The Penny Dreadful Curse

by Anna Lord

  The Countess nodded meditatively. “We can assume the killer chose the middle of the bridge because it meant he could throw her over the moment he strangled her. If it was night time and foggy she may not have seen him coming until he was quite near but even so she did not cry out. The boatman would have heard a cry and mentioned it, yet the fact he assumed it was suicide suggests he did not hear a cry for help. She was neither distressed nor alarmed. That indicates she either knew her killer or she felt no fear when he first appeared out of the fog. By the time he had his hands around her throat it was too late.”

  Dr Pertwee and Dr Watson began to examine the organs while the Countess turned to Inspector Bird. “You said she lived in Scarcroft Lane. Was she going from the east to the west bank or vice versa?”

  “She had been at the Friargate Theatre on the east bank which we passed by earlier on, so we can assume she was going back to her lodgings on the west bank the night she was killed.”

  “Ah, that suggests the killer may have followed her from the theatre and struck it lucky when she turned onto the bridge, or else he knew where she lived and lay in wait for her to cross the bridge. And that tells us the crime was not random but planned in advance. Please continue, Dr Pertwee.”

  “Mmm, yes, the victim was mid-thirties, in good health and had never borne children. In fact, she was a virgin.”

  “So, she was not out soliciting customers,” said the Countess dryly, thinking of the first victim. “There must have been other theatre goers crossing the bridge at the time yet no witnesses have come forward. Is that right, Inspector Bird?”

  “Not as yet,” he confirmed, “but the body was only discovered yesterday morning, and we only just found out she had been to the theatre yesterday afternoon, and we only just made the link to writers this morning and then to Panglossian Publishing after that. We can put a photo in the newspaper and see if anyone comes forward with new information. But as you said, she would have cried out if she had thought there was anyone to hear her.”

  The Countess continued. “Can we add photos of the other victims?”

  “The victims have all been buried. We could obtain photos from family members or from their possessions if you think it might help, but I am reluctant to go down that path. You must remember we did not find a link until today. We thought the first murder was a violent attack on a prostitute, the second and third mere accidents, and the fourth, an attack against a defenceless woman by a maniac. I hesitate about the photos because we have identified the bodies and to put photos in the papers now may cause a wave of panic. Five photos of lady writers who have been killed will cause alarm, especially as we cannot say with certainty the killer is targeting authoresses, so I hesitate to approve the photos.”

  “Mmm,” murmured the Countess, reluctantly agreeing with the inspector. “I wonder if it is significant that the fourth face was so badly disfigured. Was she someone the public would have readily recognized?”

  “It is possible,” replied the inspector. “She was well-known in theatre circles. She sang in music halls when she was younger.”

  Dr Watson cleared his throat with a dry cough. “Don’t forget the second and third faces were also disfigured. Either badly bruised and broken by the fall down some stone stairs or trampled by a horse. Identification would have been difficult if not impossible in those cases as well as the fourth.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” agreed the Countess.

  “As for the fifth,” Dr Watson continued. “The killer may have assumed the victim would not be discovered for some time. If the body went in at high tide, just on the turning, and the river was running fast, it is likely it would have been swept swiftly downstream, so bloated by the time it was found as to be impossible to recognize. The fact it got snagged and caught on the jetty was a matter of mere chance.”

  The Countess turned to Dr Pertwee. “Was the first victim struck from the front or from behind?”

  “Ah, again, the same line of questioning,” he muttered with a disapproving grimace. “The victim was struck pretty much on the top of the head but she must have been struck from behind because she fell forward.”

  “How do you know she fell forward?”

  Beetling brows drew down quizzically. “Well, when she was brought in here she had some bruising down the front of her body, on her face, breasts and arms, aside from the severe bruising caused by the kicks to her rib-cage, but no major crack to the back of her head that would have resulted from a fall onto the cobblestones in Grape Lane. The front of her dress was soiled, but the back was clean. The toes of her shoes were scuffed yet they were relatively new shoes, hardly worn, the soles hardly marked. There was no indication she had put her arms out to break her fall. The blow came unexpectedly and felled her in one like a nine pine.”

  “If she was hit from above and fell like a nine pin, should she have not just crumpled, and not fallen forward, I mean?”

  “Well, yes, but the killer must have delivered a quick nudge with the hammer in the lower back as the body crumpled. A bruise was found in the small of her back that must have been sustained around the same time as the attack because the colour of the bruise was consistent with the other bruising.”

  “Thank you, Dr Pertwee, you were most thorough in your examination. Sherlock Holmes could not have done a better job.”

  That was high praise indeed, delivered sincerely. Dr Pertwee looked down at his feet and gave an embarrassed cough or two, altering his initial negative opinion regarding the lady.

  “One other thing,” said the Countess, addressing herself to Dr Pertwee and not Inspector Bird, “were all of the victims young?”

  “No, the first was the youngest, mid-twenties, quite petite. The second was fifty-seven, thin and frail. The third, fourth and fifth victims were in their thirties.”

  The Countess studied the death certificates and surgeon’s reports while Dr Pertwee addressed himself to Dr Watson, pointing out the horrible bloating to the face and the general good health of the victim as indicated by the state of her nails, teeth, hair and her generous proportions. The two doctors soon found they had several medical colleagues in common from there time at St Barts and veered off the subject of death.

  Inspector Bird approached the Countess; his voice dropped to a lower tone. “You seem to have a knack for this sort of thing,” he observed without rancour. “Detective Inspector MacDuff did not fill me in on any details. I presumed you were a lady-friend of Dr Watson but I think now you may be a consulting detective too. There a few ladies starting up in the profession from what I hear and some of them are said to be quite good.”

  She took that as a compliment. “Dr Watson and I are travelling companions who have formed an enduring friendship. We seem to be picking up where Sherlock Holmes left off from necessity rather than desire. We are not yet consulting detectives but who knows what may happen in the future,” she mused hopefully. “But back to this present case. I suppose our next move is to interview Mr Panglossian. Is that what you think too?”

  “I am one step ahead of you. I went to Panglossian Publishing this morning to arrange an interview. That’s why I was late. Mr Panglossian’s personal secretary, a man by the name of Thrypp, said that Mr Panglossian travelled to London yesterday and he is not expecting him to return until tomorrow. He showed me Panglossian’s diary to confirm it but I will get one of my constables to telegraph to a police friend of his in London to check that what he said was true. I will know by this afternoon if that is the case. I think our next move will be to have some lunch and then I will show you the Museum Gardens and the Bootham Bar. There will be nothing significant to see as far as clues go but it will help you get your bearings.”

  “What about Grapecuntlane?”

  “Grape Lane,” he corrected with a tight smile. “It is not far from the Shambles. You can walk to it this evening from the Mousehole. Just make sure it is still light.”

  4

  Five Murders

  A carriage took them t
o the Museum Gardens where they strolled across the monastic park to where the fourth victim had been found in the shadows of the romantic ruins of St Mary’s Abbey Church. The gardens were indeed as peaceful as the inspector described them and the last place in York you would expect to be murdered.

  Straight after their walk they stopped for lunch at an inn near the Theatre Royal. During their meal they took the time to acquaint themselves with the names of the five victims and the manner of each death. The Countess was persistent about going over this again and again, slowly and methodically. Because they had actually started with the fifth victim and then bounced backward and forward, she felt it was important to form a clear picture in her mind of each victim and the circumstance of each death in chronological order.

  “Let me see if I have this right. The first murder was swift,” she summed up to the inspector as Dr Watson settled the bill. “The killer struck from behind. The victim did not see who wielded the weapon. It was over in a short space of time. It had all the hallmarks of a prostitute murder and since no one thought otherwise a photo was not circulated. The second victim was also attacked from behind, pushed in the back, her face bruised and broken by the stone stairs. The third victim was most likely pushed in the back as she waited to cross the road. The killer may have stood in the shadow of the arch and then shoved her in front of the horse and cart at the last moment. No call for panic since both looked like accidents. The fourth death was savage but no immediate identification was possible until a family member came forward to report a missing person. The fifth, as Dr Watson pointed out, was a possible slip up on the part of the killer, possibly due to becoming cocky. The killer thought the body would be impossible to identify and no link made to the previous four, but the victim was discovered earlier than the killer supposed.”

  “What does that tell us?” posed Dr Watson thoughtfully, leaving a generous tip for the waitress before rejoining the conversation.

  “It tells us the killer is getting more daring. The first three victims were struck from behind. The attacks were swift and spontaneous, possibly opportunistic, and also impersonal in execution. The fourth was savage in the extreme. The killer harbours a lot of rage and malice towards this victim. The fifth death was more personal. The killer stood front-on to the victim. Strangulation is highly personal, usually perpetrated by someone who knows the victim intimately, and it requires considerable strength. The murders are growing more personal, more brutal, and more confronting as they progress.”

  “You make it sound as if you are expecting a sixth?” said the inspector distastefully.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I was not thinking that far ahead,” he admitted ruefully. “I was concentrating on tracking down the killer. Therefore I was looking back rather than forward.”

  “Can you recount to me the names of the five victims once more, inspector? I have a notebook here in my little bag. I will write them down as you go. Start with number one and go in order, s’il vous plait.”

  “I have a list back at the police station, if you care to wait until tomorrow. It has the addresses of the victims on it as well.”

  She briefly considered his offer. “No,” she replied. “There is a bookshop across the way from the Mousehole. I would like to call in there before it closes its door this evening and purchase some penny dreadfuls. I would like to acquaint myself with the sorts of books the victims wrote sooner rather than later. Please proceed, and add the manner and place of death.”

  “Number 1 - Saskia Frubb – hammerblow to head - Grapecuntlane.

  Number 2 – Eva Gluckstein – fell down stairs – Bootham Bar.

  Number 3 – Fanny Gorley – trampled by horse and cart - Micklegate.

  Number 4 – Constance de la Mare – head bashed by masonry – Museum Garden.

  Number 5 – Roberta Redford – drowned – Skeldergate.”

  “Don’t you mean Redbeard?” said the Countess.

  “What?”

  “You just said Redford?”

  “Her real name was Roberta Redford but the landlady referred to her as Robbie Redbeard so that’s how I decided to refer to her too. The landlady said everyone called her by that name. Robbie Redbeard was the name she used in her writing.”

  “It was her pen name,” clarified Dr Watson.

  The inspector nodded. “The landlady put it differently but that’s what she meant. She said everyone who knew her called her Robbie Redbeard. She wrote pirate stories and it suited her to use that name. She liked her name to be recognized by shopkeepers and the like.”

  “It was her nom de plume,” added the Countess.

  “Yes! That’s the word the landlady used. Nom de plume!” The inspector stood up abruptly. “I must get back to the police station and follow-up if Mr Panglossian did actually travel to London. He is either a prime villain or a prime victim. I would like to speak to him as soon as practicable. I presume you would like to be in on the interview?”

  They both nodded.

  “I’ll let you know when it has been arranged. Thank you for lunch, Dr Watson. Good day to you, both,” he said, inclining his head.

  It was after the inspector left the inn that the Countess glanced down at her notes and frowned.

  “That’s odd,” she said.

  “What’s odd?”

  “Inspector Bird described the death of Robbie Redbeard as drowning yet I would have put it as strangulation.”

  Grapecuntlane was only two blocks away from the Museum Garden so they decided to walk, taking in Stonegate with its lovely shops along the way. The latter was a delightful place; the antithesis of their final destination for the day. Even in broad daylight Grapecuntlane was a narrow, cold, dark, sinister, sunless place, overshadowed by tall, windowless, brick walls. There were brick buttresses where prostitutes might shelter out of the wind, away from the police, and where killers might conceal themselves from prying eyes until they were ready to strike. The few people who ventured down it hurried as fast as they could as if in fear of their lives.

  Mr Corbie was about to extinguish the gasolier when he heard the bell above the door give a tinkle. “Good evening,” he said, smiling hopefully, recognising the man and woman from the previous night who had checked into the Mousehole Inne. “May I be of service?”

  The Countess’s glance swept over the dusty shelves and returned to the anaemic looking bookseller. “We are after some penny dreadfuls.”

  The hopeful smile on Mr Corbie’s lips died a swift death. “This way,” he said, leading them into the literary bowels. “I have all the latest issues. A new batch arrived just the other day. They are arranged in alphabetic order. Is there any author you are particularly interested in? Dick Lancelot? Baroness du Bois? Conan le Coq?” He gave slight shudder. “Or perhaps it is a particular genre that interests you? Vampires? Werewolves? Ghosts?” He gave another imperceptible shudder that had nothing to do with the supernatural. “Knights? Cavaliers? Corsairs? Witches and Wizards?”

  “I am interested in all of them?” trilled the Countess, turning to her companion. “Isn’t that right, Dr Watson,” she enunciated loudly for maximum effect. “I cannot get enough of them!”

  The smile immediately returned to the bookseller’s face. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you just say,” he paused and his voice quivered, “Dr Watson? Not the Dr John Watson? Not the famous chronicler of the adventures of Mr Sherlock Holmes? I am honoured, sir, to have you in my humble establishment.”

  The Countess gave her companion a timely nudge. “What book did you say you were you after, Dr Watson? Was it Baedeker?”

  “Yes, er, yes, that was it,” muttered Dr Watson, catching on, “Baedeker.”

  “Ah! Wissen offnet welten!” cooed Mr Corbie, making a little joke, as his dry husk of a heart found new life. “Knowledge opens worlds! This way, sir, follow me. I have all the English titles and some in French, German and Italian. I once stocked every Baedeker except for the 1866 Italien Zweiter Theil: Mittel Italien und
Rom. It mysteriously disappeared from the shelves never to be seen – it probably went travelling of its own accord! A little dry humour! Ha! Ha! Which travel guide were you after, Dr Watson? The Rhine is as popular as ever. Some marvellous illustrations in that one. And also the Ober-Italien range. The best maps – in my humble opinion. Here we are! Erleben und geneissen!”

  While the two men perused the B section at the front of the shop, the Countess checked out the penny dreadfuls at the back, and although they took up very little shelf space due to their thinness there turned out to be hundreds and hundreds of them. Going through them was going to require more time than she envisaged. What she would need to do first was ascertain which of the dreadfuls were published in York and which were published elsewhere. It was the York publications she was interested in. But ascertaining which was which was likely to take several hours. There was only one thing for it.

  “I will take them all,” she pronounced firmly when the bookseller came to check if she had made a selection and if her taste ran to the dreadfullest of them all.

  Stunned, he almost fell over and had to steady himself. “All?” he croaked.

  “All,” confirmed the Countess. “Please have them sent to the Mousehole Inne. Dr Watson and I are enjoying a brief sojourn in York and are staying just across the way. Monsieur Hiboux will tell you where it will be best to deposit them.” She turned to her companion. “Did you find the Baedeker you were after?”

  With his eyes he indicated the three books on the desk where a cat curled in the curve of the window. “Er, yes, I thought it best to read up on the Rhine, Corsica and Egypt before we plan our next sojourn.”

  She beamed her approval. “A splendid idea, Dr Watson! You are always thinking ahead. I am such a lucky lady to have found such a well organised travelling companion!” She turned to the bookseller. “I will pay for all the books. Will fifty pounds cover it?”