by Anna Lord
This wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded to anyone who had observed children in a schoolroom. She recalled the adorable children of Lady Wingfield-Coote. They were slow learners and frequently tripped over words such as: for, from, was, what, when and went, but they never made a mistake with elephant or crocodile or hippopotamus. The more complicated the word, the easier it was for poor readers to recognise.
The Countess tried to make sense of the fact Gin-Jim, a boy who couldn’t read, had been entrusted to take a package from a well-known publisher to a famous writer, and not just the once, but every month, and before anyone else arrived for work, in other words, before anyone had a chance to see what the boy was up to. Why use an illiterate boy? Why keep the task a secret? Why not use Mr Thrypp to deliver the package? Much safer. No chance of being robbed and killed and strung up on a meat hook.
“When did Gin-Jim learn to read?”
“Last Christmas he started to get good.”
“How long had Gin-Jim been taking the package from Panglossian to Gladhill?”
The boy slurped down the last mouthful of cocoa, wiped his mouth with his grimy sleeve and burped his appreciation while counting on his fingers – 1, 2, 3. “This Christmas woulda been the third Christmas.”
“So when he first started to carry the package to Gladhill he couldn’t read except for that one word on the package but this year he had become a good reader,” she summarised, wondering why that fact seemed important.
The boy went red because of something she said and dropped his gaze to avoid eye contact. The Countess suddenly felt close to finding the key and unlocking the secret door.
“What is it, Boz? What else changed this year?”
Mr Corbie intervened, employing a fatherly tone the boy rarely if ever heard addressed his way. “It’s all right, Boz, you can trust me and you can trust the Countess. She wants to find out who killed Gin-Jim. You won’t be in any trouble as long as what you say is true.”
From under hooded lids the boy looked up warily. His thin lips formed a tight line as if they had been glued and stitched like the spine of a book, never to be torn asunder. He had heard platitudes like that before and usually paid the price in the form of a beating, but Patch trusted Mr Corbie so maybe he could too. “Promise?”
“Promise,” echoed the Countess and Mr Corbie in unison.
The boy sniffed, wiped his runny nose with his sleeve, and sucked back a breath before blurting, “Gin-Jim stole somefink from Pangosan.”
Now they were getting somewhere! If the boy had stolen something it could provide a motive for murder. It’s possible he stole something far more valuable than he realized. “What did he steal?” The Countess managed not to sound moralistic, merely curious, and it encouraged to boy to continue.
“Some books what he wanted to read.”
“Where did he find these books?”
“I dunno. He wouldn’t say. He stole the first one at Christmastime. And then not long ago he stole another. He said it was risky because there was a man who watched him from a window sometimes. Anyway, he said he was going to try and steal another one this week.”
“The man who sometimes watched him – did he say who he was?”
Boz shook his head and ran his finger once more around the rim of the plate before sucking the buttery digit into his mouth.
The Countess wondered if the night-watchman had seen the boy take something and then followed him, cornering him in the Shambles. Scared of losing his job or getting the blame for something going missing, he might have demanded the manuscript back, struck the boy, and killed him in anger. He might then have taken the parcel meant for Dicksen as well.
“One last thing,” she said, extracting some coins from her purse and pushing them his way across the pine table, “that piece of paper you chased after and gave to Patch, did you tear it some more?”
Boz slipped the money quickly into his pocket before it vanished. “No,” he said.
“Where on earth have you been all day?” Dr Watson slated anxiously, leaping out of the inglenook to confront the Countess the moment she crossed the threshold of the Mousehole.
Dusk had turned into darkness. Rain had set in for the night. It was getting on for five o’clock.
“I have been busy following up leads,” she returned with careless affability, ignoring his concern. “Let me freshen up, change for dinner, and I will tell you all about my day.”
Thirty minutes later they were cradling glasses of sherry in the inglenook and talking in hushed tones. The Countess did most of the talking and the doctor did most of the listening.
“I met Miss Flyte in the bookshop this morning and decided to befriend her in the hope of advancing our investigation. I learned that she has rooms – which by the by resemble a Parisian bordello - on the Pavement and Mr Dicksen visits her every morning prior to breakfast for a brief tryst. The other morning he arrived with a package wrapped in brown paper and when she went to unwrap it he became angry. She cannot recall exactly what morning it was but it could well have been the morning of Gin-Jim’s murder and said package might be the missing package the boy was transporting to Gladhill.”
“It is not a crime to retrieve something that belongs to you.”
“It is if you murder someone in the process of that retrieval.”
“One swallow does not a summer make; one package among the thousands in this city does not make him guilty.”
“I concede the connection is circumstantial and weak.”
His logical brain felt vindicated. “Please go on.”
“Miss Flyte and I visited the Minerva and while I was there I realised Miss Flyte must have given birth to a child since that is where Mr Dicksen met her before taking her as his mistress. I wondered what happened to the child. No relevance to our case but it is interesting nonetheless. I aim to follow it up.”
“I shall never look at his books in the same light. Please go on.”
“Reverend Finchley arrived at the Minerva. He performs sham baptisms to give comfort to the young unmarried mothers. I’m not sure whether I disapprove or not. Miss Flyte and I went with him to the Holy Trinity to attend a special memorial mass for the five dead authoresses. Only two were Catholic so there’s no link there. Mrs Dicksen was in her usual private box pew, along with Miss Titmarsh and Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse. According to Miss Flyte, Miss Titmarsh and Mrs Dicksen are old friends but only see each other at church because Mr Dicksen does not approve of their friendship. Sir Marmaduke is not Catholic but felt compelled to attend out of respect for the dead, and, I suspect, to atone for his family’s history of religious persecution of Jews. After the service, Mrs Dicksen met Miss Flyte for the first time and there was no fire and brimstone. Both women were paragons of politesse. Sir Marmaduke seemed quite taken by the dewy youthful haze of the young mistress of his friend and offered her a lift home in his brougham. She seemed quite taken by his manly vigour. I cannot wait for further developments in that arena,” she warbled impishly.
“I think you enjoy throwing a cat among the pigeons,” he noted not entirely disapprovingly. “Your day was indeed a busy one. Go on.”
“Miss Titmarsh revealed that she saw a man in the Shambles, hurrying from north to south, the morning Gin-Jim was killed. She could not identify him but it is interesting that it is the direction Mr Dicksen would have been taking en route to visiting his mistress.”
“Even if you can place him in the Shambles at the time of death there is no motive for him to murder a boy who was delivering a package to his address, and did so every month.”
“Your argument is convincing and I have nothing to refute it. But I come to the end of my day and here it goes from interesting to significant. I spoke to Boz, the brother of Gin-Jim, and apart from confirming what we already know, that Gin-Jim took a package from the corner of Mr Thrypp’s desk each month to Gladhill, Gin-Jim recently stole some books or manuscripts from Panglossian.”
“Ah, yes, that is significant. It provi
des a motive for murder – not for Dicksen but Panglossian. And a man who can murder a boy can certainly murder defenceless women. You said the murderer was becoming more confrontational, more daring, and the gruesome death of the boy confirms that observation.”
“I know that’s what I said, but killing the boy doesn’t fit the pattern of the previous murders. The stolen books or manuscripts provide a ready motive but what about the other five? Where is the motive for their murders?”
“It may not come to light until after he confesses, or until his actual trial. It may be as simple as covering up illicit liaisons he has grown tired of. Panglossian may be of the same sordid bent as Dicksen. They struck me as chummy in some sort of underhand way, two unconscionable rogues, lewd brothers-in-arms, thick as thieves. And before you ask, I was not totally idle today. Let me refresh our glasses and I will tell you what I learned.” He tossed back his sherry and pushed to his feet.
A few moments later he returned with glasses refreshed and settled back into the inglenook with one eye on the door leading to the kitchen where Mr Hiboux was putting the last gastronomique touches to a Chicken Marengo.
“This morning I realized that Inspector Bird and I had not yet spoken to the bargeman who found body number five tangled in flotsam underneath his jetty. Inspector Bird is still occupied with the barge collision which has developed into an ugly feud between rival bargemen resulting in arson – two barges were set alight last night. So I took it upon myself to track the man down. He was doing some unloading out by Castle Mills Bridge and did not offer anything conclusive but his recollections and impressions may be important. A week before the murder he remembers seeing a man crossing the bridge several times on the same evening - crossing, stopping at the end of the bridge and then re-crossing. The first time it happened he saw the man stop on the other side, pull out his pocket-watch, check the time and then quickly retrace his steps. He assumed the man had suddenly realized he needed to be elsewhere and so returned the same way he came. But when it happened the second and then the third time he concluded the man was timing himself. He was seeing how long it took him to walk from wherever he had come to the spot on the far side of Skeldergate Bridge. He thought it odd and it stayed with him. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
The Countess was already nodding. “Our man may have been checking how long it might take to walk from Friargate Theatre to the middle of Skeldergate Bridge so that he could come from the other side of the river and meet the victim by chance, so to speak.”
“Exactly, and the fact he did it again and again could be because a man walks faster than a woman and has a broader stride. He may not have taken that into account the first time and needed to re-do it. He wanted to be fairly accurate about meeting Robbie Redbeard midway on that bridge so he could throw her over after he’d strangled her so that the body could not be found for days or weeks or months.”
“That makes sense. He could have strangled her anywhere, in any street cloaked in fog and darkness between Friargate and Scarcroft Lane, but he wanted her body to remain undiscovered for as long as possible and so he chose the middle of the bridge. There was no room for error or criminal inexactitude in his plan. Our man is meticulous and his fifth victim was not chosen at random. Did the bargeman give you a description?”
“That would be asking too much! There was some not inconsiderable distance between the jetty where his barge is moored and Skeldergate Bridge. However, he could say with certainty the man was not a puny fellow and that he had his coat collar upturned and a great muffler wrapped around his throat and halfway up his face the way coachmen do to ward off a biting wind as they travel about the city picking up fares.”
“Hmm, are we now looking for a murderous coachman? Or someone with a creative imagination who dresses up like a coachman to avert suspicion?”
“You’re still set on Dicksen,” he noted ruefully, “but what about Panglossian? He isn’t puny and he reads enough creative fiction to fuel a murderous imagination. And he might want to disguise his beaky nose and jowly chops.”
“It could be either man,” she conceded readily. “They both fit the fact that Robbie Redbeard was not frightened enough to utter a single cry when she encountered her murderer on that bridge on a foggy night. It stands to reason she would have recognized Dicksen and felt flattered to meet him, and she would have been acquainted with Panglossian and not viewed him as a threat. Not until it was too late. You did well today,” she praised.
“I’m not quite done,” he said, feigning indifference to feminine flattery with more success than usual. “I went to the Friargate Theatre in the afternoon. Robbie Redbeard was a regular who attended most of the shows. Several people knew her by sight. She always arrived alone, sat by herself and departed the same way. No one noticed anyone following her.”
“That confirms your theory that our man came from the opposite direction and met her midway on the bridge. He could not risk being seen at the theatre and possibly recognised. Did you speak to Inspector Bird about what you discovered?”
“I called in at the police station but he was out on the river, hunting down the arsonist. There’s one last thing.” He lowered his voice and looked around the corner of the inglenook to make sure Mr Hiboux was still in the kitchen. “I have noticed that whenever we return to the Mousehole our host is always at his desk busy on his accounts but it struck me as odd since we are his only guests. I checked the inn’s guest register and he has only had three guests in the last month. Yet the bedroom furnishings are clean and fresh and tasteful, the pewterware is genuine, the wine is of high quality and the food delicious. Why doesn’t he have more paying guests? And if he can afford such niceties why not spend money on the exterior to attract more guests? From the outside the place looks neglected, as if it is falling down. The same goes for the parlour. It is old fashioned, dark and unwelcoming, yet upstairs that is far from the case. It has been puzzling me for the last hour.”
The Countess regarded her companion with some awe. “You’re right! Keep Mr Hiboux busy in the kitchen while I check his desk.”
“How can I keep him busy?” he grumbled through his beard. “Dinner must be close at hand. He could be plating it up as we speak.”
“Ask him lots of questions about his favourite recipes or his family history. If you’re desperate to stall him drop a plate or glass that he has to clean up. You’ll think of something!”
A short time later they were both seated at the little gateleg table by the tiny window watching the rain spitting on the latticed glass, pouring out of the lead downpipes of the bookshop opposite and washing down the runnel; enjoying a Chicken Marengo and a fine burgundy.
“Well?” he hissed. “Did you discover anything?”
Her winning smile said it all. “Mr Hiboux is a very talented drawer. He has dozens and dozens of drawings carefully numbered and ready for publication. I think it safe to conclude he is an illustrator of penny dreadfuls. His pseudonym is Ben Barbican. He is BB.”
10
Mr Thrypp
As is so often the case with conclusions hastily drawn, truth dawns in its own good time, usually when least expected. It was the middle of the night when the Countess sat bolt upright in bed and realized that the type of paper Ben Barbican used for his drawings was not the same as that found clutched in the hand of the dead boy. He was not the elusive BB.
Following that revelation the Countess formed the opinion that Mr Hiboux had deliberately structured Ye Olde Mousehole Inne to look unwelcoming. He probably made ample money from his illustrating and neither needed nor wanted the income that paying guests would bring. They were merely a nuisance that took him away from his first love…drawing.
Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna remembered that Mr Merlin Panglossian was an early riser and thus set off early for Coppergate, ready to confront the titan of publishing with the facts they had recently gathered. His obfuscation and refusal to supply a list of authors’ names only added to his likely inv
olvement in the penny dreadful murders. If he was not the guilty party per se, he was probably covering for the actual murderer. If so, then that person was someone whose friendship or commercial alliance he valued above the laws of the land and human sanctity.
Time was of the essence and they did not consult Inspector Bird, but took it upon themselves to see that the culprit was cornered and another murder circumvented. They stepped confidently into the wide thoroughfare of the Pavement where the lamplighter was busy extinguishing the gas lamps just as eggy light was slowly streaking the sky.
The new printing presses were already humming and whirring as they mounted the stairs to the first floor, however, they got no further than the outer office of Mr Thrypp who informed them his master had taken last night’s train to London and would not return until the day after tomorrow. Disappointed, they turned to go when the Countess whirled back.
“Mr Thrypp,” she addressed to the secretary in her most genial tone, a touch coquettish, “would it be possible, since we have come all this way and we are on official police business, to take a quick look at the manuscripts in Mr Panglossian’s office?”
Mr Thrypp shook his head firmly. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mr Panglossian’s private office is locked whenever he is not in attendance and he has the only key. I could not let you in even if I wanted to.”
Disappointed, the Countess turned to go. This time she got as far as the door before she whirled back. “I was thinking about the boy who took the parcel from the corner of your desk to Gladhill each month, Mr Thrypp. Did he perform any other little tasks for Panglossian Publishing?”
“Such as?”
“Oh, I don’t know, perhaps transporting a parcel from Gladhill back to Panglossian, or a parcel to another author, someone who writes penny dreadfuls perhaps, or even an illustrator of penny dreadfuls. You do employ illustrators, do you not?”
“Certainly, we employ illustrators, but the boy did not transport anything other than the one package to Gladhill each month. Why do you ask?”
