The Penny Dreadful Curse (27 page)

“Fedir just
informed me he saw Reverend Finchley go into the Holy Trinity
Church. We will pay him a visit before we pay a call on Mrs
Dicksen,” announced the Countess to her counterpart as she poured
him a cup of coffee.

“What ever
for?” he grumbled. “It will just waste time. We need to question
Mrs Dicksen before she has a chance to dream up some improbable
fairy story. During the night I tried to think of a plausible
explanation for what happened. And quite frankly, it is not only
suspicious, to coin your phrase, it is downright dubious. I want to
get to the bottom of it as soon as possible.”

“I agree, but
I think it may be
un bon idée
to have the deacon accompany
us to the house of the bereaved widow on the pretext of providing
spiritual comfort. He is Mrs Dickson’s cousin and I think he knows
more than he’s letting on. Remember I mentioned the two of them
acting conspiratorially the night we went to dinner at Gladhill. We
can also be the first to let him know Mr Dicksen is dead. It will
be interesting to watch his reaction.”

As usual her
reasoning was spot on. “Very well.”

“We can kill
two birds with the same stone. Fedir informed me the deacon went up
to the belfry. I want to see what paper and ink he uses.”

“You are on a
wild goose chase there, but I guess it cannot hurt. Drink your tea
and let’s get going.”

Before too
long they were climbing the winding stairs up to the top of the
perpendicular tower. The door creaked open, startling the occupant
who was sitting at his desk, scribbling madly - too absorbed in his
task to hear them coming. He whirled round and leapt to his feet,
knocking over his chair. Sheets of paper fluttered to the floor.
Reverend Finchley was blushing fiercely and blinking furiously.
There was nowhere to hide and no hiding the truth. The paper was
snow white and the ink was green.

“You have
found me out,” he confessed at once.

Something
caught the Countess’s eye. In the top right-hand corner of each
scattered page were the initials BB - followed by the full nom de
plume. She picked up a few sheets of paper at random and skimmed
them quickly. The deacon was penning a story about knights and
damsels and dragons.

“You’re Baron
Brasenose,” she said less exultantly than might have been expected.
“I should have made the connection days ago. The church knocker –
brass – brasenose!”

The deacon
nodded ruefully as he straightened his chair. “It’s not how it
seems,” he said, swallowing hard, still blinking. “It’s not what
you’re thinking.”

“What are we
thinking?” challenged the doctor.

“You are
thinking I killed the boy in the Shambles.”

“And did you?”
pressed the doctor with determined emphasis.

“Of course
not!”

“So how is it
that your papers were being carried by the dead boy? And be careful
how you answer,” he warned gravely. “It is not merely the paper and
ink that condemns you but the initials – BB. With them you have
signed your own death warrant!”

“No! No! I can
explain!” he pleaded pitifully, sinking into his chair as his legs
buckled. “If you will only hear me out!”

“Very well,”
said the Countess sternly, plonking herself on a corner of the
desk.

The doctor was
less inclined to give the deacon the chance to spin a yarn, mindful
they needed to get over to Gladhill before the morning disappeared,
but he knew better than to waste time arguing and positioned
himself near the door lest the churchman tried to make a run for
it.

“I admit I am
Baron Brasenose. I have been penning dreadfuls for over two years
under my chosen nom de plume, alas, to no avail. All my
submissions, at least one every month, have been rejected. I
thought it might help if I studied some of the successful dreadfuls
to see where I might be going wrong. I naturally chose the ones
with knights in them, notably by the successful writer, Dick
Lancelot.”

“
A Knight’s
Tale
,” acknowledged the Countess.

The deacon
nodded. “I soon noticed something odd. The tales by Dick Lancelot
seemed to resemble the tales I had submitted. The place names were
different and the names of the characters and all the minor details
but the storylines were identical. I thought it might be a
coincidence, but each month the same coincidence appeared.”

He paused and
swallowed dry.

“What
conclusion did you reach?” prompted the Countess.

The deacon
looked up, his blinking ceased momentarily while he met her gaze.
“I reached the only conclusion a man could reach. I concluded Dick
Lancelot was stealing my storylines, re-working them, and
submitting them as his own.”

“You mean he
has been accessing your study in your absence?” put the doctor
bluntly, who liked his conclusions to be clear and concise.

“That’s what I
thought at first,” said the deacon, straightening his shoulders and
looking from one to the other, “but I have always been very careful
about locking my door for reasons of privacy. Not everyone approves
of dreadfuls. It is an old barrel lock and there is only one key.
Father Chetwynd warned me not to lose the key when he agreed to
allow me to use the belfry. I never leave the belfry unlocked. So
you see it would be impossible for someone to access my study
without my knowing it.”

“That means
someone at Panglossian was stealing your manuscripts,” said the
Countess.

“Dick Lancelot
must work there!” said the doctor.

“Not
necessarily,” contradicted the Countess. “Panglossian Publishing is
the link, certainly, but the rejects are kept in Mr Panglossian’s
office. It would not be easy to steal them from under his
nose.”

“Thrypp!”
blurted the doctor. “He always struck me as sneaky.”

“He is the
most likely culprit,” agreed the Countess, “but it could also be
someone who bribed Gin-Jim
not
to burn certain manuscripts.
Anyone who worked there could have done that. And then there’s
Gin-Jim himself. Remember he stole a manuscript that was meant for
the bonfire, and maybe not just the once. Perhaps he was delivering
the stolen manuscripts to the mysterious Dick Lancelot while en
route to Gladhill with the stuff for Dicksen when he was killed.
But that means if anyone had a motive for killing the boy in the
Shambles and stealing the manuscript it had to be Baron Brasenose.”
She had come full circle back to the deacon.

“No! No! It
wasn’t me!” he denied vociferously, blinking frantically. “You have
to believe me!”

She opted to
give him the benefit of the doubt for the simple reason she wasn’t
entirely convinced it was him. “Very well, who do you suspect?”

“At first I
didn’t know who to suspect. It could have been anyone in York. It
wasn’t until I learned from Henrietta that a boy carried a parcel
once a month from Panglossian to Gladhill that I at last had a
solid lead. I begged Henrietta to gain access to her husband’s
study. But the task has been hopeless. The other night in the
carriage when Miss Flyte said Dicksen had a parcel with snow white
paper and green ink I felt as if my worst suspicions had been
confirmed. I was sure it was my manuscript she saw and that Dicksen
had met the boy in the Shambles on his way to see Miss Flyte and
simply took hold of his own parcel, along with the one meant for
Dick Lancelot. I am not accusing him of murder, mind you, but,
well, it’s looking more and more likely that
he
could be
Dick Lancelot. However, I cannot prove or disprove anything until I
see inside Dicksen's study. And short of demanding access I don’t
see how I can ever get in.”

The Countess’s
brain whirred. “If Mr Dicksen is Dick Lancelot then his publisher
would know. They would have to be in on it together. The way
Dicksen jumped up to relay the news of the death of their little
courier suddenly makes sense. And the fact Panglossian chose an
illiterate boy always niggled at me. He didn’t want the boy to be
able to read what he was delivering in case he ever looked inside
the parcel and saw Baron Brasenose at the top and later recognized
the same story by Dick Lancelot in
A Knight’s Tale
.”

“Did all your
work, everything you ever submitted, end up in
A Knight’s
Tale
?”

The deacon
shook his head. “Not everything. A few days ago I went to the
bookshop in Nunnery Lane and bought every penny dreadful ever
published by Dick Lancelot. There were fewer than what I had
submitted in the last two years. I presumed some had been rejected
and destroyed or Dicksen is sitting on them.”

“How many
fewer?”

“Five.”

“That’s not
many,” mused the Countess before moving on. “Thrypp didn’t
understand the need for an illiterate boy so he couldn’t have been
in on the ploy to plagiarise your work. But your theory about it
being Dicksen is quite sound and the good news is that there will
be no problem gaining access to Mr Dicksen’s study.”

“How can you
say that?” lamented the deacon. “If his wife cannot gain access how
will you ever manage it?”

“Because Mr
Dicksen is dead.”

In order not to
waste any more time, they recounted to the deacon everything the
inspector had told them pertaining to Mr Dicksen’s death while they
travelled in a carriage to Gladhill. His startlement was evident.
He appeared bewildered and listened without speaking for the entire
duration of the journey.

Mrs Dicksen’s
personal physician had been and gone hours ago and would return
again before bedtime to administer another sedative if need be. She
was just stirring from her slumber when the trio of visitors
arrived on her doorstep. It was fortunate Reverend Finchley was
part of the threesome because the servants had been instructed by
the physician to turn everyone away apart from the deacon, whom the
physician knew to be a cousin and a close friend. To save straining
Mrs Dicksen’s nerves and energy, it was decided she would remain in
bed and her visitors would be ushered up to see her. They expected
to find her dazed and sleepy, wan and listless, wracked with guilt,
but she was sitting up, smiling.

“Please come
in and make yourselves comfortable,” she clucked. “My maid is
bringing up some tea and cinnamon cake. I have such an appetite. It
must be those sedatives.”

Reverend
Finchley rushed to the side of her bed. “Henrietta! Henrietta! I
can scarce believe it! Is it true? Charles is dead? Is it
true?”

Dr Watson
positioned a chair for the Countess on the opposite side of the bed
and another for himself. They were keen to hear what the widow
would say to her cousin.

“Yes, I shot
him. It was the strangest thing – like something out of a
dream.”

“You had no
idea it was your husband who held up the carriage?” pressed Dr
Watson, the voice of reason.

“None,
whatsoever. It was the greatest shock.”

“Why did you
take the long way home?” pursued the Countess.

“Well, that
was strange too. As we were leaving Mallebissse Terrace, Mr
Panglossian helped me into my carriage. He whispered in my ear: I
think you should take a different road home tonight, madame.”

“Why would he
say that?” quizzed Dr Watson.

“I have no
idea,” replied the lady. “I was as baffled then as I am now.”

“It sounded as
if he was giving you a warning,” said the deacon, perching on the
side of her bed and holding her small hand tenderly in his larger
one, blinking rapidly.

“Yes,” she
agreed. “It had that tone of presentiment. I was inclined to shrug
it off but when the driver reached the city wall, I suddenly had an
urge to heed the warning. I banged on the roof of the carriage, the
driver stopped and I instructed him to go around the city. I
pretended to be feeling unwell and told him I needed some fresh
air. I told him to follow the Foss Islands Road and enter the city
via Walmgate.”

“You don’t
think the suggestion was intended to lure you into the path of
danger,” asked the doctor.

“No,” replied
the lady. “I thought about it all night and I think it was said as
a warning, not a threat.”

“How odd,”
commented the Countess.

“It’s stranger
than fiction,” agreed the lady. “It is odd and gets even
odder.”

“How do you
mean, Henrietta?” posed her cousin.

“Well, when
the carriage stopped, just before turning left into Gillygate,
instead of proceeding straight ahead as it should have, I could
have sworn I saw a rider on a black horse waiting in the umbra of a
giant oak in the Museum Gardens. I didn’t think anything of it, of
course, until much later, but it was as if the horseman was waiting
for me. I swear it was the same horseman who later held up the
carriage. I think he must have galloped around the Minster because
he suddenly came belting out of Goodramgate, but we were making
good progress and had just by-passed the gate and were flying along
St Maurice’s Road. I expected him to overtake us but he must have
darted back under Goodramgate into the city because he suddenly
appeared again at Peaseholm Green. But if he intended to hold us up
there he was thwarted because several carriages appeared all at
once and there was a brief flurry of traffic. As we travelled along
the Foss Islands Road it became darker, there was a good deal of
fog off the Fishpond, and I knew if he appeared again it would not
be by accident but design. I feared the worst and already had my
hand inside my bag and my little pistol at the ready. I was
trembling quite a bit, but there was nothing for it but to keep
going. It is impossible to turn back on the Foss Islands Road. When
I heard the distinctive thud-thud of horse’s hooves I knew the
horseman was coming.”

The maid
arrived with a tea tray and the monologue was briefly interrupted
while tea was poured and served.