The Penny Dreadful Curse (33 page)

“Just wave the
money at him and he will be happy to oblige. Tell him to wait while
you deliver the letters. Give him half at the start and tell him he
will get the other half at the end. I will give you more than
enough to satisfy him. Go personally into the morgue but for the
other two deliveries just push the letter through the slot in the
door and use the door-knocker to alert the butler that a letter has
arrived. Don’t wait for a reply. The last letter is for Inspector
Bird. Deliver it to the police station then come back here. Same as
for Boz - leave and return via the row out back. Try not to be
seen. When the clock strikes eight come across to the Mousehole
with Boz. I will reveal the true murderer and the police will have
to release Mr Corbie.”

Upon hearing
that bit of news he grabbed up the four letters and moved as if his
heels had wings. The Countess followed in his wake, sneaking out
through the row at the back so as not to alert the rabid crowd
gathering outside the bookshop that the place was now unguarded and
ripe for wrecking.

As soon as the
Countess re-entered the Shambles she spotted Dr Watson. He was
standing at the back of the crowd, doing his best to ascertain what
was going on. She caught him by the elbow and ushered him toward
the Mousehole without speaking. Mr Hiboux was peering out of the
latticed window. He quickly opened the door for them to pass
through then promptly locked it again. The little lopsided man was
shaking like a leaf and his voice had turned squeaky.

“They have,
er, arrested Mr Corbie for the, ah, murders,” he said fretfully,
fearing for his old friend, images of gallows and guillotines
swimming before his eyes.

“I must say,”
said the doctor, removing his coat and hat, “I did not expect it to
be the bookseller. Well done to Inspector Bird. He is a credit to
the force and all it stands for.”

“Oh, don’t be
absurd!” snapped the Countess. “Mr Corbie no more murdered those
women than I did. The man is sixty years old, has poor eyesight,
arthritic hands, and hardly ever leaves the shop. Can you imagine
him punching Miss Titmarsh in the throat and pushing her down the
stairs? Can you imagine him throwing Robbie Redbeard off
Skeltergate Bridge? Can you imagine him overpowering Mr
Panglossian? Really! The very idea is nonsensical!”

Dr Watson,
feeling thoroughly abashed, waited until Mr Hiboux hurried off to
the kitchen to see to supper before speaking.

“I say, that
was harsh.”

She
immediately regretted her outburst and apologized but time was of
the essence and she had no time to dwell on hurt feelings. “Did you
manage to track down the bargeman?”

Continuing to
nurse chagrin, he merely nodded stiffly as he helped himself to
some sherry from the sideboard, pouring a second glass for the
Countess out of habit. After he drained the contents of his glass
he felt able to reply in a normal voice minus any
defensiveness.

“Yes, and it
took the better part of the afternoon. He was down by Castle Mills
Bridge again. I suspect he was unloading more contraband, be that
as it may, he was angry when he discovered someone had contradicted
his story and he demanded to know who had spoken against him. He
swore that what he said about the body going quietly into the water
and the strange man on the bridge was true.”

“You believe
him?”

“Yes, the man
stated he would be happy to swear to it in a court of law and it is
my belief that men of his ilk are wary of perjuring themselves. I
asked him to call by here this evening to repeat his story to you.
I warned him to be sober and I did not offer him a bribe. He agreed
to come around 7 o’clock.”

“Oh,
splendid,” she trilled. “I have invited everyone else for
eight.”

“Everyone
else?”

“Mrs Dicksen,
Sir Marmaduke, Miss Flyte, Mrs Ashkenazy, Monsieur van Brugge,
Reverend Finchley, Miss Carterett, Patch, Boz, Mr Thrypp, Dr
Pertwee, Inspector Bird, and I specifically requested he bring Mr
Corbie. I plan to reveal the murderer of Gin-Jim, the person who
has been killing the authoresses, and the person who murdered Mr
Panglossian.”

The doctor’s
mouth dropped open and he stared at her in a queer mixture of
credulity and incredulity, speechless, much as those who are
witness to a religious miracle and are rendered dumbstruck. Another
sherry downed in one gulp served to bring him back to the land of
the free-thinker.

“Are we
talking three murderers or two or one?”

“There is no
time to elaborate. Now, did you speak to the landlady in Scarcroft
Lane?”

“Yes, and you
were right. I don’t know how you do it. I suspect it might be
witchcraft. If only I believed in such supernatural guff. Anyway,
Robbie Redbeard had recently dropped hints about finding herself a
beau. She didn’t say who it was, just that he was a respectable
gent and a bit shy, and that was why she had not yet introduced him
to anyone. She went alone to Friargate Theatre as she often did but
she was planning to meet up with her secret beau later and bring
him home for supper. The landlady had laid out a tea table using
her best china in the front parlour and Robbie Redbeard had bought
two currant buns that same afternoon.”

The Countess
beamed blissfully at her counterpart. “You’re an absolute darling,
Dr Watson! That point about supper with her beau was never
mentioned by Inspector Bird. Yet it is extremely relevant. Robbie
Redbeard intended to meet someone on her way home from the theatre.
That person has never come forward. Why?”

“Because he
was too shy,” volunteered the doctor, feeling chuffed.

“No! Because
he was the one who threw her over the bridge! And it has to be the
same man who was timing himself. The action fits the crime. Did the
landlady say whether she told the police about the supper for two
when she first reported the missing person?”

“Yes, she said
she did. She also said she didn’t report the author’s disappearance
until the third day because she thought Robbie Redbeard was
spending time with her shy beau and she did not want to cause a
scandal or ruin things romantically for her favourite tenant, whom
she greatly admired. But after three days she grew increasingly
worried and went to the police station.”

“Yet the man
never came forward. Now if we can only get a wee bit of a
description from the bargeman we have our killer. And it stands to
reason that if he killed Robbie Redbeard then he killed the others.
I even have a motive.”

Her eyes
checked once more the parcel wrapped in brown paper that Xenia had
kept safe for her and which now sat on Mr Hiboux desk. She made a
mental note to take it upstairs to her bedroom before everyone
arrived.

At this point
Mr Hiboux entered with some steaming hot
bouillabaisse
smelling of the sea, thick crusty slices of bread and some fresh
country butter, and feeling ravenous, they settled down to eat
without even changing their clothes. Before the little man
disappeared back to the kitchen, the Countess informed him there
would be sixteen guests for supper. She affected her most
coquettish voice and asked if he would mind serving a small repast
at the end of the evening: bread, cheese, pate de foie gras,
rillette, terrine, pickled onions, slices of cold ham, and any
other provisions he had on hand. Naturally, she would reimburse him
generously for his trouble.

The bargeman
arrived a few minutes after seven, looking unduly nervous; his
beady eyes darting hither and thither like a rat about to be sprung
in a trap. Dr Watson noted the man had washed his filthy hands and
brushed the marsh mud off his boots as he led him into the
inglenook, served him a small glass of excellent sherry, and made
small talk until the glass had been drained and he was feeling more
at ease. The Countess then materialised draped in a gown of
burnished gold taffeta that rustled every time she made the
slightest move. The bargeman found the shimmery sound and the
shimmery colours mesmerizing and thought perhaps he had entered
some sort of shimmering dream.

“Good evening,
Mr…?”

“Smedley.” He
pulled himself upright as he said it.

Dispensing a
shimmering smile that had the hint of gold in it, she repeated the
name mellifluously. “Good evening, Mr Smedley, thank you for coming
at such short notice. I understand you have been telling my friend
about the man you saw on Skeldergate Bridge who appeared to be
timing himself.”

She paused,
allowing him to catch up and nod.

“Can you offer
a description of this man?”

The bargeman
coughed to clear his throat. “He was a big gent…”

“When you say
big do you mean tall or stout?”

“Tallish.”

“Was he also
stoutish?”

The bargeman
shrugged carelessly. “He was rugged up against the cold so it was
hard to tell. He could have had a few layers on that bulked him up.
I wouldn’t call him stoutish, though he weren’t skinnyish neither.
He looked well-fed, if you get my drift. He had a straight back, I
remember that. He weren’t stooped like a lot of the men who work
the river.”

“Tall and
well-fed and straight-backed,” she repeated, smiling encouragingly,
“Would you say he was an outdoors man?”

The bargeman
nodded readily. “Yes, an outdoors man, not a man who bends over
some books all day long.”

“How did he
walk?”

“He walked
across the bridge, stopped and checked his watch, then he went back
again across the bridge. He did that more than once. That’s why I
took notice, see. The first time I didn’t think nothing of it, see,
but when he did it a second time, I thought, aha, this cove up to
somethink?”

“I meant how
did his walk seem to you? How was his gait? Was it hurried? Was it
measured and slow? Was it done with short steps or long
strides?”

The bargeman
thought for a moment. “Well, it varied, see. He walked with a big
stride first up and then checked his watch and ran off in a big
hurry the same way he had come. But when he returned the second
time a short time later he seemed to be taking girly steps, like he
had somethink stuck up his bum, er, I mean, more measured and
careful, so it was both, see, first the one and then the
other.”

“Now, were
there any distinguishing features?”

“Not from what
I could tell from where I was standing on the jetty, see. He had
his coat collar pulled up and he had a thick muffler round his
neck. It hid half his face. His hair weren’t black, that I can tell
you, though I cannot say with the bad light for sure what colour it
was, see.”

The Countess
was well-satisfied with Mr Smedley’s description. She had provided
him ample opportunity to embellish all he liked but he had painted
the same vague picture he had done first time round. More
importantly, it was not so much how the man looked, but rather how
he did
not
look. She pulled some money out of a hidden
pocket in her gown and gave it into his hand. It jangled
richly.

“Thank you, Mr
Smedley, you have been most helpful, now, I don’t want you to leave
just yet. If you go into the kitchen and remain there until I call
for you I will be most grateful. Mr Hiboux, the proprietor of this
establishment, will serve you some excellent fish stew and my
servants will offer you a coffee and a cigarette or two.”

Dr Watson
waited until the bargeman disappeared. “Well, what do you
think?”

“A most
credible witness, the best sort, one who does not know what he has
witnessed and thus has no need to make things up. It will be
interesting to see his reaction when our guests are all gathered
together. I don’t want him to come out of the kitchen until the
end. Would you be so good as to let Fedir and Xenia know my wishes
and tell them they are to keep him occupied until such time as I
call for him?”

The
grandfather clock was chiming eight when through the back door came
Patch and Boz. They reported that ten panes of glass had now been
broken and that someone had thrown rotten tomatoes at the door of
the bookshop and someone else had pushed dog turd through the
letter slot. Magwitch had retreated to the trundle bed in the
kitchen in a state of nervous agitation and was sleeping with one
eye open. All the letters had been delivered.

The Countess
pressed some money on the boys for their efforts, which they were
reluctant at first to accept, thinking it wrong to profit from Mr
Corbie’s misfortune. Then she sent them back into the kitchen where
Xenia would feed them until such time as they would join the
others. She instructed them to sit on the stairs when it was time
to come in.

A few minutes
later, Miss Carterett arrived through the front door that led
directly into the poky parlour dotted with dozens of candles that
seemed to get swallowed up by the perennial darkness that lurked in
the nooks and crannies. There were puffy circles under her eyes and
her hair looked as if it hadn’t been brushed for days, merely swept
up haphazardly each morning using bobbing pins. Staying at the
Minerva was clearly taking its toll on the school mistress. The
violent death of her friend, Miss Titmarsh, and the fact she was
being stalked by a murderer probably didn’t help. She sank into a
chair by the gateleg table and absently nursed the glass of sherry
proffered by Dr Watson.

Miss Flyte
breezed in next, exuding youthful optimism and the scent of
violets. She chose a seat next to Miss Carterett, whom she had met
during her time at the Minerva, and rattled off whatever came into
her head, her starry eyes flitting to the door every few seconds in
the hope of seeing her new love interest arrive in the flesh;
sensually fingering her sherry glass in anticipation of the happy
event.

Reverend
Finchley slunk in unobtrusively. No one noticed him for a moment or
two. He appeared distrait and ill at ease as he folded himself into
a chair facing the fire and blinked at the flames. News of the
death of the publisher had hit him like a hammerblow. He viewed it
as another setback to getting his stories into print. He was in two
minds whether to revise them before resubmitting them or just burn
them all and have done with it.