The Curse of Christmas (10 page)

“You pay her a decent wage?”

“Not exactly - I have gifted a
substantial estate to my maid and her brother who acts as my
manservant. It is adjacent to my own estate in Ukraine and derives
for them a substantial income. Any time they wish to leave service
they are free to do so.”

Miss Quilligan nodded,
satisfied, and changed her tone. “That was a very generous donation
you made the other night.”

“I can afford to be generous. I
have accepted I cannot alleviate all suffering and poverty but I
like to make a contribution where I can. I believe Viscount
Cazenove is a generous benefactor to the cause?”

The exemplar of female
emancipation fluttered her lashes like a Jane Austin heroine at the
mention of the handsome Viscount. “Oh, yes, he’s just marvellous.
Miss de Merville is the luckiest girl in the world to have such a
suitor.” Miss Quilligan banged on the roof of the carriage. “Here
we are – Black Encre Publishing. Would you care to come in? It was
your donation that allowed us to print up a batch of new leaflets
at such short notice. Mr Clancy, the printer, and his apprentice
have worked through the night. The other pamphlets had loads of
errors. I am a terrible speller. I am always mixing my letters up.
Mrs Aspen says it doesn’t matter for the leaflets we distribute
hereabouts in Southwark because most people here cannot spell, but
if we want to attract more women with better class we need to spell
things properly. There’s also going to be a photo of Miss de
Merville in the top right-hand corner and a transcript of her last
speech. She’s just smashing! Her presence will draw quite a lot of
new members to the rally, perhaps even some men too, especially
when they hear Viscount Cazenove is a supporter. We could never
have afforded the photo and the extra wording without your
generosity. You can take a new leaflet with you.”

“I might take a bundle. If they
have Miss de Merville’s photo on them they may appeal to a new
class, as you say. I can have my servants distribute them in
Mayfair.”

Miss Quilligan looked worried
and began shaking her head. Her tricolour hat slipped sideways. “We
don’t normally canvas support in Mayfair. Three of our members were
arrested last year and charged with causing a public nuisance when
they tried to distribute leaflets to ladies strolling in Hyde
Park.”

“In that case, I might instruct
my servants to pop them straight into letter slots. I can put them
into envelopes and address them: To the Lady of the House.”

“Oh, yes! I think that will
work!”

The Countess followed Miss
Quilligan into the publishing house, hurrying her steps to keep up
with the energetic secretary. Miss de Merville was there ahead of
them, inspecting the leaflets as they came off the printing
press.

“What do you think of my
likeness?” she addressed to Miss Quilligan without preamble. “It’s
not too unflattering, is it?”

Miss Quilligan took the leaflet
that had been passed into her hands. “Oh, no, it’s a perfect
likeness,” she pronounced happily. “You look just smashing and it’s
thanks to Countess Volodymyrovna that we can afford them. Did you
meet last night? Yes, you did, didn’t you?”

The two women acknowledged each
other and nodded.

“You’re a friend of Freddy’s
papa?” said Miss de Merville.

“My late husband and I had the
honour of hosting the Earl of Winchester when he visited Melbourne
some years ago. I hear he has since suffered a stroke?”

“Oh, yes, poor old lamb. He is
paralysed and bedridden. It is a tragic shame to see a man who was
once so vigorous reduced to a mere bag of bones. I better run. I
have promised to drop some new pamphlets off to Mrs Norbert who is
in charge of the Smithfield Suffragettes, and then I must pick up
the new rosettes for the rally - green and violet and white – Give
the Vote to Women!”

“Watch how you go,” warned Miss
Quilligan. “You know what happened last time.”

Miss de Merville waved away all
fears as she scooped up her embroidered bag. She got all the way to
the door before looking back at the Countess.

“How about lunch tomorrow? We
can get to know each other better and I can thank you for your
donation. Shall we say midday? Rules restaurant, Maiden Lane,
Covent Garden.”

The Countess barely had time to
nod before Miss de Merville marched out.

“What happened last time?” said
the Countess, addressing Miss Quilligan; noting that the dog’s-body
looked slighted at not being invited to share lunch with her
heroine.

“Miss de Merville was mistaken
for a street-walker. It happens all the time. It happened to me
once. I carry a small rolling pin in my carpet bag. I have tried to
convince her to carry a weapon for protection but she won’t hear of
it. I worry for her sometimes.”

Fedir was waiting for them
inside St Saviour’s. The church was handy for clandestine meetings.
It was quiet during the day and the north and south transepts were
large enough to afford privacy. A few priests patrolled now and
then to make sure vagrants weren’t sleeping on the pews. Xenia lit
some candles while the Countess talked with her manservant.

He had found lodgings in a
squalid room on Winchester Walk. He had also taken the topmost room
of Ye Olde Cock Tavern on the Strand in the event he needed to
disappear in a hurry. He reasoned that by the time he walked the
distance from Southwark to Temple Gardens he would know if he was
being followed or not. Moreover, if the Countess was genuinely
interested in taking a second lodging, he wanted to familiarize
himself with the area.

He had visited the brothel on
Union Street and one of the girls had mentioned a ‘special’
visitor, though she had refused to mention the man by name. She had
also boasted of a ‘well-dressed gent, young and handsome, a real
swell’ who had started to come ‘regular-like’ in the last
month.

“Those were her exact words?”
said the Countess, picturing the special visitor as the Prince
Regent and the second swell as their mysterious blackmailer.

“Yes,” replied Fedir. “One more
thing, there were lights in the church late in the night.”

“A late night meeting of
suffragettes?” suggested the Countess.

Fedir shook his head as he
pushed to his feet. “No meeting. Doors all locked. Just candles
burning inside church.”

A letter from Mycroft Holmes had
her steaming.

Chere Countess V,

Temple Court is not for
sale.

However a brief investigation
into the matter of the purchase of a suitable property in the
aforementioned locale revealed a small structure abutting the
western end of the Library to be vacant. It is a medieval,
many-storied, stone dwelling known as The Buttery. As the name
suggests it served as the dairy for the Knights Templar, who also
constructed the Temple Church in the adjacent courtyard. The
Buttery stood originally in Fig Tree Court, which no longer exists
due to the Great Fire of 1666. An inspection can be arranged at
your earliest convenience.

M

Dairy! Really! What did Mycroft
take her for! A milkmaid! Incensed, she was ready to turn her
attention to a wing of St James’s Palace or a section of the Tower
of London!

After cooling her heels in the
Temple Gardens, though it was drizzling and the gravel path boggy,
she decided to take a look at The Buttery just so that she would
know exactly how insulted she had been, and found much to her
surprise, that the medieval dwelling was exactly what she was after
all along. Mycroft was either psychic or a genius.

The Buttery was a tall building
with a dearth of windows, none facing onto busy Elm Court. Perfect
for privacy. It had basement stairs that came off a colonnaded
cloister which led past Dr Johnson’s rooms and opened directly onto
the Strand, a stone’s throw from Ye Old Cock Tavern. There were
archways and walkways coming and going in every direction. But the
best thing was that if Fig Tree Court no longer existed then it
would not be found on any map.

She returned to the Library,
borrowed some paper from the librarian and penned a note.

Cher M,

Secure The Buttery at any
cost.

Amicalement, V

Syphilis was an incurable
disease. Once the first chancre appeared there was no going back.
The first stage showed as painless ulcerations, common enough among
poor workers who were constantly covered in sores and pustules. The
second stage involved an ugly rash on the palms of the hands and
soles of the feet, generally ignored along with all the blisters,
calluses and bunions that afflicted the lower classes. The tertiary
stage was generally prefaced by sore throat, weight loss, hair
loss, pain in the joints, and an uglier spreading of the papules
and nodules to the torso. This was usually the first inkling that
something wasn’t quite right. The fourth stage signalled the death
knell. There was no ignoring the deforming gummas or the bulbous
saddle nose.

“How long have you had the sore
throat?”

“It started maybe last winter or
maybe the winter before last,” said the grave-digger, lighting a
few candles inside the dimly lit church. Reverend Paterson had
objected to them using the storeroom for the examination because of
the slippery stairs, but he had relented when it came to the church
only because it was Dr Watson who made the request. It was bitterly
cold for stripping down to the trousers but at least it was
private. “How did ye know I had a sore throat?”

Dr Watson frowned. “Never
mind.”

“Sometimes I can hardly
swallow.”

“When did this rash spread to
your chest and back?”

“I dunno. Maybe last summer. I
took off my shirt one day and there it was.”

“You noticed it first on your
hands?”

“Yeah, I thought it came from
all the dirt and grime and sweat from the handle of the shovel. It
weren’t itchy or nothing.” Joff swept back the long greasy hair
that fell into his eyes now that he had removed his flat cap.

“I see your hair is
thinning?”

“Yeah, it’s been comin’ out in
handfuls lately.”

“How is the pain in your hands
and feet?”

Joff regarded Dr Watson with
awe. “Shocking, doctor! You wouldn’t believe how my limbs ache.
Crick has to do most of the heavy digging now. I cannot manage it
no more.”

“Turn this way into the light.
Try not to blink.”

Dr Watson noted how the pupils
did not shrink even though Joff was looking directly at the bright
flame of the candle. It was another sign that the disease was in
its final stage. He bit his lip and dropped his gaze. “You can put
your shirt and vest and jacket back on now,” he said in a level
tone, despite feeling choked with pity.

“You can tell me straight,
doctor. I’ve got the pox, ain’t I?”

“Yes, you have. It is quite
advanced. I must caution you not to have intercourse with any of
the girls from the brothels. In fact, no girls at all.”

“Can you give me somefin’ for
it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I can pay. I have savings put
away.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for
that.”

There was an indefinite pause.
“How long have I got?”

“There is no easy way to say
this, but this will be your last winter. I don’t think you will see
another summer.”

Joff swallowed hard. The gob of
saliva went down like a chunk of broken glass. He tried not to cry
like a baby as tears pricked his eyes. Life was wretched but the
alternative was worse. He was scared of dying. He was scared of
Death. Crick would miss him.

Countess Volodymyrovna returned
to Mayfair Row to find an unmarked envelope waiting for her on the
hall table. It contained a brief note and an old brass key.

Chere Countess V,

Inspection highly recommended
prior to purchase.

M

A quick bite of lunch had her
racing back to Temple Court.

The Buttery was every bit as
dark and gloomy as she imagined, typical of early medieval
dwellings, but what it lacked in creature comforts it made up in
character. Moreover, it was not her principle place of residence.
It was her bolt hole. One servant would suffice.

It was a warren of dwarfish
rooms and narrow staircases but it also had beautiful oak beams and
lovely latticed windows set in deep niches that added to the sense
of privacy. Fireplaces abounded and the floorboards were sturdy.
Some of the rooms could be opened up by knocking through a wall or
two. A few Elizabethan tapestries, some Tudor furniture, a bit of
pewterware and it would be perfect.

On the carved Tudor mantel was a
set of architectural drawings and a note.

Chere Countess V,

Purchase of The Buttery has
been expedited in my name.

Should you wish the title
transferred to your own name you may reimburse me the full purchase
price, see appended sum, at your earliest convenience.

M

Dr Watson and Dr Gregory sneaked
through the gate and hunkered down behind the one and only
gravestone to catch their breaths. It had been raining steadily all
afternoon and the weeds and soil smelled rank. The odour of raw
sewerage assailed their nostrils and they tried not to gag. A night
wagon rumbled past and they guessed someone must have dumped some
human waste somewhere close. A couple of louts staggering home from
a nearby tavern stopped to urinate against the grey stucco wall of
the church. The ammonia smell drifted on the air. It added to the
fetid stench.

Dr Watson hadn’t heard from the
Countess all day, nor had he tried to contact her. The last thing
he needed was her interfering presence at their midnight vigil.
These things were best done in secrecy; the fewer people who knew
of it the better; and better left to men.

The two doctors decided to
separate and take up positions that afforded better cover. They
were rugged up in their oldest clothes and might have been mistaken
for a pair of vagrants. Prepared for a long wait, alert to every
passing sound, they suddenly stiffened. Someone was opening the
creaky gate.