by Anna Lord
Mr Corbie almost fainted when the blood rushed to his head. “Oh, it is far too much, madame,” he declared, his conscience overriding his stomach. “Let me just calculate – ”
“No need for that,” she cut off. “Anything over and above the cost of the books can be put down to delivery charges. By the by, I am Countess Volodymyrovna. It was a pleasure to do business Mr -?”
“Corbie.”
“Mr Corbie, good evening to you, and may I say I was admiring your sign on my way in. The gold font is most striking and the wording is most eloquent, however, I was unsure whether you actually stocked penny dreadfuls and I was thinking to myself that I might need to find a bookseller in the marketplace.”
“Oh, indeed, I stock everything!” he gushed, almost delirious with joy. “And it was very observant of you, Countess Volodymyrovna, I am in the process of amending the sign as we speak. It will read: Antiquarian books and penny dreadfuls. I may even add an exclamation mark. Can I be so bold as to enquire if you think that is a good idea?”
“The exclamation mark, you mean?”
He nodded unctuously.
“Mais oui, bien sur, certainement!” she replied in French. “I am a great believer in exclamation marks. I sometimes use two or three at a time.”
Dr Watson could not stand idly by a moment longer. She had already bribed her way into the man’s good-books and now she was toying with him like a cat with a mouse. “I think there is no call for exclamation marks in titles,” he pronounced authoritatively. “It is unthinkable! You will set a precedent in the Shambles that may be slavishly copied and who knows where that may end! Good evening to you, Mr Corbie!”
As soon as the bell tinkled, Mr Corbie began scooping up the dreadfuls, tying them with string in bundles of twenty. He had exactly ten bundles by the time he was done and immediately carted them across the lane to the Mousehole Inne lest his generous benefactor change her mind and request to be refunded. Mr Hiboux was at first flustered by the quantity of books that came through his door though the Countess had forewarned him to expect a large delivery and he had cleared a spot under the benches in the inglenook.
“Are you doing another pot au feu tonight, my old friend?” asked Mr Corbie, scenting something mouthwateringly delicious that brought tears to his eyes.
“Bourguignon. There is sure to be some left over. I can bring some over,” Mr Hiboux offered generously.
“You are a true friend,” said Mr Corbie. “We can share a bottle of vin rouge when you come. I am going to the wine merchant at the end of the lane to settle my account and to buy a nice burgundy. I will buy a baguette at the bread shop and settle my account there as well.”
“You have come into some money, mon vieux?”
Mr Corbie lowered his voice and checked over his shoulder. “Your illustrious guest, Countess Volodymyrovna, insisted on paying over and above the cost of the dreadfuls. If you play your cards right, she may leave a generous tip when she departs your establishment. And do you realize who her travelling companion is?”
Mr Hiboux shook his head.
“It is the famous author of the Sherlock Holmes chronicles.”
“Shylock Homes?” Mr Hiboux was sensitive to religious persecution of all sorts, even to Jews, and wondered if he should alter his menu to avoid porc, jambon et lardon.
“Not Shylock. Sherlock. You mean to say you have never heard of Mr Sherlock Holmes?” he cried, aghast. “He is the most famous consulting detective in all of London and possibly the world.”
“I don’t have much time to read,” mumbled Mr Hiboux apologetically.
Mr Corbie was about to offer to lend him some books on Sherlock Holmes but bit his tongue in time. He had lent books before to people he counted as friends and never saw the books again. His luck might have changed for the better, but bitter experience had taught him not to push it. “I must be off before the wine merchant shuts his door. I will leave my door unbolted. Just come whenever you are ready. A bientôt, mon ami.”
Later that same evening, when Mr Hiboux took himself off to the bookshop to share some dinner with the bookseller, the Countess and Dr Watson set to unbundling the penny dreadfuls.
“The first thing we need to do is separate those published in York from those published elsewhere. Make two piles,” instructed the Countess. “Then we can sort those published by Panglossian from those by other publishers.”
In the end they had about seventy-five dreadfuls that fit the criteria.
“These noms de plume are outlandish,” sneered Dr Watson. “I suppose it goes with the purple prose and the outrageous storylines. Listen to these: Dick Lancelot writes tales about knights, Ryder Saxon writes about Jack Black the Highwayman, Conan le Coq writes tales about a ghosthunter, and Baroness du Bois writes about a cavalier. That last one is a barely disguised re-hash of The Scarlet Pimpernel. It is called Crimson Cavalier. It borders on plagiarism. There is nothing remotely original in any of this.”
“It is not meant to be original. It is meant to be entertaining. The readers who read these don’t have time to absorb 800 pages sprinkled with erudite Greek and Latin references. They want something to take their minds off their dull and monotonous existences, something light, something imaginative and above all something cheap.”
“In that case,” he said sardonically, fingering the flimsy newsprint, “these books fit the bill perfectly.”
The Countess began to further separate the stack into female and male authors and quickly realized that apart from Roberta Redford, the other four victims did not use pseudonyms. They wrote under their own names. That explained how Inspector Bird was able to make the link to authors at Panglossian Publishing so expeditiously. But what made the fact even more interesting was that if the killer was choosing authors to murder, the first four would have been easy to track down. The killer may even have followed them from the publishing house to their place of residence and then stalked them until a chance to commit murder presented itself. Or perhaps the killer was already acquainted with the world of writing and publishing in York. Perhaps he was himself an author. Perhaps he even worked at the publishing house. The first four victims were easy targets. But what about the fifth? Killing Robbie Redbeard would have required personal knowledge of the nom de plume. Oh, hang on! The nom de plume was not really a nom de plume at all since it was openly used by the authoress. It was the equivalent of her real name.
The problem with trying to sort the dreadfuls into piles of female and male authors soon became apparent. Neither the author’s name as it appeared on the publication nor the subject matter was an accurate predictor of sex. Roberta Redford wrote about pirates. Saskia Frubb wrote about cowboys in the Wild West. Eva Gluckstein wrote about werewolves in the Black Forest. Fanny Gorley wrote about crusaders in the Holy Land. While Constance de la Mare wrote about smugglers in Cornwall. These women did not write about princesses and mermaids and female detectives!
“The only way we are going to find out if these authors are male or female is by speaking to their publisher, Mr Panglossian. He will surely have a list of the authors’ real names and their addresses, otherwise how can he send them their royalties. In the meantime, let us immerse ourselves in the world of dreadfuls. Which do you prefer? Knights, cavaliers, highwaymen, vampires or ghosthunters?”
5
Mr Panglossian
Eggy light was smearing itself across a dirty leaden sky shaped like a skillet when a hysterical scream reverberated down the Shambles. It shook everyone sleeping in the rooms above the shops, including Mr Corbie, Mr Hiboux, Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna. Miss Titmarsh was the only person who was already wide awake. She had just taken a batch of scones out of the bread oven and was placing a teacake inside the coal range before the temperature grew too hot and burnt the crust. She almost dropped her cake tin from sheer fright. It was the sort of blood-curdling scream that sent shivers up spines, caused hair to stand on end and carried with it the presentiment of bad tidings. Last night, wh
ispers had spread throughout the city of York regarding the recent spate of murders of writers of penny dreadfuls. It put the wind up everyone. Doors were locked and bolted, windows secured, shutters fastened, curtains drawn, and everyone went to bed fearing the worst.
Apart from the old char who had let out the distressing shriek, trudging off at dawn to her place of toil in Jubbergate, Mr Corbie was the first on the scene. He slept in a trundle bed in his kitchen to save on heating the upstairs rooms and as a rule slept in his clothes to keep warm, although that would soon change. He now had sufficient funds to buy coals for his fire and would soon purchase new vestments to wear while the others were being laundered. The little bell jangled as he flung open his door, stomach clenched in trepidation. He was not an overly imaginative man, more of a pragmatist than a fantasist, that is not to say he did not delight in creative fiction – how could he not! - but he did not spend his time in wild daydream, nevertheless, he had read enough books to prompt his pedestrian imagination into conjuring a vision of a dead body in the runnel, perhaps stabbed or strangled, perhaps another author, and for a brief moment he had entertained the wild notion that this time it might be Conan le Coq.
But no amount of imagination could have prepared him for what came next. He rushed forth and slammed smack-bang into a dead body dangling from a meat hook. He gave out a shocked gasp when he realized that the meat hook was the one outside his own shop and that the body was that of a young boy. At first he thought it might be Patch and his heart froze and something inside him died, but when he recovered his wits he saw that the corpse was layered in filthy rags. Patch was poor but he could afford a woollen scarf, a cloth cap and leather boots with laces. This penniless lad was scarfless, capless and bootless, the poorest of the poor, an orphan without a home and without hope.
A surge of anger rose up in Mr Corbie though he was normally an even-tempered man, a pacifist and a coward at heart, accustomed to Life’s vicissitudes and grudgingly ceding to its unfairnesses. But this was cruel. Heartless. Evil. Wicked. Wrong. Tears filled his eyes and he blinked them back but they welled up of their own accord and spilled down his bloodless cheeks, finding crevices in his crêpey skin before trailing wetly between grey bristles.
Mrs Bagshott, the char, continued to wail hysterically and it was the snooded spinster, Miss Titmarsh, who arrived upon the scene next and took the hysteric by the arm and led her into her teashop. A warm scone and a cup of hot tea would soon see the old char right. A curious crowd began to gather, shivering with cold and fright, wringing their hands and shaking their heads, moaning about the sinful state of the world at the close of the nineteenth century, muttering about evil omens and the end of goodness and righteousness.
Mr Hiboux joined his friend, Mr Corbie, and together they were about to lift the dead boy down when Dr Watson appeared at the door of the inn.
“Leave the body,” he commanded brusquely. “Don’t touch it!”
“We cannot just leave it,” protested Mr Corbie, staring at the puddle of blood that had formed an ugly, viscous, red pond on his doorstep, which he had unknowingly stepped into. “It is not right to just leave the poor lad dangling like that.”
The curious crowd ventured closer, morbidly attracted to the ghastly sight, despite their fears and trepidations and superstitions regarding death, or perhaps because of them, for it is a sad fact of human nature that men and women are drawn to gruesome scenes of depravity and violence, hence the popularity of public hangings and the lucrative trade in souvenirs from horrible murders.
“It looks like that drawing in Ghosthunter!” someone whispered.
“The Hanging Ghost-Boy! I read it only last week!”
“Yes!” agreed a third. “I never thought I would see such a thing for real!”
“Especially not in the Shambles!” added a fourth with relish.
“Well, it is a slaughterhouse!”
“Bite your tongue!”
“Shut-up you old fool!”
The crowd was growing jittery; tempers were beginning to flare. Mothers ushered their littlies inside, shielding sleepy eyes lest the sight induce nightmares and invite ill omens. Dogs growled low in their throats, some barked out of fear - others went to sniff the blood.
Frustrated at her state of undress, the Countess pushed open her bedroom window and poked her head out. Slumberous brunette tresses tumbled over the window sill. Word had spread like wildfire and the curious crowd had multiplied into a mob. She watched as a rag-tag group of boys came barrelling around the corner. They clearly knew the dead lad twisting in the wind because several of them blasphemed and others began to weep. The smallest boy vomited into the runnel. The biggest boy, wearing a cloth cap, demonstrated maturity beyond his years.
“I’ll give you a hand lifting the body down,” he said, addressing himself to Mr Corbie.
“No one is to touch the corpse!” barked Dr Watson, self-appointed guardian of the dangling grotesquerie. “We must wait for the police. They will need to examine the body the way it is.”
“It is sacrilege to leave the poor mite hanging,” a squinty-eyed biddy muttered through toothless gums, hugging a frayed and tattered shawl as if to ward off the cold and guard against the evil eye. “Reverend Finchley should be called to say a blessing for the poor mite.”
“Never mind Reverend Finchley!” blasted someone else. “Where are the bloody police?”
“And what are they doing about all these murders!”
“What use is it to have a police force if they cannot protect god-fearing citizens while going about their normal business!”
“Useless lot! That’s what I say!”
“The police are on their way,” proclaimed Dr Watson forcefully to compensate for the fact he knew it would be a goodly while before a member of the constabulary showed up. “Inspector Bird will be here any moment,” he lied brazenly. “Keep back, I say!”
Desperate to inspect the dangling corpse, the Countess waved away her maid, threw a fur cloak over her silky peignoir, swapped her embroidered slippers for ankle boots, raced down the stairs and onto the street just in time spot Inspector Bird striding along the Shambles, preceded by his enormous whiskers. He had been hurrying along Coppergate, on his way to the river where two barges had collided in thick fog during the early hours, when word reached him about the grisly murder of a boy in the Shambles. The Ouse did not have river police as did the Thames and the policing of the waterway fell to the regular force. The inspector was a hardened stalwart yet even he was shocked at the brutality inflicted on a mere boy. The meat hook had gone into the back of the boy’s head in the place where the neck met the skull. Whoever hauled the unlucky lad off his feet must have held him aloft by the scruff of the neck, or what there was of it, it being so thin and scrawny. There were bruise marks under each ear where the fingers and thumb of the hand had gripped tight, cutting off the vocal chords at the same time, but the bruises were not consistent with strangulation. The boy was alive when he was lifted off the ground. The thrust of the iron meat hook into the soft spot at the base of the skull was what snuffed out his young life.
“Clear off everyone!” commanded the inspector. “That’s enough gawping! Go home before I arrest the lot of you for obstructing a police officer in the line of his duty!”
As soon as the shivering mob retreated to the warmth and safety of their hearths, the inspector called on Dr Watson to help him lower the body down and place it on the pavement at the front of the bookshop. Mr Corbie watched morosely through the bow window as he cleaned his bloody shoe and Magwitch, not to be left out, cleaned his nether regions.
“This boy is one of the Snickelwayers,” said the inspector. “I don’t know his name but I recognize the ginger hair. He lived with the group of boys you just saw; orphans mostly, or runaways, fleeing homes where the father or mother is gin-soaked and they are sick of getting a cuff behind the ear just for breathing. But this is a terrible murder. The most cruel and senseless I have ever witnessed from my ti
me in the force.”
“The killer was right-handed,” observed the Countess, studying the lifeless body as daylight swelled and made it easier to spot details that had hitherto remained obscure. “It would be fair to conclude the killer would have used his main hand to lift the boy off the ground and the fingermarks on the throat indicate it was the right hand. Oh, this is interesting. The boy’s fingers are clenched. I believe he might be clutching something. Can I unclench his fingers, inspector?”
He nodded as he scribbled the time and date and location in his pocketbook.
“It is a torn piece of paper,” she said as she teased it out, “and there is something written on it.”
As she was straightening up, a pack of dogs came loping down the runnel. She jumped back in fright and almost lost her balance on the uneven cobbles. At the same time the wind whipped the scrap of paper out of her hand.
Dr Watson tried his best to keep the dogs away from the corpse.
The inspector pocketed his notebook and was torn between helping the doctor and chasing after the scrap of paper. When the dogs turned their attention to the puddle of blood and began to lick it up, he turned his attention to the paper. He caught up to it several yards along and managed to stamp his foot on it to stop it flying any further, but as soon as he bent down to retrieve it the wind whipped it away. When he got to the end of the Shambles and the scrap of paper flew around the corner of St Crux and down the Pavement where drays, cart horses and carriages rumbled up and down he gave up and returned to the scene of the crime to find that Mr Hiboux had located an old blanket from his linen cupboard and placed it over the dead body.
The Countess disappeared to complete her toilette while Dr Watson and the inspector retreated to the teashop where Inspector Bird interviewed the char.
