by Anna Lord
“You’re Ben Barbican,” said the Countess. “You do the drawings for Jack Black the Highwayman and Crimson Cavalier - two of the most popular dreadfuls.”
He nodded and allowed himself a rare smile.
“Do you know the authors of those publications?”
He shook his head. “On the first day of the month I, er, take my drawings directly to Panglossian Publishing on Coppergate. I leave them with a man called Mr Thrypp. On each occasion he, ah, pays me for the previous month’s work and hands to me the manuscripts yet to be, er, published so that I can draw something to match the story. I have never met the authors of the two publications I illustrate. I have never even met Mr Panglossian.”
“How strange,” mused the doctor after Mr Hiboux excused himself and retreated to the kitchen to see to supper. “Panglossian goes to extraordinary lengths to ensure anonymity.”
“Anonymity or secrecy?” said the Countess. “Panglossian seems like a man with something to hide. And Thrypp is there to see that everything runs as smoothly as clockwork in his absence, the mechanism behind the face, out of sight, out of mind, tick, tick, ticking along.”
A place you have visited in the daytime can look vastly different at night, especially if that place is a churchyard. At night the spirits of the dead are palpable, ghosts inhabit every shadow. The little churchyard of the Holy Trinity stood behind a huddle of old buildings zig-zagged by narrow alleyways. In the daytime it was pleasantly secluded and restful, a haven from the hustle and bustle of the city, a respite from the wind. At night it was a dark, dangerous, hedged-in, haunted space, a trap for the unwary, the foolhardy and the bereft. A shiny brass knocker glinted in the bluish moonlight as the church door creaked open.
The interior of the church was cold and musty, the candle-scented air thick with vapours and the dust of ages. A few stumpy candles flickered weakly in candlestands. The Countess gave a little shiver as she selected a large fat candle in a wooden holder near the door and Dr Watson struck a lucifer to light the wick and dispel the gloom. They were about to search for the stairs to the belfry when they heard a rustling sound and realized they were not alone. A quick scan revealed a hooded figure, kneeling in prayer, in one of the box pews. The figure finished praying, made the sign of the cross and stood up. It was Miss Titmarsh. She was on her way to the Minerva and had stopped off to pray for the five dead authoresses. They claimed to be doing likewise and Miss Titmarsh bid them goodbye and left them to it.
Framed by a stone arch, the steps to the belfry were steep and winding, following the inside edge of the perpendicular tower. Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna thought they might be in luck and climbed all the way to the top - the doctor leading, holding the flickering candle, the Countess following, holding up her skirts - only to find a heavy wooden door barring the way into the topmost room, not only bolted but fitted with an old barrel lock, the sort for which you needed a large brass key. The lock could not be picked, nor the door forced. Disappointed to have come thus far only to be thwarted by a sturdy lock, they tramped back down the winding stairs, extinguished the cierge and returned to the Mousehole.
Neither noticed the figure crouched furtively behind the altar.
11
Miss Titmarsh
Miss Titmarsh failed to arrive at her usual time with provisions for their breakfast so Dr Watson took it upon himself to see what might be causing the delay. The door to the teashop was unlocked which at first glance seemed a good sign but in hindsight proved the opposite. He entered and called out the lady’s name but no answer was forthcoming and the first thing he noticed was that the homely smell of baking was absent from the little shop. He got all the way to the serving counter which was usually laid out with freshly baked scones, biscuits and teacakes, but which today was bare, before he spotted the body at the foot of the stairs. The acute angle of the neck, the ungainly sprawl of the body, limbs awkwardly splayed and bent, petticoats unseemingly hitched, striped stockings on view for all the world to see, told him the lady had tripped and tumbled down the stairs. Such accidents were commonplace.
Out of habit, and being a medical man, he checked for a pulse. The neck was cold and stiff, the limbs already rigored. She had lain like that for hours, probably all night. He wondered if she was still wearing the same clothes from the night before and thought it likely. The Countess would remember. Perhaps the lady had fallen in the dark. Perhaps while reaching for the gasolier at the top of the landing. Perhaps in her haste to double-check that the door was locked prior to going to bed as ladies who live alone are wont to do. But gut instinct and five murders overrode medical experience and a niggling voice told him this death was no accident.
He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Was the killer still at large? No, he would have fled into the night long ago. He reminded himself the body was cold. Nonetheless, he checked the downstairs rooms – kitchen, scullery, larder and pantry. There was a wash-house out back but the rear door was locked and the key was on the hook by the scullery window.
He mounted the stairs, stepping warily, and checked the upstairs rooms. The bedroom off the landing was waiting for its occupant, the bed covers pulled up tidily, the bed clothes laid out neatly, ready for putting on. The second bedroom was also neat and tidy, but infused with the god-awful smell of pot pourri and moth balls. He was about to check the attic when he heard a familiar female voice calling from the front door.
“Hello! Is anyone here?”
He appeared at the top of the stairs. “Miss Titmarsh is dead,” he announced grimly. “It looks like an accident except…”
The Countess was across the little teashop in a matter of seconds, pulling up sharp at the foot of the stairs and finishing the sentence for him, “Except you don’t think so.”
In the time it took him to descend the fifteen steps she had raced to the cash till.
“It has not been emptied,” she declared. “This is no robbery with violence just as Gin-Jim’s death was no robbery with violence. You think she was pushed?”
He nodded gravely. “Look at her clothing,” he directed. “Is she wearing the same clothes as last night?”
“Yes she is,” she confirmed unhesitatingly; her eyes flying to the coat hook by the door. “She has put her umbrella in the stand and hung up her cloak, but her dress is the same.”
“That means she was most likely killed last night after she returned from visiting the Minerva. The killer was probably waiting for her at the top of the stairs. There do not appear to be any other injuries.”
The Countess knelt over the body. “Help me to turn her over.”
He knelt on the other side. “We shouldn’t really move the body until the police arrive.”
“We are here to help Inspector Bird,” she reminded. “We cannot wait for him to arrive. It could be hours. Turn the body,” she repeated with emphasis.
Together they heaved it over and there on the larynx was an ugly bruise.
“It appears that she has been punched in the throat,” said the doctor, looking closer and sounding surprised.
“I thought perhaps she might have been strangled like Robbie Redbeard but this is nasty and vicious. The killer probably rammed his fist into her voice box to stop her screaming.”
“The punch would have sent her flying down the stairs. Dr Pertwee will confirm if the neck is broken.” He remembered the front door and looked back over his shoulder. “The door was unlocked when I arrived.”
She pushed to her feet and hurried to the door. “The key is in the lock this side. So we know how the killer let himself out. But if he was waiting at the top of the stairs how did he get in? Have you checked all the rooms?”
“All but the attic.”
“You check there and I shall have another look around downstairs.”
When they met up again she said she knew how the killer gained entrance and led the doctor into the scullery.
“Through that small square window,” she said, pointing. “It�
��s locked from the inside now but there is a bit of mud on the draining board and I doubt anyone as fastidious as Miss Titmarsh would have mud on a draining board where she places her cleanly washed crockery to dry. I’d wager the killer tracked it in as he climbed in through the window. He has tried to wipe it up but he is not as diligent as our teashop mistress. There are traces of mud on the dishcloth. I’d also wager the mud on the bench is the same colour as the mud outside the window. What’s more, the cup and plate from her supper have been moved aside, off the draining board and onto the cutting board. I cannot see Miss Titmarsh washing her crockery and then leaving it to dry on her cutting board rather than on the draining board. I’d also wager the killer has reached in and moved it, probably before climbing through, so as not to break it and cause a disturbance.”
The doctor was impressed and slightly baffled. “I didn’t realize you knew so much about sculleries. Are you sure you are a genuine Countess?”
She knew what he was hinting at. “Sherlock prided himself on having as broad a knowledge as possible across a wide range of topics, as do I. My education has never been limited to the piano and the boudoir. Back to the subject at hand. Either Miss Titmarsh is an authoress and our sixth victim, or the fact she caught a glimpse of Gin-Jim’s killer meant she needed to be silenced. Did you find anything interesting in the attic such as writing paraphernalia or manuscripts?”
“The attic was locked and there was no key above the door jamb or anywhere else. It could be amongst her personal possessions. I suggest we return to the inn for breakfast, locking the door to the teashop behind us. After breakfast I will track down Inspector Bird so that he can look things over for himself while you conduct a more thorough search of Miss Titmarsh’s things.”
An hour later, Dr Watson returned to the teashop with the burly police inspector. The latter was extremely interested in the flecks of mud on the draining board and praised the Countess for her keen eye. He spent an inordinate amount of time checking the back yard for footprints but as most of the area was covered with gravel paths, brick paving and vegetable beds there was little to see. Only the small section of land by the window, where the grease trap abutted the scullery, revealed a partial footprint, and that was merely the heel of a boot.
In the meantime, the Countess had made a meticulous search of Miss Titmarsh’s personal possessions. The spinster was a lady of tidy habits who lived frugally. She appeared to care not for clothes, fripperies, ribbons, hats, jewels or bibelots. She liked to read and had several books on her bedside table along with a miniature painting in a silver frame of a young man in military uniform. Dr Watson reckoned it to be a uniform pertaining to the Anglo-Afghan war of 1880 - a war he was personally acquainted with. The young man may have been a lover or brother of the deceased. It is highly likely he died in the war and she kept his image by her bedside to remember him. No key to the attic turned up amongst the possessions and before they could decide whether to break down the door they heard someone moving about downstairs.
It was Reverend Finchley. He had just heard about the death of Miss Titmarsh from Miss Flyte who heard it from Mr Corbie. Dismayed at the news, he had hurried to see for himself if it were true for he could barely believe it. He counted himself a close friend as well as a spiritual adviser. He made the sign of the cross as soon as he saw the prostrate body at the foot of the stairs exactly where it had fallen, and offered to say a prayer, blink, blink, blinking.
Shortly afterwards, the death wagon arrived and the body was taken away. Inspector Bird went with it. He wanted to make certain it went straight to the makeshift morgue so that Dr Pertwee could perform a post mortem examination as soon as possible. Dr Watson decided to accompany the inspector in the hope of assisting the police surgeon. It was an area of medical science he was growing increasingly interested in and he envisaged a bright future for forensic study in the coming century.
The Countess led Reverend Finchley upstairs. She wanted to ask him about the man in the miniature.
“It must be a portrait of Miss Titmarsh’s fiancé,” he said sadly as he blinked at the handsome face that once held so much promise for a bright future. “She was engaged to be married to a young man but the wedding never took place because his regiment was deployed for duty in Afghanistan. My cousin, Henrietta, also had a fiancé who was killed in the same war. She ended up marrying Dicksen on the rebound and has regretted it ever since.”
“Your cousin and Miss Titmarsh appear to have had much in common. They also shared the same box pew?”
“The two ladies shared a great many things, notwithstanding sharing a box pew and both having lost prospective husbands to the war.”
“A great many things?”
Still blinking, he replaced the miniature on the bedside table. “They both grew up in the west riding, not far from each other, and they share many mutual acquaintances.”
The Countess felt the deacon was leaving something out and decided to press the point. “Miss Flyte mentioned seeing them share a parcel wrapped in brown paper each month while they shared the same box pew. A parcel Mrs Dicksen passed to Miss Titmarsh.”
He stopped blinking and stiffened. “What are you implying?”
“I am merely wondering what might have been in such a parcel.”
He swung his gaunt frame towards the small window that gave onto the Shambles, possibly to give himself time to think. “It could be any number of things. Letters, books, wool, yarn, sketches, recipes, fabric, lace, ribbons, trims, handkerchiefs, samples of embroidery…the list is endless. What do two female friends, who are not permitted to see each other by command of an autocratic husband, not wish to share? You tell me Countess Volodymyrovna. I think you would have a better idea than a humble lay deacon.”
She had come thus far and was not about to be put off by a patriarchal put-down, though she had to admit his response was certainly plausible. “I thought it might be a manuscript, specifically a penny dreadful.”
He flushed pink and laughed off the suggestion, but then he did a startling turnaround and agreed with her assertion. “Well, who knows, perhaps you are right and it was a penny dreadful in the parcel. Perhaps they enjoyed reading dreadfuls in secret. They would not be the only ladies in York to enjoy such a thing. Perhaps Mrs Dicksen bought them and then passed them onto her friend when she had finished reading them. I imagine many people might do likewise.” His cavalier tone was suddenly usurped by an apprehensive and dire undertone. “I caution you not to raise this topic in front of Mr Dicksen. He is not likely to look kindly at such a pastime for his wife and it could cause her some distress to have it brought to his attention. You have met the man. I think you know the implications for my cousin, especially in her current vulnerable state.” He stopped blinking and glanced at his pocket watch. “I must leave off our conversation for now. I have a meeting with the committee overseeing the choice of carols for this year’s Christmas service. Au revoir.”
It was not until after he had dashed off that the Countess realized he had managed to put a totally different slant on her suggestion. She had meant the parcel contained an unpublished manuscript of a penny dreadful, not a published dreadful. Did he do that deliberately? Or did he simply confuse the issue without meaning to. His notion that the ladies shared a secret passion for dreadfuls, however, was perfectly feasible. There was only one thing wrong with the theory. The private apartments occupied by Miss Titmarsh showed no sign of any penny dreadfuls on the shelves. There were numerous books of quality but no cheap dreadfuls. If Mrs Dicksen passed on her dreadfuls to her friend where did her friend put them? Or did she too pass them on? The only place that sprang to mind was the Minerva - and that is where the Countess intended to go next.
It was not merely the missing dreadfuls that lured her to the Minerva, the Countess was curious about Miss Flyte’s baby. Did the young woman simply leave her baby at a baby farm and think no more of it? That was certainly the case for many young women who had no other choice but did Miss Fl
yte fit that category? Miss Flyte did not strike her as the sort of person who would do that if there was an alternative. Someone who held the journalist Nellie Bly as their heroine had to be interested in social change and women’s rights. Surely such heroine-worship was more than just the allure of travelling the globe in the endless pursuit of adventure.
No one understood that better than the Countess. Her early life had been one of constant travel and adventure with her peripatetic aunt, a whirl of mansions, chateaux and luxe hotels, exotic cities, far-flung destinations, the endless glamour of society balls and musical soirees and weekends at country houses that went for months, the grand tour that never ended but went on and on and round and round…Rome, Venice, Vienna, Lucerne, Chamonix, Paris, Deauville, Monte Carlo, Montenegro, Istanbul, Odessa…Rome.
Her life could easily have turned into a merry-go-round of monied sameness, the life of the idle rich in pursuit of a reason to get out of bed in the morning, the same faces, the same names, the same crowd, doing the same thing year in, year out, and trying not to die of boredom while turning looking bored into a social artform; the ne plus ultra of human affectation. Pretending to look bored to hide the fact they were not pretending. The gayest were the saddest of them all because they did not know how bored they were and put up a façade of merriment, denying in their heart of hearts how bored they truly were. And then the fact that no one dared face – that they were bored because they were boring.
Only after her aunt died and the truth behind her adoption come to light did the Countess have a chance to escape the glamorous blur of boredom that was her life. She had always known she was adopted. Her step-father and step-aunt had never hidden the fact from her but they had not elaborated and she had never pressed the issue. Her mother had abandoned her; that much she understood and accepted. There were worse things in life. She was cossetted, loved, cherished, adored and indulged. Her life was happy and carefree and full of joy. She was precocious and no expense was spared in her education, which was not limited to the refinements of her gender and class, the lady-like pursuits of her sex. She was given the sort of instruction that even men of wealth would envy; tutored by the best in science, philosophy, mathematics, languages and sport, as well as fine arts, music, dancing and the feminine graces.
