The Penny Dreadful Curse (11 page)

“For what
reason?”

“I don’t know.
It was only an impression, and a brief one at that, but if Dicksen
wanted to pre-empt Thrypp it could only be because he wanted to
direct the way the news was conveyed or control the way it was
understood by Panglossian.”

He shook his
head. “I cannot agree. Dicksen jumped up because he likes the sound
of his own voice. He struck me as a born showman.”

“Show-off, you
mean?”

“That too!” he
laughed. “Have you read any of his books? I have always considered
them to be over-written and verbose and now that I have met the
author I can see why I formed that opinion. He is over-dramatic on
page and off! The Theatre Royal, indeed! A private box! Ha! I would
sooner cut out my tongue than give a public reading to an audience
of seven hundred! I certainly won’t be going tonight!”

“What! I
wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“Oh, spare me!
Don’t tell me you have fallen for his charm – what there is of
it!”

“Some men
exude charm and some ooze it. Mr Charles Dicksen is the latter. But
his invitation is the sort that fuels a sleuth’s blood more than
oxygen itself. Make sure you are back here by five o’clock. I will
inform Mr Hiboux we will be requiring an early supper.”

The Countess
immediately set to work sorting and checking the dreadfuls with the
help of her personal maid, Xenia, spreading them out on the floor
of her bedroom. Among the publications there were no names, real or
invented, that matched BB. Baroness du Bois was the only one who
came close, and that was only if you omitted the du from her nom de
plume; not entirely out of the question. Baron Brasenose was a
perfect match but he had to be discounted because he hadn’t
actually been published. He only existed in the reject cupboard.
Disappointed, she instructed Xenia to tidy up the dreadfuls and
return them to the inglenook when the maid spotted a name that
appeared regularly in tiny font on the back cover. It was the name
of the illustrator: Ben Barbican.

The Countess
didn’t agree with Inspector Bird that the death of Gin-Jim was
unrelated to the other murders and here was her first real clue to
a possible connection to penny dreadfuls.

While Xenia
tidied up, the Countess thought about the five authors who had been
killed. Only the second could have earned a decent living from
writing. Her penny dreadfuls stretched to volume 97. The other four
authors had volumes amounting to 3, 12, 7 and 9, respectively.
Panglossian could not possibly have killed them off for the
royalties or copyright. And even if they were planning to move to
another publisher he would hardly be concerned enough to kill them.
As he said: there was no end of dreadful writers waiting in the
wings.

And no end of
writers of dreadfuls either.

The York
Theatre Royal secured for itself a prominent position on St
Leonards Place, across the road from the Museum Gardens where the
fourth victim had been found with her head mashed to a pulp. The
theatre was a prime example of the popular gothic revival style
with five pointed-arches across the front which gave the facade a
pleasing and balanced appearance. A perfectly centred oriel window
enhanced the symmetricality.

As their hired
landau pulled up alongside the Museum Gardens, the Countess pointed
to a man standing in the shadow of one of the arches among the
milling crowd swelling into the hundreds, waiting expectantly for
the doors to be thrown open.

“Look over
there - Mr Corbie is chatting to someone rather respectable
looking. It is high time to expand our circle. Let’s hurry and
introduce ourselves?”

Dr Watson paid
the cabbie then took her by the arm as they dodged skittish horses
and strings of landaus, broughams and hansoms dropping off their
hires. She had chosen to wear an asymmetrical manteau trimmed with
fur; its snug draping impeded anything other than carefully
measured strides.

The man
chatting to Mr Corbie was Reverend Finchley. He was not actually a
vicar, but a lay deacon of the Holy Trinity Catholic Church. The
title was quite correct but quite misleading. He had one of those
ageless male faces that some men are lucky enough to have, though
he had probably reached his late thirties. His tallish frame was
lean and willowy. He had a sprinkling of freckles and a short crop
of curly blond hair that also added to his boyish appearance. All
these good features were unfortunately overshadowed by the fact he
was in the habit of blinking incessantly, as though he had some
dust in his eye which he was trying unsuccessfully to clear. It was
very off-putting to look at him directly for any length of time
whilst engaged in conversation.

Without fail,
he attended all of Mr Charles Dicksen’s readings, unlike Mr Corbie
who had been unable to attend the last twenty-three because of
impecunious circumstances, however, the bookseller was thrilled to
be able to purchase a ticket at the last minute for tonight’s
performance, especially since he had heard a rumour that Mr Dicksen
would be treating the audience to the opening chapter of his next
novel. The theatre-goers must have heard the same rumour for there
was a palpable buzz in the air, as if the very oxygen they shared
had been electrically charged using a new-fangled dynamo.

Just before
the doors were flung open they were joined by a breathless and
agitated young woman of ethereal attractiveness wearing a tailored
dress of blue and white striped wool of the finest quality over
which was artfully draped a large paisley shawl in a striking swirl
of complimentary bluish hues. She had long blond hair, coiled and
up-pinned, held in place by an exquisite jewelled ornament from
which fanned a delicate array of blue and white feathers. Reverend
Finchley introduced her as Miss Flyte.

She smiled
prettily, revealing a row of perfectly milky baby teeth, as she
collected her breath and composed herself, explaining in dulcet
tones that she had had to fight her way through the burgeoning
crowd to avoid arriving late, making it sound like a fate worse
than death. The deacon nodded sympathetically before steering her
into the theatre with a gentlemanly hand in the small of her
back.

The Countess’s
curiosity was piqued and she turned to Mr Corbie.

“I presume
that was neither Reverend Finchley’s daughter - he is too young -
nor his fiancé - she wears no engagement ring and did not receive a
kiss - so she must have been his niece?”

Mr Corbie
coughed to clear his throat. “Not exactly,” he gurgled with
embarrassment. “She is, er, how shall I put it? She is Mr Dicksen’s
er…”

“Amoureuse?”

“Yes,”
confirmed the bookseller, nodding gratefully at being spared words
such as lover, mistress or inamorata. “That explains it rather
well. I like a word that explains itself.”

“How old is
she?” enquired the doctor somewhat bluntly.

“I believe she
will turn seventeen next month,” replied Mr Corbie.

“And how old
is Dicksen?” the doctor hammered with blunt force.

“I believe he
is in his fifties.”

“That’s
outrageous!’ slammed the doctor censoriously. “I realize Miss Flyte
is over the age of consent but for a man of his respectable public
standing to take up with a woman young enough to be his
grand-daughter is wrong on every level – chronological, social,
emotional, ethical, moral, and that new field of study gaining
credence - psychological. It smacks of paedophilia in every
instance except the legal. There should be a word for it!”

“Perhaps
paedosavvy sums it up?” offered Mr Corbie, who preferred words that
sounded like what they meant. “A mix of paedophile and savoir.”

“Capital!”
trumpeted the doctor. “That sums it up very neatly indeed!”

“Unfortunately, it is men of Mr Dicksen’s standing who can afford
to take up with lovely young women,” reminded the Countess dryly.
“Let’s go inside and find the person who will usher us to our
free
seats.”

The doctor
ignored her shabby attempt to placate him. “Is Mr Dicksen a married
man?”

“Yes he is,”
replied Mr Corbie, checking his ticket for the seat number. “It has
been a pleasure speaking to you.
Au revoir
, for now.”

The doctor had
a chance to cool his indignant heels in the foyer while the crowd
thinned. After a few minutes, a young woman, plainly but not drably
dressed, with auburn hair neatly but not severely tied back in a
bun, came across to them.

“I’m Miss
Carterett,” she said in a clear voice, “the school mistress from
the Quaker School in Northbrick Lane. I presume you are Dr Watson
and Countess Volodymov.”

The Countess
did not bother to correct her. “Yes, that’s right. How on earth did
you spot us in this enormous crowd?”

“I was told by
Mr Dicksen to look out for the best dressed lady and a man of high
distinction with a military bearing.”

Well! If that
failed to endear Dr Watson to Mr Dicksen then nothing would!

Miss
Carterett, who could add usherette to her unstinting workload, led
them to a private box overlooking the stage, en face de Reverend
Finchley and a much calmer Miss Flyte. The Countess immediately
retrieved her opera glasses and scanned the faces in the dress
circle. The scene called to mind the nursery rhyme about cockle
shells and pretty maids all in a row. Every face was female. She
then scanned the hats in the stalls which reminded her of
cauliflowers and cabbages in a vegetable patch. Mr Panglossian was
nowhere to be seen. Nor was Mr Thrypp. Mr Corbie however was seated
in the last row and either side of him was sat Miss Titmarsh and
Miss Carterett; not so much a rose between two thorns as a
scarecrow between two nodding sunflowers. She was about to retrain
her opera glasses on the budding York rose in the opposite box when
she spotted a giant beanstalk with sideburns seated in the middle
of the second row.

Suddenly the
theatre lights dimmed and a row of limelights at the edge of the
stage illumined the podium. Mr Charles Dicksen’s fanfaronade opened
to a fanfare of excited applause and closed with a standing
ovation. In between, he kept his audience enraptured; a born
showman with an inspiring voice and an inspirational message that
would resonate long after the limelights had been extinguished and
the wrapt listeners had departed for their prosaic beds.

They caught up
to Inspector Bird in the foyer.

“Is it police
business or personal pleasure that brings you here tonight?” asked
the Countess.

“Personal
pleasure,” replied the burly inspector. “I never miss a reading by
Mr Dicksen.”

“Have you made
any progress on the murders?” continued the Countess.

The inspector
shook his head and scowled. “The collision of the barges took up
more time than I expected. I was stuck at the river for most of the
day.” He turned to his idol. “I was told you called by the police
station while I was out, Dr Watson. Did you learn anything useful
from Mr Panglossian?”

The
inspector’s scowl cleared to a smile when the doctor recounted what
they had learned about the publisher’s personal touch concerning
his stable of authors. He stroked his magnificent whiskers as he
pondered the possibility of forcing the publisher to hand over a
list of names. He agreed with the doctor that such a list existed
and probably had the real names as well as the pen names on it. The
publisher was trying to fob them off.

“What about
the murder of the boy this morning?” probed the Countess, changing
the subject and thinking about the missing parcel the boy was
carrying. “Did any information come to light about why the boy was
so brutally killed?”

“None at all,”
said the inspector. “But I have enough on my plate with the five
dreadful murders, I mean, the five dreadfuls murders. I daresay the
boy’s killer will never be found. Such random acts of senseless
violence are the hardest of all to solve.”

“The boy was
carrying a parcel from Panglossian to Gladhill,” expounded the
Countess. “It was a chapter from Mr Dicksen’s current novel. It was
wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Has something like
that been handed in at the police station?”

The inspector
shook his head. “Not to my knowledge but I will keep a lookout for
it. I doubt it will turn up. The killer probably thought the boy
had something valuable but it turned out to be worthless sheets of
paper. It’s most likely at the bottom of the river.” He turned to
the doctor. “Did you have a chance to speak to the police surgeon
about the death of the boy?”

“Yes, Dr
Pertwee confirmed what we surmised at the scene. The boy was lifted
off his feet by the scruff of the neck by someone using one hand,
the right hand, and then had his neck rammed onto the hook. It was
swift and brutal. There was no struggle. The boy did not attempt to
fend off his attacker. He would have died instantly.”

“A sad end,”
said the inspector, “but I don’t see how it can be related to the
five murders we are investigating even if the boy was carrying a
package from Panglossian to Gladhill. Mr Dicksen does not write
dreadfuls. We cannot allow ourselves to be distracted. Tomorrow I
intend to return to the five murder scenes and interview any
prospective witnesses such as shopkeepers, hawkers, gardeners,
cabbies, and so forth. Would you care to come with me? Your
expertise may prove invaluable?”

The Countess
got the distinct impression the invitation was directed at Dr
Watson and not at the two of them. She decided to do the tactful
thing. “You go along. I feel the need for some penitence. I will
drop in on Reverend Finchley at the Holy Trinity Church.”

“I didn’t
realize you were Catholic,” said the doctor, sounding surprised and
yet not – there was so much he did not know about the young woman
who claimed to be the daughter of his best friend. They had been
travelling together less than two months and were already on their
third case. He had hardly drawn breath since the night they
met.