The Penny Dreadful Curse (16 page)

The landlady
brought a serve for one and was taken aback to find Miss Flyte had
a visitor other than Mr Dicksen, especially a member of her own
sex. She returned a short time later with more muffins and an extra
teacup.

“Does Charles
never come in the evening?” posed the Countess conversationally as
they settled to breakfast at a small table centred with a vase of
hyacinths.

“He gets
invited out to dinner most evenings. He is very popular with York
society. And every other minute of the day he spends writing. His
books are very popular too.”

“Have you read
any of his books?”

Miss Flyte
shook her head sadly. “They are a bit too hard for me to fathom. He
uses big words that I don’t really understand and his sentences are
really long and there are so many characters in his stories I get
confused as to who is who.”

“Does he
sometimes bring a manuscript he is working on when he visits here,
perhaps on his way to his publisher?”

“No, never,
oh, wait, yes, just the once, I remember he arrived the other day
with a parcel under his arm wrapped in brown paper. I thought it
was for me and went to unwrap it and he became quite angry. He said
it was something he was working on and he did not like people to
see his work until it was ready.”

“Can you
remember what day that was?”

“The days are
all a bit of a blur to me. One morning is much like another. To
tell the truth I don’t usually know what day of the week it is
except for Sunday when I am allowed to go to mass at the Holy
Trinity.”

“Was it
recently?”

“Yes, not long
ago, but I cannot say what day exactly.”

An hour later
the two women were walking briskly along St Saviourgate. The
Minerva started life as guild hall belonging to the silk weavers
but when silk production moved to India the building fell into
disuse and was eventually sold to Mr Charles Dicksen who turned it
into a home for fallen women. The afternoon skipped by as Miss
Flyte and Countess Volodymyrovna made themselves useful, nursing
babies, rolling bandages, folding nappies, labelling medicine
bottles, and conducting reading lessons with expectant mothers
whose nerves were on edge, or those who had recently given birth
and were waiting for their bleeding to stop, which could take ten
to twelve weeks, so they could go back to the streets or the
factories where they toiled or the homes they fled once they found
themselves with child. Some of the girls were old hands, several
had returned for their third pregnancy. They were called
churners.

“What happens
to the babies when the girls leave?” the Countess asked Sally.

“They go to
baby farms. From there, some are adopted out but most die before
they see their first year. Some of the younger girls pay for their
babies to be cared for but by the second or third time they just
give them up without a backward glance. If it weren’t for the
Minerva the girls would die too. They would give birth on a pile of
filthy rags in a corner somewhere and bleed to death.”

It suddenly
occurred to the Countess that if Mr Dicksen originally met Miss
Flyte at the Minerva she must have been pregnant too. Did she give
birth to a boy or a girl? And what happened to her baby? As she
looked around at the pale haggard faces of the girls in the beds,
some clinging to their newborns for the short precious time they
had together before being parted, some sick with fear or worry,
some in poor health, all of them exhausted, she wondered how Miss
Flyte looked when she was pregnant. Was she sickly too, or a pearl
among the dross?

Reverend
Finchley arrived at midday. He performed baptisms once a fortnight.
It was important to the girls who were Catholic that their babies
be baptised. The Countess realised at once that he was a lay deacon
and had no church authority to perform such rites, in other words,
his baptisms were mere sham, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
His deceit gave comfort to girls who received little solace from
anything else. He must have known that too as he handed each mother
a rosary, kindly donated by Mrs Henrietta Dicksen, which everyone
knew would be pawned within weeks of the girls going back to the
streets.

At half past
two they stopped for a cup of tea and some stale oatmeal
biscuits.

“I have to
rush back to the Holy Trinity,” he said, gulping back his tea and
checking his pocket-watch at the same time. “There’s a special
memorial mass for the five departed souls and Father Chetwynd has
invited me to do a reading.”

“Are you
referring to the five dead authoresses?” asked the Countess.

He nodded as
he washed down the last of his bone-crunching biscuit with a
mouthful of tepid tea.

“Were all the
victims Catholic?” she pursued in an interested inflection.

“Only two of
them, but it seemed unchristian to have a memorial mass and leave
out the other three. It is not the same as a funeral mass. There
are no bodies for a start. There won’t be any kyrie. I better
hurry. I need to prepare the incense burners.” He glanced up at the
grimy clerestory window. “Oh, drat, it is starting to drizzle and I
forgot to bring my umbrella.”

The Countess
hurriedly replaced her teacup and looked earnestly at Miss
Flyte.

“We can hail a
cab. Miss Flyte and I will come with you. Give us a moment to find
our cloaks.”

The little
garden outside the Holy Trinity was a sea of black umbrellas.
Amongst the crowd was Miss Titmarsh who had closed her teashop
early so as to attend the memorial mass. Offering a gallant arm to
Mrs Henrietta Dicksen was Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse. He was not
Catholic, but given his social standing in the community, and the
unfortunate family history regarding the massacre of 1190, Mrs
Dicksen had convinced him it was important to be seen at religious
services where tolerance was being celebrated. Besides, this wasn’t
a normal Catholic mass.

The little
church was packed to the hilt. The Countess and Miss Flyte just
managed to squeeze into a pew three rows from the back.

“That’s
unusual,” whispered the Countess to her young companion. “Miss
Titmarsh has been invited to sit in Mrs Dicksen’s private box.”

“They share
the same box pew every Sunday,” Miss Flyte whispered back, “I
believe they are old friends, though, since Mr Dicksen’s fame and
standing has grown his wife is not permitted to socialize with Miss
Titmarsh except at church, but who is that handsome looking man
with them? I don’t believe I have ever seen him in church before.
”

“That’s Sir
Marmaduke Mallebisse.”

“Not
Mallebisse of Mallebisse Chocolate Blisses?”

“That’s the
one. He is a big game hunter and has just returned from
Africa.”

Miss Flyte
felt her heart palpitate. “Is he married?”

“I believe he
is a confirmed bachelor.”

“I don’t think
I have ever heard Charles mention the name, Sir Mallebisse.”

“I think Mr
Dicksen is the sort of man who if he does not like someone they
might as well not exist. But I did not realize you were acquainted
with Mrs Dicksen?”

“Oh, I’m not.
By that I mean we have never been introduced. I see her every
Sunday but she keeps to her private box and I keep to the rear of
the church so as not to cause offence. I never take communion and I
make sure I slip out the door before she sees me.”

The memorial
mass commenced and Reverend Finchley gave an excellent reading that
was well received. An hour later the rain had ceased and they filed
out into another rare burst of November sunshine, congregating in
small groups to discuss the five tragic deaths. Miss Flyte became
agitated, but the Countess caught her by the elbow and entwined her
arm in a tight knot. She was curious as to how an encounter between
the wife and the mistress might play out.

“I need to
leave,” bleated Miss Flyte, attempting to extricate herself.
“Charles will be furious if I linger long in the churchyard.”

“Charles isn’t
here,” reminded the Countess, hanging on tenaciously. “We must
congratulate Reverend Finchley on his reading. Oh, look, here comes
Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse, with Mrs Dicksen and her friend, Miss
Titmarsh. Take three deep breaths, Miss Flyte.”

Miss Flyte
became quite anxious and began to tremble. “No, no, let me go. I
must go. Mrs Dicksen will cause a terrible scene. Charles will be
furious when he hears of it. Let me go,” she pleaded.

“Calm
yourself, Miss Flyte. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out.”

“Good
afternoon, Countess Volodymyrovna,” greeted Mrs Dicksen, taking
elegant charge of the
mise en scene
in the absence of her
overbearing husband, which the Countess had come to understand was
a common state of affairs in households where a despotic master had
an inflated sense of his own majesty. “What did you think of the
memorial mass?”

“I think it
touched the right note – gently moving without being overly
maudlin,” she replied sparingly before indicating her companion.
“Let me introduce my friend, Miss Flyte.”

Miss Flyte
managed a pretty smile despite the fact she was still shaking and
clinging tightly to the arm entwined through hers to stop from
fainting with fear.

Further
introductions were conducted and conversation continued without any
unpleasantness simply because everyone took their cue from Mrs
Dicksen who treated Miss Flyte with the same civility and courtesy
she treated all her friends. When a light mizzle of rain began to
fall the groups outside the church began to disperse. Mrs Dicksen
had her own carriage and was helped up the step by Reverend
Finchley. Sir Marmaduke gallantly offered Miss Flyte a lift home in
his own brougham, while Miss Titmarsh and the Countess shared an
umbrella for the short stroll down the Shambles.

The Countess
had not had an opportunity to speak to Dr Watson about whether he
had learned anything from Miss Titmarsh pertaining to the death of
the poor boy, so she decided to question her personally, pretending
to walk slowly so as not to slip on the wet cobbles.

“That was a
very thoughtful thing you did the other morning when you took the
char into your teashop,” praised the Countess. “A Christian act of
kindness.”

“The poor
woman was most distressed.”

“Indeed she
was, and who could blame her; such a savage attack on an
unfortunate boy. Did you happen to see anything unusual that
morning?”

“How do you
mean?”

“Well, I
understand from Mr Hiboux that you are always up early to do some
baking. I wondered if you saw someone or heard something that
particular morning that might throw some light on the terrible
crime.”

“Now that you
mention it I did see a figure rush past the shop and I thought it
odd because it was so early, just gone first light, the gas lamps
still burning.”

“Can you
describe the figure you saw?”

Miss Titmarsh
shook her head. “I did not get a proper view. It was too fleeting.
Almost like a bat flitting across the moon. You know you have seen
it but you cannot say from whence it came or where it went or
describe how it looked other than it was black. All that I can be
certain of was that it was a man not a boy. It was really just a
moving shadow.”

“Do you
remember what direction the shadow was going?”

“Oh, yes, it
was going as we are going now, from Holy Trinity to the
Pavement.”

The Countess
bid
au revoir
to Miss Titmarsh under the eaves of the
teashop and proceeded quickly to the Mousehole, doing her best to
avoid the rivulet trickling down the runnel. She was almost to the
door of the inn when she caught sight of someone lurking in the
murky shadow of a doorway just ahead. With nothing to defend
herself and with no one about, she started to back-track to the
teashop when the figure emerged from the gloom and she saw through
a translucent veil of grey rain a small thin boy, wet and
bedraggled, hugging his skinny arms around himself in a feeble
attempt to ward off the cold.

“I’m Boz,” he
said in a wee voice barely above a whisper.

Relief flooded
her and she swallowed the heart in her throat. “Follow me into the
Mousehole. Mr Hiboux will give you something hot to eat while we
talk.”

She had
reached the door of the inn when she realized the boy wasn’t
following. “It’s all right,” she reassured, looking back over her
shoulder. “You can trust me.”

He shook his
matted head and it reminded her of a dog shaking himself dry. “I’ll
not go in there,” he said determinedly. “But I’ll follow ye into
the bookshop.”

Mr Corbie was
not overly surprised to see the pair of them when he heard the bell
tinkle. He had observed Boz skulking up and down the Shambles for
the last half hour. Fondly recalling the fifty pounds, he offered
to make some crumpets and cocoa. The Countess declined but asked
him to provide for the boy.

“I’m sorry
about what happened to your brother,” she began softly, removing
her wet gloves, treading carefully so as not to alarm him. “How old
was Gin-Jim?”

“He were eight
years old. I am six. He were three years older.”

She did not
bother correcting him, noticing how he stared at her elegantly
manicured hands and elongated fingers. “I will pay for his burial
so that he does not have to go in a pauper’s grave. I will leave
some money with Mr Corbie to pay for it when the day comes.”

Boz watched
from under hooded lids as she extracted some large notes. “Nowt
comes for nowt,” he said harshly for one so young, using a wet
sleeve to wipe his runny nose, smearing grime and snot across his
filthy face. “What do I have to do fer it?”

“Fair enough,”
she said. “First go and wash your hands and face and then come and
tell me all you know about why your brother was in the Shambles so
early in the day and where he had been and where he was going.” She
wanted to know much more than that but decided to keep it simple
and go slowly until trust was established.