Murder at Madame Tussauds by Jim Eldridge

Author:Jim Eldridge
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2021-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Lowndes Square consisted of a large central garden, planted with a variety of exotic blooms, bounded by a terrace of grand houses in stucco and white, fronted with Romanesque pillars, along with another imposing series of buildings, equally grand, that had been built as apartment blocks.

‘It looks as if Mrs Dixon has definitely achieved her ambition,’ said Daniel as they approached the address they’d been given by Joe Dalton.

He tugged at the bell pull and they heard the sonorous chimes from inside the house. The door was opened by a butler formally dressed in a long frock coat over a striped waistcoat. The butler peered at them, an imperious, almost disdainful look on his face.

‘Good day,’ said Daniel. ‘My name is Daniel Wilson and this is my partner, Miss Abigail Fenton. We wonder if it would possible to see Mrs Caroline Dixon.’

‘Mrs Dixon does not see anyone without an appointment,’ said the butler coldly. He then added, equally coldly, ‘And she does not make appointments with people she does not know except in exceptional circumstances.’

‘I understand,’ said Daniel politely. ‘We would like to make an appointment, and these are exceptional circumstances. Perhaps you’d inform Mrs Dixon that we are not just casual callers – we are admirers of her work on behalf of the Nightingale Fund and were given her address by Mr Joe Dalton from The Telegraph.’

The butler hesitated, then said, ‘If you’d wait, I’ll see what Mrs Dixon’s instructions are.’

With that he closed the door on them.

‘Well, her money hasn’t made her a more welcoming person,’ said Daniel sourly.

‘Don’t be judgemental,’ said Abigail. ‘The butler’s job is to protect his mistress from unsolicited callers. He may not be representing her attitude, just his own.’

‘I’ve usually found that servants reflect the characteristics of their employers,’ said Daniel.

They waited, and a short while later the door opened again and the butler looked out at them.

‘Mrs Dixon will see you,’ he said, though his manner towards them was no less hostile.

‘See?’ whispered Abigail as they followed the butler along a luxuriously decorated corridor, hung with paintings by French masters.

‘I reserve judgement,’ Daniel whispered back.

The butler led them into a large drawing room, decorated in the French style with ornate plasterwork adorning the walls and ceiling and heroic statues placed around the room. Daniel was reminded more of a gallery in a museum than a place to live. Caroline Dixon was in her early fifties, a handsome woman dressed in clothes that stressed her wealth: a voluminous purple dress finished with white lace, and enough gold jewellery on her fingers and around her neck to feed a small nation for a year. She gestured at an Imperial-style chaise longue near to the gilt and floral armchair where she sat.

‘Please, sit,’ she said. Her tone, though polite, was reserved. As they sat she said, ‘I understand you are here about the Nightingale Fund?’

‘Er, not exactly, Mrs Dixon,’ said Daniel. ‘My name is Daniel Wilson and this is Miss Abigail Fenton. We’ve been

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