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
“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
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