by Anna Lord
He gulped back the last of his coffee and almost gagged. “No!” he said emphatically. “No!” he repeated firmly. And then again a third time, “No!”
“So that’s a no!” she laughed lightly.
Good heavens! One more thing to fret about as far as he was concerned! Until he had confirmation from Mycroft Holmes he would need to remain alert lest she go blurting out her so-called secret to all and sundry. Sherlock had once accused him of being too trusting - it wouldn’t do to betray his friend at this late stage of the game. And he had never quite taken to That Woman the way Sherlock had. What did Sherlock ever see in that femme fatale? To him she had been no more than a self-styled diva, a courtesan of dubious beauty and frightful vanity. The Countess was far more beautiful, naturally beautiful, sans artifice, requiring no maquillage to enhance her features, although, he had to admit she was just as vain. Perhaps she was her father’s and her mother’s daughter after all – vanity à deux!
But he had been a keen student of human nature most of his life and time and again it had been the unashamedly self-confident who had succeeded where others had failed. They possessed unshakable self-belief and this propelled them to victory, gave them strength, urged them to keep trying long after others had given up - their indomitable spirit did not allow them to entertain notions of self-doubt. On the sports field, on the battlefield, in business, in parliament, in every sphere of life, even crime solving, it was the arrogantly self-assured who won the day. Sherlock was living proof of that.
And he had to admit, albeit ruefully and reluctantly, he did enjoy the Countess’s company, her conversation, her charm, her vivacity, her spirit, her vaingloriousness! She had breezed into his life like a breath of fresh air he didn’t even know he needed. And working with her was easier than working with his old friend. She teased, but did not make him feel quite so stupid when things did not pan out the way he expected. Sharing his innermost thoughts had also been a surprisingly easy thing to do too, almost on a par with his dear Mary.
But the constant need for secrecy was taking its toll on his equanimity and probably his health too. That would account for the tight chest and nagging cough that refused to abate.
“You will have to win his trust some other way,” he said sternly.
“That won’t be easy. I’m a woman for a start. And a foreigner. And an aristocrat as well. Oh, and I don’t write detective novels either!”
3
Inspector Bird
Breakfast was an unexpected treat. Miss Titmarsh arrived early, spoiling them for choice, right down to a selection of scented teas, while Mr Hiboux lived up to his culinary promise serving fried eggs, York ham, pork sausages and three types of mushrooms.
They took up positions in the inglenook while they waited for Inspector Bird. Neither said anything but they hoped it was not a precursor to a lack of punctuality. He was very apologetic when he finally arrived twenty minutes late dressed in plain clothes, as was the custom for men of the Detective Branch.
“We’ll walk to the river so you can see where the body was dragged up. We could take a carriage but if we walk you’ll get your bearings quicker for when I won’t be around to guide you. I’m a fast walker so just give a hoy if you want me to slow down. I see you have both rugged up sensibly in warm coats and that umbrella may come in handy for later.”
He led them to the south end of the shambolic lane where the shortest street with the longest name, Whip-ma-whop-ma, ran off at a tangent near the uninspiring parish hall of St Crux squatting on the corner. They turned right at the Pavement which led them into Coppergate, a sinuous avenue show-casing York architecture at its charming best. A short time later they paused to catch their breath outside a grand Georgian building with an impressive doorway surmounted by an ornate architectural pediment. A polished brass plate read: Panglossian Publishing House, and in smaller font underneath: Mr Merlin Panglossian – publisher of penny dreadfuls and literary pamphlets, est. 1889.
“There must be good money in publishing dreadfuls,” observed Dr Watson, admiring the proud Georgian edifice.
“Oh, yes,” confirmed the inspector. “People cannot get enough of them.”
“I thought most penny dreadfuls were published in the Seven Dials district of London?” commented the Countess.
“Penny Bloods were certainly published there and it may still be the case that the majority of dreadfuls are too,” replied the inspector, “but there is a large newsprinting manufactory on the west bank of the Ouse. We get the paper straight from the port in Hull. It travels up-river on barges. There are three main industries in York: railway engineering, chocolate making and newspaper printing. The dreadfuls are printed on cheap newsprint so it makes sense to publish them here in the city.”
Inspector Bird continued west along Coppergate. “There are lots of small publishers in York but Panglossian is the biggest and most successful. Mr Panglossian has the largest stable of authors and the most popular titles. He set up shop here ten years ago and has been going from strength to strength ever since. He buys out any competitors who look like they might prove a threat. Last year he bought out three smaller publishers and a fourth mysteriously burnt down.”
“Arson?” said the doctor.
“Nothing was proved,” returned the inspector matter-of-factly.
They picked up their pace and walked briskly without speaking to conserve their breaths and soon reached a river neither as large nor as filthy as the Thames. Nevertheless, it was a broad, busy stretch of water with barges end to end packed with cargo travelling upstream and down. Both banks were punctuated with jetties, docks, warehouses, and that large newsprinting manufactory a little further along, where red-brick chimneys dominated the skyline. A few clipper ships, including some tall triple-masted vessels, were moored at the larger piers. The wind coming off the water was colder and more blustery than in the lee of Coppergate so they adjusted their scarves and hats accordingly.
“We are standing on the eastern side of the Ouse,” explained the inspector, “and this here construction is the Ouse Bridge. A little further downstream where the mist is clearing and the sun breaking through the murk you can make out Skeldergate Bridge. It’s a popular spot for suicides. The body of Robbie Redbeard was washed up just beyond Skeldergate at a small jetty.”
“Could the death of Robbie Redbeard have been suicide?” pressed the doctor, looking from the magnificently constructed, triple-arched, stone bridge that spanned the river where they were standing to the plain iron bridge glinting in the metallic light of a cold grey morning a short distance downstream.
The inspector shook his head firmly then leaned into the wind and followed the embankment south for a goodly length. When he finally stopped to allow them to catch their breath once more he pointed to a huge castle-like structure built on the top of what must have been a man-made hill with perfectly level grassy verges.
“That’s Clifford’s Tower,” he said. “It was originally part of York Castle and built on a defensive motte, it looks round but it’s actually quatrefoil. You asked about suicide, Dr Watson. That’s what everyone thought when the body was first dragged up yesterday morning but it soon became clear the victim had been strangled before going into the water. There were nasty purple bruises around the neck. You’ll see what I mean when we get to the morgue. The body had been in the water about three days before it snagged on some flotsam and got stuck under the jetty.”
“When did you discover the identity of the victim?” asked the Countess.
“When someone came to the police station to report a missing person,” replied the inspector. “It was just a few hours after the body had been dragged up. It turns out that Robbie Redbeard lived in a boarding house on Scarcroft Lane. The lady who ran the lodgement came to report a missing lodger. She identified the body and told us that Robbie Redbeard was a writer of penny dreadfuls who wrote without fail every day but had been unaccountably absent for the last three days. After we had that bit of information
we checked back on the other four recent deaths and this morning we realised we had five dead writers on our hands who all wrote dreadfuls.”
“That’s why we stopped outside Panglossian just now?” surmised the Countess.
Inspector Bird nodded and walked on.
“Were the other four writers also strangled?” quizzed the Countess, catching up to the inspector.
“No,” he said, slowing down. “The first was bashed with a hammer of some sort, most likely a stone mason’s hammer. The weapon was never recovered. The top of the skull cracked like an egg. Death would have happened straight off but the killer then kicked the victim where they lay on the ground and broke most of the ribs. It being so brutal made me think he might be a madman like the Ripper. The victim was found in Grapecuntlane. Most folks prefer to call it Grape Lane now. Grape used to mean grope, if you get my drift. That’s why I thought of the Ripper. The laneway is a shortcut from Swinegate to Low Petergate. It’s a dark place and a few desperate girls tout their wares there after sunset.”
“You thought the first victim was a prostitute?”
“Yes.”
“And you thought the killer was man. You said he?”
“It could hardly have been a woman,” he asserted. “I refuse to believe a woman could be so violent. Besides, the hammer struck the crown of the head full on. It suggests the killer was taller than the victim – unless the victim was sat in the gutter. It would have taken a fair whack to crack through the thick bone of a skull and a fair bit of brazenness too because the laneway is short. A passer-by might have chanced upon the killer in the act.”
“Could you tell if the victim was struck from the front or from behind?” asked the Countess.
“I never thought to ask that question. I don’t know that it makes much difference. You can ask the police surgeon when we get to the morgue.”
“What about the second death?” asked the doctor, panting heavily, as the path widened and they began to walk three abreast.
“Found with a broken neck at the base of the stairs at Bootham Bar. It’s a popular spot for tourists who like to promenade around the old walls of the city. The stones were wet and slippery after a spell of rain. It looked like an accident. We didn’t think it was murder, not even after the third death was brought to our attention.”
“The third happened where?” wheezed the doctor.
“Micklegate. The body was trampled to death by a cart-horse directly under the stone arch. It’s a busy thoroughfare day and night. We concluded it to be an accident. You’d be surprised how many deaths are caused by horse and cart or such like. People not looking and always in a hurry to cross the road, thinking they can beat the horse.”
“And number four?” pursued the Countess.
“Found in the Museum Gardens by a one of the gardeners. Nicest spot in York if you ask me. The abbey ruins are there and that’s where they have the Mystery Pageant Plays. Saint Mary’s Abbey is long gone but what’s left of the old walls is lovely. The King’s Manor is there too. It is ten acres of greenery that slopes down to the river, a very peaceful place. The victim left St Olave’s church after late night choral practice and was crossing the park, heading toward the Theatre Royal, when someone waylaid her and bashed her head in. And not just the once. This one kept bashing until there was nothing left. It was savage. The gardener who spotted it first thought some wild animals might have gnawed at the face. It was beaten to a pulp. We found some bloodied masonry in the shrubbery. We reckon the killer used a chunk of fallen masonry to bash the victim to death and then just tossed it into the bushes before fleeing.”
The Countess was already thinking ahead. “Were all five authors with Panglossian Publishing?”
“Yes,” said the inspector. “All five of them, but it’s like saying all five lived in York. We have a lot of writers living in the city because of the convenience of delivering manuscripts to publishing houses. Is someone out murdering the authors of penny dreadfuls by design or is someone out to ruin Mr Panglossian? Or is a madman murdering people at random and since we have a lot of authors hereabouts it is authors who are the victims? I want to get to the bottom of these murders before panic sets in and I sure appreciate you and Dr Watson taking the time to come here to offer assistance. Detective Inspector MacDuff of the Yard sang your praises. And of course I have read all of the Sherlock Holmes stories several times and I am proud and honoured, yes, I am honoured and proud, to be in the company of a famous author and a consulting detective of such high renown such as yourself, Dr Watson.”
The inspector drew breath and gazed adoringly at his hero as he stroked his whiskers.
Dr Watson pulled his coat collar higher to hide the flush of his neck. “Ah! Is this Skeldergate Bridge already?”
The inspector diverted his gaze. “Yes, and you can see the jetty from here. A bargeman found the body wedged between the wooden piers, caught up in some old nets and the usual rubbish found floating in the river. Tide was low. He sleeps on his barge and heard a loud splash three nights back and thought someone was leaping from the bridge. He’d heard that same sound countless times over the years and knew it well. There was a lot of fog that night, a real pea-souper, and he couldn’t see a thing, but he heard the splash all right. Turns out he was right about the body going into the water but wrong about it being suicide.”
The Ouse met the Fosse a little further along and the ground was marshy. It was not worth muddying their boots and clothes while the tide was so high. They hailed a carriage instead. The regular morgue was being fitted with electric lights so a makeshift morgue had been set up near the York Brewery by Toft Green. Micklegate was en route so they would be able to see with their own eyes how busy it was. The carriage followed Nunnery Lane which ran outside the city walls and passed right under Micklegate, one of the original medieval gateways into York. They turned sharp left, by-passed the brewery, and stopped outside a small brick building which had once been a tannery. Thus far the morning had been instructive and Inspector Bird had proven he had a good eye for detail, a clear head for thinking and a plain way of speaking.
Dr Pertwee, wearing a white dust-coat, which he chose to leave unbuttoned, was an expert in toxicology and a surgeon with thirty years of cadaver experience. His bible of choice was A Manual of Medical Jurisprudence and he lived by the adage that ‘a medical man should take note of all things’. He had steady surgeon’s hands with long, capable, elegant fingers and keen brown eyes magnified by horn-rimmed spectacles. He suffered from rosacea which caused his nose and neck to be disfigured by reddish patches. He was equally thrilled to meet Dr Watson as Inspector Bird had been and shook his hand profusely. Upon being informed by the inspector that all five victims had been authors of penny dreadfuls he nodded sagely.
“Murder is always a shocking business, but randomness somehow neutralizes the shock. When we find a link between the victims it removes the veneer of neutrality and it pains us at first, but it is of course a stepping stone, the first step to finding the killer. And that’s our business. Shall I retrieve the body for you?”
He disappeared for a moment then came back wheeling a trolley covered with a greyish bed-sheet, discoloured from years of over-washing. He whipped off the sheet and gazed proudly at the cadaver, from which the major organs had been surgically removed before being measured, weighed and examined.
“It’s a woman!” exclaimed the Countess.
“Yes,” said Dr Pertwee. “You sound surprised.”
“I assumed from the name, Robbie Redbeard, that it might be a man, that’s all.”
“I hope you are not prejudiced regarding such matters,” said Inspector Bird.
“Of course, not,” she returned defensively.
“I hope you are not squeamish,” added Dr Pertwee, frowning. “There’s a chamber next door where you can wait if you feel faint. My assistant can make you a cup of tea if you feel unwell.”
“I feel fine,” she assured. “I was merely expressing surprise not
squeamishness, and I have an open mind regarding matters of murder and death and the sex of.”
Dr Pertwee appeared unconvinced. He raised his brows and aimed a dubious glance at the other two men before reluctantly pressing on. “You can see the ligature marks around the neck. She was strangled by a strong brute before being thrown from -”
“Was she attacked from behind or did her attacker grab her throat from the front?” intervened the Countess, anxious to prove herself capable of clear-thinking.
“Is that relevant?” said Dr Pertwee, annoyed at being interrupted.
“I might be,” replied the Countess, kicking herself for cutting him off like that, she had got off to a bad start and had now made it worse. “I apologise for interrupting but I find it difficult to accept the five victims were chosen at random. I believe the fact they were all authoresses is significant and the fact they were all with Panglossian Publishing even more so. Was this victim being stalked and did her killer attack from behind or did he somehow get her to turn around first, perhaps by engaging her in conversation? Or did he wait for her to appear on the bridge, step in front of her, and simply grab her by the throat? Whatever the case, he must have selected her at some earlier time and he must have known she was going to cross the bridge. Again, if he approached her from the front then he must have been waiting for her to cross the bridge and he must have known she would go that way. If he engaged her in conversation then he must have given the impression of being someone she would stop and talk to on a foggy night without becoming alarmed. Knowing the answers to the question I posed may help us paint a picture of the sort of killer we are dealing with. Medical evidence is not merely useful for establishing method but might also prove useful in determining character.”
“Well,” muttered Dr Pertwee, bamboozled by her convoluted reasoning but liking the conclusion she had drawn, “she was strangled, as all the strangulation victims I have ever come across, from the front. In other words, she was facing her killer at the time.”