by Anna Lord
“Crikey, that’s appalling, what!”
“How did the brute gain entry without anyone spotting him in the Shambles?” quizzed the deacon, shielding his face from the shooting light.
“It appears he came through the back yard, through the scullery window. He went to some bother to move the china from the draining board and to clean his muddy footprints from it too. He also took pains to lock the window after himself.”
“If he locked the window how did he leave, what?” asked their host.
“He left via the front door which still had the key in the lock on the inside.”
Mr Panglossian scratched his dark helmet hair. “Why didn’t the brute leave the same way he came? As the deacon said, he risked being spotted in the Shambles.”
“I hazard a guess,” replied the doctor circumspectly. “It was late at night. Most people had closed their curtains. The killer also wanted to make the death appear like an accident, hence the need to make it appear as if no one had entered the premises in the first place. But the mud on the draining board and the bruise to the throat gave him away. The latter must have been done impulsively, possibly to stop the lady screaming or calling out his name.”
“Calling out his name?” said Mr Panglossian sceptically.
“It is possible she may have recognized her killer or even known him personally.”
“That seems unlikely,” challenged the publisher.
“Was the lady known to be an authoress, what?” asked their host, passing round the cigar box, a keepsake from Africa carved from aromatic wood inlaid with ivory.
Dr Watson aimed a confrontational glance at Panglossian as he selected a fat Cuban cigar. “That question remains unanswered at present.”
Panglossian squared his rounded shoulders as best he could and went into battle. “Noms de plume are confidential. How often must I state this? You cannot protect every author in York. It is folly to think you can. The authors themselves will be aware of the danger and they will take precautions to safeguard themselves. Besides, if the noms de plume don’t come with real names attached – which they don’t - the list is useless to you. It is your job to catch the killer, not to protect every single writer in the city. You are clutching at straws because you have overlooked some vital clue.”
“Vital clues were overlooked at the beginning of the investigation,” admitted the doctor defensively, “because the Countess and I were not called in until the first four murders had been committed. Inspector Bird did not realize the victims were all authoresses with Panglossian Publishing until the fifth victim came to light. And that was by sheer chance.”
“Meaning?” said the deacon, sensing a confrontation and blinking rapidly, though he was facing away from the chandelier.
“Meaning the killer hoped the body would be washed downstream by the outgoing tide but it became wedged under a jetty instead where it was spotted by a bargeman.”
“Is that the unreliable witness you referred to earlier, what?” asked their host.
Dr Watson nodded as he struck a lucifer, lighted his cigar and watched the end glow red. He knew very well he should not be discussing the case with the three men seated around the table with him but clues were in short supply, reliable witnesses few and far between, and they could not wait for another death in the vain hope of garnering clues. During the carriage ride to Mallebisse Terrace, as they discussed the notion of truth and untruth, he had suddenly realized he would have three possible suspects gathered under the one roof at the same time. He had decided to go out on a limb. Perhaps one of the men would let slip some information. They certainly showed an avid interest in the details of the latest crime. What was even better; he did not need to lead the conversation, he merely had to throw out some crumbs.
The port returned for a second round and the blinker was the first to double back. “You mentioned footprints, doctor?”
“Well, there’s a dandy clue, what?” puffed mine host, blowing plumes of smoke into the smoky air that snaked around the Waterford masterpiece.
“I read in The Times that more criminals are convicted by their boot-prints than anything else,” added the publisher. “A boot-print is more reliable than an eye-witness. What about it, doctor?”
“I’m afraid the boot-print left by the killer of Miss Titmarsh was only a partial print – the heel of his boot just outside the scullery window. The rest of the garden was paved and gravelled. The mud on the draining board, where the killer had stepped in, had been wiped clean. There were traces of mud but no prints. We are dealing with a canny killer.”
“And a clean one, what!”
“But how does the killer know who to target?” posed the deacon, sounding puzzled, ceasing to blink as he downed his port. “It appears we can rule out that he chooses his victims at random since they are all authors…”
“Authoresses,” corrected Dr Watson, “except we are not yet sure of Miss Titmarsh.”
The deacon nodded meditatively, blinking sparingly as his brow puckered. “Quite right, authoresses, yes, quite, of penny dreadfuls, yes, that’s true, but what I don’t understand is how does the killer know who is an authoress of penny dreadfuls and who isn’t if there is no list of names?”
“A very good question,” said Dr Watson, looking one at a time at his after-dinner companions. “Let us consider the question logically. How would a killer know who to target?” He posed the question thoughtfully and waited for a response.
“Crikey, someone at Panglossian Publishing must have gotten hold of a list of dreadful authoresses,” said mine host. “That is the most dandy explanation, what.”
“I suppose he could have watched the publishing house,” reasoned the deacon, blinking quickly while answering his own question, “and followed the ladies to their homes. No,” he negated after a moment or two, “that doesn’t make sense. How would he know they penned dreadfuls?”
“But having a list of authoresses’ names, what,” conjectured Sir Marmaduke, “pseudonyms, I used to call them, or noms de plume, I think someone said earlier, is of no use if you cannot match the name to a face, what.”
Dr Watson turned to the publisher, who had gone strangely quiet. “What do you think, Mr Panglossian? How does the killer know who to target?”
The Jew shifted uneasily in his seat as he withdrew his fat cigar from between his dry lips. “How should I know!” he defended stridently, then scathingly. “That’s your job! You’re the detective! The associate of Mr Sherlock Holmes! The author of dozens of crime stories all neatly resolved by the final page! All I know is that if you don’t find the killer soon, I won’t have any dreadful authoresses left!”
In the meantime, the four ladies had been prattling pleasantly about babies’ names and the pros and cons of morphia during childbirth when the Countess decided there was no time like the present. She looked earnestly at Mrs Dicksen and spoke in a carefully modulated tone so as not to cause offence. She would have preferred to conduct the conversation in private but it would have to suffice that Miss Flyte and Mrs Ashkenazy had moved closer to the fire and had taken to talking animatedly about the latest Parisian fashions for the winter season.
“I know you were a long-time friend of Miss Titmarsh,” the Countess began slowly. “The Reverend Finchley mentioned it in passing,” she explained, “and as all the York murders to date have been authoresses of dreadfuls I was hoping you would be able to confirm or deny whether Miss Titmarsh penned dreadfuls. Such information could be vital to the investigation and it may save time that could be better expended elsewhere.”
Mrs Dicksen was not a stupid woman, nor was she mean-spirited, so the Countess hoped for co-operation, and after a moment of meditative silence her hope was rewarded.
“I suppose it cannot hurt for the truth to come out now,” sighed Mrs Dicksen sadly. “Miss Titmarsh supplemented her income from the teashop by penning dreadfuls in her spare time. She wrote every evening without fail.”
The Countess felt unsurprised and
yet surprised at the same time. “I searched her rooms this morning and didn’t see any manuscripts in progress.”
“After the fifth death she moved all her writing things from her bedroom into the attic. She felt worried that her secret might be found out by someone. She kept the attic locked and the key in the tea caddy.”
“Can you tell me her pen name?”
“Baroness du Bois.”
“Crimson Cavalier!”
Mrs Dicksen nodded, smiling, and sighed heavily. “She loved writing! She never went out of an evening if she could help it. She was a creature of habit, bless her, and liked to keep herself to a strict routine. I cannot imagine what induced her to go to the Minerva the night she was killed - that’s right, isn’t it? - and with a killer on the loose.”
“Yes,” confirmed the Countess, “she went to the Minerva. Do you think she may have been lured there deliberately to get her away from the teashop?”
“So the killer could break in and wait for her to return? Is that what you mean?”
“Yes. Her death could easily have been mistaken for an accident, a tumble down the stairs in the dark, but for two things.”
“Two things?”
“There was evidence someone had entered through the scullery window but not exited the same way. And there was an ugly bruise on her throat.”
“You think she was strangled?”
“No, the killer punched her in the throat. Her larynx was crushed.”
“Her larynx?”
“The police surgeon confirmed someone had punched her in the throat just prior to her fall, in other words, just before she died. Bruises are very particular things; they develop according to the laws of medical science. The bruise is unlikely to have been caused from the fall and even less likely to have happened afterwards. The killer may have wanted to silence her.”
“To stop her screaming?”
“Or calling out his name.”
“His name?”
“She may have recognized him.”
Mrs Dicksen pondered this fact for several minutes in sombre silence. “Six dead authoresses,” she said. “I think you should be searching for a misogynist.”
The Countess smiled gloomily. “Where to start?”
“And where to end?” added the other grimly.
At this point the men rejoined the ladies and the conversation took several unexpected turns. Reverend Finchley, who would normally have gravitated toward his cousin, Mrs Dicksen, seated on the settee, gravitated instead toward Mrs Ashkenazy. Somehow he managed to convince her to play a tune on the piano, and then another, and then a third. Sir Marmaduke drifted toward Miss Flyte and kept her enthralled with more stories of his African adventures. The young woman could not get enough of them. Mr Panglossian was forced to choose between further interrogation by the doctor or the Countess, and chose instead to fill the yawning gap on the settee alongside the pregnant wife of his most lucrative writer.
The doctor and the Countess stood together by the fireplace and pretended to discuss the African masks on the mantle as their eyes scanned the drawing room for a likely murderer. Was it Sir Marmaduke, a man who detested penny dreadfuls because they might upset the natural social order, a man with a long family history of hatred of Jews, a man who might wish to destroy Mr Panglossian? Or Reverend Finchley, a Catholic deacon who seemed to be paying undue attention all evening to a lonely and naïve Jewess, a lay deacon who detested his cousin’s husband and might wish to see that husband’s lucrative association with his Jewish publisher come to an abrupt end? Or perhaps the wily Jew with the unusual authorial arrangement with his penny dreadful authoresses, who might yet stand to profit from their deaths?
Perhaps it was Mr Hiboux, the secret illustrator, Ben Barbican, who was brought up by his père after his mere ran off with the coalman, a man who played at inn-keeping to honour his pater? Or Mr Thrypp, who had access to the list of noms de plume and who could match names to faces whenever authoresses came to collect their royalties on a Sunday? Or even Mr Corbie, yes, he was always in the background, always there, among the dusty books and dreadfuls.
14
Baroness du Bois
As the guests were donning their cloaks in the entrance hall the Countess managed to corner Mr Panglossian. She was still bristling from the dressing down she had received earlier. She drew breath and fought to calm her tone.
“I called at Foss Bank House today, not to ingratiate myself with your daughter, but to ask a favour.”
His glance was dismissive. “Not the list of names again!”
“No,” she assured peremptorily, “nothing to do with the list of names. I wondered if you would allow Gin-Jim’s younger brother to take on the job of delivering your monthly parcel to Gladhill. His name is Boz. He is six years of age and he cannot yet read, but I take it that is not a requirement of the job.”
His swarthy skin flushed dark. “There is no need for a replacement. Mr Dicksen has informed me he will be picking up his own parcel in future. He does not wish to endanger any more boys.”
Disappointed, she turned away haughtily. “I see.”
“Wait!” He appeared to reconsider, his voice softened accordingly. “I apologise for my rudeness earlier today. You were a guest in my house. My behaviour toward you was unforgiveable. The deaths have unnerved me. I am not myself of late. I am also an over-protective father who wishes to spare his only daughter any pain. Forgive me, Countess Volodymyrovna. And if there is any way I can make it up to you…” he paused, checking himself. “Of course I can make it up to you. You want a list of names. If you come to my office tomorrow I will give you a list of the authors of the penny dreadfuls published at Panglossian. They may be nothing more than noms de plume. You can make of them what you will. Shall we say midday?”
What a turnaround! Astounded, the Countess watched Mr Panglossian assist Mrs Dicksen into her carriage. Reverend Finchley was handing Mrs Ashkenazy up to her landau. Sir Marmaduke was helping Miss Flyte clamber gracefully into his brougham. Dr Watson was checking the time on his pocket watch. It was ten o’clock.
“I feel like Cinderella,” sighed Miss Flyte, gazing out of the carriage window at the moonlight silvering the old walls of the city while conjuring fairy tale castles in the air. “I just remembered something,” she confessed, angling to face the Countess who was sitting alongside. “I remembered what day it was that Mr Dicksen arrived with the parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm. It was the day the boy was killed in the Shambles.”
The Countess thought Miss Flyte’s memory might have been sparked by the kiss bestowed on her hand by their manly host and gave an encouraging smile, but Dr Watson was not one for accepting gift horses without first checking their teeth.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Quite sure,” affirmed the young woman. “I remember tearing the wrapping, thinking it might be a present for me, and Mr Dicksen shouting angrily not to touch it. I felt frightened and moved to the window, pretending to need some fresh air. He immediately apologized and said it was a chapter of his new book that he wanted to show to his publisher. He did not like anyone seeing his work-in-progress. I was looking out of the window while he was speaking, still feeling hot and flustered, and I remember seeing a large crowd milling about on the Pavement. I remember thinking it odd because it was so early in the day and there were usually so few people going about their business at that time. Later that same morning I heard someone say a boy had been strung up on a meat-hook. I put the parcel out of my mind but now I remember one went with the other – the parcel and the boy, I mean.”
The Countess took Miss Flyte’s hand and held it calmly in her own as if to steady it. “I want you to think carefully now. You tore away some of the wrapping. Can you recall what colour the paper was?”
The young woman nodded. “It was white.”
“Creamy white or snow white?”
“Snow white, but bleached, not starched, if you know what I mean.”
“
Oh, you’re an angel, Miss Flyte. I know exactly what you mean. It was snowy white but the paper was thin and cheap like cotton or muslin, not expensive like damask, not parchment, not the high quality stuff that comes with a distinctive watermark.”
The doctor rolled his eyes. Only the Countess could go into raptures over paper. It reminded him of Sherlock. His friend had the same passion for paper, though he never likened it to cloth. What did the French call it? Tissue?
“And the ink, Miss Flyte? Did you happen to see what colour the ink might be?”
“Green,” the young woman replied at once. “It was green ink.”
“Oh, you’re a darling!” the Countess gushed.
In the flitting shadows of the brougham’s interior no one noticed that Reverend Finchley had suddenly gone whiter than white. When he bid them good-evening at the seven ways he looked like a pale shade of his former self, a ghost in the night.
A short time later, Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna watched the ethereal Miss Flyte float across the Pavement, up to the vermilion boudoir on which she would one day turn her back before turning back into poor Cinderella. Under the golden light of a gas-lamp the doctor glanced at his pocket watch. It had just gone twenty minutes past ten.
“What was all that business about paper?” he demanded as they marched up the cobbled Shambles arm in arm to steady each other.
“I need to confirm that the scrap of paper Boz retrieved is a match for the parcel Gin-Jim was carrying when he was killed.”
“You have set yourself an impossible task.”
“I couldn’t agree more and I have been driven to the point of madness several times this week but tonight Miss Flyte answered my wildest prayers. The scrap of paper Boz rescued was white and the letters BB were in green ink.”
“White paper and green ink are not a unique combination.”
“Maybe not,” she conceded readily, endeavouring to calm her excitement lest it trip her up. “But the connection to Mr Dicksen is significant, n’est-ce pas? I want to know if the parcel Gin-Jim was carrying was what got him killed. If I know who wrote it, it might tell me if it was important enough to kill for. If I know who wrote it I might also know who killed him and why. I cannot know what or who or why unless I find a match for the paper and ink.”