by Anna Lord
So, that’s why the wily Jew had made the appointment for midday. He had hoped to engineer a luncheon companion for his friendless daughter. That may even have been his motivation for warning Mrs Dicksen of her husband’s outrageous plan to play-act Jack Black! It may have been his way of ingratiating himself with a prominent lady of York who would no doubt have been eternally grateful, providing an entrée into society for his daughter should she choose to make her home here rather than in London - something that would have suited the doting grand-papa very well.
“There goes Monsieur van Brugge now,” noted Mrs Ashkenazy, glancing out of the window. “You can see him weaving between the weeping willows that line the riverbank. He will walk all the way to Heworth Green where he will cross the bridge, return on the opposite bank, re-crossing the stream at Peaseholm Green before coming in through the ogee gate at the bottom of the garden. You must sample some plum cake, dear Countess Varvara, and I will let cook know if she managed to successfully conjure a Steppe kuchen.”
The Countess sampled the plum cake and likened it to the cakes of her youth, praising its plummy tartness, wondering all the while how long it would be before the Dutch painter returned from his peregrination. She had been hoping to have a word to him about the events of the previous night to see if his memory matched the account rendered by Mrs Henrietta Dicksen.
While the Countess was endeavouring to bite the bullet, wondering how best to broach the topic of Mr Panglossian’s death Mrs Ashkenazy provided an opening.
“Oh, I just remembered. Papa left an envelope on his desk. It’s in his private study. I was to give it to you when you arrived for lunch. I am ashamed to say I think he orchestrated it as an inducement to impel you to accept the luncheon invitation.” She pushed to her feet. “Help yourself to some blintze. I won’t be long.”
“I’ll come with you,” said the Countess, who was not averse to some orchestration of her own. “There might also be a list of authors’ names on his desk which he promised to give me today, the reason for my visit to his office, but which was nowhere to be seen.”
Mrs Ashkenazy looked surprised. “It’s not like papa to misplace a list of names and I have heard him say more than once that his secretary, Mr Thrypp, is the most efficient man he has ever employed. Papa once described him in terms of an automaton, you know, the little figures inside the Swiss clocks that come out every hour to strike a little bronze bell, and then disappear back behind their little doors. Here we are!”
The private study of the titan of publishing was a mirror image of the office of the titan of publishing with a gargantuan desk set before a gargantuan window, and a large sideboard on which sat an array of glittering cut-glass decanters with silver collars housing Spanish sherry. The only thing missing were the twin armoires, right and left, which housed the manuscripts yea and nay. A square envelope with the Countess’s name boldly calligraphied in purple ink sat prominently in the centre of the partner’s desk for one. Apart from an antique inkwell, some antique pens, and an antique clock, there were no other items on the leather-tooled surface. And no papers visible anywhere else. Bookshelves proudly displayed a first edition of all the books published by Panglossian Publishing from its inception ten years ago to the present, discounting the penny dreadfuls.
Mrs Ashkenazy left the Countess in the study to peruse the contents of the envelope when the nurserymaid came to inform her that the baby had woken from her nap.
The Countess smiled to herself as soon as she saw the contents. It was the list she had been desperate to obtain since arriving in York – a list of authors names, real and invented, associated with Panglossian Publishing. Too little too late, she smiled wryly. It revealed nothing new, nothing she didn’t already know. There were no actual names corresponding to the noms de plume that she recognised. Corresponding to the name of Conan le Coq there was no Miss Carterett, corresponding to Ryder Saxon there was no Mrs Henrietta Dicksen, corresponding to Baroness du Bois there was no Miss Titmarsh, and corresponding to Dick Lancelot there was no Mr Charles Dicksen. The famous author was listed, but not beside his dreadful nom de plume. His name appeared at the top of the list of male authors. Well, at least the list contained no Baron Brasenose and no Roman Acle either. Their omission confirmed they had never been published. They were not part of the stable of successful authors belonging to Panglossian.
Disappointed, she turned to gaze out of the Palladian window. The Dutch painter could be seen on the opposite bank, walking at a brisk pace. A quick check of the time on the desk clock told her he would return in about thirty minutes. Taking a leaf out of the wily publisher’s book of orchestration, she resolved to engineer a ramble in the garden just in time to bump into the painter as he came through the ogee gate.
Mrs Ashkenazy returned to find her guest still in the study, pretending to be interested in the first editions by Mr Charles Dicksen. The Countess realized her hostess had not brought up the topic of his demise so it was likely she did not know of it. Oh, well, it was now or never.
“I came here today,” she began hesitantly, “not just to enjoy your hospitality, but because I have some rather tragic news.”
Mrs Ashkenazy appeared to brace herself. “Tragic news?”
“I don’t know if you heard it from Monsieur van Brugge,” she proceeded cautiously, “but Mr Charles Dicksen was killed last night.”
“Papa’s most famous author? That is indeed tragic. Papa must be terribly agitated at the news. No wonder he misplaced some papers. I met Mr Dicksen twice. Once in London last year and then again the day before yesterday when he came to dinner.” She gave an involuntary shiver. “Shall we return to the drawing room? It is much warmer than the study. I’ve ordered a fresh pot of tea. How was he killed?”
“He was accidentally shot by his wife.”
“Oh, that is tragic indeed! The poor woman must be devastated!”
“Not really. The marriage was a loveless one. She is quite relieved.”
Mrs Ashkenazy’s lips curled to a knowing smile. “I think such marriages are more common than we are led to believe.”
“Indeed,” affirmed the Countess blandly as they settled back around the tea table.
“Will Mrs Dicksen be charged with murder?”
“I think not.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she remembered. “You said it was an accident. That’s a relief. I liked Mrs Dicksen very much.” She paused a moment and her brows pleated. “But if Mrs Dicksen was at the dinner party last night and her husband was away on a reading tour then how, I mean, when, could she have shot him?”
“It happened as she was travelling home.”
“Did she mistake him for a robber?”
“A highwayman.”
“You mean like Claude Duval?”
The Countess nodded at the reference to the infamous French highwayman of long ago. “Mr Dicksen dressed himself up as a highwayman and held up her coach on the Foss Islands Road. She was terrified of being shot and shot him instead.”
“Quel gredin! The rotten scoundrel! If I did not hear it from your own lips I would never believe it! Do you think he would have really shot his own wife?”
“I would not discount it.”
“Does he keep a young mistress?”
“Yes, it is that lovely young woman you met last night, Miss Isabel Flyte.”
“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed. “The wife and mistress, they attend the same parties! I thought that such things happened only in Monte Carlo and Paris! Mrs Dicksen did not appear to harbour any animosity to the young Miss Flyte. In fact, I thought she was very sympathetic toward her during dinner. I thought also that our charming host had his eye on her. And did the young woman not seem to encourage him?”
Mrs Ashkenazy poured some fresh tea as soon as the butler delivered it and waited eagerly for a response.
“Yes, I thought as you did. Mrs Dicksen was most kind toward Miss Flyte, including her in the conversation whenever she could and covertly correcting he
r many faux pas at the dinner table, regarding the fish knife and the dessert spoon and so on. As for our host, I agree again that he has set his eye on the ethereal Miss Flyte and that she was encouraging his attention. I would not be surprised, now that Mr Dicksen is out of the picture, to see Sir Marmaduke make a bold move in that direction.”
“What an interesting town. I always considered York to be provincial and a touch backward. Do you think it would be terribly forward of me to call on Mrs Dicksen at her home and offer my condolences in the next day or two?”
“Oh, not at all! I think your call would be well received.”
“And do you think it would be appropriate to invite Miss Flyte to afternoon tea here at Foss Bank House? When I mentioned it to Papa last night he mumbled something about the young woman’s declasse up-bringing, and I must admit her accent was hard to place, but if Sir Marmaduke has his eye on her she cannot be the social outcast Papa imagines.”
“I think there would be nothing remiss in inviting Miss Flyte to tea. She comes from a poor background but she is keen to better herself and I personally think she will go far in life. I like her very much and I think it can be very stultifying to limit oneself to the same social circle. We are at the cusp of a new century, a New Age, so it cannot hurt to break with tradition just a little. There comes a time in life when a woman must start pleasing herself rather than everyone else. Which brings me to the second piece of tragic news.”
The Countess reached for Mrs Ashkenazy’s hand and held it firmly, forcing her hostess to look directly into her eyes.
“It has something to do with my dear Papa?” the Jewess guessed at once, noting the earnest look.
“Yes,” replied the Countess tonelessly. “This morning when Dr Watson and I went to his office we found him dead.”
Mrs Ashkenazy’s hand broke free and flew to her mouth in shock. “No! No!” she cried, shaking her head. “Not Papa! Not Papa!”
The Countess wondered if she should summon the butler and call for smelling salts but Mrs Ashkenazy recovered herself fairly quickly. Like the majority of her sex, she was hardier than she looked, and she was more concerned for the effect the death would have on her child than on herself.
“My poor darling Rebecca, she will have no papa and no grand-papa! Pauvre enfante! Enfante pauvre!” she sighed heavily. “Did he suffer greatly?”
“No,” said the Countess softly.
“Where is he now? His body, I mean?”
“It has gone to the morgue. The police surgeon will check for a cause of death.”
“Not surgery post-mortem!” she cried in horror. “No! No! I cannot allow it!”
“Calm yourself, I pray, it is a necessary part of finding his killer.”
“Killer! You mean he was murdered! How? Why?”
“It appears the killer delivered a blow to his throat and then smothered him.”
Mrs Ashkenazy turned pale and did not speak for several moments while she pictured the ghastly scene in her mind’s eye.
“Do you think,” she asked plaintively, her voice quavering, “he was killed because he was Jewish?”
“No, put that thought from your mind. Do not torment yourself with such conjecture. I think his death is linked to the murders of the five authoresses.”
“But he is not an author?”
“No, of course not, but first and foremost the killings are linked to Panglossian Publishing.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs Ashkenazy wailed, clasping her arms around herself. “I did not take them seriously. When papa tried to talk about the deaths to me I hardly listened. I did not imagine his life could be at risk. How careless and uncaring I was! What a selfish daughter!”
“Do not berate yourself. The death of your papa cannot be laid at your door. Though, I raise this topic briefly, if you are after someone to manage your business affairs at Panglossian I think you cannot do better than Mr Thrypp. Now, I see that Monsieur van Brugge is returning from his promenade. I need to speak to him about the tragedy regarding Mr Dicksen.”
Mrs Ashkenazy once again pulled herself together quickly. “What can he have to do with the death of Mr Dicksen? He was not even at dinner last night. He went to the theatre.”
“Précisement, and he was returning along the Foss Islands Road just after Mr Dicksen was shot. He sat with Mrs Dicksen in her carriage until she revived from her swoon and he accompanied her home. I need to question him about any impression he may have formed. Will you be alright on your own while I slip out to the garden?”
Mrs Ashkenazy nodded dumbly, using her linen napkin to dab some unshed tears that lingered in the corners of her eyes. “I will see if Rebecca is ready for a turn in the perambulator. I will meet you in the garden shortly.”
Two gardeners were raking fallen leaves and barrowing them to a small bonfire on the lawn; a plume of grey smoke curled upwards. The scent of the last days of autumn filled the air. The Countess caught up to the Dutch painter as he pushed open the ogee gate. He was a handsome man, blond-haired, with a blond goatee and keen eyes set in a round face which always gives a boyish appearance to men, even into old age. He had a strong physique, redolent of a hunter or a sportsman rather than an artist. There was nothing effete about him.
“Bonjour Monsieur van Brugge.”
He tipped his wide-brimmed felt hat and bowed his head before securing the latch on the gate. “Bonjour Countess Volodymyrovna.”
They had never met, yet he knew her name, doubtless he had heard it from Mrs Ashkenazy or her papa. She had started off in French but decided to test his English to ascertain how well he may have understood the events of the previous evening. “May I walk with you?”
“Mais oui.”
“How is the portrait progressing?”
Following her lead, he slipped fluently into English. “Very well, thank you, Mrs Ashkenazy is a remarkable sitter who can sit patiently for hours without needing to be constantly cajoled to keep still, a rare thing in my experience, for a member of her sex. My last subject could not keep still for longer than a few minutes. It stretched my patience to the limit. The commission took twice as long as it should have and I was forced to decline a lucrative commission from Lord Cosgrove for a military portrait. Oh, I should not speak so unkindly of my benefactors. Please forgive…”
“Say no more. I quite understand. May I speak frankly on another subject?”
He aimed a curious sideways glance. “Certainly.”
“You were travelling along the Foss Islands Road last night when you came upon a tragedy, a shooting, I believe?”
The woollen scarf wrapped lightly around his neck came away when a puff of wind teased it loose, he slung it back over his shoulder with the casual flick of one hand. “A bizarre accident,” he confirmed. “A woman shot her husband by mistake. May I ask your interest in the matter or is it feminine curiosity that impels you to enquire?”
She decided not to prevaricate. “My colleague and I are assisting the police inspector with the recent spate of deaths here in York. You may have heard of them?”
“Five authoresses have been murdered,” he confirmed.
“Six,” she corrected, “and last night the man who was shot was also an author.”
“Mr Charles Dicksen. I have heard tell of him but I have not read any of his books. I intend to remedy that at the first opportunity. I will track down a good bookshop tomorrow?”
“I can recommend a good bookshop in the Shambles but you will find all of Dicksen’s books on the shelf in Mr Panglossian’s private study.”
“Ah, but they are all first editions. Mr Panglossian invited me to look at them on my first evening at Foss Bank House. I would not, however, be so presumptuous as to borrow any and invite the wrath of my benefactor. They are collector’s items. Over the years I have found it preferable to buy my own books and to read at leisure when time permits.”
“You have not heard the news, then?”
He stopped walking for a moment and turned to look at her, bl
ond brows expressing his own curiosity. “What news?”
“Mr Panglossian was found dead this morning.”
“Dead!” He stepped back from her and appeared to falter; no doubt the repercussion to his lucrative commission unbalanced him. He stroked his goatee beard meditatively as he pondered the possibilities. “Was it murder?”
“Yes, there is no doubt.”
“Has the murderer been apprehended?”
“Not as yet.”
“Do you have any idea who might have -” He broke off the rest of his sentence.
“I have a fairly good idea who murdered him but I am loath to name anyone until I have my proofs in order. I do not want to accuse an innocent person.”
“No, certainly not,” he agreed solemnly. “Is it safe, do you think, for us to remain in York while these murders remain unresolved? I speak not for myself, of course, but for Mrs Ashkenazy. Would it not be safer for her and the child to be in London?”
“No doubt, as you say, safer, but I cannot see her departing York while her father’s killer remains at large. And there is the funeral to consider. I sought you out just now because I wanted to ask you specifically, if you would recount the events of yesterday evening.”
“Surely you do not suspect the wife?”
“I cannot dismiss anyone until I have weighed the facts. The fact remains Mr Dicksen was shot last night and Mr Panglossian, who was somehow privy to the bizarre event beforehand, was killed early this morning. The two events may be related. Can you describe what took place?”
He stroked his goatee thoughtfully while he gathered his thoughts. “When I first came upon the scene the lady had swooned from shock. I clambered into her carriage to render assistance while her coachman was seeing to the horses. She did not appear to have suffered any physical injury. I had some snuff in a small box and waved it under her nose. The smell seemed to revive her. I stayed with her while my coachman galloped off for help. A police inspector arrived erelong, about fifteen or twenty minutes I think, and it was he who whipped the mask away from the highwayman. The lady’s coachman cried out something to the effect: It’s the master! God help us, it’s the master! The lady then promptly fainted a second time, falling into my arms. The inspector wrote down my particulars. While my coachman carried off the inspector and the dead body I offered to stay with the lady while her coachman conveyed her to her home. She lived nearby. Some servants came out and helped her up to her bedroom. I did not go into the house with her. Her coachman then conveyed me home. I did not mention the incident to Mrs Ashkenazy as I did not wish to disturb her equanimity and thus disrupt the painting.”