by Anna Lord
Between buttered crumpets and freshly brewed tea, Mr Dicksen informed them he would be doing a reading at the York Theatre Royal at seven o’clock that evening.
“The Theatre Royal seats almost seven hundred and the tickets sold out more than a month ago,” he explained with no lack of modesty, “but I always reserve some seats for personal friends and favoured guests, not with the hoi-polloi in the stalls, of course, but in one of the private boxes. I would be honoured if you would fill those seats and attend tonight’s reading.” He beamed some golden radiance in the Countess’s direction, of which a few slants fell towards the doctor. “Someone will meet you in the foyer and direct you to your seats. Arrive at fifteen minutes before seven. Try not to be late.” He pushed to his well-shod feet. “Well, I must be off. I have a book to write that will not write itself!” He took the hand of the Countess and brought it to his lips in a gesture both passionate and dramatic. “Enchante, Countess Volodymyrovna, a bientôt.”
“Did you learn anything interesting during your tour of the printing presses?” posed the Countess as soon as she and Dr Watson turned their backs on the Panglossian Publishing House.
“Not per se, but I had a chance to ask Mr Panglossian about copyright and royalties. You will recall he said he didn’t ask for the real names of his authors, nor their addresses, nor anything about their circumstances, well, it stands to reason he would not be able to send the royalties to their benefactors. The only way the benefactors of deceased authors could claim their rightful royalties would be to go personally to Panglossian with proof of who the author was and their relationship to the author. Do you see where I am going with this?”
She was already nodding. “It means if an author dies and no one comes to claim the royalties or claim copyright then Panglossian Publishing gets to keep both.”
“I’m not suggesting Mr Panglossian would murder his own authors in order to profit from their deaths but it is a most unusual arrangement he has in place.”
“Mmm, yes, it seems counter-intuitive to kill off your own authors.”
“Unless they were intending to transfer to another publisher, of course.”
His line of reasoning provided an adrenaline surge to her sagging spirit and she picked up her pace as they crossed busy Coppergate, dodging wagons laden with goods heading down to the river to be loaded onto barges and wagons coming up to town to be unloaded into warehouses and factories.
“We need to check how profitable the dead authoresses might have been for Panglossian Publishing,” she said.
“How can we do that if they were paid in secret?”
“The York penny dreadfuls have a publication number on the front. The highwayman series was numbered in the 150’s. I think it refers to volume. It means the author has published at least 150 dreadfuls. Hotcakes, remember! Sell one or two and you starve but sell hundreds and you’re in clover. And so is your publisher. I commend you on your perspicacity.”
Like most men his age, he had long ago learned to accept praise with a modicum of modesty but whenever the Countess praised him he turned into a cooked lobster.
“How about some lunch?” he said as they passed a cafe with colourful red and white gingham cloths on the tables that caught his eye.
“I had two crumpets, two cups of Souchong and two mouthfuls of sherry back at Panglossian. I couldn’t eat another bite. Besides, I am keen to check the volume numbers of our dead authoresses. Plus I want to see if any authors have the initials BB.”
“BB?”
Coppergate melted into the Pavement at the spot where she stopped to buy several bunches of bluebells from an old flower-seller who earned more in that moment than the entirety of the month.
“I hope Mr Hiboux has some vases. I think these pretty flowers will brighten up ye olde gloomy Mousehole.”
“BB?” he prompted again when they recommenced walking.
“Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you. When I smuggled the muffins to the bookshop this morning I found Mr Corbie talking to the young lad with the cloth cap who seemed to be the leader of the rag-tag army of Snickelwayers. He is a chimneysweep called Patch. In his pocket he had the piece of paper that was in the dead boy’s hand which Inspector Bird chased without success down the Shambles. One of the younger boys, the one who vomited, Boz, had caught hold of the paper and passed it onto Patch. The dead boy, by the way, was called Gin-Jim. Anyway, the paper appeared to have been the remnant of the top left-hand corner of a page. I could have sworn this morning that it was larger and had more writing on it, alas, the only thing you can see now are the initials BB.”
“The initials of his killer?”
“That’s what Mr Corbie suggested but I cannot see how Gin-Jim would know his killer in advance. And, besides, the writing was beautifully executed using a fountain pen with a wide nib. Not the sort of thing a penniless boy is likely to possess. I have the paper in my bag and can show you when we get back to the inn. I don’t want to risk losing it in this jostling crowd.”
“What about the quality of paper? Sherlock prided himself on being an expert with paper. He could recognize at a glance where it came from.”
“All I can say with certainty is that it was of middling quality. The colour was what I would call white-white. It is quite common.”
They reached the door of the Mousehole and paused under the over-hanging eaves.
“I will only get in your way,” announced Dr Watson, “so I will bid you farewell for now and take a bite of lunch at Ye Olde Minster Teashoppe then pay a visit to the police station to speak to Inspector Bird about what we have learned so far. I might even call in to see Dr Pertwee and see if he can tell us anything about the unfortunate boy who was killed this morning, although I agree with the inspector that his death is unlikely to be related to the five murders we are investigating.”
“That’s what I would have said this morning but while you were with Panglossian checking the printing presses in the basement I returned to his office where I was privy to an interesting exchange between Mr Dicksen and Mr Thrypp.”
“When you went back for the bag you contrived to forget?” he quipped.
She laughed lightly. “Bravo, doctor! A few more crime cases and we will be able to read each other’s minds!”
He decided to move on swiftly. “What conversation?”
“Mr Thrypp heard about the death of the boy in the Shambles while he was out buying crumpets and he said he thought it would be of interest to Mr Dicksen because the boy was a courier between Panglossian and Gladhill, the place where Dicksen lives. The boy was paid to carry a parcel from Panglossian to Gladhill on a regular basis. Mr Dicksen poo-pooed the idea but Mr Thrypp then added that there had been a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string on the corner of his desk for the boy to collect. The parcel had gone, meaning the boy picked it up as usual and was delivering it to Gladhill, but there was no such parcel in the Shambles as far as I could see.”
“The killer would have taken it. It may even have been the motive for killing the boy. The killer may have been a thief who thought the boy was carrying something valuable.”
“That’s what I thought too, at first, but Mr Dicksen leapt out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box when you and Panglossian showed up. I got the distinct impression he wanted to be the first to break the news about the dead boy to Panglossian, rather than leaving it to Thrypp.”
“For what reason?”
“I don’t know. It was only an impression, and a brief one at that, but if Dicksen wanted to pre-empt Thrypp it could only be because he wanted to direct the way the news was conveyed or control the way it was understood by Panglossian.”
He shook his head. “I cannot agree. Dicksen jumped up because he likes the sound of his own voice. He struck me as a born showman.”
“Show-off, you mean?”
“That too!” he laughed. “Have you read any of his books? I have always considered them to be over-written and verbose and now that I have met the author I
can see why I formed that opinion. He is over-dramatic on page and off! The Theatre Royal, indeed! A private box! Ha! I would sooner cut out my tongue than give a public reading to an audience of seven hundred! I certainly won’t be going tonight!”
“What! I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
“Oh, spare me! Don’t tell me you have fallen for his charm – what there is of it!”
“Some men exude charm and some ooze it. Mr Charles Dicksen is the latter. But his invitation is the sort that fuels a sleuth’s blood more than oxygen itself. Make sure you are back here by five o’clock. I will inform Mr Hiboux we will be requiring an early supper.”
The Countess immediately set to work sorting and checking the dreadfuls with the help of her personal maid, Xenia, spreading them out on the floor of her bedroom. Among the publications there were no names, real or invented, that matched BB. Baroness du Bois was the only one who came close, and that was only if you omitted the du from her nom de plume; not entirely out of the question. Baron Brasenose was a perfect match but he had to be discounted because he hadn’t actually been published. He only existed in the reject cupboard. Disappointed, she instructed Xenia to tidy up the dreadfuls and return them to the inglenook when the maid spotted a name that appeared regularly in tiny font on the back cover. It was the name of the illustrator: Ben Barbican.
The Countess didn’t agree with Inspector Bird that the death of Gin-Jim was unrelated to the other murders and here was her first real clue to a possible connection to penny dreadfuls.
While Xenia tidied up, the Countess thought about the five authors who had been killed. Only the second could have earned a decent living from writing. Her penny dreadfuls stretched to volume 97. The other four authors had volumes amounting to 3, 12, 7 and 9, respectively. Panglossian could not possibly have killed them off for the royalties or copyright. And even if they were planning to move to another publisher he would hardly be concerned enough to kill them. As he said: there was no end of dreadful writers waiting in the wings.
And no end of writers of dreadfuls either.
7
Theatre Royal
The York Theatre Royal secured for itself a prominent position on St Leonards Place, across the road from the Museum Gardens where the fourth victim had been found with her head mashed to a pulp. The theatre was a prime example of the popular gothic revival style with five pointed-arches across the front which gave the facade a pleasing and balanced appearance. A perfectly centred oriel window enhanced the symmetricality.
As their hired landau pulled up alongside the Museum Gardens, the Countess pointed to a man standing in the shadow of one of the arches among the milling crowd swelling into the hundreds, waiting expectantly for the doors to be thrown open.
“Look over there - Mr Corbie is chatting to someone rather respectable looking. It is high time to expand our circle. Let’s hurry and introduce ourselves?”
Dr Watson paid the cabbie then took her by the arm as they dodged skittish horses and strings of landaus, broughams and hansoms dropping off their hires. She had chosen to wear an asymmetrical manteau trimmed with fur; its snug draping impeded anything other than carefully measured strides.
The man chatting to Mr Corbie was Reverend Finchley. He was not actually a vicar, but a lay deacon of the Holy Trinity Catholic Church. The title was quite correct but quite misleading. He had one of those ageless male faces that some men are lucky enough to have, though he had probably reached his late thirties. His tallish frame was lean and willowy. He had a sprinkling of freckles and a short crop of curly blond hair that also added to his boyish appearance. All these good features were unfortunately overshadowed by the fact he was in the habit of blinking incessantly, as though he had some dust in his eye which he was trying unsuccessfully to clear. It was very off-putting to look at him directly for any length of time whilst engaged in conversation.
Without fail, he attended all of Mr Charles Dicksen’s readings, unlike Mr Corbie who had been unable to attend the last twenty-three because of impecunious circumstances, however, the bookseller was thrilled to be able to purchase a ticket at the last minute for tonight’s performance, especially since he had heard a rumour that Mr Dicksen would be treating the audience to the opening chapter of his next novel. The theatre-goers must have heard the same rumour for there was a palpable buzz in the air, as if the very oxygen they shared had been electrically charged using a new-fangled dynamo.
Just before the doors were flung open they were joined by a breathless and agitated young woman of ethereal attractiveness wearing a tailored dress of blue and white striped wool of the finest quality over which was artfully draped a large paisley shawl in a striking swirl of complimentary bluish hues. She had long blond hair, coiled and up-pinned, held in place by an exquisite jewelled ornament from which fanned a delicate array of blue and white feathers. Reverend Finchley introduced her as Miss Flyte.
She smiled prettily, revealing a row of perfectly milky baby teeth, as she collected her breath and composed herself, explaining in dulcet tones that she had had to fight her way through the burgeoning crowd to avoid arriving late, making it sound like a fate worse than death. The deacon nodded sympathetically before steering her into the theatre with a gentlemanly hand in the small of her back.
The Countess’s curiosity was piqued and she turned to Mr Corbie.
“I presume that was neither Reverend Finchley’s daughter - he is too young - nor his fiancé - she wears no engagement ring and did not receive a kiss - so she must have been his niece?”
Mr Corbie coughed to clear his throat. “Not exactly,” he gurgled with embarrassment. “She is, er, how shall I put it? She is Mr Dicksen’s er…”
“Amoureuse?”
“Yes,” confirmed the bookseller, nodding gratefully at being spared words such as lover, mistress or inamorata. “That explains it rather well. I like a word that explains itself.”
“How old is she?” enquired the doctor somewhat bluntly.
“I believe she will turn seventeen next month,” replied Mr Corbie.
“And how old is Dicksen?” the doctor hammered with blunt force.
“I believe he is in his fifties.”
“That’s outrageous!’ slammed the doctor censoriously. “I realize Miss Flyte is over the age of consent but for a man of his respectable public standing to take up with a woman young enough to be his grand-daughter is wrong on every level – chronological, social, emotional, ethical, moral, and that new field of study gaining credence - psychological. It smacks of paedophilia in every instance except the legal. There should be a word for it!”
“Perhaps paedosavvy sums it up?” offered Mr Corbie, who preferred words that sounded like what they meant. “A mix of paedophile and savoir.”
“Capital!” trumpeted the doctor. “That sums it up very neatly indeed!”
“Unfortunately, it is men of Mr Dicksen’s standing who can afford to take up with lovely young women,” reminded the Countess dryly. “Let’s go inside and find the person who will usher us to our free seats.”
The doctor ignored her shabby attempt to placate him. “Is Mr Dicksen a married man?”
“Yes he is,” replied Mr Corbie, checking his ticket for the seat number. “It has been a pleasure speaking to you. Au revoir, for now.”
The doctor had a chance to cool his indignant heels in the foyer while the crowd thinned. After a few minutes, a young woman, plainly but not drably dressed, with auburn hair neatly but not severely tied back in a bun, came across to them.
“I’m Miss Carterett,” she said in a clear voice, “the school mistress from the Quaker School in Northbrick Lane. I presume you are Dr Watson and Countess Volodymov.”
The Countess did not bother to correct her. “Yes, that’s right. How on earth did you spot us in this enormous crowd?”
“I was told by Mr Dicksen to look out for the best dressed lady and a man of high distinction with a military bearing.”
Well! If that failed to en
dear Dr Watson to Mr Dicksen then nothing would!
Miss Carterett, who could add usherette to her unstinting workload, led them to a private box overlooking the stage, en face de Reverend Finchley and a much calmer Miss Flyte. The Countess immediately retrieved her opera glasses and scanned the faces in the dress circle. The scene called to mind the nursery rhyme about cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row. Every face was female. She then scanned the hats in the stalls which reminded her of cauliflowers and cabbages in a vegetable patch. Mr Panglossian was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Mr Thrypp. Mr Corbie however was seated in the last row and either side of him was sat Miss Titmarsh and Miss Carterett; not so much a rose between two thorns as a scarecrow between two nodding sunflowers. She was about to retrain her opera glasses on the budding York rose in the opposite box when she spotted a giant beanstalk with sideburns seated in the middle of the second row.
Suddenly the theatre lights dimmed and a row of limelights at the edge of the stage illumined the podium. Mr Charles Dicksen’s fanfaronade opened to a fanfare of excited applause and closed with a standing ovation. In between, he kept his audience enraptured; a born showman with an inspiring voice and an inspirational message that would resonate long after the limelights had been extinguished and the wrapt listeners had departed for their prosaic beds.
They caught up to Inspector Bird in the foyer.
“Is it police business or personal pleasure that brings you here tonight?” asked the Countess.
“Personal pleasure,” replied the burly inspector. “I never miss a reading by Mr Dicksen.”
“Have you made any progress on the murders?” continued the Countess.
The inspector shook his head and scowled. “The collision of the barges took up more time than I expected. I was stuck at the river for most of the day.” He turned to his idol. “I was told you called by the police station while I was out, Dr Watson. Did you learn anything useful from Mr Panglossian?”
