The Penny Dreadful Curse (18 page)

“That would be
asking too much! There was some not inconsiderable distance between
the jetty where his barge is moored and Skeldergate Bridge.
However, he could say with certainty the man was not a puny fellow
and that he had his coat collar upturned and a great muffler
wrapped around his throat and halfway up his face the way coachmen
do to ward off a biting wind as they travel about the city picking
up fares.”

“Hmm, are we
now looking for a murderous coachman? Or someone with a creative
imagination who dresses up like a coachman to avert suspicion?”

“You’re still
set on Dicksen,” he noted ruefully, “but what about Panglossian? He
isn’t puny and he reads enough creative fiction to fuel a murderous
imagination. And he might want to disguise his beaky nose and jowly
chops.”

“It could be
either man,” she conceded readily. “They both fit the fact that
Robbie Redbeard was not frightened enough to utter a single cry
when she encountered her murderer on that bridge on a foggy night.
It stands to reason she would have recognized Dicksen and felt
flattered to meet him, and she would have been acquainted with
Panglossian and not viewed him as a threat. Not until it was too
late. You did well today,” she praised.

“I’m not quite
done,” he said, feigning indifference to feminine flattery with
more success than usual. “I went to the Friargate Theatre in the
afternoon. Robbie Redbeard was a regular who attended most of the
shows. Several people knew her by sight. She always arrived alone,
sat by herself and departed the same way. No one noticed anyone
following her.”

“That confirms
your theory that our man came from the opposite direction and met
her midway on the bridge. He could not risk being seen at the
theatre and possibly recognised. Did you speak to Inspector Bird
about what you discovered?”

“I called in
at the police station but he was out on the river, hunting down the
arsonist. There’s one last thing.” He lowered his voice and looked
around the corner of the inglenook to make sure Mr Hiboux was still
in the kitchen. “I have noticed that whenever we return to the
Mousehole our host is always at his desk busy on his accounts but
it struck me as odd since we are his only guests. I checked the
inn’s guest register and he has only had three guests in the last
month. Yet the bedroom furnishings are clean and fresh and
tasteful, the pewterware is genuine, the wine is of high quality
and the food delicious. Why doesn’t he have more paying guests? And
if he can afford such niceties why not spend money on the exterior
to attract more guests? From the outside the place looks neglected,
as if it is falling down. The same goes for the parlour. It is old
fashioned, dark and unwelcoming, yet upstairs that is far from the
case. It has been puzzling me for the last hour.”

The Countess
regarded her companion with some awe. “You’re right! Keep Mr Hiboux
busy in the kitchen while I check his desk.”

“How can I
keep him busy?” he grumbled through his beard. “Dinner must be
close at hand. He could be plating it up as we speak.”

“Ask him lots
of questions about his favourite recipes or his family history. If
you’re desperate to stall him drop a plate or glass that he has to
clean up. You’ll think of something!”

A short time
later they were both seated at the little gateleg table by the tiny
window watching the rain spitting on the latticed glass, pouring
out of the lead downpipes of the bookshop opposite and washing down
the runnel; enjoying a Chicken Marengo and a fine burgundy.

“Well?” he
hissed. “Did you discover anything?”

Her winning
smile said it all. “Mr Hiboux is a very talented drawer. He has
dozens and dozens of drawings carefully numbered and ready for
publication. I think it safe to conclude he is an illustrator of
penny dreadfuls. His pseudonym is Ben Barbican. He is BB.”

As is so often
the case with conclusions hastily drawn, truth dawns in its own
good time, usually when least expected. It was the middle of the
night when the Countess sat bolt upright in bed and realized that
the type of paper Ben Barbican used for his drawings was not the
same as that found clutched in the hand of the dead boy. He was not
the elusive BB.

Following that
revelation the Countess formed the opinion that Mr Hiboux had
deliberately structured Ye Olde Mousehole Inne to look unwelcoming.
He probably made ample money from his illustrating and neither
needed nor wanted the income that paying guests would bring. They
were merely a nuisance that took him away from his first
love…drawing.

Dr Watson and
Countess Volodymyrovna remembered that Mr Merlin Panglossian was an
early riser and thus set off early for Coppergate, ready to
confront the titan of publishing with the facts they had recently
gathered. His obfuscation and refusal to supply a list of authors’
names only added to his likely involvement in the penny dreadful
murders. If he was not the guilty party per se, he was probably
covering for the actual murderer. If so, then that person was
someone whose friendship or commercial alliance he valued above the
laws of the land and human sanctity.

Time was of
the essence and they did not consult Inspector Bird, but took it
upon themselves to see that the culprit was cornered and another
murder circumvented. They stepped confidently into the wide
thoroughfare of the Pavement where the lamplighter was busy
extinguishing the gas lamps just as eggy light was slowly streaking
the sky.

The new
printing presses were already humming and whirring as they mounted
the stairs to the first floor, however, they got no further than
the outer office of Mr Thrypp who informed them his master had
taken last night’s train to London and would not return until the
day after tomorrow. Disappointed, they turned to go when the
Countess whirled back.

“Mr Thrypp,”
she addressed to the secretary in her most genial tone, a touch
coquettish, “would it be possible, since we have come all this way
and we are on official police business, to take a quick look at the
manuscripts in Mr Panglossian’s office?”

Mr Thrypp
shook his head firmly. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mr
Panglossian’s private office is locked whenever he is not in
attendance and he has the only key. I could not let you in even if
I wanted to.”

Disappointed,
the Countess turned to go. This time she got as far as the door
before she whirled back. “I was thinking about the boy who took the
parcel from the corner of your desk to Gladhill each month, Mr
Thrypp. Did he perform any other little tasks for Panglossian
Publishing?”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I don’t
know, perhaps transporting a parcel from Gladhill back to
Panglossian, or a parcel to another author, someone who writes
penny dreadfuls perhaps, or even an illustrator of penny dreadfuls.
You do employ illustrators, do you not?”

“Certainly, we
employ illustrators, but the boy did not transport anything other
than the one package to Gladhill each month. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Mr
Dicksen referred to the boy as a courier and I wondered if the boy
was tasked to carry and deliver more than just the one parcel for
Panglossian Publishing.”

Mr Thrypp
seemed to accept her reasoning. “Mr Dicksen was being creative with
his description. It is his way with words. The boy was not very
bright. Sometimes he would get the day wrong and I would have to
send him away and tell him to return the next day. He would not
have made a reliable courier. He couldn’t even read. I could never
understand why Mr Panglossian employed an illiterate boy in the
first place. I cannot imagine what the butler at Gladhill made of
the little ruffian when he showed up with a parcel under his filthy
arm each month for Mr Dicksen. I think it reflected badly on
Panglossian Publishing. I cannot say I was entirely surprised when
the filthy little guttersnipe was killed in the Shambles. A more
respectable boy would never have been accosted, robbed and murdered
by some villain.”

“Perhaps it
had more to do with the time,” she suggested.

Her statement
pulled him up short. “I beg your pardon?”

“Being so
early, no one about, a dangerous time for a lone boy to be carrying
a parcel under his arm - why did he go so early?”

Mr Thrypp gave
a philosophical shrug of his shoulders. “Mr Panglossian and Mr
Dicksen are both early risers and I suppose the guttersnipe could
then go mudlarking with his little gang of ruffians. Mine is not to
reason why…”

The Countess
dispensed a beatific smile wreathed in gratitude. “Thank you, Mr
Thrypp, please let Mr Panglossian know that Dr Watson and I stopped
by this morning. We will see ourselves out.”

They reached
the landing on the stairs where a side door took them to a narrower
back staircase for the undersecretaries and clerical staff to use.
At the bottom of the stairs was the green door that Boz said was
left unlocked by the night-watchman so that Gin-Jim could come and
go. In the large cobblestoned yard hemmed in by brick walls were
three wagons in the process of being unloaded. Bales of paper were
being hauled down to the basement. Someone called out.

“Hey! You!
What you doin’ there?”

It was the
foreman of the yard; a beefy man with a ferocious red beard.

“Are ye lost?”
he growled, marching boldly in their direction.

“Is the
night-watchman still on duty?” asked the Countess, ignoring the
man’s question and posing one her own.

“What’s it to
you?” he barked.

She fished
five shillings out of her beaded reticule and made sure he noticed.
“I would like to speak to him. He’s not in any trouble. I just have
a question or two which he might be able to answer.”

The foreman
licked his lips greedily. “Maybe I can answer the question fer
ya.”

The Countess
smiled encouragingly. “Perhaps you can. Did you know Gin-Jim?”

Recognition
lit up his eyes. “The lad who was killed? Course I did!”

“Perhaps you
can tell me if Gin-Jim, who came once a month to take a parcel to
Gladhill, did any other jobs around here?”

“Is that all
ye want to know?” The foreman sounded mildly surprised.

The Countess
nodded.

“Gin-Jim
burned the rubbish books no one wanted. He sometimes did that after
he took the package to Gladhill. He always came back to get his
money from Thryppsy and sometimes he brought down the shite for
burning.” He indicated a charcoal burner in a corner of the yard
around which three men, presumably the wagon drivers, were huddled,
warming their hands before returning to the docks for another
load.

“Did anyone
keep an eye on him while he burned the books?”

“What fer?
That’s a daft question. What do you think this is - a schoolroom!”
He guffawed loudly at his own joke then remembered the money and
changed his tune. “My men are too busy for standin’ round and
watchin’ a bonfire. He was a good lad.”

The Countess
thanked him and handed him the five shillings.

Dr Watson
waited until they were back on Coppergate.

“What was that
about?”

“I took it for
granted Gin-Jim stole a manuscript from the cupboard on the right
that was earmarked for printing, and that’s what got him killed,
but since the office of Mr Panglossian is kept locked when he is
not in attendance I now think it more likely he stole a rejected
manuscript, one he was meant to burn. In the yard, with no one was
supervising him he could easily have slipped a manuscript inside
his shirt or down his pants.”

“But if it was
worthless why kill him for it?”

“I don’t know.
I agree it doesn’t make much sense. Nonetheless, while we were in
the yard I noted only one window overlooking the charcoal burner.
I’m pretty sure it was the window in Mr Thrypp’s office. I think he
may have watched the boy the way he was just watching us. If anyone
saw the boy stealing a manuscript it would have been him. Did Mr
Thrypp report the theft to his master or did he take matters into
his own hands and decide to teach the little ruffian a lesson?”

They reached
the five ways where Coppergate melted into the Pavement, and paused
before crossing the busy intersection.

“Where to
now?” asked the doctor, speaking both literally and
figuratively.

The Countess
meditated a moment while passers-by jostled around them mumbling
unsavoury oaths about daft tourists.

“I’m going to
pay a visit to Miss Flyte. I want to question her again about the
package wrapped in brown paper her lover was carrying the other
morning. She may remember what day it was or even be willing to
divulge confidences regarding Mr Dicksen, especially if her
romantic interest has suddenly swung to the manly Sir Marmaduke. In
the meantime, you can hail a hansom and call in on Mr Dicksen on
the pretence of seeking a new publisher and being interested in
Panglossian. See if you can get into his study. A fellow author
stands a good chance of gaining entry.”

“And then
what?”

“See what
paper he uses for his manuscripts. There may be several different
types lying around. With the vast advances in methods of printing
lots of new paper has come onto the market. Also, check out how he
forms his B. If you can get him to write something on paper
starting with B - that would be even better.”

“How am I
supposed to arrange that?” he bleated.

“Be creative.
Tell him you have developed arthritis in your fingers that makes it
painful to hold a pen and could he write the address for the Barley
Hall or the Roman Bathhouse or York Brewery – anything with a B in
it. Let’s meet at the Theatre Royal at midday. We can have some
lunch and visit York Minster. It would be a sacrilege to come to
York and not visit the Minster.”