The Penny Dreadful Curse (24 page)

“Vital clues
were overlooked at the beginning of the investigation,” admitted
the doctor defensively, “because the Countess and I were not called
in until the first four murders had been committed. Inspector Bird
did not realize the victims were all authoresses with Panglossian
Publishing until the fifth victim came to light. And that was by
sheer chance.”

“Meaning?”
said the deacon, sensing a confrontation and blinking rapidly,
though he was facing away from the chandelier.

“Meaning the
killer hoped the body would be washed downstream by the outgoing
tide but it became wedged under a jetty instead where it was
spotted by a bargeman.”

“Is that the
unreliable witness you referred to earlier, what?” asked their
host.

Dr Watson
nodded as he struck a lucifer, lighted his cigar and watched the
end glow red. He knew very well he should not be discussing the
case with the three men seated around the table with him but clues
were in short supply, reliable witnesses few and far between, and
they could not wait for another death in the vain hope of garnering
clues. During the carriage ride to Mallebisse Terrace, as they
discussed the notion of truth and untruth, he had suddenly realized
he would have three possible suspects gathered under the one roof
at the same time. He had decided to go out on a limb. Perhaps one
of the men would let slip some information. They certainly showed
an avid interest in the details of the latest crime. What was even
better; he did not need to lead the conversation, he merely had to
throw out some crumbs.

The port
returned for a second round and the blinker was the first to double
back. “You mentioned footprints, doctor?”

“Well, there’s
a dandy clue, what?” puffed mine host, blowing plumes of smoke into
the smoky air that snaked around the Waterford masterpiece.

“I read in
The Times
that more criminals are convicted by their
boot-prints than anything else,” added the publisher. “A boot-print
is more reliable than an eye-witness. What about it, doctor?”

“I’m afraid
the boot-print left by the killer of Miss Titmarsh was only a
partial print – the heel of his boot just outside the scullery
window. The rest of the garden was paved and gravelled. The mud on
the draining board, where the killer had stepped in, had been wiped
clean. There were traces of mud but no prints. We are dealing with
a canny killer.”

“And a clean
one, what!”

“But how does
the killer know who to target?” posed the deacon, sounding puzzled,
ceasing to blink as he downed his port. “It appears we can rule out
that he chooses his victims at random since they are all
authors…”

“Authoresses,”
corrected Dr Watson, “except we are not yet sure of Miss
Titmarsh.”

The deacon
nodded meditatively, blinking sparingly as his brow puckered.
“Quite right, authoresses, yes, quite, of penny dreadfuls, yes,
that’s true, but what I don’t understand is how does the killer
know who is an authoress of penny dreadfuls and who isn’t if there
is no list of names?”

“A very good
question,” said Dr Watson, looking one at a time at his
after-dinner companions. “Let us consider the question logically.
How would a killer know who to target?” He posed the question
thoughtfully and waited for a response.

“Crikey,
someone at Panglossian Publishing must have gotten hold of a list
of dreadful authoresses,” said mine host. “That is the most dandy
explanation, what.”

“I suppose he
could have watched the publishing house,” reasoned the deacon,
blinking quickly while answering his own question, “and followed
the ladies to their homes. No,” he negated after a moment or two,
“that doesn’t make sense. How would he know they penned
dreadfuls?”

“But having a
list of authoresses’ names, what,” conjectured Sir Marmaduke,
“pseudonyms, I used to call them, or noms de plume, I think someone
said earlier, is of no use if you cannot match the name to a face,
what.”

Dr Watson
turned to the publisher, who had gone strangely quiet. “What do you
think, Mr Panglossian? How does the killer know who to target?”

The Jew
shifted uneasily in his seat as he withdrew his fat cigar from
between his dry lips. “How should I know!” he defended stridently,
then scathingly. “That’s your job! You’re the detective! The
associate of Mr Sherlock Holmes! The author of dozens of crime
stories all neatly resolved by the final page! All I know is that
if
you
don’t find the killer soon, I won’t have any dreadful
authoresses left!”

In the
meantime, the four ladies had been prattling pleasantly about
babies’ names and the pros and cons of morphia during childbirth
when the Countess decided there was no time like the present. She
looked earnestly at Mrs Dicksen and spoke in a carefully modulated
tone so as not to cause offence. She would have preferred to
conduct the conversation in private but it would have to suffice
that Miss Flyte and Mrs Ashkenazy had moved closer to the fire and
had taken to talking animatedly about the latest Parisian fashions
for the winter season.

“I know you
were a long-time friend of Miss Titmarsh,” the Countess began
slowly. “The Reverend Finchley mentioned it in passing,” she
explained, “and as all the York murders to date have been
authoresses of dreadfuls I was hoping you would be able to confirm
or deny whether Miss Titmarsh penned dreadfuls. Such information
could be vital to the investigation and it may save time that could
be better expended elsewhere.”

Mrs Dicksen
was not a stupid woman, nor was she mean-spirited, so the Countess
hoped for co-operation, and after a moment of meditative silence
her hope was rewarded.

“I suppose it
cannot hurt for the truth to come out now,” sighed Mrs Dicksen
sadly. “Miss Titmarsh supplemented her income from the teashop by
penning dreadfuls in her spare time. She wrote every evening
without fail.”

The Countess
felt unsurprised and yet surprised at the same time. “I searched
her rooms this morning and didn’t see any manuscripts in
progress.”

“After the
fifth death she moved all her writing things from her bedroom into
the attic. She felt worried that her secret might be found out by
someone. She kept the attic locked and the key in the tea
caddy.”

“Can you tell
me her pen name?”

“Baroness du
Bois.”

“
Crimson
Cavalier
!”

Mrs Dicksen
nodded, smiling, and sighed heavily. “She loved writing! She never
went out of an evening if she could help it. She was a creature of
habit, bless her, and liked to keep herself to a strict routine. I
cannot imagine what induced her to go to the Minerva the night she
was killed - that’s right, isn’t it? - and with a killer on the
loose.”

“Yes,”
confirmed the Countess, “she went to the Minerva. Do you think she
may have been lured there deliberately to get her away from the
teashop?”

“So the killer
could break in and wait for her to return? Is that what you
mean?”

“Yes. Her
death could easily have been mistaken for an accident, a tumble
down the stairs in the dark, but for two things.”

“Two
things?”

“There was
evidence someone had entered through the scullery window but not
exited the same way. And there was an ugly bruise on her
throat.”

“You think she
was strangled?”

“No, the
killer punched her in the throat. Her larynx was crushed.”

“Her
larynx?”

“The police
surgeon confirmed someone had punched her in the throat just prior
to her fall, in other words, just before she died. Bruises are very
particular things; they develop according to the laws of medical
science. The bruise is unlikely to have been caused from the fall
and even less likely to have happened afterwards. The killer may
have wanted to silence her.”

“To stop her
screaming?”

“Or calling
out his name.”

“His
name?”

“She may have
recognized him.”

Mrs Dicksen
pondered this fact for several minutes in sombre silence. “Six dead
authoresses,” she said. “I think you should be searching for a
misogynist.”

The Countess
smiled gloomily. “Where to start?”

“And where to
end?” added the other grimly.

At this point
the men rejoined the ladies and the conversation took several
unexpected turns. Reverend Finchley, who would normally have
gravitated toward his cousin, Mrs Dicksen, seated on the settee,
gravitated instead toward Mrs Ashkenazy. Somehow he managed to
convince her to play a tune on the piano, and then another, and
then a third. Sir Marmaduke drifted toward Miss Flyte and kept her
enthralled with more stories of his African adventures. The young
woman could not get enough of them. Mr Panglossian was forced to
choose between further interrogation by the doctor or the Countess,
and chose instead to fill the yawning gap on the settee alongside
the pregnant wife of his most lucrative writer.

The doctor and
the Countess stood together by the fireplace and pretended to
discuss the African masks on the mantle as their eyes scanned the
drawing room for a likely murderer. Was it Sir Marmaduke, a man who
detested penny dreadfuls because they might upset the natural
social order, a man with a long family history of hatred of Jews, a
man who might wish to destroy Mr Panglossian? Or Reverend Finchley,
a Catholic deacon who seemed to be paying undue attention all
evening to a lonely and naïve Jewess, a lay deacon who detested his
cousin’s husband and might wish to see that husband’s lucrative
association with his Jewish publisher come to an abrupt end? Or
perhaps the wily Jew with the unusual authorial arrangement with
his penny dreadful authoresses, who might yet stand to profit from
their deaths?

Perhaps it was
Mr Hiboux, the secret illustrator, Ben Barbican, who was brought up
by his
père
after his
mere
ran off with the coalman,
a man who played at inn-keeping to honour his pater? Or Mr Thrypp,
who had access to the list of noms de plume and who could match
names to faces whenever authoresses came to collect their royalties
on a Sunday? Or even Mr Corbie, yes, he was always in the
background, always there, among the dusty books and dreadfuls.

As the guests
were donning their cloaks in the entrance hall the Countess managed
to corner Mr Panglossian. She was still bristling from the dressing
down she had received earlier. She drew breath and fought to calm
her tone.

“I called at
Foss Bank House today, not to ingratiate myself with your daughter,
but to ask a favour.”

His glance was
dismissive. “Not the list of names again!”

“No,” she
assured peremptorily, “nothing to do with the list of names. I
wondered if you would allow Gin-Jim’s younger brother to take on
the job of delivering your monthly parcel to Gladhill. His name is
Boz. He is six years of age and he cannot yet read, but I take it
that is not a requirement of the job.”

His swarthy
skin flushed dark. “There is no need for a replacement. Mr Dicksen
has informed me he will be picking up his own parcel in future. He
does not wish to endanger any more boys.”

Disappointed,
she turned away haughtily. “I see.”

“Wait!” He
appeared to reconsider, his voice softened accordingly. “I
apologise for my rudeness earlier today. You were a guest in my
house. My behaviour toward you was unforgiveable. The deaths have
unnerved me. I am not myself of late. I am also an over-protective
father who wishes to spare his only daughter any pain. Forgive me,
Countess Volodymyrovna. And if there is any way I can make it up to
you…” he paused, checking himself. “Of course I can make it up to
you. You want a list of names. If you come to my office tomorrow I
will give you a list of the authors of the penny dreadfuls
published at Panglossian. They may be nothing more than noms de
plume. You can make of them what you will. Shall we say
midday?”

What a
turnaround! Astounded, the Countess watched Mr Panglossian assist
Mrs Dicksen into her carriage. Reverend Finchley was handing Mrs
Ashkenazy up to her landau. Sir Marmaduke was helping Miss Flyte
clamber gracefully into his brougham. Dr Watson was checking the
time on his pocket watch. It was ten o’clock.

“I feel like
Cinderella,” sighed Miss Flyte, gazing out of the carriage window
at the moonlight silvering the old walls of the city while
conjuring fairy tale castles in the air. “I just remembered
something,” she confessed, angling to face the Countess who was
sitting alongside. “I remembered what day it was that Mr Dicksen
arrived with the parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm. It
was the day the boy was killed in the Shambles.”

The Countess
thought Miss Flyte’s memory might have been sparked by the kiss
bestowed on her hand by their manly host and gave an encouraging
smile, but Dr Watson was not one for accepting gift horses without
first checking their teeth.

“Are you quite
sure?”

“Quite sure,”
affirmed the young woman. “I remember tearing the wrapping,
thinking it might be a present for me, and Mr Dicksen shouting
angrily not to touch it. I felt frightened and moved to the window,
pretending to need some fresh air. He immediately apologized and
said it was a chapter of his new book that he wanted to show to his
publisher. He did not like anyone seeing his work-in-progress. I
was looking out of the window while he was speaking, still feeling
hot and flustered, and I remember seeing a large crowd milling
about on the Pavement. I remember thinking it odd because it was so
early in the day and there were usually so few people going about
their business at that time. Later that same morning I heard
someone say a boy had been strung up on a meat-hook. I put the
parcel out of my mind but now I remember one went with the other –
the parcel and the boy, I mean.”