The Curse of Christmas (20 page)

“Were there any articles on
Monte Carlo in the newspaper?”

Dr Watson regarded her with
astonishment. “Monte Carlo? What has Monte Carlo got to do with
anything?”

She realized she’d spoken aloud
and tried to steady her voice. “Nothing, nothing at all. I was
thinking about a friend of mine who has gone to Monte Carlo, that’s
all, and I believe there was a fire in one of the casinos,” she
lied.

He was distracted by the arrival
of the pot-roasted pheasant and didn’t notice how she gilded the
lily. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t get past the front page of
any of the newspapers. I say, this pheasant is delicious. Your
French cook is a marvel.”

Horselydown Lane was dark and
muddy. Gas- lamps had not yet reached this far south-east of the
river and probably never would. Number 4 was a run-down grim
residence set in a paddock with a few pigs and goats. The shrill
squawk of bawling babies could be heard long before they knocked on
the door.

Mrs Kronski introduced herself
as the person in charge of the baby farm. She was a well-groomed
woman of middle years with upswept hair, a stern face, and a
straight back. Her disapproval of late-night sightseers was
unmistakable until she saw how much the Countess clutched in her
suede-gloved hand and the prospect of a rich client who paid
up-front seemed to wave away all objections.

“Come in,” she snapped, “but
don’t expect a guided tour. I’ve got work to get on with. You can
look around and then you can see yourselves out. Don’t pick up any
of the infants.”

The smell of soiled nappies,
baby vomit, stale milk, urine, damp, and disease was overwhelming.
There was no escaping it. It permeated the woodwork and every piece
of furniture. It clung to the slatternly women with dirty aprons
who bustled in and out of the dimly lit rooms and would have
followed them home no matter how far.

A small coal fire heated a room
where some exhausted mothers sat wet-nursing babies. Whether the
babies were their own, or someone else’s, was open to speculation.
The other rooms were freezing cold. Babies slept in apple boxes,
wash tubs, cribs, bassinettes, mangers, and anything else that
would hold a child. The majority were asleep despite the constant
high-pitched bawling. They had probably cried themselves out. Or
else they’d had a few drops of laudanum added to their milk. Some
were sat up, sucking on rubber teats, the milk bottles propped on
rags to help the flow. Their heads lolled sideways as if too heavy
for their scrawny necks; their limbs looked like matchsticks.

This was not a baby farm. It was
a baby morgue. If any little bodies were still breathing, it
wouldn’t be long. How any survived beyond infancy was beyond
belief!

“See how the women are swapping
the milk bottle from baby to baby without changing the teat?”
whispered Dr Watson.

The Countess nodded.

“They are helping to spread
disease. If one child is sick the next child will also be sick. The
teats are rarely or never washed. More disease. The bottles are
rarely or never washed. More disease. Milk can sit in the bottles
all day. More disease.”

The Countess felt sick just
thinking about it.

A large, fat woman with puffy
bags under her eyes, a double chin, and grizzled grey hair secured
in a bun, waddled in carrying a babe under each arm. She was
smoking a small pipe known as a cutty or nose warmer. She thrust
the twin infants into vacant cots. “Der be no anglamakerska in dis
hoss!”

Dr Watson had no idea what she
said, probably because of the pipe hanging off the side of her
mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

“No englemagerske here!”

“I don’t understand,” he said
apologetically.

But the Countess, who was fluent
with several languages, understood perfectly. “She said there are
no angelmakers in this house. No angelmakers here. I’ve seen
enough. Shall we go?”

It was eleven o’clock when the
carriage swept past Crossbones and they noted two figures hunched
down in the cemetery up to no good.

“Burying more babies?” said Dr
Watson morosely.

“Probably,” replied his
counterpart glumly. “I was tempted to leave some money at the baby
farm. The only thing that stopped me was that I didn’t believe any
of the money would find its way to those pitiful children. Mrs
Kronski had a ring on every finger and was wearing high quality
wool trimmed with Liberty silk. The only way to improve children’s
lives is to improve the lives of the mothers. Emancipation and
enfranchisement come first. Decent jobs. Decent wages. Decent
homes. It makes my blood boil to think that a decent woman like
Lucy Quilligan can be brutally murdered and her killer remain at
large. It makes my blood boil that a man can throw fire crackers
into a crowd of women and get away with it. I want to solve those
two crimes more than the ghostly goings-on. I will not rest until
the perpetrators are brought to justice. The Prince Regent,” she
finished with disgust, “can sort his own problems.”

The following morning the
Countess scoured the newspapers of the previous day as well as the
present, searching for any news associated with Monte Carlo. She
wasn’t sure what she expected to see but she wanted to see
something that proved Colonel Moriarty was where he said he would
be.

The newspapers were having a
field day with the Prince Regent and she wasted no sympathy.
Fifty-eight years old and still a child! Monogamy was not about
obeying an Old Testament God; it was about respect for one’s
partner! Her blood boiled.

Oh, dear, the little prince had
endured a hard life. His Mama refused to die. He was not treated
with the respect he deserved. A life of infinite privilege had
blinded him to the harsh reality of the daily grind of his loyal
subjects. It made her blood boil.

Mid-morning found the Countess
hurrying to The Buttery. She had expected to purchase a Gothic
mansion and had ended up with a medieval dairy!

Decades of neglect were being
swept away. The roof no longer leaked. The chimneys were drawing. A
coal range was going into the kitchen. The plumbing worked. Light
was penetrating the once-grimy latticed glass and throwing beams on
the oak floor.

There would be no gasoliers or
radiators. A fire in the kitchen hearth would soon travel up the
various winding staircases and warm the different levels. Every
room had a chimney and the rooms were low-ceilinged. The Buttery
was narrow, compact, and perfectly fit for purpose as a secret
London bolt hole.

By midday she was on her way to
meet her manservant. It surprised her to find he was not alone in
the pew. He had brought Sukie, the prostitute with the sprained
ankle.

Sukie’s mother had worked as a
char in the rectory and Sukie knew a lot about the history of St
Saviour. “It started life as a nunnery in 606. Founded by someone
named Mary who got rich running a ferry across the Thames in the
days when there weren’t no bridges. It were nicknamed St Mary’s
Overie, meaning ‘over the water’. In 1106 it were turned into an
Augustan (sic) Priory dedicated to another Mary - the Virgin one.
In 1852 when they made the railway viaduct bigger they wanted to
demolish the church. Thank God they didn’t. Beautiful, ain't
it?”

The Countess took a moment to
admire the five bay choir and was pleased when Sukie took the
initiative to introduce the topic foremost on her mind.

“Fedir reckons you want to know
about Crossbones?”

“Yes, that’s right, what can you
tell me?”

Sukie had a roundabout way of
getting to the point. “Where’d you two meet?”

“Fedir didn’t say?”

“No, he don’t do much talkin,
not even when he’s paying for extra time.”

“Well, we met when I was doing a
story about the Borough Market for
The Quotidienne
. I am
happy to pay for your time too.”

“You write for a fancy
newspaper?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want my name in
newsprint, see. It might come back to bite me.”

“I understand.”

Sukie hesitated as if to order
her thoughts. “First off, the coffins is a mystery. Annie was in
the coffin the day before the funeral but on the day she was buried
it weren’t her.”

The Countess feigned mild
surprise. “Where do you think her body went?” She hoped Sukie
wasn’t going to say the fetch took it.

“The crypt.”

The Countess sat upright in the
pew. “What makes you say that?”

“There ain't no place else. It
were in the church all night. The next day it were not. I checked
when the reverend and the deacon weren’t looking. It were someone
else wrapped up. And that’s not the first time.”

“Say that again.”

“There was Binty. She
disappeared too. That’s how I hurt my ankle. Her grave was dug up
the same night she went into the ground. I know because I were in
the graveyard late at night. I stepped on what I thought would be
the grave but there was a hole and when I looked under the mummy
cloth there was someone else and no Binty. So where was Binty?”

“Good question.” The Countess
had newfound respect for Sukie and her ability to think
deductively. “By the way, how’s your ankle?”

“It’s almost mended. And last
summer there was Jenny. She had red hair too.”

“What?”

“Annie, Binty and Jenny all had
red hair.”

“I’m sorry; I don’t see what red
hair has to do with it?”

“It has everything to do with
it,” said Sukie, sounding exasperated with the Countess’s inability
to think deductively. “It’s only girls with red hair who go missing
from their graves.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Sure I’m sure.”

The Countess took a moment to
absorb this new information. “Do you think all three girls went
into the crypt?”

“Where else could they go?”

“Who do you think took them into
the crypt?”

“The fetch.”

Oh, dear, just when the Countess
thought they were making genuine progress – it was back to square
one. “The fetch?”

“I seen the fetch more than
once. I seen it looking in windows. I even seen it coming out the
gate one night.”

“Crossbones’ gate?

“No, the gate at the back of the
church, and once I seen the fetch going in too.”

“You think the fetch might live
in the crypt?” The Countess tried not to sound too facetious or
condescending.

“That’s it! That’s it in a
nutshell!”

“Have you spoken to Reverend
Paterson or Deacon Throstle about your idea?”

“No fear! Pater would smite me
down and there is something queer about the Throstle. If it weren’t
for the ladies holding their meetings in that place it would be
empty. I never seen more than five people in the congregation
ever.”

“What about Joff and Crick? Do
you think they know about the missing bodies?”

Sukie bit her lip and stared at
her feet for several thoughtful seconds. “They must know. They is
the ones who dig the graves. They carry the coffins in and out the
church. I seen them digging in the night more than once. I thought
they was body-snatching but then I saw them burying something.”

“What do you think they were
burying?”

Sukie shook her head and
shrugged. “I dunno. It were something small.”

“Like a bundle of rags?”

“Yeah!”

“Who owns the brothel where you
work?”

“Madame Kronski.”

“Mrs Kronski?”

“She prefers to be called
Madame.”

“Do any girls at the brothel
have long blonde hair?”

“Ha! You’re thinking of the
fetch! There ain’t none with long yellow hair, not like that, it’s
not real.”

“How do you know?”

Sukie ran a hand through tousled
trammels of brown hair. “It never blows in the wind, not a strand.
It’s heavy like horse hair. It’s not real. It’s a wig for
sure.”

“Then the fetch is not real
either.”

The idea seemed to amuse her.
“Maybe she’s bald!”

“Do any of the girls have red
hair?”

“Mims and Pennyrose. They is
reserved for a special gent. They is young and keen. They came
together from Dublin or maybe Ireland.”

The Countess extracted five
guineas. “Thank you for your time, Sukie. I may need you to do
something for me in future. Fedir will let you know.”

Sukie stuffed the money down her
stocking. “You don’t look the type.”

“What? Oh, no, that’s not what I
meant. Never mind. If I want to speak to Pennyrose and Mims when
would be the best time to catch them out walking?”

“They never go out walking.
Madame Kronski treats them like her pets. They go out in the
carriage. When they come back they have lots of new dresses and
ribbons and a big smile.”

“The tall man in the black
velvet cape and top hat who visits the brothel – is he Irish?”

Sukie began nodding. “I don’t
know his name but I heard him talking to Madame Kronski once. He’s
Irish, to be sure!”

“Thank you, Sukie. I would
prefer if you did not mention to anyone about our meeting here
today. I’m sure we will speak again and there will be a lot more
than five guineas in it.”

A dinner invitation was waiting
for the Countess on the hall table. It was from General de Merville
for eight o’clock this evening. An RSVP was promptly
dispatched.

And Dr Watson was waiting in the
library. The Countess wondered what his excuse would be this time.
It was obvious how often he seemed to be in the neighbourhood at
meal times. Not that she was about to start teasing him. He would
feel embarrassed and never drop by again. Besides, she hated eating
alone.

“Just in time for lunch,” she
trilled. “I must beg you to stay. I don’t care if you have an
appointment with the Queen. You cannot go until we have eaten.
Rabbit terrine on toast, confit of duck with apple sauce, crepes
with cognac and almonds. I do hope you will join me.”