CHAPTER FIVE
I strongly doubt that the vast majority of London’s teeming thousands who pass its doors daily think of Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks as anything but an intrinsic part of the local scene. If they ever paused to wonder at the rather unusual name, they have long since stopped doing so. For them it is as much a part of childhood as one of the parks.
For Holmes and myself it was something we passed regularly to and fro — sometimes several times a day, situated as it is on Marylebone Road, a mere stone’s throw from Baker Street.
Founded at the very dawn of the century by a formidable Swiss lady, Madame Marie Grosholtz, who had herself trained in Paris, it had grown into a peculiarly British institution, though, for the life of me, I have never been able to appreciate its charm. To see an inanimate approximation of those who dominated their times usually by their sheer life force rather than their looks seems to me a contradiction in terms. But presumably, as Holmes so often reminds me, I fail to move with those times.
The fact remains that, on all the occasions I was dragged through the place as a child, I never saw anything half as lifelike as that Oscar Meunier bust of himself Holmes had made to deceive Moriarty’s lieutenant, Colonel Sebastian Moran, when ‘the second most dangerous man in London’ was bent on revenging his supposedly dead master. As I recall, I wrote that episode up under the title of The Empty House and, for once, managed to receive my friend’s tacit approval for one of my narratives.
Perhaps — I thought as Mycroft’s carriage made the short journey from our lodgings to the wax emporium — there might be some small coincidence here. Moriarty … wax … Holmes …? But then, reading tea leaves has never been my cup of tea, so to speak.
The carriage pulled up at the entrance to the establishment and already it was clear that this was no ordinary day. For one thing the crowds lining the entrance were several deep and obviously there to watch those who came in and out, rather than pay their money to go inside. A cordon of uniformed police were holding them back to let the genuine visitors through and the usual good-natured banter was being exchanged. As will often happen, the crowd had picked on one unfortunate subject for their so-called humour. He was standing with his back to us as we prepared to alight, wearing a long nondescript coat and a bowler hat that had seen better days.
“Coo, they’ve left one of the dummies outside,” cried one anonymous wag from the back of the crowd.
“Nah, I saw ’im breathe,” a woman’s voice shouted.
“Go on, stick a pin in ’im!”
“Now, see here, my good woman,” the bowler hatted man said, turning to face the crowd and it was then that I recognised our old friend, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Small and rather ferrety of feature, Lestrade’s path and ours had crossed many a time and oft. The relationship was always inclined to be touchy but over the years a healthy mutual respect had developed and Holmes often referred to him as the ‘pick of a bad lot’—a term I doubt the Inspector would have appreciated as unqualified praise. The fact that he was here in person, however, was due testimony to the fact that the Yard was taking security seriously and this was confirmed for me a moment later by the glance he exchanged with Mycroft, as the latter lowered his bulk to terra firma.
“Morning, gentlemen,” he said touching the brim of his hat to Mycroft and Holmes in turn then, giving me the benefit of the doubt, adding one more for good measure. In reply to Mycroft’s raised left eyebrow, he added: “My men have the whole place sealed off tight as a drum. I think you could say everything’s tickety-boo.”
“You could — but I wish you wouldn’t, Lestrade,” said Holmes, looking at the Inspector quizically. “Her Majesty’s English receives enough punishment in this day and age without your adding further to it. Perhaps you’ll show us to where the ceremony is taking place?”
Soon we were walking through the spacious entrance hall that would normally have echoed with the ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ of excited visitors. This morning the whole place had been temporarily closed to the public, another evidence of the power of Moxton’s pocket allied to the snobbery of class. Our esteemed Foreign Secretary clearly had no wish to brush his imperial robes against his humble servants and voters.
Several liveried attendants stepped forward to meet us but Lestrade self-importantly brushed them aside in a manner that was clearly meant to communicate who was running this particular show. Did Moxton take all these servants around in a pack, I wondered, or did he have a reservoir of them at each port of call?
Before I could resolve such a weighty question, we were ushered into a side gallery filled with a group of people that — if logic didn’t dictate otherwise — I could have sworn were the very same ones I had last seen by the banks of Loch Ness. Surging forward to greet us was Moxton himself. Even though I now knew that I watching a persona being worn like a mask, I couldn’t help being impressed by the sheer performance. The man could impersonate the Sphinx and carry it off. I found Gilbert’s lines from HMS Pinafore going though my mind …
For he might have been a Roosian,
A French or Turk or Proosian,
Or perhaps Itali-an.
But in spite of all temptations
To belong to other nations,
He remains an Englishman.
I must have been humming it under my breath, because I received a strange look from Holmes and from Moxton — it seemed easier all round to keep thinking of him as Moxton on such an occasion — an amused: “If only, Doctor, if only. As it is we poor colonials — or, should I say ex-colonials? — must play the hand we are dealt. Don’t you agree, Mr. Holmes?”
“Indubitably, my dear M — Moxton.” Holmes seemed to stumble over the first syllable. “Though I believe in many games of chance — and Watson knows far more about these things than I — it is customary to discard when one has an inconvenient card and, of course, there is always the element of bluff …”
“As usual, Mr. Holmes, you are clearly better informed than you would wish others to believe. I don’t think I would care to face you across the poker table. And now, gentlemen, shall we …?”
I was about to remind Holmes that he had yet to introduce Mycroft to Moxton/Moriarty, when I noticed that his brother was nowhere in sight. Like many large men, he could when he chose be remarkably light on his feet. Interpreting my glance, Holmes indicated the door to the Entrance Hall and murmured — “Affairs of State, Watson — Affairs of State. Mycroft is no doubt meeting our Distinguished Visitor.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade interjected. “The Foreign Secretary arrived several minutes ago. He and his aides asked if they could just wander around for a few minutes before the ceremony. Apparently, Lord — has a soft spot for this place. Seems he used to come here as a kiddie.”
I saw my friend’s brows crease in a small frown, which was gone as fast as it came. “A politician of considerable native instinct, it would seem, Lestrade. It must be pleasing to converse with a constituency of the mute … Hello, what’s this?”
Without our really noticing, Moxton had moved to the dais in the centre of the gathering, where a shrouded figure stood waiting to be unveiled. He was now conferring with a group of Museum officials and looking at his watch in an obtrusive manner, making it clear to anyone watching — which included most of those present — that events were now running behind schedule. Now he dispatched one of the liveried minions, who ostentatiously hurried from the room.