by Anna Lord
But to suddenly discover at the age of twenty-four years that her father was Sherlock Holmes and her mother was Irene Adler – the detective and the diva – came first as a shock and then as a springboard to ditch the sameness, to change direction, to do more with the gifts she had been given, to harness her boundless energy, her great wealth, her vast knowledge, her birthright.
Dr Watson had been instrumental in her change of direction. He did not fully trust her, of course, but that would come with time. She had plenty of time. She adored him as much as she had adored her step-father and step-aunt. She had adopted him and she wasn’t about to give him up, and how wonderfully the partnering-up suited her, and how stimulating the detective work. She was born to it. She could no more go back to the life she once led than fly to the moon in a rocket-ship designed by Jules Verne.
The Countess thought such things as she hurried to the Minerva.
Much to her surprise, Miss Carterett was teaching a class of pregnant girls, instructing them on phonetic sounds. It was the birthday of the founder of the Quaker school in Northbrick Lane and it was part of the school’s charter that the children be granted a holiday to commemorate the special day. Since the school was closed for the day, Miss Carterett had decided to make herself useful elsewhere. She had not yet heard about the death of Miss Titmarsh and could not hide her shock when the Countess informed her over a cup of tepid black brew.
“Was it,” the school mistress stammered, a quaver attached to her normally clear voice, “was it an accident?”
“It appears so,” the Countess lied smoothly. “She appears to have fallen down the stairs. She was still wearing the same clothes she had on the previous night when Dr Watson and I saw her at the Holy Trinity Church just prior to her going to the Minerva.”
Miss Carterett gulped her tea and swallowed hard. “She came here last night?”
“Yes, is something wrong?”
Miss Carterett shook her head. “No, no, why should there be?”
“You sounded surprised, that’s all.”
The school mistress brought her cup to her lips and the Countess could have sworn her hand shook. “What I meant was, oh dear, it was my turn to come last night but I was feeling poorly. I wonder if she took my place, that’s all, and someone followed her home.”
“Someone followed her home?”
“Oh, I’m being silly. I’m just imagining things. It’s all these murders. I’m becoming fanciful.”
“Has someone followed you home recently?”
“Not recently.”
“When?”
“A week back, or, I might just have imagined it. I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“Was it after you left the Minerva?”
She nodded, biting her lip. “I stayed later than usual. The streets were empty. I thought someone was following me. When I reached the Shambles and picked up my pace, the man who was following did the same. Mr Corbie is usually at his window but he wasn’t there that night. I was going to pretend to go in for a book until the man went past. But the bookshop was locked so I had to keep going. I live behind the school. There is a small stable that has been converted by the school board into a comfortable little mews cottage. I live alone. There are no other houses nearby, you see, that’s why I was so frightened. By the time I got home my heart was pounding.”
“Did you get a glimpse of the man who was following you?”
She shook her head. “He was just a shadow, a dark formless shape. I cannot even say for certain that it was a man. It was the footsteps that scared me more than anything. He or she had no trouble keeping up with me though I hurried as much as I could. At one stage I was running and yet my pursuer kept pace. Do you think, do you think,” she repeated stutteringly, “it could have been the murderer?”
“I cannot say for certain but I will tell Inspector Bird as soon as I see him next. You must take precautions. Don’t stay out late and try not to walk alone after dark. There’s just one thing I need to know. Do you write penny dreadfuls?”
Miss Carterett gulped the last of her tea and began to cough. “No, no, of course not! Where would I find the time?”
“Yes, quite, nevertheless, take care.”
The two women went back to their respective tasks and it wasn’t until the Countess saw Miss Carterett fastening her cloak in readiness to leave the Minerva that she cornered her once again.
“I wanted to ask you something rather private,” she began delicately.
Miss Carterett turned pink at the mere thought. “Has it to do with Miss Titmarsh?”
“No, it’s about Miss Flyte.”
“Miss Flyte?”
“I wondered what happened to her baby.”
Miss Carterett looked over her shoulder to make sure they were not about to be overheard. “Put on your cloak and walk with me. I’ll tell you as we go.” She waited until they were walking along St Saviourgate.
“Last year, when it became clear that Miss Flyte had caught the eye of our benefactor, it was decided that her baby should go to a good home rather than a baby farm.”
“Decided by whom?”
“I don’t know exactly. I never gave it any thought. I presumed it was Reverend Finchley, but now that I think on it, it must have been decided by our benefactor, though Reverend Finchley must have arranged it all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, it was Reverend Finchley who came to take the baby the day that Miss Flyte left. She now lives on the Pavement in comfortable lodgings paid for by our benefactor.”
“Yes - and the baby?”
“I don’t know about the baby. I presumed Reverend Finchley knew a good family, perhaps from among his congregation, who were unable to have a child of their own.”
“Do you think the child could have been Mr Dicksen’s?”
“I doubt it. Our benefactor only met Miss Flyte after she came to the Minerva. She was already with child by then.”
“She was sixteen years of age at the time?”
“Yes.”
“Working as a prostitute?”
“Oh, good heavens, no! She was in domestic service with someone quite respectable.”
“Do you know who exactly?”
Miss Carterett shook her head. “I cannot help you there and the Minerva does not keep records of such things. There’s no point. Most of the girls lie about their age, occupation, address and so on, and many don’t know who the father of their child is anyway. If Miss Flyte knew who the father was then she kept it to herself. Much wiser, if you ask me.”
They had reached St Crux and the Countess made to turn into the Shambles but Miss Carterett paused and looked back over her shoulder.
“I will bid you good afternoon here. Since I have the afternoon free I am going to visit Clifford’s Tower. I haven’t been there since I was six years old and went with my granny.”
“One last thing before you go,” said the Countess. “Do you know if Miss Flyte’s child was a boy or a girl?”
The school mistress gave pause for thought. “There are so many babies. It’s hard to remember them all. I think hers was a girl, yes, now I remember, definitely a girl baby - very pretty and quite fair with blue eyes, just like Miss Flyte.”
Panglossian Publishing was nearby so the Countess decided to check if Mr Panglossian had returned from London. She wanted to try again for a list of authors and was determined not to be fobbed off. Mr Thrypp met her in the outer office.
“Yes,” he replied with brisk courtesy to her question, “Mr Panglossian had returned from London and had come into the office but had now gone home for the day. His daughter had returned from London with him and he wanted to spend more time in her company.”
“Does he have a large family?”
“He is a widower with just the one daughter. He dotes on the girl and he adores his new grandchild. That is why he travels so often to London. His daughter, Mrs Ashkenazy, lives in Regents Park. He has just engaged a famous Dutch portraitist
to paint her portrait. That is the reason she has returned with him to York.”
“How serendipitous! The Marchioness of Minterne-Magna was speaking just last week on the subject of engaging a painter and extolling the difficulty of finding a decent portraitist. I have heard that the Dutch are ever so good at it. Much better than the English, who do wonderful dogs and horses but don’t know the first thing about human anatomy. I don’t suppose you recall the name of the artist? No, that would be asking too much. Dutch names are so frightfully hard to remember.”
Buoyed by the way his chest puffed out, she executed a balletic whirl that propelled her no further than where she stood.
“Monsieur Boetius van Brugge. I can write it down for you.”
Back she pirouetted on the spot. “Oh, would you,” she gushed deliriously. “The Marchioness will be delighted to find a decent portraitist who can do her face without making her look like a horse.”
12
Foss Bank House
Next port of call was Jubbergate, an area to the north-east of the city walls. Foss Bank House sat on a gently treed embankment that overlooked the meandering River Fosse through a sylvan screen of weeping willows.
The door was opened by a foreign-looking butler with a curling moustache. He ushered her into the large airy hall and placed her calling card on a small silver salver before disappearing. A moment later an attractive young woman with dark glossy shingle hair and dark piercing eyes appeared.
“Countess Volodymyrovna, what an unexpected pleasure,” she warbled with an interesting accent, stressing the early vowels the way the Russians do. “I presume you wish to see my father. I am afraid he is presently pushing the perambulator around the garden. He has usurped the role of nanny who is currently sulking in the nursery, fearing the loss of her job, but he simply dotes on his first grandchild. I am Mrs Miriam Ashkenazy.”
The young Jewess led her into a sunny yellow sitting room with charming floral wallpaper and a large bay window that overlooked the River Fosse.
“Your timing is excellent, Countess Varvara. You don’t mind me addressing you in the Odessan fashion? You have caught me in the middle of afternoon tea. It will be so agreeable to have company, especially female company.” She turned to the butler who was seeing to the Countess’s fur cloak and fur muff. “An extra plate, Abram, and a fresh pot of Darjeeling. And ask cook for some crustless sandwiches, cress and anchovies, and some blintze with caviar, the black caviar from the Caspian, not the red rubbish from the Azov, with clotted cream and dill.” She turned back to the Countess. “Please take a seat, this chair facing the window, if you will. The view is agreeable, is it not?”
The Countess nodded as Mrs Ashkenazy prattled on in the sing-song voice of an eager soprano keen to score a starring role in an operetta at the Mariinsky Theatre, though the Countess got the impression the oratorical prattling was not prompted by nerves as most prattling was, but from the sheer pleasure of having company, female company, and the sheer desperation of not wanting to see it fly out the door before hearing it sing for its supper.
“We have a mutual acquaintance, I believe,” her hostess beamed. “My esteemed neighbour in London, Mrs Waldegrave, is the sister-in-law of the second cousin of Viscount Otterbrooke, who is the godchild of your late step-father’s uncle-by-marriage, Count Viktor Chernobyl, at whose seaside villa in Yalta you summered regularly with your late step-aunt, Countess Zoya.”
The Countess was still trying to work out who the mutual acquaintance might be and decided it was probably the villa in Yalta. Mrs Ashkenazy’s conversation moved seamlessly to several other mutual acquaintances who were all third cousins twice removed of someone she had once summered or wintered with during her travels with her step-aunt.
“I have heard so many lovely things about you for so long now from so many esteemed friends, dear Countess Varvara, that I have positively yearned to meet you for myself and here you are! I can scarce believe you have come to my father’s door of your own accord. Mrs Waldegrave will never believe me when I tell her I had the rare privilege of sharing afternoon tea with you at Fosse Bank House. Oh, there goes my father with little Rebecca in the perambulator! Fresh air coupled with a circumlocution of a garden does wonders for putting babies to sleep. I think that is his third circuit. By the time he comes in he will be ready for a nap and Rebecca will wake for her next feed!”
The butler returned with a fresh pot of tea and extra provisions. Mrs Ashkenazy did the honours. They talked about Ukraine, where the young Jewess’s father spent his formative years before being forced to flee for his life to escape the Odessa pogroms.
“Ah, yes, the storms in the negev,” said the Countess to show she was cognisant of the history of the time and understood the madness.
“I don’t think my father ever got over the fear of being hunted like a wild beast. He saw many of his friends hacked to death, not just men, but women and children too. He changed his name when he came to York. He thought it might be safer that way and he guards his privacy zealously. Jews can never be too careful.”
“Being a successful publisher of popular books with a stable of famous authors is possibly the best protection he could have,” suggested the Countess pragmatically, “and I believe Panglossian Publishing is the most successful publisher in York.”
“Is that why you have come here? To speak to my father about publishing?”
“You could say that,” replied the Countess evasively before veering in a different direction altogether. “Will your husband be joining you in York?”
Mrs Ashkenazy shook her glossy dark head and her wide welcoming smile shrank back into itself. “At the risk of shocking you and humiliating myself I will be honest. My faithless husband has returned to live in the Levant with his Turkish mistress. I have not had contact with him for several years. I cannot even say with certainty whether he is dead or alive or whether he thinks of me at all.” She waited for that candid admission to sink in. “I can see you are not easily shocked. You are a lady of the world and a Slav. You understand that such things happen. You are now wondering about my little Rebecca. How is it that I have a baby daughter? Where did she spring from? The simple answer is that she is adopted. But rest assured, Countess Varvara, my little girl is cherished, just as you, yourself, were cherished by Count Volodya and his sister, Countess Zoya.”
“Your English acquaintances believe the child was fathered by your husband?”
Mrs Ashkenazy gave an affirmative nod. “I went to live for twelve months in a private villa on the Bosphorus and came home with a child, no one the wiser except for my old nursemaid who would never betray me.”
“Rebecca is twelve months old?”
“Thirteen months.”
“Rest assured, Mrs Ashkenazy, I will not breathe a word to anyone.”
The two women locked eyes and smiled at each other the way women do who share a great secret just as the door opened and Mr Panglossian appeared, his wide girth filling the frame. His lack of surprise conveyed the fact he had been informed by the butler that they had a visitor. The rictus smile told them he was not pleased to see it was the Countess. In contrast, Mrs Ashkenazy’s radiant smile lit up her entire face.
“Papa, look who has graced our humble home here in York with her presence! Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna! We have been having the most delightful conversation whilst sharing afternoon tea!”
“Conversation?”
“We have so much in common!”
“Such as?”
“Mutual acquaintances,” interposed in the Countess. She watched the titan cross the Aubusson and was reminded of Moses crossing the Red Sea. She could have sworn the furniture parted to make way for him.
He popped a blintze with caviar into his cavernous mouth. “Pour your papa a cup of tea,” he directed with forced pleasantness. “I am in need of liquid refreshment after all that exertion,” he attempted to jest.
“How is my little angel?” replied the dutiful daughter.
&nb
sp; “Sleeping soundly,” he asserted proudly, glancing at the Countess from the corner of his wily eye. “I gave her over to Madame LaSalle who was pacing the conservatory like a tigress, waiting for the return of her precious little charge. She has taken her upstairs to the nursery,” he added somewhat unnecessarily, perhaps to nip in the bud any proposal for a baby parade.
Mrs Ashkenazy passed her father a cup of tea. “Oh,” she sighed. “I was hoping to show her off to Countess Varvara. Rebecca really is an angel. She is so beautiful. I know all mothers say as much but she really is the sweetest little seraphim. Isn’t she papa?”
His stern face softened momentarily. “A seraphim,” he echoed dotingly. “Now, why don’t you run upstairs and check on your little seraphim while the Countess and I talk business.” He turned his hawk-like gaze from his devoted daughter to the uninvited guest and his paternal dotage altered accordingly.
Mrs Ashkenazy picked up on her father’s business-like tone and bid the Countess a gushing au revoir. Mr Panglossian waited until the door was fully closed and he could hear the patter of footsteps tripping gracefully up the stairs.
“I trust you did not come all the way to Jewbury for blintze and caviar,” he said sarcastically, popping another tasty titbit into his mouth. “So I will pre-empt you and tell you that if you came for a list of noms de plume you will leave empty-handed and disappointed. As I have said before, no such list exists, and even if it did, the only way you would obtain a copy is over my dead body.”
