The Penny Dreadful Curse

by Anna Lord

  “What’s this?” she said. “There’s something in his mouth.”

  Dr Watson pried open the cold lips and used his fingers to pull out some paper. “Good God! Someone stuffed a wad of paper into his mouth. It appears he was rendered helpless by the punch and then smothered to death using paper!”

  “Is there anything written on the paper that might offer a clue?”

  Carefully he drew out a soggy wad of scrunched up paper before examining it closely. “Not really.”

  They heard a groan and turned back to Mr Thrypp. The secretary was pulling himself up with an effort. “Is he.. Is he dead?”

  “I’m afraid so,” responded the doctor. “He’s been dead six or seven hours.”

  “You mean to say,” muttered Thrypp, turning white and trying not to pass out a second time. “I’ve been beavering away in the next room and Mr Panglossian has been lying here dead all that time?”

  “Yes,” said the doctor bluntly. “Mr Panglossian must have come in early as usual and the killer must have arrived soon after or perhaps he was waiting for him, struck him down, and departed before you arrived on the scene. Do you mind if I clarify what time it was when you came in this morning? It will help to establish a time of death.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. It was about half past six. I usually come in at seven but, as I said, Mr Panglossian wanted to look at the accounts.”

  “You didn’t see anyone suspicious loitering about outside on the street or in the yard as deliveries were being made?” asked the doctor.

  Thrypp shook his head. “No one at all. There was only the night-watchman and he left a few minutes after I arrived. How did, er, how did he die?”

  “I’m not sure,” deflected the doctor neatly. “There are no obvious signs.”

  “So he wasn’t stabbed or garrotted or shot?” said Thrypp somewhat morbidly.

  “Nothing like that,” assured the doctor. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind sending a trustworthy fellow to fetch Inspector Bird. Tell your chap to check at the police station first. If the inspector is not there someone should direct your fellow to his whereabouts. He is not to return until he has the inspector with him. Is that clear?”

  Thrypp nodded.

  “Good, then come back and help yourself to a large sherry. I think you could do with a drink. You have had a nasty shock.”

  As soon as Thrypp left them, the Countess, who had been studying the scrunched-up, salivated, slimy wad of paper, turned to the doctor.

  “The paper is of middling quality. It has not disintegrated the way cheap paper would have once in contact with saliva. The ink is smudged and the writing illegible but you can see traces of blackness on the tongue and the roof of the mouth so I think it safe to conclude the ink was black. Our killer could be a disgruntled writer.”

  “Let’s search for that list of names Panglossian promised to hand over,” said the doctor urgently, glancing furtively at the door, “before Thrypp returns.”

  “It should be somewhere on his desk or maybe in one of the drawers. I’ll search the desk. You take that bureau by the window.”

  Ten minutes later Thrypp returned and framed himself importantly in the doorway.

  “May I ask what you are doing?”

  It was the Countess who responded to the pompous tone.

  “Last night Mr Panglossian promised to give me a list of authors’ names to help with our murder investigation. We’re searching for that list. I don’t suppose you know where he kept it?”

  Thrypp lifted back a Mortlake tapestry to reveal a heavy metal door set into a wall of substantial brickwork. “He kept it in this private storeroom. The fire-proof door is nine inches thick and comes with a combination lock. It’s more impregnable than the Bank of England. Short of using explosives, you won’t get in.”

  The doctor and the Countess took one look at the massive door and conceded defeat while Thrypp helped himself to a generous measure of amontillado.

  “Can I pour you a glass?” he invited hospitably.

  They both nodded as they sank gloomily into the nearest chairs.

  For a few moments no one spoke and they ignored the dead man completely. It was Thrypp who broke the silence.

  “I suppose I will need to see about informing Mrs Ashkenazy that her father is no more.” His monotone voice was devoid of emotion. He was once again the epitome of secretarial practicality.

  “I can do that for you,” offered the Countess. “I was planning to visit Mrs Ashkenazy later today. I want to speak to the man who is painting her portrait.”

  “Oh, the Dutch fellow,” said Thrypp by way of conversation, helping himself to a second measure of the best sherry he had ever tasted, “to organize for him to paint your friend, the Marchioness of Minterne-Magna?”

  That’s when the Countess realized Thrypp did not yet know that Mr Charles Dicksen was also dead. “To question the painter in relation to the death of Mr Dicksen.”

  Thrypp swallowed some sherry the wrong way and gagged as his airway constricted without warning. A series of painful coughs caused him to turn bright red. “What,” he managed to gurgle as he gasped for air, “did you say?”

  “Mr Dicksen was killed last night,” clarified Dr Watson.

  “Killed? How?”

  “He was shot by his wife whilst he was dressed as a highwayman intent on robbery,” said the doctor, gauging the young man’s reaction.

  Thrypp looked stunned, his eyeballs bulged from their sockets. “A highwayman!”

  “It may have been a jest gone wrong,” added the Countess, blandly. “We were hoping Mr Panglossian might have been able to shed some light on the tragic event. Do you know anything that might help in that regard?”

  Thrypp shook his head fervently as he continued to gulp back mouthfuls of air. “I cannot imagine Mr Panglossian being involved in a jest. In the ten years I worked for him I rarely saw him smile and I never heard him laugh. As for Mr Dicksen, he was even more serious than Mr Panglossian. I don’t believe he was endowed with a sense of humour. The only jest he might deign to be involved in would be one which –”

  Abruptly he cut off the end of his sentence.

  “Caused alarm?” the Countess finished for him.

  “I was going to say: struck fear into the heart of.”

  No one said anything further. The doctor and the Countess were both thinking that Thrypp had hit the nail on the head. Dicksen was not a jester. It is more likely he had been attempting to alarm his wife; trying to strike fear into her heart. He must have discovered she wrote the highwayman dreadfuls. He must have known how successful she was. He must have decided to teach her a lesson. Yes, perhaps when he first suspected his wife was an authoress of dreadfuls, perhaps after innocently learning from Miss Flyte about the manuscripts passed in church, he confronted Panglossian and had it confirmed that the highwayman author was a simple woman who wore a snood. He simply put two and two together and came up with Titmarsh-the recipient of church parcels. He must have hatched the plan to frighten his wife and he must have confided in his publisher, otherwise how would Panglossian know to warn Mrs Dicksen about taking an alternative route home. What is less clear is that he may also have intended to kill her. It was an example of savage irony that she killed him instead. But now that Panglossian was also dead they could surmise and conjecture all they liked. The truth died with the two men.

  But who killed them?

  Thrypp put the stopper back on the sherry decanter. “I better notify Mr Panglossian’s lawyer,” he said wearily. “There will be probate to consider.”

  The Countess’s voice waylaid him before he reached the door. “Please delay notifying anyone, Mr Thrypp, even though it goes against your efficient nature,” she complimented sincerely. “I think it may be best to let Inspector Bird view the scene of the crime and the body first and I would like to be the one to relay the news to Mrs Ashkenazy. I don’t want her to hear the news from her father’s lawyer. Her disposition is delicate and she may suffer an e
motional breakdown,” she exaggerated to justify her request. “There is also the link to the unusual death of Mr Dicksen last night.”

  “Do you think the two deaths are linked?” he asked.

  “We cannot tell at this stage,” admitted the Countess, “but nothing can be discounted.”

  “Do you think the death of Mr Panglossian is linked to the deaths of the authoresses?”

  “It’s possible,” she replied vaguely when what she meant was – most certainly!

  Mr Thrypp went back to his accounts but the way he stared blankly into space indicated he would not balance his books by the close of day. Meanwhile, the doctor and the Countess continued to scour the inner sanctum. A short time later, the fellow who had been dispatched to fetch the inspector returned alone. The inspector had travelled down river to apprehend an arsonist and was not expected back until about five o’clock. After hearing that, the fellow was summarily dispatched to summon the mortuary wagon.

  Determined not to be further frustrated by more disappointing news, the Countess looked earnestly at her counterpart.

  “How would you like to track down the bargeman who fished the body of Robbie Redbeard out of the Ouse? I think it might be a good idea to interview him again and ask him why his story was discredited by everyone else. He was our best witness.”

  The doctor nodded at once. “Yes, the fact his story was discounted by others has not been sitting well with me.”

  “While you are going that way, it might be a good idea to speak to the landlady in Scarcroft Lane as well. Ask her specifically if she thought Robbie Redbeard, otherwise known as Roberta Redford, had a beau? Don’t force the fact, draw her out slowly. It may be an impression she has without even knowing she has it.”

  “Do you think that is relevant?”

  “Dr Pertwee said Robbie Redbeard was a virgin. Older virgins are particularly susceptible to overtures from men who have designs on them that are not entirely honourable. It could well be she knew her killer because he had made advances toward her and that is why she proved to be such an easy victim to strangle and throw over the bridge. No scream, no cry, no sound to alert the other theatre-goers – that does not sit well with me.”

  “What about you? Will you be paying a visit to Mrs Ashkenazy?”

  “Yes, but first I am going to ask Thrypp to brew me some Souchong and then I am going to spend some time reading.” She threw open the armoire that contained the rejects as Dr Watson hurried away, shaking his head in dismay.

  Thrypp delivered her tea and took one look at the gaping cupboard that was always, always, kept shut, until such time as he was directed to supervise the boy who came to burn the manuscripts that were contained within.

  “I’m afraid I cannot permit you to read those,” he said pompously. “I know Mr Panglossian is dead but my sense of duty did not die with him. I must carry out my duties to the best of my ability until such time as the new owner of Panglossian Publishing commands otherwise. Please put the manuscripts back where they belong, Countess, and close the cupboard forthwith.”

  There were several ways the Countess could have dealt with the punctilious secretary, from mopping the floor with him after delivering a splintering dressing down to appealing to his sense of honour toward his dead patron and his desire to see justice done. She decided on neither.

  “As you wish, Mr Thrypp,” she said pleasantly. “I will replace the rejects immediately and pay a call on Mrs Ashkenazy, the sole heir to her father’s fortune and the apple of his eye, who is sure to inherit his estate and his publishing empire; a woman with a young child; a woman who will surely be seeking to employ a manager to look after her new business interests for which she will have neither the time nor the inclination nor the expertise to manage herself; a young woman who in a moment of vulnerability may be happy to have someone recommended to her. Let’s say, possibly a man who has been with the publishing house for a decade or more, who is au fait with its accounts, its employees, its routine, and the method and order established by the previous owner whom this man admired and respected and served dutifully and uncomplainingly for many years, and who was devastated by his untimely demise; a man who might easily have fainted with shock at the sight of his dead patron and who would have done all in his humble power to help apprehend the person who murdered his beloved benefactor. Good day to you, Mr Thrypp.”

  Mr Thrypp digested the wordy gist in one gulp and blocked the door. “Be not so hasty, dear lady. I may have given the impression I did not wish you to peruse the manuscripts from the reject cupboard. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Forgive me. My mind has been badly affected by the death of Mr Panglossian. It is in disarray. If I overstepped the mark put it down to that. Forgive me. I simply wanted what is best for Panglossian Publishing. And of course, nothing could be closer to my heart than to assist in any way possible in apprehending the killer of a man I admired and respected, and as you so rightly pointed out, my benefactor, my beloved patron, who was almost a father to me. Forgive me, Countess, and let me know at once if there is anything else I can bring you while you read to your heart’s content.”

  Left to herself, the Countess selected a handful of rejects, including one by the mysterious Roman Acle. It was on the top of the pile, written in black ink on paper of middling quality. Interestingly, the cover page was missing.

  As soon as the Countess read the opening paragraph of the dreadful dreadful the penny dropped.

  18

  Mrs Ashkenazy

  After reading three rejects belonging to the same mysterious author known as Roman Acle the Countess was sure she had her killer, all that was left was to gather enough proof to see the culprit brought to justice. She gathered up the three manuscripts as evidence and stepped into the outer office.

  “I will be taking some manuscripts away with me,” she addressed abruptly to Mr Thrypp. “Do you have some paper and string? I would like to wrap them.”

  “I can do that for you, Countess Volodymyrovna,” he volunteered helpfully.

  She declined his kind offer, waited for him to procure what she needed, and did the job herself. Inspector Bird had not yet arrived to examine the crime scene but she could wait no longer. Tempus fugit and all that!

  She left Panglossian Publishing via the back stairs. In the yard she beckoned the surly foreman she recognised from the other day and instructed him to take the parcel of rejects to the Mousehole Inne and give it into the hands of her maidservant. She told him her name and gave him a generous payment in advance of his services.

  “I have been expecting you since midday,” smiled Mrs Ashkenazy as she greeted the Countess in the sunny drawing room overlooking the manicured garden which dropped down gently to the river bordered by a little wilderness of weeping willows. “Please take a seat, dear Countess Varvara, here by the window. The butler is bringing blintze with black caviar from the Caspian and plum cake such as can be found baked throughout the Ukrainian Steppe for afternoon tea. It is lovely to see you again so soon after your last visit to Foss Bank House and gratifying that you have taken the time to come all this way when you are so busy trying to solve the murders related to dear papa’s publishing business. He has enlightened me since we last met. I am appalled but not surprised that men can be capable of such dark deeds. Jews learn early in life of the hate that can lie hidden in men’s hearts.”

  The Countess settled herself into the proffered chair and decided not to pursue dark deeds just yet, but to exchange a few pleasantries first. Bad tidings delivered bluntly would be sure to drop a dark cloud on the remainder of the day akin to the dumping of a monster storm on the pretty flower beds lining the paths. “How is your portrait coming along?”

  “Oh, it is progressing very well. Monsieur van Brugge completed all the preliminary sketches in London last month, but papa insisted that he do the painting in oils here in York, where he could check the progress for himself each day. Monsieur van Brugge has made a very charming likeness of me as artists do w
ho must earn their living from patronage, though to tell the truth, I am a little embarrassed by the flattering nature of the whole, however, I dare not complain as papa is so pleased with it. Ah, here is our tea.”

  “Will Monsieur van Brugge be joining us for afternoon tea?”

  Mrs Ashkenazy shook her head and her glossy shingle hair moved en mass in the same way that dimpled water stirred by a soft wind moves en mass. “I think not. He is in the habit of making a long promenade in the afternoon to give his hand and eye a rest. He starts painting early and works through too late, preferring to build up the layers of colour gradually and slowly. I swear I can hear the silk in the dress rustling as I gaze at his work. It is quite magical, the effect of paint in the hand of a master. Darjeeling or Earl Grey for you, Countess Varvara?”

  “Earl Grey, s’il vous plait?”

  “Bergamot is an inspired addition to tea leaves, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Mr Twining is a genius.”

  “Milk or lemon?”

  “Non, merci.”

  “Sucre?”

  “Rien – the bergamot speaks for itself.”

  The conversation moved onto little Rebecca, who was having an afternoon nap, and the joy that having a child had brought into her lonely life, and that of her dear papa who would be sure to spoil his grandchild no end. The Countess felt a lump come to her throat and drained her teacup more quickly than courtesy dictated. Her hostess immediately refreshed her cup.

  “You said you had been expecting me since midday,” reminded the Countess interrogatively, having meditated long and hard on the curious opening phrase all the while they had been conversing harmlessly.

  “Papa is never happier than when he is scheming to make me happy too. He told me you would be calling on him at his office at midday and he would direct you here for lunch. Please forgive his forwardness. He does not know how to be subtle. I waited and waited but you did not come. I admit I feared that perhaps I had said something to offend you last night at dinner, though it would have been unintentional I assure you, so I was pleasantly surprised when you arrived in time for afternoon tea. It is wonderful to have your company.”