The Penny Dreadful Curse (30 page)

“What about
you? Will you be paying a visit to Mrs Ashkenazy?”

“Yes, but
first I am going to ask Thrypp to brew me some Souchong and then I
am going to spend some time reading.” She threw open the armoire
that contained the rejects as Dr Watson hurried away, shaking his
head in dismay.

Thrypp
delivered her tea and took one look at the gaping cupboard that was
always, always, kept shut, until such time as he was directed to
supervise the boy who came to burn the manuscripts that were
contained within.

“I’m afraid I
cannot permit you to read those,” he said pompously. “I know Mr
Panglossian is dead but my sense of duty did not die with him. I
must carry out my duties to the best of my ability until such time
as the new owner of Panglossian Publishing commands otherwise.
Please put the manuscripts back where they belong, Countess, and
close the cupboard forthwith.”

There were
several ways the Countess could have dealt with the punctilious
secretary, from mopping the floor with him after delivering a
splintering dressing down to appealing to his sense of honour
toward his dead patron and his desire to see justice done. She
decided on neither.

“As you wish,
Mr Thrypp,” she said pleasantly. “I will replace the rejects
immediately and pay a call on Mrs Ashkenazy, the sole heir to her
father’s fortune and the apple of his eye, who is sure to inherit
his estate and his publishing empire; a woman with a young child; a
woman who will surely be seeking to employ a manager to look after
her new business interests for which she will have neither the time
nor the inclination nor the expertise to manage herself; a young
woman who in a moment of vulnerability may be happy to have someone
recommended to her. Let’s say, possibly a man who has been with the
publishing house for a decade or more, who is
au fait
with
its accounts, its employees, its routine, and the method and order
established by the previous owner whom this man admired and
respected and served dutifully and uncomplainingly for many years,
and who was devastated by his untimely demise; a man who might
easily have fainted with shock at the sight of his dead patron and
who would have done all in his humble power to help apprehend the
person who murdered his beloved benefactor. Good day to you, Mr
Thrypp.”

Mr Thrypp
digested the wordy gist in one gulp and blocked the door. “Be not
so hasty, dear lady. I may have given the impression I did not wish
you to peruse the manuscripts from the reject cupboard. Nothing
could have been further from the truth. Forgive me. My mind has
been badly affected by the death of Mr Panglossian. It is in
disarray. If I overstepped the mark put it down to that. Forgive
me. I simply wanted what is best for Panglossian Publishing. And of
course, nothing could be closer to my heart than to assist in any
way possible in apprehending the killer of a man I admired and
respected, and as you so rightly pointed out, my benefactor, my
beloved patron, who was almost a father to me. Forgive me,
Countess, and let me know at once if there is anything else I can
bring you while you read to your heart’s content.”

Left to
herself, the Countess selected a handful of rejects, including one
by the mysterious Roman Acle. It was on the top of the pile,
written in black ink on paper of middling quality. Interestingly,
the cover page was missing.

As soon as the
Countess read the opening paragraph of the dreadful dreadful the
penny dropped.

After reading
three rejects belonging to the same mysterious author known as
Roman Acle the Countess was sure she had her killer, all that was
left was to gather enough proof to see the culprit brought to
justice. She gathered up the three manuscripts as evidence and
stepped into the outer office.

“I will be
taking some manuscripts away with me,” she addressed abruptly to Mr
Thrypp. “Do you have some paper and string? I would like to wrap
them.”

“I can do that
for you, Countess Volodymyrovna,” he volunteered helpfully.

She declined
his kind offer, waited for him to procure what she needed, and did
the job herself. Inspector Bird had not yet arrived to examine the
crime scene but she could wait no longer. Tempus fugit and all
that!

She left
Panglossian Publishing via the back stairs. In the yard she
beckoned the surly foreman she recognised from the other day and
instructed him to take the parcel of rejects to the Mousehole Inne
and give it into the hands of her maidservant. She told him her
name and gave him a generous payment in advance of his
services.

“I have been
expecting you since midday,” smiled Mrs Ashkenazy as she greeted
the Countess in the sunny drawing room overlooking the manicured
garden which dropped down gently to the river bordered by a little
wilderness of weeping willows. “Please take a seat, dear Countess
Varvara, here by the window. The butler is bringing blintze with
black caviar from the Caspian and plum cake such as can be found
baked throughout the Ukrainian Steppe for afternoon tea. It is
lovely to see you again so soon after your last visit to Foss Bank
House and gratifying that you have taken the time to come all this
way when you are so busy trying to solve the murders related to
dear papa’s publishing business. He has enlightened me since we
last met. I am appalled but not surprised that men can be capable
of such dark deeds. Jews learn early in life of the hate that can
lie hidden in men’s hearts.”

The Countess
settled herself into the proffered chair and decided not to pursue
dark deeds just yet, but to exchange a few pleasantries first. Bad
tidings delivered bluntly would be sure to drop a dark cloud on the
remainder of the day akin to the dumping of a monster storm on the
pretty flower beds lining the paths. “How is your portrait coming
along?”

“Oh, it is
progressing very well. Monsieur van Brugge completed all the
preliminary sketches in London last month, but papa insisted that
he do the painting in oils here in York, where he could check the
progress for himself each day. Monsieur van Brugge has made a very
charming likeness of me as artists do who must earn their living
from patronage, though to tell the truth, I am a little embarrassed
by the flattering nature of the whole, however, I dare not complain
as papa is so pleased with it. Ah, here is our tea.”

“Will Monsieur
van Brugge be joining us for afternoon tea?”

Mrs Ashkenazy
shook her head and her glossy shingle hair moved en mass in the
same way that dimpled water stirred by a soft wind moves en mass.
“I think not. He is in the habit of making a long promenade in the
afternoon to give his hand and eye a rest. He starts painting early
and works through too late, preferring to build up the layers of
colour gradually and slowly. I swear I can hear the silk in the
dress rustling as I gaze at his work. It is quite magical, the
effect of paint in the hand of a master. Darjeeling or Earl Grey
for you, Countess Varvara?”

“Earl Grey,
s’il vous plait
?”

“Bergamot is
an inspired addition to tea leaves,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Mr Twining is
a genius.”

“Milk or
lemon?”

“
Non,
merci
.”

“
Sucre
?”

“
Rien
–
the bergamot speaks for itself.”

The
conversation moved onto little Rebecca, who was having an afternoon
nap, and the joy that having a child had brought into her lonely
life, and that of her dear papa who would be sure to spoil his
grandchild no end. The Countess felt a lump come to her throat and
drained her teacup more quickly than courtesy dictated. Her hostess
immediately refreshed her cup.

“You said you
had been expecting me since midday,” reminded the Countess
interrogatively, having meditated long and hard on the curious
opening phrase all the while they had been conversing
harmlessly.

“Papa is never
happier than when he is scheming to make me happy too. He told me
you would be calling on him at his office at midday and he would
direct you here for lunch. Please forgive his forwardness. He does
not know how to be subtle. I waited and waited but you did not
come. I admit I feared that perhaps I had said something to offend
you last night at dinner, though it would have been unintentional I
assure you, so I was pleasantly surprised when you arrived in time
for afternoon tea. It is wonderful to have your company.”

So, that’s why
the wily Jew had made the appointment for midday. He had hoped to
engineer a luncheon companion for his friendless daughter. That may
even have been his motivation for warning Mrs Dicksen of her
husband’s outrageous plan to play-act Jack Black! It may have been
his way of ingratiating himself with a prominent lady of York who
would no doubt have been eternally grateful, providing an entrée
into society for his daughter should she choose to make her home
here rather than in London - something that would have suited the
doting grand-papa very well.

“There goes
Monsieur van Brugge now,” noted Mrs Ashkenazy, glancing out of the
window. “You can see him weaving between the weeping willows that
line the riverbank. He will walk all the way to Heworth Green where
he will cross the bridge, return on the opposite bank, re-crossing
the stream at Peaseholm Green before coming in through the ogee
gate at the bottom of the garden. You must sample some plum cake,
dear Countess Varvara, and I will let cook know if she managed to
successfully conjure a Steppe kuchen.”

The Countess
sampled the plum cake and likened it to the cakes of her youth,
praising its plummy tartness, wondering all the while how long it
would be before the Dutch painter returned from his peregrination.
She had been hoping to have a word to him about the events of the
previous night to see if his memory matched the account rendered by
Mrs Henrietta Dicksen.

While the
Countess was endeavouring to bite the bullet, wondering how best to
broach the topic of Mr Panglossian’s death Mrs Ashkenazy provided
an opening.

“Oh, I just
remembered. Papa left an envelope on his desk. It’s in his private
study. I was to give it to you when you arrived for lunch. I am
ashamed to say I think he orchestrated it as an inducement to impel
you to accept the luncheon invitation.” She pushed to her feet.
“Help yourself to some blintze. I won’t be long.”

“I’ll come
with you,” said the Countess, who was not averse to some
orchestration of her own. “There might also be a list of authors’
names on his desk which he promised to give me today, the reason
for my visit to his office, but which was nowhere to be seen.”

Mrs Ashkenazy
looked surprised. “It’s not like papa to misplace a list of names
and I have heard him say more than once that his secretary, Mr
Thrypp, is the most efficient man he has ever employed. Papa once
described him in terms of an automaton, you know, the little
figures inside the Swiss clocks that come out every hour to strike
a little bronze bell, and then disappear back behind their little
doors. Here we are!”

The private
study of the titan of publishing was a mirror image of the office
of the titan of publishing with a gargantuan desk set before a
gargantuan window, and a large sideboard on which sat an array of
glittering cut-glass decanters with silver collars housing Spanish
sherry. The only thing missing were the twin armoires, right and
left, which housed the manuscripts yea and nay. A square envelope
with the Countess’s name boldly calligraphied in purple ink sat
prominently in the centre of the partner’s desk for one. Apart from
an antique inkwell, some antique pens, and an antique clock, there
were no other items on the leather-tooled surface. And no papers
visible anywhere else. Bookshelves proudly displayed a first
edition of all the books published by Panglossian Publishing from
its inception ten years ago to the present, discounting the penny
dreadfuls.

Mrs Ashkenazy
left the Countess in the study to peruse the contents of the
envelope when the nurserymaid came to inform her that the baby had
woken from her nap.

The Countess
smiled to herself as soon as she saw the contents. It was the list
she had been desperate to obtain since arriving in York – a list of
authors names, real and invented, associated with Panglossian
Publishing. Too little too late, she smiled wryly. It revealed
nothing new, nothing she didn’t already know. There were no actual
names corresponding to the noms de plume that she recognised.
Corresponding to the name of Conan le Coq there was no Miss
Carterett, corresponding to Ryder Saxon there was no Mrs Henrietta
Dicksen, corresponding to Baroness du Bois there was no Miss
Titmarsh, and corresponding to Dick Lancelot there was no Mr
Charles Dicksen. The famous author was listed, but not beside his
dreadful nom de plume. His name appeared at the top of the list of
male authors. Well, at least the list contained no Baron Brasenose
and no Roman Acle either. Their omission confirmed they had never
been published. They were not part of the stable of successful
authors belonging to Panglossian.

Disappointed,
she turned to gaze out of the Palladian window. The Dutch painter
could be seen on the opposite bank, walking at a brisk pace. A
quick check of the time on the desk clock told her he would return
in about thirty minutes. Taking a leaf out of the wily publisher’s
book of orchestration, she resolved to engineer a ramble in the
garden just in time to bump into the painter as he came through the
ogee gate.

Mrs Ashkenazy
returned to find her guest still in the study, pretending to be
interested in the first editions by Mr Charles Dicksen. The
Countess realized her hostess had not brought up the topic of his
demise so it was likely she did not know of it. Oh, well, it was
now or never.