by Anna Lord
“I think you might mean toile de joie. Yes, it’s very pretty. They do oriental scenes with Chinese pagodas too.”
“That sounds darling!”
“Oh, it is - frightfully darling! Do you mind if I take a peep at your book by Nellie Bly? I have been thinking about purchasing one of her books for ages.”
“Yes, it’s on the chiffonier. Is that the right word?”
“Yes, that’s quite right. I bought myself some books by the Bronte sisters. I have already read them all and intend to donate these to the Minerva. I was planning to go there straight after I had some breakfast. It’s on St Saviourgate, isn’t it?”
She tore away the wrapping to find that Miss Flyte had indeed purchased a book by Nellie Bly and her hopes plummeted. She had pinned her hopes on the idea it might be the missing chapter of Mr Dicksen’s novel or something with the letters BB on it.
“Yes it is. I’ll go with you, if you like.” Miss Flyte checked her reflection in a mirror and smoothed back some wisps of golden blonde hair. “I have a friend, Sally, who I haven’t seen for ages. She helps the midwife. I haven’t seen her since Charles picked me up, I mean, brought me to live here. I’m not supposed to go back there but if I go with you I think it might be all right. Charles thinks very highly of you. He mentioned you several times this morning. I can always say I was showing you where the Minerva was because you asked for directions when we bumped into each other while I was taking a morning stroll. Is that all right with you? Lying, I mean.”
“I have no qualms about lying if it is for a good cause.”
Miss Flyte looked relieved as she proceeded to the bell pull. “I shall ring for the landlady. She’ll know to bring up muffins and tea. I don’t have a kitchen. There’s one in the basement. Charles doesn’t like me doing any chores now that I’m a young lady, so the landlady brings up my meals and a char does the heavy work. I just have to keep myself looking pretty. To tell you the truth I am bored to bits during the day. If I didn’t have lessons with Reverend Finchley I would probably go bonkers. Oh, I’m not supposed to use words like bonkers anymore. Gosh, I can’t stop talking. It’s wonderful to have company.”
The landlady brought a serve for one and was taken aback to find Miss Flyte had a visitor other than Mr Dicksen, especially a member of her own sex. She returned a short time later with more muffins and an extra teacup.
“Does Charles never come in the evening?” posed the Countess conversationally as they settled to breakfast at a small table centred with a vase of hyacinths.
“He gets invited out to dinner most evenings. He is very popular with York society. And every other minute of the day he spends writing. His books are very popular too.”
“Have you read any of his books?”
Miss Flyte shook her head sadly. “They are a bit too hard for me to fathom. He uses big words that I don’t really understand and his sentences are really long and there are so many characters in his stories I get confused as to who is who.”
“Does he sometimes bring a manuscript he is working on when he visits here, perhaps on his way to his publisher?”
“No, never, oh, wait, yes, just the once, I remember he arrived the other day with a parcel under his arm wrapped in brown paper. I thought it was for me and went to unwrap it and he became quite angry. He said it was something he was working on and he did not like people to see his work until it was ready.”
“Can you remember what day that was?”
“The days are all a bit of a blur to me. One morning is much like another. To tell the truth I don’t usually know what day of the week it is except for Sunday when I am allowed to go to mass at the Holy Trinity.”
“Was it recently?”
“Yes, not long ago, but I cannot say what day exactly.”
An hour later the two women were walking briskly along St Saviourgate. The Minerva started life as guild hall belonging to the silk weavers but when silk production moved to India the building fell into disuse and was eventually sold to Mr Charles Dicksen who turned it into a home for fallen women. The afternoon skipped by as Miss Flyte and Countess Volodymyrovna made themselves useful, nursing babies, rolling bandages, folding nappies, labelling medicine bottles, and conducting reading lessons with expectant mothers whose nerves were on edge, or those who had recently given birth and were waiting for their bleeding to stop, which could take ten to twelve weeks, so they could go back to the streets or the factories where they toiled or the homes they fled once they found themselves with child. Some of the girls were old hands, several had returned for their third pregnancy. They were called churners.
“What happens to the babies when the girls leave?” the Countess asked Sally.
“They go to baby farms. From there, some are adopted out but most die before they see their first year. Some of the younger girls pay for their babies to be cared for but by the second or third time they just give them up without a backward glance. If it weren’t for the Minerva the girls would die too. They would give birth on a pile of filthy rags in a corner somewhere and bleed to death.”
It suddenly occurred to the Countess that if Mr Dicksen originally met Miss Flyte at the Minerva she must have been pregnant too. Did she give birth to a boy or a girl? And what happened to her baby? As she looked around at the pale haggard faces of the girls in the beds, some clinging to their newborns for the short precious time they had together before being parted, some sick with fear or worry, some in poor health, all of them exhausted, she wondered how Miss Flyte looked when she was pregnant. Was she sickly too, or a pearl among the dross?
Reverend Finchley arrived at midday. He performed baptisms once a fortnight. It was important to the girls who were Catholic that their babies be baptised. The Countess realised at once that he was a lay deacon and had no church authority to perform such rites, in other words, his baptisms were mere sham, but she kept her thoughts to herself. His deceit gave comfort to girls who received little solace from anything else. He must have known that too as he handed each mother a rosary, kindly donated by Mrs Henrietta Dicksen, which everyone knew would be pawned within weeks of the girls going back to the streets.
At half past two they stopped for a cup of tea and some stale oatmeal biscuits.
“I have to rush back to the Holy Trinity,” he said, gulping back his tea and checking his pocket-watch at the same time. “There’s a special memorial mass for the five departed souls and Father Chetwynd has invited me to do a reading.”
“Are you referring to the five dead authoresses?” asked the Countess.
He nodded as he washed down the last of his bone-crunching biscuit with a mouthful of tepid tea.
“Were all the victims Catholic?” she pursued in an interested inflection.
“Only two of them, but it seemed unchristian to have a memorial mass and leave out the other three. It is not the same as a funeral mass. There are no bodies for a start. There won’t be any kyrie. I better hurry. I need to prepare the incense burners.” He glanced up at the grimy clerestory window. “Oh, drat, it is starting to drizzle and I forgot to bring my umbrella.”
The Countess hurriedly replaced her teacup and looked earnestly at Miss Flyte.
“We can hail a cab. Miss Flyte and I will come with you. Give us a moment to find our cloaks.”
The little garden outside the Holy Trinity was a sea of black umbrellas. Amongst the crowd was Miss Titmarsh who had closed her teashop early so as to attend the memorial mass. Offering a gallant arm to Mrs Henrietta Dicksen was Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse. He was not Catholic, but given his social standing in the community, and the unfortunate family history regarding the massacre of 1190, Mrs Dicksen had convinced him it was important to be seen at religious services where tolerance was being celebrated. Besides, this wasn’t a normal Catholic mass.
The little church was packed to the hilt. The Countess and Miss Flyte just managed to squeeze into a pew three rows from the back.
“That’s unusual,” whispered the Countess to he
r young companion. “Miss Titmarsh has been invited to sit in Mrs Dicksen’s private box.”
“They share the same box pew every Sunday,” Miss Flyte whispered back, “I believe they are old friends, though, since Mr Dicksen’s fame and standing has grown his wife is not permitted to socialize with Miss Titmarsh except at church, but who is that handsome looking man with them? I don’t believe I have ever seen him in church before. ”
“That’s Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse.”
“Not Mallebisse of Mallebisse Chocolate Blisses?”
“That’s the one. He is a big game hunter and has just returned from Africa.”
Miss Flyte felt her heart palpitate. “Is he married?”
“I believe he is a confirmed bachelor.”
“I don’t think I have ever heard Charles mention the name, Sir Mallebisse.”
“I think Mr Dicksen is the sort of man who if he does not like someone they might as well not exist. But I did not realize you were acquainted with Mrs Dicksen?”
“Oh, I’m not. By that I mean we have never been introduced. I see her every Sunday but she keeps to her private box and I keep to the rear of the church so as not to cause offence. I never take communion and I make sure I slip out the door before she sees me.”
The memorial mass commenced and Reverend Finchley gave an excellent reading that was well received. An hour later the rain had ceased and they filed out into another rare burst of November sunshine, congregating in small groups to discuss the five tragic deaths. Miss Flyte became agitated, but the Countess caught her by the elbow and entwined her arm in a tight knot. She was curious as to how an encounter between the wife and the mistress might play out.
“I need to leave,” bleated Miss Flyte, attempting to extricate herself. “Charles will be furious if I linger long in the churchyard.”
“Charles isn’t here,” reminded the Countess, hanging on tenaciously. “We must congratulate Reverend Finchley on his reading. Oh, look, here comes Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse, with Mrs Dicksen and her friend, Miss Titmarsh. Take three deep breaths, Miss Flyte.”
Miss Flyte became quite anxious and began to tremble. “No, no, let me go. I must go. Mrs Dicksen will cause a terrible scene. Charles will be furious when he hears of it. Let me go,” she pleaded.
“Calm yourself, Miss Flyte. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out.”
“Good afternoon, Countess Volodymyrovna,” greeted Mrs Dicksen, taking elegant charge of the mise en scene in the absence of her overbearing husband, which the Countess had come to understand was a common state of affairs in households where a despotic master had an inflated sense of his own majesty. “What did you think of the memorial mass?”
“I think it touched the right note – gently moving without being overly maudlin,” she replied sparingly before indicating her companion. “Let me introduce my friend, Miss Flyte.”
Miss Flyte managed a pretty smile despite the fact she was still shaking and clinging tightly to the arm entwined through hers to stop from fainting with fear.
Further introductions were conducted and conversation continued without any unpleasantness simply because everyone took their cue from Mrs Dicksen who treated Miss Flyte with the same civility and courtesy she treated all her friends. When a light mizzle of rain began to fall the groups outside the church began to disperse. Mrs Dicksen had her own carriage and was helped up the step by Reverend Finchley. Sir Marmaduke gallantly offered Miss Flyte a lift home in his own brougham, while Miss Titmarsh and the Countess shared an umbrella for the short stroll down the Shambles.
The Countess had not had an opportunity to speak to Dr Watson about whether he had learned anything from Miss Titmarsh pertaining to the death of the poor boy, so she decided to question her personally, pretending to walk slowly so as not to slip on the wet cobbles.
“That was a very thoughtful thing you did the other morning when you took the char into your teashop,” praised the Countess. “A Christian act of kindness.”
“The poor woman was most distressed.”
“Indeed she was, and who could blame her; such a savage attack on an unfortunate boy. Did you happen to see anything unusual that morning?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I understand from Mr Hiboux that you are always up early to do some baking. I wondered if you saw someone or heard something that particular morning that might throw some light on the terrible crime.”
“Now that you mention it I did see a figure rush past the shop and I thought it odd because it was so early, just gone first light, the gas lamps still burning.”
“Can you describe the figure you saw?”
Miss Titmarsh shook her head. “I did not get a proper view. It was too fleeting. Almost like a bat flitting across the moon. You know you have seen it but you cannot say from whence it came or where it went or describe how it looked other than it was black. All that I can be certain of was that it was a man not a boy. It was really just a moving shadow.”
“Do you remember what direction the shadow was going?”
“Oh, yes, it was going as we are going now, from Holy Trinity to the Pavement.”
The Countess bid au revoir to Miss Titmarsh under the eaves of the teashop and proceeded quickly to the Mousehole, doing her best to avoid the rivulet trickling down the runnel. She was almost to the door of the inn when she caught sight of someone lurking in the murky shadow of a doorway just ahead. With nothing to defend herself and with no one about, she started to back-track to the teashop when the figure emerged from the gloom and she saw through a translucent veil of grey rain a small thin boy, wet and bedraggled, hugging his skinny arms around himself in a feeble attempt to ward off the cold.
“I’m Boz,” he said in a wee voice barely above a whisper.
Relief flooded her and she swallowed the heart in her throat. “Follow me into the Mousehole. Mr Hiboux will give you something hot to eat while we talk.”
She had reached the door of the inn when she realized the boy wasn’t following. “It’s all right,” she reassured, looking back over her shoulder. “You can trust me.”
He shook his matted head and it reminded her of a dog shaking himself dry. “I’ll not go in there,” he said determinedly. “But I’ll follow ye into the bookshop.”
Mr Corbie was not overly surprised to see the pair of them when he heard the bell tinkle. He had observed Boz skulking up and down the Shambles for the last half hour. Fondly recalling the fifty pounds, he offered to make some crumpets and cocoa. The Countess declined but asked him to provide for the boy.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your brother,” she began softly, removing her wet gloves, treading carefully so as not to alarm him. “How old was Gin-Jim?”
“He were eight years old. I am six. He were three years older.”
She did not bother correcting him, noticing how he stared at her elegantly manicured hands and elongated fingers. “I will pay for his burial so that he does not have to go in a pauper’s grave. I will leave some money with Mr Corbie to pay for it when the day comes.”
Boz watched from under hooded lids as she extracted some large notes. “Nowt comes for nowt,” he said harshly for one so young, using a wet sleeve to wipe his runny nose, smearing grime and snot across his filthy face. “What do I have to do fer it?”
“Fair enough,” she said. “First go and wash your hands and face and then come and tell me all you know about why your brother was in the Shambles so early in the day and where he had been and where he was going.” She wanted to know much more than that but decided to keep it simple and go slowly until trust was established.
By the time the boy returned from the kitchen sink, some toasted crumpets and steaming hot cocoa awaited him. He ate ravenously, talking with his mouth full, gulping cocoa when it all got too much and the words got munched up with the food.
“What can you tell me?” she prompted.
“Every now and then Gin-Jim went to Pangosan to get a package to take to Gladhill. He went
early in the day because that was what he was told.”
“Who told him? Mr Panglossian?”
Melted butter ran down the boy’s chin and dripped onto his plate as he shook his head. “Mr Trip.”
“Do you mean Mr Thrypp?”
He nodded as he stuffed more crumpet into his pint-size mouth and wiped the corner of his lip with the back of his hand then licked it clean.
“How did Gin-Jim get into the building?”
“He went round the back where the wagons go. The green door was always left open for him by the night-watchman.”
“Did he meet anyone while he was there?”
“It were too early.”
“How did he know where to go?”
“Someone showed it him once and it were always the same.”
“Do you know who showed him?”
“Mr Trip.”
“Do you know where he went once he was inside?”
He licked his fingers and nodded. “I went with him once when he was feeling poorly. I carried the package for him that time coz he could hardly walk and had no strength in his arms. We went up the stairs to a nice room with a desk and a chair and lots of shelves with books but I could tell it weren’t no bookshop.”
“How could you tell?”
“The books were all the same. They were all big and black and all the same size.”
“Ledgers,” guessed Mr Corbie, who had decided to join them at the kitchen table.
The Countess recalled Mr Thrypp’s outer office with its wall to wall shelving neatly lined with accounting ledgers. “Where was the package?”
“It were on the corner of the desk. It were tied with string and it said Gladhill in big black letters.”
“Could you read it?”
He shook his head while his forefinger mopped up the melted butter on his plate. “Gin-Jim told me that’s what it said. That’s how he knew what package to take. He couldn’t read neither back then but he knew what that word looked like.”
