The Curse of Christmas (21 page)

“If you insist,” he said
magnanimously, and she almost burst out laughing.

Over lunch she told him what
Sukie said about the crypt and the red-haired girls “Mrs Kronski
who runs the baby farm also runs the brothel on Union Street,
though there she prefers to be call Madame Kronski. The two
businesses are self-supporting. Any prostitutes who fall pregnant
pay for their babies to be looked after by the madame. Win-win for
the Angelmaker. I knew I’d heard the term. One of the hanged baby
farmers was nicknamed the Angelmaker.”

“That was Mrs Waters. I was
young but I remember it now too.”

“And speaking of Angelmaker, I
am going to pay another visit to Miss Pike to see if Lucy had any
connection to baby farming.”

“Good, that solves my problem. I
paid a visit to Lestrade this morning to see if the Yard was making
any progress, no luck I’m afraid, anyway, Lestrade gave me the
green hat with the violets and said I could pass it on to the next
of kin because he knew I was acquainted with Miss Pike through
Langdale. You can give it to Miss Pike to pass on to the family.
He’s keeping the carpet bag but he gave me the pamphlets. He said
the suffragettes might want them; it will save on printing costs
and so on. I left everything in your private study.”

“Excellent! That gives me an
excuse to visit Miss Pike, and I can give the pamphlets to Miss de
Merville tonight. I’ve been invited to dine with
He-of-Khyber-Pass-Fame.”

“Baby farm, yes, Lucy knew all
about baby farms,” said Miss Pike. “Her mother ran one to bring in
extra income. One particularly bad winter, one of the babies got
influenza and all of them plus Lucy’s siblings died. Lucy was the
only one who was spared. There was an inquest and the mother was
charged with infanticide. The only thing that saved her at the
trial was the fact she did not take lump sums in advance. It meant
there was no financial advantage to killing the babies. Her
business suffered because the monthly payments all ceased. She went
to the grave four months later. Some said she died from shame. I
remember there were always about ten babies on hand at any one
time. It was bedlam. Lucy helped out from a young age; feeding them
their bottles, changing nappies, that sort of thing. She never
complained. She could see how exhausted her mother was. Are you
sure you wouldn’t like to stay for a cup of tea? We can share
another pot of the Darjeeling.”

“Thank you but no. I just wanted
to pass on the hat. You might want to keep it. I don’t think Lucy’s
remaining relatives will care anything for it.”

Miss Pike’s eyes were pricked
with tears as she showed her visitor to the door. “By the way, I
thought about that word: Anglemaker. You know Lucy was always
transposing letters. She would write gril instead of girl, fro
instead of for, waht instead of what, and so forth. You can see
what I mean if you read her pamphlets. Mrs Aspen was forever
telling her off but poor Lucy couldn’t help it. Her brain just had
a mind of its own. Anyway, I wondered if Anglemaker was meant to be
Angelmaker. If so, Lucy definitely wrote the graffiti.”

The Countess hurried home to
check the pamphlets that Dr Watson had deposited in her private
study and sure enough there were numerous spelling errors where
letters had been transposed. Apsen for Aspen; Mreville for
Merville; and she even got her own name wrong – Qiulligan for
Quilligan.

Now, the word Anglemaker had
been written first. The word Angelmaker appeared the following
night, the night of the rally gone horribly wrong. Was it possible
Lucy had realized her spelling mistake, and feeling silly, had
returned late at night to make amends by writing the word correctly
on the opposite side of the viaduct? Whether she meant it as a
criticism of Viscount Cazenove or an indictment of baby farming may
never be known, but it certainly fit the facts pertaining to Lucy
Quilligan.

If the murderer came across her
while she was in the process of writing, it explains why she didn’t
cry out. She would have been caught unawares, concentrating on
getting the spelling right, her back to the killer. He could have
felled her, knocked her out, and gutted her. If it wasn’t the fire
cracker man, it could have been one of his accomplices. The murder
was far too brutal for a mere robbery. It was designed to silence
Miss Quilligan. It was designed to appear Ripper-like, possibly to
cast aspersions on the heir to the throne.

She felt a sickly chill and
prayed it wasn’t Colonel Moriarty.

But where was the can of paint
and the paint brush? One cannot write graffiti and magic these
things out of existence. There was only one answer. The killer had
taken them with him. Did he get paint on his clothes, paint that
might incriminate him if it was left at the scene of the crime?

The evening called for something
special. Black velvet garlanded with gold thread, a dropped back
finishing with a long train, split and inlaid with pink satin that
trailed the floor. Pink satin gloves, pink satin shoes, and an
opera cloak in black velvet trimmed with more pink satin to
complete the ensemble. Oh, and a parure of rare pink diamonds from
Australia; a gift from Jack to commemorate their third wedding
anniversary just before she shot himself.

Number 104 Berkeley Square was
an austere, grey, urban castle that looked totally out of place in
a city where different periods sat alongside one another in
relative harmony – Georgian alongside Queen Anne, Regency next to
Tudor, and so on.

The Countess shed her elaborate
cloak and gave the pamphlets to the footman to pass on to her
hostess when it was convenient.

The de Merville’s were
comfortably rich rather than vulgarly wealthy and it showed in
every aspect of their fortress-like home which Violet with her
inherent good taste had endeavoured to make into a place of
welcome. The acid-yellow drawing room consisted of furniture handed
down through generations, lovingly cared for and cherished. Nothing
was overdone and there were none of those spiky potted palms which
were
de rigeur
with Victorian hostesses eager to follow the
fashion of the day.

“The men have just popped into
papa’s study,” explained Miss de Merville apologetically, greeting
her latest guest. “They have been lured in there to see his new
humidor. It is shaped like the American Whitehouse and was an
extravagant gift from Major Blague who was unfortunately, at the
last minute, unable to be here tonight. I believe you are
acquainted with Dolly Vanderlinden, Countess Volodymyrova?”

Dolly had gained a few pounds
since Swiss finishing school and it looked good on her. She had
always been painfully thin; a constant battle with stomach
butterflies keeping her on the edge of anorexia nervosa. Marriage
had been good for Dolly.

The Countess and Dolly exchanged
air kisses in the manner of life-long girlfriends.

Miss de Merville waited
patiently for the feminine ritual to run its course. “Allow me to
introduce Miss Mona Blague, a friend of Batty and Dolly’s from
America. She is staying for six months in London. Not our best time
of year, I was saying just before you arrived, Countess.”

Miss Blague was a vision of
prettiness with an abundance of antebellum charm enhanced by a
wealth of ribbons and bows. Her high sweet voice was underscored by
a Charleston accent. She had a heart-shaped face, a sugary mass of
blonde curls, a petite figure and a stunning set of breasts
enhanced by a wealth of ribbons and bows underscored by a flamingo
pink cummerbund.

Her Daddy owned half of North
Carolina, three-quarters of South Carolina and most of Georgia. He
made his money not only from tobacco farming but from a cigar
factory in Florida which churned out thousands of cigars per day.
He had leased a house in South Audley Street for the duration of
their sojourn and would have come tonight but he suffered from gout
and too much malt whiskey during the stormy trans-Atlantic crossing
had finally caught up with him.

Jovial banter preceded the
return of the men from an inspection of the humidor featuring a
hinged dome lid hiding a selection of Havana cigars. General de
Merville had heeded his daughter’s warning about not lighting
cigars prior to dinner and the men were salivating at the prospect
of a return to the study in a couple of hours.

Sherry was served while they
awaited the arrival of their final guest, who had been invited at
the last minute to keep the numbers balanced once they discovered
Major Bruce Blague would be unable to attend.

Miss Blague had heard enough
about beetles to last her a lifetime and made sure to steer clear
of Batty Vanderlinden despite the fact he was the husband of her
good friend, Dolly. If she heard the word ‘coleoptera’ again she
would scream. Coleo- meaning sheath and pteron- meaning wing; hence
sheathed wing; it was Greek. It was all Greek to her! She was
starting to have nightmares about black beetles with serrated horns
and had started checking under her bed before getting into it. She
made a beeline for the handsome Viscount who was not yet officially
engaged and thus fair game.

The Countess felt slightly sorry
for Batty and even sorrier for Dolly, who had endured social
agonies on behalf of her husband’s hobby.

“Did you know that ladybirds and
weevils are part of the beetle family?” said Batty.

“How fascinating,” she lied.
“Tell me more.”

“Australia has some interesting
species of beetles. I am considering travelling to Australia next
year. I am interested in studying the Trogidae family.”

“My houses in Melbourne and
Mount Macedon are open to you. Let me know when you plan to be
there. My favourite beetle is the click beetle. It jumps and clicks
when it is threatened.”

He nodded enthusiastically.
“Yes, yes, I would like to study that one in Australia too. It is
my great ambition to discover a new species and have the honour of
naming it.”

“And what will you call it? The
Batty beetle?”

He laughed out loud. “Dolly! I
shall name it after my long-suffering wife. She has been a saint
putting up with my pet passion. Bless her heart. Yes, it will be
the Dolly beetle.”

The Countess could feel the eyes
of General de Merville studying her like a beetle pinned to a
pinboard. He was old enough to be her father but it was a given
that old widowers and young widows were a match made in heaven. He
was still a handsome man and there was no doubting a military life
had encouraged him to remain fit and virile but she couldn’t
imagine having Violet de Merville as a step-daughter.

“You’re not boring this young
lady with a lecture on beetles now, Batty?” said the General,
coming round with a cut-glass decanter to top up the sherry glasses
after waving away the butler.

Batty reddened. “Oh, yes, well,
I’m…”

“I have known Batty for years,”
said the Countess, coming to the rescue, “and I have never found
him boring. Some ladies like to talk about more than the latest
social scandal or the latest fashion from Paris.”

The General laughed
good-naturedly as he topped up their glasses and made sure to hold
her gaze for longer than necessary.

Well, she could have dropped her
gaze demurely as was expected, but she was not one to be
intimidated by a mere General even if he was her host.

“I like a woman who speaks her
mind,” he boldly declared, just as the mystery guest was shown in
by the footman and the General swung round. “Colonel Moriarty! Good
of you to remember us! Don’t tell me that little puff of wind on
the English Channel delayed your ferry!”

Moriarty measured the social
scene with a single sweep of Irish eyes that betrayed nothing of
what he might be thinking. “I took a French opium clipper, General,
much faster than an English tug boat. I would have been here sooner
but that puff of wind shredded the main sail and we limped into
port under studding sails and moonrakers.”

Everyone laughed except the
Colonel.

Miss de Merville stepped
forward. “Now, papa, if you cannot behave decently and treat our
guest with dignity I shall banish you to your study and take away
your humidor.”

The general guffawed at the
threat.

“Click-click,” said Batty sotto
voce.

Miss de Merville handled
introductions, eschewing strict hierarchical formality. “I’m so
glad you could make it to our little dinner party, Colonel
Moriarty. Monte Carlo’s loss is our gain. Freddy talks about you
all the time and I have been eager to put a face to the name. Allow
me to introduce you to our guests. This is Mr Batty Vanderlinden
and Mrs Dolly Vanderlinden, Miss Mona Blague, and Countess Varvara
Volodymyrovna.” She paused after each name so that the Colonel
could acknowledge each guest with an appropriate response.

They filed into the dining room
poste-haste. General de Merville offered his arm to the Countess.
Freddy took the elbow of his prospective fiancé. The Vanderlindens
made a conjugal couple. Which left Colonel Moriarty to escort Miss
Mona Blague.

There were no place cards. Miss
de Merville preferred to personally direct her guests to their
seats.

“Batty, you take the seat in the
middle. The Countess can sit to your left, next to papa. Dolly can
sit to your right, next to me. Freddy you sit opposite the
Countess, Miss Blague in the middle, and Colonel Moriarty opposite
Dolly, also next to me.”

Miss de Merville, acting as
hostess for her father, took her seat at the head, opposite her
papa, and everyone followed suit, taking their chairs.

Dinner was
a la russe -
9
courses following one another in succession.

Miss Blague made the first faux
pas of the night by turning to the guest to her left. “How did you
find Monte Carlo, Colonel?”