by Anna Lord
“Well, Mr Dicksen referred to the boy as a courier and I wondered if the boy was tasked to carry and deliver more than just the one parcel for Panglossian Publishing.”
Mr Thrypp seemed to accept her reasoning. “Mr Dicksen was being creative with his description. It is his way with words. The boy was not very bright. Sometimes he would get the day wrong and I would have to send him away and tell him to return the next day. He would not have made a reliable courier. He couldn’t even read. I could never understand why Mr Panglossian employed an illiterate boy in the first place. I cannot imagine what the butler at Gladhill made of the little ruffian when he showed up with a parcel under his filthy arm each month for Mr Dicksen. I think it reflected badly on Panglossian Publishing. I cannot say I was entirely surprised when the filthy little guttersnipe was killed in the Shambles. A more respectable boy would never have been accosted, robbed and murdered by some villain.”
“Perhaps it had more to do with the time,” she suggested.
Her statement pulled him up short. “I beg your pardon?”
“Being so early, no one about, a dangerous time for a lone boy to be carrying a parcel under his arm - why did he go so early?”
Mr Thrypp gave a philosophical shrug of his shoulders. “Mr Panglossian and Mr Dicksen are both early risers and I suppose the guttersnipe could then go mudlarking with his little gang of ruffians. Mine is not to reason why…”
The Countess dispensed a beatific smile wreathed in gratitude. “Thank you, Mr Thrypp, please let Mr Panglossian know that Dr Watson and I stopped by this morning. We will see ourselves out.”
They reached the landing on the stairs where a side door took them to a narrower back staircase for the undersecretaries and clerical staff to use. At the bottom of the stairs was the green door that Boz said was left unlocked by the night-watchman so that Gin-Jim could come and go. In the large cobblestoned yard hemmed in by brick walls were three wagons in the process of being unloaded. Bales of paper were being hauled down to the basement. Someone called out.
“Hey! You! What you doin’ there?”
It was the foreman of the yard; a beefy man with a ferocious red beard.
“Are ye lost?” he growled, marching boldly in their direction.
“Is the night-watchman still on duty?” asked the Countess, ignoring the man’s question and posing one her own.
“What’s it to you?” he barked.
She fished five shillings out of her beaded reticule and made sure he noticed. “I would like to speak to him. He’s not in any trouble. I just have a question or two which he might be able to answer.”
The foreman licked his lips greedily. “Maybe I can answer the question fer ya.”
The Countess smiled encouragingly. “Perhaps you can. Did you know Gin-Jim?”
Recognition lit up his eyes. “The lad who was killed? Course I did!”
“Perhaps you can tell me if Gin-Jim, who came once a month to take a parcel to Gladhill, did any other jobs around here?”
“Is that all ye want to know?” The foreman sounded mildly surprised.
The Countess nodded.
“Gin-Jim burned the rubbish books no one wanted. He sometimes did that after he took the package to Gladhill. He always came back to get his money from Thryppsy and sometimes he brought down the shite for burning.” He indicated a charcoal burner in a corner of the yard around which three men, presumably the wagon drivers, were huddled, warming their hands before returning to the docks for another load.
“Did anyone keep an eye on him while he burned the books?”
“What fer? That’s a daft question. What do you think this is - a schoolroom!” He guffawed loudly at his own joke then remembered the money and changed his tune. “My men are too busy for standin’ round and watchin’ a bonfire. He was a good lad.”
The Countess thanked him and handed him the five shillings.
Dr Watson waited until they were back on Coppergate.
“What was that about?”
“I took it for granted Gin-Jim stole a manuscript from the cupboard on the right that was earmarked for printing, and that’s what got him killed, but since the office of Mr Panglossian is kept locked when he is not in attendance I now think it more likely he stole a rejected manuscript, one he was meant to burn. In the yard, with no one was supervising him he could easily have slipped a manuscript inside his shirt or down his pants.”
“But if it was worthless why kill him for it?”
“I don’t know. I agree it doesn’t make much sense. Nonetheless, while we were in the yard I noted only one window overlooking the charcoal burner. I’m pretty sure it was the window in Mr Thrypp’s office. I think he may have watched the boy the way he was just watching us. If anyone saw the boy stealing a manuscript it would have been him. Did Mr Thrypp report the theft to his master or did he take matters into his own hands and decide to teach the little ruffian a lesson?”
They reached the five ways where Coppergate melted into the Pavement, and paused before crossing the busy intersection.
“Where to now?” asked the doctor, speaking both literally and figuratively.
The Countess meditated a moment while passers-by jostled around them mumbling unsavoury oaths about daft tourists.
“I’m going to pay a visit to Miss Flyte. I want to question her again about the package wrapped in brown paper her lover was carrying the other morning. She may remember what day it was or even be willing to divulge confidences regarding Mr Dicksen, especially if her romantic interest has suddenly swung to the manly Sir Marmaduke. In the meantime, you can hail a hansom and call in on Mr Dicksen on the pretence of seeking a new publisher and being interested in Panglossian. See if you can get into his study. A fellow author stands a good chance of gaining entry.”
“And then what?”
“See what paper he uses for his manuscripts. There may be several different types lying around. With the vast advances in methods of printing lots of new paper has come onto the market. Also, check out how he forms his B. If you can get him to write something on paper starting with B - that would be even better.”
“How am I supposed to arrange that?” he bleated.
“Be creative. Tell him you have developed arthritis in your fingers that makes it painful to hold a pen and could he write the address for the Barley Hall or the Roman Bathhouse or York Brewery – anything with a B in it. Let’s meet at the Theatre Royal at midday. We can have some lunch and visit York Minster. It would be a sacrilege to come to York and not visit the Minster.”
Miss Isabelle Flyte had finished entertaining her lover and was now moping about listlessly in a lacy French peignoir liberally drenched in parfum de rose. The book by Nellie Bly was lying on the settee, face-down, opened at the first chapter. She apologized profusely for her state of undress but the Countess waved away her concern, citing that she was female, foreign, and that the peignoir was French. Over cups of scented tea and some shortbread biscuits she wracked her brain for the exact day her lover arrived with the package wrapped in brown paper but it continued to elude her.
“I don’t know if this will be helpful,” Miss Flyte volunteered in recompense for her poor memory, sensing the Countess’s disappointment, and being the sort of young woman who had been trained to please, “but I have noticed that Mrs Dicksen often gives a package wrapped in brown paper to Miss Titmarsh while they are seated together at church.”
The Countess straightened up. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. More tea?”
The Countess nodded. “How often would you say you have noticed such an exchange?”
A thoughtful wrinkle puckered the pretty brow as the young hostess refilled their china cups. “I have noticed it numerous times, probably every month. Yes, every month. Mrs Dicksen arrives at church with a package and Miss Titmarsh leaves with it. I thought at first it might be a gift, but the wrapping is very cheap and not the sort of thing you would expect from a lady of quality like Mrs Dicksen, and t
here is no ribbon. It is tied with string and simply passed over from one to the other while they sit in their box pew. There is never any acknowledgement that a gift has been given or received.”
“I think you would make an excellent journalist, Miss Flyte. Your powers of observation are first class. If you ever decide to make a career of it you must let me help you. Have you ever mentioned your observation to Mr Dicksen?”
“Oh, no,” responded the young woman, pink with praise, emboldened, and heady at the thought of her dream one day coming true as she passed her guest some milk and sugar. “I thought it might anger him.”
“Anger him?”
“Well, what could the package be, I asked myself, and I concluded it must be a manuscript because it is the right size and shape and wrapped the same way as manuscripts are, and so I concluded Mrs Dicksen must be secretly passing her husband’s work to Miss Titmarsh, though I cannot imagine why. I’m afraid my imagination stalled at that stumbling block and has made no progress since.”
“Yes, why?” repeated the Countess meditatively, sipping her tea. “That is exactly what journalists do. They ask themselves questions and then search for the answers.”
“The way Nellie Bly did,” gushed Miss Flyte, “when she admitted herself into the lunatic asylum to observe the treatment of the inmates for herself.”
“Precisely!”
But what was the truth? Questions were mounting but no answers were forthcoming. What would Mrs Dicksen gain by passing her husband’s work to her friend? A friend who owned a teashop! She couldn’t see how either woman could profit from the exchange. Perhaps Reverend Finchley, everyone’s trusted confidante, might supply an answer but the Countess had no time to pay him a visit. She was due to meet Dr Watson at midday and it would be unforgiveable to arrive late.
Dr Watson’s father had been a stickler for punctuality and the habit had been instilled in the son. The doctor was one of those people who lived in fear of arriving late for an appointment or social engagement and erred on the side of early, even to the point of embarrassment. To avoid such embarrassment becoming entrenched he had often taken to circumambulating the block before knocking on the door of his host or hostess, or even instructing a cabbie to take the longer route across town rather than the more direct route, even though it cost him more for the fare.
The Countess arrived just prior to midday but the doctor was already pacing outside the Theatre Royal. He was looking pleased with himself. They found a teashop near the Minster.
“Well,” prompted the Countess, heartened by his self-satisfied smile, “did you gain access to Mr Dicksen’s study?”
“I’m afraid not. He refused to budge. We were taking tea in the parlour when I hinted I would like to visit his study and he became aggressively defensive of his private space. When his wife suggested it could do no harm, he turned on her most violently. His behaviour was not only defensive but offensive. I then spent the better part of my visit calming troubled waters.” He paused and smiled. “However, I was more successful in the second matter.”
“Oh, well done,” she warbled, clapping her hands. “You asked for directions and pretended to have arthritis?”
“Not quite,” he said happily, fishing a calling card from his inside pocket. “I cordially invited him to visit the premises Sherlock and I once shared, rather than the London home I shared with Mary during our married years – a home I have been reluctant to part with – whose address is still on all of my calling cards but which does not have a B in it.”
“But number 221B Baker Street does!”
“Naturally I waited until Mrs Dicksen had vacated the room, lest he direct her to write down the address, then just before I began to write it down I explained I had recently developed arthritis and passed the pen and card to him. When he wasn’t looking I stole it back. I handled it rather smoothly, even if I say so myself. Take a look.”
She took the card and her face fell. “It’s not the same.”
“How can you be so sure? You should at least wait until we return to the Mousehole to compare the letters properly.”
“I don’t need to compare them. This one is entirely different. It is much bolder. The stem is straight and the double curve is achieved without any loops or flourishes. The letter is finished using two separate strokes; lifting pen from paper just the once. The B’s on the scrap of paper from the dead boy are done with one fluent stroke. The pen does not leave the paper. It starts at the top, sweeps down at an angle, curves back up to the top, sweeps over the downward arm without touching, curves once to the middle but stops short of the downward arm, makes a small loop and repeats the curve. The top curve is smaller than the bottom curve. Here, on this card, the two curves are identical in size. This one has been executed by a different hand.”
Their lunch arrived and she recounted what Miss Flyte had told her about the package Mrs Dicksen passed each month to Miss Titmarsh.
“That puts a different slant on why Mr Dicksen is so adamant about keeping his wife out of his study,” the doctor surmised with a grimace. “Mr Dicksen probably suspects her of the theft of his work but is unable to prove it and is loath to confront her.”
“Reverend Finchley must know something. In fact it is more than likely he is behind it. It was for his sake that Mrs Dicksen wanted to gain entry to her husband’s study.”
“Mrs Dicksen, Miss Titmarsh and the deacon could be in on it together.”
“To what end?” she posed, not disagreeing with his proposition. “If Mary had stolen sections of your work, how would it have profited her?”
“It is unthinkable,” he dismissed scathingly, incensed at the mere thought. “I cannot even imagine it let alone tender an explanation.”
“Forget your emotional attachment to your dear departed,” she chided gently. “Think logically, doctor.”
“Hmph,” he harrumphed, incensed further at the inference he was not thinking logically and that his dear Mary could ever carry out such a devious and underhand act. “The only explanation that springs to mind would be if someone wanted to discredit an author. Steal the work before it is published and hand it to a rival author who then publishes first. The second author to publish would be accused of plagiarism. Hard to refute. Difficult to disprove unless you can show a direct link from the first author to the theft of your work. Impossible if the rival author uses a nom de plume that maintains anonymity. Once your writing reputation is besmirched there is no coming back.”
“In that case, my money would be on Reverend Finchley as the rival author. He has a private study at the top of the belfry of the Holy Trinity. I would dearly love to see inside.”
“How can he work amongst all the ropes and bells?”
“The ropes and bells have been removed – the result of a crack in the bell and too many churches and not enough trained bellringers in York. I wonder how he forms his B?”
His voice dropped to a clandestine whisper. “Churches are never locked. Apart from the vestry, inner doors are simply bolted. It shouldn’t be too hard to gain access to a bell tower.”
A greyish glint lit up her eyes. “Shall we take some air tonight after dinner?”
The afternoon passed pleasantly admiring the ecclesiastical splendour of York Minster. Dusk was gathering by the time they returned to the Shambles, alighting from the carriage at the seven ways.
“There is a light burning in the belfry,” noted Dr Watson, indicating the perpendicular tower poking above the sea of slate grey roofs.
“The deacon is working late,” she mused wryly.
The Shambles with its heavy overhangs was at its gloomiest at dusk. Most of the shoppers had disappeared and the shopkeepers were locking up for the night. A mere handful of gaslights were burning and a mournful wind seemed to whistle through the crooked lane like a lost soul on its way to a funeral.
The doctor paused momentarily outside the Mousehole with his hand on the doorknob while the Countess peered through the latticed window. Mr Hi
boux was at his desk.
“Let us surprise him,” she whispered.
The poor man almost died of fright. He leapt up from his desk to greet them and almost tripped over his own feet. It gave the Countess time to cross the parlour and make it all the way to his desk before he could conceal his drawings.
“How lovely!” she trilled, picking up a sketch and studying it with exaggerated eagerness. “I didn’t realize you were so talented!” she gushed. “You should be an illustrator, Mr Hiboux! Or, is it that you are an illustrator?”
He coloured guiltily and tried to tidy away his scribblings but she was too quick for him and snatched up a fresh sheaf of drawings.
“Yes, er, I am an illustrator,” he confessed grimly, sounding like a criminal confessing to a murder. “You have discovered my, ah, my dark secret. I illustrate, er, penny dreadfuls.”
“You use a nom de plume?” The statement was phrased interrogatively.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Even as a small child I, er, loved drawing but my mere forbade it. I still feel disobedient every time I, ah, pick up a pencil. My parents opened this inn on the Shambles the week after I was born. It was originally called L’Hotel Huguenot, but when maman ran off with the, er, coalman my père decided to break all ties with the past. It was me who suggested the name Ye Olde Mousehole Inne because my père, who, ah, was always a small, twitchy, timid man, seemed scared to venture out after that. He did not understand the bitter irony. His grasp of such things was, ah, never good, but he knew his wines and he knew how to cook. The inn prospered well enough. But my heart was never, ah, in it. When my père died I did not have the courage to sell up. I had grown timid too. But then I saw an, ah, advertisement for illustrators. I sent in some of my drawings and was, er, immediately accepted. The job paid poorly at first but then came the penny dreadfuls and they, ah, took off. My style of drawing and the dreadfuls were a match made in heaven, a coup de foudre – love at first sight. Suddenly I was, ah, drawing day and night. I now make, er, a good living from my drawings and keep the inn solely out of respect for my père.”
