The Curse of Christmas (16 page)

The Countess wheeled round and
studied the opening that fronted busy Southwark Street. “The killer
must have come in this way. He possibly followed Miss Quilligan
into the dark undercroft. He might even have recognized her and
knew she would be going back to the church, perhaps to collect more
pamphlets. He struck swiftly and mercilessly and ran back the same
way he came. She did not even cry out.”

“But what was the young woman
doing out and about after midnight?” said Dr Watson, scratching his
head. “Not that I disagree with any part of your argument, but it
seems most unusual for a decent young woman to be wandering around
alone at that ungodly hour.”

The Countess thought it a fair
question that needed to be answered frankly in light of the
brutality of the murder. “Miss Quilligan was a very determined
young woman. The incident at Trafalgar Square would have galvanized
her and made her re-double her efforts. She was not easily daunted.
Where others would been cowed and frightened, not her. She would
have gained strength from it. It would have made her angry and her
anger would have given her a burst of energy. I have been reliably
informed that soldiers during battle draw on reserves of hidden
strength even after fighting for untold hours. I think her adrenal
gland would have been pumping away, charging her blood. She would
have been unable to sleep. She would have gone out into the night
like a soldier at the forefront of battle, oblivious to the
personal danger, thinking only of her mission, of vanquishing the
enemy, and victory.”

“I can vouch about the soldiers
in battle,” said Dr Watson, recalling his days of military service
during the Anglo-Afghan War. “I have witnessed soldiers go without
sleep for two nights and still fight with incredible energy.” He
removed his cap, scratched his head again and grimaced. “Scotland
Yard needs to be informed. This is a heinous crime, one that needs
a thorough investigation.” He stared at the mutilated body and
scratched his head some more. “There should be a policeman near
Borough Market. Fedir can go while we safeguard the body.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” she said
quickly. “I agree the crime needs a thorough investigation by
Scotland Yard but let’s not forget what we are doing here. How are
we going to explain ourselves to the Yard? Look at me – dressed as
a vagrant! What if the newspapers get hold of our names? What if
the Prince Regent becomes implicated? What if a major manhunt
starts and our mystery man disappears for good only to resurface
when no one is prepared? What if Joff and Crick go to ground too?
No, no, we need to handle this carefully.”

“You’re not suggesting we
conceal the body?” He sounded horrified.

“No, nothing like that. It would
be impossible anyway. Look at the amount of blood that has been
spilled.”

All three glanced back at the
corpse and shuddered.

The Countess drew breath. “I’m
still wondering where our mystery man went. Once the Yard takes
over, we will not have easy access to the murder scene. We need to
do a thorough search of the vicinity now while we have the lantern
and no one is about. I would dearly love to knock on Reverend
Paterson’s door right now and speak to him about what he was doing
tonight, and what he was carrying, but dressed as I am it is out of
the question. Let’s not waste any more time. Fedir can stand
lookout that end while we search this side of Redcross Way. Bring
the lantern?”

The viaduct did not run parallel
to the cemetery. It crossed at a diagonal angle. The tenement that
backed onto the railway track was therefore not rectangular but
triangular in shape. In other words, the building thinned as it
progressed to the rear. What appeared to be a brick arch that led
to a back yard was in fact a narrow footway that squeezed itself
between the irregular-shaped tenement and the railway track. And it
was here, concealed behind a scraggly bush, that a fixed metal
ladder led up to the train track.

“This explains how the fetch
managed to get from Redcross Way to the top of the track in the
blink of an eye,” observed the Countess.

“It also explains how the fetch
could vanish in the blink of an eye.”

But even more interestingly, in
the space behind the metal ladder was another undercroft not
bisected by a road, and in the centre of this low, brick, cavernous
vault sat a large square hole covered by a heavy grid.

“What do you think it is?” asked
the Countess, intrigued. “A drain or a sewer?”

Dr Watson shone a light on the
black maw. “The way the ground dips here I’d say a drain. It
probably catches the rainwater off Southwark Street and directs it
down here.”

Restlessly, she paced around the
hole like a hungry tigress pacing around a burrow full of fat
bunnies. “This is where our mystery man disappeared. I’d love to
see where he went after that.”

“Not tonight,” said the voice of
reason. “We have a dead body on our hands.” He handed her the
lantern. “You go back to Fedir and tell him what we found. I’m
going to continue along this footway. It must come out in O’Meara
Street. If the Prince Regent’s carriage has gone, we will proceed
to Borough Market. You can hail a hansom from there. Fedir can go
to his lodgings on Winchester Walk. I will summon the Yard.”

First thing the next morning,
though not as early as she would have liked, the Countess arranged
with her bank for a cheque to be drawn for the sum of the purchase
price for The Buttery. She slipped it inside the book on Templar
lore along with a note detailing the events of the preceding night,
starting with the visit of the Prince Regent to the premises on
Union Street, moving onto the drain in the concealed undercroft and
ending with the violent death of Miss Quilligan.

Mycroft Holmes would have heard
of the murder by now but he might appreciate that they were first
on the scene. The fact that someone had deliberately disrupted the
rally yesterday coupled with the coincidence that the murder victim
was the secretary of the Southwark Suffragettes would not go
unnoticed and the two crimes might even be connected.

After visiting the Library, she
paid a visit to The Buttery to see how renovations were coming
along and was pleased with progress. The building was structurally
sound and would be habitable shortly after the New Year.

St Saviour Church was the next
stop. She met with Fedir at midday to discuss another rendezvous at
Crossbones, giving him some money to beg, borrow or steal a shovel.
The meeting would not be at midnight for that was the time favoured
by the grave-diggers. It would be far safer to meet at three
o’clock in the morning.

She was keen to get to the
bottom of the bundle of rags, for it had occurred to her that Joff
and Crick might even be earning extra money in some nefarious way.
If the bundle of rags really was just a pillow she could dismiss
it, but if it contained money or valuables, questions had to be
asked about how they were earning it and who was paying them. Was
it linked to the mystery man? Or the fetch? Or even the roaming
Reverend Paterson?

She urged her manservant to
press Sukie for more information on the top-hatted man who visited
the brothel and - remembering the way the girl had hesitated after
the funeral, as if she had something more to say - what she knew
about the coffins being ‘disturbed’.

Miss Quilligan knew about the
‘disturbed’ coffins too. Was her death related to that knowledge?
Fedir needed to press Sukie about Miss Quilligan. Did Sukie know
the suffragette personally? Was Miss Quilligan really out
delivering pamphlets at midnight, or was she out earning extra
money the way poor young women do?

The Countess returned to Mayfair
Mews and sent a letter of condolence to Mrs Aspen and another to
Miss de Merville by way of her skilled Irregulars. She was anxious
to learn if the women had suffered any injuries during the violence
at the rally. A note was promptly returned from both women via the
same couriers. Miss de Merville had escaped unscathed thanks to the
fortuitous intervention of Freddy Cazenove who had whisked her away
to safety and was being hailed a hero by her papa. Mrs Aspen had
not proved so lucky. She had suffered a broken arm and concussion
when she took a tumble down some steps. The brutal death of Miss
Quilligan had shocked both women and they didn’t know what to make
of it.

Dr Watson arrived for a late
lunch in an extremely fractious mood. He had spent two hours with a
detective from Scotland Yard last night, explaining over and over
how he had discovered the body of Miss Quilligan by chance after
deciding to visit a brothel on Union Street, but having changed his
mind at the last minute and going down Redcross Way - a shortcut to
Borough Market - to hail a hansom and go home. It irked him to have
to say such a thing, but it was the only lie that would suffice to
explain the state of his clothes, his being out at such a late
hour, and the fact he was in Southwark at all.

The disapproving look of the
detective would stay with him forever. And it was to his eternal
shame to have to trade on the good name of Inspector Lestrade and
the trustworthy reputation of Sherlock Holmes to keep his name out
of the official report. The detective put it as: John Doe, vagrant,
no fixed address.

So it was with some relief when
the Countess proposed another visit to Crossbones, declaring she
would only need Fedir to do some light digging, that he was let off
the hook. He did not argue, though he was well aware
she
had
stepped in to help
him
out with this sordid business
concerning the Prince Regent and if not for her he would be in it
up to his neck.

To show his gratitude he agreed
to go with Fedir the following day to explore the drain.

They spent the hour after lunch
reading newspaper articles detailing the death of Miss Quilligan.
Any fact the newspapers did not know they simply made up; the more
lascivious the better. When the afternoon paper arrived, the news
was even worse. Someone had spotted the royal carriage in Southwark
on the night of the murder. The link to the Prince Regent was
instantaneous when it was discovered that a brothel stood on Union
Street. The next link required no leap of the imagination - murder,
woman, brothel, prince, Ripper!

The article was penned by
Agrippa.

It was now more imperative than
ever to find the mystery man

Dr Watson agreed to pay a visit
to his friend at the St James Street Club to discover the source of
Agrippa’s information.

In the meantime, the Countess
would pay a call on Reverend Paterson.

Mr Langdale Pike was seated at
his usual spot in the bow window. He was happy to have company,
especially when that company offered to stump up for a whiskey to
go with a fresh cup of coffee.

“Shocking business,” said Dr
Watson. “Wasn’t Miss Quilligan a friend of your sister?”

“By golly, you’ve got a good
memory. I mention the name once and you remember it. Yes, the
Quilligan woman was a friend of my sister and she is terribly cut
up about the death, cannot stop bawling.”

“Who found the body?”

“A vagrant,” said Mr Pike.

“I read your latest article.
Fine piece of writing,” he praised generously, lying for a good
cause. “Did you interview the vagrant?”

“No, he cannot be found. The
police are totally incompetent. I wouldn’t be surprised if they are
deliberately burying information to protect the Prince Regent.”

“Surely, you don’t believe
he
is involved in murder?”

“Why not? He wouldn’t be the
first royal to commit murder. History is littered with murderous
monarchs.”

“But that was another time.
There was no Scotland Yard back then.”

Langdale Pike threw back his
head and laughed risibly. “Don’t be naïve, Dr Watson. Look at how
they handled the Ripper case. Did you read any of the police
transcripts? A litany of incompetence and cover up! They covered
for the Duke of Clarence then and they are covering for the Prince
of Wales now!”

“But even if the heir to the
throne was at a brothel that does not make him a murderer.”

“No, but it puts him at the
scene of the crime. Add the disappearing vagrant and you have
obfuscation. Why bother if the heir to the throne is innocent?”

Dr Watson coloured guiltily.
“How do you know the Prince of Wales was at the scene of the crime?
Was your source reliable? In fact, who was your source?”

“I never reveal a source unless
they want their name in the newspaper.”

“And this one asked not to be
named?”

“That’s right.”

“Then how do you know their
information was reliable? It could have been invented. Some people
come forward with information that is totally bogus. Some even
confess to crimes they didn’t commit. It’s a type of mental
illness.”

“This source was reliable, trust
me.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“It was someone whose profession
deals with sincerity in act, character and utterance.”

Dr Watson thought quickly. “Like
a policeman?”

Langdale Pike laughed again. “A
policeman does not care about walking in truth.”

“A judge?”

Langdale Pike drained his glass
of whiskey and rolled his eyes. “Spare me, Dr Watson! The judiciary
sits at the top of untruth and the corruption of righteous rules -
sanctify them in truth; your word is truth! Swear on the bible!
Ha!”

A quote from the bible about the
bible! It was suddenly clear who Mr Pike was trying to shield. Dr
Watson feigned ignorance. “Well, if you won’t be more forthcoming I
will have to leave it at that. Damned terrible business, though.
Give my condolences to your sister.”