over-written and verbose and now that I have met the
author I can see why I formed that opinion. He is over-dramatic on
page and off! The Theatre Royal, indeed! A private box! Ha! I would
sooner cut out my tongue than give a public reading to an audience
of seven hundred! I certainly won’t be going tonight!”
“What! I
wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
“Oh, spare me!
Don’t tell me you have fallen for his charm – what there is of
it!”
“Some men
exude charm and some ooze it. Mr Charles Dicksen is the latter. But
his invitation is the sort that fuels a sleuth’s blood more than
oxygen itself. Make sure you are back here by five o’clock. I will
inform Mr Hiboux we will be requiring an early supper.”
The Countess
immediately set to work sorting and checking the dreadfuls with the
help of her personal maid, Xenia, spreading them out on the floor
of her bedroom. Among the publications there were no names, real or
invented, that matched BB. Baroness du Bois was the only one who
came close, and that was only if you omitted the du from her nom de
plume; not entirely out of the question. Baron Brasenose was a
perfect match but he had to be discounted because he hadn’t
actually been published. He only existed in the reject cupboard.
Disappointed, she instructed Xenia to tidy up the dreadfuls and
return them to the inglenook when the maid spotted a name that
appeared regularly in tiny font on the back cover. It was the name
of the illustrator: Ben Barbican.
The Countess
didn’t agree with Inspector Bird that the death of Gin-Jim was
unrelated to the other murders and here was her first real clue to
a possible connection to penny dreadfuls.
While Xenia
tidied up, the Countess thought about the five authors who had been
killed. Only the second could have earned a decent living from
writing. Her penny dreadfuls stretched to volume 97. The other four
authors had volumes amounting to 3, 12, 7 and 9, respectively.
Panglossian could not possibly have killed them off for the
royalties or copyright. And even if they were planning to move to
another publisher he would hardly be concerned enough to kill them.
As he said: there was no end of dreadful writers waiting in the
wings.
And no end of
writers of dreadfuls either.
7
Theatre Royal
The York
Theatre Royal secured for itself a prominent position on St
Leonards Place, across the road from the Museum Gardens where the
fourth victim had been found with her head mashed to a pulp. The
theatre was a prime example of the popular gothic revival style
with five pointed-arches across the front which gave the facade a
pleasing and balanced appearance. A perfectly centred oriel window
enhanced the symmetricality.
As their hired
landau pulled up alongside the Museum Gardens, the Countess pointed
to a man standing in the shadow of one of the arches among the
milling crowd swelling into the hundreds, waiting expectantly for
the doors to be thrown open.
“Look over
there - Mr Corbie is chatting to someone rather respectable
looking. It is high time to expand our circle. Let’s hurry and
introduce ourselves?”
Dr Watson paid
the cabbie then took her by the arm as they dodged skittish horses
and strings of landaus, broughams and hansoms dropping off their
hires. She had chosen to wear an asymmetrical manteau trimmed with
fur; its snug draping impeded anything other than carefully
measured strides.
The man
chatting to Mr Corbie was Reverend Finchley. He was not actually a
vicar, but a lay deacon of the Holy Trinity Catholic Church. The
title was quite correct but quite misleading. He had one of those
ageless male faces that some men are lucky enough to have, though
he had probably reached his late thirties. His tallish frame was
lean and willowy. He had a sprinkling of freckles and a short crop
of curly blond hair that also added to his boyish appearance. All
these good features were unfortunately overshadowed by the fact he
was in the habit of blinking incessantly, as
author I can see why I formed that opinion. He is over-dramatic on
page and off! The Theatre Royal, indeed! A private box! Ha! I would
sooner cut out my tongue than give a public reading to an audience
of seven hundred! I certainly won’t be going tonight!”
“What! I
wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
“Oh, spare me!
Don’t tell me you have fallen for his charm – what there is of
it!”
“Some men
exude charm and some ooze it. Mr Charles Dicksen is the latter. But
his invitation is the sort that fuels a sleuth’s blood more than
oxygen itself. Make sure you are back here by five o’clock. I will
inform Mr Hiboux we will be requiring an early supper.”
The Countess
immediately set to work sorting and checking the dreadfuls with the
help of her personal maid, Xenia, spreading them out on the floor
of her bedroom. Among the publications there were no names, real or
invented, that matched BB. Baroness du Bois was the only one who
came close, and that was only if you omitted the du from her nom de
plume; not entirely out of the question. Baron Brasenose was a
perfect match but he had to be discounted because he hadn’t
actually been published. He only existed in the reject cupboard.
Disappointed, she instructed Xenia to tidy up the dreadfuls and
return them to the inglenook when the maid spotted a name that
appeared regularly in tiny font on the back cover. It was the name
of the illustrator: Ben Barbican.
The Countess
didn’t agree with Inspector Bird that the death of Gin-Jim was
unrelated to the other murders and here was her first real clue to
a possible connection to penny dreadfuls.
While Xenia
tidied up, the Countess thought about the five authors who had been
killed. Only the second could have earned a decent living from
writing. Her penny dreadfuls stretched to volume 97. The other four
authors had volumes amounting to 3, 12, 7 and 9, respectively.
Panglossian could not possibly have killed them off for the
royalties or copyright. And even if they were planning to move to
another publisher he would hardly be concerned enough to kill them.
As he said: there was no end of dreadful writers waiting in the
wings.
And no end of
writers of dreadfuls either.
7
Theatre Royal
The York
Theatre Royal secured for itself a prominent position on St
Leonards Place, across the road from the Museum Gardens where the
fourth victim had been found with her head mashed to a pulp. The
theatre was a prime example of the popular gothic revival style
with five pointed-arches across the front which gave the facade a
pleasing and balanced appearance. A perfectly centred oriel window
enhanced the symmetricality.
As their hired
landau pulled up alongside the Museum Gardens, the Countess pointed
to a man standing in the shadow of one of the arches among the
milling crowd swelling into the hundreds, waiting expectantly for
the doors to be thrown open.
“Look over
there - Mr Corbie is chatting to someone rather respectable
looking. It is high time to expand our circle. Let’s hurry and
introduce ourselves?”
Dr Watson paid
the cabbie then took her by the arm as they dodged skittish horses
and strings of landaus, broughams and hansoms dropping off their
hires. She had chosen to wear an asymmetrical manteau trimmed with
fur; its snug draping impeded anything other than carefully
measured strides.
The man
chatting to Mr Corbie was Reverend Finchley. He was not actually a
vicar, but a lay deacon of the Holy Trinity Catholic Church. The
title was quite correct but quite misleading. He had one of those
ageless male faces that some men are lucky enough to have, though
he had probably reached his late thirties. His tallish frame was
lean and willowy. He had a sprinkling of freckles and a short crop
of curly blond hair that also added to his boyish appearance. All
these good features were unfortunately overshadowed by the fact he
was in the habit of blinking incessantly, as
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