Chapter 1

           ItwaslanguidcuriositywhichfirstbroughtStephenJonestoRogers’Museum. SomeonehadtoldhimaboutthequeerundergroundplaceinSouthwarkStreetacrosstheriver,wherewaxenthingssomuchmorehorriblethantheworsteffigiesatMadameTussaud’swereshewn,andhehadstrolledinoneAprildaytoseehowdisappointinghewouldfindit. Oddly,hewasnotdisappointed. Therewassomethingdifferentanddistinctivehere,afterall. Ofcourse,theusualgorycommonplaceswerepresent—Landru,Dr.Crippen,MadameDemers,Rizzio,LadyJaneGrey,endlessmaimedvictimsofwarandrevolution,andmonsterslikeGillesdeRaisandMarquisdeSade—buttherewereotherthingswhichhadmadehimbreathefasterandstaytilltheringingoftheclosingbell. Themanwhohadfashionedthiscollectioncouldbenoordinarymountebank. Therewasimagination—evenakindofdiseasedgenius—insomeofthisstuff. 

           LaterhehadlearnedaboutGeorgeRogers. ThemanhadbeenontheTussaudstaff,butsometroublehaddevelopedwhichledtohisdischarge. Therewereaspersionsonhissanityandtalesofhiscrazyformsofsecretworship—thoughlatterlyhissuccesswithhisownbasementmuseumhaddulledtheedgeofsomecriticismswhilesharpeningtheinsidiouspointofothers. Teratologyandtheiconographyofnightmarewerehishobbies,andevenhehadhadtheprudencetoscreenoffsomeofhisworsteffigiesinaspecialalcoveforadultsonly. ItwasthisalcovewhichhadfascinatedJonessomuch.