Gentlemen Formerly Dressed (8 page)

“That's bloody disturbing,” Clyde murmured giving Princess Elizabeth, King George V's two-year-old granddaughter, a wide berth.

Rowland nodded. There was something a great deal more eerie about a small girl frozen in wax than anything else they'd seen. Perhaps the stiffness, the lack of movement and sound, was particularly stark in the depiction of a child.

Somewhere between Jack the Ripper and the newly unveiled statue of Adolf Hitler, Edna seemed to vanish. They weren't particularly alarmed at first, for the sculptress had a way of becoming distracted and wandering off, and the museum was crowded with visitors. It was only after several minutes of searching that they began to be concerned. At that point Edna reappeared.

She grabbed Rowland's hand, beckoning to Milton and Clyde to follow. “Come with me. I want to introduce you to someone.”

She took them through a barely detectable black door in the black wall. It led to what looked like a series of studios behind the main exhibit hall. Rows of disembodied heads sat on overburdened shelves. Random body parts awaited attachment to twisted torsos on tables beside boxes of glass eyes and wigs.

Among the partially assembled figures of wax stood a few men of flesh, fitting limbs, inserting hair or working with moulds. An old man with a head so bald and shiny it might have been mistaken for wax, stood inspecting feet and shouting at a clearly harassed apprentice whenever he found a flaw in the toes. He berated the younger man for his carelessness, waving what appeared to be a hook as he ranted. As they came closer, Rowland realised that the hook was all that existed where the man's right hand should have been. When the man saw Edna, he stopped shouting and beamed. “Edna, my dear, you found your companions then?”

Edna pulled Rowland forward. “Rowly, you remember Mr. Marriott Spencer?”

In truth, Rowland had no recollection of the man whatsoever, but he did recall Edna speaking of a hook-handed sculpture teacher from their days at the Ashton School of Art. It had to be him. How many hook-handed men could Edna possibly know?

“From Ashton's,” Rowland said. “Of course. It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Spencer. You will excuse me if I don't offer you my hand.”

“I am ill-equipped to accept it, son,” Spencer replied, holding up his hook.

“Marriott is Madame Tussaud's chief artist now,” Edna said proudly.

Spencer shook his head. “Ach… the Depression, you know. One must find work when commissions are scarce. When times get better I will return to making art… until then I make mannequins.”

“They're so much more than mannequins, Marriott,” Edna protested.

“You are too kind, Edna.” He smiled, looking at her over half-moon glasses. “You were my most talented student, you know. I
expect great things from you. Promise me you will not follow in my footsteps; that you will not waste your unique gift creating novelties for the unwashed masses.”

Edna laughed. “You are melodramatic, Marriott! You work with the most famous people in the Empire, unwashed or not!”

“I work
on
the most famous people, my dear. I work
with
wax. I have become a maker of giant wickless candles!”

Milton picked up a bust of Theodore Roosevelt. “Still, you do it well.”

Spencer beamed, suddenly mollified. “Come, let me show you how we create the figures. Sadly, it is not art… but it is not an uninteresting livelihood.”

He led them on a tour of the back studios where the figures were created, then dressed and posed. He showed them large sheets on which were recorded the hundreds of measurements taken to create a likeness. He explained the process from clay sculpting, to mould-making, to wax casting.

“Our subjects sit for us like models,” he said, “but it is more intrusive. We measure and measure and measure—every proportion, every wrinkle, every blemish—and then we sculpt.”

“And people are willing to be so closely scrutinised and quantified?” Rowland asked. It seemed brutally mechanical to reduce a face to measurements, however precise.

“Of course… it is a great honour to be recreated in Madame Tussaud's. Some people sit for us many times.”

“Why?”

“Alas,” Spencer lamented. “Wax does not age but the flesh decays.” He pointed out the statue of a young Winston Churchill. “Originally cast in 1908, to take advantage of the public interest in his nuptials, but no longer a true copy of the original. I will be
measuring Mr. Churchill next month. You can see he required much less wax back then.”

But Rowland was not looking at the British politician's statue, his eyes fixed instead upon the bust and torso of a man among a collection of unfinished figures in the corner.

“Mr. Spencer, is that Lord Pierrepont?”

Marriott Spencer walked up to the figure and peered at it, adjusting the bifocals on the bridge of his nose. He lifted the wig and inspected the lettering on the skull. “Yes, that's what it says. Are you acquainted with him?”

“Briefly acquainted… yes, you could say that.” Rowland frowned. “Why would Madame Tussaud's be sculpting Pierrepont?” he asked. “Was he famous in some way?”

Spencer shrugged. “I couldn't tell you… this is one of Francis' pieces. He is not in today.”

Edna tilted her head as she studied the aristocratic waxen figure and Rowland guessed she was trying to picture it adorned in a frilly nightie. He glanced at his watch—they had lost track of time.

The bell in the main gallery rang to warn visitors that the museum was about to close.

“You must come back and visit poor Marriott again.” Spencer took Edna's hand in his unhooked one and kissed it emphatically. “You can talk to Francis about your friend if you like.”

“Oh Marriott, of course we'll visit again,” Edna said, smiling at the old man. She looked wistfully about the studio. “I haven't been able to work on anything in a while. I miss this.”

“I am pleased to hear it!” He smiled thoughtfully. “Perhaps I will be able to find something for you to work on. Would you like that, my dear?”

“I would,” Edna replied. “Very much.”

“It is settled then—you will return. I will send your gentlemen to talk with Francis and you will be my beautiful protégée again!”

“What on earth is this?” Clyde picked up the large tin which had been left on the dressing table, as Rowland proceeded to get dressed again.

Rowland smiled. “Horlicks… I believe it's a malted milk powder. Pennyworth left it.”

The doctor despatched by Wilfred had been waiting for him when they'd returned to Claridge's. Thorough, if a little dour, the English physician had established beyond any doubt that his French colleague had in fact set the correct limb and done so in a manner he deemed satisfactory. That done, he'd lectured Rowland on the dangers of infection as he treated the burns with iodine and petroleum jelly.

Milton took the tin from Clyde and read the label suspiciously. “What's it for?”

“I think it's supposed to keep me from becoming an alcoholic.” Rowland took a fresh shirt from the wardrobe. “He also recommends I take up smoking cigarettes to calm my nerves.”

Milton laughed. “Nerves? Since when do men have nerves?”

Edna pushed open the door. “Dr. Pennyworth said he'll come back in a couple of days to check the dressings,” she said, walking in and sitting on the bed.

Rowland glanced down at the gauze patch on his chest. That he no longer had to look at the swastika was an improvement at least.

“Rowly's got a drinking problem,” Milton announced, holding up the tin of Horlicks.

“Nonsense.”

“No, really. They're medicating him with malted milk.”

Edna reached over and took the tin. “I do love malted milk,” she said. “Shall we ask Mr. Beresford to make some now?”

Milton grinned. “I suppose it mightn't be so bad with a good measure of brandy.”

Rowland grabbed a tie and slung it awkwardly around his neck. “Ed, would you mind?”

“Of course not,” she said, standing and reaching up to tie it. Rowland had become less stubborn about accepting help in this respect. “It might improve your sleep,” she said quietly.

“I'll try it tonight,” he promised. At the very least, heating milk would give him something to do in the long hours before dawn when closing his eyes took his mind too easily back to that night in Munich.

Beresford came to the door. His brow creased just slightly as he observed Edna adjusting Rowland's tie and affixing his cufflinks. He cleared his throat. “There's a young lady asking for you in the foyer, sir… a Miss Dawe. Shall I ask the concierge to accompany her up?”

“Miss Dawe?” Rowland was clearly surprised. “Yes, of course.”

He had just enough time to struggle into his jacket before Beresford admitted Allie Dawe into the penthouse.

“Oh my,” she said, looking about the apartment. “What super rooms, Mr. Sinclair.”

Sober and composed, Allie looked rather different. Not quite pretty, she had, nevertheless, a pleasant face. Her dark hair was coiffed into some kind of elaborate twist and she wore a skirt suit which seemed at least a size too large. “I trust you don't mind my calling on you like this, Mr. Sinclair, but as you invited me to get in touch… oh.” She stopped, her face falling quite dramatically as
Edna walked out of the bedroom. When Milton and Clyde followed, however, Allie seemed to brighten a little.

Rowland introduced his companions.

Allie exhaled. “Thank goodness. I thought for a moment you might be married.”

Rowland wasn't quite sure how to respond. “And how are your hands, Miss Dawe?”

She removed her gloves and attached them to a clasp on her handbag, before extending her hands for his inspection. The palms were lightly bandaged but she wiggled her fingers freely. “They are much recovered thank you.” She took the seat that Rowland offered her. “I've called to thank you for your consideration the other day, Mr. Sinclair. You were very gallant and I was not at my best.”

“You are most welcome, Miss Dawe.”

Allie beamed. “My mother sends her regards, Mr. Sinclair, and hopes that you will visit us again when she is in a less distraught frame of mind.”

Rowland paused to ask Beresford to serve tea—having already concluded, on the basis of past experience, that it was not wise to offer the girl anything stronger.

“How are you and your mother coping?” Edna asked kindly. “It must have been a terrible shock to lose your uncle like that.”

“Well, that's what I came to tell Mr. Sinclair.” Allie bounced excitedly in her seat. She pulled a flyer advertising an hotel staff dance from her purse and handed it to Rowland. “See there… the last name listed under the other acts.”

“It says Sarah Dabinett.”

“That's me!” Allie squealed. “That's my stage name… Allie Dawe is so dull, don't you think, but Sarah Dabinett has flair!”

“I see.”

“I'm a singer, you know,” Allie went on. “Or at least I have always wanted to be. Uncle Alfred wouldn't hear of it when he was alive, but now I can pursue my dreams.”

She was so obviously delighted that Rowland could not help but smile. “This seems like an excellent start to your new career, Miss Dawe.”

“Oh, it is!” She closed her eyes and pressed her palms over her heart. “It's ironic really. Lord Erroll came to the house to express his condolences—he's a dear old friend of Uncle Alfred's. He heard me singing at the piano and asked if I would like to perform at a private club he knew. One of the singers had fallen ill you see and they were short an act—that's what they call the singers—acts.”

“A private club?” Rowland's brow rose.

“It's perfectly respectable, I assure you!” Allie was quickly adamant. “Lord Erroll said Uncle Alfred regularly attended. Of course, he won't be there tonight, being dead. Anyway, he wouldn't have approved. He could be a dreadful hypocrite where I was concerned!”

“Does your mother know about this, Miss Dawe?”

“My mother's in mourning, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland glanced at Edna uneasily. It all seemed dubious at best.

“Do you know much about Lord Erroll, Miss Dawe?” Edna asked.

“I hadn't met him till he came to the house,” Allie admitted, “but Uncle Alfred had often spoken of him. Why, Lord Erroll is one of his closest chums! My mother says he's from a very fine and well-connected family, and he was most kind and attentive.”

Rowland glanced at the flyer again. The staff dance did not start till eleven in the evening.

“I came to ask if you'd care to come and hear me sing, Mr. Sinclair.” Allie gazed as adoringly at him now as she had under the influence of several brandies.

Milton chuckled.

“You're all invited of course,” Allie added quickly.

Rowland looked at Allie Dawe. She was holding her breath as she waited for his answer. The last thing Rowland wanted to do was to encourage her infatuation, but the situation worried him. Allie seemed barely more than a child, naïve in the extreme. He wondered what kind of man would call on a girl who had just lost her uncle, and means of support, to make such a proposal. “Yes, of course. We'd be delighted.”