The Penny Dreadful Curse

by Anna Lord

  “The second point is handedness,” continued the Countess. “The boy who was strung up on a meat-hook was hoisted up by the scruff of the neck by a person using one hand - the right hand. Of course there are thousands of right-handed people in York. In this very room the majority of people are right-handed. I, myself, am right-handed. Right-handedness on its own is not a mitigating factor, merely an additional one. Mr Charles Dicksen was right-handed.”

  She heard some dissenting chatter and knew she was drawing a long bow. Mrs Dicksen urged her on with her eyes.

  “Let me proceed to the third factor: literacy. If you will hear me out, the long bow I draw may shorten. I thank you for your patience. A young boy was killed in the early hours in the Shambles by a right-handed person. To ram the boy’s skull onto a meat-hook suggests momentary insanity. Who would do such a violent thing? Should we be looking for a madman who goes about robbing boys in the early hours? If so, why have there been no other similar robberies and violent deaths? None before this one and none after. Is the robber of the boy a new type of criminal – a murderous maniac who takes pleasure in inflicting horrible pain as he robs his young victims of some trifle? For, yes, we know the boy was robbed. He was carrying a parcel from Panglossian to Gladhill. He did this regularly each month, always in the early hours. He had been instructed by Mr Panglossian’s secretary, the efficient Mr Thrypp, to enter the publishing house via the green door in the work yard, left unlocked by the night-watchman, climb the stairs and take the parcel wrapped in brown paper from the desk in the outer office. The boy was illiterate. He could not read but he knew which parcel to take because on it was written ‘Gladhill’ in large black letters. He recognized that word the way children recognize their name long before they learn to read and write. Why would a successful publisher choose an illiterate boy to deliver on a monthly basis a parcel to his most famous writer? This puzzled me. It bothered Mr Thrypp. It only makes sense if it is important that the boy not be able to read whatever may be in the parcel. But again, why?”

  She paused to gauge if her audience was keeping up. They appeared to be riveted so she continued without further ado.

  “The question of why was answered by Reverend Finchley when he confessed he believed the manuscripts he was submitting for publication under the name of Baron Brasenose were being reworked and then published under the name of Dick Lancelot. Dick Lancelot was the nom de plume for Mr Charles Dicksen. After a search of Mr Dicksen’s study, where two recent rejections belonging to the deacon were found, it became obvious that Mr Panglossian was sending the rejected penny dreadful manuscripts submitted by Baron Brasenose to Gladhill.”

  Mrs Dicksen smiled knowingly and looked at her cousin, whose body appeared to have grown taller and his back straighter.

  “However,” continued the Countess, “as even the best laid plans inevitably go awry, so did this simple plan unravel when, unbeknown to either Mr Panglossian or Mr Dicksen, their little courier became literate. Moreover, he became interested in the penny dreadfuls of Dick Lancelot. This point becomes important when we learn the illiterate courier had one other job at Panglossian Publishing. It was his task to take the rejected manuscripts and put them on a bonfire in the work yard. However, after he learned to read he decided to steal one or two or more of the rejections for his own reading pleasure. What harm could it do? The stories were earmarked for burning. Tragically, the manuscript he stole the day he was killed was written by Baron Brasenose – a manuscript that for reasons unknown to us had not been selected for delivery to Gladhill. All that is fact - the remainder I admit is conjecture.”

  Once more, the Countess drew breath and gazed around the parlour. By now her audience was hanging off her every word. Most sat with bated breath, surprised and yet not, waiting for the inevitable conclusion.

  “I summarise the events thus: The boy called Gin-Jim bumped into Mr Dicksen in the Shambles, his usual parcel in his arms, along with the stolen manuscript he intended to keep for himself. Mr Dicksen recognized the parcel meant for him. He may even have engaged the boy in pleasant banter, intending to claim his property then and there, quite legitimately. But as fate would have it he also recognized the unwrapped manuscript and his shock would have been significant. He may have assumed the boy already knew his secret, or else he could foresee the day when the boy might. His secret being not only that he wrote cheap penny dreadfuls but that he reworked the stories submitted by an anonymous author who had had all his submissions rejected time and time again. The damage to his reputation would have been catastrophic. The extreme violence inflicted on the boy thus appears not the violent over-reaction of a lunatic but the understandable reaction of a man terrified of exposure, his reputation, his fame, his career, his life shortly to be ruined. We will never know what passed between Mr Dicksen and the little courier, but we do know the boy clutched in his hand a scrap of paper with the initials BB written exactly as Baron Brasenose always wrote in the top left-hand corner of his work. The boy clung to this precious scrap of paper even as he was strung up on the meat-hook. We also know Mr Dicksen arrived at the lodging of Miss Flyte with a parcel wrapped in brown paper on which was written Gladhill and a manuscript with no wrapping, both of them written using green ink on the same paper Baron Brasenose used. There can be little doubt that Mr Dicksen killed the boy and took possession of the two parcels.”

  At this stage the Countess paused once more, allowing those present to pick apart her argument and take umbrage at her conclusion. Each man and woman turned to those who sat nearest to clarify details or reiterate points of interest. There were no dissenters. Even the dullest of the dull and the thickest of the thick could see that Mr Dicksen had both the perfect opportunity and a powerful motive.

  Commiserations were relayed to Reverend Finchley and many expressed the view that they did not really like the books written by Mr Charles Dicksen but read them because they had been recommended by others. Mr Thrypp went so far as to suggest to Mrs Ashkenazy that the dreadfuls by Dick Lancelot be republished under the name Baron Brasenose with an explanatory note attached and an apology from the publisher.

  The Countess cast a quick glance at the stairs. Boz was mopping the tears spilling down his cheeks, the violent death of his brother so vividly drawn and the ache in his heart so big he thought it would never leave him. Meanwhile, Patch was slowly nodding, his tired brain wading through the mire of logic at its own pace, following its inevitable meander into a man-made swamp where chance, fate, tragedy and death came together in the stew-pond called Life.

  21

  Dreadfullest News

  “I will now outline the facts pertaining to the murders of the six authoresses and Mr Panglossian,” said the Countess. “I believe all seven were killed by the same man. This killer was left-handed. A trifle, I hear you say, but important in establishing that it was not Mr Dicksen who committed these crimes.”

  She turned to Dr Pertwee. “Doctor, can you verify for us whether the bruising to the throat of Miss Titmarsh and Mr Panglossian was inflicted by the right hand or the left?”

  Dr Pertwee pushed to his feet, coughed to clear the stale cigarette fumes clogging his throat and lungs, coughed again, and being unsuccessful, spoke in a hoarse voice. “The bruising to the throat of both victims indicates a left hand in action. This can be fairly accurately ascertained from the bruise marks left by each individual knuckle and the angle of the clenched fist striking slightly from the left rather than the right, though how you would know that, young lady, without examining the bodies, defies all logic.”

  Having said his piece he coughed once more and sat back down.

  The Countess picked up the thread. “From that testimony we can be fairly certain the killer of the last two victims is left-handed. Our killer is also brazen, audacious, crafty and clever. He must be because he killed seven people without being detected. He followed his victims, possibly for several days, and was able to move about the streets freely without being observed. It is safe to ass
ume he must have chosen his victims, all female, apart from Mr Panglossian, as they left Panglossian Publishing on a Sunday after receiving their royalties and followed them home and stalked them as they went about their daily lives. We can assume he either targeted women because they were easier victims to stalk and kill, there were more women than men who wrote dreadfuls, or he hated female authors. It could well be that all three factors came into play. On the surface it is likely he is quite personable because he befriended his fifth victim and may even have been pretending to court her before throwing her off Skeldergate Bridge. His first four murders appear more opportunistic than anything else but by the fifth, sixth and seventh our killer understood some careful planning was necessary. He was growing more daring and things were becoming more dangerous and the risk of being caught was increasing. He timed his appearance in the middle of Skeldergate Bridge perfectly. He knew when the show at the Friargate Theatre would finish and he knew how long it would take his victim to walk the distance. He also took great care when breaking into the abode of Miss Titmarsh, moving items from the draining board and placing them carefully on the cutting board, wiping traces of mud from his boots off the sink, and leaving via the front door, though it meant he risked being seen, all in all, giving the premeditated murder the semblance of an accident. Likewise, he entered and left Panglossian Publishing without being observed. He must have known Mr Panglossian arrived early for work. He must have been familiar with the building. So, I wonder, who would have had such knowledge? Who would have been able to come and go so freely? Who would have had the time to execute seven murders without being seen or even suspected? Mr Corbie? A man who rarely left his shop! A man with arthritis in both hands! Hardly! Our killer is respectable and intelligent. He is someone who is able to blend in when necessary and move about quickly, day and night.”

  She paused for breath and allowed those whose breaths were clutched to draw breath too.

  “Our killer is also strong. Mr Panglossian was not a small, defenceless, weak man, nor was he an author. And yet he was killed. So why did the killer break his pattern? This is where our killer starts to make mistakes. He has grown tired of murdering authoresses and decides to murder the man he holds responsible for his ill fortune. After murdering Mr Panglossian our killer stuffs a page torn from a manuscript into the publisher’s mouth as if to smother him. He is enraged. He wants to punish the publisher. He then steals some rejected manuscripts and plants them in the dust bins behind the bookshop in the hope of incriminating Mr Corbie. The plan works. Mr Corbie is quickly arrested and charged. Our killer makes sure not to steal his own manuscripts however; they remain in the reject cupboard. He does not want any link to be found that may lead back to him. Ah! His own manuscripts, I hear you say? Yes, those he has written but which have been rejected. Yes, our killer is a failed writer, and like a woman scorned, he is full of resentment, bitterness, animosity, and jealousy. He despises those who have found success where he has not, especially if he views them as less intelligent, less worthy, less talented. How do I know this? I have read his work. Ah, but who is this mysterious author?”

  At this stage she began to cough uncontrollably and called for a brief interlude.

  She called on Mr Hiboux to serve some tea and coffee so that they could all lubricate their throats. At the same time she directed Inspector Bird to retrieve the package from her bedroom; the package she had been careful to personally wrap and send straight into the safe-keeping of her maid, Xenia, at the Mousehole. She asked Dr Watson if he would mind refreshing the sherry glasses.

  Several people decided to stretch their legs. Someone opened the front door to let in some fresh air. But the burst of cold was too much for others and someone quickly closed it again. Conversation remained subdued and stilted. No one quite knew who the killer might be, though they all had their hunches. They all felt a little wary about voicing thoughts that might be misconstrued when it came down to it or even put them in the path of danger. Miss Carterett served the coffee while Mrs Ashkenazy took charge of the teapot.

  Before too long, the Countess retook the floor and calm was quickly restored. Everyone slipped into the nearest chair, much like the party game of musical chairs. No one wanted to be found wanting, no one wanted to stand out, no one wanted to draw attention to themself. Blending in was much safer.

  “Let us continue,” said the Countess. “We are nearly done. I put it to you that our killer and the mysterious author known as Roman Acle are one and the same. Our killer-cum-author is not unintelligent as we have seen. He even has a sense of humour. Roman a Cle! The nom de plume of noms de plume! And what does he write about? What is his specialty? What is his topic of choice? With splendid or perhaps sinister irony we discover it is detective fiction. He particularly likes the stories of Sherlock Holmes. He has reworked them. The Sign of Four becomes the The Four Signs. A Study in Scarlet becomes A Scarlet Study. But Mr Dicksen was right about one thing. The stories of Roman Acle lack voice. They are well-plotted and well-written but they do not engage the reader. The characters are wooden and the dialogue is flat and lifeless.”

  The Countess turned to look at the man coming down the stairs with the package in his hands, but not before sheeting a glance at Miss Carterett and noting the strange look come over the young woman’s face. Where had she heard that sound before? What was that shiver that just ran down her spine? Why did she suddenly feel afraid? The Countess knew the answers to those questions even if Miss Carterett did not. Not yet.

  “Thank you, Inspector Bird,” she said, accepting the package he passed to her using his left hand. “Here are the rejects of Roman Acle. Proof that our mysterious author and our killer are one and the same.”

  Without warning, Inspector Bird elbowed the Countess out of the way and made a sudden dash for the back door, knocking over Mr Hiboux who crashed into Dr Pertwee who toppled against Monsieur van Brugge. The Countess landed with a thud on the floor and her head banged violently against the floorboards. Dr Watson rushed to her side.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed, ignoring the ensuing pandemonium as he helped her to sit up, berating himself for his lack of foresight. “Are you alright?” he implored as he eased her into a vacant chair.

  “Yes, yes, just winded.”

  Inspector Bird got all the way to the kitchen before two things happened.

  Miss Carterett cried out: “The footsteps! The footsteps on the stairs!”

  And Mr Smedley called out: “That’s him! That’s him! The gent on the bridge!”

  Fedir was poised on the other side of the pantry door. He stepped forward and delivered an upper-cut to the inspector’s jaw while Xenia clobbered him with a frying pan. He went down like a nine pin and by the time he realized the game was up, he was trussed up like one of Mr Hiboux’ chickens for the pot. Everyone moved to congratulate the Countess who was satisfied that at least her head was not as sore as that of the inspector.

  Mr Hiboux hurried off to prepare supper with the help of his friend, Mr Corbie, who appeared to have come back to life more miraculously than Lazarus. Patch and Boz had never seen the old bookseller look so merry and when he suggested they move in with him and learn the book trade they didn’t know whether he was joking or not.

  The oppressive mood turned instantly festive and anyone passing by the Mousehole late that night might have been forgiven for thinking Christmas had come early to the Shambles.

  Dr Watson hung back from the happy banter, berating himself for his slow-wit. How did she do it? Even to the last moment he had no idea who the killer might be. All evening he had been in two minds, wavering between Mr Thrypp and Sir Marmaduke, before settling on Dr Pertwee. He could hardly bring himself to look at his medical colleague without turning red.

  “How did you know it was Inspector Bird?’ he said when the Mousehole cleared and he and the Countess finally had the inglenook to themselves.

  “His name gave him away.”

  “Roman a Cle?”

  “No, his
real name.” She fished the inspector’s card out of her pocket and handed it to the doctor. “Look for yourself. His real name is Branwell Bird.”

  “BB?”

  “No, not the letters! The actual name: Branwell. As in Branwell Bronte, another talentless hack. The ne'er-do-well brother of the Bronte sisters who had been given every advantage in life yet achieved none of the success of his put-upon sisters who had to claw time out of their chore-filled days to write their books. The BB is a mere coincidence. Yes, doctor, coincidence does exist, and it is something to bear in mind during future cases.”

  “Future cases?” he posed with a wry inflection.

  “We make a great team,” she returned with supreme confidence. “One day we will be more famous than you-know-who.”

  Determined to turn his back on that prediction, he got all the way to the stairs before wheeling sharply. Hang on a moment!

  “The name Branwell could not have told you he was the killer!” he challenged.

  She laughed richly. “Bravo, doctor! I was pulling your leg! Do you remember the first night we met the inspector? He said how much he liked your stories and mentioned that he had read them all more than once. As soon as I read the unpublished manuscripts of the mysterious Roman Acle I knew the author had to be someone who knew your stories inside out. Only one person sprang to mind: Inspector Bird.”

  Unconvinced, the doctor stroked his beard meditatively. “But if he was the murderer all along why on earth would he have agreed to the proposal put forward by Inspector MacDuff to have us come to York? Why on earth would he want us to help him solve the murders he was committing? Surely, he would have been better off without our help!”