The Curse of Christmas (14 page)

They passed Buckingham Palace
without incident, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. They
passed Admiralty Arch and had Nelson’s Column in their sights where
several hundred women had already gathered and were now waiting for
the last of the stragglers when a series of violent explosions
rocked Trafalgar Square and pandemonium erupted.

Women began screaming. Fear took
over and everyone rushed in different directions to escape what
they thought were bomb blasts. Anyone who fell was immediately
trampled and crushed. Barriers, erected by the police, kettled the
women inside. It was like a bloody war zone.

The Countess was separated from
Xenia in the ensuing panic. Screams and cries filled the air. The
noise was deafening. It blocked out everything else and added to
the chaos.

Someone grabbed the Countess’s
arm and yanked it hard. Disoriented and dazed, she allowed herself
to be jerked along, one arm in the small of her back, pushing her
forward; the other arm with vice-like fingers manacling her wrist
to make sure she didn’t get lost in the frantic rush to escape. Her
rescuer didn’t speak. She presumed it was Dr Watson or Fedir. Her
head was a jumbled mass of jangled thoughts stirred by anger, fear,
confusion and terror.

Her rescuer continued to force
her forward, roughly pushing her in the back whenever she paused,
hoisting her up when she stumbled, dragging her by the wrist across
a busy road, dodging strings of carriages and horse-drawn omnibuses
and crowds of injured people, blood streaming down their faces, and
gangs of police wielding truncheons, bashing their way through the
surge of humanity, then down some stairs until the screams faded,
down, down, down, into blissful silence and eerie dimness. Her
heart was beating furiously, her right arm was throbbing, her legs
felt weak. She collapsed into his arms.

“We’re safe in here,” he said,
as he carried her to a bench and lowered her gently onto it. “Take
deep slow breaths. Don’t speak.”

It took several moments for the
suave Irish accent to penetrate her brain, and the shock was great.
She sat bolt upright.

“Colonel Moriarty!”

“Feeling better?”

“Yes! No! What are…Where are
we?”

“Saint Martin’s-in-the-Field –
inside the crypt.”

Relief washed over her. For a
moment she thought he had led her into a vaulted dungeon. “I don’t
understand.”

“Someone threw fire crackers
into the crowd. I spotted you and decided to get you out of there
before…”

“Fire crackers? I thought it was
a bomb.”

“You were meant to think that.
The object was to cause maximum chaos. Whoever threw the fire
crackers achieved their aim without going to the effort of making a
bomb.”

She glanced down at her bloodied
sleeve, the torn hem of her coat, and tried to gather her thoughts.
“Xenia, my maid!”

“A man with a blond moustache
grabbed her. I saw them running toward Northumberland Avenue.”

“Miss de Merville!”

“Freddy Cazenove has her. He was
standing next to me when the first fire cracker went off. I think
they got away all right. His carriage was parked in Pall Mall.
Don’t ask me about anyone else. I don’t know. It was sheer hell. I
had you in my sights and…” His Irish lilt tapered off.

“What were you doing there?”

“I was with Freddy, having
breakfast at his club. He wanted to hear Miss de Merville’s address
to the gaggle. I tagged along.”

“Gaggle?”

He shrugged and didn’t even
bother to look sheepish.

Cocky bastard! She could have
taken him to task but now wasn’t the time for lectures. Injured
women were trickling into the crypt, bruised and bloodied, leaning
into each other for support. One had a massive gash to the side of
the head; another had her hand bandaged with the frilly hem of a
petticoat. She pushed to her feet and tried to steady. “I must get
back. There are scores of injured…”

“Hang on a minute!” He watched
her reel like a drunkard at an Irish funeral. “You’re not going
anywhere. The next fire cracker might actually be a bomb.”

“Those women need help.”

“Not from you, they don’t.
You’re in shock.”

“I’m fine – much better than the
rest of the gaggle.”

In shock and she could still
slap him down! “You can’t even stand straight.”

“Thank you for your timely help,
Colonel Moriarty.” She took a few tentative steps toward the stairs
and began to wobble like a nine pine that had just taken a hit.

He hated when she adopted that
po-faced look and haughty tone and tossed up whether to let her
fall on her aristocratic face, but at the last moment he caught her
by the waist.

“There’s a lane to the side of
the church that runs into Adelaide Street. We can cut from there to
the Strand and hail a hansom. If you argue I shall deliver a
knock-out blow to your stubborn chin and cart you over my
shoulder.” He bunched his fists to reinforce the threat. “You can
thank me later.”

The size of the clenched fists
attached to the corded muscles of his forearms attached to the
bulges of his upper arms attached to a set of broad shoulders
convinced her it was futile to argue, besides, her head was
spinning and she had an inkling he might be right – she would be
more of a hindrance than a help.

Panic had seeped out of
Trafalgar Square and spread to the arteries of London. Carriages
were lined up, ferrying injured women away from the scene as fast
as they could manage; either to home or to hospital. Those who had
suffered the worst took precedence over the ones who could still
walk unaided. The Countess leaned heavily on Colonel Moriarty’s arm
until they finally clambered into a hansom a hundred yards further
than intended, just near George Court, but at least it meant the
cabbie could spirit them away without getting tangled in the hacks
trying to wheel round.

“Did you get a look at who was
tossing the fire crackers?’ she put to him as they took the long
way to Mayfair to avoid the traffic jam.

“A glimpse only – a man,
tallish, wearing a topper and a black velvet cape. That describes
half the men in London, I’m afraid. How are you feeling now?”

“I think the blood is slowly
returning to my head. Thank you, Colonel Moriarty.”

This time she sounded sincere
and he smiled. “My pleasure.”

“Are you staying long in
London?’

“Just until tomorrow. I am
merely passing through. I have some urgent business to transact on
the Continent.”

“Will this urgent business take
long?”

“A few days, possibly a
week.”

“So you may be back in London
before Christmas?”

“If all goes according to
plan.”

“Where does this urgent business
take you?”

He hesitated. “Monte Carlo.”

“A dreary time to visit the Cote
d-Azur.”

“I must go where business
dictates. Ballyfolly is a bottomless pit.” He was referring to his
family seat in Country Antrim, Ireland; a dilapidated ruin he was
attempting to restore.

“How is Ballyfolly Castle coming
along?”

“Progress is slow but steady.
The new lead roof is on. Much of the crumbling masonry has been
replaced and the dress stones re-pointed. The chimneys have been
cleared of centuries of soot and bird’s nests. The original
fireplaces have been put back into the rooms where they belonged.
Window casements have been re-built where necessary and new glass
fitted where needed. The oak doors have been stripped back and
replaced with new brass hinges. The main staircase which I thought
had been sold off was found in a cow shed and is back in place.
Floorboards have been stripped and waxed and flagstones scrubbed.
The glass in the conservatory roof needs replacing. New plumbing
and new radiators are almost working. Gaslighting has been
installed in the principle rooms but the other rooms will need to
wait. The Gothic fan-vaulting plasterwork in the drawing room is
currently undergoing restoration.”

“Will you be having a
house-warming when it is finished?”

“You shall be the first to
receive an invitation should I decide to host a gathering.”

“I look forward to it with great
anticipation. What business did you say you were in?” She knew very
well what he did for a living and was surprised to find it did not
shock her.

He looked her in the eye and
turned on the sort of Irish charm that could illuminate the world.
It caused a tiny frisson that made her blood run hot. She suddenly
realized what his nearness did to her. Just sitting next to him in
the carriage thrilled her. She had missed him more than she cared
to admit since their parting in Biarritz.

“I help to settle disputes
between opposing individuals,” he said mildly.

“It sounds like a thankless
task. Do you have much success settling disputes?”

“I have never failed.”

“You must find yourself in high
demand?”

“There is no shortage of work
for competent negotiators.”

“Are your fees very
exorbitant?”

“Extremely.”

“I suppose you charge for
expenses?”

“Without fail.”

“You didn’t happen to note
anything particular about the fire cracker man?”

“Such as?”

“A walking cane. The colour of
his hair. A facial feature.”

He shook his head a little too
quickly. “Afraid not.”

“Did you happen to notice if he
acted alone?”

“I don’t believe he had an
accomplice but I barely glimpsed him out of the corner of my eye.
As I said, Freddy and I had only just arrived. The timing was
uncanny.”

“Lucky for me,” she smiled as
they arrived outside number 6 Mayfair Mews. “I was just hoping that
being in your particular line of business, you might have
recognized him.”

“I noticed one thing.” His tone
was sardonic as he leapt out of the hansom to help her down. “I
noticed he was not wearing an emerald green cravat. Good day to
you, Countess Volodymyrovna.”

Dr Watson had heard about the
series of explosions on Trafalgar Square and had rushed to offer
assistance, patching wounds, stemming blood flow, making splints
for broken arms and wrapping bandages to support injured limbs. He
worked feverishly while his eyes scanned for the Countess and Xenia
but there was no sign of them. He feared the worst and castigated
himself for being angry with her the day before. Parting in anger
was never good.

By midday rain began to fall,
sending the last of the shell-shocked women in search of shelter.
All that was left was a bloody mess on the pavement stones and a
few bedraggled suffragettes sitting on the steps by Nelson’s
Column, soaked to the bone, too numb to walk home.

He heaved a breath, wiped his
sleeve across his sweaty brow despite the raindrops dripping down
his forehead, and hailed a landau for the women. They thanked him
and rode off. With no money left for his own fare, he began the
long trek down Pall Mall toward Mayfair.

Drenched, dragging his feet
toward the Crimean War Memorial, he didn’t notice the shiny black
brougham pull up alongside him.

“Hop in, Dr Watson, you look
done in. I will give you a lift home.”

It was Mycroft Holmes.

“Terrible business, terrible
business,” agreed Mycroft when the doctor described the devastation
at the rally.

“You can drop me in Mayfair
Mews, number 6. I need to check that the Countess was not
injured.”

“The Countess!”

“Yes, she was at the rally. I’m
not sure where she is now. Do you think the perpetrator will ever
be caught?”

“Probably not. I will drop you
in Old Park Lane rather than Mayfair Mews. Someone we like to keep
an eye on whenever they come to London arrived a few days ago. The
person in question has been keeping an eye on the Countess and he
may recognize my carriage. By the way, the Prince Regent will be
paying a visit to Southwark this evening. I left a note in the book
of Templar lore but you may not have had time to collect it. If may
be worth your while staking out the cemetery tonight.”

“I was there last night. I think
I spotted the man you are after. I gave chase but he proved
elusive.”

Mycroft registered the comment
but didn’t reply to it. “Here we are – Old Park Lane. I will drop
you here. Let me know at once if the Countess has suffered an
injury.”

Sporting unsightly bruises to
her arms, legs and back, but otherwise uninjured, the Countess was
keen to join Dr Watson in the cemetery, and would hear no argument
against it. He was loath to have her along but forbidding her to go
was pointless and he didn’t really want to ask Dr Gregory a second
night running. He recalled the time when he ran his own medical
practice. Eighteen hour days were commonplace. He warned her to
dress appropriately and left it at that. He would meet her there at
midnight along with Fedir, who had arrived safely home with his
sister fifteen minutes before the Countess walked in the door.

A hurricane lantern created an
arc of light on the roof of the viaduct. Fedir was holding it aloft
while keeping an eye out both ways for any suspicious
passers-by.

“Anglemaker?” The Countess was
staring at the graffiti wearing a puzzled frown; she was also
wearing some of Fedir’s old clothes and with her up-pinned hair
tucked into a peaky cloth cap could have passed for a third
vagrant. “You say the fetch wrote it?”

“That’s what the grave-diggers
claimed,” said Dr Watson in a level tone. “Remember that Dr Gregory
and I both saw her with our own eyes. She was standing on the
railway track. Not that I am suggesting she was an Irish ghost
seeking her earthly counterpart.” He decided to move on from
supernatural piffle. “And this is where I found the scrap of black
velvet.” He crouched down beside the brick pillar to check if there
was anything else wedged in the niche now that a beam of light
could be shed into the shallow recess. “I think our man may have
concealed himself here.”