The Penny Dreadful Curse (4 page)

“There must be
good money in publishing dreadfuls,” observed Dr Watson, admiring
the proud Georgian edifice.

“Oh, yes,”
confirmed the inspector. “People cannot get enough of them.”

“I thought
most penny dreadfuls were published in the Seven Dials district of
London?” commented the Countess.

“Penny Bloods
were certainly published there and it may still be the case that
the majority of dreadfuls are too,” replied the inspector, “but
there is a large newsprinting manufactory on the west bank of the
Ouse. We get the paper straight from the port in Hull. It travels
up-river on barges. There are three main industries in York:
railway engineering, chocolate making and newspaper printing. The
dreadfuls are printed on cheap newsprint so it makes sense to
publish them here in the city.”

Inspector Bird
continued west along Coppergate. “There are lots of small
publishers in York but Panglossian is the biggest and most
successful. Mr Panglossian has the largest stable of authors and
the most popular titles. He set up shop here ten years ago and has
been going from strength to strength ever since. He buys out any
competitors who look like they might prove a threat. Last year he
bought out three smaller publishers and a fourth mysteriously burnt
down.”

“Arson?” said
the doctor.

“Nothing was
proved,” returned the inspector matter-of-factly.

They picked up
their pace and walked briskly without speaking to conserve their
breaths and soon reached a river neither as large nor as filthy as
the Thames. Nevertheless, it was a broad, busy stretch of water
with barges end to end packed with cargo travelling upstream and
down. Both banks were punctuated with jetties, docks, warehouses,
and that large newsprinting manufactory a little further along,
where red-brick chimneys dominated the skyline. A few clipper
ships, including some tall triple-masted vessels, were moored at
the larger piers. The wind coming off the water was colder and more
blustery than in the lee of Coppergate so they adjusted their
scarves and hats accordingly.

“We are
standing on the eastern side of the Ouse,” explained the inspector,
“and this here construction is the Ouse Bridge. A little further
downstream where the mist is clearing and the sun breaking through
the murk you can make out Skeldergate Bridge. It’s a popular spot
for suicides. The body of Robbie Redbeard was washed up just beyond
Skeldergate at a small jetty.”

“Could the
death of Robbie Redbeard have been suicide?” pressed the doctor,
looking from the magnificently constructed, triple-arched, stone
bridge that spanned the river where they were standing to the plain
iron bridge glinting in the metallic light of a cold grey morning a
short distance downstream.

The inspector
shook his head firmly then leaned into the wind and followed the
embankment south for a goodly length. When he finally stopped to
allow them to catch their breath once more he pointed to a huge
castle-like structure built on the top of what must have been a
man-made hill with perfectly level grassy verges.

“That’s
Clifford’s Tower,” he said. “It was originally part of York Castle
and built on a defensive motte, it looks round but it’s actually
quatrefoil. You asked about suicide, Dr Watson. That’s what
everyone thought when the body was first dragged up yesterday
morning but it soon became clear the victim had been strangled
before going into the water. There were nasty purple bruises around
the neck. You’ll see what I mean when we get to the morgue. The
body had been in the water about three days before it snagged on
some flotsam and got stuck under the jetty.”

“When did you
discover the identity of the victim?” asked the Countess.

“When someone
came to the police station to report a missing person,” replied the
inspector. “It was just a few hours after the body had been dragged
up. It turns out that Robbie Redbeard lived in a boarding house on
Scarcroft Lane. The lady who ran the lodgement came to report a
missing lodger. She identified the body and told us that Robbie
Redbeard was a writer of penny dreadfuls who wrote without fail
every day but had been unaccountably absent for the last three
days. After we had that bit of information we checked back on the
other four recent deaths and this morning we realised we had five
dead writers on our hands who all wrote dreadfuls.”

“That’s why we
stopped outside Panglossian just now?” surmised the Countess.

Inspector Bird
nodded and walked on.

“Were the
other four writers also strangled?” quizzed the Countess, catching
up to the inspector.

“No,” he said,
slowing down. “The first was bashed with a hammer of some sort,
most likely a stone mason’s hammer. The weapon was never recovered.
The top of the skull cracked like an egg. Death would have happened
straight off but the killer then kicked the victim where they lay
on the ground and broke most of the ribs. It being so brutal made
me think he might be a madman like the Ripper. The victim was found
in Grapecuntlane. Most folks prefer to call it Grape Lane now.
Grape used to mean grope, if you get my drift. That’s why I thought
of the Ripper. The laneway is a shortcut from Swinegate to Low
Petergate. It’s a dark place and a few desperate girls tout their
wares there after sunset.”

“You thought
the first victim was a prostitute?”

“Yes.”

“And you
thought the killer was man. You said
he
?”

“It could
hardly have been a woman,” he asserted. “I refuse to believe a
woman could be so violent. Besides, the hammer struck the crown of
the head full on. It suggests the killer was taller than the victim
– unless the victim was sat in the gutter. It would have taken a
fair whack to crack through the thick bone of a skull and a fair
bit of brazenness too because the laneway is short. A passer-by
might have chanced upon the killer in the act.”

“Could you
tell if the victim was struck from the front or from behind?” asked
the Countess.

“I never
thought to ask that question. I don’t know that it makes much
difference. You can ask the police surgeon when we get to the
morgue.”

“What about
the second death?” asked the doctor, panting heavily, as the path
widened and they began to walk three abreast.

“Found with a
broken neck at the base of the stairs at Bootham Bar. It’s a
popular spot for tourists who like to promenade around the old
walls of the city. The stones were wet and slippery after a spell
of rain. It looked like an accident. We didn’t think it was murder,
not even after the third death was brought to our attention.”

“The third
happened where?” wheezed the doctor.

“Micklegate.
The body was trampled to death by a cart-horse directly under the
stone arch. It’s a busy thoroughfare day and night. We concluded it
to be an accident. You’d be surprised how many deaths are caused by
horse and cart or such like. People not looking and always in a
hurry to cross the road, thinking they can beat the horse.”

“And number
four?” pursued the Countess.

“Found in the
Museum Gardens by a one of the gardeners. Nicest spot in York if
you ask me. The abbey ruins are there and that’s where they have
the Mystery Pageant Plays. Saint Mary’s Abbey is long gone but
what’s left of the old walls is lovely. The King’s Manor is there
too. It is ten acres of greenery that slopes down to the river, a
very peaceful place. The victim left St Olave’s church after late
night choral practice and was crossing the park, heading toward the
Theatre Royal, when someone waylaid her and bashed her head in. And
not just the once. This one kept bashing until there was nothing
left. It was savage. The gardener who spotted it first thought some
wild animals might have gnawed at the face. It was beaten to a
pulp. We found some bloodied masonry in the shrubbery. We reckon
the killer used a chunk of fallen masonry to bash the victim to
death and then just tossed it into the bushes before fleeing.”

The Countess
was already thinking ahead. “Were all five authors with Panglossian
Publishing?”

“Yes,” said
the inspector. “All five of them, but it’s like saying all five
lived in York. We have a lot of writers living in the city because
of the convenience of delivering manuscripts to publishing houses.
Is someone out murdering the authors of penny dreadfuls by design
or is someone out to ruin Mr Panglossian? Or is a madman murdering
people at random and since we have a lot of authors hereabouts it
is authors who are the victims? I want to get to the bottom of
these murders before panic sets in and I sure appreciate you and Dr
Watson taking the time to come here to offer assistance. Detective
Inspector MacDuff of the Yard sang your praises. And of course I
have read all of the Sherlock Holmes stories several times and I am
proud and honoured, yes, I am honoured and proud, to be in the
company of a famous author and a consulting detective of such high
renown such as yourself, Dr Watson.”

The inspector
drew breath and gazed adoringly at his hero as he stroked his
whiskers.

Dr Watson
pulled his coat collar higher to hide the flush of his neck. “Ah!
Is this Skeldergate Bridge already?”

The inspector
diverted his gaze. “Yes, and you can see the jetty from here. A
bargeman found the body wedged between the wooden piers, caught up
in some old nets and the usual rubbish found floating in the river.
Tide was low. He sleeps on his barge and heard a loud splash three
nights back and thought someone was leaping from the bridge. He’d
heard that same sound countless times over the years and knew it
well. There was a lot of fog that night, a real pea-souper, and he
couldn’t see a thing, but he heard the splash all right. Turns out
he was right about the body going into the water but wrong about it
being suicide.”

The Ouse met
the Fosse a little further along and the ground was marshy. It was
not worth muddying their boots and clothes while the tide was so
high. They hailed a carriage instead. The regular morgue was being
fitted with electric lights so a makeshift morgue had been set up
near the York Brewery by Toft Green. Micklegate was en route so
they would be able to see with their own eyes how busy it was. The
carriage followed Nunnery Lane which ran outside the city walls and
passed right under Micklegate, one of the original medieval
gateways into York. They turned sharp left, by-passed the brewery,
and stopped outside a small brick building which had once been a
tannery. Thus far the morning had been instructive and Inspector
Bird had proven he had a good eye for detail, a clear head for
thinking and a plain way of speaking.

Dr Pertwee,
wearing a white dust-coat, which he chose to leave unbuttoned, was
an expert in toxicology and a surgeon with thirty years of cadaver
experience. His bible of choice was
A Manual of Medical
Jurisprudence
and he lived by the adage that ‘a medical man
should take note of all things’. He had steady surgeon’s hands with
long, capable, elegant fingers and keen brown eyes magnified by
horn-rimmed spectacles. He suffered from rosacea which caused his
nose and neck to be disfigured by reddish patches. He was equally
thrilled to meet Dr Watson as Inspector Bird had been and shook his
hand profusely. Upon being informed by the inspector that all five
victims had been authors of penny dreadfuls he nodded sagely.

“Murder is
always a shocking business, but randomness somehow neutralizes the
shock. When we find a link between the victims it removes the
veneer of neutrality and it pains us at first, but it is of course
a stepping stone, the first step to finding the killer. And that’s
our business. Shall I retrieve the body for you?”

He disappeared
for a moment then came back wheeling a trolley covered with a
greyish bed-sheet, discoloured from years of over-washing. He
whipped off the sheet and gazed proudly at the cadaver, from which
the major organs had been surgically removed before being measured,
weighed and examined.

“It’s a
woman!” exclaimed the Countess.

“Yes,” said Dr
Pertwee. “You sound surprised.”

“I assumed
from the name, Robbie Redbeard, that it might be a man, that’s
all.”

“I hope you
are not prejudiced regarding such matters,” said Inspector
Bird.

“Of course,
not,” she returned defensively.

“I hope you
are not squeamish,” added Dr Pertwee, frowning. “There’s a chamber
next door where you can wait if you feel faint. My assistant can
make you a cup of tea if you feel unwell.”

“I feel fine,”
she assured. “I was merely expressing surprise not squeamishness,
and I have an open mind regarding matters of murder and death and
the sex of.”

Dr Pertwee
appeared unconvinced. He raised his brows and aimed a dubious
glance at the other two men before reluctantly pressing on. “You
can see the ligature marks around the neck. She was strangled by a
strong brute before being thrown from -”

“Was she
attacked from behind or did her attacker grab her throat from the
front?” intervened the Countess, anxious to prove herself capable
of clear-thinking.

“Is that
relevant?” said Dr Pertwee, annoyed at being interrupted.

“I might be,”
replied the Countess, kicking herself for cutting him off like
that, she had got off to a bad start and had now made it worse. “I
apologise for interrupting but I find it difficult to accept the
five victims were chosen at random. I believe the fact they were
all authoresses is significant and the fact they were all with
Panglossian Publishing even more so. Was this victim being stalked
and did her killer attack from behind or did he somehow get her to
turn around first, perhaps by engaging her in conversation? Or did
he wait for her to appear on the bridge, step in front of her, and
simply grab her by the throat? Whatever the case, he must have
selected her at some earlier time and he must have known she was
going to cross the bridge. Again, if he approached her from the
front then he must have been waiting for her to cross the bridge
and he must have known she would go that way. If he engaged her in
conversation then he must have given the impression of being
someone she would stop and talk to on a foggy night without
becoming alarmed. Knowing the answers to the question I posed may
help us paint a picture of the sort of killer we are dealing with.
Medical evidence is not merely useful for establishing method but
might also prove useful in determining character.”