The Penny Dreadful Curse (3 page)

He fixed her
with a belligerent eye and readied a rebuff starting with – nothing
but a dog cart can actually navigate the Shambles! - before a
hacking cough forced him to swallow his words. “I’m sorry we ever
agreed to help out in this matter,” he wheezed and gurgled as he
drew an asthmatic breath. “It has nothing to do with us. I doubt
Inspector Bird even wants our help. Apart from Lestrade, I never
met a detective who welcomed outsiders sticking their noses into
police business. Most of them regard such interference akin to dog
turd stuck to the bottom of their shoe – speaking of which!” He
swore under his breath as he scraped his heel on the cobbles and
continued to grumble. “Lestrade only put up with it because he knew
he was out of his depth. Sherlock solved the cases and then allowed
the bumbling inspector to take all the credit.”

“In that
case,” she delivered confidently, “we will allow Bird to take all
the credit too. And you are wrong about him not wanting us here.
You read his telegram. He was thrilled at the prospect of meeting
his hero!”

The doctor
turned menopausal pink and gave thanks for the slanting shadows
dissecting the Shambles. Hero? Sherlock had always been the brains.
He liked to think that he played a small part, that he made a
contribution, that he was the voice of reason, the voice of the
common man – but hero! Heroes didn’t step in dog turd for a
start.

“You are
reading too much into his telegram.”

“Oh, do stop
being so grouchy. Wipe your feet on the mat and cheer up. Let’s go
inside and seek out a warm fire. It’s like a wind-tunnel out
here.”

The parlour of
the Mousehole Inne did little to cheer the doctor. It was dark and
gloomy, with rough-sawn beams, a smoke-stained ceiling, oak
panelling punctuated by a hotchpotch of wonky doors designed for
Elizabethan dwarfs and tiny windows with thick latticed glass
recalling a time of prohibitive window taxes. There was not a
straight line or a right angle to be seen and the uneven floor made
him feel seasick. It did however possess a wonderful inglenook
fireplace with a log fire giving off plenty of heat and two wooden
benches either side protected from the draught that blew in from
the wide gap under the wonky door. Faintly flickering gasoliers
conjured a chiaroscuro of kinetic shadows and it took a moment to
spot the sole occupant hunched over a desk set in an alcove in the
far corner.

Startled, Mr
Hiboux drew himself up rather quickly and stumbled forth into a
pool of sickly yellow gaslight that made him look jaundiced and
slightly demented. He was short, stocky and stumpy-legged, with a
square bookish face. He was also lopsided, leaning slightly to one
side, possibly suffering from a congenital deformity such as a
curved spine that did not culminate in an unattractive hunchback
but forced one shoulder to droop down more than the other. His hair
was so wild and thick the Countess wondered if he might be wearing
a wig, or perhaps a mop. He moved with nervous abruptness, two
steps forward and one step back, and spoke with a halting quaver,
hesitantly, falteringly, the words quivering on his vocal chords as
he continually paused to check himself before finishing a sentence,
interrupting the flow with er and ah, before getting to the
point.

After a shaky
start he let them know he had assumed they had changed their minds
and decided to book elsewhere, it being, er, so late and all,
nevertheless he had dinner simmering in a pot, a char would come in
the morning to help out, and Miss Titmarsh who owned the teashop a
few doors down would be, ah, supplying breakfast. If they cared to
refresh themselves, he could, er, show them to their rooms first
and then serve dinner – coq au vin – a family specialty. An awkward
tilt of his head indicated an antique gateleg table positioned
under the wonkiest window. It was set with old pewterware and had
two tapestry wing chairs facing each other either side. The doctor
and the Countess were apparently the inn’s only guests. The maid
and manservant, er, could eat in the kitchen where there was a
sturdy table by the coal range.

The Countess’s
bedroom was on the first floor while the bedroom of Dr Watson was
on the second. The rooms were twins of each other, long and narrow
to accommodate the narrowness of the dwelling. Both had tiny
windows that gave onto the Shambles, though it wasn’t much of a
view from one side of the lane to the other. One could almost reach
out and touch the building across the way. Tudor four-poster beds,
heavily carved, dressed with antique fabrics embroidered in
autumnal threads were as stupendous as they were unexpected.

Inspector Bird
called on them after dinner. He seemed genuinely pleased to meet
them, especially Dr Watson, but declined to pull up a third chair
upon being invited to join them for coffee or cocoa. He stood
stiffly by the side of the gateleg table, arms tucked behind his
broad back soldier-fashion, and informed them in a thick Yorkshire
accent that there had been a fifth death. A body had been fished
out of the Ouse that very morning. If they cared to see the latest
deceased he could take them to the morgue tomorrow after breakfast
and go over any details they cared to know.

“Thank you,”
said Dr Watson. “Shall we say half past nine? Here at the inn?”

Inspector Bird
apologized for interrupting their evening meal and, bowing
awkwardly, took his leave. The parlour seemed emptier without him.
He was what might be described as big-boned, above average height
with a wide set of shoulders and huge hands that would fist up like
truncheons whenever the need called for it. Detective Inspector
MacDuff had been right in his assessment. His friend, Inspector
Bird, would make a perfect addition to the Yard. His wooden face
gave little away, a godsend in the policing profession. If not for
the fact he stared reverently at the doctor the way one does at a
sacred idol or religious relic, it would have been impossible to
imagine what he was thinking. A remarkable pair of enormous
sideburns was his one distinguishing feature. His lanky hair was a
darkish blond but his sideburns showed whorls of ginger and a
theatrical flourish.

Dr Watson,
cheeks still burning, braced for the inevitable teasing.

“I thought he
was going to kiss your ring,” the Countess said playfully as soon
as the inn door creaked back into place. “Did you notice how he
bowed his head?”

“That was due
to his height. He had to stoop the whole time. He must be at least
six foot tall.”

“He ignored me
completely. I may as well have been invisible. He had eyes for you
only - very disconcerting. I am not accustomed to competing for
male attention with another man.”

“Any more of
that and I shall take myself off to London and you won’t have to
compete for attention at all.”

“What a
heartless cad you are? Poor Inspector Bird will never get over the
sense of rejection.”

“I’m sure he
will recover.”

“He will
probably throw
himself
in the river.”

“He appeared
stout of heart and sound of mind to me.”

“That’s true,
but who knows what lies beneath the surface. Take the lovely city
of York. No finer city would you find anywhere on earth and yet
five murders in the space of a fortnight.”

He was happy
the conversation had steered itself elsewhere, albeit in a grisly
direction, and decided to keep steering. “No wonder Inspector Bird
telegraphed his old chum, MacDuff, for help. I imagine a bit of
panic has crept into the constabulary. A shame MacDuff was summoned
to Edinburgh for that daring museum robbery.”

“But lucky for
him we were available! Our third case as consulting
detectives!”

He pressed his
lips together and his nostrils flared to compensate. “We are not,
repeat not, consulting detectives. And our other so-called cases
were both in country houses –”

“Castles,” she
corrected. “Baskerville and Cruddock.”

“I meant to
point out that it was amongst friends and people of our own ilk.
This case will be different.”

“Because it is
in a town, you mean?”

“Precisely.”

“That makes it
more of a challenge. Did you notice how Inspector Bird seemed
reluctant to divulge any details?”

“Not
surprising. He only just met us. I think he wanted to size us up.
That’s probably why he dropped by tonight.”

“To get the
measure of us?”

“Exactly.”

“Then we had
better measure up,
mon ami
!”

He did not
share her enthusiasm for this latest venture and wondered how she
had managed to talk him into accompanying her. But, of course, he
knew the answer:
Keep your friends close and your enemies
closer
. The secret telegram from Mycroft before he left
Scotland had suggested he continue to keep a close eye on her while
information continued to trickle in from across the globe. Was she
who she claimed to be? Or was she their worst nightmare? Was she
her father’s daughter? Or her mother’s? Or was she neither? Oh,
yes, she had proven her sleuthing capabilities twice over but he
was still no nearer to finding out who she really was or what she
really wanted. Until such time as he did, he could not drop his
guard. His chest suddenly felt tight and all he could think was how
much he wanted a warm bed and a good night’s rest. The train
journey from Scotland had been tiring. His muscles felt sore and
cramped, his legs were beginning to seize up. He was feeling his
age.

“It can’t be
easy for someone in his position to share confidences with
outsiders,” he said.

She smiled a
touch flirtatiously, or was his tired brain just imagining it? It
was too easy for a young woman of uncommon attractiveness and
infinite confidence to appeal to a tired old duffer past his prime
– a luminous smile, a flutter of lashes, some flattering
candlelight…

“I think he
would trust you with his life,” she teased mercilessly. “The man
who partnered Sherlock Holmes! I thought he was going to go down on
bended knee when he said it, like one of the knights paying
reverence to Arthur at the round table. Should I tell him who I
am?”

He gulped back
the last of his coffee and almost gagged. “No!” he said
emphatically. “No!” he repeated firmly. And then again a third
time, “No!”

“So that’s a
no!” she laughed lightly.

Good heavens!
One more thing to fret about as far as he was concerned! Until he
had confirmation from Mycroft Holmes he would need to remain alert
lest she go blurting out her so-called
secret
to all and
sundry. Sherlock had once accused him of being too trusting - it
wouldn’t do to betray his friend at this late stage of the game.
And he had never quite taken to
That Woman
the way Sherlock
had. What did Sherlock ever see in that
femme fatale
? To him
she had been no more than a self-styled diva, a courtesan of
dubious beauty and frightful vanity. The Countess was far more
beautiful, naturally beautiful,
sans
artifice, requiring no
maquillage to enhance her features, although, he had to admit she
was just as vain. Perhaps she was her father’s and her mother’s
daughter after all – vanity
à deux
!

But he had
been a keen student of human nature most of his life and time and
again it had been the unashamedly self-confident who had succeeded
where others had failed. They possessed unshakable self-belief and
this propelled them to victory, gave them strength, urged them to
keep trying long after others had given up - their indomitable
spirit did not allow them to entertain notions of self-doubt. On
the sports field, on the battlefield, in business, in parliament,
in every sphere of life, even crime solving, it was the arrogantly
self-assured who won the day. Sherlock was living proof of
that.

And he had to
admit, albeit ruefully and reluctantly, he
did
enjoy the
Countess’s company, her conversation, her charm, her vivacity, her
spirit, her vaingloriousness! She had breezed into his life like a
breath of fresh air he didn’t even know he needed. And working with
her was easier than working with his old friend. She teased, but
did not make him feel quite so stupid when things did not pan out
the way he expected. Sharing his innermost thoughts had also been a
surprisingly easy thing to do too, almost on a par with his dear
Mary.

But the
constant need for secrecy was taking its toll on his equanimity and
probably his health too. That would account for the tight chest and
nagging cough that refused to abate.

“You will have
to win his trust some other way,” he said sternly.

“That won’t be
easy. I’m a woman for a start. And a foreigner. And an aristocrat
as well. Oh, and I don’t write detective novels either!”

Breakfast was
an unexpected treat. Miss Titmarsh arrived early, spoiling them for
choice, right down to a selection of scented teas, while Mr Hiboux
lived up to his culinary promise serving fried eggs, York ham, pork
sausages and three types of mushrooms.

They took up
positions in the inglenook while they waited for Inspector Bird.
Neither said anything but they hoped it was not a precursor to a
lack of punctuality. He was very apologetic when he finally arrived
twenty minutes late dressed in plain clothes, as was the custom for
men of the Detective Branch.

“We’ll walk to
the river so you can see where the body was dragged up. We could
take a carriage but if we walk you’ll get your bearings quicker for
when I won’t be around to guide you. I’m a fast walker so just give
a
hoy
if you want me to slow down. I see you have both
rugged up sensibly in warm coats and that umbrella may come in
handy for later.”

He led them to
the south end of the shambolic lane where the shortest street with
the longest name, Whip-ma-whop-ma, ran off at a tangent near the
uninspiring parish hall of St Crux squatting on the corner. They
turned right at the Pavement which led them into Coppergate, a
sinuous avenue show-casing York architecture at its charming best.
A short time later they paused to catch their breath outside a
grand Georgian building with an impressive doorway surmounted by an
ornate architectural pediment. A polished brass plate read:
Panglossian Publishing House, and in smaller font underneath: Mr
Merlin Panglossian – publisher of penny dreadfuls and literary
pamphlets, est. 1889.