The Penny Dreadful Curse

by Anna Lord

  The inspector’s scowl cleared to a smile when the doctor recounted what they had learned about the publisher’s personal touch concerning his stable of authors. He stroked his magnificent whiskers as he pondered the possibility of forcing the publisher to hand over a list of names. He agreed with the doctor that such a list existed and probably had the real names as well as the pen names on it. The publisher was trying to fob them off.

  “What about the murder of the boy this morning?” probed the Countess, changing the subject and thinking about the missing parcel the boy was carrying. “Did any information come to light about why the boy was so brutally killed?”

  “None at all,” said the inspector. “But I have enough on my plate with the five dreadful murders, I mean, the five dreadfuls murders. I daresay the boy’s killer will never be found. Such random acts of senseless violence are the hardest of all to solve.”

  “The boy was carrying a parcel from Panglossian to Gladhill,” expounded the Countess. “It was a chapter from Mr Dicksen’s current novel. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Has something like that been handed in at the police station?”

  The inspector shook his head. “Not to my knowledge but I will keep a lookout for it. I doubt it will turn up. The killer probably thought the boy had something valuable but it turned out to be worthless sheets of paper. It’s most likely at the bottom of the river.” He turned to the doctor. “Did you have a chance to speak to the police surgeon about the death of the boy?”

  “Yes, Dr Pertwee confirmed what we surmised at the scene. The boy was lifted off his feet by the scruff of the neck by someone using one hand, the right hand, and then had his neck rammed onto the hook. It was swift and brutal. There was no struggle. The boy did not attempt to fend off his attacker. He would have died instantly.”

  “A sad end,” said the inspector, “but I don’t see how it can be related to the five murders we are investigating even if the boy was carrying a package from Panglossian to Gladhill. Mr Dicksen does not write dreadfuls. We cannot allow ourselves to be distracted. Tomorrow I intend to return to the five murder scenes and interview any prospective witnesses such as shopkeepers, hawkers, gardeners, cabbies, and so forth. Would you care to come with me? Your expertise may prove invaluable?”

  The Countess got the distinct impression the invitation was directed at Dr Watson and not at the two of them. She decided to do the tactful thing. “You go along. I feel the need for some penitence. I will drop in on Reverend Finchley at the Holy Trinity Church.”

  “I didn’t realize you were Catholic,” said the doctor, sounding surprised and yet not – there was so much he did not know about the young woman who claimed to be the daughter of his best friend. They had been travelling together less than two months and were already on their third case. He had hardly drawn breath since the night they met.

  “Ukrainian Orthodox to be precise, but all gods spring from the same pagan myth. I am hoping a father confessor may know the names of some of York’s secret authors.”

  “A priest will never divulge a confidence from the confessional.”

  “A deacon is not a priest. But who knows! Reverend Finchley may turn out to be an author himself and perhaps know other authors through personal dealings with his publisher which may even be Panglossian. He seemed to be on very friendly terms with Miss Flyte. I daresay he befriends cockle shells rather than cauliflowers or cabbages.”

  “You’ve lost me,” said the inspector, looking puzzled.

  “Never mind,” snorted Dr Watson. “She often speaks in riddles. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Let’s start early. Say eight o’clock.”

  Holy Trinity Church was everything York Minster was not: small and obscure, tucked into a quiet leafy garden of no great worth, a forgotten little gem, unpolished, lacklustrous, devoid of dazzlement and wondrousness.

  The Countess did not expect to find anyone inside the church at that hour of the morning. She merely thought it might be a good idea to observe the interior for herself prior to searching out the deacon and making a generous donation to the poor box. But there was a lady in one of the box pews, sitting in quiet contemplation, head unbowed, hands clasped in her lap. She was not particularly young or beautiful but she had an air of serenity about her that imbued her with a sense of divine grace. Her garments and accoutrements were of good quality, marking her out as a lady of comfortable means rather than great wealth.

  The two women acknowledged each other’s presence without the need for words. The Countess moved along, understanding that box pews were designed not merely to keep out draughts but for privacy. She studied the stunning stained-glass window on the eastern side where the sun came in and turned the forgotten gem into a glittering jewel box. When she turned back to see if the lady was still in the box pew, she noted that Reverend Finchley had come in through the vestry and was collecting the hymn books from matins. He finished collecting the books, whispered something to the lady then came across to her.

  “Good morning, Countess Volodymyrovna. Did you enjoy the reading last night?”

  “Yes, it was a grand show. Mr Dicksen is a charismatic speaker.”

  Overhearing this, the lady smiled wryly to herself and emerged from the privacy of her box, moving carefully, almost awkwardly. Reverend Finchley immediately turned back to assist her to come forward and it soon became clear she was heavy with child, seven months or more gone.

  “Let me introduce Mrs Dicksen,” he said, presenting her to the Countess.

  “Mrs Charles Dicksen?” the Countess clarified.

  “Mrs Henrietta Dicksen,” the lady confirmed with a nod of her head. “I believe you will be dining with us at Gladhill this evening, along with your companion, Dr Watson. My husband was thrilled to meet you yesterday at Panglossian’s and his footman is delivering an invitation to the Mousehole Inne as we speak. I hope you do not have a prior engagement. My husband does not take kindly to having his dinner invitations declined.”

  “I believe we are free this evening, and it would be a pleasure to accept your invitation to dine at Gladhill, unless, of course, Dr Watson has made alternative plans in the meantime of which I am unaware.”

  “Oh, I sincerely hope you can come,” interposed the deacon. “I received my invitation half an hour ago and was I looking forward to an interesting evening.” He turned to Mrs Dicksen and spoke casually, signalling they knew each other well and had moved beyond formal address. “Do you know who else will be coming?”

  “I believe my husband will be inviting Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse.”

  “Not that old bore! What about Panglossian?” he said somewhat eagerly.

  The lady arched her elegantly pencilled brows and gave the deacon a meaningful look. “You know very well he cannot stand the man. He hates publishers and Jews in equal measure. And it means we cannot serve roast pork with crackling.”

  “What about you-know-who?”

  Mrs Dicksen straightened her sagging shoulders with a dignified yet long-suffering sigh. “He does keep threatening me. One day he will actually bring her to the house and flaunt her in my face, embarrassing the poor girl no end.” She turned to the Countess, her voice was surprisingly neutral. “I believe you met Miss Isabel Flyte last night? Quite young and lovely, isn’t she?”

  This was the sort of conversation that could easily blow up in everyone’s face rather suddenly. “Yes, quite. She seemed anxious not to arrive late.”

  “Oh, she wouldn’t dare! He would immediately throw her over for some new slip of a thing from the Minerva. That’s where he met the poor girl and where he will pick up the next one when he becomes bored or when she falls with child, whichever comes first. The Minerva is a godsend for that sort of philanthropy.” Mrs Dicksen sighed heavily, looked down at her great belly then turned to the deacon. “How are her reading and writing lessons coming along?”

  “Miss Flyte is making good progress with her reading but the writing is proving rather painful. Being left-handed doesn’t
help. Smudges galore! Her elocution is rather splendid though. I am very proud of the results there.”

  “The girl has an excellent teacher,” praised Mrs Dicksen most sincerely. “Well, I must be off. It was a pleasure to meet you, Countess Volodymyrovna. Please do try and make it to Gladhill this evening otherwise my husband will be in a foul mood all night. Oh, and if you would be so good as not to let on that we met today I would appreciate it very much. My husband is very tiresome about me going out in public with this huge bump - parading – that’s the word he uses to describe it. If it were up to him all women with child would be confined for nine months to some sort of hospice or penitentiary. Good-bye, Reverend Finchley. I will endeavour to follow-up on the matter we discussed earlier.”

  As soon as the Countess was alone with the deacon she reached into her reticule and pulled out some money.

  “Please accept this donation for the poor box, Reverend Finchley, and please don’t make a fuss about how generous I am. I can well afford to be and the praise is apt to go to my head. Oh, dear, I think Mrs Dicksen’s forthrightness may be contagious. Not that that is necessarily a bad thing. I liked her in an instant. I think she would make a loyal and steadfast friend. You seem to be on quite good terms, I noticed.”

  It was a leading question but the deacon did not flinch.

  “Mrs Henrietta Dicksen and I are distant cousins. We have been friends since childhood.”

  “Shall we walk in the garden, Reverend Finchley? There is a rare burst of November sunshine. Her marriage appears to be a difficult one?”

  “This is her tenth pregnancy. She is forty years old. Dicksen blames her. It makes a mockery of the term: immaculate conception.”

  “Surely his adultery cannot be a secret to anyone. Why doesn’t she seek a divorce?”

  “She has threatened it and he has threatened her in return. He will do all in his power to have her committed to a lunatic asylum and he will ensure she never sees her children again. He will win. Fame will guarantee it and his reputation will not suffer one jot.”

  Autumn leaves crunched underfoot, which the Countess’s fur-trimmed cape collected and swept along the path until such time as they became caught up in clumps of waxy leafed Lenten roses, drooping bloomless for now. A lacklustre sun penetrated the bare branches of a straggly tree scattering a tracery of thin shadows across the leafy carpet.

  “I suppose marriage grants him respectability no matter how abominably he behaves.”

  “A divorce would interfere with his writing too. He keeps himself to a tight schedule and does not like anything to disrupt it. The household staff tiptoes around on eggshells so as not to disturb his concentration and woe to the child who makes a noise or the babe who cries. I liken Gladhill to a convent where the nuns and novices have taken vows of silence and only the Archimandrite speaks. He takes no pleasure in his children. They are merely by-products of his authority and proof of his masculinity.”

  The Countess was beginning to dislike Mr Charles Dicksen and had to fight hard against allowing herself to be swayed by her emotions, recalling what had happened in Devon. She had put lives in danger, including her own, and almost thwarted any chance of unmasking the killer. Fortunately, she never made the same mistake twice. The deacon had provided her with the opening she needed to raise the topic foremost on her mind.

  “Are you also a writer, Reverend Finchley?”

  He blinked incessantly, but since it was a habitual action she could draw no inference from it, neither nervousness nor telling a falsehood.

  “I have written the odd sermon or two for special holy days such as Lent or Assumption when Father Chetwynd has been kind enough to invite me to say a few words to the congregation.”

  “I meant something more creative.”

  He blinked and blushed. “I have written a couple of poems for The Bellringers Quarterly and I once penned a carol for the Christmas concert that was well received.”

  “You have not been tempted to write a penny dreadful? It seems quite a popular pastime in York with so many publishers on hand in the city,” she observed nonchalantly.

  “I do not doubt it is a worthy pastime but not for me. I am quite busy as it is.”

  “Do you personally know of any authors of penny dreadfuls? I ask because Dr Watson and I are assisting Inspector Bird with the recent spate of murders. The five victims, as you probably heard, were all authoresses of penny dreadfuls. And I feel whoever is murdering them will not stop at five. I fear a sixth murder will happen very soon.”

  They had made a full circuit of the small garden and had returned to the door of the church. He turned his face full to the sun and blinked some more.

  “Oh, yes, I see, well, it is difficult to give you an answer without breaking a confidence. If an author or authoress chooses to use a nom de plume one assumes they do not want the public to know who they are. I cannot in all conscience give you any names. I would advise you to visit the various publishers of penny dreadfuls and speak to them.”

  “All the authoresses who were killed were with Panglossian. Dr Watson and I visited the Panglossian Publishing House on Coppergate yesterday. Mr Panglossian was very polite but unforthcoming. That’s where we met Mr Dicksen. Panglossian is his publisher too.”

  “Yes, Charles turned to Panglossian about ten years ago, straight after his first publisher went bankrupt. It has worked out well for him. It was Panglossian who suggested the readings at the Theatre Royal and they have turned out to be an enormous boon to his popularity. His sales go through the roof after a reading.”

  “That’s good news for Mr Corbie, the bookseller, too.”

  “Not really. You probably saw Miss Carterett at the door as people were leaving the theatre. She was handing out flyers. If you go directly to Panglossian Publishing with your flyer you get a discount on the book you want to purchase – a Dicksen novel of course. It cuts out the bookseller.”

  “Does Miss Carterett get a percentage of the sales?”

  “No, she does it gratis. She is a bit in awe of Mr Dicksen’s genius.”

  “As are most women going by last night’s crowd.”

  “Indeed,” he sniffed. “There is no disputing he is a talented writer and a charismatic speaker, unfortunately the man is much less noble than the noble characters he invents and readers seem unable to make the distinction.”

  Somewhere a church bell struck the hour, though it was not the bell from Holy Trinity.

  “Your bell didn’t ring,” said the Countess, looking up at the perpendicular tower.

  “We no longer have a bell. It developed a crack that proved too costly to mend. And there are so many bells in York as it is. It is difficult to retain reliable bell-ringers too. As soon as a man is suitably trained he is poached by a rival church. Father Chetwynd got rid of the bell and gave the belfry over to me when he had no other use for it and I hinted I could use it as a private study. My stipend does not come with a manse or rectory. I rent a room in nearby Spen Lane. The little belfry is freezing cold in winter and frightfully draughty the rest of the year but I have an excellent view straight down the Shambles on the odd occasion when I open the wooden shutters.”

  The Countess looked up again at the perpendicular tower and then at the deacon. “I don’t suppose you happened to be up there yesterday morning with the shutters open when that poor boy was strung up on the meat hook?”

  “Unfortunately, it was too early in the day for me. I was told it happened at first light. I know it behoves me to practice forgiveness but some acts are unforgiveable. Are you assisting the inspector with that murder too?”

  The Countess decided it might be high time to practice discretion. “Inspector Bird does not think it is related to the deaths of the penny dreadful authoresses. He will follow it up when he has the time. I would dearly like to see the view from your little study. Would you think me impertinent if I asked to see it?”

  His blinking stopped suddenly and he stared vacantly for several heartbeats the
n started up again – blink, blink, blink. “Unfortunately, I have an appointment with the choir master and I am late already.”

  “Some other time, perhaps?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said blinkingly.

  The Countess found a teashop near the Barley Hall and had an early lunch while she pondered what to do next. Unlike Inspector Bird, she didn’t for a minute believe the death of the boy yesterday morning to be unrelated to the five murders they were investigating. She didn’t believe it to be a robbery either. It was too brutal for that. There was no need to hang the boy to get the parcel he was carrying. The boy was so malnourished he would hardly have put up a struggle. A thief could have knocked him senseless with one blow, stolen the parcel and been long gone before the boy even thought to cry out, assuming he would even bother. That suggested the parcel he was carrying was more important than Mr Dicksen led her to believe - important enough to kill for. Ipso facto, the scrap of paper with the initials BB must be more important too, otherwise why cling so tightly? Why would the boy refuse to relinquish a scrap of paper while being lifted off the ground by the scruff of the neck by a villain he knew would not be denied the spoils?

  By the time the Countess finished her lunch she knew she had to speak to Boz, the boy who had retrieved the scrap of paper. She knew Boz was a mudlark but she could hardly go searching for him on her own. A lady wading through the Fishpond or scouring the riverbank was out of the question. That was a job for her manservant, Fedir, but before she sent him to track the boy down she would first try Miss Carterett, the school mistress who seemed to be held in high regard by the Snickelwayers. Miss Carterett might know where Boz could be found when he wasn’t out mudlarking.

  “The Quaker School on Northbrick Lane,” she directed as she clambered into a hansom.

  Quakers were renowned for their lack of ostentation and their school house was no different. It was constructed from red brick with a pitched roof of grey slate tiles. Fronting the street was a large black door that led straight into a coat room. Coat hooks ranged around the walls on which hung a multitude of scarves, hats, coats, mittens and bags. It was the only messy part of the building.