Basil of Baker Street and the Rogues of Madame Mussauds
Chapter 3
Basil -
I cannot describe what precisely raced through my thoughts as I watched my friend and colleague depart from the museum. It was uncertain if or when I would ever see him (and those neighbors of ours) again. There was no turning back now. Someone concocted a vile scheme, and I was bound to find out who exactly it was. Once the crowds departed, I knew this would be a night I would never forget. The mouse I had been following came to a halt near a door I had not seen before and instructed me to enter it first. I stood my ground and decided to press him for answers.
"Would you mind telling me what this is all about?" The unknown escort was obviously caught off guard and shifted a nervous foot left to right. His mouth twitched as if he were unsure how to respond. The more he held his tongue, the thinner my patience grew.
"What seems to be the problem?" I heard a second worker inquire as he emerged from the door. I growled under my breath. Outnumbered two to one; what splendid luck! This chap was also much taller in height, built like a brick house and possessing a scowl that meant he was in no mood for nonsense.
"Mr. Loveur wants to have a word with this snooper and he is causing trouble."
Trouble? How is a mere question trouble?
"Is that so?"
Two mice closing in was an instant alert that I was seconds away from an inevitable confrontation. Make that two point five seconds to be exact. The first mouse made a grab for my shoulders in an attempt to pin me down. Not if I could help it. I wiggled out of his grasp and turned to meet his friend. He did not have time to react to a right hook coming in contact with his face. A fast sucker punch did nothing but further anger him. The first assailant tried to grab my arms again; I was more than prepared to fight him with a swift kick below the waist.
It was now my cue to exit the scene, but my chances of an escape were nil at the sight of a bolted entrance. My heart started to pound fiercely as I sprinted through another entry and onward to a room filled with more figures. I could hear the pursuer's footfalls coming closer and chose to increase my own pace. I proceeded onward to another room and made a left at a sharp curve. All of a sudden, my world went black.
Great, I thought to myself, glancing up to see the lights suddenly shut themselves off, leaving me in semidarkness.
Not many could say that they have been locked in a capacious museum with glass eyes watching their every move. I felt as if I were a laboratory mouse on an endless quest to find cheese. It was a pity Dawson could not be here to enjoy this risky romp, but one of us had to inform the police that foul play was afoot. To make matters worse, two blackguards were trailing my tail. I could tell when they were coming close by the light of their lanterns and the sound of their footsteps.
Each room I entered was deathly still as well as full of those ghastly wax figures Mrs. Proudfoot praised over. Their forms looked hideous in the darkness; almost like large masses ready to move at any given moment. The sound of someone treading alerted my ears once more. I jumped off the aisle and hid amongst a group of warriors from the medieval era. Backing against one particular suit of armor, I turned to look down and read its name plate: Sir Harold Basil of Yorkshire? What a coincidence; I was next to a wax creation of one of my ancestors!
Sir Harold stood proud as a knight in full garb, holding a morning star in a traditional striking manner. I knew how to fence with enemies, not club them, but the thought still crossed my mind to take and use this weapon. Unfortunately, it was much like removing the sword of Excalibur in the anvil, and I was far from being King Arthur. I would have to cut off his entire wax hand in order to use it. I eventually surrendered, knowing I did not have the time nor the tools to perform such an appendectomy.
On the other side of the aisle was a set of figures with hooded cloaks and full masks. They appeared as some monks from a monastery. As I looked around, I thought I saw one of the monks turn its head in my direction. I whipped back to look, seeing the figure facing forward again. Did that head move, or was it just my imagination?
The wandering individual finally entered the room I was in and paused a few feet from where I stood. He did not carry a lantern and his footing was much lighter in sound than of those scoundrels. I squinted in the dark and tried not to gasp too loud when I saw who owned those feathery patters.
"Agatha? Where are you, Agatha?"
It was Angela, one of the Proudfoot twins! I could not believe what I was seeing. The game had opened up to new players; two young and innocent ones at that.
"Agatha?" she whispered once more. "Are you in here?"
"Check this room again," a distant voice commanded and Angela gasped, scampering off to hide behind a wax display. Calling out to her would have been an unwise decision. The thought of a voice coming from some lifeless object would scare anyone, especially a child. I held in my breath as soon as I saw flickers of light come bobbing through the sea of shadows.
I sighed heavily at the sight of two extra hunters seeking out these children. All four carried lanterns and shone them in every direction, luckily avoiding the view of the wax figures Angela and I hid behind. I was certain she was on the verge to start screaming, but like a good girl, she remained still until they cleared out of the room. I watched her climb down off the display and continue the search for her lost sibling. I moved away from my own hiding place and shifted a foot more loudly than I intended. Angela froze in her spot.
"Who's there?"
It was now or never. In a swift move, I approached from behind and placed a hand over her mouth. As I predicted, she tried to scream and break free of my grasp.
"Shhhh! Angela, it's me, Detective Basil!" I said as I lowered myself on one knee and turned to face her.
"M-Mr. B-Basil!" she stammered a soft cry and reached out to embrace my shoulders. I gulped and almost removed her arms, but due to our current situation, I permitted the physical contact. The twins were notorious for such sentiments. It seemed as though I still had a lot to learn about children and the reasoning behind their clinging ways.
"Yes, it's me," I said, reluctantly tapping her back and inwardly relieved she pulled away first.
"W-what are you doing here- h-how did you-"
"Never you mind any of that. Come on, I've got to get you out of here." Without another word, I took one of her hands and jogged off in the opposite direction of the room. The museum was a maddening maze of unlimited obscurities, and now with children involved, I could only hope I could get us all out of this place. I picked up my speed and entered a new room, the size just as immense as the last.
"Can't find Aggie, Mr. Basil." What was that? I looked all around until I felt a brush of something against my side. Oh, yes. I was a temporary chaperon. The girl's voice was barely audible, and with my thoughts racing like a horse in the Epsom Derby, I almost did not catch her words.
Sighing, I lightly told her, "She has to be around here somewhere, possibly in hiding. Where did you last see her?"
"In the Royal Chamber."
I halted abruptly to view our current location. It could not have been far when I had seen such a room not too long ago. Yet, it meant backtracking through the same room we ran from the pursuing employees. I tried another route to circle around, but it ended up taking us through the Chamber of Horrors. This dungeon of a room was dark and cold with the figures placed in many torture devices. At the entrance, Angela backed away from the sight of a lady mouse with her neck in a noose, followed by another with its head severed from the guillotine.
"There's another exit through this room. Come on-"
"I don't want to go in there."
There was definitely no reason to study mind reading now. Somehow I knew she was going to say that as well as root herself firmly to the floor. Instead of allowing my impatience to take over, I went with the obvious statement: "We really do not have a choice, my dear."
"I know, but..." but she did not need to finish her sentence. She was scared, and rightfully so. Despite their faux forms, the very sight of their predicaments would frighten any young child. Carrying her through the room became my only solution, and I wasted no time uprooting that stubborn tree stump. "Mr. Basil, wait! I'm scared-"
"Close your eyes and don't look at them!"
Angela instantly turned her head toward my collar bone as I ran past one macabre scene after another. None of what I saw disturbed me in the least. A little girl, however, would have nightmares for weeks. As I reached the end of the room, my eyes met with a very familiar fiend.
"No...it can't be..."
The Napoleon of crime stood off to the side of the exit door, staring at us both with much hatred and anger. I knew his figure was still under massive repairs, ergo, the sight of him showcased in a gallery room arose many questions. I backed away slowly, waiting for one of his mechanical parts to move, but nothing happened. By then Angela lifted her head and looked to see why I stopped. She too made a low gasp and stared at the sewer rat before us.
"It's Ratigan!" she hissed in my ear. "He-he isn't real, right?"
"Of course he's not...I..." I just could not get over the incredible detail! I approached closer, but with some caution, and sized up the full creation. I could now get a better look without the sheet. It was a definite likeness to the late genius, straight down to his exact clothing. If I was not mistaken, it was the same dress suit he wore the night he fell from the clock tower. The more I looked at him, the more I thought he was coming to life.
"It blinked at us, Mr. Basil," Angela said, words I did not wish to hear. "I saw him blink."
"It's your imagination, darling, it's playing tricks on you." The next thing we heard was a low, distinctive growl. I looked down at Angela. "Please tell me that was your stomach?" Before either of us could react, the figure thrust both hands outward at my coat. The mechanical fingers curled and gripped the fabric. Angela screamed and scrambled out of my arms, running for the exit. Time stood still for that brief moment; I could only look into the hateful eyes of my deceased enemy. And then, a voice spoke that I could not tell if it was real or it was coming from inside my head:
"There's no escape this time, Basil!"
Punching and clawing were my two desperate defenses; I was far too stunned for rational thinking. The more I scratched at its face, the more my fingernails filled with clumps of wax. But then, the wax turned to a red liquid with that metallic odor I inhaled many times before.
Blood...
With a shout, I wheeled backwards and pulled myself free to stare at what I had done. I managed to strip away layers of the wax and release another well-known smell. It was of a product mainly used to prevent decomposing of dead tissue. Hydrol. Formaldehyde. Embalming fluid.
"Professor Padraic Ratigan...as I live and breathe..."
For once, I wish I was incorrect about my deduction. It was his own body. They used his actual corpse to create his wax figure! It was a mechanical figure to be exact, and it was achieved with the help of Flaversham, the same toymaker forced to create a robot version of our beloved queen. If only he had known what his skills were being used for. If only!
The next few minutes were too difficult to recollect after I felt an abundance of pain to the back of my head. I cradled my skull and fell to my knees, preparing myself for whomever was moving in to commit the final deed. Nothing, not even my own life, mattered to me at that point. The most I hoped for is those two children getting out safely and unharmed.
Dawson-
Although every Londoner was used to bad weather, the downpour did not make our trek to find an official mouse any easier. Someone I considered more family than friend was in grave danger, and I had to help him or die trying. The Proudfoots had yet to reunite with their twin daughters, and with the hour growing later, they knew something terrible must have happened to them. I tried to assure the worried parents they were fine, but not even I could be so sure of that.
My mind was filled to capacity on the concern that I may never see Basil alive again. In this situation, on the other hand, there was no room to fret over what to do. Action needed to be taken, and that is exactly what we did. The three of us wasted no time to report the unusual activity at the museum. I did not care if Mr. Loveur's career was at stake. With the involvement of children in the picture, we could not keep such information to ourselves.
At almost half past eight in the evening, we hurried along the rain-filled streets to find the nearest officer, locating one at the cross street of Marylebone Road and Allsop Place. He listened to every breathless word I uttered before rounding up his team to return to the museum. Once I told him Detective Basil of Baker Street was involved, one of the officers announced he would contact Scotland Yard immediately. I watched the brave mouse sprint over deep puddles and run to a police signal box.
"Are there any others in the museum with the detective?" inquired the first officer we alerted.
"Yes, we think our twin daughters are there," Mr. Proudfoot said, his voice cracking. "We have not seen them since we left the museum."
The officer looked to me next and asked, "Is there anything else we need to know?"
"Indeed," I replied. "I fear we are dealing with an underground operation. Rogues from Ratigan's gang have come up with some sort of plot to rid of Basil for good."
As we made our way back to the museum, I filled in the rest of whatever information I could provide to the officers. That was when I learned of something that both shocked and puzzled me. On the night that Basil and Ratigan fought on the clock tower, only one survived. I knew which one that was, but what I did not know was that the latter had gone missing. One of the officers said something that nearly caused me to faint:
"They never found his body."
In all my years as a practical mouse did I not expect to hear such words. These were professionals; they combed the entire area and found no remains. Not even a hint of fabric from the professor's clothing or trail of blood could be located near the grounds of the tower. I remained muddled while Basil chose to move forward with his many cases to come. Little did I know he secretly continued to do some investigating to this missing corpse mystery on his own.
At the entrance to the museum, we found ourselves stuck with not only a secure bolt, but a combination of numbers none of us knew. Between Basil and myself, I am considered the one with the calmest demeanor. Yet here I was, faced with a large, steel door, dividing me from getting to and saving a dear friend. It took seconds for the frustration to expose itself.
"No! This cannot stop us now! We have to get in there!" I was shouting and trying to force my way inside. The Proudfoots even looked shocked watching a side of me they had never seen before become unleashed. I kicked at the door, pounded balled fists, and was ready to find an object to destroy the lid of the combination when I heard a voice call out to us.
"Hey! You there! Stop!" It was the two lady mice Basil and I had spoken to earlier. The one I remembered as Jillian approached me first with the appearance of much concern and fright. "I just knew you would come back!"
"What are you doing here, Miss...ah..Jillian-ah-"
"Loveur. Jillian Loveur," she told me with exasperation in her voice.
"Loveur? The curator is your husband?" I frowned, turning to look at the police and the Proudfoots for answers. They were just as stumped as I was. "I don't understand-"
"There is no time to explain! Your detective friend is in trouble, but not even a key can get us through these doors," Mrs. Loveur gestured to the handles. "They are securely locked with a combination only the administrators know. Please, come with me!"
I was not sure if we were being duped by these ladies or not. All that concerned me was getting inside the museum, and without further haste!
End of Chapter 3. Notes:
The wax figure of Sir Harold Basil, a supposed ancestor of Basil's from the medieval era, is a nod to Barrie Ingham's real life father: Harold Ellis Stead Ingham, born in Halifax, Yorkshire, England.
The concept of having Angela Proudfoot roam around a closed and darkened museum was inspired by the book, "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler" by E. L. Konigsburg.
With the mouse world very similar to the human world, it's expected for the Chamber of Horrors room to have such displays as the gallows and the guillotine.
This chapter was it! The one I feared would cause the pitchforks to come out! Ratigan's real life body cased in wax was inspired by the 1953 movie, "House of Wax," starring Vincent Price. The curator wanted revenge on those who destroyed his museum, so he compiled a gang of thugs to rob graves and use the bodies to make his wax figures. After watching the movie, the idea fascinated me ever since, and I wanted to come up with some sort of creepy plot of what happened to Ratigan's remains. Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum became the base of my story's setting, but I still needed to tie in an explanation of how they obtained the body and why Basil was lured in to the scheme.
Padraic is Ratigan's first name, mentioned in the original Basil of Baker Street books by Eve Titus.
The mouse officer contacts Scotland Yard on a Glasgow police box. I read that these were available in 1894. I couldn't find information on a map if such a box existed at the location of Marylebone Road, but I'm pretty sure such devices were available within heavy areas of public traffic.
