The Penny Dreadful Curse (12 page)

“Ukrainian
Orthodox to be precise, but all gods spring from the same pagan
myth. I am hoping a father confessor may know the names of some of
York’s secret authors.”

“A priest will
never divulge a confidence from the confessional.”

“A deacon is
not a priest. But who knows! Reverend Finchley may turn out to be
an author himself and perhaps know other authors through personal
dealings with his publisher which may even be Panglossian. He
seemed to be on very friendly terms with Miss Flyte. I daresay he
befriends cockle shells rather than cauliflowers or cabbages.”

“You’ve lost
me,” said the inspector, looking puzzled.

“Never mind,”
snorted Dr Watson. “She often speaks in riddles. I’ll see you
tomorrow morning. Let’s start early. Say eight o’clock.”

Holy Trinity
Church was everything York Minster was not: small and obscure,
tucked into a quiet leafy garden of no great worth, a forgotten
little gem, unpolished, lacklustrous, devoid of dazzlement and
wondrousness.

The Countess
did not expect to find anyone inside the church at that hour of the
morning. She merely thought it might be a good idea to observe the
interior for herself prior to searching out the deacon and making a
generous donation to the poor box. But there was a lady in one of
the box pews, sitting in quiet contemplation, head unbowed, hands
clasped in her lap. She was not particularly young or beautiful but
she had an air of serenity about her that imbued her with a sense
of divine grace. Her garments and accoutrements were of good
quality, marking her out as a lady of comfortable means rather than
great wealth.

The two women
acknowledged each other’s presence without the need for words. The
Countess moved along, understanding that box pews were designed not
merely to keep out draughts but for privacy. She studied the
stunning stained-glass window on the eastern side where the sun
came in and turned the forgotten gem into a glittering jewel box.
When she turned back to see if the lady was still in the box pew,
she noted that Reverend Finchley had come in through the vestry and
was collecting the hymn books from matins. He finished collecting
the books, whispered something to the lady then came across to
her.

“Good morning,
Countess Volodymyrovna. Did you enjoy the reading last night?”

“Yes, it was a
grand show. Mr Dicksen is a charismatic speaker.”

Overhearing
this, the lady smiled wryly to herself and emerged from the privacy
of her box, moving carefully, almost awkwardly. Reverend Finchley
immediately turned back to assist her to come forward and it soon
became clear she was heavy with child, seven months or more
gone.

“Let me
introduce Mrs Dicksen,” he said, presenting her to the
Countess.

“Mrs Charles
Dicksen?” the Countess clarified.

“Mrs Henrietta
Dicksen,” the lady confirmed with a nod of her head. “I believe you
will be dining with us at Gladhill this evening, along with your
companion, Dr Watson. My husband was thrilled to meet you yesterday
at Panglossian’s and his footman is delivering an invitation to the
Mousehole Inne as we speak. I hope you do not have a prior
engagement. My husband does not take kindly to having his dinner
invitations declined.”

“I believe we
are free this evening, and it would be a pleasure to accept your
invitation to dine at Gladhill, unless, of course, Dr Watson has
made alternative plans in the meantime of which I am unaware.”

“Oh, I
sincerely hope you can come,” interposed the deacon. “I received my
invitation half an hour ago and was I looking forward to an
interesting evening.” He turned to Mrs Dicksen and spoke casually,
signalling they knew each other well and had moved beyond formal
address. “Do you know who else will be coming?”

“I believe my
husband will be inviting Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse.”

“Not that old
bore! What about Panglossian?” he said somewhat eagerly.

The lady
arched her elegantly pencilled brows and gave the deacon a
meaningful look. “You know very well he cannot stand the man. He
hates publishers and Jews in equal measure. And it means we cannot
serve roast pork with crackling.”

“What about
you-know-who?”

Mrs Dicksen
straightened her sagging shoulders with a dignified yet
long-suffering sigh. “He does keep threatening me. One day he will
actually bring her to the house and flaunt her in my face,
embarrassing the poor girl no end.” She turned to the Countess, her
voice was surprisingly neutral. “I believe you met Miss Isabel
Flyte last night? Quite young and lovely, isn’t she?”

This was the
sort of conversation that could easily blow up in everyone’s face
rather suddenly. “Yes, quite. She seemed anxious not to arrive
late.”

“Oh, she
wouldn’t dare! He would immediately throw her over for some new
slip of a thing from the Minerva. That’s where he met the poor girl
and where he will pick up the next one when he becomes bored or
when she falls with child, whichever comes first. The Minerva is a
godsend for
that
sort of philanthropy.” Mrs Dicksen sighed
heavily, looked down at her great belly then turned to the deacon.
“How are her reading and writing lessons coming along?”

“Miss Flyte is
making good progress with her reading but the writing is proving
rather painful. Being left-handed doesn’t help. Smudges galore! Her
elocution is rather splendid though. I am very proud of the results
there.”

“The girl has
an excellent teacher,” praised Mrs Dicksen most sincerely. “Well, I
must be off. It was a pleasure to meet you, Countess Volodymyrovna.
Please do try and make it to Gladhill this evening otherwise my
husband will be in a foul mood all night. Oh, and if you would be
so good as not to let on that we met today I would appreciate it
very much. My husband is very tiresome about me going out in public
with this huge bump - parading – that’s the word he uses to
describe it. If it were up to him all women with child would be
confined for nine months to some sort of hospice or penitentiary.
Good-bye, Reverend Finchley. I will endeavour to follow-up on the
matter we discussed earlier.”

As soon as the
Countess was alone with the deacon she reached into her reticule
and pulled out some money.

“Please accept
this donation for the poor box, Reverend Finchley, and please don’t
make a fuss about how generous I am. I can well afford to be and
the praise is apt to go to my head. Oh, dear, I think Mrs Dicksen’s
forthrightness may be contagious. Not that that is necessarily a
bad thing. I liked her in an instant. I think she would make a
loyal and steadfast friend. You seem to be on quite good terms, I
noticed.”

It was a
leading question but the deacon did not flinch.

“Mrs Henrietta
Dicksen and I are distant cousins. We have been friends since
childhood.”

“Shall we walk
in the garden, Reverend Finchley? There is a rare burst of November
sunshine. Her marriage appears to be a difficult one?”

“This is her
tenth pregnancy. She is forty years old. Dicksen blames her. It
makes a mockery of the term: immaculate conception.”

“Surely his
adultery cannot be a secret to anyone. Why doesn’t she seek a
divorce?”

“She has
threatened it and he has threatened her in return. He will do all
in his power to have her committed to a lunatic asylum and he will
ensure she never sees her children again. He will win. Fame will
guarantee it and his reputation will not suffer one jot.”

Autumn leaves
crunched underfoot, which the Countess’s fur-trimmed cape collected
and swept along the path until such time as they became caught up
in clumps of waxy leafed Lenten roses, drooping bloomless for now.
A lacklustre sun penetrated the bare branches of a straggly tree
scattering a tracery of thin shadows across the leafy carpet.

“I suppose
marriage grants him respectability no matter how abominably he
behaves.”

“A divorce
would interfere with his writing too. He keeps himself to a tight
schedule and does not like anything to disrupt it. The household
staff tiptoes around on eggshells so as not to disturb his
concentration and woe to the child who makes a noise or the babe
who cries. I liken Gladhill to a convent where the nuns and novices
have taken vows of silence and only the Archimandrite speaks. He
takes no pleasure in his children. They are merely by-products of
his authority and proof of his masculinity.”

The Countess
was beginning to dislike Mr Charles Dicksen and had to fight hard
against allowing herself to be swayed by her emotions, recalling
what had happened in Devon. She had put lives in danger, including
her own, and almost thwarted any chance of unmasking the killer.
Fortunately, she never made the same mistake twice. The deacon had
provided her with the opening she needed to raise the topic
foremost on her mind.

“Are you also
a writer, Reverend Finchley?”

He blinked
incessantly, but since it was a habitual action she could draw no
inference from it, neither nervousness nor telling a falsehood.

“I have
written the odd sermon or two for special holy days such as Lent or
Assumption when Father Chetwynd has been kind enough to invite me
to say a few words to the congregation.”

“I meant
something more creative.”

He blinked and
blushed. “I have written a couple of poems for
The Bellringers
Quarterly
and I once penned a carol for the Christmas concert
that was well received.”

“You have not
been tempted to write a penny dreadful? It seems quite a popular
pastime in York with so many publishers on hand in the city,” she
observed nonchalantly.

“I do not
doubt it is a worthy pastime but not for me. I am quite busy as it
is.”

“Do you
personally know of any authors of penny dreadfuls? I ask because Dr
Watson and I are assisting Inspector Bird with the recent spate of
murders. The five victims, as you probably heard, were all
authoresses of penny dreadfuls. And I feel whoever is murdering
them will not stop at five. I fear a sixth murder will happen very
soon.”

They had made
a full circuit of the small garden and had returned to the door of
the church. He turned his face full to the sun and blinked some
more.

“Oh, yes, I
see, well, it is difficult to give you an answer without breaking a
confidence. If an author or authoress chooses to use a nom de plume
one assumes they do not want the public to know who they are. I
cannot in all conscience give you any names. I would advise you to
visit the various publishers of penny dreadfuls and speak to
them.”

“All the
authoresses who were killed were with Panglossian. Dr Watson and I
visited the Panglossian Publishing House on Coppergate yesterday.
Mr Panglossian was very polite but unforthcoming. That’s where we
met Mr Dicksen. Panglossian is his publisher too.”

“Yes, Charles
turned to Panglossian about ten years ago, straight after his first
publisher went bankrupt. It has worked out well for him. It was
Panglossian who suggested the readings at the Theatre Royal and
they have turned out to be an enormous boon to his popularity. His
sales go through the roof after a reading.”

“That’s good
news for Mr Corbie, the bookseller, too.”

“Not really.
You probably saw Miss Carterett at the door as people were leaving
the theatre. She was handing out flyers. If you go directly to
Panglossian Publishing with your flyer you get a discount on the
book you want to purchase – a Dicksen novel of course. It cuts out
the bookseller.”

“Does Miss
Carterett get a percentage of the sales?”

“No, she does
it gratis. She is a bit in awe of Mr Dicksen’s genius.”

“As are most
women going by last night’s crowd.”

“Indeed,” he
sniffed. “There is no disputing he is a talented writer and a
charismatic speaker, unfortunately the man is much less noble than
the noble characters he invents and readers seem unable to make the
distinction.”

Somewhere a
church bell struck the hour, though it was not the bell from Holy
Trinity.

“Your bell
didn’t ring,” said the Countess, looking up at the perpendicular
tower.

“We no longer
have a bell. It developed a crack that proved too costly to mend.
And there are so many bells in York as it is. It is difficult to
retain reliable bell-ringers too. As soon as a man is suitably
trained he is poached by a rival church. Father Chetwynd got rid of
the bell and gave the belfry over to me when he had no other use
for it and I hinted I could use it as a private study. My stipend
does not come with a manse or rectory. I rent a room in nearby Spen
Lane. The little belfry is freezing cold in winter and frightfully
draughty the rest of the year but I have an excellent view straight
down the Shambles on the odd occasion when I open the wooden
shutters.”

The Countess
looked up again at the perpendicular tower and then at the deacon.
“I don’t suppose you happened to be up there yesterday morning with
the shutters open when that poor boy was strung up on the meat
hook?”

“Unfortunately, it was too early in the day for me. I was told it
happened at first light. I know it behoves me to practice
forgiveness but some acts are unforgiveable. Are you assisting the
inspector with that murder too?”

The Countess
decided it might be high time to practice discretion. “Inspector
Bird does not think it is related to the deaths of the penny
dreadful authoresses. He will follow it up when he has the time. I
would dearly like to see the view from your little study. Would you
think me impertinent if I asked to see it?”

His blinking
stopped suddenly and he stared vacantly for several heartbeats then
started up again – blink, blink, blink. “Unfortunately, I have an
appointment with the choir master and I am late already.”