The Penny Dreadful Curse

by Anna Lord

  “How do you mean, Henrietta?” posed her cousin.

  “Well, when the carriage stopped, just before turning left into Gillygate, instead of proceeding straight ahead as it should have, I could have sworn I saw a rider on a black horse waiting in the umbra of a giant oak in the Museum Gardens. I didn’t think anything of it, of course, until much later, but it was as if the horseman was waiting for me. I swear it was the same horseman who later held up the carriage. I think he must have galloped around the Minster because he suddenly came belting out of Goodramgate, but we were making good progress and had just by-passed the gate and were flying along St Maurice’s Road. I expected him to overtake us but he must have darted back under Goodramgate into the city because he suddenly appeared again at Peaseholm Green. But if he intended to hold us up there he was thwarted because several carriages appeared all at once and there was a brief flurry of traffic. As we travelled along the Foss Islands Road it became darker, there was a good deal of fog off the Fishpond, and I knew if he appeared again it would not be by accident but design. I feared the worst and already had my hand inside my bag and my little pistol at the ready. I was trembling quite a bit, but there was nothing for it but to keep going. It is impossible to turn back on the Foss Islands Road. When I heard the distinctive thud-thud of horse’s hooves I knew the horseman was coming.”

  The maid arrived with a tea tray and the monologue was briefly interrupted while tea was poured and served.

  “What happened next?” prompted the deacon after they settled back down with teacups and slices of cinnamon cake.

  “I could see at once that the horseman was dressed exactly the same as Jack Black the Highwayman in the penny dreadful of the same name. He had a black mask and a tricorne hat and a great oilskin coat that flapped like an angry bird. He was even riding a sleek black steed sheened with sweat. I nearly burst out laughing at the sight of him, the relief was overwhelming. I thought it was a pantomime, a theatrical jest. But when he brandished a gun at my coachman and then pointed it at me, shouting: Stand and deliver! Well, I was filled with terror. My emotions see-sawed dramatically, I suddenly felt frightened for my life. I thought of my nine darlings being left motherless. I thought of my unborn child. I did the only thing I could do, the only thing a mother would do. I acted on instinct, like a mother lion protecting her cubs. I pulled out my gun and shot him. After that, I fainted and cannot remember anything clearly. I am relying on you to fill in the rest.”

  Mrs Dicksen pillowed back and looked eagerly, encouragingly, from the Countess to Dr Watson, as she lubricated her throat with some warm tea.

  “Please speak frankly,” she urged, nibbling heartily on a slice of cake. “I would like to know what passed. I have been wracking my brain all night but it’s like a strange dream, where you wake, and are conscious for a few moments, and then you go back to dreaming. Except in my case the dream is the reality. I vaguely recall waking and hearing someone say I shot my husband. I think I fainted again. I remember a police inspector arriving at the scene, or perhaps I merely dreamt it. I have a shadowy, unclear, half-formed picture in my head of some other gentleman who spoke with a foreign accent. He seemed to come from nowhere, like a guardian angel. I remember his voice. It was kind and gentle. He made me feel safe. I remember my maid helping me to bed. I remember Dr Fairweather giving me a sedative. And now I beseech you, help me to understand what happened.”

  Adopting a sympathetic tone, the doctor was the first to start, confirming Mrs Dicksen’s vague recollections of the tragic turn of events.

  “Inspector Bird arrived at the scene. He had been summoned by the coachman driving the foreign gentleman in the carriage travelling along the Foss Islands Road at the time, going in the opposite direction.”

  “He is a Dutchman, Monsieur van Brugge,” added the Countess. “A painter of portraits, staying with the Panglossians. He had been to the Friargate Theatre and was heading back to Jewbury. Why did you nearly laugh when you saw the highwayman?”

  The question was phrased without forewarning, coming deliberately at the end of some irrelevant detail. The Countess wanted to gauge Mrs Dicksen’s reaction and watched her with heightened interest.

  Mrs Dicksen remained sedately calm and unruffled, a look of innocent gravity suffusing her eyes, but Reverend Finchley turned a shade of coral pink and visibly bristled.

  “It’s all right, Beauregard,” Mrs Dicksen said to her cousin in a placatingly maternal tone, placing her hand gently on his, before giving a curiously arresting laugh. “I am Ryder Saxon, author of Jack Black the Highwayman.”

  Transfixed with astonishment, neither the Countess nor the doctor spoke.

  Reverend Finchley gazed proudly, adoringly, affectionately, at his cousin and when their eyes met the two of them burst into a full-throated syncopated laugh that lasted for several long and loud seconds. The unconstrained relief and mirth and exaltation in their garrulous giggling became roundly infectious and built to a hilarious crescendo.

  “My cousin,” explained the deacon, reigning in his extravagantly unrestrained guffaws, “made more money from her penny dreadfuls than her husband made from the sale of his noble novels. Sweet irony, you see, that he should be shot while disguised as a highwayman! Forgive me, I know it is unbecoming for a man of God, but I cannot stop, er, laughing,” he burbled before breaking into another fit of the giggles.

  Mrs Dicksen was a little more successful at reigning herself in. “I realize it is uncharitable to speak ill of the dead but I for one am heartily sick of reading obituaries where every deceased person is lauded as some kind of saint. I sometimes fantasise about reading an obit that says: The man was an arrogant, egotistical, vicious monomaniac; his wife and children are glad he has gone to his Maker sooner rather than later! My husband’s obit will be suitably glowing, but believe me, he was no saint. I started writing because he allowed me no life but the one between the four walls of this bedroom. Apart from Sunday mass, I was not permitted to leave the house. Gladhill was not a glad place for me! It was more like a prison! I was not permitted to have friendships. I was not permitted to travel, not even a trip to the seaside or a picnic in the countryside, let alone to Leeds or London. My job was to breed. Once a month when I was most fertile I had to submit to my husband’s demands. There was no love, no tenderness, in the act. It was a demonstration of his ownership of me, his power, his control, and the end result was proof of his masculinity, his mastery, his magnificence!”

  “He’s gone now, Henrietta,” reminded the deacon with more than a touch of blessed relief to his tone, patting her hand. “Though I cannot guarantee he has gone to his Maker!”

  She smiled and sighed. “I can scarcely believe it! I had to pinch myself all night!”

  Dr Watson, having enjoyed a loving union and still carrying a candle for his dearly departed wife, could not hide his puritanical disapproval of such levity regarding the death of a fellow human being, let alone a spouse; his tone was censorious in the extreme. “Do you think your husband knew of your writing?”

  “That I was Ryder Saxon, you mean?” clarified Mrs Dicksen.

  He nodded curtly.

  “All night I wracked my brain at that very question. It certainly seems so, otherwise why dress up as a highwayman? It would have been a grand joke on his behalf if I, Ryder Saxon, had died at the hands of a highwayman!”

  “If he knew,” surmised the Countess, “he could only have discovered it from Mr Panglossian.”

  Mrs Dicksen shook her head. “No, no, Panglossian had no idea. I passed my manuscripts to my friend, Miss Titmarsh, at church and she passed them on to the publisher. She collected the royalties on my behalf and donated them to various charities at my behest. Mr Panglossian would have known Ryder Saxon and Baroness du Bois to be one and the same person.”

  The Countess ruminated on this for several moments.

  “Were you aware that Miss Flyte sat behind you in church and saw you pass a package to Miss Titmarsh on a regular basis?”


  “No, I was not aware,” said the lady, blanching. “But Miss Flyte couldn’t have known what was in the package.”

  “But she may have correctly guessed it. She had seen your husband with his manuscripts and knew the size and shape of them. I don’t know if she realized you were Ryder Saxon but it would not have been impossible for her to draw the conclusion your package was a manuscript. I wonder if she had recently mentioned what she saw to your husband?”

  “Oh, dear,” said Mrs Dicksen gravely, digesting the repercussions. “If Charles suspected me of being a writer he would certainly have searched my room. My stories are in my little secretaire.” With her eyes she indicated an old-fashioned writing desk with a roll-top, standing unobtrusively in the corner. “I keep it locked at all times. The key is in my ribbon box. It would not have been hard to locate the key if he had wanted to search for it. And yes, that would explain him wanting to frighten me or perhaps even kill me.”

  “And why he dressed the part,” added the deacon solemnly.

  “But I killed him instead,” pronounced the lady with a pardonable lack of grief.

  “It’s finished now,” said the deacon with a solacing smile. “The nightmare is over. Thank God you are safe. Which brings me to another point – Dicksen’s private study.”

  Mrs Dicksen understood at once what he was alluding to.

  “I don’t have the key, Beauregard. Charles always took it with him.” Suddenly her eyes twinkled. “We could break down the door.” She reached for a small silver bell on her bedside table and gave it a tinkle. When a maid arrived she instructed her to inform the gardener to come forthwith and to bring his largest axe.

  The study door was soon reduced to kindling and the contents of Mr Dicksen’s private domain open to scrutiny at long last. It was not a large room but clearly an extremely busy one. Bookshelves lined the walls, punctuated only by a bay window and the fireplace. There were books and papers everywhere; notes, jottings and several dictionaries open at different pages. And there on the desk, liberally strewn with loose leaf papers, was a manuscript written in green ink. The name at the top said: BB – Baron Brasenose. Every page was littered with scribblings, crossings-out, annotations and arrows. There was only one thing wrong. It did not have a torn corner. The cover page was perfectly intact.

  “Here’s another manuscript written in green ink,” said Dr Watson, searching the bookshelf by the door. “And this one has the corner torn off the cover page.”

  “Let me see,” said the Countess, rushing to his side. “Yes, I’m sure it’s the one Gin-Jim must have been carrying. I’m fairly certain the missing corner will match the torn scrap of paper.”

  “That confirms it,” pronounced Mrs Dicksen scathingly. “My husband was reworking the manuscripts submitted by Baron Brasenose.”

  “Plagiarising is more to the point,” said the doctor with disgust.

  “I would call it unmitigated theft,” said the Countess, unmincingly. “Do you mind if I take this torn cover page?” she directed at the deacon.

  Reverend Finchley sank into the nearest chair. “I knew it,” he said weakly. “I knew it. Yes, yes, take it if you think it will do any good, though I cannot see how it will make any difference now that Charles is dead.”

  Mrs Dicksen knelt at his side and spoke soothingly. “You can re-submit your work, Beauregard. Mr Panglossian will have to reassess it.”

  “What’s more,” said Dr Watson sternly, “Mr Panglossian will have to admit to being in cahoots with Dicksen. I think he has a lot to answer for. It certainly sheds new light on the death of the boy in the Shambles.”

  They continued to search the shelves but no other BB manuscripts turned up. Doubtless Dicksen had been careful to destroy them once he had finished with them. The five that had not made it into print were most likely rejected outright and never sent to Dicksen in the first place, or rejected by Dicksen himself.

  “Oh, dear,” said the Countess, glancing at the carriage clock on the mantel. “I have an appointment to see Panglossian at midday.”

  “When did you arrange this?” quizzed the doctor in an aggrieved tone.

  “Hastily last night as we were leaving Mallebisse Terrace, Mr Panglossian apologized to me for being so harsh-lipped when I dropped in on him at Foss Bank House. I think he wanted to make amends for his abruptness, actually, more like rudeness. He promised to give me a list of his authors and told me come to the publishing house at midday. I forgot to tell you because so much happened last night. First, Miss Flyte saying the paper was written in green ink, then finding out that Miss Titmarsh was Baroness du Bois, then Miss Carterett waiting for us in the inglenook, scared out of her wits, and finally Inspector Bird coming to tell us that Mr Dicksen was dead. After all that, I think I can be forgiven for omitting to mention an appointment at midday.”

  The doctor didn’t say so directly but the Countess could see she was forgiven.

  “I would like to come with you,” announced the deacon fiercely. “I want to have a few words with the publisher who has rejected my work and then sent it to someone else to be reworked, resubmitted and accepted with only the flimsiest of alterations. I think I have a bone or two to pick with Mr Merlin Panglossian.”

  “No,” said the Countess firmly. “Today is not the time to pick bones. I understand and acknowledge your grievance, your anger, your desire for reparation and apology, and God knows what else, but I beg of you, not today. If you confront Mr Panglossian before I have had a chance to extract the list from him he may not hand it over. It could jeopardise our chance of finding out who is killing off his authoresses and who might be next to be killed. That must be our first priority. We have managed to discover the answers to quite a few mysteries since yesterday and I feel on the verge of a breakthrough. I can see the pieces coming together. One more day is all I ask. In fact, not even that,” she vowed recklessly. “Don’t make any plans for tonight. I may summon you both to the Mousehole at short notice after dinner. If everything falls into place I will know the name of our killer before the close of day.”

  17

  Roman Acle

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” reminded Dr Watson as they waltzed out of Gladhill and hailed a hansom for Coppergate.

  She confidently laughed off his fatuous warning. “That’s not how the saying goes. It is: Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. Proverbs 16:18.”

  He rolled his eyes, but secretly he was impressed. Not that she knew her bible and could quote it chapter and verse, but that she could confidently claim to have narrowed down the possible killers to a short list. He still had no idea. As far as he was concerned it could be anyone in York – the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. He conceded it had to be someone with a grudge against authoresses who penned dreadfuls but that still left the field wide open as far as he was concerned.

  It was five minutes after midday when they reached the outer office of the redoubtable Mr Thrypp. He was at his desk, poring over accounts, but jumped up the instant they arrived.

  “May I help you?”

  “I have an appointment with Mr Panglossian for midday,” said the Countess with more hauteur than was warranted. The secretary’s obsequious falsity was beginning to grate on her nerves and she was in rather a hurry to tie up all the loose ends. What’s more, she intuited he no more intended to be of help than he could help it.

  Mr Thrypp glanced down at the large appointment book on the corner of his small desk and ran his index finger down the dates to the present day. “I’m afraid there is nothing written here. Are you sure you have the right day?”

  “Quite sure,” replied the Countess, even more haughtily. “I expect you will find the appointment is not written in your book because it was made late last night at the end of dinner at the home of Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse. Mr Panglossian personally invited me to stop by at midday.”

  Mr Thrypp smiled an obstructive alligator smile. “Well, what can I say?” he announced wit
h the sort of ineluctable triumph that is usually the preserve of someone who knows something you do not. “Mr Panglossian is not in.”

  “Not in?” questioned the Countess, annoyed that her chance to tie up loose ends and unmask the killer was being frustrated by a tardy stumbling block.

  “He did not come in this morning,” explained Thrypp in clipped tones. “I was here early because Mr Panglossian said he wanted to go over the accounts first thing but he has not arrived. I have been puzzling over it myself.”

  The Countess aimed a dubious glance at the door to the inner sanctum. “Then why is his key in the lock?”

  Both Dr Watson and Mr Thrypp immediately directed their sights at the same door and sure enough there was a key in the lock.

  Mr Thrypp’s officious face puckered up with puzzlement. “I cannot explain it,” he mumbled, staring at the key as if it had just been conjured out of thin air. “I have been here all morning at my post. Mr Panglossian is not in, I am sure of it.”

  “Shall we check?” said the Countess, sashaying to the door before Thrypp could skirt the desk and block her path.

  Without delay, she pushed open the door and this time the puzzlement was hers. The office was empty.

  “That’s odd,” muttered Thrypp, scratching his head. “Mr Panglossian never leaves his office unlocked if he is not in. Without fail, he locks it and takes the key away with him. In ten years I have never known him to do otherwise.”

  The threesome advanced into the inner sanctum and the puzzle was soon solved. It was Dr Watson who noticed the body lying on the floor behind the gargantuan desk.

  Mr Thrypp took one look and promptly fainted from shock. The doctor and the Countess left him where he landed flat on his back on the Turkey rug and hurried to examine the body of the publisher. The body was cold but not yet rigored.

  “I’m guessing he died six or seven hours ago,” said Dr Watson, checking for the cause of death. There was no obvious fatal wound. Having exhausted the usual options he tugged away at the high starched collar and sure enough there was a bruise on the windpipe, similar to the one suffered by Miss Titmarsh. “Someone crushed his larynx by delivering a punch to the throat.”