The Penny Dreadful Curse (6 page)

They both
nodded.

“I’ll let you
know when it has been arranged. Thank you for lunch, Dr Watson.
Good day to you, both,” he said, inclining his head.

It was after
the inspector left the inn that the Countess glanced down at her
notes and frowned.

“That’s odd,”
she said.

“What’s
odd?”

“Inspector
Bird described the death of Robbie Redbeard as drowning yet I would
have put it as strangulation.”

Grapecuntlane
was only two blocks away from the Museum Garden so they decided to
walk, taking in Stonegate with its lovely shops along the way. The
latter was a delightful place; the antithesis of their final
destination for the day. Even in broad daylight Grapecuntlane was a
narrow, cold, dark, sinister, sunless place, overshadowed by tall,
windowless, brick walls. There were brick buttresses where
prostitutes might shelter out of the wind, away from the police,
and where killers might conceal themselves from prying eyes until
they were ready to strike. The few people who ventured down it
hurried as fast as they could as if in fear of their lives.

Mr Corbie was
about to extinguish the gasolier when he heard the bell above the
door give a tinkle. “Good evening,” he said, smiling hopefully,
recognising the man and woman from the previous night who had
checked into the Mousehole Inne. “May I be of service?”

The Countess’s
glance swept over the dusty shelves and returned to the anaemic
looking bookseller. “We are after some penny dreadfuls.”

The hopeful
smile on Mr Corbie’s lips died a swift death. “This way,” he said,
leading them into the literary bowels. “I have all the latest
issues. A new batch arrived just the other day. They are arranged
in alphabetic order. Is there any author you are particularly
interested in? Dick Lancelot? Baroness du Bois? Conan le Coq?” He
gave slight shudder. “Or perhaps it is a particular genre that
interests you? Vampires? Werewolves? Ghosts?” He gave another
imperceptible shudder that had nothing to do with the supernatural.
“Knights? Cavaliers? Corsairs? Witches and Wizards?”

“I am
interested in all of them?” trilled the Countess, turning to her
companion. “Isn’t that right, Dr Watson,” she enunciated loudly for
maximum effect. “I cannot get enough of them!”

The smile
immediately returned to the bookseller’s face. “Did I hear you
correctly? Did you just say,” he paused and his voice quivered, “Dr
Watson? Not
the
Dr John Watson? Not the famous chronicler of
the adventures of Mr Sherlock Holmes? I am honoured, sir, to have
you in my humble establishment.”

The Countess
gave her companion a timely nudge. “What book did you say you were
you after, Dr Watson? Was it Baedeker?”

“Yes, er, yes,
that was it,” muttered Dr Watson, catching on, “Baedeker.”

“Ah!
Wissen
offnet welten
!” cooed Mr Corbie, making a little joke, as his
dry husk of a heart found new life. “Knowledge opens worlds! This
way, sir, follow me. I have all the English titles and some in
French, German and Italian. I once stocked every Baedeker except
for the 1866
Italien Zweiter Theil: Mittel Italien und Rom
.
It mysteriously disappeared from the shelves never to be seen – it
probably went travelling of its own accord! A little dry humour!
Ha! Ha! Which travel guide were you after, Dr Watson? The Rhine is
as popular as ever. Some marvellous illustrations in that one. And
also the Ober-Italien range. The best maps – in my humble opinion.
Here we are!
Erleben und geneissen
!”

While the two
men perused the B section at the front of the shop, the Countess
checked out the penny dreadfuls at the back, and although they took
up very little shelf space due to their thinness there turned out
to be hundreds and hundreds of them. Going through them was going
to require more time than she envisaged. What she would need to do
first was ascertain which of the dreadfuls were published in York
and which were published elsewhere. It was the York publications
she was interested in. But ascertaining which was which was likely
to take several hours. There was only one thing for it.

“I will take
them all,” she pronounced firmly when the bookseller came to check
if she had made a selection and if her taste ran to the
dreadfullest of them all.

Stunned, he
almost fell over and had to steady himself. “All?” he croaked.

“All,”
confirmed the Countess. “Please have them sent to the Mousehole
Inne. Dr Watson and I are enjoying a brief sojourn in York and are
staying just across the way. Monsieur Hiboux will tell you where it
will be best to deposit them.” She turned to her companion. “Did
you find the Baedeker you were after?”

With his eyes
he indicated the three books on the desk where a cat curled in the
curve of the window. “Er, yes, I thought it best to read up on the
Rhine, Corsica and Egypt before we plan our next sojourn.”

She beamed her
approval. “A splendid idea, Dr Watson! You are always thinking
ahead. I am such a lucky lady to have found such a well organised
travelling companion!” She turned to the bookseller. “I will pay
for all the books. Will fifty pounds cover it?”

Mr Corbie
almost fainted when the blood rushed to his head. “Oh, it is far
too much, madame,” he declared, his conscience overriding his
stomach. “Let me just calculate – ”

“No need for
that,” she cut off. “Anything over and above the cost of the books
can be put down to delivery charges. By the by, I am Countess
Volodymyrovna. It was a pleasure to do business Mr -?”

“Corbie.”

“Mr Corbie,
good evening to you, and may I say I was admiring your sign on my
way in. The gold font is most striking and the wording is most
eloquent, however, I was unsure whether you actually stocked penny
dreadfuls and I was thinking to myself that I might need to find a
bookseller in the marketplace.”

“Oh, indeed, I
stock everything!” he gushed, almost delirious with joy. “And it
was very observant of you, Countess Volodymyrovna, I am in the
process of amending the sign as we speak. It will read: Antiquarian
books and penny dreadfuls. I may even add an exclamation mark. Can
I be so bold as to enquire if you think that is a good idea?”

“The
exclamation mark, you mean?”

He nodded
unctuously.

“
Mais oui,
bien sur, certainement
!” she replied in French. “I am a great
believer in exclamation marks. I sometimes use two or three at a
time.”

Dr Watson
could not stand idly by a moment longer. She had already bribed her
way into the man’s good-books and now she was toying with him like
a cat with a mouse. “I think there is no call for exclamation marks
in titles,” he pronounced authoritatively. “It is unthinkable! You
will set a precedent in the Shambles that may be slavishly copied
and who knows where that may end! Good evening to you, Mr
Corbie!”

As soon as the
bell tinkled, Mr Corbie began scooping up the dreadfuls, tying them
with string in bundles of twenty. He had exactly ten bundles by the
time he was done and immediately carted them across the lane to the
Mousehole Inne lest his generous benefactor change her mind and
request to be refunded. Mr Hiboux was at first flustered by the
quantity of books that came through his door though the Countess
had forewarned him to expect a large delivery and he had cleared a
spot under the benches in the inglenook.

“Are you doing
another
pot au feu
tonight, my old friend?” asked Mr Corbie,
scenting something mouthwateringly delicious that brought tears to
his eyes.

“
Bourguignon
. There is sure to be some left over. I can
bring some over,” Mr Hiboux offered generously.

“You are a
true friend,” said Mr Corbie. “We can share a bottle of
vin
rouge
when you come. I am going to the wine merchant at the end
of the lane to settle my account and to buy a nice burgundy. I will
buy a
baguette
at the bread shop and settle my account there
as well.”

“You have come
into some money,
mon vieux
?”

Mr Corbie
lowered his voice and checked over his shoulder. “Your illustrious
guest, Countess Volodymyrovna, insisted on paying over and above
the cost of the dreadfuls. If you play your cards right, she may
leave a generous tip when she departs your establishment. And do
you realize who her travelling companion is?”

Mr Hiboux
shook his head.

“It is the
famous author of the Sherlock Holmes chronicles.”

“Shylock
Homes?” Mr Hiboux was sensitive to religious persecution of all
sorts, even to Jews, and wondered if he should alter his menu to
avoid
porc, jambon et lardon
.

“Not Shylock.
Sherlock. You mean to say you have never heard of Mr Sherlock
Holmes?” he cried, aghast. “He is the most famous consulting
detective in all of London and possibly the world.”

“I don’t have
much time to read,” mumbled Mr Hiboux apologetically.

Mr Corbie was
about to offer to lend him some books on Sherlock Holmes but bit
his tongue in time. He had lent books before to people he counted
as friends and never saw the books again. His luck might have
changed for the better, but bitter experience had taught him not to
push it. “I must be off before the wine merchant shuts his door. I
will leave my door unbolted. Just come whenever you are ready.
A
bientôt, mon ami.
”

Later that same
evening, when Mr Hiboux took himself off to the bookshop to share
some dinner with the bookseller, the Countess and Dr Watson set to
unbundling the penny dreadfuls.

“The first
thing we need to do is separate those published in York from those
published elsewhere. Make two piles,” instructed the Countess.
“Then we can sort those published by Panglossian from those by
other publishers.”

In the end
they had about seventy-five dreadfuls that fit the criteria.

“These noms de
plume are outlandish,” sneered Dr Watson. “I suppose it goes with
the purple prose and the outrageous storylines. Listen to these:
Dick Lancelot writes tales about knights, Ryder Saxon writes about
Jack Black the Highwayman, Conan le Coq writes tales about a
ghosthunter, and Baroness du Bois writes about a cavalier. That
last one is a barely disguised re-hash of
The Scarlet
Pimpernel
. It is called
Crimson Cavalier
. It borders on
plagiarism. There is nothing remotely original in any of this.”

“It is not
meant to be original. It is meant to be entertaining. The readers
who read these don’t have time to absorb 800 pages sprinkled with
erudite Greek and Latin references. They want something to take
their minds off their dull and monotonous existences, something
light, something imaginative and above all something cheap.”

“In that
case,” he said sardonically, fingering the flimsy newsprint, “these
books fit the bill perfectly.”

The Countess
began to further separate the stack into female and male authors
and quickly realized that apart from Roberta Redford, the other
four victims did not use pseudonyms. They wrote under their own
names. That explained how Inspector Bird was able to make the link
to authors at Panglossian Publishing so expeditiously. But what
made the fact even more interesting was that if the killer was
choosing authors to murder, the first four would have been easy to
track down. The killer may even have followed them from the
publishing house to their place of residence and then stalked them
until a chance to commit murder presented itself. Or perhaps the
killer was already acquainted with the world of writing and
publishing in York. Perhaps he was himself an author. Perhaps he
even worked at the publishing house. The first four victims were
easy targets. But what about the fifth? Killing Robbie Redbeard
would have required personal knowledge of the nom de plume. Oh,
hang on! The nom de plume was not really a nom de plume at all
since it was openly used by the authoress. It was the equivalent of
her real name.

The problem
with trying to sort the dreadfuls into piles of female and male
authors soon became apparent. Neither the author’s name as it
appeared on the publication nor the subject matter was an accurate
predictor of sex. Roberta Redford wrote about pirates. Saskia Frubb
wrote about cowboys in the Wild West. Eva Gluckstein wrote about
werewolves in the Black Forest. Fanny Gorley wrote about crusaders
in the Holy Land. While Constance de la Mare wrote about smugglers
in Cornwall. These women did not write about princesses and
mermaids and female detectives!

“The only way
we are going to find out if these authors are male or female is by
speaking to their publisher, Mr Panglossian. He will surely have a
list of the authors’ real names and their addresses, otherwise how
can he send them their royalties. In the meantime, let us immerse
ourselves in the world of dreadfuls. Which do you prefer? Knights,
cavaliers, highwaymen, vampires or ghosthunters?”

Eggy light was
smearing itself across a dirty leaden sky shaped like a skillet
when a hysterical scream reverberated down the Shambles. It shook
everyone sleeping in the rooms above the shops, including Mr
Corbie, Mr Hiboux, Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna. Miss
Titmarsh was the only person who was already wide awake. She had
just taken a batch of scones out of the bread oven and was placing
a teacake inside the coal range before the temperature grew too hot
and burnt the crust. She almost dropped her cake tin from sheer
fright. It was the sort of blood-curdling scream that sent shivers
up spines, caused hair to stand on end and carried with it the
presentiment of bad tidings. Last night, whispers had spread
throughout the city of York regarding the recent spate of murders
of writers of penny dreadfuls. It put the wind up everyone. Doors
were locked and bolted, windows secured, shutters fastened,
curtains drawn, and everyone went to bed fearing the worst.