The Penny Dreadful Curse (15 page)

“I think not
but they are definitely up to something. They stayed back in the
parlour and whispered to each other. I think the deacon wants to
get into Mr Dicksen’s study.”

“Whatever
for?”

“I have no
idea but I would love to see inside his study too.”

“There’s no
chance of that. You heard him. Private is private.”

“Are all
authors guarded about their studies?”

“Yes, they
are,” he admitted. “They wouldn’t allow a maid to tidy up or
straighten their papers or that sort of thing but not many keep the
doors permanently locked. My wife used to come into my study
regularly. It wasn’t out of bounds. Dicksen strikes me as a
bully.”

“I could have
slapped him when he spoke to his wife so condescendingly.”

“I could have
punched him right on the nose.”

Mr Hiboux was
still up, hunched over his little desk in the corner, pouring over
accounts. He bundled his papers together and leapt to his feet to
greet them.

“Would you,
er, care for some supper? I can whip up, ah, some crepes. It will
be no bother.”

“No thank
you,” replied the Countess. “We have eaten. Did a young boy call by
to speak to me this evening?”

Mr Hiboux
shook his lop-sided head. “What, er, sort of boy?”

“One of the
Snickelwayers. This one is called Boz. Should he or any other boy
for that matter come here looking for me please make him welcome
and offer him some food or drink until I return. You can add it to
my account. It is important for me to speak to him - a matter of
some urgency.”

Dr Watson
caught the Countess’s elbow at the turn of the stairs.

“Perhaps Boz
is really Voz,” he whispered, trying to keep a straight face. “An
abridged anglicised pet name of Vasily Voynich junior. The long
lost orphaned grandson of a Ukrainian Jew forced to flee Odessa
during the pogroms, what!”

“If this was a
Dicksen novel I would say it was a certainty. And Patch would be
the long lost son of Sir Marmaduke Mallebisse. Mr Corbie would be
one of the three Musketeers. Mr Hiboux would be the dauphin of
France. Miss Titmarsh would be the childhood sweetheart of Reverend
Finchley. Mrs Henrietta Dicksen would be Baroness du Bois. And Mr
Dicksen would be our murderer. But this is real life. Good night,
Dr Watson.”

She waited
until she got to her room before laughing at his little joke.

Countess
Volodymyrovna believed that Boz held the key to the next clue.
Consequently, straight after breakfast she went across to the
bookshop to speak to Mr Corbie, hoping he could supply the
information she required. She stepped gingerly over the spot where
the puddle of blood had been, not because it was still there, in
fact it had been scrubbed clean, but because she was conscious that
it
had
been there, and she could have sworn a black stain
continued to mark the flagstone. Magwitch was curled in the
windowsill as usual.

After browsing
the bookshelves she bought several Bronte books (which she planned
to donate to the Minerva) in order to win the bookseller over
before attempting to pick his brains.

“Do you know
where I might find Boz?”

Mr Corbie
looked up from his abacus in the midst of his calculations and met
the Countess’s quizzical gaze. “If Boz doesn’t want to be found you
won’t be able to find him. He could be anywhere along the riverbank
or anywhere in the marsh pond. I will let Patch know you want to
speak to him and you mean him no harm but he is shyer than most of
the boys. He may not show himself in the Shambles for weeks or even
months. Is this about the business with the dead boy?”

She nodded. “I
think Boz may be able to tell me something about that scrap of
paper.”

“If that is
the case, he is unlikely to show up at all. He may be scared he
will end up like his brother.”

“Then it is
even more imperative I speak with him. If you see any of the
Snickelwayers let them know I need to speak to Boz urgently.”

While Mr
Corbie tallied up the cost of the books, the Countess stared out of
the bow window at the grisly meat hook and tried to curb her
agitation. She felt even more certain she was on the right track.
If Boz was afraid for his life then it pointed to the fact he knew
something about that scrap of torn paper or something about the
murder of his brother. Perhaps he saw someone loitering in the
Shambles. And though Dr Watson might make of a joke of Boz’s
connection to Panglossian it stood to reason his brother, Gin-Jim,
was a regular courier for the publishing titan. Mr Dicksen’s claim
that the boy was transporting a one-off chapter did not tally with
what Mr Thrypp said about going regularly to Gladhill. Which man
was telling the truth? Boz could possibly solve that conundrum too.
If only he could be found in time. The Countess felt her throat
constrict. In time for what? In time to stop getting himself
killed? Or in time to stop another murder?

“Mr Corbie, do
you personally know any penny dreadful authors? I thought you
might, being a bookseller. Perhaps some of the authors come to the
bookshop to see how sales are going. Perhaps they even discuss
their next dreadful with you as a means to promote their work.”

Mr Corbie’s
face contorted as though he had just swallowed a stinging wasp. “I
may sell the dreadfuls but I cannot say I approve of them. In fact,
I cannot say I am surprised someone has decided to kill the
dreadful authors off. I am not one to speak ill of the dead, but
good riddance to bad rubbish!”

Taken aback by
the bookseller’s harsh response, the Countess thanked Mr Corbie
with exaggerated politeness and was about to return to the
Mousehole when the little bell gave a tinkle. It was the young
woman from the other night. She was wearing the same blue and
white, striped, wool ensemble which she had worn to the Theatre
Royal and she looked even prettier in the clear light of day.

Miss Flyte
acknowledged the Countess with a cordial smile but something in her
manner suggested that she felt embarrassed. The Countess kept her
distance while she tried to reason in her own mind why the young
woman might feel that way. She had had no qualms about appearing in
the private box hence she could not be embarrassed about her
relationship with Mr Dicksen. It was something else. Perhaps the
young woman didn’t want anyone to know she had been in the bookshop
and that’s why she chose that hour of the morning when fewer people
were apt to visit such shops. Intrigued, the Countess changed her
mind about leaving and decided to peruse the shelves a second time.
She disappeared behind a row of books, mounted the library ladder
and peered over the top of the shelf just in time to see Mr Corbie
reach under his desk and retrieve a package wrapped in brown paper
which he handed to the young woman.

“I will put it
on Mr Dicksen’s account,” he said sotto voce, checking over his
shoulder. “Would you like me to change the title of the book on the
bill?”

“Oh, yes,
please,” she whispered.

“I shall put
it down as
Sense and Sensibility
by Jane Austin.”

“Thank you,”
she smiled blushingly.

The Countess
caught up to the young woman a few yards from the bookshop.

“It’s Miss
Flyte, isn’t it? We met the other evening at the Theatre Royal. I
thought I recognized you. Do you mind if I walk with you?”

Miss Flyte
hugged her package to her breast as if to safeguard it. “Not at
all. It’s much safer to walk with someone after that terrible
murder. I felt quite worried coming to the bookshop just now. There
was hardly anyone about in the Shambles. I think they have been
frightened off.”

“Oh, I
couldn’t agree more. Much safer to have company. Are you walking
far?”

“Just to the
end of the Shambles. I have rooms in a lodging house on the
Pavement. That sounds silly doesn’t it? It sounds as if I live on
the street. I actually have some lovely rooms. Are you walking
far?”

“I’m looking
for a teashop. I skipped breakfast to go to the bookshop,” she
lied. “Ye Olde Minster Teashoppe doesn’t open till eleven but I
will probably find something on Coppergate.”

“I haven’t had
breakfast either. You can come back to my place. Do you like
muffins?”

“I simply
adore them! But are you sure you won’t be having, er, company?”

The young
woman was not as naïve as she appeared. “Oh, don’t worry. Charles,
I mean Mr Dicksen, has already been and gone. He always comes early
and leaves prior to breakfast. It’s the only time he can sneak away
from his wife. She is an absolute dragon. I hope that sort of thing
doesn’t worry you. Being seen coming up to my room, I mean. Some
people are very particular about their reputations.”

“I’m foreign
and my reputation in York is neither here nor there. Besides, we
foreigners are accustomed to all sorts of relationships. It is
de rigeur
in Paris to have a lover. And to be the lover of a
famous author is the height of fashion. It will make your
reputation not sully it.”

Miss Flyte
sighed wistfully. “I would love to visit Paris. Charles keeps
promising we will go, but he is so busy with his writing and his
wife is always getting pregnant. She will give birth to her tenth
child soon. I don’t know why he puts up with her. He is such a
darling man. You won’t tell him you saw me in the bookshop, will
you?”

“Certainly not
– it can be our little secret.”

“Charles
doesn’t like me going out much. Well, not at all really. The only
place I ever go is to see Reverend Finchley. I have elocution
lessons with him in his study in the belfry of Holy Trinity. You
should have heard me six months ago. My Yorkshire tongue was thick
and ugly. Charles despised it. I have reading and writing lessons
too but they’re a secret. Reverend Finchley wants me to surprise
Charles one day. Until then I cannot tell a soul.”

The Countess
looked at the package Miss Flyte was hugging to her chest. “I see
you bought a book to read. Is that to help with your lessons?”

“Oh, heavens
no! Don’t tell Charles. Don’t even tell Reverend Finchley. I bought
a book written by Nellie Bly, the journalist who has travelled
around the world. I would love to be a journalist. It’s my dream. I
never imagined women could do the sorts of things Nellie does. She
is simply marvellous!”

Miss Flyte’s
rooms took up the first floor of a prim Georgian building on the
Pavement. The Countess caught back a gasp as the door swung open,
though she had seen something similar once before. The sitting room
reminded her of a luxurious bordello she had once visited in the
Trocadero when she went with her step-aunt to rescue her
step-cousin’s fiancé from the clutches of a notorious courtesan who
operated an exclusive gambling salon on the piano nobile along with
an opium den in the basement and a brothel in the upstairs
bedrooms. The furnishings were nauseatingly luxe. Every inch was
ruby red with splashes of gold - the wallpaper, the curtains, the
passimenterie, the upholstery, the cushions, the rugs. The
furniture was polished mahogany; anything else would have been
swallowed up by the vermilion palette. Mirrors abounded, snapping
reflections and scattering the light. Oil paintings, large and
small, depicted naked women in erotic poses.

“Charles chose
the furnishings,” Miss Flyte explained as she put her parcel on a
mahogany sideboard with a mirrored backboard and threw off her
cloak. “I prefer French wallpaper with little painted scenes of
shepherds and shepherdesses. I saw it in a book belonging to
Reverend Finchley. But Charles says this is his jewel box and I am
his jewel. He’s really very sweet.”

The Countess
placed her parcel of books next to Miss Flyte’s parcel and eyed the
latter curiously. Was it really a book by Nellie Bly? Or something
else?

“I think you
might mean
toile de joie
. Yes, it’s very pretty. They do
oriental scenes with Chinese pagodas too.”

“That sounds
darling!”

“Oh, it is -
frightfully darling! Do you mind if I take a peep at your book by
Nellie Bly? I have been thinking about purchasing one of her books
for ages.”

“Yes, it’s on
the chiffonier. Is that the right word?”

“Yes, that’s
quite right. I bought myself some books by the Bronte sisters. I
have already read them all and intend to donate these to the
Minerva. I was planning to go there straight after I had some
breakfast. It’s on St Saviourgate, isn’t it?”

She tore away
the wrapping to find that Miss Flyte had indeed purchased a book by
Nellie Bly and her hopes plummeted. She had pinned her hopes on the
idea it might be the missing chapter of Mr Dicksen’s novel or
something with the letters BB on it.

“Yes it is.
I’ll go with you, if you like.” Miss Flyte checked her reflection
in a mirror and smoothed back some wisps of golden blonde hair. “I
have a friend, Sally, who I haven’t seen for ages. She helps the
midwife. I haven’t seen her since Charles picked me up, I mean,
brought me to live here. I’m not supposed to go back there but if I
go with you I think it might be all right. Charles thinks very
highly of you. He mentioned you several times this morning. I can
always say I was showing you where the Minerva was because you
asked for directions when we bumped into each other while I was
taking a morning stroll. Is that all right with you? Lying, I
mean.”

“I have no
qualms about lying if it is for a good cause.”

Miss Flyte
looked relieved as she proceeded to the bell pull. “I shall ring
for the landlady. She’ll know to bring up muffins and tea. I don’t
have a kitchen. There’s one in the basement. Charles doesn’t like
me doing any chores now that I’m a young lady, so the landlady
brings up my meals and a char does the heavy work. I just have to
keep myself looking pretty. To tell you the truth I am bored to
bits during the day. If I didn’t have lessons with Reverend
Finchley I would probably go bonkers. Oh, I’m not supposed to use
words like bonkers anymore. Gosh, I can’t stop talking. It’s
wonderful to have company.”