The Penny Dreadful Curse (29 page)

It was five
minutes after midday when they reached the outer office of the
redoubtable Mr Thrypp. He was at his desk, poring over accounts,
but jumped up the instant they arrived.

“May I help
you?”

“I have an
appointment with Mr Panglossian for midday,” said the Countess with
more hauteur than was warranted. The secretary’s obsequious falsity
was beginning to grate on her nerves and she was in rather a hurry
to tie up all the loose ends. What’s more, she intuited he no more
intended to be of help than he could help it.

Mr Thrypp
glanced down at the large appointment book on the corner of his
small desk and ran his index finger down the dates to the present
day. “I’m afraid there is nothing written here. Are you sure you
have the right day?”

“Quite sure,”
replied the Countess, even more haughtily. “I expect you will find
the appointment is not written in your book because it was made
late last night at the end of dinner at the home of Sir Marmaduke
Mallebisse. Mr Panglossian personally invited me to stop by at
midday.”

Mr Thrypp
smiled an obstructive alligator smile. “Well, what can I say?” he
announced with the sort of ineluctable triumph that is usually the
preserve of someone who knows something you do not. “Mr Panglossian
is not in.”

“Not in?”
questioned the Countess, annoyed that her chance to tie up loose
ends and unmask the killer was being frustrated by a tardy
stumbling block.

“He did not
come in this morning,” explained Thrypp in clipped tones. “I was
here early because Mr Panglossian said he wanted to go over the
accounts first thing but he has not arrived. I have been puzzling
over it myself.”

The Countess
aimed a dubious glance at the door to the inner sanctum. “Then why
is his key in the lock?”

Both Dr Watson
and Mr Thrypp immediately directed their sights at the same door
and sure enough there
was
a key in the lock.

Mr Thrypp’s
officious face puckered up with puzzlement. “I cannot explain it,”
he mumbled, staring at the key as if it had just been conjured out
of thin air. “I have been here all morning at my post. Mr
Panglossian is not in, I am sure of it.”

“Shall we
check?” said the Countess, sashaying to the door before Thrypp
could skirt the desk and block her path.

Without delay,
she pushed open the door and this time the puzzlement was hers. The
office was empty.

“That’s odd,”
muttered Thrypp, scratching his head. “Mr Panglossian never leaves
his office unlocked if he is not in. Without fail, he locks it and
takes the key away with him. In ten years I have never known him to
do otherwise.”

The threesome
advanced into the inner sanctum and the puzzle was soon solved. It
was Dr Watson who noticed the body lying on the floor behind the
gargantuan desk.

Mr Thrypp took
one look and promptly fainted from shock. The doctor and the
Countess left him where he landed flat on his back on the Turkey
rug and hurried to examine the body of the publisher. The body was
cold but not yet rigored.

“I’m guessing
he died six or seven hours ago,” said Dr Watson, checking for the
cause of death. There was no obvious fatal wound. Having exhausted
the usual options he tugged away at the high starched collar and
sure enough there was a bruise on the windpipe, similar to the one
suffered by Miss Titmarsh. “Someone crushed his larynx by
delivering a punch to the throat.”

“What’s this?”
she said. “There’s something in his mouth.”

Dr Watson
pried open the cold lips and used his fingers to pull out some
paper. “Good God! Someone stuffed a wad of paper into his mouth. It
appears he was rendered helpless by the punch and then smothered to
death using paper!”

“Is there
anything written on the paper that might offer a clue?”

Carefully he
drew out a soggy wad of scrunched up paper before examining it
closely. “Not really.”

They heard a
groan and turned back to Mr Thrypp. The secretary was pulling
himself up with an effort. “Is he.. Is he dead?”

“I’m afraid
so,” responded the doctor. “He’s been dead six or seven hours.”

“You mean to
say,” muttered Thrypp, turning white and trying not to pass out a
second time. “I’ve been beavering away in the next room and Mr
Panglossian has been lying here dead all that time?”

“Yes,” said
the doctor bluntly. “Mr Panglossian must have come in early as
usual and the killer must have arrived soon after or perhaps he was
waiting for him, struck him down, and departed before you arrived
on the scene. Do you mind if I clarify what time it was when you
came in this morning? It will help to establish a time of
death.”

“Oh, yes, of
course. It was about half past six. I usually come in at seven but,
as I said, Mr Panglossian wanted to look at the accounts.”

“You didn’t
see anyone suspicious loitering about outside on the street or in
the yard as deliveries were being made?” asked the doctor.

Thrypp shook
his head. “No one at all. There was only the night-watchman and he
left a few minutes after I arrived. How did, er, how did he
die?”

“I’m not
sure,” deflected the doctor neatly. “There are no obvious
signs.”

“So he wasn’t
stabbed or garrotted or shot?” said Thrypp somewhat morbidly.

“Nothing like
that,” assured the doctor. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind sending a
trustworthy fellow to fetch Inspector Bird. Tell your chap to check
at the police station first. If the inspector is not there someone
should direct your fellow to his whereabouts. He is not to return
until he has the inspector with him. Is that clear?”

Thrypp
nodded.

“Good, then
come back and help yourself to a large sherry. I think you could do
with a drink. You have had a nasty shock.”

As soon as
Thrypp left them, the Countess, who had been studying the
scrunched-up, salivated, slimy wad of paper, turned to the
doctor.

“The paper is
of middling quality. It has not disintegrated the way cheap paper
would have once in contact with saliva. The ink is smudged and the
writing illegible but you can see traces of blackness on the tongue
and the roof of the mouth so I think it safe to conclude the ink
was black. Our killer could be a disgruntled writer.”

“Let’s search
for that list of names Panglossian promised to hand over,” said the
doctor urgently, glancing furtively at the door, “before Thrypp
returns.”

“It should be
somewhere on his desk or maybe in one of the drawers. I’ll search
the desk. You take that bureau by the window.”

Ten minutes
later Thrypp returned and framed himself importantly in the
doorway.

“May I ask
what you are doing?”

It was the
Countess who responded to the pompous tone.

“Last night Mr
Panglossian promised to give me a list of authors’ names to help
with our murder investigation. We’re searching for that list. I
don’t suppose you know where he kept it?”

Thrypp lifted
back a Mortlake tapestry to reveal a heavy metal door set into a
wall of substantial brickwork. “He kept it in this private
storeroom. The fire-proof door is nine inches thick and comes with
a combination lock. It’s more impregnable than the Bank of England.
Short of using explosives, you won’t get in.”

The doctor and
the Countess took one look at the massive door and conceded defeat
while Thrypp helped himself to a generous measure of
amontillado.

“Can I pour
you a glass?” he invited hospitably.

They both
nodded as they sank gloomily into the nearest chairs.

For a few
moments no one spoke and they ignored the dead man completely. It
was Thrypp who broke the silence.

“I suppose I
will need to see about informing Mrs Ashkenazy that her father is
no more.” His monotone voice was devoid of emotion. He was once
again the epitome of secretarial practicality.

“I can do that
for you,” offered the Countess. “I was planning to visit Mrs
Ashkenazy later today. I want to speak to the man who is painting
her portrait.”

“Oh, the Dutch
fellow,” said Thrypp by way of conversation, helping himself to a
second measure of the best sherry he had ever tasted, “to organize
for him to paint your friend, the Marchioness of
Minterne-Magna?”

That’s when
the Countess realized Thrypp did not yet know that Mr Charles
Dicksen was also dead. “To question the painter in relation to the
death of Mr Dicksen.”

Thrypp
swallowed some sherry the wrong way and gagged as his airway
constricted without warning. A series of painful coughs caused him
to turn bright red. “What,” he managed to gurgle as he gasped for
air, “did you say?”

“Mr Dicksen
was killed last night,” clarified Dr Watson.

“Killed?
How?”

“He was shot
by his wife whilst he was dressed as a highwayman intent on
robbery,” said the doctor, gauging the young man’s reaction.

Thrypp looked
stunned, his eyeballs bulged from their sockets. “A
highwayman!”

“It may have
been a jest gone wrong,” added the Countess, blandly. “We were
hoping Mr Panglossian might have been able to shed some light on
the tragic event. Do you know anything that might help in that
regard?”

Thrypp shook
his head fervently as he continued to gulp back mouthfuls of air.
“I cannot imagine Mr Panglossian being involved in a jest. In the
ten years I worked for him I rarely saw him smile and I never heard
him laugh. As for Mr Dicksen, he was even more serious than Mr
Panglossian. I don’t believe he was endowed with a sense of humour.
The only jest he might deign to be involved in would be one which
–”

Abruptly he
cut off the end of his sentence.

“Caused
alarm?” the Countess finished for him.

“I was going
to say: struck fear into the heart of.”

No one said
anything further. The doctor and the Countess were both thinking
that Thrypp had hit the nail on the head. Dicksen was not a jester.
It is more likely he had been attempting to alarm his wife; trying
to strike fear into her heart. He
must
have discovered she
wrote the highwayman dreadfuls. He
must
have known how
successful she was. He
must
have decided to teach her a
lesson. Yes, perhaps when he first suspected his wife was an
authoress of dreadfuls, perhaps after innocently learning from Miss
Flyte about the manuscripts passed in church, he confronted
Panglossian and had it confirmed that the highwayman author was a
simple woman who wore a snood. He simply put two and two together
and came up with Titmarsh-the recipient of church parcels. He
must
have hatched the plan to frighten his wife and he
must
have confided in his publisher, otherwise how would
Panglossian know to warn Mrs Dicksen about taking an alternative
route home. What is less clear is that he may also have intended to
kill her. It was an example of savage irony that she killed him
instead. But now that Panglossian was also dead they could surmise
and conjecture all they liked. The truth died with the two men.

But who killed
them
?

Thrypp put the
stopper back on the sherry decanter. “I better notify Mr
Panglossian’s lawyer,” he said wearily. “There will be probate to
consider.”

The Countess’s
voice waylaid him before he reached the door. “Please delay
notifying anyone, Mr Thrypp, even though it goes against your
efficient nature,” she complimented sincerely. “I think it may be
best to let Inspector Bird view the scene of the crime and the body
first and I would like to be the one to relay the news to Mrs
Ashkenazy. I don’t want her to hear the news from her father’s
lawyer. Her disposition is delicate and she may suffer an emotional
breakdown,” she exaggerated to justify her request. “There is also
the link to the unusual death of Mr Dicksen last night.”

“Do you think
the two deaths are linked?” he asked.

“We cannot
tell at this stage,” admitted the Countess, “but nothing can be
discounted.”

“Do you think
the death of Mr Panglossian is linked to the deaths of the
authoresses?”

“It’s
possible,” she replied vaguely when what she meant was – most
certainly!

Mr Thrypp went
back to his accounts but the way he stared blankly into space
indicated he would not balance his books by the close of day.
Meanwhile, the doctor and the Countess continued to scour the inner
sanctum. A short time later, the fellow who had been dispatched to
fetch the inspector returned alone. The inspector had travelled
down river to apprehend an arsonist and was not expected back until
about five o’clock. After hearing that, the fellow was summarily
dispatched to summon the mortuary wagon.

Determined not
to be further frustrated by more disappointing news, the Countess
looked earnestly at her counterpart.

“How would you
like to track down the bargeman who fished the body of Robbie
Redbeard out of the Ouse? I think it might be a good idea to
interview him again and ask him why his story was discredited by
everyone else. He was our best witness.”

The doctor
nodded at once. “Yes, the fact his story was discounted by others
has not been sitting well with me.”

“While you are
going that way, it might be a good idea to speak to the landlady in
Scarcroft Lane as well. Ask her specifically if she thought Robbie
Redbeard, otherwise known as Roberta Redford, had a beau? Don’t
force the fact, draw her out slowly. It may be an impression she
has without even knowing she has it.”

“Do you think
that is relevant?”

“Dr Pertwee
said Robbie Redbeard was a virgin. Older virgins are particularly
susceptible to overtures from men who have designs on them that are
not entirely honourable. It could well be she knew her killer
because he had made advances toward her and that is why she proved
to be such an easy victim to strangle and throw over the bridge. No
scream, no cry, no sound to alert the other theatre-goers – that
does not sit well with me.”