CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Marie

THE VISITOR WAS a bulbous-faced man. His short stature was compensated for by the size of his eyes, magnified by his wire- rimmed spectacles; the glass was so thick that she did not know where he was looking, the morning sunlight glancing off the surface. His bald freckled head furthered this impression, the white skin gleaming with oil, while his suit jacket sagged across the shoulders – an overcompensation, or carelessness. Marie noticed all of this as she entered the breakfast room the next day a little late, having been held up in her bedchamber by a conversation with Harriet.

The visitor was talking to Philidor by the window. When she entered, they turned to greet her. The valet adjusted the cutlery at each place on the table.

‘Good morning, madame.’ Philidor came forward with a strained smile on his face. ‘May I introduce you to Mr Gribble, who has arrived from London just in time to breakfast with us. Mr Gribble, Madame Tussaud.’

‘Good morning,’ said Marie, and dipped her head. ‘I hope I have not kept you waiting.’

‘Not at all, madame,’ Gribble replied.

‘I trust the ride was tolerable at this hour?’

‘Meeting with Philidor was worth the earlier start.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Marie, as she settled in her usual position at the table.

Philidor sat at the opposite end, while Gribble sat halfway along on Marie’s left.

‘And how did you become acquainted with Monsieur Philidor, Mr Gribble?’

‘I had the good fortune of meeting him in London, at the club.’

Marie poured her own coffee. ‘And what do you do with your time in London?’

‘I work in a hospital,’ he said, those opaque eyes peering at her.Or were they?

‘Have you both misled me?’ she asked, affecting a playful tone. ‘Should I address you as Doctor Gribble, then?’

He smiled at her, and coldness stole around her heart. ‘You have found us out, madame.’ His high-pitched nasal tone made her wince. ‘I am indeed a physician, but I prefer not to make this generally known as I find people often have prejudices against my profession – or the opposite, they want to regal me with their ailments. It can make for dull conversation.’

‘One could imagine,’ said Marie, and smiled in sympathy. ‘I shall not succumb to the temptation. At which hospital do you work?’

‘Bethlem,’ he said.

Marie knew it was coming, but the name still shocked her – she had not needed to spend much time in London to hear of its notoriety.

‘Philidor has told me about your creations, madame. What marvels you can make with wax. Such a gift you have!’

She swallowed. ‘Thank you. I am skilled at my art, it is true.’

She nibbled at her bread. Everything cordial. Polite. When would the real game begin?

‘And yet,’ the physician began, ‘not every woman could survive the horrors of the Revolution such as you have.’

Here it is. The first charge you knew would come. Blink hard. Once. Be ready.

‘I have, Mr Gribble. But it is over now, and, as you hinted before, some subjects make for dull conversation in company.’

He put his knife down, and his pale face swivelled towards her, as if he was straining to hear what she wasn’t saying. ‘I can tell by your tone, madame, that you are still haunted by it. That is understandable.’

The man made her cold – oh, so very cold. He was the type who enjoyed dispensing pain – tight, strategic pain designed to make one vulnerable, break the spirit and the mind. To make one weep, beg, scream, while he watched on impassively, those eyes not blinking and the freckles on his head clouded over with the perspiration of his excitement. He would enjoy tying a woman up, strapping her down in a chair or a bed, stripping her of her clothes, having her at his mercy.

The icy sensation crept down to Marie’s feet. ‘No, monsieur, I am not haunted by it – on the contrary, I have lived through it. One cannot simply cut out the memory and toss it away, but my art continues to be my solace and consolation. As well as my boys.’

‘But as I understand it from Philidor, your boys are being raised by your husband?’

She could no longer feel her feet yet her heart knocked hard against her rib cage. A loud, insistent, impatient knock, like that of the soldiers against the door of her home. Coming to imprison her. Coming to kill her.

‘My boys are at a grande école in Paris,’ she managed smoothly. My boys are out of your reach, she thought. Steady heart. It isn’t over yet.

‘Ah,’ said Doctor Gribble. ‘They have aspirations – wonderful. You must be proud. Forgive me for pressing, madame, but I find myself most curious. You did have to touch the heads, didn’t you? Of the victims of the guillotine?’

She was there again. Facing the guillotine and waiting. Yes, she remembered her resolve to complete her prison sentence while learning how the game of deception, betrayal and power was played. She felt again the stab of pain from her right hipbone and remembered how she had swung the basket onto her left. Her fingers had dug into the gaps in the weave of the cane to steady the weight, and the dry skin around her nails had soaked up the liquid congealing there. Surely, surely, she had thought, if she just held on a bit longer, there would come a time when she could win a game of her own design.

Back in the breakfast room. Philidor. Gribble. The valet. Silence. Was it her turn to speak? Yes. The game was playing out in front of her, and she needed to win this round.

‘My!’ she said. ‘Philidor seems to have told you so much about me.’ She glanced at Philidor, who was carefully studying his plate.

‘It is a unique subject,’ said Gribble. ‘You are a unique woman.’

‘I touched the heads, monsieur, but more than that. I held them, cradled them, lived with them in my workshop as I made the wax replicas. I had their blood on my hands, on my dress, my skin.’ She realised her voice was rising. Control. Breathe. Watch the tone.

‘And what has this done to you?’ he asked softly, his whole body angled towards her.

She put down her roll before carefully wiping her fingers on her napkin, then gave him a steady look. ‘It has made me the woman I am today, Mr Gribble. Now, if I may ask a question of you, pray tell me exactly what kind of physician you are.’

‘I specialise in the mind,’ he said, then chewed his meat for what seemed an inordinate length of time before he swallowed. Paused. Stared at the wall opposite him before taking another mouthful.

A few moments of silence passed as they ate. The cutlery scraped excruciatingly across Gribble’s plate. He appeared not to notice – vulgar manners.

The valet moved in and out among them, adding more meat, topping up Philidor’s and Gribble’s tea, then returning to his position just inside the door.

‘Given your interest in the mind,’ Marie said eventually, ‘it is no surprise that you have much in common with Philidor, whose speciality is the power of suggestion.’

‘We do have much in common,’ said Philidor, who up until then had not spoken. ‘I wish to discuss a new idea with Gribble this morning – the reason for his visit.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘It is not appropriate for me to discuss it with you at this time,’ said Philidor. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

‘Of course.’ Marie knew her place in the hierarchy of this dynamic; she would accept it. What Gribble could do to her if she resisted was unthinkable.

‘And how do you find your surroundings at Welbeck, madame?’ the physician asked.

‘Most pleasant. The country air is a welcome respite from London.’

‘You are not troubled by the isolation?’

‘I am not isolated,’ she said, perhaps a little too quickly. Do not show irritation or impatience. ‘I have my creations, my art. I work best when left alone.’

‘Is that why you speak to your heads?’

She could see his eyes now. Focused. Unblinking.

‘To what are you referring?’

That dog Philidor – a coward who would not meet her gaze even now. She reached instinctively for the handkerchief in her corset. Touched its edge, felt the dried blood. She looked up to find Gribble still watching her. Had he detected her show of vulnerability?

‘I imagine,’ he said, ‘that after what you have witnessed – a woman such as yourself, with a sensitive disposition, an artiste – it would be hard for you to differentiate between which head was real and which was not. It would be perfectly reasonable, to me at any rate, if you believed the heads talked to you, animated again, as a way for your psyche to make sense of witnessing so many brutal deaths.’

All at once she could not feel her hands. She looked down to find them on her lap. When she moved her fingers, they felt cold, thick, firm. ‘An interesting theory, Mr Gribble. You seem most curious about my welfare. Are you seeking to make a study of me?’ She met his eyes with a challenge, yet smiled to disguise it.

Philidor stilled. She could almost hear the valet draw breath. And Gribble smiled in return. ‘I confess I find you a very intriguing woman, Madame Tussaud, and your story fascinates me – from a medical point of view, you understand. Forgive me if I have been too direct.’

‘To create, an artist must interact with her creation, must call to it, bring it to life. I am no different.’ She offered the men a polite smile as she rose from the table. She had to start moving, get her blood circulating again before she froze to death.

Those two white orbs were still trained on her.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I must attend to my preparations for the show in three nights time. But you have inspired me, Mr Gribble. Perhaps, given your interest in my story, others would be interested also. I shall think about writing a book. Good morning, gentlemen.’

She glanced at the valet on her way out the door; his eyes did not meet hers. But as she continued past the doorway of the library on her way upstairs, she saw Harriet standing there. The maid would have heard everything, given the breakfast room’s door had remained open. And, just for a moment, their eyes did meet.