Tussaud Read online

  MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

  www.transitlounge.com.au

  Copyright © 2021 Belinda Lyons-Lee

  First published 2021

  Transit Lounge Publishing

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Cover design: Josh Durham/Design by Committee Author photograph: Ebony Shawcross of REMAQ Photography

  Typeset in 11/16pt Janson by Cannon Typesetting

  This project has been assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  A pre-publication-entry is available from the

  National Library of Australia

  ISBN: 978-1-925760-75-0

  For my husband and my son, who bought me flowers when it counted and wrote that they ‘… loved me a lot and not to let that rejection put me down’. Because of your love I didn’t, I kept going and this happened.

  ‘Science has not yet taught us if madness is

  or is not

  the sublimity of the intelligence’

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  Automaton

  noun

  A moving mechanical device made in imitation of a human being

  —Oxford Dictionary

  PART ONE

  PROLOGUE

  Marie

  1794

  Place de la Concorde

  TOUCHING THE DEAD brought good luck. If you believed in luck, which Marie now did. At first she’d shied away in disgust from the heads and their gushing blood that quickly slowed, stilled and stank. Until the day she had recollected a superstition passed on from her grandmother: to touch a corpse meant that you said goodbye to it, but if you failed to do so, it would fasten its ghostly grip upon you forevermore.

  With her own shaven head covered with a piece of dirty linen to disguise how close she had come to the embrace of the blade, she wove her way around the base of the guillotine and listened to the old women talk.

  She had a duty to do – it was the price of her freedom – so she hoisted the basket up onto her hip and waited.

  And then it began.

  The jagged laughter born out of malice, mockery and resentment ceased.

  A collective holding of breath.

  The hiss of the blade dropping swiftly through air, and the wooden frame shuddering as it completed its trajectory.

  It was done. Again.

  Marie turned aside to see a toothless mouth stretched open with rotten brown stumps, eyes milky with blindness and hands gnarled with swollen knuckles now raised in clenched fists of triumph.

  The woman darted forward to the edge of the platform where the blood dripped lazily over the edge. While Marie picked up the head and deposited it into her basket, the woman patted her handkerchief through the puddle, sending droplets into the air like dancing red flies.

  ‘Is good, is good,’ the woman cried, and turned around to face the crowd. Specks of blood had landed around her mouth, and Marie watched as she tucked the handkerchief into her bosom, smearing red on the way.

  A handkerchief dipped in the blood of a victim also brought good luck. Marie would try it with a scrap of cloth the following day. After all, the other superstitions had worked. Wasn’t she free?

  But for what purpose? Her life was so small; she made little difference to anyone. Why was she spared when others, so much more important, wealthy and beautiful, were not? She adjusted the basket on her right hipbone, directly on top of the rounded yellow bruise stretched across the skin from the weight it was forced to bear daily.

  She already knew why she’d been spared: her skill. And it was this, fuelled with her store of good luck, that would one day take her far from here and the cursed Revolution.

  Turning aside, Marie took her place amongst the crowd, the old women making more room than was necessary for her without comment. She faced the guillotine again and waited. She would complete her sentence while learning how the game of deception, betrayal and power was played.

  A stab of pain from her right hipbone, and she swung the basket over onto her left. Her fingers dug into the gaps in the weave of the cane to steady the weight. The dry skin around her nails soaked up the liquid congealing there. Surely, if she could endure just a little longer, there would come a time when she could win a game of her own design.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Marie

  1810

  London

  July

  LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. I am Philidor, the proprietor of this Phantasmagoria, the grand gathering of ghosts as it has been described,’ he said from centre stage. ‘You have read my advertisements and my claim that tonight will be a memorable one indeed. You will hereafter speak of it in hushed tones as the wheel of your mind turns and turns again, trying to make sense of what you have witnessed. This Lyceum Theatre is the venue for unveiling my grandest, most complex and wondrous creation.’

  His grandest, his most complex and wondrous creation. Well. Marie tugged at her dress sleeve, her blood throbbing against the cuff that cut across the top of her arm. How hot it was in here.

  ‘The veil that separates us from “them” is thin, so very thin. But what if I told you there was another way to bring the dead to life? To have them walk amongst us again, to live, so to speak, side by side so their faces never dim from our memory, that their clothes remain animated by a body within them and their presence remains forever amongst us? What if, ladies and gentleman, we could cheat death itself?’

  Marie took the hand of Antoinette, the human-sized wax automaton whom she had dressed in a gown of silver, then adorned her hair with a pearl-encrusted comb and a silver ribbon held in place with steel pins. Marie pressed Antoinette’s right fingertip, and the automaton slowly rose to stand. Marie hurriedly took the handkerchief from her corset and dabbed it around Antoinette’s neck for good luck, wiped the faint trace of blood it left behind, then opened the curtain and watched her take one step, two, three, four and five. And there was Philidor to greet her.

  A slow murmur from the audience grew to a rumble, a volume of whispers like the wind whipping through leaves. Philidor smiled as he took Antoinette’s right hand, wove it through his arm and held it, so that they faced the audience like a newly married couple. The audience stood to clap while Philidor raised his hand for calm. ‘Please, take your seats, and we can begin.’

  Marie heard more whispers as the audience were seated – but yes, they murmured, there was no doubt it was her. The silver dress, the hair, the regal bearing, it was all exactly as they had seen in the portraits.

  ‘May I present to you, ladies and gentlemen, the world’s first human-sized wax automaton: Marie Antoinette, the last Queen of France. She is crafted from the death mask of the real woman’s head when she met her end, and made with a secret combination of wax and clockwork. Please sit down, my dear.’ Antoinette lowered herself with dignity onto her throne. Marie had decorated a stage chair with gold paint, weaving tendrils of ivy and paste jewels around the high back, and had a cushion made in fur.

  She studied the faces of those illuminated from the wall sconce’s light: wide mouths, rings that glinted on hands busy with fans.

  ‘Now, I’d like to invite three audience members up onto the stage so they can see for themselves that Antoinette is not simply an actor playing a part intended to deceive you. You will be allowed to touch Antoinette – her face, her arms, her dress – and you will see for yourself that I have, for all intents and purposes, brought her back to life.’

  Two ladies and a gentleman
were selected, making their way to the stage amongst nervous laughter and voices raised just a little too loud in jocularity. One lady attempted to pinch Antoinette’s cheek, the other the skin of her hand, while the gentleman ran his thumb over her bottom lip. Marie saw the light reflected on Antoinette’s skin begin to change – yes, the wax was warming up, causing a sheen that would soon leave an oily residue, almost greasy if any further fingers were allowed to touch her. But the show was not over; yet it almost should have been by now. Marie plucked at her sleeve again. The pain pressed to be relieved, and her skull prickled in warning. Something wasn’t right.

  The attendants ushered guests back to their seats. ‘You may now ask Antoinette any questions you like. For you are, after all, at the Phantasmagoria – there is no greater evidence of a ghost inhabiting human form than this creature before you, I’m sure you agree. Now, who would like to be first?’

  The questions began. ‘Is Billy dead?’ ‘Will my horse win?’ ‘Have I lost my love?’

  Antoinette answered each of them with a beguiling nod, smile or shake of her head.

  She was a miracle, some began to whisper. She could communicate with the dead, predict the future, tell a fortune. She was a marvel.

  They had all been in the theatre for an hour, and the air was heavy and pungent. Marie’s skull prickled for the second time, making her eyes water. Misfortune was close. So close. She fluttered her fan but there was nothing else to be done. That tinge of pink on Antoinette’s cheeks certainly looked more prominent than before – was her rouge already melting? She needed to leave the stage immediately.

  Philidor caught Marie’s eye from where she still stood at the side of the stage and shook his head; no, there was not time for the Argand lamp to create the illusion of ghosts hovering throughout the audience. A pity, she had worked hard to produce the drawings for the slides, especially that one of the young girl in white – her face had been most striking. Still, nothing was worth compromising Marie’s creation. It seemed Philidor was keeping to their agreement that the show must go no longer than an hour. Perhaps nothing would go wrong now after all.

  Antoinette closed her eyes, and Philidor cleared his throat to begin the final address … But what was this? A woman – a young woman from the audience who had more confidence than was either necessary or attractive – stood up. She giggled and looked around, sure of herself and her charms. ‘Please, may I touch Antoinette?’ she simpered.

  A ripple of laughter. Her father, the rich indulgent type, smiled but it was clear he was embarrassed. ‘Sit down, Penelope,’ he said, standing and taking her arm.

  The audience waited, brittle eyes, words already forming to retell the scandal, the break in propriety, the sheer impudence of a girl to draw attention to herself in such a manner.

  Philidor looked at Marie. She shook her head, and he turned back to the audience. Bowing slightly and sweeping his hand open in a gesture of welcome, he said, ‘With your permission, sir, your daughter is invited to come on stage.’

  ‘Stupid, stupid man,’ muttered Marie under her breath.

  Penelope laughed as she stepped away from the clutch of her father’s hand.

  Philidor dipped his head in acknowledgement to the father, who sat down.

  ‘A proper introduction?’ said Philidor graciously, extending his hand towards her as she mounted the stage steps.

  ‘Miss Penelope Greythorne,’ she replied, and tipped her head in a manner designed to be coquettish but Marie thought clumsy.

  ‘Miss Greythorne. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. You may touch Antoinette and see she is no trick.’

  ‘Imbecile!’ whispered Marie through her teeth. The show had gone for too long, the theatre was too hot, and Antoinette’s mechanics had been working too hard. A high-pitched sound began to build in her ears. It appeared Philidor had forgotten their agreement – and this was the second time he’d gone back on his word.

  Philidor stood aside while Miss Greythorne came closer to Antoinette. She reached out a finger towards the automaton’s cheek, and shrieked. Antoinette’s eyes opened. From Miss Greythorne’s fingers clung a clot of wax. She shrieked again. What was a hole in Antoinette’s cheek slipped open to become a gaping wound revealing the cogs, wheels and wires that formed her skull, whirring, grinding and ticking loudly.

  Miss Greythorne fainted. Philidor caught her awkwardly while the audience got to their feet.

  Antoinette started nodding uncontrollably; the wax covering her forehead, nose and chin began to slide down her neck so that the exposed metal cage of her head was now only humanised by the pair of glass eyeballs. Worst of all, her mouth opened and closed as if imitating a series of silent screams, while the red lip paste ran down across her gleaming metal mouth. Her hair slowly unplugged from where it was attached to her scalp and finally slipped off the back of her head to the stage floor.

  The shrill whistle that had been building in Marie’s eardrums exploded.

  Miss Greythorne’s father rushed to her aid, accompanied by the mother who hitched her skirts up to clamber alongside. Philidor released the dangling Miss Greythorne to the father’s arms. ‘Close the curtain,’ he called. Then, turning to the attendants, he yelled, ‘Open the doors, quickly.’ He clambered down the steps, readjusted his cravat and lowered his voice. ‘No need to panic, ladies, please. If you’ll just make your way out through here …’ And he melded into the press of people carried out through the doors, which swung shut behind them.

  Still Marie did not move from where she stood to the side of the stage. Misfortune had descended upon their show, and only her handkerchief had kept it from encroaching directly upon her. She had tried to save Antoinette by rubbing it against her, but that hadn’t been enough. Marie clasped it tightly now, the whistle inside her head evaporated, and her eyes narrowed as she beheld the mayhem Philidor had orchestrated through his greed, vanity and ignorance.

  After putting her handkerchief back into its safe spot in her corset, Marie walked out onto the stage. She stood before Antoinette’s throne, watching the long drops of wax splatter over the silk dress and into the congealed lump of hair at her feet. The theatre doors closed with finality as the last of the audience left, yet Philidor’s voice could still be heard from the foyer, raised above the din, vainly reassuring anyone who would listen that the show would open again on the morrow. A ridiculous and hasty promise that would be broken.

  Marie thought she was alone in her vigil but was suddenly conscious of the sensation she was being watched. She turned and squinted as she looked back into the empty seats. Was that someone still there, in the furthest row? A rustling sound of silk, she turned to see Antoinette tip sideways from her chair. Marie hurriedly righted her but when she looked again to find the figure in the back row, it had vanished.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Marie

  SOCIETY DARLING FALLS ILL AT PHANTASMAGORIA SHOW GONE WRONG Last night’s performance of the much anticipated Phantasmagoria came to an abrupt halt as the marvel literally melted in front of the audience’s eyes. Miss Greythorne was in the audience accompanied by her mother and father, who witnessed the wax automaton’s degeneration as first the cheeks, then nose, chin and hair disintegrated at Miss Greythorne’s touch. Perhaps the uncommonly high temperatures that London has been experiencing caused the catastrophe. Or was it simply that this show, like those of many performers who make bold claims, is nothing more than an amateur attempt at entertainment?

  Philidor, the creator of the Phantasmagoria, has sent in a statement assuring all audience members that they can attend the next performance at no further cost to themselves on provision of their ticket; however, he regrets to inform them that the Phantasmagoria has been suspended until further notice. He expresses his deepest and most sincere apologies.

  MARIE’S GRIP ON the newspaper tightened. She held it for a moment longer then put it on the table on top of the others. Her eyes felt as if they were filled with soil, itchy and gritty from so few hours of sleep.
She pressed her hands into them and leant forwards, resting her head. There was an ache somewhere in the middle of her spine. Through the night she’d been experimenting with a new recipe for wax that would withstand the warmer temperatures and extended length of operation. She’d written it all down in her notebook as well, fuelled with the energy borne out of humiliation and desperation. When morning broke the fatigue had arrived, and she had succumbed; she’d put the buckets and bottles aside, doused the fire and dressed for a confrontation with Philidor. She had also wanted to read the Morning Post’s review ahead of him.

  He had not kept to their agreed time of an hour for the show. It was his fault. But her masterpiece, her creation, had been the victim, thereby implying that she, Marie Tussaud, was an amateur and had made an inferior product. One could not expect wax to withstand what real skin could. But that stupid, stupid man had not paid heed, and now her name was besmirched. If it was mentioned at all – according to this article, she did not even exist. How much longer would she endure this slight?

  The remains of Antoinette were seated in the chair in Philidor’s workshop, as he’d refused to carry her upstairs to Marie’s workshop the night before. She could salvage the automaton; in the clear light of day, she could see it was mainly the head that was damaged. She reached up to her own temples and massaged them, the pain arcing across her forehead. Yes, she could make another one, but the new recipe would take some time. She would need to test it out. And time was not something that Philidor would be pleased to hear was required.

  She needed a coffee, needed to escape the confines of this room. The shared parlour was the only option. She moved to stand in its doorway, calculating the number of steps from one corner of the room to its opposite. Her fingers found the handkerchief buried within her corset, and she felt the dried blood still there. Good luck. She needed it.