The Penny Dreadful Curse (32 page)

“Did you know
the lady was Mrs Dicksen and the dead man was her husband?”

“Not at first,
but someone, I think it was the inspector, addressed her as Mrs
Dicksen, so I concluded for myself the dead man was Mr Dicksen,
though no one spoke his name directly in my presence.”

“What did you
make of the scene?”

“How do you
mean?”

“Did it seem
real or unreal?”

“Well, now
that you mention it, it seemed like a theatrical performance. I had
just been to the Friargate Theatre and I remember thinking that it
felt as if I had somehow stumbled onto a stage set. A highwayman! A
woman shooting her own husband! The scenario seemed like something
out of Moliere.”

“Do you think
the lady was play-acting?”

They had
reached the slate-paved terrace and paused momentarily, looking at,
but not seeing the dappled sunshine on the lawn and the last of the
glorious golden autumn hues. Mrs Ashkenazy was coming toward them,
pushing the perambulator, but they did not see her either. He shook
his head, slowly at first and then more briskly.

“No,” he said
finally. “If she was play-acting she was doing a much better job
than any actress I have ever seen.”

“Why do you
say that?”

“Well, when I
first climbed into the carriage to find her in a swoon I
immediately felt for a pulse. It was very weak. It suggested her
heart rate was low. Later, when it became clear she had shot her
own husband and she promptly fainted into my arms, her pulse was
racing. She was rocked by the news. I’m not a medical man, and
perhaps it is possible to control one’s heartbeat at will. If so,
she was doing a good job of it. It is my opinion, though I am no
expert in theatrics either, that if the scene was staged, the lady
had not familiarized herself with the script beforehand. She was
not acting, but reacting - extemporizing, so to speak.”

The wheels of
the perambulator crunched the dry leaves littering the terrace. The
noise caused them to turn their heads. Monsieur van Brugge
immediately expressed his condolences and excused himself. He had
to get back to his studio. Mrs Ashkenazy managed a rueful
smile.

“Here is my
darling Rebecca,” she said with a mother’s pride.

The Countess
peered adoringly into the perambulator, preparing the usual
compliment along the lines of angels and cherubs, and felt her
breath catch. Tufts of golden hair poked out from the crocheted
winter bonnet and some soft blue eyes were blinking incessantly at
the dappled light.

Mrs Ashkenazy
had given her word to come to the Mousehole Inne along with
Monsieur van Brugge for eight o’clock. The Countess hoped to have
all the loose ends tied up by then. She hailed a hansom outside
Foss Bank House and directed the coachman to drop her at the spot
where the Pavement met the Shambles. She wanted to pay a flying
visit to Miss Flyte. There were several small details she needed to
check. After that she would hurry to the inn and wait for news from
Dr Watson. If he confirmed her latest conjecture, well and good, if
not, she would have to wing it and hope the killer could be bluffed
into making a confession.

Miss Flyte was
as usual at home, reading her book on Nellie Bly for the second
time. Thrilled to have company, she immediately rang for tea and
muffins. It was hard to get a word in edgewise as Miss Flyte,
starved of conversation, rattled on endlessly about the marvellous
dinner party and the marvellous Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse. Oh, well,
at least breaking the tragic news of Mr Dicksen’s death to his
young mistress was going to be much easier than anticipated.

Miss Flyte did
not even shed a tear. She merely asked to hear all the gory details
and asked dozens of questions regarding the actual shooting.

“It’s just
like Jack Black!” she exclaimed more than once, not unhappily. “Do
you think Charles intended to kill his wife?”

“It does
appear to be the case. Mrs Henrietta Dicksen wrote the penny
dreadfuls about Jack Black and it is possible her husband was
jealous of her success. Her dreadfuls outsold his high-brow novels.
Which brings me to an important point.” The Countess angled her
body and looked directly at Miss Flyte. “You mentioned that you saw
Mrs Dicksen passing what appeared to be a manuscript to her friend
Miss Titmarsh on the odd occasion in church when they shared the
box pew. You told me you didn’t tell Mr Dicksen. But just recently
did you happen to mention it?”

Miss Flyte
blanched, put her hand over her mouth and gasped out loud before
nodding guiltily. “It’s my fault isn’t it?”

“Not at all,”
returned the Countess solemnly. “You were not to know. You cannot
blame yourself for the actions of another. Mr Dicksen chose his own
fate.”

“I never
thought he would get so angry.”

“What did he
say when you told him?”

“He said he
would teach his wife a lesson.”

“Did he say
anything else?”

“No, he just
kept repeating that he would teach her a lesson once and for
all.”

“Why did you
tell him?”

She bit her
lip as the full horror of her ghastly mistake dawned on her. “I
wanted to make him leave her. I wanted him to get a divorce so he
would marry me instead. I didn’t know he would try to kill his
wife.” She gave a terrible shudder. “He said we should soon be
taking a long holiday abroad – to America. I thought that was what
he meant by saying: teach her a lesson. I thought that was how he
meant to punish her.”

Miss Flyte
began to cry and the Countess had to wait for the stream of tears
to run their course.

“There’s one
more thing I need to clarify and I need you to think carefully,”
she said when the tears abated. “The morning that Mr Dicksen
arrived with the parcel wrapped in brown paper, the one which you
tore, did it have any writing on the outside of it?”

“Yes,” she
hiccoughed, “it said: Gladhill. But I didn’t see that till later.
It was facing away from me.”

“Did Mr
Dicksen have another manuscript as well as the one that was
wrapped? In other words, a manuscript that was unwrapped, say, a
penny dreadful?”

Miss Flyte
regarded her with awe. “How did you know that?”

The Countess
ignored the young woman’s astonishment. “Was it torn?”

“Yes!” she
exclaimed, hiccoughing and shaking her head in further amazement.
“The front page was torn so that I could not see the name of the
author. Charles placed the unwrapped manuscript underneath the
parcel wrapped in brown paper and forbade me to touch either of
them.”

“One more
question. When he left you that morning to visit his publisher did
he take the parcel wrapped in brown paper or the unwrapped one with
him?”

“You must have
second sight,” said Miss Flyte rapturously, hiccoughing. “Are you
Irish?”

“No, I’m
Ukrainian.”

“Is that the
same as Welsh?”

“No, Ukraine
is, oh, never mind, it’s a long way from here. If you ever find
yourself in that part of the world, meaning near Odessa, you will
be welcome to stay on my estate for as long as you like. I can
telegraph the details to you if you ever need them. Anyway, can you
remember if Mr Dicksen took either of the two parcels with him when
he went to visit his publisher?”

She shook her
head at once. “He left them both on the chiffonier and said he
would come back for them. That’s when he forbade me to look at
them. He looked very stern when he said it. He can, I mean, he
could sometimes be quite fierce.”

The Countess
gave an encouraging smile. “But you did look, didn’t you, because
like all good journalists you like to unearth secrets and find out
the answers to questions people haven’t even asked.”

Miss Flyte was
now regarding her with religious rapture. “Yes, that’s it exactly.
I peeked carefully and made sure to put it all back exactly how
Charles left it.”

“What did you
notice?”

“I noticed
that the penny dreadful was about knights and dragons and on each
page were the same letters.”

“BB,” supplied
the Countess - and Miss Flyte almost fainted.

The landlady
arrived with tea and muffins but the Countess did not linger long.
Her mind was buzzing. She only half-listened as Miss Flyte rattled
on about the marvellous Sir Marmaduke and the marvellous house on
Mallebisse Terrace. In between the gushing monologue the Countess
managed to extract a promise from Miss Flyte to come to the
Mousehole for 8 o’clock.

“Will Sir
Marmaduke be there?” the young woman asked hopefully as she walked
her visitor to the door.

“Oh, yes, you
can count on it.”

It was getting
on for 5 o’clock by the time the Countess hurried down the
Shambles, her head a clamour of half-formed thoughts that caused
her brain to spin and skirr like a child’s toy. She was eager to
learn what Dr Watson had discovered from the bargeman and the
landlady in Scarcroft Lane. But as she rounded the dog-leg she
bumped straight into a large angry rabble milling outside the
bookshop. Patch and Boz recognized her at a glance and immediately
darted through the legs of the threatening crowd to speak to her.
Boz had been crying. There were dirty streaks down his face where
tears had smeared the dust and grime clinging to him like a second
skin. Patch looked desperate and frightened. He was twisting his
cloth cap in soot-stained hands.

“You must help
us,” he rasped as if he had a frog stuck in his throat, setting off
a fresh flood of tears on the part of the younger boy.

“What is it?”
said the Countess, endeavouring to keep her voice steady, sensing
something dire and trying to downplay her own rising fear. “What’s
happened?”

“It’s Mr
Corbie,” croaked Patch. “The police have arrested him for the
murders. The inspector just took him away. They didn’t even give
him a chance to lock his shop up.”

Stunned and
naturally sceptical, the Countess glanced at the sign swinging in
the wind and then at the lovely bow window, expecting to see Mr
Corbie on the other side of the glass as usual. But there was only
Magwitch, prowling the window sill, tale erect, back arched, fur
bristling fiercely, sensing some threat.

“Did the
police say if they had any evidence?”

Patch nodded
gloomily. “They found a whole bunch of unpublished dreadfuls in the
dust bin out the back of the shop. They say he stole them from
Panglossian after he killed the publisher because he were jealous.
They say it was because he sold books all day that nobody wanted to
read.” He frowned and swallowed hard and scratched his head. “I
mean he
didn’t
sell books all day that nobody wanted to
read. Oh, bugger me! I sound stupid!”

“I know what
you mean,” assured the Countess, pushing against the rabble rousers
calling for the hanging of the cold-hearted murderer as she ushered
the two boys into the bookshop ahead of herself and promptly closed
the door. “Where’s the key?”

“Top of the
door jamb,” said Patch.

“Lock the
door,” she instructed just as the first rock shattered a pane of
glass and she turned quickly to Boz. “Come away from the window.
Stay in the kitchen and don’t show yourself. Feed Magwitch then fix
some supper.”

From the desk,
now covered in broken shards of glass, she gathered up a handful of
envelopes, sheaves of paper, the ink well and a pen. She was
halfway to the kitchen when a second rock broke another pane. She
did not look back. Once in the kitchen, she settled at the pine
table and began writing feverishly. The nib was cracked and the
watered down ink blotted every other word but she daren’t risk
going back to the desk by the window to search for a different pen.
A third rock had claimed another pane. When she finished writing,
she extracted her card case and pulled out all her calling cards,
eight in all, enough for what she needed. The letters she had
scratched out were on cheap paper covered with unsightly ink blots
but if she included a calling card with each letter the recipient
would know the message was genuine.

“As soon as
you have finished your supper,” she addressed to the two boys, “I
have a task for you. It’s important that you carry it out quickly.
You will need to hurry.” She finished sealing the envelopes while
they scoffed down some food. “Boz, you must deliver letters to Mr
Thrypp at Panglossian on Coppergate and Miss Carterett who is
staying at the Minerva. The addresses are on the envelopes. I have
drawn a daisy in the corner for Mr Thrypp and a bee for Miss
Carterett. Will you remember which is which?”

Boz nodded.
“Miss Carterett is as busy as a bee. I will remember it that
way.”

“Good lad,”
she praised. “Now, there is a third letter for Reverend Finchley.
You will find him in the belfry at Holy Trinity. If he is not there
you will find him in Spen Lane. I don’t know the number of his
lodging but if you ask, someone will tell it you. I have drawn a
bird on his envelope, a finch. After you have delivered all three
letters you are to come back here. Go out the back door that leads
to the row and return the same way. Try not to let anyone see
you.”

Boz snatched
up the three letters as a fourth rock shattered another pane. She
waited until she heard the back door slam before speaking quickly
to Patch.

“You will
deliver letters to Dr Pertwee at the morgue by Toft Green, Mrs
Dicksen at Gladhill and Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse at number 17
Mallebisse Terrace. You can read so I haven’t bothered to draw any
symbols on the envelopes. You have much further to go so I will
give you some money for a hansom.”

“I’ve never
rid in a hansom,” he said, wide-eyed at the prospect, before
pulling a sour face. “The coachman mayn’t take me, seeing me all
covered in soot and ash.”