by Anna Lord
The inspector stroked his whiskers once or twice whilst gathering his thoughts. “The coachman said a horseman came out of the mist, brandishing a large pistol. He called out for the coachman to stop and seemed hell-bent on wickedness. It did not seem like a jape. The coachman is a burly fellow yet he claimed to be scared for his life as the masked man waved his pistol about menacingly, aiming first at him and then at the lady, demanding jewels and money. He heard him cock his weapon. When the lady drew out her pistol and shot the blackguard through the heart he had no idea it was the master, so well did the scoundrel disguise his voice and his person.”
“After the highwayman was shot,” clarified the Countess, “Mrs Dicksen fainted and the coachman secured the coach and horses and then went to check the dead body – is that correct?”
“Yes,” said the inspector.
“When did it become apparent the highwayman was Mr Dicksen?”
The inspector took a moment to reflect on the events in the order they happened, he was bone-tired but his brain was whirring fast. He felt he would sleep a hundred years if only he could close his eyes and yet he knew sleep would prove elusive. “The Dutchman stayed at the scene while the driver of the hansom came straight to the police station. A constable was still on duty because we have such an overload of cases at present – another case of arson last night,” he heaved bitterly. “The young constable, being not as daft as some, realized it was an unusual crime involving a lady of some prominence in York, and roped in the driver of the hansom, dispatching him with one of the Snickelwayers who is always hanging about the premises looking to make himself useful and maybe earn a halfpenny, ordering them to track me down as quickly as possible. I was out by Castle Mills Bridge where the arsonist had been spotted lurking about. I arrived at the murder scene a short time later to find Mrs Dicksen just coming out of her swoon. She had been revived by the Dutchman. It was me who tore off the mask. I didn’t recognize Mr Dicksen, though I have seen his photo countless times in the newspapers. It was the coachman who cried out in shock – ‘The master! It’s the master! God help us!’ – at that stage Mrs Dicksen, realizing she had shot and killed her own husband, fainted again.”
“And then?” prompted the doctor, after allowing the inspector to catch his breath.
“The Dutchman was a real gent for a foreigner. I will take my hat off to him. He offered to accompany Mrs Dicksen home in her coach. I climbed back into the hansom and came straight here. I thought you might want to know, having become acquainted with the Dicksens recently and having been at dinner with Mrs Dicksen a few hours earlier.”
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed the half hour.
Dr Watson thanked the inspector. “We appreciate being informed. We can sleep on what you have told us and pay a visit to Mrs Dicksen tomorrow morning after breakfast. By the way, I presume the lady was not physically harmed?”
“Apart from shock, she did not appear to suffer any ill effects. She said she was extremely tired and wanted to go straight to bed. She said she would summon a doctor first thing in the morning. She did not want to call her doctor out at midnight. She appeared to be sound of mind, thinking rationally, that is, but I cannot vouch for her emotional state. Sometimes shock takes a while to set in. I have witnessed folks act calmly during a crisis and then go to pieces a few hours later. I was told it has something to do with the adrenal gland.”
The doctor confirmed he had witnessed the same thing several times and it appeared to be linked to the body’s production of adrenalin. He began to elaborate when the Countess cut him off.
“You believe there is something suspicious about the turn of events?” she put to the inspector. “That is why you were longwinded about describing the route Mrs Dicksen could have taken as opposed to the one she took. Why did she choose to go home by that particular road? The Foss Islands Road? Did she and her husband plan the robbery together? Did she know her husband would appear out of the mist dressed as a highwayman? Why a highwayman? Did she plan to kill him? Why the elaborate charade?”
The inspector regarded the Countess with evident approval. “Charade is a good word. It appears to be a charade. But the husband would have to be in on it, except now he is dead and we will never know why. It doesn’t make sense. I am still locked into tracking the arsonist. That is my first priority because of the importance of the river trade to the prosperity of the city. Any more barges going up in smoke and we could have a barge war on our hands. I will be grateful to hear what you have to say after you visit Mrs Dicksen tomorrow morning.” He pushed wearily to his feet and appeared unsteady for a moment or two. “I bid you both good night.”
The death of Mr Charles Dicksen was not only a mystery in itself, but had come as a blow to the Countess’s neatly ordered understanding. Everything had been turned on its head.
Fedir returned while she was breakfasting with the doctor in the poky parlour to tell them the school mistress was safe; nothing untoward had happened in the night. The manservant was on his way to the kitchen to have his own breakfast when he turned back. He addressed his mistress in Ukrainian, which always managed to get up the doctor’s goat.
“Countess, you charged me with keeping an eye out for the churchman. I observed him this morning at the seven ways. I followed him to the church. He went up to the bell tower.”
The Countess never travelled without her personal maid or manservant. Fedir and Xenia were brother and sister, born in 1864 three years after serfdom had been abolished, though their family chose to remain in service to the Count of Odessos, her late step-father. They had been with her since childhood, going with her into the fields and woods, keeping her safe from harm from wild animals and poachers, and then acting as actual bodyguards, keeping an eye out for anarchists, robbers, kidnappers and unsuitable suitors. They had saved her skin more than once during her endless wanderings with her madcap, peripatetic, adventurous aunt. Eventually, as her life grew tamer, they had fallen into the role of servants. Since partnering up with Dr Watson as a so-called consulting detective, albeit entirely reluctantly on his part, Fedir and Xenia’s usefulness had increased tenfold.
“Fedir just informed me he saw Reverend Finchley go into the Holy Trinity Church. We will pay him a visit before we pay a call on Mrs Dicksen,” announced the Countess to her counterpart as she poured him a cup of coffee.
“What ever for?” he grumbled. “It will just waste time. We need to question Mrs Dicksen before she has a chance to dream up some improbable fairy story. During the night I tried to think of a plausible explanation for what happened. And quite frankly, it is not only suspicious, to coin your phrase, it is downright dubious. I want to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible.”
“I agree, but I think it may be un bon idée to have the deacon accompany us to the house of the bereaved widow on the pretext of providing spiritual comfort. He is Mrs Dickson’s cousin and I think he knows more than he’s letting on. Remember I mentioned the two of them acting conspiratorially the night we went to dinner at Gladhill. We can also be the first to let him know Mr Dicksen is dead. It will be interesting to watch his reaction.”
As usual her reasoning was spot on. “Very well.”
“We can kill two birds with the same stone. Fedir informed me the deacon went up to the belfry. I want to see what paper and ink he uses.”
“You are on a wild goose chase there, but I guess it cannot hurt. Drink your tea and let’s get going.”
Before too long they were climbing the winding stairs up to the top of the perpendicular tower. The door creaked open, startling the occupant who was sitting at his desk, scribbling madly - too absorbed in his task to hear them coming. He whirled round and leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair. Sheets of paper fluttered to the floor. Reverend Finchley was blushing fiercely and blinking furiously. There was nowhere to hide and no hiding the truth. The paper was snow white and the ink was green.
“You have found me out,” he confessed at once.
&nbs
p; Something caught the Countess’s eye. In the top right-hand corner of each scattered page were the initials BB - followed by the full nom de plume. She picked up a few sheets of paper at random and skimmed them quickly. The deacon was penning a story about knights and damsels and dragons.
“You’re Baron Brasenose,” she said less exultantly than might have been expected. “I should have made the connection days ago. The church knocker – brass – brasenose!”
The deacon nodded ruefully as he straightened his chair. “It’s not how it seems,” he said, swallowing hard, still blinking. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
“What are we thinking?” challenged the doctor.
“You are thinking I killed the boy in the Shambles.”
“And did you?” pressed the doctor with determined emphasis.
“Of course not!”
“So how is it that your papers were being carried by the dead boy? And be careful how you answer,” he warned gravely. “It is not merely the paper and ink that condemns you but the initials – BB. With them you have signed your own death warrant!”
“No! No! I can explain!” he pleaded pitifully, sinking into his chair as his legs buckled. “If you will only hear me out!”
“Very well,” said the Countess sternly, plonking herself on a corner of the desk.
The doctor was less inclined to give the deacon the chance to spin a yarn, mindful they needed to get over to Gladhill before the morning disappeared, but he knew better than to waste time arguing and positioned himself near the door lest the churchman tried to make a run for it.
“I admit I am Baron Brasenose. I have been penning dreadfuls for over two years under my chosen nom de plume, alas, to no avail. All my submissions, at least one every month, have been rejected. I thought it might help if I studied some of the successful dreadfuls to see where I might be going wrong. I naturally chose the ones with knights in them, notably by the successful writer, Dick Lancelot.”
“A Knight’s Tale,” acknowledged the Countess.
The deacon nodded. “I soon noticed something odd. The tales by Dick Lancelot seemed to resemble the tales I had submitted. The place names were different and the names of the characters and all the minor details but the storylines were identical. I thought it might be a coincidence, but each month the same coincidence appeared.”
He paused and swallowed dry.
“What conclusion did you reach?” prompted the Countess.
The deacon looked up, his blinking ceased momentarily while he met her gaze. “I reached the only conclusion a man could reach. I concluded Dick Lancelot was stealing my storylines, re-working them, and submitting them as his own.”
“You mean he has been accessing your study in your absence?” put the doctor bluntly, who liked his conclusions to be clear and concise.
“That’s what I thought at first,” said the deacon, straightening his shoulders and looking from one to the other, “but I have always been very careful about locking my door for reasons of privacy. Not everyone approves of dreadfuls. It is an old barrel lock and there is only one key. Father Chetwynd warned me not to lose the key when he agreed to allow me to use the belfry. I never leave the belfry unlocked. So you see it would be impossible for someone to access my study without my knowing it.”
“That means someone at Panglossian was stealing your manuscripts,” said the Countess.
“Dick Lancelot must work there!” said the doctor.
“Not necessarily,” contradicted the Countess. “Panglossian Publishing is the link, certainly, but the rejects are kept in Mr Panglossian’s office. It would not be easy to steal them from under his nose.”
“Thrypp!” blurted the doctor. “He always struck me as sneaky.”
“He is the most likely culprit,” agreed the Countess, “but it could also be someone who bribed Gin-Jim not to burn certain manuscripts. Anyone who worked there could have done that. And then there’s Gin-Jim himself. Remember he stole a manuscript that was meant for the bonfire, and maybe not just the once. Perhaps he was delivering the stolen manuscripts to the mysterious Dick Lancelot while en route to Gladhill with the stuff for Dicksen when he was killed. But that means if anyone had a motive for killing the boy in the Shambles and stealing the manuscript it had to be Baron Brasenose.” She had come full circle back to the deacon.
“No! No! It wasn’t me!” he denied vociferously, blinking frantically. “You have to believe me!”
She opted to give him the benefit of the doubt for the simple reason she wasn’t entirely convinced it was him. “Very well, who do you suspect?”
“At first I didn’t know who to suspect. It could have been anyone in York. It wasn’t until I learned from Henrietta that a boy carried a parcel once a month from Panglossian to Gladhill that I at last had a solid lead. I begged Henrietta to gain access to her husband’s study. But the task has been hopeless. The other night in the carriage when Miss Flyte said Dicksen had a parcel with snow white paper and green ink I felt as if my worst suspicions had been confirmed. I was sure it was my manuscript she saw and that Dicksen had met the boy in the Shambles on his way to see Miss Flyte and simply took hold of his own parcel, along with the one meant for Dick Lancelot. I am not accusing him of murder, mind you, but, well, it’s looking more and more likely that he could be Dick Lancelot. However, I cannot prove or disprove anything until I see inside Dicksen's study. And short of demanding access I don’t see how I can ever get in.”
The Countess’s brain whirred. “If Mr Dicksen is Dick Lancelot then his publisher would know. They would have to be in on it together. The way Dicksen jumped up to relay the news of the death of their little courier suddenly makes sense. And the fact Panglossian chose an illiterate boy always niggled at me. He didn’t want the boy to be able to read what he was delivering in case he ever looked inside the parcel and saw Baron Brasenose at the top and later recognized the same story by Dick Lancelot in A Knight’s Tale.”
“Did all your work, everything you ever submitted, end up in A Knight’s Tale?”
The deacon shook his head. “Not everything. A few days ago I went to the bookshop in Nunnery Lane and bought every penny dreadful ever published by Dick Lancelot. There were fewer than what I had submitted in the last two years. I presumed some had been rejected and destroyed or Dicksen is sitting on them.”
“How many fewer?”
“Five.”
“That’s not many,” mused the Countess before moving on. “Thrypp didn’t understand the need for an illiterate boy so he couldn’t have been in on the ploy to plagiarise your work. But your theory about it being Dicksen is quite sound and the good news is that there will be no problem gaining access to Mr Dicksen’s study.”
“How can you say that?” lamented the deacon. “If his wife cannot gain access how will you ever manage it?”
“Because Mr Dicksen is dead.”
16
Ryder Saxon
In order not to waste any more time, they recounted to the deacon everything the inspector had told them pertaining to Mr Dicksen’s death while they travelled in a carriage to Gladhill. His startlement was evident. He appeared bewildered and listened without speaking for the entire duration of the journey.
Mrs Dicksen’s personal physician had been and gone hours ago and would return again before bedtime to administer another sedative if need be. She was just stirring from her slumber when the trio of visitors arrived on her doorstep. It was fortunate Reverend Finchley was part of the threesome because the servants had been instructed by the physician to turn everyone away apart from the deacon, whom the physician knew to be a cousin and a close friend. To save straining Mrs Dicksen’s nerves and energy, it was decided she would remain in bed and her visitors would be ushered up to see her. They expected to find her dazed and sleepy, wan and listless, wracked with guilt, but she was sitting up, smiling.
“Please come in and make yourselves comfortable,” she clucked. “My maid is bringing up some tea and cinnamon ca
ke. I have such an appetite. It must be those sedatives.”
Reverend Finchley rushed to the side of her bed. “Henrietta! Henrietta! I can scarce believe it! Is it true? Charles is dead? Is it true?”
Dr Watson positioned a chair for the Countess on the opposite side of the bed and another for himself. They were keen to hear what the widow would say to her cousin.
“Yes, I shot him. It was the strangest thing – like something out of a dream.”
“You had no idea it was your husband who held up the carriage?” pressed Dr Watson, the voice of reason.
“None, whatsoever. It was the greatest shock.”
“Why did you take the long way home?” pursued the Countess.
“Well, that was strange too. As we were leaving Mallebissse Terrace, Mr Panglossian helped me into my carriage. He whispered in my ear: I think you should take a different road home tonight, madame.”
“Why would he say that?” quizzed Dr Watson.
“I have no idea,” replied the lady. “I was as baffled then as I am now.”
“It sounded as if he was giving you a warning,” said the deacon, perching on the side of her bed and holding her small hand tenderly in his larger one, blinking rapidly.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It had that tone of presentiment. I was inclined to shrug it off but when the driver reached the city wall, I suddenly had an urge to heed the warning. I banged on the roof of the carriage, the driver stopped and I instructed him to go around the city. I pretended to be feeling unwell and told him I needed some fresh air. I told him to follow the Foss Islands Road and enter the city via Walmgate.”
“You don’t think the suggestion was intended to lure you into the path of danger,” asked the doctor.
“No,” replied the lady. “I thought about it all night and I think it was said as a warning, not a threat.”
“How odd,” commented the Countess.
“It’s stranger than fiction,” agreed the lady. “It is odd and gets even odder.”