The Penny Dreadful Curse (21 page)

It was not
until after he had dashed off that the Countess realized he had
managed to put a totally different slant on her suggestion. She had
meant the parcel contained an
unpublished
manuscript of a
penny dreadful, not a published dreadful. Did he do that
deliberately? Or did he simply confuse the issue without meaning
to. His notion that the ladies shared a secret passion for
dreadfuls, however, was perfectly feasible. There was only one
thing wrong with the theory. The private apartments occupied by
Miss Titmarsh showed no sign of any penny dreadfuls on the shelves.
There were numerous books of quality but no cheap dreadfuls. If Mrs
Dicksen passed on her dreadfuls to her friend where did her friend
put them? Or did she too pass them on? The only place that sprang
to mind was the Minerva - and that is where the Countess intended
to go next.

It was not
merely the missing dreadfuls that lured her to the Minerva, the
Countess was curious about Miss Flyte’s baby. Did the young woman
simply leave her baby at a baby farm and think no more of it? That
was certainly the case for many young women who had no other choice
but did Miss Flyte fit that category? Miss Flyte did not strike her
as the sort of person who would do that if there was an
alternative. Someone who held the journalist Nellie Bly as their
heroine had to be interested in social change and women’s rights.
Surely such heroine-worship was more than just the allure of
travelling the globe in the endless pursuit of adventure.

No one
understood that better than the Countess. Her early life had been
one of constant travel and adventure with her peripatetic aunt, a
whirl of mansions, chateaux and luxe hotels, exotic cities,
far-flung destinations, the endless glamour of society balls and
musical soirees and weekends at country houses that went for
months, the grand tour that never ended but went on and on and
round and round…Rome, Venice, Vienna, Lucerne, Chamonix, Paris,
Deauville, Monte Carlo, Montenegro, Istanbul, Odessa…Rome.

Her life could
easily have turned into a merry-go-round of monied sameness, the
life of the idle rich in pursuit of a reason to get out of bed in
the morning, the same faces, the same names, the same crowd, doing
the same thing year in, year out, and trying not to die of boredom
while turning looking bored into a social artform; the
ne plus
ultra
of human affectation. Pretending to look bored to hide
the fact they were not pretending. The gayest were the saddest of
them all because they did not know how bored they were and put up a
façade of merriment, denying in their heart of hearts how bored
they truly were. And then the fact that no one dared face – that
they were bored because
they
were boring.

Only after her
aunt died and the truth behind her adoption come to light did the
Countess have a chance to escape the glamorous blur of boredom that
was her life. She had always known she was adopted. Her step-father
and step-aunt had never hidden the fact from her but they had not
elaborated and she had never pressed the issue. Her mother had
abandoned her; that much she understood and accepted. There were
worse things in life. She was cossetted, loved, cherished, adored
and indulged. Her life was happy and carefree and full of joy. She
was precocious and no expense was spared in her education, which
was not limited to the refinements of her gender and class, the
lady-like pursuits of her sex. She was given the sort of
instruction that even men of wealth would envy; tutored by the best
in science, philosophy, mathematics, languages and sport, as well
as fine arts, music, dancing and the feminine graces.

But to
suddenly discover at the age of twenty-four years that her father
was Sherlock Holmes and her mother was Irene Adler – the detective
and the diva – came first as a shock and then as a springboard to
ditch the sameness, to change direction, to do more with the gifts
she had been given, to harness her boundless energy, her great
wealth, her vast knowledge, her birthright.

Dr Watson had
been instrumental in her change of direction. He did not fully
trust her, of course, but that would come with time. She had plenty
of time. She adored him as much as she had adored her step-father
and step-aunt. She had adopted him and she wasn’t about to give him
up, and how wonderfully the partnering-up suited her, and how
stimulating the detective work. She was born to it. She could no
more go back to the life she once led than fly to the moon in a
rocket-ship designed by Jules Verne.

The Countess
thought such things as she hurried to the Minerva.

Much to her
surprise, Miss Carterett was teaching a class of pregnant girls,
instructing them on phonetic sounds. It was the birthday of the
founder of the Quaker school in Northbrick Lane and it was part of
the school’s charter that the children be granted a holiday to
commemorate the special day. Since the school was closed for the
day, Miss Carterett had decided to make herself useful elsewhere.
She had not yet heard about the death of Miss Titmarsh and could
not hide her shock when the Countess informed her over a cup of
tepid black brew.

“Was it,” the
school mistress stammered, a quaver attached to her normally clear
voice, “was it an accident?”

“It appears
so,” the Countess lied smoothly. “She appears to have fallen down
the stairs. She was still wearing the same clothes she had on the
previous night when Dr Watson and I saw her at the Holy Trinity
Church just prior to her going to the Minerva.”

Miss Carterett
gulped her tea and swallowed hard. “She came here last night?”

“Yes, is
something wrong?”

Miss Carterett
shook her head. “No, no, why should there be?”

“You sounded
surprised, that’s all.”

The school
mistress brought her cup to her lips and the Countess could have
sworn her hand shook. “What I meant was, oh dear, it was my turn to
come last night but I was feeling poorly. I wonder if she took my
place, that’s all, and someone followed her home.”

“Someone
followed her home?”

“Oh, I’m being
silly. I’m just imagining things. It’s all these murders. I’m
becoming fanciful.”

“Has someone
followed you home recently?”

“Not
recently.”

“When?”

“A week back,
or, I might just have imagined it. I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

“Was it after
you left the Minerva?”

She nodded,
biting her lip. “I stayed later than usual. The streets were empty.
I thought someone was following me. When I reached the Shambles and
picked up my pace, the man who was following did the same. Mr
Corbie is usually at his window but he wasn’t there that night. I
was going to pretend to go in for a book until the man went past.
But the bookshop was locked so I had to keep going. I live behind
the school. There is a small stable that has been converted by the
school board into a comfortable little mews cottage. I live alone.
There are no other houses nearby, you see, that’s why I was so
frightened. By the time I got home my heart was pounding.”

“Did you get a
glimpse of the man who was following you?”

She shook her
head. “He was just a shadow, a dark formless shape. I cannot even
say for certain that it was a man. It was the footsteps that scared
me more than anything. He or she had no trouble keeping up with me
though I hurried as much as I could. At one stage I was running and
yet my pursuer kept pace. Do you think, do you think,” she repeated
stutteringly, “it could have been the murderer?”

“I cannot say
for certain but I will tell Inspector Bird as soon as I see him
next. You must take precautions. Don’t stay out late and try not to
walk alone after dark. There’s just one thing I need to know. Do
you write penny dreadfuls?”

Miss Carterett
gulped the last of her tea and began to cough. “No, no, of course
not! Where would I find the time?”

“Yes, quite,
nevertheless, take care.”

The two women
went back to their respective tasks and it wasn’t until the
Countess saw Miss Carterett fastening her cloak in readiness to
leave the Minerva that she cornered her once again.

“I wanted to
ask you something rather private,” she began delicately.

Miss Carterett
turned pink at the mere thought. “Has it to do with Miss
Titmarsh?”

“No, it’s
about Miss Flyte.”

“Miss
Flyte?”

“I wondered
what happened to her baby.”

Miss Carterett
looked over her shoulder to make sure they were not about to be
overheard. “Put on your cloak and walk with me. I’ll tell you as we
go.” She waited until they were walking along St Saviourgate.

“Last year,
when it became clear that Miss Flyte had caught the eye of our
benefactor, it was decided that her baby should go to a good home
rather than a baby farm.”

“Decided by
whom?”

“I don’t know
exactly. I never gave it any thought. I presumed it was Reverend
Finchley, but now that I think on it, it must have been decided by
our benefactor, though Reverend Finchley must have arranged it
all.”

“Why do you
say that?”

“Well, it was
Reverend Finchley who came to take the baby the day that Miss Flyte
left. She now lives on the Pavement in comfortable lodgings paid
for by our benefactor.”

“Yes - and the
baby?”

“I don’t know
about the baby. I presumed Reverend Finchley knew a good family,
perhaps from among his congregation, who were unable to have a
child of their own.”

“Do you think
the child could have been Mr Dicksen’s?”

“I doubt it.
Our benefactor only met Miss Flyte after she came to the Minerva.
She was already with child by then.”

“She was
sixteen years of age at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Working as a
prostitute?”

“Oh, good
heavens, no! She was in domestic service with someone quite
respectable.”

“Do you know
who exactly?”

Miss Carterett
shook her head. “I cannot help you there and the Minerva does not
keep records of such things. There’s no point. Most of the girls
lie about their age, occupation, address and so on, and many don’t
know who the father of their child is anyway. If Miss Flyte knew
who the father was then she kept it to herself. Much wiser, if you
ask me.”

They had
reached St Crux and the Countess made to turn into the Shambles but
Miss Carterett paused and looked back over her shoulder.

“I will bid
you good afternoon here. Since I have the afternoon free I am going
to visit Clifford’s Tower. I haven’t been there since I was six
years old and went with my granny.”

“One last
thing before you go,” said the Countess. “Do you know if Miss
Flyte’s child was a boy or a girl?”

The school
mistress gave pause for thought. “There are so many babies. It’s
hard to remember them all. I think hers was a girl, yes, now I
remember, definitely a girl baby - very pretty and quite fair with
blue eyes, just like Miss Flyte.”

Panglossian
Publishing was nearby so the Countess decided to check if Mr
Panglossian had returned from London. She wanted to try again for a
list of authors and was determined not to be fobbed off. Mr Thrypp
met her in the outer office.

“Yes,” he
replied with brisk courtesy to her question, “Mr Panglossian had
returned from London and had come into the office but had now gone
home for the day. His daughter had returned from London with him
and he wanted to spend more time in her company.”

“Does he have
a large family?”

“He is a
widower with just the one daughter. He dotes on the girl and he
adores his new grandchild. That is why he travels so often to
London. His daughter, Mrs Ashkenazy, lives in Regents Park. He has
just engaged a famous Dutch portraitist to paint her portrait. That
is the reason she has returned with him to York.”

“How
serendipitous! The Marchioness of Minterne-Magna was speaking just
last week on the subject of engaging a painter and extolling the
difficulty of finding a decent portraitist. I have heard that the
Dutch are ever so good at it. Much better than the English, who do
wonderful dogs and horses but don’t know the first thing about
human anatomy. I don’t suppose you recall the name of the artist?
No, that would be asking too much. Dutch names are so frightfully
hard to remember.”

Buoyed by the
way his chest puffed out, she executed a balletic whirl that
propelled her no further than where she stood.

“Monsieur
Boetius van Brugge. I can write it down for you.”

Back she
pirouetted on the spot. “Oh, would you,” she gushed deliriously.
“The Marchioness will be delighted to find a decent portraitist who
can do her face without making her look like a horse.”

Next port of
call was Jubbergate, an area to the north-east of the city walls.
Foss Bank House sat on a gently treed embankment that overlooked
the meandering River Fosse through a sylvan screen of weeping
willows.

The door was
opened by a foreign-looking butler with a curling moustache. He
ushered her into the large airy hall and placed her calling card on
a small silver salver before disappearing. A moment later an
attractive young woman with dark glossy shingle hair and dark
piercing eyes appeared.

“Countess
Volodymyrovna, what an unexpected pleasure,” she warbled with an
interesting accent, stressing the early vowels the way the Russians
do. “I presume you wish to see my father. I am afraid he is
presently pushing the perambulator around the garden. He has
usurped the role of nanny who is currently sulking in the nursery,
fearing the loss of her job, but he simply dotes on his first
grandchild. I am Mrs Miriam Ashkenazy.”

The young
Jewess led her into a sunny yellow sitting room with charming
floral wallpaper and a large bay window that overlooked the River
Fosse.