WAX (A British Crime Thriller). Ethel Lina White
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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, to-day, 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 recognise 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 realised 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. To-morrow. 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 life size, and she realised 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, and reached the door by circuitous routes. Each respected the anonymity of the other. No greeting was exchanged, although they might probably speak in the street.
For the Gallery had sunk to be a place of assignation—of stolen meetings and illicit love. People no longer came to view the carefully renewed bloodstains in the alcove—which, officially, could not be washed out—or to shudder at the builder's rope, which was the star relic in the Hall of Horrors. They came only to whisper and kiss.
It is true that it witnessed the course of true romance when sweethearts sought sanctuary from the streets. It is also true that every one looked respectable and behaved discreetly. A middle-aged pair might be obviously prosperous tradespeople; but, if the man were Mr. Bones the butcher, the inference was that the lady was Mrs. Buns the baker.
Mrs. Ames watched the last couple steal through the door, with a sentimental smile which said plainly, "Aren't we all?" Then she rang her bell again,