The Penny Dreadful Curse (35 page)

At this stage
the Countess paused once more, allowing those present to pick apart
her argument and take umbrage at her conclusion. Each man and woman
turned to those who sat nearest to clarify details or reiterate
points of interest. There were no dissenters. Even the dullest of
the dull and the thickest of the thick could see that Mr Dicksen
had both the perfect opportunity and a powerful motive.

Commiserations
were relayed to Reverend Finchley and many expressed the view that
they did not really like the books written by Mr Charles Dicksen
but read them because they had been recommended by others. Mr
Thrypp went so far as to suggest to Mrs Ashkenazy that the
dreadfuls by Dick Lancelot be republished under the name Baron
Brasenose with an explanatory note attached and an apology from the
publisher.

The Countess
cast a quick glance at the stairs. Boz was mopping the tears
spilling down his cheeks, the violent death of his brother so
vividly drawn and the ache in his heart so big he thought it would
never leave him. Meanwhile, Patch was slowly nodding, his tired
brain wading through the mire of logic at its own pace, following
its inevitable meander into a man-made swamp where chance, fate,
tragedy and death came together in the stew-pond called Life.

“I will now
outline the facts pertaining to the murders of the six authoresses
and Mr Panglossian,” said the Countess. “I believe all seven were
killed by the same man. This killer was left-handed. A trifle, I
hear you say, but important in establishing that it was
not
Mr Dicksen who committed these crimes.”

She turned to
Dr Pertwee. “Doctor, can you verify for us whether the bruising to
the throat of Miss Titmarsh and Mr Panglossian was inflicted by the
right hand or the left?”

Dr Pertwee
pushed to his feet, coughed to clear the stale cigarette fumes
clogging his throat and lungs, coughed again, and being
unsuccessful, spoke in a hoarse voice. “The bruising to the throat
of both victims indicates a left hand in action. This can be fairly
accurately ascertained from the bruise marks left by each
individual knuckle and the angle of the clenched fist striking
slightly from the left rather than the right, though how you would
know that, young lady, without examining the bodies, defies all
logic.”

Having said
his piece he coughed once more and sat back down.

The Countess
picked up the thread. “From that testimony we can be fairly certain
the killer of the last two victims is left-handed. Our killer is
also brazen, audacious, crafty and clever. He must be because he
killed seven people without being detected. He followed his
victims, possibly for several days, and was able to move about the
streets freely without being observed. It is safe to assume he must
have chosen his victims, all female, apart from Mr Panglossian, as
they left Panglossian Publishing on a Sunday after receiving their
royalties and followed them home and stalked them as they went
about their daily lives. We can assume he either targeted women
because they were easier victims to stalk and kill, there were more
women than men who wrote dreadfuls, or he hated female authors. It
could well be that all three factors came into play. On the surface
it is likely he is quite personable because he befriended his fifth
victim and may even have been pretending to court her before
throwing her off Skeldergate Bridge. His first four murders appear
more opportunistic than anything else but by the fifth, sixth and
seventh our killer understood some careful planning was necessary.
He was growing more daring and things were becoming more dangerous
and the risk of being caught was increasing. He timed his
appearance in the middle of Skeldergate Bridge perfectly. He knew
when the show at the Friargate Theatre would finish and he knew how
long it would take his victim to walk the distance. He also took
great care when breaking into the abode of Miss Titmarsh, moving
items from the draining board and placing them carefully on the
cutting board, wiping traces of mud from his boots off the sink,
and leaving via the front door, though it meant he risked being
seen, all in all, giving the premeditated murder the semblance of
an accident. Likewise, he entered and left Panglossian Publishing
without being observed. He must have known Mr Panglossian arrived
early for work. He must have been familiar with the building. So, I
wonder, who would have had such knowledge? Who would have been able
to come and go so freely? Who would have had the time to execute
seven murders without being seen or even suspected? Mr Corbie? A
man who rarely left his shop! A man with arthritis in both hands!
Hardly! Our killer is respectable and intelligent. He is someone
who is able to blend in when necessary and move about quickly, day
and night.”

She paused for
breath and allowed those whose breaths were clutched to draw breath
too.

“Our killer is
also strong. Mr Panglossian was not a small, defenceless, weak man,
nor was he an author. And yet he was killed. So why did the killer
break his pattern? This is where our killer starts to make
mistakes. He has grown tired of murdering authoresses and decides
to murder the man he holds responsible for his ill fortune. After
murdering Mr Panglossian our killer stuffs a page torn from a
manuscript into the publisher’s mouth as if to smother him. He is
enraged. He wants to punish the publisher. He then steals some
rejected manuscripts and plants them in the dust bins behind the
bookshop in the hope of incriminating Mr Corbie. The plan works. Mr
Corbie is quickly arrested and charged. Our killer makes sure not
to steal his own manuscripts however; they remain in the reject
cupboard. He does not want any link to be found that may lead back
to him. Ah! His own manuscripts, I hear you say? Yes, those he has
written but which have been rejected. Yes, our killer is a failed
writer, and like a woman scorned, he is full of resentment,
bitterness, animosity, and jealousy. He despises those who have
found success where he has not, especially if he views them as less
intelligent, less worthy, less talented. How do I know this? I have
read his work. Ah, but who is this mysterious author?”

At this stage
she began to cough uncontrollably and called for a brief
interlude.

She called on
Mr Hiboux to serve some tea and coffee so that they could all
lubricate their throats. At the same time she directed Inspector
Bird to retrieve the package from her bedroom; the package she had
been careful to personally wrap and send straight into the
safe-keeping of her maid, Xenia, at the Mousehole. She asked Dr
Watson if he would mind refreshing the sherry glasses.

Several people
decided to stretch their legs. Someone opened the front door to let
in some fresh air. But the burst of cold was too much for others
and someone quickly closed it again. Conversation remained subdued
and stilted. No one quite knew who the killer might be, though they
all had their hunches. They all felt a little wary about voicing
thoughts that might be misconstrued when it came down to it or even
put them in the path of danger. Miss Carterett served the coffee
while Mrs Ashkenazy took charge of the teapot.

Before too
long, the Countess retook the floor and calm was quickly restored.
Everyone slipped into the nearest chair, much like the party game
of musical chairs. No one wanted to be found wanting, no one wanted
to stand out, no one wanted to draw attention to themself. Blending
in was much safer.

“Let us
continue,” said the Countess. “We are nearly done. I put it to you
that our killer and the mysterious author known as Roman Acle are
one and the same. Our killer-cum-author is not unintelligent as we
have seen. He even has a sense of humour. Roman a Cle! The nom de
plume of noms de plume! And what does he write about? What is his
specialty? What is his topic of choice? With splendid or perhaps
sinister irony we discover it is detective fiction. He particularly
likes the stories of Sherlock Holmes. He has reworked them. The
Sign of Four becomes the The Four Signs. A Study in Scarlet becomes
A Scarlet Study. But Mr Dicksen was right about one thing. The
stories of Roman Acle lack voice. They are well-plotted and
well-written but they do not engage the reader. The characters are
wooden and the dialogue is flat and lifeless.”

The Countess
turned to look at the man coming down the stairs with the package
in his hands, but not before sheeting a glance at Miss Carterett
and noting the strange look come over the young woman’s face. Where
had she heard that sound before? What was that shiver that just ran
down her spine? Why did she suddenly feel afraid? The Countess knew
the answers to those questions even if Miss Carterett did not. Not
yet.

“Thank you,
Inspector Bird,” she said, accepting the package he passed to her
using his left hand. “Here are the rejects of Roman Acle. Proof
that our mysterious author and our killer are one and the
same.”

Without
warning, Inspector Bird elbowed the Countess out of the way and
made a sudden dash for the back door, knocking over Mr Hiboux who
crashed into Dr Pertwee who toppled against Monsieur van Brugge.
The Countess landed with a thud on the floor and her head banged
violently against the floorboards. Dr Watson rushed to her
side.

“Good God!” he
exclaimed, ignoring the ensuing pandemonium as he helped her to sit
up, berating himself for his lack of foresight. “Are you alright?”
he implored as he eased her into a vacant chair.

“Yes, yes,
just winded.”

Inspector Bird
got all the way to the kitchen before two things happened.

Miss Carterett
cried out: “The footsteps! The footsteps on the stairs!”

And Mr Smedley
called out: “That’s him! That’s him! The gent on the bridge!”

Fedir was
poised on the other side of the pantry door. He stepped forward and
delivered an upper-cut to the inspector’s jaw while Xenia clobbered
him with a frying pan. He went down like a nine pin and by the time
he realized the game was up, he was trussed up like one of Mr
Hiboux’ chickens for the pot. Everyone moved to congratulate the
Countess who was satisfied that at least her head was not as sore
as that of the inspector.

Mr Hiboux
hurried off to prepare supper with the help of his friend, Mr
Corbie, who appeared to have come back to life more miraculously
than Lazarus. Patch and Boz had never seen the old bookseller look
so merry and when he suggested they move in with him and learn the
book trade they didn’t know whether he was joking or not.

The oppressive
mood turned instantly festive and anyone passing by the Mousehole
late that night might have been forgiven for thinking Christmas had
come early to the Shambles.

Dr Watson hung
back from the happy banter, berating himself for his slow-wit. How
did she do it? Even to the last moment he had no idea who the
killer might be. All evening he had been in two minds, wavering
between Mr Thrypp and Sir Marmaduke, before settling on Dr Pertwee.
He could hardly bring himself to look at his medical colleague
without turning red.

“How did you
know it was Inspector Bird?’ he said when the Mousehole cleared and
he and the Countess finally had the inglenook to themselves.

“His name gave
him away.”

“Roman a
Cle?”

“No, his real
name.” She fished the inspector’s card out of her pocket and handed
it to the doctor. “Look for yourself. His real name is Branwell
Bird.”

“BB?”

“No, not the
letters! The actual name: Branwell. As in Branwell Bronte, another
talentless hack. The ne'er-do-well brother of the Bronte sisters
who had been given every advantage in life yet achieved none of the
success of his put-upon sisters who had to claw time out of their
chore-filled days to write their books. The BB is a mere
coincidence. Yes, doctor, coincidence does exist, and it is
something to bear in mind during future cases.”

“Future
cases?” he posed with a wry inflection.

“We make a
great team,” she returned with supreme confidence. “One day we will
be more famous than you-know-who.”

Determined to
turn his back on that prediction, he got all the way to the stairs
before wheeling sharply. Hang on a moment!

“The name
Branwell could not have told you he was the killer!” he
challenged.

She laughed
richly. “Bravo, doctor! I was pulling your leg! Do you remember the
first night we met the inspector? He said how much he liked your
stories and mentioned that he had read them all more than once. As
soon as I read the unpublished manuscripts of the mysterious Roman
Acle I knew the author had to be someone who knew your stories
inside out. Only one person sprang to mind: Inspector Bird.”

Unconvinced,
the doctor stroked his beard meditatively. “But if he was the
murderer all along why on earth would he have agreed to the
proposal put forward by Inspector MacDuff to have us come to York?
Why on earth would he want us to help him solve the murders
he
was committing? Surely, he would have been better off
without our help!”

“
Bien sur,
mon ami
. But he worshipped you. He could think of nothing more
splendid than to have his hero by his side, in the flesh, working
on the same case, perhaps even have his hero admire his own
tenacity and skill as an investigator and perhaps even write about
the case afterwards. Perhaps he even hoped some of your writing
magic would rub off on him. He adored your stories. He copied them
slavishly. He adored Sherlock Holmes. He adored you too. Imitation
is the sincerest form of flattery. Be flattered. You were his
hero!”

She kissed him
teasingly on the cheek as she bypassed him on her way to the stairs
but there was nothing teasing in her tone.