The Penny Dreadful Curse (25 page)

The Countess
took Miss Flyte’s hand and held it calmly in her own as if to
steady it. “I want you to think carefully now. You tore away some
of the wrapping. Can you recall what colour the paper was?”

The young
woman nodded. “It was white.”

“Creamy white
or snow white?”

“Snow white,
but bleached, not starched, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, you’re an
angel, Miss Flyte. I know exactly what you mean. It was snowy white
but the paper was thin and cheap like cotton or muslin, not
expensive like damask, not parchment, not the high quality stuff
that comes with a distinctive watermark.”

The doctor
rolled his eyes. Only the Countess could go into raptures over
paper. It reminded him of Sherlock. His friend had the same passion
for paper, though he never likened it to cloth. What did the French
call it?
Tissue
?

“And the ink,
Miss Flyte? Did you happen to see what colour the ink might
be?”

“Green,” the
young woman replied at once. “It was green ink.”

“Oh, you’re a
darling!” the Countess gushed.

In the
flitting shadows of the brougham’s interior no one noticed that
Reverend Finchley had suddenly gone whiter than white. When he bid
them good-evening at the seven ways he looked like a pale shade of
his former self, a ghost in the night.

A short time
later, Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna watched the ethereal
Miss Flyte float across the Pavement, up to the vermilion boudoir
on which she would one day turn her back before turning back into
poor Cinderella. Under the golden light of a gas-lamp the doctor
glanced at his pocket watch. It had just gone twenty minutes past
ten.

“What was all
that business about paper?” he demanded as they marched up the
cobbled Shambles arm in arm to steady each other.

“I need to
confirm that the scrap of paper Boz retrieved is a match for the
parcel Gin-Jim was carrying when he was killed.”

“You have set
yourself an impossible task.”

“I couldn’t
agree more and I have been driven to the point of madness several
times this week but tonight Miss Flyte answered my wildest prayers.
The scrap of paper Boz rescued was white and the letters BB were in
green ink.”

“White paper
and green ink are not a unique combination.”

“Maybe not,”
she conceded readily, endeavouring to calm her excitement lest it
trip her up. “But the connection to Mr Dicksen is significant,
n’est-ce pas
? I want to know if the parcel Gin-Jim was
carrying was what got him killed. If I know who wrote it, it might
tell me if it was important enough to kill for. If I know who wrote
it I might also know who killed him and why. I cannot know what or
who or why unless I find a match for the paper and ink.”

“I repeat - an
impossible task.”

“Not really. I
have been eliminating possibilities all week. I know that Thrypp
uses paper that veers toward a pale grey. The ink he uses is black.
Sir Marmaduke uses high quality creamy paper and he has a gold ink
well with purple ink in it. I managed to take a peek in his study
as I made my way to the powder room after dinner. Mr Panglossian
has expensive ecru paper on his desk and uses the same black ink as
Thrypp. Mr Corbie uses cheap white paper but it appears to be a
discarded lot, spoiled in the factory. It has an ugly water stain
across the top right-hand corner. The ink he uses is blue, cheap,
it tends to drip and blot easily. I think he waters it down. Mr
Hiboux has paper of good quality with a distinctive watermark and
black ink of excellent quality. Miss Carterett uses cheap white
paper and dark blue ink. I asked Mrs Dicksen what colour ink her
husband favours and she said she had no idea as he keeps his study
locked at all times. She prefers black ink and she uses notepaper
which a group of nuns at the St Margaret’s Convent make especially
for her. There is a little image of a hen in the top right-hand
corner of each page.”

“What about
Miss Titmarsh?” he said, as they marched briskly past the fatal
teashop and felt a cold shiver.

She stopped
dead and caught him by the elbow as he continued marching. “You’re
right! We can settle the question of paper and ink right now. I
have her front door key in my bag.”

“You stole her
key!”

“I borrowed
it. I will hand it to Inspector Bird in day or two. Tonight I
discovered that Miss Titmarsh is Baroness du Bois and according to
Mrs Dicksen she keeps the key to her attic writing room in her tea
caddy. Follow me,
mon cher
.”

He hated when
she employed French. It was a precursor to
disastre à
deux
.

Caddy. Key.
Attic. A small writing desk covered with pages of neat writing
featuring the Crimson Cavalier, neatly arranged in chapter bundles,
and all around them proof of the existence of Baroness du Bois.
There was even a much-thumbed copy of
The Scarlet Pimpernel
by Baroness Orczy. The paper on the desk was creamy coloured,
middling quality, with a faint watermark. The ink was black. As
they were locking up the Countess said:

“That settles
it. It has to be Mr Dicksen. First thing tomorrow we go to Gladhill
and break into his study on some pretext. I don’t think it will be
difficult to get Mrs Dicksen on side while her husband is doing the
grand literary tour.”

“You will put
her in an invidious position for when her husband returns,” the
doctor warned gravely.

“We can break
in through the study window using a crow bar. We’ll need a ladder.
We can say a storm or a tree branch smashed the window. A glazier
can replace the broken pane before the tyrant starts frothing at
the mouth. I will bribe the servants to keep quiet.”

Of all the
puff-ball ideas! Of all the hare-brained schemes! Of all the
feather-headed plans! He had never heard anything so sure to fail!
Sherlock had frequently broken into homes, but he was a man! He
knew what he was doing!

“You might
well jest now, for it will be no laughing matter tomorrow!”

“You make it
sound like a matter of life and death.”

“Exactement,
ma chere
!” he returned with an exaggerated accent.

Wearily, they
tip-toed into the Mousehole, expecting Mr Hiboux to be tucked up in
bed, but the lopsided little man was at his desk as usual, drawing
furiously, and in the inglenook was Miss Carterett nursing a hot
chocolate. She had shared dinner with the hospitable
chef de
cuisine
, at his insistence, and had been waiting for the return
of the Countess since half past five. She looked scared out of her
wits and her normally clear voice was quaking with fear.

“Someone
followed me to Clifford’s Tower,” she said quaveringly, without
preamble. “I didn’t see who it was but I recognized the footsteps.
Even now I can hear them – going up the stairs to the donjon, going
down the stairs to the dungeon, following me. I was so frightened I
hid in a broom closet and stayed there until quite late. When I
thought I might get locked inside the castle for the night I
sneaked out and ran here as fast as I could. I’m too scared to go
home in case the killer is waiting for me in the mews.”

The Countess
took charge with her usual pragmatic sagacity. “Allay your fears,
Miss Carterett. My man, Fedir, will accompany you home and act as
bodyguard. He has been at sixes and sevens here in York. There are
only so many boots he can polish, knives he can sharpen and logs he
can chop. He can spend the night in the schoolhouse and keep an eye
out for anyone lurking about. If anyone means you harm they will be
in for a rude shock. Tomorrow morning, just before the children
arrive for school he will leave you to it. How does that
sound?”

Miss Carterett
wiped the terrified tears gathering in the corners of her eyes with
a shaky hand. “Oh, yes, yes, that sounds most satisfactory. I don’t
know how to thank you!”

The Countess
turned to her companion. “Doctor would you be so good as to inform
Fedir of his task and tell him to arm himself. He will find a
revolver in the small hatbox painted with blue cornflowers.”

As soon as the
doctor left them and Mr Hiboux returned to his desk, the Countess
drew Miss Carterett back into the inglenook and spoke in a lowered
tone.

“Do you think
the man who was following you began following you from the Minerva,
or was waiting for you at the end of the Shambles?”

“I think he
followed me from the Minerva. I didn’t see him. It was just a
feeling I had. It wasn’t until I reached Clifford’s Tower and heard
the footsteps that I knew it was the same man who followed me once
before.” She gave a shudder. “I would recognize his footsteps
anywhere.”

“One more
thing before you take your leave. Do you have any idea why the man
might be following you?”

Miss Carterett
dropped her gaze and twisted the handkerchief in her lap. “I’m
Conan le Coq,” she confessed sheepishly. “I feel just awful because
when you asked me if I wrote dreadfuls I lied to you. I’m sorry. I
had no choice. I write in the schoolroom while the children are
attending to their lessons. It’s the only time I have. I would lose
my job if the school board discovered I wrote dreadfuls while
sitting at my desk, let alone that my stories were full of ghosts
and ghouls and dead spirits. No one knows that I write
Ghosthunter!
”

“But someone
does
know,” said the Countess, painfully aware she was
looking at prospective victim number seven. “That’s why you’re
being followed. Make sure you keep all your doors and windows
locked at all times and you must avoid going out after dark. Is
there someone you can stay with for a few days?”

Miss Carterett
thought for a long moment then shook her head dismally. “All my
friends live miles from the schoolhouse and my family live in the
countryside. Oh, wait! I could stay at the Minerva. They always
have spare beds.”

“Excellent!
There is safety in numbers!”

“Do you think
you will ever find the killer?” the school mistress asked
grimly.

“The field is
narrowing,” replied the Countess, sounding much more confident than
she had reason to feel, though for the first time since arriving in
York she felt as if they were actually making headway. They had
learned who was behind the noms de plume of Baroness du Bois and
Conan le Coq. Tomorrow they would obtain a full list of names from
Panglossian and check off as many authoresses as possible. They
would break into Mr Dicksen’s private study and gather any
incriminating evidence. Before too long the killer would trip
himself up and
voila
!

In fact, if
Miss Carterett’s story about being followed not once but twice was
true, and she had no reason to doubt it, then the field narrowed
considerably. If the killer had been following the school mistress
around Clifford’s Tower then it could not possibly have been Sir
Marmaduke, Reverend Finchley or Mr Panglossian. Mr Hiboux was also
out of the picture. Yes, the field was narrowing, and the
Countess’s money was on Mr Charles Dicksen.

“That’s not
entirely true,” contradicted Dr Watson as she outlined her
conclusions while they watched Miss Carterett and Fedir
disappearing around the dog-leg of the Shambles. “The dinner guests
were not expected to arrive until half past five. Miss Carterett,
according to Mr Hiboux, arrived at the Mousehole around that same
time. Whoever had been following her had ample time to return to
their abode and change for dinner. Remember she hid herself in a
broom closet much earlier than that. The killer, presuming it
was
the killer, having lost sight of her, may have left
Clifford’s Tower well before five o’clock.

Overcome with
disappointment and disillusionment, the Countess made a move to
re-enter the Mousehole when she realized Dr Watson was not
following. He appeared to be listening for something, his head
cocked to one side. She paused in the wonky doorway and strained
her ears, and that’s when she heard it – the sound of sure-footed
steps on the cobbles. Someone was advancing rapidly. She heard the
steps long before she saw who made them.

Glaucous
yellow light escaping from the Mousehole caught the inspector full
on the face. There were dark circles under his eyes and heavy
brackets around his tight-set mouth. He looked exhausted, wrung
out, like a man on the verge of serious illness. He had probably
been working eighteen hours in the day, every day. The strain was
showing.

The doctor and
the Countess immediately assumed the worst – that there had been
another death – a seventh authoress murdered – and that is why he
sought them out despite the lateness of the hour. It had just gone
a quarter after eleven. But again he shook his head.

“Let us go
inside,” he said. “I realise it is getting on for midnight and I
did not really expect to find the both of you up,” he began
apologetically, as they settled into the inglenook and Dr Watson
stoked the log fire back to life to ward off the cold draught that
had blown in from the open door. “I intended only to wake the
doctor and inform him of a tragic turn of events this evening.”

“What tragic
turn?” pressed the Countess, since he had just told them there had
not been a seventh death.

“Who’s for a
sherry?” asked the doctor, pre-empting what he guessed might be bad
news.

“Stop
interrupting,” she chided before training her exasperated sights
back on the ragged inspector and regressing to French, a sign that
she was overcome by
un sentiment d’inquietude
. “
Ce qui
est
? Please proceed.”

Dr Watson
measured three glasses of sherry regardless. Her Gallic rejoinder
confirmed some agitation on her part. And of course the mind was a
wicked thing. The less it knew, the more it imagined. And it tended
to imagine the worst.