The Penny Dreadful Curse (34 page)

Mrs Henrietta
Dicksen and Sir Marmaduke arrived together a few minutes after the
deacon. The lady, dressed in dark grey wool, was offered a
comfortable wing chair to park herself in. She waved away the
sherry and declined all offers of refreshment. Sir Marmaduke chose
the seat nearest to Miss Flyte and immediately launched into the
lack of law and order in York. “Crikey, that’s what comes of
reading dreadfuls!” he asserted to the doe-eyed young lady.
“Murder, mayhem, and the natural order of things turned on its
dandy head, all because of penny dreadfuls. The lower classes are
not meant to read. They don’t have the moral capacity for dealing
with ideas.” He called for some red wine in a goblet. He didn’t
drink sherry. Sherry glasses were designed for poncey
foreigners.

Miss Flyte
hung on his every word and soon had him recounting stories of the
African savannah. Youth and beauty being what it is, the big game
hunter’s voice softened perceptibly each time he met the dewy gaze
of his late friend’s ex-mistress and no one who saw them that night
doubted it would be long before the pair of them was booked aboard
a steamer ship headed for the Dark Continent and the jumbo
adventure of a lifetime.

Mrs Ashkenazy,
looking resplendent in a black satin gown, arrived on the stylish
arm of Monsieur van Brugge, who was sporting a tan frock coat and a
jaunty silk cravat. Mrs Dicksen’s eyes immediately lit up at the
sight of the handsome, blond, Dutch painter with the goatee beard.
He appeared equally smitten and moved at once to enquire how she
was feeling, waiting only long enough for Mrs Ashkenazy to express
her condolences. Condolences were likewise relayed back to the
Jewess and those who did not know it quickly realized that the dark
lady was the daughter and sole beneficiary of the recently deceased
titan of publishing.

The arrival of
the Jewess seemed to stir the deacon out of his self-pitying
lethargy. He pulled himself up with dignity and a bold brave beam
shone between each blink. It was like looking at a lighthouse that
had suddenly been switched on. He immediately gave his seat over to
the lady in black and positioned himself behind her chair. In turn,
she looked up at him now and then with tender puzzlement, wondering
who he reminded her of.

It was twenty
minutes after eight when Mr Thrypp stepped through the door,
slightly breathless from running the gauntlet of rabble rousers who
had set up a picket line at both ends of the Shambles in
anticipation of the bookseller being released by the police. He
greeted all those he knew with a crisp how-do-you-do? A courteous
bow of his head was directed at those he was unacquainted with just
in case he needed to seek new employment in the near future. He
bowed low when expressing his sympathies to Mrs Ashkenazy and his
keen eyes lingered over Miss Flyte before he reasoned he had no
hope of competing with a baronet who was also a big game hunter. He
accepted a sherry and slipped into the inglenook which he appeared
to have all to himself.

Hot on the
heels of the indefatigable secretary came Dr Pertwee, looking
slightly irritated and put out by the last minute invitation. He
was dressed in tweeds and looked more like a country doctor than a
medical scientist. His rosacea had flared up since the Countess had
seen him last and it appeared to embarrass him. He kept his head
tucked down and after the briefest of introductions chose a chair
well away from the fire, positioned midway between the stairs and a
grandfather clock.

Inspector
Bird, having the good sense to arrive via the row at the rear, came
in through the kitchen door with a lifeless Mr Corbie in tow. There
was no need for handcuffs or a police guard. Mr Corbie had all the
animation of a straw man and looked as dangerous as last year’s
scarecrow. He hardly recognized the boys in the kitchen who leapt
up excitedly at the sight of him. He could barely remember their
names. He seemed dazed as he shed the large coat he had been made
to wear and peeled back the muffler that half hid his face. He
couldn’t understand what was happening. One minute some police had
arrived at the bookshop to search the premises, next they had found
some manuscripts in the dust bins out back. He had been arrested,
led past a mob hurling violent abuse at him, dumped in a police
cell, then hauled out again and dragged here to the Mousehole.

Gently, Mr
Hiboux led his old friend to the inglenook and pressed a glass of
sherry into his arthritic hand. Mr Corbie sipped it slowly as if it
might be poison. It had no bitter almond taste, no taste at all
really, and he swallowed it in one gulp, hoping this time that it
might be poison after all, and the nightmare called Life might soon
end.

The invitees
who had gathered in the poky parlour felt nervy and on edge. This
last week had claimed its pound of flesh in more ways than one. Six
dead authoresses, a boy strung up on a meat-hook, Mr Dicksen shot
by his own wife in a robbery gone horribly wrong, and the titan of
publishing, Mr Panglossian, murdered inside the safety of his own
inner sanctum. They had all read the missives sent by the Countess
and knew she meant to unmask the killer. Those who had been invited
by word of mouth had intuited as much. The atmosphere was funereal.
No amount of candlelight could dispel the gloom that clung to the
darksome air.

Inspector Bird
had chosen to position himself in the little alcove where Mr Hiboux
kept his desk. It was a private corner, a bit out of the way, but
he was not one for hogging the limelight, and because he was taller
than most he could keep an eye on all fifteen people at the same
time. Should anyone choose to flee, he would nab them. From the
corner of his policeman’s eye he could even see the two
Snickelwayers who had snuck in at the last moment and were now
perched on the rickety stairs. He wondered briefly what they were
doing there. It galled him that the Countess meant to show up the
police by unmasking the killer in some dramatic fashion. He did not
approve of unorthodox procedures and dramaturgy. Theatrical
denouements might work for penny dreadfuls but not in real life. As
far as he was concerned they already had the killer and this was
just a bit of play-acting for the sake of puffing-up female
vanity.

Dr Watson
stood by the wonky front door, one hand tucked casually into the
pocket of his tweed jacket, nervously fingering the trusty revolver
that was worth its weight in gold. His chest felt heavy and his
throat felt tight. He was having difficulty breathing and he didn’t
think it was due solely to the hot stagnant air inside the
Mousehole.

In the kitchen
sat Fedir and Xenia, the strong, stocky, loyal brother and sister
from the Steppe who would gladly give their lives for their
mistress - and had done so more than once. If anyone attempted to
flee out the back door, that person would be in for a rude
surprise.

On the
opposite side of the kitchen table sat the ratty man who smelled
like rotten fish, drank like a fish, smoked gold-tipped cigarettes
in front of the coal range and thought all his Christmases had come
at once.

Ye Olde
Mousehole Inne had never hosted such a strange crowd on such a
strange night, a night in mid-November with the fog closing in and
everyone on tenterhooks, fearing they were about to be strung up on
a hook in the Shambles any minute.

The Countess
skipped preliminaries so as not to prolong the suspense as she took
the floor and scanned the cirque of tragic souls.

“I will make
my case as quickly as possible and then leave it to others to
decide what to do. I believe we have been dealing with two separate
murders and thus have two separate murderers on our hands. Both
murders, however, are linked to Panglossian Publishing and the
secretive world of penny dreadfuls. I will deal with the death of
the boy known as Gin-Jim first since his death is the least
complicated, though not the least cruel or violent.”

“Three factors
are imperative in solving Gin-Jim’s murder: Timing, handedness and
literacy. I will take timing first. The murder occurred at first
light, a time when not many people are out and about. Yet we know
Mr Charles Dicksen was out walking at that time of the morning on
that particular day. According to his wife and verified by his
valet, Mr Dicksen had elected to walk from Gladhill to Panglossian
Publishing on Coppergate rather than taking his carriage. His walk
may have taken him several different ways across the city and one
of those ways is through the Shambles. His arrival at the residence
of Miss Flyte, who lives on the Pavement directly at the end of the
Shambles, has been confirmed. He arrived as dawn was breaking. His
proximity to the Shambles at the time the boy was killed is
therefore striking.”

The Countess
allowed the first fact to settle before moving on. Miss Flyte
dropped her gaze and blushed furiously. Sir Marmaduke shifted
uncomfortably. Mrs Dicksen sat in dignified silence, listening
intently, the long-suffering look in her eyes gradually
diminishing.

“The second
point is handedness,” continued the Countess. “The boy who was
strung up on a meat-hook was hoisted up by the scruff of the neck
by a person using one hand - the right hand. Of course there are
thousands of right-handed people in York. In this very room the
majority of people are right-handed. I, myself, am right-handed.
Right-handedness on its own is not a mitigating factor, merely an
additional one. Mr Charles Dicksen was right-handed.”

She heard some
dissenting chatter and knew she was drawing a long bow. Mrs Dicksen
urged her on with her eyes.

“Let me
proceed to the third factor: literacy. If you will hear me out, the
long bow I draw may shorten. I thank you for your patience. A young
boy was killed in the early hours in the Shambles by a right-handed
person. To ram the boy’s skull onto a meat-hook suggests momentary
insanity. Who would do such a violent thing? Should we be looking
for a madman who goes about robbing boys in the early hours? If so,
why have there been no other similar robberies and violent deaths?
None before this one and none after. Is the robber of the boy a new
type of criminal – a murderous maniac who takes pleasure in
inflicting horrible pain as he robs his young victims of some
trifle? For, yes, we know the boy was robbed. He was carrying a
parcel from Panglossian to Gladhill. He did this regularly each
month, always in the early hours. He had been instructed by Mr
Panglossian’s secretary, the efficient Mr Thrypp, to enter the
publishing house via the green door in the work yard, left unlocked
by the night-watchman, climb the stairs and take the parcel wrapped
in brown paper from the desk in the outer office. The boy was
illiterate. He could not read but he knew which parcel to take
because on it was written ‘Gladhill’ in large black letters. He
recognized that word the way children recognize their name long
before they learn to read and write. Why would a successful
publisher choose an illiterate boy to deliver on a monthly basis a
parcel to his most famous writer? This puzzled me. It bothered Mr
Thrypp. It only makes sense if it is important that the boy not be
able to read whatever may be in the parcel. But again, why?”

She paused to
gauge if her audience was keeping up. They appeared to be riveted
so she continued without further ado.

“The question
of why was answered by Reverend Finchley when he confessed he
believed the manuscripts he was submitting for publication under
the name of Baron Brasenose were being reworked and then published
under the name of Dick Lancelot. Dick Lancelot was the nom de plume
for Mr Charles Dicksen. After a search of Mr Dicksen’s study, where
two recent rejections belonging to the deacon were found, it became
obvious that Mr Panglossian was sending the rejected penny dreadful
manuscripts submitted by Baron Brasenose to Gladhill.”

Mrs Dicksen
smiled knowingly and looked at her cousin, whose body appeared to
have grown taller and his back straighter.

“However,”
continued the Countess, “as even the best laid plans inevitably go
awry, so did this simple plan unravel when, unbeknown to either Mr
Panglossian or Mr Dicksen, their little courier became literate.
Moreover, he became interested in the penny dreadfuls of Dick
Lancelot. This point becomes important when we learn the illiterate
courier had one other job at Panglossian Publishing. It was his
task to take the rejected manuscripts and put them on a bonfire in
the work yard. However, after he learned to read he decided to
steal one or two or more of the rejections for his own reading
pleasure. What harm could it do? The stories were earmarked for
burning. Tragically, the manuscript he stole the day he was killed
was written by Baron Brasenose – a manuscript that for reasons
unknown to us had not been selected for delivery to Gladhill. All
that is fact - the remainder I admit is conjecture.”

Once more, the
Countess drew breath and gazed around the parlour. By now her
audience was hanging off her every word. Most sat with bated
breath, surprised and yet not, waiting for the inevitable
conclusion.

“I summarise
the events thus: The boy called Gin-Jim bumped into Mr Dicksen in
the Shambles, his usual parcel in his arms, along with the stolen
manuscript he intended to keep for himself. Mr Dicksen recognized
the parcel meant for him. He may even have engaged the boy in
pleasant banter, intending to claim his property then and there,
quite legitimately. But as fate would have it he also recognized
the unwrapped manuscript and his shock would have been significant.
He may have assumed the boy already knew his secret, or else he
could foresee the day when the boy might. His secret being not only
that he wrote cheap penny dreadfuls but that he reworked the
stories submitted by an anonymous author who had had all his
submissions rejected time and time again. The damage to his
reputation would have been catastrophic. The extreme violence
inflicted on the boy thus appears not the violent over-reaction of
a lunatic but the understandable reaction of a man terrified of
exposure, his reputation, his fame, his career, his life shortly to
be ruined. We will never know what passed between Mr Dicksen and
the little courier, but we do know the boy clutched in his hand a
scrap of paper with the initials BB written exactly as Baron
Brasenose always wrote in the top left-hand corner of his work. The
boy clung to this precious scrap of paper even as he was strung up
on the meat-hook. We also know Mr Dicksen arrived at the lodging of
Miss Flyte with a parcel wrapped in brown paper on which was
written Gladhill and a manuscript with no wrapping, both of them
written using green ink on the same paper Baron Brasenose used.
There can be little doubt that Mr Dicksen killed the boy and took
possession of the two parcels.”