by Anna Lord
“I repeat - an impossible task.”
“Not really. I have been eliminating possibilities all week. I know that Thrypp uses paper that veers toward a pale grey. The ink he uses is black. Sir Marmaduke uses high quality creamy paper and he has a gold ink well with purple ink in it. I managed to take a peek in his study as I made my way to the powder room after dinner. Mr Panglossian has expensive ecru paper on his desk and uses the same black ink as Thrypp. Mr Corbie uses cheap white paper but it appears to be a discarded lot, spoiled in the factory. It has an ugly water stain across the top right-hand corner. The ink he uses is blue, cheap, it tends to drip and blot easily. I think he waters it down. Mr Hiboux has paper of good quality with a distinctive watermark and black ink of excellent quality. Miss Carterett uses cheap white paper and dark blue ink. I asked Mrs Dicksen what colour ink her husband favours and she said she had no idea as he keeps his study locked at all times. She prefers black ink and she uses notepaper which a group of nuns at the St Margaret’s Convent make especially for her. There is a little image of a hen in the top right-hand corner of each page.”
“What about Miss Titmarsh?” he said, as they marched briskly past the fatal teashop and felt a cold shiver.
She stopped dead and caught him by the elbow as he continued marching. “You’re right! We can settle the question of paper and ink right now. I have her front door key in my bag.”
“You stole her key!”
“I borrowed it. I will hand it to Inspector Bird in day or two. Tonight I discovered that Miss Titmarsh is Baroness du Bois and according to Mrs Dicksen she keeps the key to her attic writing room in her tea caddy. Follow me, mon cher.”
He hated when she employed French. It was a precursor to disastre à deux.
Caddy. Key. Attic. A small writing desk covered with pages of neat writing featuring the Crimson Cavalier, neatly arranged in chapter bundles, and all around them proof of the existence of Baroness du Bois. There was even a much-thumbed copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy. The paper on the desk was creamy coloured, middling quality, with a faint watermark. The ink was black. As they were locking up the Countess said:
“That settles it. It has to be Mr Dicksen. First thing tomorrow we go to Gladhill and break into his study on some pretext. I don’t think it will be difficult to get Mrs Dicksen on side while her husband is doing the grand literary tour.”
“You will put her in an invidious position for when her husband returns,” the doctor warned gravely.
“We can break in through the study window using a crow bar. We’ll need a ladder. We can say a storm or a tree branch smashed the window. A glazier can replace the broken pane before the tyrant starts frothing at the mouth. I will bribe the servants to keep quiet.”
Of all the puff-ball ideas! Of all the hare-brained schemes! Of all the feather-headed plans! He had never heard anything so sure to fail! Sherlock had frequently broken into homes, but he was a man! He knew what he was doing!
“You might well jest now, for it will be no laughing matter tomorrow!”
“You make it sound like a matter of life and death.”
“Exactement, ma chere!” he returned with an exaggerated accent.
Wearily, they tip-toed into the Mousehole, expecting Mr Hiboux to be tucked up in bed, but the lopsided little man was at his desk as usual, drawing furiously, and in the inglenook was Miss Carterett nursing a hot chocolate. She had shared dinner with the hospitable chef de cuisine, at his insistence, and had been waiting for the return of the Countess since half past five. She looked scared out of her wits and her normally clear voice was quaking with fear.
“Someone followed me to Clifford’s Tower,” she said quaveringly, without preamble. “I didn’t see who it was but I recognized the footsteps. Even now I can hear them – going up the stairs to the donjon, going down the stairs to the dungeon, following me. I was so frightened I hid in a broom closet and stayed there until quite late. When I thought I might get locked inside the castle for the night I sneaked out and ran here as fast as I could. I’m too scared to go home in case the killer is waiting for me in the mews.”
The Countess took charge with her usual pragmatic sagacity. “Allay your fears, Miss Carterett. My man, Fedir, will accompany you home and act as bodyguard. He has been at sixes and sevens here in York. There are only so many boots he can polish, knives he can sharpen and logs he can chop. He can spend the night in the schoolhouse and keep an eye out for anyone lurking about. If anyone means you harm they will be in for a rude shock. Tomorrow morning, just before the children arrive for school he will leave you to it. How does that sound?”
Miss Carterett wiped the terrified tears gathering in the corners of her eyes with a shaky hand. “Oh, yes, yes, that sounds most satisfactory. I don’t know how to thank you!”
The Countess turned to her companion. “Doctor would you be so good as to inform Fedir of his task and tell him to arm himself. He will find a revolver in the small hatbox painted with blue cornflowers.”
As soon as the doctor left them and Mr Hiboux returned to his desk, the Countess drew Miss Carterett back into the inglenook and spoke in a lowered tone.
“Do you think the man who was following you began following you from the Minerva, or was waiting for you at the end of the Shambles?”
“I think he followed me from the Minerva. I didn’t see him. It was just a feeling I had. It wasn’t until I reached Clifford’s Tower and heard the footsteps that I knew it was the same man who followed me once before.” She gave a shudder. “I would recognize his footsteps anywhere.”
“One more thing before you take your leave. Do you have any idea why the man might be following you?”
Miss Carterett dropped her gaze and twisted the handkerchief in her lap. “I’m Conan le Coq,” she confessed sheepishly. “I feel just awful because when you asked me if I wrote dreadfuls I lied to you. I’m sorry. I had no choice. I write in the schoolroom while the children are attending to their lessons. It’s the only time I have. I would lose my job if the school board discovered I wrote dreadfuls while sitting at my desk, let alone that my stories were full of ghosts and ghouls and dead spirits. No one knows that I write Ghosthunter!”
“But someone does know,” said the Countess, painfully aware she was looking at prospective victim number seven. “That’s why you’re being followed. Make sure you keep all your doors and windows locked at all times and you must avoid going out after dark. Is there someone you can stay with for a few days?”
Miss Carterett thought for a long moment then shook her head dismally. “All my friends live miles from the schoolhouse and my family live in the countryside. Oh, wait! I could stay at the Minerva. They always have spare beds.”
“Excellent! There is safety in numbers!”
“Do you think you will ever find the killer?” the school mistress asked grimly.
“The field is narrowing,” replied the Countess, sounding much more confident than she had reason to feel, though for the first time since arriving in York she felt as if they were actually making headway. They had learned who was behind the noms de plume of Baroness du Bois and Conan le Coq. Tomorrow they would obtain a full list of names from Panglossian and check off as many authoresses as possible. They would break into Mr Dicksen’s private study and gather any incriminating evidence. Before too long the killer would trip himself up and voila!
In fact, if Miss Carterett’s story about being followed not once but twice was true, and she had no reason to doubt it, then the field narrowed considerably. If the killer had been following the school mistress around Clifford’s Tower then it could not possibly have been Sir Marmaduke, Reverend Finchley or Mr Panglossian. Mr Hiboux was also out of the picture. Yes, the field was narrowing, and the Countess’s money was on Mr Charles Dicksen.
“That’s not entirely true,” contradicted Dr Watson as she outlined her conclusions while they watched Miss Carterett and Fedir disappearing around the dog-leg of the Shambles. “The dinner g
uests were not expected to arrive until half past five. Miss Carterett, according to Mr Hiboux, arrived at the Mousehole around that same time. Whoever had been following her had ample time to return to their abode and change for dinner. Remember she hid herself in a broom closet much earlier than that. The killer, presuming it was the killer, having lost sight of her, may have left Clifford’s Tower well before five o’clock.
Overcome with disappointment and disillusionment, the Countess made a move to re-enter the Mousehole when she realized Dr Watson was not following. He appeared to be listening for something, his head cocked to one side. She paused in the wonky doorway and strained her ears, and that’s when she heard it – the sound of sure-footed steps on the cobbles. Someone was advancing rapidly. She heard the steps long before she saw who made them.
Glaucous yellow light escaping from the Mousehole caught the inspector full on the face. There were dark circles under his eyes and heavy brackets around his tight-set mouth. He looked exhausted, wrung out, like a man on the verge of serious illness. He had probably been working eighteen hours in the day, every day. The strain was showing.
The doctor and the Countess immediately assumed the worst – that there had been another death – a seventh authoress murdered – and that is why he sought them out despite the lateness of the hour. It had just gone a quarter after eleven. But again he shook his head.
“Let us go inside,” he said. “I realise it is getting on for midnight and I did not really expect to find the both of you up,” he began apologetically, as they settled into the inglenook and Dr Watson stoked the log fire back to life to ward off the cold draught that had blown in from the open door. “I intended only to wake the doctor and inform him of a tragic turn of events this evening.”
“What tragic turn?” pressed the Countess, since he had just told them there had not been a seventh death.
“Who’s for a sherry?” asked the doctor, pre-empting what he guessed might be bad news.
“Stop interrupting,” she chided before training her exasperated sights back on the ragged inspector and regressing to French, a sign that she was overcome by un sentiment d’inquietude. “Ce qui est? Please proceed.”
Dr Watson measured three glasses of sherry regardless. Her Gallic rejoinder confirmed some agitation on her part. And of course the mind was a wicked thing. The less it knew, the more it imagined. And it tended to imagine the worst.
The inspector downed his glass in one fell swoop. It did not bode well. The doctor decided to follow suit. The Countess merely toyed with her glass; perturbation mounting.
Inspector Bird licked his lips and sucked back a breath. “I have some shocking news…”
“Yes! Yes! Get on with it!” She could not stand being pas en courant.
“I understand that tonight you attended a dinner party at the house of Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse,” he continued painfully, ploddingly, choosing his words with particular care, “at number 17 Mallebisse Terrace. The dinner party finished at approximately ten o’clock. All the guests left at the same time.”
He seemed to be confirming their whereabouts.
“”Yes! Yes! Mais oui!” She was still mixing her English with her French.
“Sir Mallebisse provided his own carriage for yourself, Dr Watson, and you, Countess Volodymyrovna, and Reverend Finchley and Miss Flyte?” It was half-question, half-statement. “Mrs Dicksen travelled home in her own carriage, a landau, pulled by…”
“For goodness sake!” interrupted the Countess. “Get to the point!”
“More sherry?” intervened Dr Watson, sensing something dire.
“Not for me!” snapped his counterpart, remembering she still had the first glass in her hand, contents untouched.
“Thank you, doctor, I won’t say no. Where was I?”
“Mrs Dicksen!” reminded the Countess shortly.
“Oh, yes, Mrs Dicksen,” continued the inspector as ploddingly as ever, “being seven months gone with child, and at her age, began to feel unwell, not sickly, but anxious and nervy, as if her time might be near, as can happen to some ladies, or so I am led to believe, and directed her coachman to take the long way home to Gladhill, so that she could breathe some cool night air. She had been sleeping poorly,” he added irrelevantly. “She could have gone home quicker along High Petergate, you see, round past the Minster via Deangate to Goodramgate, all well-lit thoroughfares, but she chose the route outside the city walls, Gillygate and St Maurice’s Road, through Jewbury, and onto the Foss Islands Road, a lonely track, dark too, with thick marsh fog from the King’s Fishpond and…”
Dr Watson returned with glasses refreshed. The inspector paused mid-sentence to lubricate his throat. The doctor did likewise. Exasperated, the Countess drained her glass and winced.
“Has something terrible happened to Mrs Dicksen?” she vented impatiently, circumventing any further extenuations to the never-ending story.
The inspector seemed slightly dazed at this point, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say. “Mrs Dicksen? No. It’s Mr Dicksen. He’s dead.”
15
Baron Brasenose
“Quoi?” The Countess was so taken aback she used the ungrammatical French expression of the uneducated classes, rather than the more correct: Comment? It proved just how rattled she was. “Mr Charles Dicksen? Dead?”
All her neatly formed conclusions fell off a cliff. She felt as if she had fallen with them and reeled, momentarily stunned.
“Shot,” confirmed Inspector Bird concisely, “by Mrs Henrietta Dicksen.”
This extraordinary revelation required fuller explanation. The word shot did not seem adequate. Besides, Mr Charles Dicksen was supposed to be in Leeds or Lancaster on a reading tour. How could he possibly be the victim of a fatal shooting at the hand of his own wife!
“Mrs Henrietta Dicksen was travelling home in her carriage along the Foss Islands Road,” prompted the Countess, backtracking, “what happened next?”
“Her carriage was held up by a man on a horse with a gun intent on robbery, in other words, a highwayman…”
“Highwayman!” echoed the Countess disbelievingly – it sounded like something out of a penny dreadful. “This is not the eighteenth century! Highwaymen don’t go about holding up carriages at gun point! Nor do horses! Surely it was a bad joke!”
“A joke it may have been at the start,” agreed the inspector soberly, “but it did not end as one.”
“Stop interrupting the inspector,” reprimanded the doctor crossly, all ears now.
“The robber,” continued the inspector, stroking his whiskers, “came out of the mist, riding a black horse, wearing a mask.”
The doctor, who had just reprimanded the Countess for interrupting, sought clarification about the horse. “Was it the rider or the horse wearing the mask?”
“The rider,” said the inspector dryly, glancing oddly at the doctor and wondering why he would think a horse would be wearing a mask.
“It sounds like an episode out of Jack Black the Highwayman!” blurted the Countess before remembering herself. “Please go on inspector.”
“Well, the rider with the mask, not the horse, pulled out a loaded pistol, the old-fashioned sort, from last century, or maybe the century before, and demanded money and jewels. The lady, alone in the carriage and fearing for her life, put her hand into her evening bag as if to pull out some money, but pulled out a muff pistol instead, the sort ladies are known to carry to protect themselves, and shot the rider wearing the mask, not the horse, not realizing it was her own husband. Shot him right through the heart, she did, then fainted clean away.”
“What about the coachman?” quizzed the doctor, wondering if he had played a part in the fatal dramatics.
“The coachman confirmed the lady’s story,” said the inspector. “I questioned him at length straight after I questioned the lady.”
“They were still at the scene when you arrived?” pressed the doctor.
The inspector nodded cu
rtly. “The coachman dared not move on while his mistress was in an unconscious state, having swooned, and in her condition, see, so he settled the horses and then checked to make sure the highwayman was dead.”
“How did he do that?” asked the Countess.
“He did as all folks do – he checked for a pulse. But he said he knew the man would be dead because he had slumped forward in the saddle on being shot and then toppled sideways, one foot stuck in the stirrup. There was also a lot of blood. The highwayman’s horse, fortunately, did not bolt but stayed put. While the coachman was tethering the horse to a sapling on the side of the road another carriage came along. He flagged it down.”
“Who was in it?” asked the Countess.
“It was a hansom for hire with a foreign gentleman in it, a Dutchman, a painter of portraits. I have his name here.” He retrieved his notebook and flipped over some pages. “I wrote it down because it is the sort of name that does not spring readily to mind. Here it is – Monsieur...”
“Boetius van Brugge,” finished the Countess.
“You know him?” said the inspector, inflection rising.
“I know of him. He has been commissioned to paint a portrait in oils by Mr Panglossian and is staying as a guest at Foss Bank House. The portrait will feature Mrs Miriam Ashkenazy, Panglossian’s married daughter. I wonder what the Dutchman was doing out on the road at that late hour.”
“I can answer that for you,” supplied the inspector. “He was returning from Friargate Theatre and he was indeed going to Foss Bank House.”
“Do you mind if we go back to what the coachman said when you questioned him?” interrupted the doctor, sensing they were getting off the subject.
