The Curse of Christmas (17 page)

The Unitarian church was holding
an impromptu prayer meeting for the recently departed. The
mutilated body had been taken to the morgue but a recent, rather
unflattering, photograph of Miss Quilligan in her frumpy
tri-coloured hat was on display. The photograph had been pinned
underneath the wooden cross on the back wall to focus the eye.

The pews were filled entirely
with women, mostly suffragettes, who had come to mourn the passing
of a valued member of the sisterhood. Among them were Miss de
Merville and Mrs Aspen, her arm in a sling. The Countess and her
maid, Xenia, squeezed into the back pew and took up a prayer book
in preparation for singing hymn 32.

“All stand,” said Reverend
Paterson, whose voice was in fine fettle.

At the conclusion of the hymn
there was a short prayer, after which the women congregated in
small circles and spoke if fearful whispers; the Countess caught up
with Miss de Merville at the door.

“Absolutely awful,” exclaimed
the young lady with feeling. “And to think how many times
she
admonished
me
for going out alone and
unprotected. Papa has banned me from distributing pamphlets and
going to any more rallies. He has simply put his foot down. If I
defy him he will send me to stay with an elderly aunt in Suffolk. I
normally make light of his threats and charm him round but this
time I know he means it. Freddy normally takes my side but he has
sided with papa. I cannot charm him round either He wanted to come
here today but his time is taken up with a new property development
on the Angel Embankment. It’s awful! Simply awful! Do you happen to
know where the murder took place?”

“Yes, it happened under the
viaduct on Redcross Way at the back of the church.”

“Oh, would you think it beastly
if I asked you to show me?”

“Not at all, let’s get some
fresh air. We can walk together.”

“Will it be safe, do you
think?”

“Quite safe, I think the
murderer is long gone.”

“One newspaper claimed it could
be the Prince Regent.”

“Patent nonsense!”

“Oh, I’m pleased to hear you say
so. A king who is a cold-blooded killer cannot be good for the
country. I think the killer is probably that anonymous vagrant.
Scotland Yard should concentrate their efforts on catching
him.”

“Indeed.”

The two young women walked arm
in arm to the corner and turned into Union Street.

“Is that the brothel where…?”
Miss de Merville left the question hanging, nodding discretely at
the building with the red door.

“Yes, I believe it is.”

“Papa has banned me from
speaking about it. I cannot imagine the shame for the princess. It
must be unbearable.”

“I think she is used to it.”

“Really! Freddy hasn’t said so
directly, but I know he is horrified. He holds Bertie in such high
regard.” They turned into Redcross Way. “What a ghastly little
cemetery.”

“Crossbones – it is for the
outcast dead.”

“Who?”

“Prostitutes are buried there
because they are not allowed to be buried in consecrated ground.
This patch of ground is unconsecrated. It falls outside the diocese
of St Saviour Church.”

Joff and Crick watched the two
ladies passing. Joff was leaning an elbow on his shovel while Crick
was standing inside a fresh grave. All that was visible was his
hobgoblin head.

“Is this the viaduct?” asked
Miss de Merville unnecessarily. “Oh, there is still a pool of blood
on the ground! How awful! The place smells just how you imagine a
murder scene to smell! What on earth was Miss Quilligan
thinking!”

The Countess had almost had
enough of acting as a tour guide for the morbidly inclined young
lady and was about to reach her limit of sympathy when the other
cried out it horror.

“What’s that!” Miss de Merville
was staring at the graffiti.

“Angelmaker.”

“And on the other side?”

“Anglemaker.”

“How strange.” Miss de Merville
looked from one word to the other and appeared to visibly stiffen.
“I’ve seen enough. Let’s go back. It smells horrid in here.”

They walked quickly out of the
fetid gloom and into the poisonous grey smog of Southwark. Miss de
Merville was stepping lively and the Countess picked up her pace in
order not to fall behind. Joff and Crick were sitting on the stone
slab in the heart of Crossbones, tearing into a loaf of bread. The
Countess waited until they reached O’Meara Street and Miss de
Merville appeared to draw a long deep breath of slightly-less-toxic
air into her refined lungs.

“When you saw the graffiti, why
did you say: how strange?”

“No reason.”

The Countess caught Miss de
Merville by the arm before the latter could climb into her
carriage. “Miss Quilligan died back there; died a horrible brutal
death. If you know anything about that graffiti you owe it to Miss
Quilligan to…” She didn’t get any further.

“That nasty newspaper reporter
known as Agrippa christened Freddy ‘The Angelmaker’. It unnerved me
to see it written there.”

“I don’t understand –
Freddy?”

“Agrippa accused Freddy of
wanton greed. He stated that Freddy intends to rip down the slums
on the Angel Embankment and put up warehouses in order to profit
from the ever-increasing river trade. He claimed, most unfairly,
that the warehouse development will render the poor homeless;
mothers and children will die and go to their Maker, hence Freddy
is an Angelmaker. It is vile slander. Freddy is considering suing.
I don’t want to say any more on the matter. I must go home. Papa is
expecting me and he will be furious if I am late.”

By now the church had cleared.
The Countess, still ruminating on the graffiti connection to Freddy
Cazenove, found Deacon Throstle collecting the hymn books.

“Is Reverend Paterson about? I
would like to have a word.”

He appeared to jump at the sound
of her voice. “I believe he might be in the crypt.”

“Down these steps, isn’t
it?”

Deacon Throstle dropped an
armful of books and headed her off at the top of the stairs. “You
cannot go down there.”

“Why ever not?”

“It’s, er, terribly dusty, lots
of cobwebs and spiders, and an infestation of, er, rats!”

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind
telling him I would like a word, I shall wait here.”

A few minutes later, he
re-emerged slightly more composed. “Reverend Paterson is on his
way.”

Several more minutes passed
until the reverend appeared covered in dust and cobwebs. He was
having difficulty hiding his annoyance.

“How may I help you,
Countess?”

“I just wanted to say what a
lovely service that was for Miss Quilligan.”

He didn’t even try to disguise
his irritation. “Well, thank you for those kind words. It is most
heartening. Now, I am very busy with…”

“Rats.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The rats in the crypt. Deacon
Throstle told me all about them.”

Reverend Paterson aimed a
grateful glance at his deacon. “Yes, yes, that’s it. Frightful mess
with rats’ droppings, well, I will spare you the unsavoury
details.”

“Allow me to make a donation to
the poor box and then I will be on my way.”

Reverend Paterson’s annoyance
transformed itself into a stiff smile as he ushered her to the
door. “Very kind of you, Countess.”

She made a substantial offering
and was about to take her leave when she paused. “What do you think
Miss Quilligan was doing out at such a late hour last night?”

The stiff smile remained in
situ. “I have no idea what the poor girl was doing. I am in shock
along with everyone else. Are you planning to write an article for
The Quotidienne
?”

“What? Oh, no, I am still
working on the one about Crossbones. I was just wondering because
the death was so brutal. Do you think she could have been coming
here to collect more pamphlets to distribute?”

He began shaking his head. “No,
no, out of the question. The church is locked by ten o’clock.
Deacon Throstle and I would have been in our beds. We have lodgings
at the rear of the church.”

“It’s funny you should say that
because a member of the Drury Lane Ghost Club came by here the
other night to check on the cemetery and saw some candlelight
flickering inside the church. I’m sure he said it was around
midnight.”

“No, no, impossible. He must
have been mistaken; probably a trick of the moonlight through the
clerestory windows.”

“Yes, I told him the same thing.
A trick of the moonlight, I said. And he then told me he saw a
fetch. Well, I could hardly believe anything he said after
that.”

Reverend Paterson blanched. “A
fetch?”

“An Irish ghost. This one had
long yellow hair and was wearing a bed-gown. I don’t suppose you
have ever seen it late at night when you are out visiting the
sick?”

“Certainly not! I do not believe
in resurrected spirits. I am in bed by ten o’clock every night
without fail.”

“What about Deacon Throstle –
might he have seen the fetch?”

Busy sweeping the floor, the
deacon suddenly dropped the broom. It earned him a dark look from
the reverend.

“Deacon Throstle does not go
about at night either.”

“But surely you go out among the
poor and sick, taking a basket of food to those who are
bedridden?”

“Yes, of course, but not at
midnight!”

“Well, thank you for your time,
Reverend Paterson.” She turned to go then swung back. “Do you know
anything about the graffiti in the viaduct where the murder took
place? Miss de Merville and I went to have a look just now and we
found it mystifying.”

“I never go that way,” he said.
“It is a dangerous spot, a haunt for pickpockets and louts.”

She sighed heavily, sadly. “If
only Miss Quilligan had thought likewise.”

“Yes, dear Miss Quilligan, may
she rest in peace.”

“Do you think it was the
handiwork of the Ripper?”

Annoyance had returned to his
face and there was no hiding it. “Who can say? These things are
best left to Scotland Yard.”

“My rival, Agrippa, suggested
the killer might even be the heir to the throne.”

“Well, who can say?”

“There is speculation the Prince
Regent was visiting a brothel on Union Street.”

“Such speculation is not worthy
of discussion for a young lady,” he chastised righteously. “Now, I
really must get back to my rats.”

The Countess was crossing more
names off her Christmas card list than she was adding: Miss
Quilligan, Miss de Merville, Freddy Cazenove, Reverend Paterson and
Colonel James Isambard Moriarty…

Oh, well, too late for Christmas
cards anyway. It was the eighteenth day of December. Better to
concentrate on presents or it would be a dismal Yule. She made a
list of names and gifts and put Ponsonby in charge. He was to hire
extra help where needed.

Xenia was given the task of
wrapping the gifts, writing gift cards and posting any that needed
to go further than London, which was a considerable number.
Fortunately, Orthodox Christmas fell on January the seventh so she
still had plenty of time to think about her extended Ukrainian
family.

An early night was called for.
Before she fell asleep, the Countess wondered what Reverend
Paterson was hiding. He had lied through his teeth several times.
And Deacon Throstle seemed extremely nervous. Was he hiding
something too?

And what about Freddy Cazenove?
Angelmaker? Was his interest in the suffragettes genuine or was it
a convenient front for frequenting the area and keeping an eye on
the brothel? He was tall and lean which fit the profile of their
mystery man. And he was a property developer. Might he have known
about the existence of the drain? If someone wanted to blackmail
the Prince Regent that person would have to be someone well
connected. A vagrant, lout, pickpocket or grave-digger would not
dare, nor would they have the brains to hatch the scheme. Did Miss
Quilligan recognize Freddy? Did he kill her to silence her?

The Countess - dressed once
again as a vagrant - crept across the cemetery, flattening the rank
wet weeds that seemed to exist in a state of permanent dampness,
her manservant following in her wake. Murky vapours provided a
convenient curtain but they dared not light their lanterns for fear
of attracting attention to themselves. The murder of Lucy Quilligan
would have made the locals jumpy. Anything out of the ordinary
would bring a group of angry vigilantes hell-bent on revenge down
on their heads.

While Fedir scraped away clods
of clay with his shovel, the Countess kept an eye out for the
fetch. The Irish ghost was just one more mystery she wanted to
solve. It didn’t take long to unearth the corpse of Annie. All they
wanted to check was the bundle of rags under her head.

Trying not to gag on the fetid
gases, Fedir pulled out the clump of stinking rags and began to
disentangle them. There was definitely something wrapped inside. He
worked quickly, tearing away the frayed fragments of cloth and
caught back a gasp. It was a dead baby.

Shocked to the core, the
Countess bent down beside her manservant to take a closer look. The
baby was a new-born, not more than one month of age. The little
thing looked painfully thin, a bundle of bones; it had surely died
of malnutrition. No wonder the grave-diggers came to bury it in the
night. Was the cemetery of the outcast dead a convenient place for
disposing of dead babies? Is that how they earned extra money? Was
this a one-off burial? Or was it a lucrative trade?

They heard a noise and dropped
low. Someone had opened the gate and was coming their way. Fedir
had his hand on the handle of the shovel, ready, in case it turned
out to be the killer in search of a fresh victim. If he had learned
one thing since his mistress had turned her interest to sleuthing
it was that a killer rarely stopped at one.