, she soon finds horror stalking the exhibits. A classic crime thriller from the author of The Lady Vanishes.

Release date: January 3, 2020

Publisher: Independently published

Print pages: 240

Sample

AS THE Town Hall clock struck two, the porter of the Riverpool Waxwork Gallery stirred uneasily in bed.

“What’s the matter, Ames?” asked his wife sleepily.

“Nothing,” was the reply. “Only, I remember taking a candle with me into the Horrors, and I can’t rightly say as I took it out again.”

Instantly there was an upheaval under the quilt, followed by an eruption of blankets. Then an elephantine hump, silhouetted on the reflected light of the wall, told Ames that his wife was
sitting up in bed.

“That Gallery’s our bread,” she declared. “Besides, think of my poor figures trapped in a fire. You get up, Ames, and make sure the candle’s out.”

“Oh, I douted it. I remember. Lay down again.”

But Mrs. Ames had surged out of bed and was slipping into her shoes. Having achieved his object, her husband drew the blanket over his head. Salving his conscience by repeating, “I douted
it,” he went to sleep again.

With her tweed coat buttoned over her nightdress, and her hat, adorned with an eye veil, perched on top of her curlers, Mrs. Ames went out into the night. She was not nervous of the darkness,
while the Gallery was only the length of a short street away.

Directly she turned the key in the great lock and pushed open the massive mahogany doors, she felt that she was really at home. She had brought her pocket torch, for she knew that if she
switched on the light, a policeman might notice the illumination and feel it his duty to investigate. And, as she was one of those free and fearless souls who strew the grass of public parks with
chocolate paper and cigarette stumps, she had an instinctive distrust of the law.

She entered the Gallery, and then stood on the threshold—aware of a change. This was not the familiar place she knew so well.

It seemed to be full of people. Seen in the light from the street lamp, which streamed in through the high window, their faces were those of men and women of character and intelligence. They
stood in groups as though in conversation, or sat apart in solitary reverie.

But they neither spoke nor moved.

When she had seen them last, a few hours ago, under the dim electric globes, they had been a collection of ordinary waxworks, representing conventional historical personages and Victorian
celebrities. Only a few were in really good condition, while some were ancient, with blurred features and threadbare clothes.

But now, they were all restored to health and electric with life. Napoleon frowned as he planned a new campaign. Charles II. mistook her for an orange-girl and ogled her. Henry VIII. shook with
silent laughter.

Mrs. Ames felt absurdly abashed by the transformation. She knew she had only to snap on the light to shatter the illusion. Restrained by the memory of the policeman, she did her best to put the
figures back in their proper places.

“Hallo, dearies,” she called. “Mother’s popped in to see you.”

Her voice echoed queerly under the domed mahogany roof. She had a vague impression that the Waxworks resented her liberty, as she hurried towards the Hall of Horrors.

A crack of light which outlined its doors told her that her husband had been too optimistic about his memory. This smaller Gallery had not been wired, for it held no lurid attractions. She
rushed inside, to see a guttering candle stuck upon the floor.

Although no damage had been done, her indignation swept away imagination. But after she had blown out the flame, she became dimly afraid of her surroundings.

There was no special reason for her to feel nervous. The Hall of Horrors housed only a small number of selected murderers, whom, normally, she despised. These figures were not spectacular, like
her cherished Royalties. They wore dull coats and trousers, and could easily be mistaken for nonentities such as Gladstone and Tennyson.

But, as she threw her torch over them, a pinprick of light gleamed in each glassy eye, imparting a fiction of life. They seemed to be looking at her with intent and furtive speculation, as
though she were the object of a private and peculiarly personal inventory.

Suddenly she remembered that she was among a company of—poisoners.

Although she was furious with herself for her weakness, her nerve crashed. It was in vain that she reminded herself that these were, in reality, her very own Waxworks. She treated them as her
children. It was true that they were a neglected family, for she was an amiable sloven; but, occasionally, she brushed their clothes and hair, or cleaned their faces with a lick of spit.

Now, however, as she hurried down the Gallery, she felt that they had grown alien and aloof. They seemed to regard her with unfriendly eyes, as though she had interrupted some secret and
exciting mystery.

They resented her presence. At this hour, the gallery belonged to Them.

Mrs. Ames lost no time in taking their hint. She shuffled through the door, locked it behind her, and ran down the street in flapping shoes. Less than five minutes later, she woke up her
husband, to relate her experience.

“I was never so scared in my life. They weren’t like the Waxworks I knew. All the time I was there, they were watching me, just as if it was their place, and I’d no
right there. . . . Go on, laugh. You’ve been safe and warm in bed, after trying to burn the gallery down. . . . But you listen to me, Ames. I tell you, those figures were up to some
business of their own. And I felt in my bones that it was no good business either.”

BEFORE ever she saw her, Sonia Thompson looked upon Mrs. Cuttle as a predestined victim.

She was stupid, complacent, blind. She possessed what other women coveted, but had not the wit to appraise its value, or the imagination to guard it. And she was at the mercy of unscrupulous
persons.

Of course, the first suggestion was the result of idle gossip. The impression it made upon Sonia was probably due to the fact that she was both physically tired and mentally excited, and
therefore, strung up to a condition of sensitized perception.

When, afterwards, she looked back on her first night at Riverpool, it always appeared intangible as the dust of a dream, so that she could not be sure of her memory. Every place seemed to be
dark, and buildings rocked. There was confusion of senses, and optical illusion, in which men were transformed into waxworks and waxworks into men.

She had travelled direct from Geneva, and she still swayed with the motion of the train when she signed the register of the Golden Lion Hotel.

“Sonia Thompson.” She lingered for a moment to look at it.

“Wonder if that name will ever be famous,” she thought.

The coffee-room had a sunken floor, dark flock wallpaper, and was dimly lit. Apparently the windows were hermetically sealed, and the odours of heavy Victorian dinners—eaten long
ago—were marooned on the warm still air. Directly she had gulped down a quick meal of bacon and eggs, Sonia went out to explore the town.

It was between nine and ten, when Riverpool looked especially dreary, with shuttered shops and deserted streets. A fine spit of rain was falling which slimed the cobbles of the road. She
wandered rather than walked, while the Channel steamer pitched again under her feet, so that—occasionally—she reeled in a nightmare of wet heaving pavements and flickering lights.

It was in a sober and stationary moment that she found herself standing outside the Waxwork Gallery.

The place had a sinister reputation. Built in 1833, it had been unlucky almost from its beginning. The speculative builder who erected it had hanged himself in the Hall of Horrors. During the
Hungry Forties a tramp had been found inside—dead from starvation. In the Naughty Nineties a painted woman of the town had been murdered in the alcove, wherein was
staged—appropriately—the final tableau in the career of Vice.

Only recently, there had been a fresh link in the chain of tragedies. A stranger—a commercial traveller—had sought a free lodging in the Gallery, and had paid his bill, according to
precedent. The porter discovered him in the morning, lying in Virtue’s bed; and the worthy patriarch had a corpse for a bedfellow.

The post-mortem disclosed cirrhosis of the liver. A letter, vowing ferocious vengeance, and signed, “Your loving husband,” indicated an unfaithful wife. The combined effect of rage
and drink had been a fit.

Although Sonia knew nothing of its history, she felt the pull of some macabre attraction which drew her inside the Gallery. Directly she passed through its massive doors, she was further excited
by its peculiar and distinctive atmosphere—sour-sweet, like the stale perfume of a soiled lace handkerchief.

The building was large and dim, panelled with mahogany and draped with tawdry black velvet, filmed with dust. One side had been built into alcoves which housed tableaux depicting scenes in the
careers of Virtue and Vice. In spite of being faintly lit with a few pendant electric globes, it smelt of gas.

At first blink, Sonia thought the gallery was full of curious people. Then she realized that she was being tricked in the usual way. She spoke to the commissionaire at the door, before she
discovered that she was asking her question of a dummy.

Apart from the Waxworks, the place seemed to be empty. No other visitors inspected the collection, which was large and second-rate. She picked out Henry VIII. in a buff suit padded and slashed
with scarlet; Elizabeth, in grimed ruff and blister-pearls; Mary of England, pasty as dough, but resplendent in new plum satin.

As she paused before Charles II., who had preserved his swagger and leer, although his white velvet suit had yellowed to the tint of parchment, a second trick was played upon her. Two figures
seated in a shady corner suddenly came to life, and moved, swiftly and silently, towards the exit.

Sonia could see only the back of the man, who was tall and broad-shouldered. His lady, too, had the collar of her coat drawn up to the level of her eyes; but under her tilted cap was a gleam of
conspicuous honey-gold hair.

They threaded their way expertly through the groups of Waxworks, and had slipped through the door almost before Sonia could realize that they were not a delusion.

She was staring in their direction when Mrs. Ames came out of the Hall of Horrors. As usual, she was doing duty for her husband, who was in bed with seasonal screws.

Sonia turned at the sound of flapping footsteps, and saw a tall stooping woman, with big regular features, large mournful eyes, and a mild sagging face. She wore a dirty smock of
watercress-green, and a greasy black velvet ribbon in her grey hair, which was cut in a long Garbo bob.

In her relief at meeting someone who was definitely human, Sonia spoke to her with enthusiasm.

“What a marvellous place. It has atmosphere.”

“It has not.” Mrs. Ames’ voice was indignant. “Besides I like it. It’s healthy.”

“No, no. I meant—tradition, background. One feels there are stories here. . . . Who was that couple who went out just now?”

“Couple?” repeated Mrs. Ames. “I saw no couple.”

“But you must have seen them,” insisted Sonia. “They had to pass you. A tall man with a white muffler, and a lady with fair hair.”

Mrs. Ames’ face remained blank.

“You must have been mistaken, or else seen ghosts,” she said. “Plenty of ghosts here—or ought to be. Would you like a catalogue, miss?”

“Why?” Sonia spoke absently, for she was still baffled by the mystery. “All the figures are labelled.”

“Only for the public. The intelligent visitors always like to have them explained.”

Sonia was not exactly impressed by this test of intelligence. She looked at Mrs. Ames, and decided that if her face were lifted and made of wood, it would be a handsome figure-head for a ship.
She saw it, wet and magnified, rising and falling triumphantly through a smother of green sea—and again, the Channel steamer pitched under her feet.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that a journalist should not neglect any chance of learning some local history.

“Perhaps you could show me round instead?” she asked.

As a coin was slipped into her palm, Mrs. Ames revived like a wilting flower after aspirin has been added to its water. She swept, like an argosy in full sail, towards Henry VIII., and
introduced him with a grand flourish.

“This is the finest figure in our collection. Henry Rex Eight. Magnificent torso. I’ve sat for the figure myself, so I should know.”

“And where is his collection of wives?” asked Sonia.

“Only six, miss,” remarked Mrs. Ames stiffly. “And he was married to all of them. Not many gentlemen, today, as can say as much. . . . This is Charles the
Second.”

“And I suppose he was another pure and virtuous king?”

“Well, miss”—Mrs. Ames hesitated—“if he wasn’t a king, perhaps we might call him a naughty boy. But, whatever he did, he paid for it. He was executed
at Whitehall. . . . This is Elizabeth. A very clever queen. She never married, but had lovers, so they called her ‘Good Queen Bess.’ . . . Bloody Mary. When she was dead, they cut open
her heart, and found ‘Calais’ written on it.”

Sonia began to feel that her shilling was not wasted on Mrs. Ames. The woman was a character and probably had a Past. Her voice was educated, although the foundations of her history had
slipped.

“Is this the oldest figure in the collection?” she asked, as she paused before a pathetic waxwork, with a blurred pallid face, and a robe of moth-eaten black velveteen.

“One of them,” replied Mrs. Ames sadly. “Mary of Scotland. But she’s worn the worst. She—she’s got to go. But we keep putting it off.”

She gulped as though she were discussing the fate of some pet animal, while Sonia sighed in sympathy.

“Poor doomed Mary,” she murmured. “She reminds me of my favourite doll. I wouldn’t go to sleep without her. They burned her because they said she was germy, and gave me a
new one which I slaughtered on the spot. But Mother always knows best. . . . I do feel for you about poor Mary. I expect she’s real to you.”

As a wave of sympathy spread between them, Mrs. Ames relaxed into gossip.

“As real as the townspeople. In fact, some of the Waxworks remind me of them, and I get quite mixed. Henry the Eighth is the spit of Alderman Cuttle. He’s got the big shop, like
Selfridge, and he’s going to be our next mayor. He’s a terror for the ladies. I could fall for him myself. And Elizabeth’s got the same red hair and sharp face as Miss Yates.
She’s Alderman Cuttle’s secretary, but she means to be the second Mrs. Cuttle.”

“Is the Alderman’s wife dead?” asked Sonia.

“Not yet.”

“What’s Mrs. Cuttle like?”

“Like a sack of potatoes, except she hasn’t got their eyes. She’ll need them. She was only a nurse, but she pulled the Alderman through a bad illness, and he married her. And
now she stops the way. I wouldn’t be in her shoes for all her fine house.”

Mrs. Ames sniffed ominously and passed on to the next figure.

“This is Cardinal Wolsey. I expect you recognize him, for he’s the advertisement for woollen pants. He said, ‘If I had served—’”

“Yes, thanks,” interrupted Sonia, “but I’ve seen enough. I’ve had a long journey. I’ll just rest for a minute and then I’ll go.”

As she dropped down on a wooden chair, she realized that she was desperately tired and not quite normal. The lack of ventilation had drained her of her energy; but, while her legs felt leaden,
her brain ticked away feverishly.

Her nerves quivered to the spur of sharpened senses; she became aware of hidden life—a stealthy movement behind a curtained alcove—the stir of a whisper.

“Do you get many visitors?” she asked.

“Now and again,” was the vague reply. “The fact is, miss, the Gallery’s got a—a bad name. They say you can’t stay here all night and live to tell the
tale.”

“That’s intriguing.” Sonia felt a flicker of reviving interest. “Some one ought to test that theory.”

“Someone did. Last month. And they found him, next morning, dead as frozen mutton. He threw a fit and passed out.”

“Oh, tough luck. Coincidence, I suppose. Curious. It might be an idea for a newspaper. Perhaps I’ll try it out and write it up, myself.”

As she spoke, Sonia had the feeling that the Waxworks were listening to her. The Gallery had suddenly grown still and silent as a stagnant pond.

“Are you a writer?” asked Mrs. Ames.

“Yes, I’m on the staff of the Riverpool Chronicle. At least, I will be. Tomorrow. I really must push off now.”

She sprang to her feet, and then staggered in momentary vertigo. The walls of the gallery rocked and there were rushes of darkness. Afterwards, she believed that she was gripped by a premonition
of the future, for she was filled with horror of the Gallery.

She saw the Waxworks, not as harmless dummies, but as malign agents in a corrupt traffic, while Mrs. Ames’ face—wooden and gigantic—tossed in the swell of a grey sea. It
dwindled to lifesize, and she realized that she had grasped the woman by her arm.

“A bit dizzy?” asked Mrs. Ames.

“Only a black out,” replied Sonia. “I’m quite fit now, thanks. Good night. I’ll come and see you again.”

Directly Sonia had gone, Mrs. Ames glanced at the clock, and then closed the Gallery. It was a simple business; she merely rang a hand-bell, and the public—represented by a few
couples—immediately took the hint.

It was a curiously furtive and speedy exodus. They slipped out of corners and alcoves, a. . .