The Penny Dreadful Curse (31 page)

“I came here
today,” she began hesitantly, “not just to enjoy your hospitality,
but because I have some rather tragic news.”

Mrs Ashkenazy
appeared to brace herself. “Tragic news?”

“I don’t know
if you heard it from Monsieur van Brugge,” she proceeded
cautiously, “but Mr Charles Dicksen was killed last night.”

“Papa’s most
famous author? That is indeed tragic. Papa must be terribly
agitated at the news. No wonder he misplaced some papers. I met Mr
Dicksen twice. Once in London last year and then again the day
before yesterday when he came to dinner.” She gave an involuntary
shiver. “Shall we return to the drawing room? It is much warmer
than the study. I’ve ordered a fresh pot of tea. How was he
killed?”

“He was
accidentally shot by his wife.”

“Oh, that is
tragic indeed! The poor woman must be devastated!”

“Not really.
The marriage was a loveless one. She is quite relieved.”

Mrs
Ashkenazy’s lips curled to a knowing smile. “I think such marriages
are more common than we are led to believe.”

“Indeed,”
affirmed the Countess blandly as they settled back around the tea
table.

“Will Mrs
Dicksen be charged with murder?”

“I think
not.”

“Oh, that’s
right,” she remembered. “You said it was an accident. That’s a
relief. I liked Mrs Dicksen very much.” She paused a moment and her
brows pleated. “But if Mrs Dicksen was at the dinner party last
night and her husband was away on a reading tour then how, I mean,
when, could she have shot him?”

“It happened
as she was travelling home.”

“Did she
mistake him for a robber?”

“A
highwayman.”

“You mean like
Claude Duval?”

The Countess
nodded at the reference to the infamous French highwayman of long
ago. “Mr Dicksen dressed himself up as a highwayman and held up her
coach on the Foss Islands Road. She was terrified of being shot and
shot him instead.”

“
Quel
gredin
! The rotten scoundrel! If I did not hear it from your
own lips I would never believe it! Do you think he would have
really shot his own wife?”

“I would not
discount it.”

“Does he keep
a young mistress?”

“Yes, it is
that lovely young woman you met last night, Miss Isabel Flyte.”

“
Mon
Dieu
!” she exclaimed. “The wife and mistress, they attend the
same parties! I thought that such things happened only in Monte
Carlo and Paris! Mrs Dicksen did not appear to harbour any
animosity to the young Miss Flyte. In fact, I thought she was very
sympathetic toward her during dinner. I thought also that our
charming host had his eye on her. And did the young woman not seem
to encourage him?”

Mrs Ashkenazy
poured some fresh tea as soon as the butler delivered it and waited
eagerly for a response.

“Yes, I
thought as you did. Mrs Dicksen was most kind toward Miss Flyte,
including her in the conversation whenever she could and covertly
correcting her many faux pas at the dinner table, regarding the
fish knife and the dessert spoon and so on. As for our host, I
agree again that he has set his eye on the ethereal Miss Flyte and
that she was encouraging his attention. I would not be surprised,
now that Mr Dicksen is out of the picture, to see Sir Marmaduke
make a bold move in that direction.”

“What an
interesting town. I always considered York to be provincial and a
touch backward. Do you think it would be terribly forward of me to
call on Mrs Dicksen at her home and offer my condolences in the
next day or two?”

“Oh, not at
all! I think your call would be well received.”

“And do you
think it would be appropriate to invite Miss Flyte to afternoon tea
here at Foss Bank House? When I mentioned it to Papa last night he
mumbled something about the young woman’s declasse up-bringing, and
I must admit her accent was hard to place, but if Sir Marmaduke has
his eye on her she cannot be the social outcast Papa imagines.”

“I think there
would be nothing remiss in inviting Miss Flyte to tea. She comes
from a poor background but she is keen to better herself and I
personally think she will go far in life. I like her very much and
I think it can be very stultifying to limit oneself to the same
social circle. We are at the cusp of a new century, a New Age, so
it cannot hurt to break with tradition just a little. There comes a
time in life when a woman must start pleasing herself rather than
everyone else. Which brings me to the second piece of tragic
news.”

The Countess
reached for Mrs Ashkenazy’s hand and held it firmly, forcing her
hostess to look directly into her eyes.

“It has
something to do with my dear Papa?” the Jewess guessed at once,
noting the earnest look.

“Yes,” replied
the Countess tonelessly. “This morning when Dr Watson and I went to
his office we found him dead.”

Mrs
Ashkenazy’s hand broke free and flew to her mouth in shock. “No!
No!” she cried, shaking her head. “Not Papa! Not Papa!”

The Countess
wondered if she should summon the butler and call for smelling
salts but Mrs Ashkenazy recovered herself fairly quickly. Like the
majority of her sex, she was hardier than she looked, and she was
more concerned for the effect the death would have on her child
than on herself.

“My poor
darling Rebecca, she will have no papa and no grand-papa!
Pauvre
enfante
!
Enfante pauvre
!” she sighed heavily. “Did he
suffer greatly?”

“No,” said the
Countess softly.

“Where is he
now? His body, I mean?”

“It has gone
to the morgue. The police surgeon will check for a cause of
death.”

“Not surgery
post-mortem!” she cried in horror. “No! No! I cannot allow it!”

“Calm
yourself, I pray, it is a necessary part of finding his
killer.”

“Killer! You
mean he was murdered! How? Why?”

“It appears
the killer delivered a blow to his throat and then smothered
him.”

Mrs Ashkenazy
turned pale and did not speak for several moments while she
pictured the ghastly scene in her mind’s eye.

“Do you
think,” she asked plaintively, her voice quavering, “he was killed
because he was Jewish?”

“No, put that
thought from your mind. Do not torment yourself with such
conjecture. I think his death is linked to the murders of the five
authoresses.”

“But he is not
an author?”

“No, of course
not, but first and foremost the killings are linked to Panglossian
Publishing.”

“Oh, dear,”
Mrs Ashkenazy wailed, clasping her arms around herself. “I did not
take them seriously. When papa tried to talk about the deaths to me
I hardly listened. I did not imagine his life could be at risk. How
careless and uncaring I was! What a selfish daughter!”

“Do not berate
yourself. The death of your papa cannot be laid at your door.
Though, I raise this topic briefly, if you are after someone to
manage your business affairs at Panglossian I think you cannot do
better than Mr Thrypp. Now, I see that Monsieur van Brugge is
returning from his promenade. I need to speak to him about the
tragedy regarding Mr Dicksen.”

Mrs Ashkenazy
once again pulled herself together quickly. “What can he have to do
with the death of Mr Dicksen? He was not even at dinner last night.
He went to the theatre.”

“
Précisement
, and he was returning along the Foss Islands
Road just after Mr Dicksen was shot. He sat with Mrs Dicksen in her
carriage until she revived from her swoon and he accompanied her
home. I need to question him about any impression he may have
formed. Will you be alright on your own while I slip out to the
garden?”

Mrs Ashkenazy
nodded dumbly, using her linen napkin to dab some unshed tears that
lingered in the corners of her eyes. “I will see if Rebecca is
ready for a turn in the perambulator. I will meet you in the garden
shortly.”

Two gardeners
were raking fallen leaves and barrowing them to a small bonfire on
the lawn; a plume of grey smoke curled upwards. The scent of the
last days of autumn filled the air. The Countess caught up to the
Dutch painter as he pushed open the ogee gate. He was a handsome
man, blond-haired, with a blond goatee and keen eyes set in a round
face which always gives a boyish appearance to men, even into old
age. He had a strong physique, redolent of a hunter or a sportsman
rather than an artist. There was nothing effete about him.

“
Bonjour
Monsieur van Brugge.”

He tipped his
wide-brimmed felt hat and bowed his head before securing the latch
on the gate. “
Bonjour
Countess Volodymyrovna.”

They had never
met, yet he knew her name, doubtless he had heard it from Mrs
Ashkenazy or her papa. She had started off in French but decided to
test his English to ascertain how well he may have understood the
events of the previous evening. “May I walk with you?”

“
Mais
oui
.”

“How is the
portrait progressing?”

Following her
lead, he slipped fluently into English. “Very well, thank you, Mrs
Ashkenazy is a remarkable sitter who can sit patiently for hours
without needing to be constantly cajoled to keep still, a rare
thing in my experience, for a member of her sex. My last subject
could not keep still for longer than a few minutes. It stretched my
patience to the limit. The commission took twice as long as it
should have and I was forced to decline a lucrative commission from
Lord Cosgrove for a military portrait. Oh, I should not speak so
unkindly of my benefactors. Please forgive…”

“Say no more.
I quite understand. May I speak frankly on another subject?”

He aimed a
curious sideways glance. “Certainly.”

“You were
travelling along the Foss Islands Road last night when you came
upon a tragedy, a shooting, I believe?”

The woollen
scarf wrapped lightly around his neck came away when a puff of wind
teased it loose, he slung it back over his shoulder with the casual
flick of one hand. “A bizarre accident,” he confirmed. “A woman
shot her husband by mistake. May I ask your interest in the matter
or is it feminine curiosity that impels you to enquire?”

She decided
not to prevaricate. “My colleague and I are assisting the police
inspector with the recent spate of deaths here in York. You may
have heard of them?”

“Five
authoresses have been murdered,” he confirmed.

“Six,” she
corrected, “and last night the man who was shot was also an
author.”

“Mr Charles
Dicksen. I have heard tell of him but I have not read any of his
books. I intend to remedy that at the first opportunity. I will
track down a good bookshop tomorrow?”

“I can
recommend a good bookshop in the Shambles but you will find all of
Dicksen’s books on the shelf in Mr Panglossian’s private
study.”

“Ah, but they
are all first editions. Mr Panglossian invited me to look at them
on my first evening at Foss Bank House. I would not, however, be so
presumptuous as to borrow any and invite the wrath of my
benefactor. They are collector’s items. Over the years I have found
it preferable to buy my own books and to read at leisure when time
permits.”

“You have not
heard the news, then?”

He stopped
walking for a moment and turned to look at her, blond brows
expressing his own curiosity. “What news?”

“Mr
Panglossian was found dead this morning.”

“Dead!” He
stepped back from her and appeared to falter; no doubt the
repercussion to his lucrative commission unbalanced him. He stroked
his goatee beard meditatively as he pondered the possibilities.
“Was it murder?”

“Yes, there is
no doubt.”

“Has the
murderer been apprehended?”

“Not as
yet.”

“Do you have
any idea who might have -” He broke off the rest of his
sentence.

“I have a
fairly good idea who murdered him but I am loath to name anyone
until I have my proofs in order. I do not want to accuse an
innocent person.”

“No, certainly
not,” he agreed solemnly. “Is it safe, do you think, for us to
remain in York while these murders remain unresolved? I speak not
for myself, of course, but for Mrs Ashkenazy. Would it not be safer
for her and the child to be in London?”

“No doubt, as
you say, safer, but I cannot see her departing York while her
father’s killer remains at large. And there is the funeral to
consider. I sought you out just now because I wanted to ask you
specifically, if you would recount the events of yesterday
evening.”

“Surely you do
not suspect the wife?”

“I cannot
dismiss anyone until I have weighed the facts. The fact remains Mr
Dicksen was shot last night and Mr Panglossian, who was somehow
privy to the bizarre event beforehand, was killed early this
morning. The two events may be related. Can you describe what took
place?”

He stroked his
goatee thoughtfully while he gathered his thoughts. “When I first
came upon the scene the lady had swooned from shock. I clambered
into her carriage to render assistance while her coachman was
seeing to the horses. She did not appear to have suffered any
physical injury. I had some snuff in a small box and waved it under
her nose. The smell seemed to revive her. I stayed with her while
my coachman galloped off for help. A police inspector arrived
erelong, about fifteen or twenty minutes I think, and it was he who
whipped the mask away from the highwayman. The lady’s coachman
cried out something to the effect: It’s the master! God help us,
it’s the master! The lady then promptly fainted a second time,
falling into my arms. The inspector wrote down my particulars.
While my coachman carried off the inspector and the dead body I
offered to stay with the lady while her coachman conveyed her to
her home. She lived nearby. Some servants came out and helped her
up to her bedroom. I did not go into the house with her. Her
coachman then conveyed me home. I did not mention the incident to
Mrs Ashkenazy as I did not wish to disturb her equanimity and thus
disrupt the painting.”