Camille (8 page)

I dropped the curtain edge and shuffled in my
slippers to the wash stand. Even the cold water in the basin could
not cool the dreariness from my head. For three days, I’d lurked in
places where sewage glazed the pavement, where bone thin children
wore only a layer of filth to shield them from the harsh cold, and
where haunted, yellow stares dotted the lightless passages. And
three days of torment brought me no closer to finding Nathaniel
Strider.

“I’ve laid a plate for you by the fire,” I
called to Dr. Bennett from the doorway.

He was busy buffing the brass tube of the
microscope with a cloth. Like a child with a new toy, he’d barely
taken his hands off the instrument since he’d borrowed it. “Come
see this, Cami.” His fingers motioned me closer.

I peered into the eyepiece for a moment. Each
cell had a distinct outline. I raised my head. “Beautiful. Like a
collage of odd-shaped tiles. Are those the membranes you spoke of?
The ones that keep the cell in tact?’

“Yes, but I’m afraid these are cork cells.
The boundary around plant cells is much sturdier than animal cells.
They are highly visible under this lens.”

“Shouldn’t you be looking at animal cells?”
My words sounded sharp, but I couldn’t help myself. “I’m slinking
around the seediest sections of London, while you,” I waved my hand
toward the microscope, “while you waste precious time staring at
plant cells.”

His mouth tightened into a straight line like
it always did when he was angry. “Camille, I know you’re
frustrated. Particularly since your excursions have been
unsuccessful. But I assure you, everything I do here has a purpose.
There is a significant relationship between plant and animal
cells.”

My shoulders drooped. “Forgive me. These last
few days weigh heavily on my mind.”

He placed my hand around his arm and led me
into the hallway. “Science takes time. You mustn’t get your hopes
up about saving this lad.”

The crumbly biscuits I’d made for breakfast
stuck to the roof of my mouth. I washed it down with a swallow of
tea, flopped back in my chair, and stared at the back of the paper
Dr. Bennett held. The day’s obituaries were lined in straight
columns down the right side. The names of prominent citizens and
business men were listed. The lost race inhabiting the slums of
London died without mention or notice.

As my eyes drifted down the column an idea
struck me. “The obituaries! Why did I not think of this
before?”

Dr. Bennett folded down the top corner of the
paper and looked at me.

I leaned forward to get a closer look at the
small print. “Don’t you see? I’ve been spending all my time in the
wrong places. Nathaniel Strider steals from dead people. He told me
himself that there was less chance of getting caught.”

“Surely, you’re not suggesting a visit to a
cemetery.”

I shrugged. “Only if someone wealthy dies, of
course.”

He shook his head and smiled. “Of course.” He
straightened the corner of the paper and disappeared behind it
again.

I read through the list of obituaries.
Several merchants and a man who’d spent the last twenty years
working for the Treasury Office did not sound promising, but the
wife of a successful tradesman, a cotton mill owner, had suffered
an acute onset of apoplexy and had succumbed to it while
convalescing in her home near Regent’s Park. “Why are there no
services listed?”

“Services for whom?” This time he did not
bother to look over his paper.

“This woman, Mildred Smith.” I poked at the
back of the paper. He sighed loudly. “It does not mention where she
is to be buried.”

“Perhaps it is a private funeral for the
family only.”

“What a bunch of burial snobs.” I sat back
hard against the chair.

Dr. Bennett folded the paper in half and
placed it on the table. “Not everyone wants a spectacle to be made
of their death.” He pointed to an advertisement. “This may be of
greater interest to you than poor Mrs. Smith’s funeral.”

I spun the paper around to read it. “Madame
Tussaud’s is offering Londoners free entrance today. How can that
be of interest to me? You know I find the place gruesome.” I turned
the paper back to him. “Besides, with a free entrance, I can only
imagine the caliber of crowd queued up to get in.”

Dr. Bennett’s eyes peered at me over the rim
of his eyeglasses. “Precisely.”

It took me a moment to realize what his one
word response meant. I sat up straight in my seat. “You think it
possible?”

“It says the free admission includes a visit
to the Chamber of Horrors. My dear, if it is one thing you can
count on the masses for, it’s a profound interest in the macabre.
And with the fee waived today, it is a fortuitous opportunity
indeed for those with empty pockets.”

“I’ll head there straight after breakfast and
watch for him outside of the place. Mind you, I have no intentions
of entering otherwise. A visit to the morgue would be more
inviting.”

I donned my favorite blue-striped visiting
habit complete with the large pink sash and matching coat and tried
to convince myself that my motive for dressing like a girl had
nothing to do with Nathaniel Strider. “I’m leaving,” I called from
the entryway.

Dr. Bennett joined me at the front door.
“Here’s some money. Take the omnibus to Baker Street.” He surveyed
my outfit. “It may have been wise to dress down today. I’m afraid
your stylish wardrobe might draw too much attention.”

“Little chance of that. Strider has only seen
me looking like an oddly dressed boy.”

“Actually, I wasn’t thinking about the lad. I
meant in general. There will be all sorts of characters milling
about Baker’s Street today.” Then he gave me a distressed look that
I knew too well.

“I will not get my hopes up, John. I
promise.” Of course, I knew it was a lie. I had already convinced
myself that this had to end well. I could not bear it
otherwise.

Obviously attempting to fill his vehicle to
capacity, the omnibus conductor stopped at every corner to coax
patrons inside. By the time we reached Baker Street, my face was
pressed against the cold window pane. My biggest worry was having
to climb over the laps of all the strangers sitting beside me. The
sidewalks were crowded with people, and as we neared the wax
museum, I could see a queue already forming. Then as the buss
jerked to a halt, I spotted his tall frame in the sea of
visitors.

My shock and the violent motion of stopping
squirted me across the aisle and into the lap of the stout man
across from me. “I am profoundly sorry,” I stammered as I pushed
myself upright. He grunted and straightened his waistcoat. The door
opened and I plowed over the rest of the patrons and exited with
cheeks hot from embarrassment. The morning was off to a splendid
start.

The crowd had doubled by the time I’d reached
Tussaud’s. Strider stood halfway through the queue. Reluctantly, I
joined the end of the line. It seemed I would have no choice except
to enter the museum. Perhaps if I passed him inside, I could work
up the courage to plead my case once more. But I dreaded the whole
scenario having to creep through dimly lit passageways squeezed
between strangers while being stared at by the effigies of late
monarchs. With so many visitors, and such poor lighting, it was
entirely possible that Strider and I would not even cross
paths.

The forest of heads provided the perfect
barrier. Strider’s height allowed me to keep track of his
whereabouts and my lack of it made me nearly invisible.

Through a gap in the crowd, I spotted two
girls standing next to him. He spoke animatedly to them,
punctuating his phrases with that bloody smile of his. They stared
at him raptly as if they stood alone with him on the sidewalk
rather than crushed between jabbing elbows and unwashed bodies.

“Well, what ‘ave we ‘ere?” A voice drawled
behind me. I decided to ignore it. “That’s a smart little outfit
you’re wearing, Miss. Come for your free day at the museum, ‘ave
you?”

Why had I not listened to Dr. Bennett’s
warning about my wardrobe? I focused on the heads in front of
me.

I felt a tug on the hem of my coat and could
no longer disregard the comments. I swiveled around. “Please, do
not touch me,” I said curtly. By their brown, weathered faces and
the musty smell of their clothing, I surmised they were barge
workers taking a break from a day on the river.

One of them tipped his cap and tilted his
head. “You’ll ‘ave to excuse Johnny ‘ere. “He’s got trouble keepin’
his hands to ‘imself.”

Johnny’s mouth pulled to a sneer. “That’s
right. I’ve a terrible time controlling these hands.” He held up
his blister covered fingers. The lines in his palm were crusted
with black dirt.

I turned back around and scooted forward. A
few heads parted and I scanned the bobbing parade of caps and hats
for the wavy black hair. I spotted Strider just as he’d leaned over
to kiss one of the girls on the mouth. It felt as if my stomach
filled with lead cannon balls. To make matters worse, the two
wretches had now moved up to flank me on either side.

“Seeing how you’re all alone, Miss, Johnny
and me, thought you might be needin’ a couple of escorts. It can
get scary inside, we’re told. With all them skewered French heads
and all.”

I moved forward without answering them.

“You think you’re too good for us? Is that
it?” One of them snarled at my back.

I blinked hard to keep my eyes from watering.
After the humiliating scene in the omnibus and the kiss in front of
me, having these two louts taunting me was too much. The throng of
people shifted forward as the doors opened. I slipped between
several women and tucked myself into the first cranny I could find
out of view of the two barge workers. I glimpsed ahead. Strider had
already gone inside. Like a school of fish being swept by the
current, the entire crowd washed into the museum.

A murmur rolled through the spectators as
they wandered into the richly appointed throne room where kings and
queens of the past could eye their subjects with eternal disgust.
Aside from the historical costuming, the displays held little
interest for me. Dr. Bennett had brought me two years ago, and I
could not rid myself of the creepy feeling that the displays were
not wax at all but rather mummified corpses made to look like
sculptures. We’d cut the visit short after three steps into the
Chamber of Horrors. We had, after all, our own horrors to face on
the moonlit streets of London.

I wandered into one of the less traveled
pathways and pressed myself against the wall. There had been no
sign of Strider, and I hated to admit that I felt relieved. The
morning had gone so badly, all of my confidence had faded. It
occurred to me that I’d been better off waiting outside. He would
have to leave the place eventually, and I could wave him aside and
speak to him. Inside, with the rush of people whirring through the
chambers, it would be nearly impossible to converse with him. And I
had no idea how he would react when he realized I was following him
again.

A woman clashed shoulders with me, and I
stumbled, nearly pitching headlong into the stampede of feet. I
caught myself, and as I straightened, I saw his face. I was sure he
hadn’t seen me, and coward that I was, I ducked under a rope
spanning the doorway to a dark room. There was a sign dangling on
it that I had not had time to read, but I was quite sure it said NO
ENTRANCE. I only needed to stay tucked away long enough for him to
pass. Then I would head to the exit, wait outside, and see how long
my resolve lasted.

I backed further into the deserted room when
two figures climbed beneath the same rope. I had been spotted. But
not by Nathaniel Strider.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss High and Mighty.”
Johnny licked his lips as he drew closer.

I tried to push past him, but his friend’s
arm shot out and caught me. My foot stomped down hard on his.

“You witch!” He dropped his arm to grab his
injured foot.

I raced deeper into the lightless room and a
scream caught in my throat. A row of decapitated wax heads impaled
on large spikes lined the wall. But the trailing footsteps
terrified me more than the ghastly display. I tucked myself into
the blackest recess of the room and tried to quiet my breath. My
legs were shaking wildly.

“Gotcha!” Johnny’s grubby hands grabbed me
around the waist. “Can’t hide in the dark with that white, pussy
cat stripe in your hair.” The smell of his breath sickened me.

My scream echoed off the walls, and his
filthy palm tightened around my mouth.

“Johnny, look what I found. Bring the wench
over ‘ere.” I kicked and squirmed but his arms were too strong. He
picked me up like a bag of feathers and followed his limping
friend.

From the corner of my eye, I could see the
roped doorway. But when I saw what had interested the man, the room
began to sway, and I felt close to fainting. The guillotine, a
historical relic of Madame Tussaud’s earlier life in France, stood
tall against the back wall of the room. The polished blade hung
high over the apparatus. A basket with a wax head finished off the
execution scene.

My mind focused long enough for me to have
one coherent thought. “I have money,” I blurted. “I’ll give you
what I have, if you let me go.”

“Let’s ‘ave it then,” Johnny began groping my
midsection to find my coin purse. I struggled to get my arm free
and swung my elbow into his nose. He threw me to the ground, but
before I could get up, his friend had hold of my hair. He yanked me
to my feet and dragged me to the guillotine.

“I’ve always wanted to see how this thing
worked.” His words barely registered as my thoughts scrambled to
wake myself from this nightmare. My hair was twisted around one of
his hands, and he held my two wrists with the other as he shoved me
to my knees.