The Curse of Christmas (13 page)

He wasn’t interested in her
Suffragette meeting. “What sort of dwelling are we speaking?
Sherlock just rented a room here and there in an obscure lodging
house.” He pictured something truly palatial in Wilton Crescent or
Eaton Square or perhaps on Kensington Palace Green as he parked
himself on a capacious wingchair upholstered in forest green damask
that matched the fringed damask curtains and the green shades on
the reading lights.

“A small medieval building
called The Buttery.”

He remained skeptical as she
passed him a cup of Darjeeling in a Spode cup. “How small is
small?”

“Two principle bedrooms. One
bathroom. Kitchen, scullery, pantry, larder, sitting room, dining
room and servants quarters for one with a separate latrine.”

“Where is it?”

“Temple Garden.”

“Really! I was there this
morning, well, at Ye Olde Cock Tavern on the Strand, with Fedir. I
bumped into him last night in Redcross Way.”

“Yes, Xenia met up with her
brother at midday and she informed me of your meeting with Fedir.
You had quite an interesting night from the sounds of it. Help
yourself to some shortbread and tell me everything that
happened.”

He helped himself to three
shortbreads in the shape of a star, a bell and a fir tree as he
recounted the midnight vigil. “Now, this is the really strange
part. Joff and Crick appeared to go to all that effort simply to
put a pillow under the dead girl’s head.”

“A pillow?”

“Well, not a pillow proper, but
a bundle of rags that served as a pillow.”

“Are you sure?’

“Absolutely. I returned on my
own, as I described earlier, to check the grave, to see if the
teeth were missing, but the teeth of Annie were intact and the rags
they had brought with them were resting under her head.”

“How extraordinary! I clearly
underestimated the kind hearts of our two grave-diggers.”

“It just goes to show how the
poor can be more decent and caring than those who are infinitely
better off.”

“Did you undertake a medical
examination of Joff?”

“Yes, he doesn’t have long to
live. He is in the final stages of syphilis.”

“I feel compelled to make his
last days on earth comfortable.”

“A noble gesture with which I
fully concur but just hold off until this business is finished. We
don’t want to compromise the investigation. There’s still the
mystery man to identify and the more I think about it the more
convinced I am it was the man in the top hat with the black cape
lined with red silk. I’m sure he came out of the brothel. Never
mind Jack the Ripper, this one is more like Spring-heeled Jack. If
he had leapt over the viaduct in a single bound I wouldn’t have
been at all surprised. Which brings me to the wraith.”

“Oh, yes the ghost-girl on the
train track. Fedir said you thought she might be sleepwalking. More
tea?”

He nodded and scratched his
head. “That’s what Dr Gregory suggested, probably because she was
wearing a bed-gown and her hair was hanging loose, but I’m not
convinced. She had the foresight to step back when he called out a
warning about getting off the train track. And she appeared to be
looking down at us as if she could see us clearly enough. Not just
staring blankly into the middle distance. The odd thing is that
when she stepped back she just vanished.”

“Vanished?”

“Well, it was foggy, so she
seemed to just melt away. One moment she was there and the next she
wasn’t.” He decided to change the subject because he didn’t really
want to discuss ghost-girls. They would end up chasing
yellow-haired wraiths instead of men in capes. “Tell me more about
The Buttery. How did you find it?”

“Mycroft found it for me. I
think he might be a wizard. I enquired about buying something in
Temple Court because of its central location and proximity to the
river and he discovered The Buttery. The best thing about is that
it was built by the Knights Templar as a dairy but has stood empty
for ages so no one really gives it a thought. It originally fronted
Fig Tree Court which burnt down in the Great Fire of 1666 so it
doesn’t actually exist on any map.”

“Oh, yes, that could be handy.
You mentioned you had lunch with Miss de Merville – is she a
relation of General de Merville”

“His daughter and a committed
Suffragette. A young woman after my own heart.”

He looked shocked. “You’re not
suggesting you and she…”

She laughed at his horrified
reaction – why was it that men always equated suffragettes with
lesbians? “Nothing of the sort,
mon ami
. But just as a man
can admire another man,
par example
, General de Merville, so
a woman can admire another woman. Miss de Merville has much to
recommend her. If I were a man I would not hesitate to secure her
hand. Viscount Cazenove is currently the front runner.”

He was still feeling
embarrassed. “Will Miss de Merville be at the meeting you are
attending tonight?”

“No, she is dining with the
Fabriquants, Clarissa and Craven.”

“Where is your meeting tonight –
not back at the Unitarian church?”

“No, I have hired the Champney
Theatre in Fitzrovia.”

“You? You have hired it? Who is
the guest speaker?” As soon as he said it he groaned and slapped
the side of his head. “Let me guess. It’s you!”

Her smile was a masterpiece of
false modesty. “It’s the least I can do for the cause. I intend to
drum up support for tomorrow’s rally.”

“Rally?”

“The Suffragettes are marching
from Hyde Park corner down Constitution Hill to Buckingham Palace
and then down The Mall to Trafalgar Square where they will be
addressed by Miss de Merville and Mrs Catchpoole at the front of
the National Portrait Gallery .”

“You cannot be serious?”

“The enfranchisement of women is
extremely serious.”

“I meant these rallies usually
deteriorate into riots. Wanton vandalism. Rampant violence. Women
arrested. Imprisoned. Force-fed. I forbid you to go!”

“I beg your pardon?”

He realised what he’d just said
and immediately altered his objection. “It’s dangerous!”

“All the more reason to show
solidarity – safety in numbers.”

“And what happens if you get
arrested? We’re supposed to be on a top secret assignment to save
the heir to the throne. Or have you forgotten that? Buying houses,
over-seeing renovations, marching with the sisterhood…”

Red hot anger burned through
her. “What do you suggest? Stand on the corner of Redcross Way and
wait for our mystery man to turn up or should I take up a position
inside the brothel? Perhaps Bertie could learn to keep his pants
buttoned! Women’s lives matter too!”

Furious, he pushed to his feet
and glared at her, his face flushed, his jaw squared and his fists
clenched. “Don’t expect me to bail you out of prison!”

Still seething, Dr Watson
returned to Crossbones. Countess Volodymyrovna was the most
infuriating woman he had ever had the misfortune to meet. When she
ended up in a prison cell he would have the singular pleasure of
saying: I told you so!

His blood was boiling and he
tried to distract himself before he burst a vein. The rag pillow
was a puzzle that called for concentration. Yes, that would do the
trick. He could turn his attention to the pillow. The two
grave-diggers were busy digging a fresh grave. He wondered
fleetingly if they would recognize him from last night, and
concluded it was unlikely. He had been dressed as a vagrant and the
night had been dark and thick with fog. By the time he’d leapt the
fence they were running for their lives in the opposite
direction.

He affected an interested
inflection. “Good morning,” he greeted genially. “Is this for
another poor homeless girl?”

Joff was the spokesperson. “No
one as yet but winter is our busy season.”

Dr Watson tut-tutted
sympathetically. “My companion attended the funeral here yesterday.
Did you know the girl who was buried?”

Joff removed the mud from under
his fingernails using his canines. “Sure, we knows Annie. We knows
most of the girls. But don’t worry doctor, my courting days are
over!”

He guffawed crudely and Crick
joined in.

Dr Watson reminded himself to
remain patient; he was already regretting his earlier outburst. “I
meant did you know her well? Was she a relation? Or an old flame
perhaps?”

The two grave-diggers exchanged
a nudge and a wink, as men do when discussing amorous matters.

“We couldn’t afford Annie,” said
Joff. “She was a corker when she first came to the brothel. Flame
red hair. She was a favourite with the gents who had money. She got
consumption. Had to go on the street for work. Cold got her in the
end.”

“Any gent in particular who was
a regular?”

Joff shook his head but Crick
said, “There was one who had a fancy cape.”

The description jogged Joff’s
memory. “Velvet.”

“Black velvet?”

“Yep, black velvet. Real
fancy.”

“Does he still come to the
brothel?”

Joff got his back up.
“Whatsittoyou?”

After the surge of hot blood to
his brain, Dr Watson was still thinking on his feet. “He might be
my cousin. My cousin wears a black velvet cape with red silk
lining. He’s fairly tall and has a long stride.”

“Yep, that’s him, then.”

“Have you seen him lately? I
wouldn’t mind catching up with him.”

Crick piped up again. “Saw ‘im
last night.”

Joff cuffed his partner sharply
on the ear. “Shut-up!” he barked.

“Last night?” pressed Dr Watson,
striking while the iron was hot.

Crick rubbed his ear. “Not last
night. I get confused with dates.”

“That’s right,” snapped Joff.
“Too much gin is what does it. One night is like another to
Crick.”

“Well, I shall be on my way,”
said Dr Watson. “If you should see my cousin in the meantime,
please let me know. I shall be along tomorrow or the day after.
Don’t tell him I am looking for him. He owes me some money.”

Joff tapped his nose with his
forefinger. “No fear, doctor. We knows how to keep mum when needs
be.”

Dr Watson was about to move off
when he recalled the graffiti and took a leaf out of the Countess’s
book; extracting a few pence from his pocket. “Someone painted a
word on the pillar in the viaduct – Anglemaker – do you know
anything about that?”

Crick, still nursing his ear,
shook his head and recommenced his digging.

Joff eyed the pennies greedily.
“It were the fetch.”

Dr Watson was familiar with
Irish superstition and folklore. A fetch was a dead spirit who
roamed the earth in search of itself. When a living person met
their fetch it meant imminent death. “Have you seen the fetch?”

“Long yellow hair. White
nightdress. We all seen the fetch. She walks at night looking into
windows for her other self. No one bothers the fetch and she don’t
bother with them. Most folks have started closing their curtains.”
He held out his dirty hand and the doctor dropped the pennies into
it.

“Do you know what the painted
word means?”

“Crick and me never had no
schooling. We seen the word but we cannot make any meaning out of
it.”

As soon as Dr Watson reached the
viaduct he stared long and hard at the painted word. It was in a
mix of lower and upper case letters, indicating a person with a
rudimentary education. What could it mean? And how did the fetch
paint it? The fetch he saw last night carried no paint can and no
paint brush. And since when did a fetch bother with graffiti?

He decided to make a thorough
search of the place, and though he didn’t expect to find anything
important, he found a scrap of black velvet.

The Countess had boned up on JS
Mill and her speech was electrifying. The Suffragette movement was
gaining momentum. The rally organized for tomorrow was looking to
be a great success. The heated exchange with Dr Watson in the
afternoon had added fire to her belly and fresh fuel to the
cause.

The working class women who had
turned up at Champney’s Theatre had been lured there by the promise
of a free pair of suede gloves from Bond Street; the middle class
women by the promise of a free pair of suede gloves form Bond
Street and because they had read in the newspaper about the foreign
countess who had solved the Baskerville Curse; the wealthy women by
the promise of a free pair of suede gloves from Bond Street and
because they had heard about the foreign countess who had taken up
residence in Mayfair Mews.

The Countess didn’t fool herself
about why they had come; she was simply thrilled they had come at
all. That’s what mattered. If a mere handful of them came to the
rally tomorrow her night could be counted a success.

A tripartite sea of green, white
and violet flooded Hyde Park corner. Hundreds more women than
expected had turned up for the march to Trafalgar Square. At the
forefront were Miss de Merville, Mrs Aspen and Miss Quilligan. The
Countess did not join them at the front for the simple reason she
did not feel she deserved the honour. She and her maid, Xenia,
stayed back and joined those at the rear. A few brave men joined
the march but they attracted the worst abuse and several dropped
out to save antagonizing the crowd.

The Countess hoped Dr Watson
might change his mind and show up to cheer her along but there was
no sign of him. Fedir was there, keeping pace from behind the
barricades, making sure his sister and the Countess were not
injured in the event of violence. There was a rumour that Mrs
Catchpoole intended to throw herself under a carriage and a more
worrying rumour that she intended to set off a bomb outside the
gates of Buckingham Palace.

Stones and bottles were hurled
at the women. Every mile of the march accounted for a dozen serious
injuries. The verbal abuse was vitriolic.