The Penny Dreadful Curse (14 page)

The deacon
turned to Dr Watson. “You’re an author. What is your opinion of
penny dreadfuls?”

“I don’t
personally read them but I have nothing against them. They are not
high-brow but as the Countess pointed out to me the other evening
the lads who read them want something easy, entertaining, and
cheap. Unlike Sir Marmaduke, I have no objection to the working
classes learning to read.”

“Well stated,
doctor,” said the deacon. “Everyone must start somewhere and one
day the boys who read dreadfuls may graduate to Sherlock Holmes or
Great Infatuations
.”

The doctor
turned to his host. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Mr
Dicksen?”

The author
wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin before drawing
breath. “Penny dreadfuls do not compete with my readership and one
day those readers, as the good deacon pointed out, will move on and
possibly buy
my
books. In that regard I have nothing against
them either. As for the natural social order, well, as long as
people know their place, they can read what they like.”

“There was a
time only monks could read, and then those born to rule thought it
might be useful. Now it has extended to most men,” enlightened the
deacon. “The so-called natural social order is hardly natural and
never static. Reading per se is not harmful.”

“But
ideas
are!” blasted the hunter. “From ideas spring forth
anarchy and chaos. The social order will be turned on its head!
Revolution will follow! Crikey, that’s what reading dreadfuls will
eventually lead to, what!”

“As long as
working class lads stick to dreadfuls and the educated classes
stick to literature and women stick to romances the social order
will survive,” pronounced Mr Dicksen. “But apart from Sir
Marmaduke,” he quipped, lightening the conversation, “who would
want to kill off Panglossian’s dreadfuls?”

“Panglossian,
what?” quizzed the hunter.

“All the
victims were authoresses with Panglossian,” clarified the
doctor.

“Crikey, it
seems clear to me that some dandy is out to destroy the rich old
Jew of York,” proclaimed the hunter, not unhappily. “The killer
will be a Jew hater. Mark my words, what.”

“That puts a
different perspective on the crimes,” mused the doctor.

“What about
you, Countess?” asked Mr Dicksen. “Do you believe it is someone out
to destroy Panglossian?”

“I’m not
convinced he is the target for the simple reason he refused to
supply us with a list of authors’ names and their matching noms de
plume. If he believed his authors or authoresses were in imminent
danger and his own life at risk, you would think he would want to
do all in his power to co-operate and catch the killer.”

“The man is
merely protecting the anonymity of his authors,” responded Mr
Dicksen. “That is understandable and commendable.”

“But not if it
thwarts the investigation,” returned the Countess. “And then there
is the death of the boy in the Shambles.”

“Crikey, you
mean the one strung up like a dandy carcass of beef, what?” blurted
the hunter. “What can he have to do with it?”

“Well, he runs
errands for Panglossian,” explained the Countess. “In fact, he was
carrying a parcel to Gladhill at the time he was killed. Isn’t that
right, Mr Dicksen?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “And yet the
parcel he was carrying is nowhere to be found. It is most
curious.”

“Curious!”
decried Mr Dicksen. “Nothing could be less curious. The boy was
robbed and killed for the parcel that turned out to be nothing but
an unedited chapter of my next novel – worthless to anyone but me!
The poor boy died tragically for nothing.”

“You were in
the Shambles about that time, dear,” said Mrs Dicksen quietly,
speaking for the first time since they sat down to dinner. All eyes
turned to her and then to her husband to hear his response.

“Nonsense,
Henrietta! What gave you that idea?”

“You told your
valet you were going to see your publisher and that you would take
a shortcut through the Shambles instead of taking the carriage as
you so often do at that early hour of the day. What time was it?
Five or six in the morning?”

“Oh, yes, I
did that say that to Beckingham but I changed my mind a moment or
two later. I wanted to think about my next chapter and I decided to
circumambulate the city walls before hordes of tourists arrived in
their droves. We authors often have a mental block that needs
unblocking; something you fail to understand, Henrietta. I find
walking does the trick. I stopped off for a bite of breakfast
somewhere and didn’t get to Panglossian until about half past ten
or thereabouts. The Countess can verify my time of arrival. She was
in Panglossian’s office when I arrived.”

He turned to
his female guest for confirmation.

“It was closer
to eleven,” she confirmed.

“A terrible
tragedy for the boy,” sighed Mrs Dicksen, “and such a shame about
your missing chapter, dear.”

“Not at all!”
he rebuffed. “I have a copy in my private study. A terrible thing
for the boy, that’s all. You look peaky, Henrietta. I think it
might be wise for you to go to your room before you over-tax
yourself.”

“I feel fine,
dear. I will take cocoa with the Countess in the parlour while you
men go off to the library for port and cigars. Perhaps Dr Watson
may care to view your private study. I imagine a fellow author
would be interested to see where you work,” she suggested
sweetly.

“Crikey,
that’s a dandy idea, what,” seconded the hunter, disregarding the
way his host blanched. “I have always wanted to see your inner
sanctum. The way you guard it anyone would think you have some
jumbo loot stashed up there!”

“Yes,” added
the deacon, not be left out. “I have always had a desire to see
where you do your creative work.”

Mr Dicksen
jutted out his chin so that his hirsute glory stood horizontal to
the table. “It is called a private study for the very reason it is
private. No one is allowed to enter save for myself.”

“What about
your missus?” challenged the hunter.

“Especially my
missus!”

“And your
valet?” he pursued doggedly.

“Not even my
valet! Private means private. I cannot have people coming and going
and upsetting my notes. It is unthinkable!”

After dinner
the two ladies retreated to the parlour. Mrs Dicksen looked drawn
and tired. A tenth pregnancy was not only taxing, but dangerous,
especially at her age. They settled either side of the fireplace
with cocoa and some delicious Mallebisse Chocolate Blisses.

“What do you
think of the theory put forward by Sir Marmaduke that someone is
out to destroy Panglossian?” asked the Countess, helping herself to
a chocolate bliss from the heart-shaped box.

Mrs Dicksen
looked taken aback. “You’re asking me?”

“I hope I have
not offended you?”

“Not at all,
it’s just that my husband regards me as dull and somewhat thick and
his friends tend to follow suit.”

“I don’t
regard you as anything other than intelligent and courageous. I
welcome your opinion on the matter at hand and anything else you
see fit to tell me. Dr Watson and I have been thrown in at the deep
end so to speak, concerning these murders and it will be impossible
to solve them unless we have some background knowledge of the
people involved and the publishing industry in York. Anything you
can tell me about Panglossian will be of enormous help.”

“Do you mean
Panglossian Publishing or Panglossian the man?”

“Both.”

Mrs Dicksen
popped a chocolate bliss into her mouth while she considered her
response. “Well, I think Panglossian Publishing and Mr Panglossian
are inextricably linked. The publishing house is successful because
of the publisher who runs it. Panglossian has been instrumental in
my husband’s success though my husband thinks it is all due to his
own genius. He loathes Panglossian but he is contracted to another
four books.”

“Why does he
loathe him?”

“Mainly
because Panglossian reminds him constantly that he wouldn’t be half
as successful without him. It was Panglossian who suggested the
public readings at the Theatre Royal. Since that first reading,
sales of his books have soared. My husband would like to capitalize
on his current fame and swap to a prestigious London publisher in
Fleet Street but Panglossian refuses to release him from his
contract. Plus he is Jewish.”

“Is there a
personal or family reason to account for your husband’s dislike of
Jews?”

Mrs Dicksen
shook her head. “None that I know of - some people just dislike
them for religious or financial reasons. Jews are often
moneylenders and people naturally dislike paying back debts. And
some people still have their head stuck in the Middle Ages. In 1190
all the Jews in York were massacred and burnt in Clifford’s Tower.
They had barricaded themselves in after some hate-fuelled rioting,
believing they were guaranteed royal protection. Alas! Richard the
Lionheart turned a blind eye. The instigators of the riots
eradicated the need to pay back their debts and the Lionheart,
heading off to the Crusades and in need of funds, inherited the
Jews’ property and wealth.”

“So much for
royal protection!”

“I believe Sir
Marmaduke Mallebisse’s ancestor was one of the main rioters. I am
not suggesting Sir Marmaduke dislikes Jews but his family certainly
benefitted financially from the long-ago riots.”

“What about
Reverend Finchley? I realize he is your cousin and I don’t wish to
cast aspersions but Catholics and Jews don’t really have a positive
history either. There is all that hate going back to the Cathars
and the Inquisition.”

“Reverend
Finchley is a great source of comfort to me so I am loath to say a
bad word against him, not that I would protect him if I thought he
was going about killing people, but I just cannot see him harming a
fly. He is a very gentle and kind soul.”

The Countess
nodded understandingly and finished her cocoa before putting Mrs
Dicksen on the spot once more. “Can you tell me the names of anyone
you know who writes penny dreadfuls, particularly if they are
female? I ask because I believe the murderer will not stop at five
and it is imperative to start tracking down and warning
Panglossian’s authoresses before the next one is singled out and
killed.”

“No,” said her
hostess with conviction. “I don’t know any authoresses. The only
author I know is my husband. And though I know him to be capable of
cruelty I do not believe he would stoop to murder.” She helped
herself to another blissful chocolate and popped it into her mouth.
“Let me qualify that statement. My husband is a passionate man, he
feels everything intensely, and love and hate are known to be two
sides of the same coin. He might therefore kill a rival author,
someone he was tremendously jealous of, or someone who plagiarized
his work, or someone who questioned his genius in public, but I
simply cannot see him murdering five defenceless women who write
dreadfuls and pose no authorial threat to him. I don’t believe he
would stoop to bother.”

“He’s a Russian
Jew,” explained Sir Marmaduke, puffing on a fat cigar, as he
settled as far from the fireplace in the library as he could to
avoid a flare up of blood vessels. “Fled during the Odessa pogroms
of 1891, what. Changed his name so that folks couldn’t tell what he
was. What was it?”

“What was
what?” snapped their host impatiently who couldn’t abide
conversations that went on and on elliptically, especially when
those elliptical paths weren’t orbiting his sun.

“His name?”
clarified Sir Marmaduke. “Before he changed it?”

“Vasily
Voynich,” supplied Mr Dicksen sharply.

Reverend
Finchley scratched his head. “I thought the pogroms were in
1881?”

“What
difference does it make when they were?” dismissed their host.

“Quite right,”
agreed Sir Marmaduke. “Crikey, they have nothing to do with us but
I thought it was Basil?”

“Basil?”
quizzed Dr Watson, wondering how they got onto the topic of
herbs.

“Oh, you mean
his name,” said the deacon, thinking the same thing before catching
on.

“Basil or
Vasil or Vasya or Vasily are all the same,” explained Mr Dicksen
curtly. “It’s the Anglicisation of the Slavic!”

“Well,
whatever it is, it is damn confusing, what!” professed the hunter,
flicking cigar ash into an ashtray and missing by a mile.

“By the way,”
corrected Dr Watson, trying not to sound too pedantic, “Odessa is
in Ukraine. That would make Mr Panglosssian a Ukrainian Jew.”

Dr Watson and
Countess Volodymyrovna exchanged information during the carriage
drive back to the Mousehole.

“A Ukrainian
Jew,” repeated the Countess. “That’s interesting.”

“It gets
better,” he said. “His real name is Vasily Voynich.”

“Oh, yes, that
is definitely interesting.”

“I thought
you’d like it.”

“Yes, the VV
ties in with the BB on the scrap of paper. But is Mr Panglossian
the intended victim or our main suspect?”

“Everything
comes back to him but is it because he is Jewish or because he is a
publisher? Sir Marmaduke’s theory struck me as plausible.”

“Quite,” she
agreed readily. “I imagine there might be more than one person who
dislikes the Jewish publisher. Mr Dicksen, for example, has a
contract with Panglossian that he would dearly like to weasel out
of. Mrs Dicksen, however, does not think her husband capable of
murder unless his literary crown is under threat.”

“Everyone is
capable of murder.”

“Not Reverend
Fichley according to her. They are quite close as far as cousins
go.”

“Kissing
cousins?”