by Anna Lord
“Not at all, it’s just that my husband regards me as dull and somewhat thick and his friends tend to follow suit.”
“I don’t regard you as anything other than intelligent and courageous. I welcome your opinion on the matter at hand and anything else you see fit to tell me. Dr Watson and I have been thrown in at the deep end so to speak, concerning these murders and it will be impossible to solve them unless we have some background knowledge of the people involved and the publishing industry in York. Anything you can tell me about Panglossian will be of enormous help.”
“Do you mean Panglossian Publishing or Panglossian the man?”
“Both.”
Mrs Dicksen popped a chocolate bliss into her mouth while she considered her response. “Well, I think Panglossian Publishing and Mr Panglossian are inextricably linked. The publishing house is successful because of the publisher who runs it. Panglossian has been instrumental in my husband’s success though my husband thinks it is all due to his own genius. He loathes Panglossian but he is contracted to another four books.”
“Why does he loathe him?”
“Mainly because Panglossian reminds him constantly that he wouldn’t be half as successful without him. It was Panglossian who suggested the public readings at the Theatre Royal. Since that first reading, sales of his books have soared. My husband would like to capitalize on his current fame and swap to a prestigious London publisher in Fleet Street but Panglossian refuses to release him from his contract. Plus he is Jewish.”
“Is there a personal or family reason to account for your husband’s dislike of Jews?”
Mrs Dicksen shook her head. “None that I know of - some people just dislike them for religious or financial reasons. Jews are often moneylenders and people naturally dislike paying back debts. And some people still have their head stuck in the Middle Ages. In 1190 all the Jews in York were massacred and burnt in Clifford’s Tower. They had barricaded themselves in after some hate-fuelled rioting, believing they were guaranteed royal protection. Alas! Richard the Lionheart turned a blind eye. The instigators of the riots eradicated the need to pay back their debts and the Lionheart, heading off to the Crusades and in need of funds, inherited the Jews’ property and wealth.”
“So much for royal protection!”
“I believe Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse’s ancestor was one of the main rioters. I am not suggesting Sir Marmaduke dislikes Jews but his family certainly benefitted financially from the long-ago riots.”
“What about Reverend Finchley? I realize he is your cousin and I don’t wish to cast aspersions but Catholics and Jews don’t really have a positive history either. There is all that hate going back to the Cathars and the Inquisition.”
“Reverend Finchley is a great source of comfort to me so I am loath to say a bad word against him, not that I would protect him if I thought he was going about killing people, but I just cannot see him harming a fly. He is a very gentle and kind soul.”
The Countess nodded understandingly and finished her cocoa before putting Mrs Dicksen on the spot once more. “Can you tell me the names of anyone you know who writes penny dreadfuls, particularly if they are female? I ask because I believe the murderer will not stop at five and it is imperative to start tracking down and warning Panglossian’s authoresses before the next one is singled out and killed.”
“No,” said her hostess with conviction. “I don’t know any authoresses. The only author I know is my husband. And though I know him to be capable of cruelty I do not believe he would stoop to murder.” She helped herself to another blissful chocolate and popped it into her mouth. “Let me qualify that statement. My husband is a passionate man, he feels everything intensely, and love and hate are known to be two sides of the same coin. He might therefore kill a rival author, someone he was tremendously jealous of, or someone who plagiarized his work, or someone who questioned his genius in public, but I simply cannot see him murdering five defenceless women who write dreadfuls and pose no authorial threat to him. I don’t believe he would stoop to bother.”
“He’s a Russian Jew,” explained Sir Marmaduke, puffing on a fat cigar, as he settled as far from the fireplace in the library as he could to avoid a flare up of blood vessels. “Fled during the Odessa pogroms of 1891, what. Changed his name so that folks couldn’t tell what he was. What was it?”
“What was what?” snapped their host impatiently who couldn’t abide conversations that went on and on elliptically, especially when those elliptical paths weren’t orbiting his sun.
“His name?” clarified Sir Marmaduke. “Before he changed it?”
“Vasily Voynich,” supplied Mr Dicksen sharply.
Reverend Finchley scratched his head. “I thought the pogroms were in 1881?”
“What difference does it make when they were?” dismissed their host.
“Quite right,” agreed Sir Marmaduke. “Crikey, they have nothing to do with us but I thought it was Basil?”
“Basil?” quizzed Dr Watson, wondering how they got onto the topic of herbs.
“Oh, you mean his name,” said the deacon, thinking the same thing before catching on.
“Basil or Vasil or Vasya or Vasily are all the same,” explained Mr Dicksen curtly. “It’s the Anglicisation of the Slavic!”
“Well, whatever it is, it is damn confusing, what!” professed the hunter, flicking cigar ash into an ashtray and missing by a mile.
“By the way,” corrected Dr Watson, trying not to sound too pedantic, “Odessa is in Ukraine. That would make Mr Panglosssian a Ukrainian Jew.”
Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna exchanged information during the carriage drive back to the Mousehole.
“A Ukrainian Jew,” repeated the Countess. “That’s interesting.”
“It gets better,” he said. “His real name is Vasily Voynich.”
“Oh, yes, that is definitely interesting.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“Yes, the VV ties in with the BB on the scrap of paper. But is Mr Panglossian the intended victim or our main suspect?”
“Everything comes back to him but is it because he is Jewish or because he is a publisher? Sir Marmaduke’s theory struck me as plausible.”
“Quite,” she agreed readily. “I imagine there might be more than one person who dislikes the Jewish publisher. Mr Dicksen, for example, has a contract with Panglossian that he would dearly like to weasel out of. Mrs Dicksen, however, does not think her husband capable of murder unless his literary crown is under threat.”
“Everyone is capable of murder.”
“Not Reverend Fichley according to her. They are quite close as far as cousins go.”
“Kissing cousins?”
“I think not but they are definitely up to something. They stayed back in the parlour and whispered to each other. I think the deacon wants to get into Mr Dicksen’s study.”
“Whatever for?”
“I have no idea but I would love to see inside his study too.”
“There’s no chance of that. You heard him. Private is private.”
“Are all authors guarded about their studies?”
“Yes, they are,” he admitted. “They wouldn’t allow a maid to tidy up or straighten their papers or that sort of thing but not many keep the doors permanently locked. My wife used to come into my study regularly. It wasn’t out of bounds. Dicksen strikes me as a bully.”
“I could have slapped him when he spoke to his wife so condescendingly.”
“I could have punched him right on the nose.”
Mr Hiboux was still up, hunched over his little desk in the corner, pouring over accounts. He bundled his papers together and leapt to his feet to greet them.
“Would you, er, care for some supper? I can whip up, ah, some crepes. It will be no bother.”
“No thank you,” replied the Countess. “We have eaten. Did a young boy call by to speak to me this evening?”
Mr Hiboux shook his lop-sided head. “What, er, sort of boy?�
��
“One of the Snickelwayers. This one is called Boz. Should he or any other boy for that matter come here looking for me please make him welcome and offer him some food or drink until I return. You can add it to my account. It is important for me to speak to him - a matter of some urgency.”
Dr Watson caught the Countess’s elbow at the turn of the stairs.
“Perhaps Boz is really Voz,” he whispered, trying to keep a straight face. “An abridged anglicised pet name of Vasily Voynich junior. The long lost orphaned grandson of a Ukrainian Jew forced to flee Odessa during the pogroms, what!”
“If this was a Dicksen novel I would say it was a certainty. And Patch would be the long lost son of Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse. Mr Corbie would be one of the three Musketeers. Mr Hiboux would be the dauphin of France. Miss Titmarsh would be the childhood sweetheart of Reverend Finchley. Mrs Henrietta Dicksen would be Baroness du Bois. And Mr Dicksen would be our murderer. But this is real life. Good night, Dr Watson.”
She waited until she got to her room before laughing at his little joke.
9
Miss Flyte
Countess Volodymyrovna believed that Boz held the key to the next clue. Consequently, straight after breakfast she went across to the bookshop to speak to Mr Corbie, hoping he could supply the information she required. She stepped gingerly over the spot where the puddle of blood had been, not because it was still there, in fact it had been scrubbed clean, but because she was conscious that it had been there, and she could have sworn a black stain continued to mark the flagstone. Magwitch was curled in the windowsill as usual.
After browsing the bookshelves she bought several Bronte books (which she planned to donate to the Minerva) in order to win the bookseller over before attempting to pick his brains.
“Do you know where I might find Boz?”
Mr Corbie looked up from his abacus in the midst of his calculations and met the Countess’s quizzical gaze. “If Boz doesn’t want to be found you won’t be able to find him. He could be anywhere along the riverbank or anywhere in the marsh pond. I will let Patch know you want to speak to him and you mean him no harm but he is shyer than most of the boys. He may not show himself in the Shambles for weeks or even months. Is this about the business with the dead boy?”
She nodded. “I think Boz may be able to tell me something about that scrap of paper.”
“If that is the case, he is unlikely to show up at all. He may be scared he will end up like his brother.”
“Then it is even more imperative I speak with him. If you see any of the Snickelwayers let them know I need to speak to Boz urgently.”
While Mr Corbie tallied up the cost of the books, the Countess stared out of the bow window at the grisly meat hook and tried to curb her agitation. She felt even more certain she was on the right track. If Boz was afraid for his life then it pointed to the fact he knew something about that scrap of torn paper or something about the murder of his brother. Perhaps he saw someone loitering in the Shambles. And though Dr Watson might make of a joke of Boz’s connection to Panglossian it stood to reason his brother, Gin-Jim, was a regular courier for the publishing titan. Mr Dicksen’s claim that the boy was transporting a one-off chapter did not tally with what Mr Thrypp said about going regularly to Gladhill. Which man was telling the truth? Boz could possibly solve that conundrum too. If only he could be found in time. The Countess felt her throat constrict. In time for what? In time to stop getting himself killed? Or in time to stop another murder?
“Mr Corbie, do you personally know any penny dreadful authors? I thought you might, being a bookseller. Perhaps some of the authors come to the bookshop to see how sales are going. Perhaps they even discuss their next dreadful with you as a means to promote their work.”
Mr Corbie’s face contorted as though he had just swallowed a stinging wasp. “I may sell the dreadfuls but I cannot say I approve of them. In fact, I cannot say I am surprised someone has decided to kill the dreadful authors off. I am not one to speak ill of the dead, but good riddance to bad rubbish!”
Taken aback by the bookseller’s harsh response, the Countess thanked Mr Corbie with exaggerated politeness and was about to return to the Mousehole when the little bell gave a tinkle. It was the young woman from the other night. She was wearing the same blue and white, striped, wool ensemble which she had worn to the Theatre Royal and she looked even prettier in the clear light of day.
Miss Flyte acknowledged the Countess with a cordial smile but something in her manner suggested that she felt embarrassed. The Countess kept her distance while she tried to reason in her own mind why the young woman might feel that way. She had had no qualms about appearing in the private box hence she could not be embarrassed about her relationship with Mr Dicksen. It was something else. Perhaps the young woman didn’t want anyone to know she had been in the bookshop and that’s why she chose that hour of the morning when fewer people were apt to visit such shops. Intrigued, the Countess changed her mind about leaving and decided to peruse the shelves a second time. She disappeared behind a row of books, mounted the library ladder and peered over the top of the shelf just in time to see Mr Corbie reach under his desk and retrieve a package wrapped in brown paper which he handed to the young woman.
“I will put it on Mr Dicksen’s account,” he said sotto voce, checking over his shoulder. “Would you like me to change the title of the book on the bill?”
“Oh, yes, please,” she whispered.
“I shall put it down as Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austin.”
“Thank you,” she smiled blushingly.
The Countess caught up to the young woman a few yards from the bookshop.
“It’s Miss Flyte, isn’t it? We met the other evening at the Theatre Royal. I thought I recognized you. Do you mind if I walk with you?”
Miss Flyte hugged her package to her breast as if to safeguard it. “Not at all. It’s much safer to walk with someone after that terrible murder. I felt quite worried coming to the bookshop just now. There was hardly anyone about in the Shambles. I think they have been frightened off.”
“Oh, I couldn’t agree more. Much safer to have company. Are you walking far?”
“Just to the end of the Shambles. I have rooms in a lodging house on the Pavement. That sounds silly doesn’t it? It sounds as if I live on the street. I actually have some lovely rooms. Are you walking far?”
“I’m looking for a teashop. I skipped breakfast to go to the bookshop,” she lied. “Ye Olde Minster Teashoppe doesn’t open till eleven but I will probably find something on Coppergate.”
“I haven’t had breakfast either. You can come back to my place. Do you like muffins?”
“I simply adore them! But are you sure you won’t be having, er, company?”
The young woman was not as naïve as she appeared. “Oh, don’t worry. Charles, I mean Mr Dicksen, has already been and gone. He always comes early and leaves prior to breakfast. It’s the only time he can sneak away from his wife. She is an absolute dragon. I hope that sort of thing doesn’t worry you. Being seen coming up to my room, I mean. Some people are very particular about their reputations.”
“I’m foreign and my reputation in York is neither here nor there. Besides, we foreigners are accustomed to all sorts of relationships. It is de rigeur in Paris to have a lover. And to be the lover of a famous author is the height of fashion. It will make your reputation not sully it.”
Miss Flyte sighed wistfully. “I would love to visit Paris. Charles keeps promising we will go, but he is so busy with his writing and his wife is always getting pregnant. She will give birth to her tenth child soon. I don’t know why he puts up with her. He is such a darling man. You won’t tell him you saw me in the bookshop, will you?”
“Certainly not – it can be our little secret.”
“Charles doesn’t like me going out much. Well, not at all really. The only place I ever go is to see Reverend Finchley. I have elocution lessons with him in his study in the belfry
of Holy Trinity. You should have heard me six months ago. My Yorkshire tongue was thick and ugly. Charles despised it. I have reading and writing lessons too but they’re a secret. Reverend Finchley wants me to surprise Charles one day. Until then I cannot tell a soul.”
The Countess looked at the package Miss Flyte was hugging to her chest. “I see you bought a book to read. Is that to help with your lessons?”
“Oh, heavens no! Don’t tell Charles. Don’t even tell Reverend Finchley. I bought a book written by Nellie Bly, the journalist who has travelled around the world. I would love to be a journalist. It’s my dream. I never imagined women could do the sorts of things Nellie does. She is simply marvellous!”
Miss Flyte’s rooms took up the first floor of a prim Georgian building on the Pavement. The Countess caught back a gasp as the door swung open, though she had seen something similar once before. The sitting room reminded her of a luxurious bordello she had once visited in the Trocadero when she went with her step-aunt to rescue her step-cousin’s fiancé from the clutches of a notorious courtesan who operated an exclusive gambling salon on the piano nobile along with an opium den in the basement and a brothel in the upstairs bedrooms. The furnishings were nauseatingly luxe. Every inch was ruby red with splashes of gold - the wallpaper, the curtains, the passimenterie, the upholstery, the cushions, the rugs. The furniture was polished mahogany; anything else would have been swallowed up by the vermilion palette. Mirrors abounded, snapping reflections and scattering the light. Oil paintings, large and small, depicted naked women in erotic poses.
“Charles chose the furnishings,” Miss Flyte explained as she put her parcel on a mahogany sideboard with a mirrored backboard and threw off her cloak. “I prefer French wallpaper with little painted scenes of shepherds and shepherdesses. I saw it in a book belonging to Reverend Finchley. But Charles says this is his jewel box and I am his jewel. He’s really very sweet.”
The Countess placed her parcel of books next to Miss Flyte’s parcel and eyed the latter curiously. Was it really a book by Nellie Bly? Or something else?