Crimson Cavalier . It borders on
plagiarism. There is nothing remotely original in any of this.”
“It is not
meant to be original. It is meant to be entertaining. The readers
who read these don’t have time to absorb 800 pages sprinkled with
erudite Greek and Latin references. They want something to take
their minds off their dull and monotonous existences, something
light, something imaginative and above all something cheap.”
“In that
case,” he said sardonically, fingering the flimsy newsprint, “these
books fit the bill perfectly.”
The Countess
began to further separate the stack into female and male authors
and quickly realized that apart from Roberta Redford, the other
four victims did not use pseudonyms. They wrote under their own
names. That explained how Inspector Bird was able to make the link
to authors at Panglossian Publishing so expeditiously. But what
made the fact even more interesting was that if the killer was
choosing authors to murder, the first four would have been easy to
track down. The killer may even have followed them from the
publishing house to their place of residence and then stalked them
until a chance to commit murder presented itself. Or perhaps the
killer was already acquainted with the world of writing and
publishing in York. Perhaps he was himself an author. Perhaps he
even worked at the publishing house. The first four victims were
easy targets. But what about the fifth? Killing Robbie Redbeard
would have required personal knowledge of the nom de plume. Oh,
hang on! The nom de plume was not really a nom de plume at all
since it was openly used by the authoress. It was the equivalent of
her real name.
The problem
with trying to sort the dreadfuls into piles of female and male
authors soon became apparent. Neither the author’s name as it
appeared on the publication nor the subject matter was an accurate
predictor of sex. Roberta Redford wrote about pirates. Saskia Frubb
wrote about cowboys in the Wild West. Eva Gluckstein wrote about
werewolves in the Black Forest. Fanny Gorley wrote about crusaders
in the Holy Land. While Constance de la Mare wrote about smugglers
in Cornwall. These women did not write about princesses and
mermaids and female detectives!
“The only way
we are going to find out if these authors are male or female is by
speaking to their publisher, Mr Panglossian. He will surely have a
list of the authors’ real names and their addresses, otherwise how
can he send them their royalties. In the meantime, let us immerse
ourselves in the world of dreadfuls. Which do you prefer? Knights,
cavaliers, highwaymen, vampires or ghosthunters?”
5
Mr Panglossian
Eggy light was
smearing itself across a dirty leaden sky shaped like a skillet
when a hysterical scream reverberated down the Shambles. It shook
everyone sleeping in the rooms above the shops, including Mr
Corbie, Mr Hiboux, Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna. Miss
Titmarsh was the only person who was already wide awake. She had
just taken a batch of scones out of the bread oven and was placing
a teacake inside the coal range before the temperature grew too hot
and burnt the crust. She almost dropped her cake tin from sheer
fright. It was the sort of blood-curdling scream that sent shivers
up spines, caused hair to stand on end and carried with it the
presentiment of bad tidings. Last night, whispers had spread
throughout the city of York regarding the recent spate of murders
of writers of penny dreadfuls. It put the wind up everyone. Doors
were locked and bolted, windows secured, shutters fastened,
curtains drawn, and everyone went to bed fearing the worst.
Apart from the
old char who had let out the distressing shriek, trudging off at
dawn to her place of toil in Jubbergate, Mr Corbie was the first on
the scene. He slept in a trundle bed in his kitchen to save on
heating the upstairs rooms and as a rule slept in his clothes to
keep warm, although that would soon change. He now had sufficient
funds to
plagiarism. There is nothing remotely original in any of this.”
“It is not
meant to be original. It is meant to be entertaining. The readers
who read these don’t have time to absorb 800 pages sprinkled with
erudite Greek and Latin references. They want something to take
their minds off their dull and monotonous existences, something
light, something imaginative and above all something cheap.”
“In that
case,” he said sardonically, fingering the flimsy newsprint, “these
books fit the bill perfectly.”
The Countess
began to further separate the stack into female and male authors
and quickly realized that apart from Roberta Redford, the other
four victims did not use pseudonyms. They wrote under their own
names. That explained how Inspector Bird was able to make the link
to authors at Panglossian Publishing so expeditiously. But what
made the fact even more interesting was that if the killer was
choosing authors to murder, the first four would have been easy to
track down. The killer may even have followed them from the
publishing house to their place of residence and then stalked them
until a chance to commit murder presented itself. Or perhaps the
killer was already acquainted with the world of writing and
publishing in York. Perhaps he was himself an author. Perhaps he
even worked at the publishing house. The first four victims were
easy targets. But what about the fifth? Killing Robbie Redbeard
would have required personal knowledge of the nom de plume. Oh,
hang on! The nom de plume was not really a nom de plume at all
since it was openly used by the authoress. It was the equivalent of
her real name.
The problem
with trying to sort the dreadfuls into piles of female and male
authors soon became apparent. Neither the author’s name as it
appeared on the publication nor the subject matter was an accurate
predictor of sex. Roberta Redford wrote about pirates. Saskia Frubb
wrote about cowboys in the Wild West. Eva Gluckstein wrote about
werewolves in the Black Forest. Fanny Gorley wrote about crusaders
in the Holy Land. While Constance de la Mare wrote about smugglers
in Cornwall. These women did not write about princesses and
mermaids and female detectives!
“The only way
we are going to find out if these authors are male or female is by
speaking to their publisher, Mr Panglossian. He will surely have a
list of the authors’ real names and their addresses, otherwise how
can he send them their royalties. In the meantime, let us immerse
ourselves in the world of dreadfuls. Which do you prefer? Knights,
cavaliers, highwaymen, vampires or ghosthunters?”
5
Mr Panglossian
Eggy light was
smearing itself across a dirty leaden sky shaped like a skillet
when a hysterical scream reverberated down the Shambles. It shook
everyone sleeping in the rooms above the shops, including Mr
Corbie, Mr Hiboux, Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna. Miss
Titmarsh was the only person who was already wide awake. She had
just taken a batch of scones out of the bread oven and was placing
a teacake inside the coal range before the temperature grew too hot
and burnt the crust. She almost dropped her cake tin from sheer
fright. It was the sort of blood-curdling scream that sent shivers
up spines, caused hair to stand on end and carried with it the
presentiment of bad tidings. Last night, whispers had spread
throughout the city of York regarding the recent spate of murders
of writers of penny dreadfuls. It put the wind up everyone. Doors
were locked and bolted, windows secured, shutters fastened,
curtains drawn, and everyone went to bed fearing the worst.
Apart from the
old char who had let out the distressing shriek, trudging off at
dawn to her place of toil in Jubbergate, Mr Corbie was the first on
the scene. He slept in a trundle bed in his kitchen to save on
heating the upstairs rooms and as a rule slept in his clothes to
keep warm, although that would soon change. He now had sufficient
funds to
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