Unfortunately, the one member of the group that we could really spare-the interminable Susan-is impervious to harm and impossible to shut up. With all these accidents going on, I do wish one of them would zero in on her. She really is a pain. Hey, wouldn’t it be funny if somebody were trying to kill Susan, and kept missing?
Before Elizabeth completed the letter to her brother, she stared at that last sentence for a long time, lost in thought.
“Funny little fellow,
Crippen was his name,
See him for a sixpence
In the hall of fame.”
– “ BELLE-OR THE BALLAD OF DR. CRIPPEN”
CHAPTER 15
LONDON
AS OXFORD IS only thirty miles from London, the last day’s coach journey was a brief one. Before Rowan had finished elaborating on the gruesome details of Francis Dashwood’s Hellfire Club in the caves at West Wycombe, Bernard announced that they were coming into the city. “You think Cornwall’s country lanes are bad,” he added. “Wait till you see the asphalt bridle paths they call streets in Bloomsbury. We may have to orbit the hotel for an hour, before I figure out a way to get the coach in there. Thank God it’s not rush hour.”
“No hurry, Bernard,” Rowan assured him. “It’s just on eleven now.”
The coach had one less passenger for the trip to London. An Oxford physician recommended that Martha Tabram stay on a few days to rest her injured ankle. After that, she would be meeting her daughter in London. The group had signed a get-well card and sent it up to her room before they left. Undaunted by this latest patch of misfortune, the remaining tour members spent the ride to London making plans to see shows and discussing the London phase of the tour. Only Elizabeth MacPherson was quieter than usual. She kept looking over at the sleeping Susan Cohen, with a thoughtful expression on her face.
That afternoon, armed with daily passes to the Underground, the tour members assembled in the Baker Street station for their visit to Madame Tussaud’s famous wax museum. After Charles Warren posed them for photographs with the wax effigies of the royal family in the Grand Hall (Elizabeth, Kate, and Nancy Warren), and with Agatha Christie in the Conservatory (Alice and Frances), Rowan led them hurriedly past the rock stars and the politicians, down the stairs to the Chamber of Horrors.
While everyone else maintained a polite interest in the realistic atmosphere of the Victorian street scene and the sinister wax images lurking about the dimly lit tableaux, Elizabeth and Rowan rushed from one display to another, greeting the killers like old friends.
“People from home!” giggled Elizabeth, pointing to two men carrying a body in a wooden tea chest.
Rowan nodded. “Ay, yes, Burke and Hare, the Edinburgh bodysnatchers. The gallows over there is authentic, by the way. The museum got it from the Hertford Gaol in 1878.”
“Why don’t they label these things?” gmmbled Alice MacKenzie. “Some of these people could be politicians, for all I know.” She pointed to a prosperous-looking wax gentleman in a vintage brown suit.
“That fellow is John George Haigh,” Rowan told her. “He’s famous for luring a wealthy old lady to his so-called factory in Sussex, where he murdered her and dissolved the body in an acid bath. He’s wearing his own suit, by the way. He donated it to Madame Tussaud’s on the eve of his execution. Over here is John Christie, of Ten Rillington Place, who entombed his victims behind the walls of his house. Imagine the surprise of the next tenant when he began to redecorate!”
“I don’t think we have any weird killers in Minnesota,” said Susan. “They’re all from Wisconsin.”
“Who is the couple in the dock?” asked Maud Marsh, pointing to a small bespectacled man and the pretty dark-haired girl beside him. “She looks rather sweet.”
Rowan motioned the group over to the exhibit. “That charming couple is Harvey Hawley Crippen and the lovely Ethel LeNeve,” he told them. “Poor old sod. He killed his shrew of a wife and buried her in the basement. If he’d done it today, the case would barely have made the papers and he’d have been out in ten years. But in 1910 people called him a monster, and he was hanged for it.”
“That’s his girlfriend, I suppose?” said Alice, pointing to the young girl’s statue.
“Yes, that’s his motive for murdering his wife, who was much less charming. Ethel may not have known about the murder. She was acquitted at the trial anyhow. Although I think she might have suspected something when he asked her to dress as a boy and flee the country with him on a steamship. Over there is the actual telegram that was dispatched by the ship’s captain to alert Scotland Yard to their presence on his ship.”
“The False Inspector Dew!” cried Susan, at last able to make a connection between the exhibit and her addiction to crime novels.
Rowan ignored the interruption. “The captain spotted them immediately. Apparently our Ethel wasn’t a very convincing boy. Crippen loved her, though. He pleaded guilty at once and insisted that she knew nothing about the crime. At his execution, he asked that a photograph of her be buried with him.”
“I take a very dim view of burying wives in the basement,” said Alice.
“So did I a couple of marriages ago,” said Rowan. “But I’ve mellowed.”
Meanwhile Kate Conway had found the Whitechapel setting dedicated to Jack the Ripper. She was staring in horror at the blood-caked body of a woman in Victorian dress, sprawled behind an iron railing. “She looks familiar somehow,” Kate murmured. “They never caught the Ripper, did they?”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “But he’d be about a hundred and thirty by now, so I shouldn’t worry. It’s only wax, you know.”
“Who is this?” asked Frances Coles, tapping Elizabeth on the shoulder. “Over here in this little alcove decorated like a bedroom. I wish they’d label these things.”
“I’ll see if I can figure it out,” said Elizabeth. “Show me.”
Frances led her to a dark doorway opening into a tiny candlelit bedroom. There in the shadows, a small child in a white nightshirt sat up in bed, staring wide-eyed at the doorway where the viewers stood. The simple furnishings of the room seemed to date from the previous century. The child was alone in the tableau.
“There aren’t any clues,” murmured Kate, who had followed them over. “I suppose that’s the victim, poor kid. We can’t see the killer, and we don’t even know how it’s going to be killed.”
Elizabeth stood for a long time, as motionless as the wax statue, staring into the eyes of the frightened, dark-haired child. “Smothered,” she whispered, turning away.
“You recognize it?” asked Frances.
She nodded. “Yes. Oh, yes. I see him in my nightmares. It’s Francis Savile Kent of Road Hill House, looking up at Daddy.”
The tour ended a little before five and Rowan sent them off for tea, after making sure that everyone knew when and where they would meet again: seven-thirty that evening, outside the Whitechapel tube station. Tonight they would be given their own private Jack the Ripper walk.
“There wasn’t anything about the Charles Bravo case in Madame Tussaud’s,” Elizabeth complained as they went back into the Underground.
“That’s because the lovely but lethal Florence was acquitted of poisoning him,” Rowan reminded her. “There’ll be no slander in the waxworks, madam. But if you want to pass up half a day of capitalism, I’ll take you out to Balham and show you the Priory, where it happened. You don’t want to run out there now, do you?”