over yet
another glass case. "Whatever are those little bottles for?" she
asked wonderingly.
There were five small phials, filled with varying
quantities of cloudy liquids.
"They're full of poison, Miss Daisy, that's what
they are. There's enough arsenic in that little whack o' brandy to
do for you and me - aye, and for your father as well, I should
say."
"Then chemists shouldn't sell such stuff," said
Daisy, smiling. Poison was so remote from herself, that the sight
of these little bottles only brought a pleasant thrill.
"No more they don't. That was sneaked out of a
flypaper, that was. Lady said she wanted a cosmetic for her
complexion, but what she was really going for was flypapers for to
do away with her husband. She'd got a bit tired of him, I
suspect."
"Perhaps he was a horrid man, and deserved to be
done away with," said Daisy. The idea struck them both as so very
comic that they began to laugh aloud in unison.
"Did you ever hear what a certain Mrs. Pearce did?"
asked Chandler, becoming suddenly serious.
"Oh, yes," said Daisy, and she shuddered a little.
"That was the wicked, wicked woman what killed a pretty little baby
and its mother. They've got her in Madame Tussaud's. But Ellen, she
won't let me go to the Chamber of Horrors. She wouldn't let father
take me there last time I was in London. Cruel of her, I called it.
But somehow I don't feel as if I wanted to go there now, after
having been here!"
"Well," said Chandler slowly, "we've a case full of
relics of Mrs. Pearce. But the pram the bodies were found in,
that's at Madame Tussaud's - at least so they claim, I can't say.
Now here's something just as curious, and not near so dreadful. See
that man's jacket there?!'
"Yes," said Daisy falteringly. She was beginning to
feel oppressed, frightened. She no longer wondered that the Indian
gentleman had been taken queer.
"A burglar shot a man dead who'd disturbed him, and
by mistake he went and left that jacket behind him. Our people
noticed that one of the buttons was broken in two. Well, that don't
seem much of a clue, does it, Miss Daisy? Will you believe me when
I tells you that that other bit of button was discovered, and that
it hanged the fellow? And 'twas the more wonderful because all
three buttons was different!"
Daisy stared wonderingly, down at the little broken
button which had hung a man. "And whatever's that!" she asked,
pointing to a piece of dirty-looking stuff.
"Well," said Chandler reluctantly, "that's rather a
horrible thing - that is. That's a bit o' shirt that was buried
with a woman - buried in the ground, I mean - after her husband had
cut her up and tried, to burn her. Twas that bit o' shirt that
brought him to the gallows."
"I considers your museum's a very horrid place!"
said Daisy pettishly, turning away.
She longed to be out in the passage again, away from
this brightly lighted, cheerful-looking, sinister room.
But her father was now absorbed in the case
containing various types of infernal machines. "Beautiful little
works of art some of them are," said his guide eagerly, and Bunting
could not but agree.
"Come along - do, father!" said Daisy quickly. "I've
seen about enough now. If I was to stay in here much longer it 'ud
give me the horrors. I don't want to have no nightmares to-night.
It's dreadful to think there are so many wicked people in the
world. Why, we might knock up against some murderer any minute
without knowing it, mightn't we?"
"Not you, Miss Daisy," said Chandler smilingly. "I
don't suppose you'll ever come across even a common swindler, let
alone anyone who's committed a murder - not one in a million does
that. Why, even I have never had anything to do with a proper
murder case!"
But Bunting was in no hurry. He was thoroughly
enjoying every moment of the time. Just now he was studying
intently the various photographs which hung on the walls of the
Black Museum; especially was he pleased
another glass case. "Whatever are those little bottles for?" she
asked wonderingly.
There were five small phials, filled with varying
quantities of cloudy liquids.
"They're full of poison, Miss Daisy, that's what
they are. There's enough arsenic in that little whack o' brandy to
do for you and me - aye, and for your father as well, I should
say."
"Then chemists shouldn't sell such stuff," said
Daisy, smiling. Poison was so remote from herself, that the sight
of these little bottles only brought a pleasant thrill.
"No more they don't. That was sneaked out of a
flypaper, that was. Lady said she wanted a cosmetic for her
complexion, but what she was really going for was flypapers for to
do away with her husband. She'd got a bit tired of him, I
suspect."
"Perhaps he was a horrid man, and deserved to be
done away with," said Daisy. The idea struck them both as so very
comic that they began to laugh aloud in unison.
"Did you ever hear what a certain Mrs. Pearce did?"
asked Chandler, becoming suddenly serious.
"Oh, yes," said Daisy, and she shuddered a little.
"That was the wicked, wicked woman what killed a pretty little baby
and its mother. They've got her in Madame Tussaud's. But Ellen, she
won't let me go to the Chamber of Horrors. She wouldn't let father
take me there last time I was in London. Cruel of her, I called it.
But somehow I don't feel as if I wanted to go there now, after
having been here!"
"Well," said Chandler slowly, "we've a case full of
relics of Mrs. Pearce. But the pram the bodies were found in,
that's at Madame Tussaud's - at least so they claim, I can't say.
Now here's something just as curious, and not near so dreadful. See
that man's jacket there?!'
"Yes," said Daisy falteringly. She was beginning to
feel oppressed, frightened. She no longer wondered that the Indian
gentleman had been taken queer.
"A burglar shot a man dead who'd disturbed him, and
by mistake he went and left that jacket behind him. Our people
noticed that one of the buttons was broken in two. Well, that don't
seem much of a clue, does it, Miss Daisy? Will you believe me when
I tells you that that other bit of button was discovered, and that
it hanged the fellow? And 'twas the more wonderful because all
three buttons was different!"
Daisy stared wonderingly, down at the little broken
button which had hung a man. "And whatever's that!" she asked,
pointing to a piece of dirty-looking stuff.
"Well," said Chandler reluctantly, "that's rather a
horrible thing - that is. That's a bit o' shirt that was buried
with a woman - buried in the ground, I mean - after her husband had
cut her up and tried, to burn her. Twas that bit o' shirt that
brought him to the gallows."
"I considers your museum's a very horrid place!"
said Daisy pettishly, turning away.
She longed to be out in the passage again, away from
this brightly lighted, cheerful-looking, sinister room.
But her father was now absorbed in the case
containing various types of infernal machines. "Beautiful little
works of art some of them are," said his guide eagerly, and Bunting
could not but agree.
"Come along - do, father!" said Daisy quickly. "I've
seen about enough now. If I was to stay in here much longer it 'ud
give me the horrors. I don't want to have no nightmares to-night.
It's dreadful to think there are so many wicked people in the
world. Why, we might knock up against some murderer any minute
without knowing it, mightn't we?"
"Not you, Miss Daisy," said Chandler smilingly. "I
don't suppose you'll ever come across even a common swindler, let
alone anyone who's committed a murder - not one in a million does
that. Why, even I have never had anything to do with a proper
murder case!"
But Bunting was in no hurry. He was thoroughly
enjoying every moment of the time. Just now he was studying
intently the various photographs which hung on the walls of the
Black Museum; especially was he pleased
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