The Penny Dreadful Curse (20 page)

The interior
of the church was cold and musty, the candle-scented air thick with
vapours and the dust of ages. A few stumpy candles flickered weakly
in candlestands. The Countess gave a little shiver as she selected
a large fat candle in a wooden holder near the door and Dr Watson
struck a lucifer to light the wick and dispel the gloom. They were
about to search for the stairs to the belfry when they heard a
rustling sound and realized they were not alone. A quick scan
revealed a hooded figure, kneeling in prayer, in one of the box
pews. The figure finished praying, made the sign of the cross and
stood up. It was Miss Titmarsh. She was on her way to the Minerva
and had stopped off to pray for the five dead authoresses. They
claimed to be doing likewise and Miss Titmarsh bid them goodbye and
left them to it.

Framed by a
stone arch, the steps to the belfry were steep and winding,
following the inside edge of the perpendicular tower. Dr Watson and
Countess Volodymyrovna thought they might be in luck and climbed
all the way to the top - the doctor leading, holding the flickering
candle, the Countess following, holding up her skirts - only to
find a heavy wooden door barring the way into the topmost room, not
only bolted but fitted with an old barrel lock, the sort for which
you needed a large brass key. The lock could not be picked, nor the
door forced. Disappointed to have come thus far only to be thwarted
by a sturdy lock, they tramped back down the winding stairs,
extinguished the cierge and returned to the Mousehole.

Neither
noticed the figure crouched furtively behind the altar.

Miss Titmarsh
failed to arrive at her usual time with provisions for their
breakfast so Dr Watson took it upon himself to see what might be
causing the delay. The door to the teashop was unlocked which at
first glance seemed a good sign but in hindsight proved the
opposite. He entered and called out the lady’s name but no answer
was forthcoming and the first thing he noticed was that the homely
smell of baking was absent from the little shop. He got all the way
to the serving counter which was usually laid out with freshly
baked scones, biscuits and teacakes, but which today was bare,
before he spotted the body at the foot of the stairs. The acute
angle of the neck, the ungainly sprawl of the body, limbs awkwardly
splayed and bent, petticoats unseemingly hitched, striped stockings
on view for all the world to see, told him the lady had tripped and
tumbled down the stairs. Such accidents were commonplace.

Out of habit,
and being a medical man, he checked for a pulse. The neck was cold
and stiff, the limbs already rigored. She had lain like that for
hours, probably all night. He wondered if she was still wearing the
same clothes from the night before and thought it likely. The
Countess would remember. Perhaps the lady had fallen in the dark.
Perhaps while reaching for the gasolier at the top of the landing.
Perhaps in her haste to double-check that the door was locked prior
to going to bed as ladies who live alone are wont to do. But gut
instinct and five murders overrode medical experience and a
niggling voice told him this death was no accident.

He felt the
hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Was the killer still at
large? No, he would have fled into the night long ago. He reminded
himself the body was cold. Nonetheless, he checked the downstairs
rooms – kitchen, scullery, larder and pantry. There was a
wash-house out back but the rear door was locked and the key was on
the hook by the scullery window.

He mounted the
stairs, stepping warily, and checked the upstairs rooms. The
bedroom off the landing was waiting for its occupant, the bed
covers pulled up tidily, the bed clothes laid out neatly, ready for
putting on. The second bedroom was also neat and tidy, but infused
with the god-awful smell of pot pourri and moth balls. He was about
to check the attic when he heard a familiar female voice calling
from the front door.

“Hello! Is
anyone here?”

He appeared at
the top of the stairs. “Miss Titmarsh is dead,” he announced
grimly. “It looks like an accident except…”

The Countess
was across the little teashop in a matter of seconds, pulling up
sharp at the foot of the stairs and finishing the sentence for him,
“Except you don’t think so.”

In the time it
took him to descend the fifteen steps she had raced to the cash
till.

“It has not
been emptied,” she declared. “This is no robbery with violence just
as Gin-Jim’s death was no robbery with violence. You think she was
pushed?”

He nodded
gravely. “Look at her clothing,” he directed. “Is she wearing the
same clothes as last night?”

“Yes she is,”
she confirmed unhesitatingly; her eyes flying to the coat hook by
the door. “She has put her umbrella in the stand and hung up her
cloak, but her dress is the same.”

“That means
she was most likely killed last night after she returned from
visiting the Minerva. The killer was probably waiting for her at
the top of the stairs. There do not appear to be any other
injuries.”

The Countess
knelt over the body. “Help me to turn her over.”

He knelt on
the other side. “We shouldn’t really move the body until the police
arrive.”

“We are here
to help Inspector Bird,” she reminded. “We cannot wait for him to
arrive. It could be hours. Turn the body,” she repeated with
emphasis.

Together they
heaved it over and there on the larynx was an ugly bruise.

“It appears
that she has been punched in the throat,” said the doctor, looking
closer and sounding surprised.

“I thought
perhaps she might have been strangled like Robbie Redbeard but this
is nasty and vicious. The killer probably rammed his fist into her
voice box to stop her screaming.”

“The punch
would have sent her flying down the stairs. Dr Pertwee will confirm
if the neck is broken.” He remembered the front door and looked
back over his shoulder. “The door was unlocked when I arrived.”

She pushed to
her feet and hurried to the door. “The key is in the lock this
side. So we know how the killer let himself out. But if he was
waiting at the top of the stairs how did he get in? Have you
checked all the rooms?”

“All but the
attic.”

“You check
there and I shall have another look around downstairs.”

When they met
up again she said she knew how the killer gained entrance and led
the doctor into the scullery.

“Through that
small square window,” she said, pointing. “It’s locked from the
inside now but there is a bit of mud on the draining board and I
doubt anyone as fastidious as Miss Titmarsh would have mud on a
draining board where she places her cleanly washed crockery to dry.
I’d wager the killer tracked it in as he climbed in through the
window. He has tried to wipe it up but he is not as diligent as our
teashop mistress. There are traces of mud on the dishcloth. I’d
also wager the mud on the bench is the same colour as the mud
outside the window. What’s more, the cup and plate from her supper
have been moved aside, off the draining board and onto the cutting
board. I cannot see Miss Titmarsh washing her crockery and then
leaving it to dry on her cutting board rather than on the draining
board. I’d also wager the killer has reached in and moved it,
probably before climbing through, so as not to break it and cause a
disturbance.”

The doctor was
impressed and slightly baffled. “I didn’t realize you knew so much
about sculleries. Are you sure you are a genuine Countess?”

She knew what
he was hinting at. “Sherlock prided himself on having as broad a
knowledge as possible across a wide range of topics, as do I. My
education has never been limited to the piano and the boudoir. Back
to the subject at hand. Either Miss Titmarsh is an authoress and
our sixth victim, or the fact she caught a glimpse of Gin-Jim’s
killer meant she needed to be silenced. Did you find anything
interesting in the attic such as writing paraphernalia or
manuscripts?”

“The attic was
locked and there was no key above the door jamb or anywhere else.
It could be amongst her personal possessions. I suggest we return
to the inn for breakfast, locking the door to the teashop behind
us. After breakfast I will track down Inspector Bird so that he can
look things over for himself while you conduct a more thorough
search of Miss Titmarsh’s things.”

An hour later,
Dr Watson returned to the teashop with the burly police inspector.
The latter was extremely interested in the flecks of mud on the
draining board and praised the Countess for her keen eye. He spent
an inordinate amount of time checking the back yard for footprints
but as most of the area was covered with gravel paths, brick paving
and vegetable beds there was little to see. Only the small section
of land by the window, where the grease trap abutted the scullery,
revealed a partial footprint, and that was merely the heel of a
boot.

In the
meantime, the Countess had made a meticulous search of Miss
Titmarsh’s personal possessions. The spinster was a lady of tidy
habits who lived frugally. She appeared to care not for clothes,
fripperies, ribbons, hats, jewels or bibelots. She liked to read
and had several books on her bedside table along with a miniature
painting in a silver frame of a young man in military uniform. Dr
Watson reckoned it to be a uniform pertaining to the Anglo-Afghan
war of 1880 - a war he was personally acquainted with. The young
man may have been a lover or brother of the deceased. It is highly
likely he died in the war and she kept his image by her bedside to
remember him. No key to the attic turned up amongst the possessions
and before they could decide whether to break down the door they
heard someone moving about downstairs.

It was
Reverend Finchley. He had just heard about the death of Miss
Titmarsh from Miss Flyte who heard it from Mr Corbie. Dismayed at
the news, he had hurried to see for himself if it were true for he
could barely believe it. He counted himself a close friend as well
as a spiritual adviser. He made the sign of the cross as soon as he
saw the prostrate body at the foot of the stairs exactly where it
had fallen, and offered to say a prayer, blink, blink,
blinking.

Shortly
afterwards, the death wagon arrived and the body was taken away.
Inspector Bird went with it. He wanted to make certain it went
straight to the makeshift morgue so that Dr Pertwee could perform a
post mortem examination as soon as possible. Dr Watson decided to
accompany the inspector in the hope of assisting the police
surgeon. It was an area of medical science he was growing
increasingly interested in and he envisaged a bright future for
forensic study in the coming century.

The Countess
led Reverend Finchley upstairs. She wanted to ask him about the man
in the miniature.

“It must be a
portrait of Miss Titmarsh’s fiancé,” he said sadly as he blinked at
the handsome face that once held so much promise for a bright
future. “She was engaged to be married to a young man but the
wedding never took place because his regiment was deployed for duty
in Afghanistan. My cousin, Henrietta, also had a fiancé who was
killed in the same war. She ended up marrying Dicksen on the
rebound and has regretted it ever since.”

“Your cousin
and Miss Titmarsh appear to have had much in common. They also
shared the same box pew?”

“The two
ladies shared a great many things, notwithstanding sharing a box
pew and both having lost prospective husbands to the war.”

“A great many
things?”

Still
blinking, he replaced the miniature on the bedside table. “They
both grew up in the west riding, not far from each other, and they
share many mutual acquaintances.”

The Countess
felt the deacon was leaving something out and decided to press the
point. “Miss Flyte mentioned seeing them share a parcel wrapped in
brown paper each month while they shared the same box pew. A parcel
Mrs Dicksen passed to Miss Titmarsh.”

He stopped
blinking and stiffened. “What are you implying?”

“I am merely
wondering what might have been in such a parcel.”

He swung his
gaunt frame towards the small window that gave onto the Shambles,
possibly to give himself time to think. “It could be any number of
things. Letters, books, wool, yarn, sketches, recipes, fabric,
lace, ribbons, trims, handkerchiefs, samples of embroidery…the list
is endless. What do two female friends, who are not permitted to
see each other by command of an autocratic husband, not wish to
share? You tell me Countess Volodymyrovna. I think you would have a
better idea than a humble lay deacon.”

She had come
thus far and was not about to be put off by a patriarchal put-down,
though she had to admit his response was certainly plausible. “I
thought it might be a manuscript, specifically a penny
dreadful.”

He flushed
pink and laughed off the suggestion, but then he did a startling
turnaround and agreed with her assertion. “Well, who knows, perhaps
you are right and it was a penny dreadful in the parcel. Perhaps
they enjoyed reading dreadfuls in secret. They would not be the
only ladies in York to enjoy such a thing. Perhaps Mrs Dicksen
bought them and then passed them onto her friend when she had
finished reading them. I imagine many people might do likewise.”
His cavalier tone was suddenly usurped by an apprehensive and dire
undertone. “I caution you not to raise this topic in front of Mr
Dicksen. He is not likely to look kindly at such a pastime for his
wife and it could cause her some distress to have it brought to his
attention. You have met the man. I think you know the implications
for my cousin, especially in her current vulnerable state.” He
stopped blinking and glanced at his pocket watch. “I must leave off
our conversation for now. I have a meeting with the committee
overseeing the choice of carols for this year’s Christmas service.
Au revoir
.”