by Anna Lord
“Did you know the lady was Mrs Dicksen and the dead man was her husband?”
“Not at first, but someone, I think it was the inspector, addressed her as Mrs Dicksen, so I concluded for myself the dead man was Mr Dicksen, though no one spoke his name directly in my presence.”
“What did you make of the scene?”
“How do you mean?”
“Did it seem real or unreal?”
“Well, now that you mention it, it seemed like a theatrical performance. I had just been to the Friargate Theatre and I remember thinking that it felt as if I had somehow stumbled onto a stage set. A highwayman! A woman shooting her own husband! The scenario seemed like something out of Moliere.”
“Do you think the lady was play-acting?”
They had reached the slate-paved terrace and paused momentarily, looking at, but not seeing the dappled sunshine on the lawn and the last of the glorious golden autumn hues. Mrs Ashkenazy was coming toward them, pushing the perambulator, but they did not see her either. He shook his head, slowly at first and then more briskly.
“No,” he said finally. “If she was play-acting she was doing a much better job than any actress I have ever seen.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, when I first climbed into the carriage to find her in a swoon I immediately felt for a pulse. It was very weak. It suggested her heart rate was low. Later, when it became clear she had shot her own husband and she promptly fainted into my arms, her pulse was racing. She was rocked by the news. I’m not a medical man, and perhaps it is possible to control one’s heartbeat at will. If so, she was doing a good job of it. It is my opinion, though I am no expert in theatrics either, that if the scene was staged, the lady had not familiarized herself with the script beforehand. She was not acting, but reacting - extemporizing, so to speak.”
The wheels of the perambulator crunched the dry leaves littering the terrace. The noise caused them to turn their heads. Monsieur van Brugge immediately expressed his condolences and excused himself. He had to get back to his studio. Mrs Ashkenazy managed a rueful smile.
“Here is my darling Rebecca,” she said with a mother’s pride.
The Countess peered adoringly into the perambulator, preparing the usual compliment along the lines of angels and cherubs, and felt her breath catch. Tufts of golden hair poked out from the crocheted winter bonnet and some soft blue eyes were blinking incessantly at the dappled light.
19
Dreadful News
Mrs Ashkenazy had given her word to come to the Mousehole Inne along with Monsieur van Brugge for eight o’clock. The Countess hoped to have all the loose ends tied up by then. She hailed a hansom outside Foss Bank House and directed the coachman to drop her at the spot where the Pavement met the Shambles. She wanted to pay a flying visit to Miss Flyte. There were several small details she needed to check. After that she would hurry to the inn and wait for news from Dr Watson. If he confirmed her latest conjecture, well and good, if not, she would have to wing it and hope the killer could be bluffed into making a confession.
Miss Flyte was as usual at home, reading her book on Nellie Bly for the second time. Thrilled to have company, she immediately rang for tea and muffins. It was hard to get a word in edgewise as Miss Flyte, starved of conversation, rattled on endlessly about the marvellous dinner party and the marvellous Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse. Oh, well, at least breaking the tragic news of Mr Dicksen’s death to his young mistress was going to be much easier than anticipated.
Miss Flyte did not even shed a tear. She merely asked to hear all the gory details and asked dozens of questions regarding the actual shooting.
“It’s just like Jack Black!” she exclaimed more than once, not unhappily. “Do you think Charles intended to kill his wife?”
“It does appear to be the case. Mrs Henrietta Dicksen wrote the penny dreadfuls about Jack Black and it is possible her husband was jealous of her success. Her dreadfuls outsold his high-brow novels. Which brings me to an important point.” The Countess angled her body and looked directly at Miss Flyte. “You mentioned that you saw Mrs Dicksen passing what appeared to be a manuscript to her friend Miss Titmarsh on the odd occasion in church when they shared the box pew. You told me you didn’t tell Mr Dicksen. But just recently did you happen to mention it?”
Miss Flyte blanched, put her hand over her mouth and gasped out loud before nodding guiltily. “It’s my fault isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” returned the Countess solemnly. “You were not to know. You cannot blame yourself for the actions of another. Mr Dicksen chose his own fate.”
“I never thought he would get so angry.”
“What did he say when you told him?”
“He said he would teach his wife a lesson.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No, he just kept repeating that he would teach her a lesson once and for all.”
“Why did you tell him?”
She bit her lip as the full horror of her ghastly mistake dawned on her. “I wanted to make him leave her. I wanted him to get a divorce so he would marry me instead. I didn’t know he would try to kill his wife.” She gave a terrible shudder. “He said we should soon be taking a long holiday abroad – to America. I thought that was what he meant by saying: teach her a lesson. I thought that was how he meant to punish her.”
Miss Flyte began to cry and the Countess had to wait for the stream of tears to run their course.
“There’s one more thing I need to clarify and I need you to think carefully,” she said when the tears abated. “The morning that Mr Dicksen arrived with the parcel wrapped in brown paper, the one which you tore, did it have any writing on the outside of it?”
“Yes,” she hiccoughed, “it said: Gladhill. But I didn’t see that till later. It was facing away from me.”
“Did Mr Dicksen have another manuscript as well as the one that was wrapped? In other words, a manuscript that was unwrapped, say, a penny dreadful?”
Miss Flyte regarded her with awe. “How did you know that?”
The Countess ignored the young woman’s astonishment. “Was it torn?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, hiccoughing and shaking her head in further amazement. “The front page was torn so that I could not see the name of the author. Charles placed the unwrapped manuscript underneath the parcel wrapped in brown paper and forbade me to touch either of them.”
“One more question. When he left you that morning to visit his publisher did he take the parcel wrapped in brown paper or the unwrapped one with him?”
“You must have second sight,” said Miss Flyte rapturously, hiccoughing. “Are you Irish?”
“No, I’m Ukrainian.”
“Is that the same as Welsh?”
“No, Ukraine is, oh, never mind, it’s a long way from here. If you ever find yourself in that part of the world, meaning near Odessa, you will be welcome to stay on my estate for as long as you like. I can telegraph the details to you if you ever need them. Anyway, can you remember if Mr Dicksen took either of the two parcels with him when he went to visit his publisher?”
She shook her head at once. “He left them both on the chiffonier and said he would come back for them. That’s when he forbade me to look at them. He looked very stern when he said it. He can, I mean, he could sometimes be quite fierce.”
The Countess gave an encouraging smile. “But you did look, didn’t you, because like all good journalists you like to unearth secrets and find out the answers to questions people haven’t even asked.”
Miss Flyte was now regarding her with religious rapture. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I peeked carefully and made sure to put it all back exactly how Charles left it.”
“What did you notice?”
“I noticed that the penny dreadful was about knights and dragons and on each page were the same letters.”
“BB,” supplied the Countess - and Miss Flyte almost fainted.
The landlady arrived with tea and muffins
but the Countess did not linger long. Her mind was buzzing. She only half-listened as Miss Flyte rattled on about the marvellous Sir Marmaduke and the marvellous house on Mallebisse Terrace. In between the gushing monologue the Countess managed to extract a promise from Miss Flyte to come to the Mousehole for 8 o’clock.
“Will Sir Marmaduke be there?” the young woman asked hopefully as she walked her visitor to the door.
“Oh, yes, you can count on it.”
It was getting on for 5 o’clock by the time the Countess hurried down the Shambles, her head a clamour of half-formed thoughts that caused her brain to spin and skirr like a child’s toy. She was eager to learn what Dr Watson had discovered from the bargeman and the landlady in Scarcroft Lane. But as she rounded the dog-leg she bumped straight into a large angry rabble milling outside the bookshop. Patch and Boz recognized her at a glance and immediately darted through the legs of the threatening crowd to speak to her. Boz had been crying. There were dirty streaks down his face where tears had smeared the dust and grime clinging to him like a second skin. Patch looked desperate and frightened. He was twisting his cloth cap in soot-stained hands.
“You must help us,” he rasped as if he had a frog stuck in his throat, setting off a fresh flood of tears on the part of the younger boy.
“What is it?” said the Countess, endeavouring to keep her voice steady, sensing something dire and trying to downplay her own rising fear. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Mr Corbie,” croaked Patch. “The police have arrested him for the murders. The inspector just took him away. They didn’t even give him a chance to lock his shop up.”
Stunned and naturally sceptical, the Countess glanced at the sign swinging in the wind and then at the lovely bow window, expecting to see Mr Corbie on the other side of the glass as usual. But there was only Magwitch, prowling the window sill, tale erect, back arched, fur bristling fiercely, sensing some threat.
“Did the police say if they had any evidence?”
Patch nodded gloomily. “They found a whole bunch of unpublished dreadfuls in the dust bin out the back of the shop. They say he stole them from Panglossian after he killed the publisher because he were jealous. They say it was because he sold books all day that nobody wanted to read.” He frowned and swallowed hard and scratched his head. “I mean he didn’t sell books all day that nobody wanted to read. Oh, bugger me! I sound stupid!”
“I know what you mean,” assured the Countess, pushing against the rabble rousers calling for the hanging of the cold-hearted murderer as she ushered the two boys into the bookshop ahead of herself and promptly closed the door. “Where’s the key?”
“Top of the door jamb,” said Patch.
“Lock the door,” she instructed just as the first rock shattered a pane of glass and she turned quickly to Boz. “Come away from the window. Stay in the kitchen and don’t show yourself. Feed Magwitch then fix some supper.”
From the desk, now covered in broken shards of glass, she gathered up a handful of envelopes, sheaves of paper, the ink well and a pen. She was halfway to the kitchen when a second rock broke another pane. She did not look back. Once in the kitchen, she settled at the pine table and began writing feverishly. The nib was cracked and the watered down ink blotted every other word but she daren’t risk going back to the desk by the window to search for a different pen. A third rock had claimed another pane. When she finished writing, she extracted her card case and pulled out all her calling cards, eight in all, enough for what she needed. The letters she had scratched out were on cheap paper covered with unsightly ink blots but if she included a calling card with each letter the recipient would know the message was genuine.
“As soon as you have finished your supper,” she addressed to the two boys, “I have a task for you. It’s important that you carry it out quickly. You will need to hurry.” She finished sealing the envelopes while they scoffed down some food. “Boz, you must deliver letters to Mr Thrypp at Panglossian on Coppergate and Miss Carterett who is staying at the Minerva. The addresses are on the envelopes. I have drawn a daisy in the corner for Mr Thrypp and a bee for Miss Carterett. Will you remember which is which?”
Boz nodded. “Miss Carterett is as busy as a bee. I will remember it that way.”
“Good lad,” she praised. “Now, there is a third letter for Reverend Finchley. You will find him in the belfry at Holy Trinity. If he is not there you will find him in Spen Lane. I don’t know the number of his lodging but if you ask, someone will tell it you. I have drawn a bird on his envelope, a finch. After you have delivered all three letters you are to come back here. Go out the back door that leads to the row and return the same way. Try not to let anyone see you.”
Boz snatched up the three letters as a fourth rock shattered another pane. She waited until she heard the back door slam before speaking quickly to Patch.
“You will deliver letters to Dr Pertwee at the morgue by Toft Green, Mrs Dicksen at Gladhill and Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse at number 17 Mallebisse Terrace. You can read so I haven’t bothered to draw any symbols on the envelopes. You have much further to go so I will give you some money for a hansom.”
“I’ve never rid in a hansom,” he said, wide-eyed at the prospect, before pulling a sour face. “The coachman mayn’t take me, seeing me all covered in soot and ash.”
“Just wave the money at him and he will be happy to oblige. Tell him to wait while you deliver the letters. Give him half at the start and tell him he will get the other half at the end. I will give you more than enough to satisfy him. Go personally into the morgue but for the other two deliveries just push the letter through the slot in the door and use the door-knocker to alert the butler that a letter has arrived. Don’t wait for a reply. The last letter is for Inspector Bird. Deliver it to the police station then come back here. Same as for Boz - leave and return via the row out back. Try not to be seen. When the clock strikes eight come across to the Mousehole with Boz. I will reveal the true murderer and the police will have to release Mr Corbie.”
Upon hearing that bit of news he grabbed up the four letters and moved as if his heels had wings. The Countess followed in his wake, sneaking out through the row at the back so as not to alert the rabid crowd gathering outside the bookshop that the place was now unguarded and ripe for wrecking.
As soon as the Countess re-entered the Shambles she spotted Dr Watson. He was standing at the back of the crowd, doing his best to ascertain what was going on. She caught him by the elbow and ushered him toward the Mousehole without speaking. Mr Hiboux was peering out of the latticed window. He quickly opened the door for them to pass through then promptly locked it again. The little lopsided man was shaking like a leaf and his voice had turned squeaky.
“They have, er, arrested Mr Corbie for the, ah, murders,” he said fretfully, fearing for his old friend, images of gallows and guillotines swimming before his eyes.
“I must say,” said the doctor, removing his coat and hat, “I did not expect it to be the bookseller. Well done to Inspector Bird. He is a credit to the force and all it stands for.”
“Oh, don’t be absurd!” snapped the Countess. “Mr Corbie no more murdered those women than I did. The man is sixty years old, has poor eyesight, arthritic hands, and hardly ever leaves the shop. Can you imagine him punching Miss Titmarsh in the throat and pushing her down the stairs? Can you imagine him throwing Robbie Redbeard off Skeltergate Bridge? Can you imagine him overpowering Mr Panglossian? Really! The very idea is nonsensical!”
Dr Watson, feeling thoroughly abashed, waited until Mr Hiboux hurried off to the kitchen to see to supper before speaking.
“I say, that was harsh.”
She immediately regretted her outburst and apologized but time was of the essence and she had no time to dwell on hurt feelings. “Did you manage to track down the bargeman?”
Continuing to nurse chagrin, he merely nodded stiffly as he helped himself to some sherry from the sideboard, pouring a second glass for the Countess out of ha
bit. After he drained the contents of his glass he felt able to reply in a normal voice minus any defensiveness.
“Yes, and it took the better part of the afternoon. He was down by Castle Mills Bridge again. I suspect he was unloading more contraband, be that as it may, he was angry when he discovered someone had contradicted his story and he demanded to know who had spoken against him. He swore that what he said about the body going quietly into the water and the strange man on the bridge was true.”
“You believe him?”
“Yes, the man stated he would be happy to swear to it in a court of law and it is my belief that men of his ilk are wary of perjuring themselves. I asked him to call by here this evening to repeat his story to you. I warned him to be sober and I did not offer him a bribe. He agreed to come around 7 o’clock.”
“Oh, splendid,” she trilled. “I have invited everyone else for eight.”
“Everyone else?”
“Mrs Dicksen, Sir Marmaduke, Miss Flyte, Mrs Ashkenazy, Monsieur van Brugge, Reverend Finchley, Miss Carterett, Patch, Boz, Mr Thrypp, Dr Pertwee, Inspector Bird, and I specifically requested he bring Mr Corbie. I plan to reveal the murderer of Gin-Jim, the person who has been killing the authoresses, and the person who murdered Mr Panglossian.”
