by Anna Lord
The Countess contrived a luminous lie. “That is not what brought me to Foss Bank House. I decided to pay a visit…”
He forestalled her with an abrupt gesture of his sausage hand. “Pay a visit!” he mocked sneeringly. “I suppose you managed to pry out of Thrypp during your snooping that my daughter had accompanied me from London and you thought you would pretend to share mutual friends in London. Let me spare you the trouble of concocting further falsehoods. My daughter does not have any friends in London, mutual or otherwise. She is a Jewess of moderate wealth, not great enough to be accepted with open arms into the English bosom, not beautiful enough to be invited to a gala ball or musical soiree hosted by the beau monde of Mayfair, and she has no husband to speak of, only the hint of one, who lives abroad - fodder for gossipmongers and Jew haters, Mrs Waldegrave, chief among them. My daughter is naïve. She has led a sheltered life. She knows nothing of pogroms. To her they are like fairy tales or ckazkas peopled by black princes and baba yagas; wicked deeds with the inevitable happy endings. That is my fault. I accept the blame. As my wife lay on her deathbed I vowed to protect our daughter from the hate that is in men’s hearts, the inquisitors who would once again see us tortured on the rack and burnt at the stake, stripped of our wealth and property and sent into exile to starve to death, the women raped, the men hacked to pieces, the babes thrown to the dogs. The storms of the negev follow us wherever we go. They never leave us. There is no promised land for us. Spare me your sympathy. Save your platitudes for those who know no better. Do not come into my home and befriend my daughter with your gentile fakery in the hope of wheedling out of me something I do not possess.”
Neither Mr Panglossian nor Countess Volodymyrovna heard when the door opened. They did not know how long Mrs Ashkenazy had been standing with her hand resting on the brass door knob, waiting to speak.
“Papa,” she said with a smile that did not quite stretch to a convincing mile. “I came to ask Countess Varvara if she would care to take a walk in the garden until Rebecca wakes from her nap and I can show my angel off to her.”
“I’m afraid Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna was just leaving,” he said, fixing on the full formal title of her name and brooking no argument from either feminine party. “The Countess has a previous engagement. I will be in my study until dinner. I do not wish to be disturbed.”
Mrs Ashkenazy, perhaps attempting to make up for her father’s harshness, offered her father’s landau to the Countess when she learnt that her visitor had come to Foss Bank House in a hired hansom. She would not take no for an answer and since it was starting to cloud over she would not have her visitor waiting on the corner of Jewbury for a hire, spurned by coachmen who might mistake her for a Jewess. The Countess thanked her hostess most sincerely and, mindful of what Mr Panglossian had said, scribbled her London address on a page torn from her notebook and gave it to Mrs Ashkenazy, telling her she was not often in London but if they should both find themselves in the city at the same time to be sure to pay a call. Before she climbed into the landau Mrs Ashkenazy took hold of her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks; the dark eyes were pricked with tears.
All the way back to the Mousehole the Countess felt uncharacteristically deflated. Nothing had gone to plan. She had arrived at Foss Bank House with high hopes of attaining a list of noms de plume and left feeling not merely empty-handed and disappointed but totally defeated. Moreover, she felt the collective guilt of every gentile who ever existed weighing on her conscience. She felt as if she had lit the faggot that sparked the fire that burnt every Jew at the stake since time immemorial.
“Where have you been all day?” interrogated her own personal inquisitor.
“Before I attempt to answer that I need a drink. I need to wash the taste of ashes out of my mouth.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Some champagne, doctor, French and fizzy.”
“We don’t have time for champagne. We have been invited to dine at Mallebisse Terrace, the town address of Sir Marmaduke.” He glanced tetchily at his pocket watch. “You will have just enough time for a quick change of clothes. Xenia is upstairs. She has prepared whatever it is you might require for the evening. You can enlighten me regarding your day some other time. Sir Marmaduke has kindly taken it upon himself to send his own brougham for transportation with strict instructions to collect Reverend Finchley and Miss Isabelle Flyte en route. The coachman awaits us at the end of the Shambles. Try not to take too long. We have been invited for half past five and Mallebisse Terrace is on the other side of the city walls just past the Museum Gardens.”
“Sacre Bleu! He has invited his friend’s mistress to dinner? I did not realize the big game hunter was that game! He does like to live dangerously! Il a le culotte!”
“Taisez-vous and get dressed!” She wasn’t the only one who could speak French!
Laughing, she mounted the stairs, calling back over her shoulder. “Have the Dicksen’s been invited?”
“I’ll tell you when you come down dressed for dinner! Hurry up!”
The evening called for something colourful to lift her spirits. She waved away the pale grey silk and instructed Xenia to make ready the burnished copper taffeta while she had a quick sponge bath. What was Sir Marmaduke up to? Was he planning to set a cat among the pigeons in the Dicksen coop or was he planning to steal the lovebird from under Dicksen’s nose?
As the Countess and Dr Watson hurried up the Shambles to where the brougham was stationed, he brought her up to speed on what had transpired when Mrs Henrietta Dicksen paid a surprise visit to Ye Olde Mousehole Inne that afternoon. He talked quickly between sharp intakes of breath, making clear the following monologue was his interpretation of a shared conversation: Mr Charles Dicksen would not be attending the dinner party at Mallebisse Terrace. He had embarked that morning on a tour of readings in Leeds, Sheffield and Lancaster. Mrs Dicksen would be attending, despite her husband’s protestations, and it was she who had suggested that Sir Marmaduke invite Reverend Finchley and Miss Flyte to make up the numbers. She did not say so directly but the doctor got the impression Sir Marmaduke, conscious of his high standing, demurred at inviting a Catholic deacon and an unknown young lady of dubious connections to dine at his noble table, but Mrs Dicksen had reminded the baronet that the good deacon was her cousin and that he always shared a private box with Miss Flyte at the Theatre Royal when her husband gave a reading. What the baronet made of that fact was anyone’s guess. Did he know that Miss Flyte was Mr Dicksen’s mistress? Did he care? Did he have an ulterior motive? Was he a pawn? Or was he about to call checkmate! Whatever the answer to those questions might be, the baronet issued dinner invitations that same day and Mrs Dicksen offered to deliver them personally while she was out in her carriage, hence the short notice.
What was even more extraordinary, continued the doctor, wheezing asthmatically with each breathy intake, Mrs Dicksen had convinced the baronet that men of standing in the community need to lead by example where religious tolerance is concerned, particularly in times of heightened uncertainty, such as now, where Jews such as Mr Panglossian are possibly being singled out for persecution by some murderous madman who is going about killing authoresses in order to ruin him. She reminded Sir Marmaduke it had been his theory that someone was out to destroy the Jewish publisher and she further reminded him of the dark stain on his family’s history regarding the persecution of Jews. A subtle woman, our Mrs Dicksen, pronounced the doctor, panting heavily. So invitations had also been issued to Mr Merlin Panglossian and his married daughter, who is currently visiting from London, whose name he did not know. These invitations had been personally delivered by Sir Marmaduke’s valet.
“Mrs Miriam Ashkenazy.”
“What?” The doctor stopped to process the unknown moniker.
“The name of Mr Panglossian’s daughter is Mrs Miriam Ashkenazy,” she explained. “I met her this afternoon when I called in at Foss Bank House to try to wheedle a list of noms de plume from the publ
isher.”
“Were you successful?” the doctor quizzed hopefully, pulling out a large handkerchief and blowing his nose.
“Alas! I endured a rather a dramatic dressing down. Mr Panglossian is very touchy on the subject of race and religion. His daughter on the other hand is quite delightful, a touch naïve according to him; about the same age as I. She has a child, Rebecca, adopted, and a husband who has decamped to the Levant with his mistress, much to papa’s relief. I cannot wait for the fireworks.”
“How do you know there will be fireworks?”
“Trust me, there will be fireworks!”
13
Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse
“How is the investigation coming along?” enquired Reverend Finchley as the party of four bumped along in the brougham. “Are you making any progress?”
“Not really,” admitted the doctor, sounding disheartened. “To have a sixth death in the Shambles right under our noses has undermined my confidence considerably. I cannot see how we can ever stop this madman. We still don’t even have a list of author’s names from Panglossian. I think Inspector Bird may need to step in and apply duress.”
“Do you think the inspector has allowed himself to be intimidated by Mr Panglossian?” asked the deacon.
“That’s a possibility,” conceded Dr Watson, “but at the risk of sounding like I am making excuses, the inspector has had several other issues to deal with. There was the death of the young boy in the Shambles…”
“He has not even looked into that,” reminded the Countess frostily.
“True,” agreed the doctor, “but there was the case of the collision of two barges which resulted in arson and a violent feud that has since spread among the bargemen. It has taken precedence over the murders of the authoresses.”
“And Miss Titmarsh,” said Miss Flyte with an angelic smile.
“Oh, yes, and Miss Titmarsh,” said the doctor, aiming a grateful glance at the lovely young woman seated opposite. “And to complicate matters, the inspector appears to have stumbled on a valuable fact that has set us back while chasing up the barge feud.”
“What fact?” pressed the Countess, this was the first she had heard of it.
“Well, it has to do with the witness to the fifth murder,” said the doctor, wondering if he should be discussing the case in front of outsiders.
“The bargeman who found the body under the jetty?” pursued the Countess, who apparently had no such qualms. “And who saw the man on the bridge going back and forth?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?” she insisted.
“Well, this is in strict confidence, but it appears our man is not as reliable as he made himself out to be. According to other bargemen our man is a heavy drinker and the drink has affected his memory. It’s quite likely he wasn’t even sleeping on his barge when he claims he heard the body go into the river. Several bargemen whom the inspector questioned with regard to the arson vow they didn’t see a barge moored at the jetty that night. They claim the man was downstream unloading some contraband. So either he is confused about the dates or he is lying to cover himself. Either way, his testimony regarding the date and time are now questionable. And that throws into doubt his testimony about the man acting suspiciously on the bridge, which provided us with our only eye-witness description of the killer.”
“When you spoke to him,” asked the Countess, “did he seem confused?”
“Not really,” said the doctor, thinking back.
“Being a medical man of longstanding would make you a good judge of such things, surely?” interceded Reverend Finchley.
The doctor nodded firmly. “I believe I am attuned to such things and though the man had gin on his breath he did not display the usual symptoms of a dipsomaniac. What’s more, years of working alongside Mr Sherlock Holmes have made me canny to prevarications, deceptions and criminal subterfuges. I can usually tell when a man is embellishing the truth.”
“I wish I could tell when a man is embellishing the truth,” interposed Miss Flyte in a tone of heightened interest and self-abnegation. “I can never tell when a man is lying.”
“That is easy,” said the Countess, tongue in cheek, “his lips are moving.”
Everyone laughed, though the joke was not original. The two men laughed loudest, keen to prove they could laugh at themselves. The joke also served to lighten the moment and everyone hoped it was precursor to a jolly evening. All four were in good spirits, looking forward to a wonderful dinner in comfortable surroundings with jovial company. The absence of Mr Dicksen added to their lightness of being.
“But japes aside,” continued Miss Flyte, “how can you tell if a man is lying?”
“There are several tell-tale signs,” replied the doctor knowledgeably. “A man tends to blink more often…”
Reverend Finchley turned bright red. The fact the other three avoided eye-contact only added to his embarrassment. “I have been a blinker all my life,” he said bluntly. “It is caused by a nerve spasm. It does not always signify lying. I am also sensitive to bright light.”
“Of course,” said Dr Watson quickly, feeling frightfully sorry, “I was speaking generally, not specifically.”
“There is also gilding the lily,” said the Countess to divert attention away from the deacon. “It is when a person tends to add lots of detail to make the lie sound more plausible. Did your man gild the lily, Dr Watson?”
“No, as a matter of fact he did not. He was vague about the description of the man on the bridge. He did not say the man had a scar on his left cheek or was wearing a deerstalker hat, that sort of thing. And he was vague about the time the body went into the river because it was foggy and there was no moon but he could recall voices, laughter and loud talking, saying it was the usual way when theatre-goers make their way home down Tower Street. And the detail about the man going back and forth across the bridge, timing himself, seemed genuine. Why would he invent a thing like that?”
“You did not prompt him?” quizzed the Countess.
“Certainly not!”
“A man who is telling untruths often avoids eye-contact,” said Reverend Finchley. “And fidgets nervily.”
“Unless he is a practised liar,” countered the Countess, “then he looks you directly in the eye and swears he is telling the truth.”
“Oh, dear,” groaned Miss Flyte, “truth and untruth sound impossible to tell apart! How does a detective or a churchman or a journalist know which is which!”
A fashionable row of terrace houses, as fine as anything to be found in Belgravia, with an enviable outlook across the Museum Gardens, loomed into view and the young women’s earnest question was never resolved. The pumpkin coloured brougham with the Mallebisse crest pulled up behind the burgundy carriage belonging to Mrs Dicksen and a liveried Negro footman emerged from one of the terraces to help the ladies step down. A hall porter, also Negro, was waiting in the entrance hall to relieve them of their accoutrements, after which a butler, likewise negroid, ushered them to the principal drawing room on the level known as the piano nobile, distinguished by the largest of the sash windows. Sweet and dry sherry was being served by a Negress wearing a black uniform with a starched white apron when the butler returned to announce the arrival of the final two dinner guests, Mr Merlin Panglossian and Mrs Miriam Ashkenazy.
It was a disparate gathering of individuals with little in common, be it class, culture, religion, occupation, and just about everything else, and the night could easily have turned into an unmitigated social experiment gone wrong signified by stilted conversation, awkward silences, heated arguments, flares of temper and embarrassments galore, but for the drawing room. Yes, the drawing room. It gave everyone something to focus on and the conversation bubbled along like one of Mr Hiboux’ pots au feu.
There was the African drum being used as a coffee table, the lion skin with head and teeth and tail and claws intact by the hearth, the Zulu tribal spears above the fireplace, the African masks on the man
tle and the strange wooden idols dotting the furniture. Everywhere one turned there was an African object d’art to inspire conversation and in the midst of it all was Sir Marmaduke, adventurer, collector, safari expert, positively glowing as he parlayed anecdotes and recounted tales of derring-do, mopping his sweaty brow as he fielded questions left, right and centre. His gruffness actually hid a shy persona and as is so often the case with lack of confidence in big men it is masked by bravado and a pompous voice. Once this fact was grasped by the guests they warmed to their host even more.
The dining room was also decorated with African artefacts which offered plenty of scope to avoid topics such as the five murdered authoresses, the gruesome death of the boy in the Shambles, and the recent death of Miss Titmarsh, a close personal friend of Mrs Dicksen. The customary practice of women retiring to the music room and the men remaining around the dining room table where port and cigars would be passed round allowed for more contentious conversation to be broached.
“Are you making headway with these damnable murders, what?” posed mine host to Dr Watson as he handed him the port decanter, not realizing he was throwing a lighted fire-cracker into what had been a pleasant evening thus far.
“Not really,” admitted the doctor despondently. “And I discovered just this afternoon that the only person able to offer a description of the possible killer is unreliable.”
“What about the death of Miss Titmarsh?” pursued the deacon, blinking at the shards of bright light shooting from the multi-tiered chandelier. “Was the lady’s death related to the other five? Or was it robbery?”
“It wasn’t robbery,” asserted the doctor confidently. “Nothing was stolen. The cash box was intact, her jewellery collection was untouched, and apart from a silver photo frame, which was also untouched, there was nothing else worth stealing. The killer was most likely waiting for her at the top of the stairs when she returned from the Minerva late in the evening. The fellow was a brute. The lady was punched in the throat before being pushed down the stairs.”
