The Curse of Christmas (26 page)

“I have no hesitations, Colonel
Damery. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

He personally handed her down
from the carriage, bowed, kissed her gloved hand, and handed her up
again into the next carriage.

Following lunch at Rules the
Countess had dropped Dr Watson outside the St James Street Club so
that the plan of action could be implemented before he got cold
feet. Mr Langdale Pike was at his usual spot at the bow window,
scribbling furiously on a sheet of paper. He caught the doctor out
of the corner of his eagle eye and waved him over.

“Good to see you! Listen to
this!” he gurgled enthusiastically. “This is my
piece de
resistance
for tomorrow: Does the heir to the throne have
something against suffragettes? Is the royal philanderer actually a
woman-hater? Who threw the fire crackers into the crowd at the
rally? And who encouraged the man who threw the fire crackers? Who
put him up to it? Who paid him? Who is safe-guarding him even now?
Clearly, this was not the impromptu act of disgruntled husband
whose wife had failed to cook him a hot dinner. This was a
well-planned attack against a group of helpless women – mothers,
sisters, daughters…” He looked up; his eyes glowing hot and fiery
with the fervour of battle. “How do you like it so far?”

Act worried – the Countess had
said. That was the easy part. He didn’t need to act. “Well, it is
rather good except…”

“Except what?”

“Except, er, something has come
to my attention recently…”

“Something to do with the
rally?”

“Not quite.”

“Is it something to do with Miss
Quilligan? According to my sister, your rich companion is looking
into her death – is that right?”

Dr Watson shifted uncomfortably
and dropped his gaze. “Yes, it relates to that.”

Langdale Pike’s journalistic
antennae went up. “Has the Countess discovered something?”

“Well, it’s a delicate matter,
I’m not sure if I should say anything.”

“I know about discretion. You
can trust me. I never reveal a source.”

“Yes, but this involves someone
rather important.”

Langdale knew better than to
bully and prod. Appealing to the doctor’s sense of fair play was
called for here. “Is it the man whose illustrious name I will not
mention at present who has been involved in this matter from the
start?”

Dr Watson nodded and bit his
lip. “My travelling companion may be compromised, you see, and I
don’t wish to put her in an impossible situation. I care very
deeply for her as a friend, very deeply.”

“Of course, I understand. My
sister tells me she is of fine and noble character, no one better
in all of England.” That was a tad rich and Langdale admonished
himself at once but the doctor didn’t seem to notice.

“Yes, very much so, and now, now
I have discovered something which may ruin her, you see. I am torn
between my affection for her, as a close friend, and my sense of
duty to my country.”

“I feel for you, my friend.”
Langdale’s tone was empathetic and encouraging. “Perhaps I can help
you – a problem shared and all that.”

Anguish twisted the doctor’s
features; he looked in genuine pain. “I fear she may be in grave
danger without knowing it.” He had improvised that last bit but it
made more sense than when he was agonizing over what to say. It
indicated he was starting to relax into his role.

Langdale’s curiosity peaked.
“Her life may be in even greater danger if you don’t speak up, my
friend. You probably read for yourself in my column that Mrs Aspen,
the President of the Southwark Suffragettes, believes Miss
Quilligan got a good look at the fire cracker man. She ran after
him down Northumberland Avenue. She may have been murdered for her
efforts. If only she had spoken up earlier her death may have been
prevented.”

Dr Watson appeared momentarily
startled, giving the impression that Langdale had hit the nail on
the head, which in fact, he had. This was going rather well. “It’s
uncanny you should say that because it relates to what is weighing
heavily on my mind.”

“Don’t make the same mistake
that poor Miss Quilligan made. Don’t keep your thoughts and
suspicions to yourself, old friend. I might be able to help you and
your friend.”

Dr Watson believed he had laid
enough ground work. It was time to apply the finishing touches. All
he had to do was remember what it was he needed to impart. Nerves
always made his brainbox go blank. “You cannot write this down,” he
whispered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t
being overheard and because it made it seem as if he had something
top secret to reveal. Oh, well, here goes.

“Countess Volodymyrovna was in
the carriage with the Prince Regent the night it was parked outside
the brothel in Southwark.” He paused and waited for Langdale to
gasp but the journalist was an old hand when it came to the
sensational.

“You are sure of this? Oh, what
am I saying? Of course you are sure! If it was anyone else I would
question the veracity of it at once. But your character is
unimpeachable and your close association to the noble lady
unquestionable. Please don’t let me interrupt.”

“Where was I?” said Dr Watson,
endeavouring to appear unimpeachable.

“Inside the carriage,” prompted
Langdale Pike, licking his lips.

“Oh, yes, no doubt you are
reading something lascivious into this and that is precisely why I
fear for my friend. Everyone else will jump to the same conclusion.
And that is why the Prince Regent has not allowed it to be publicly
known, though it would have spared him a lot of grief.”

Langdale chewed on his pencil.
“I cannot see how your friend will come out of this without her
reputation in tatters. It is either a question of the reputation of
the heir to the throne or the reputation of a foreign countess. If
what you say is true, and I do not doubt that you believe it, your
friend doesn’t stand a chance. But why say ‘jump to the same
conclusion’? Either she was in the carriage or she wasn’t. There is
no conclusion to jump, my friend.”

“But I haven’t told you
why
she was in the carriage.”

Langdale’s eyebrows arched to
meet his receding hairline. “Go on.”

“You will remember I told you it
had something to do with Miss Quilligan?”

Langdale nodded briskly - his
memory was like a steel trap - but before anything else could be
said they were interrupted.

“Hello, Langdale, still warming
the same old seat?” The voice was jocular and cynical and it
belonged to Mr Samuel Petheridge of the
London Gazette
.
“What make-believe will you churn out for your gullible readers
tomorrow?”

Langdale laughed; cutting
retorts were water off a duck’s back in the newspaper game.

Petheridge, uninvited, pulled up
a chair and began to size up the doctor through a monocle that felt
more like a telescope. “Who’s this, now?”

Fearing the big fat lie was
about to blow up in his face, Dr Watson was about to surrender his
name when a fourth man came out of nowhere. There was something
about the suavity of the man that seemed familiar. Dr Watson knew
he’d seen him before but he couldn’t place him. His confident
bearing hinted at a military background but he wasn’t in
uniform.

“Haven’t seen you for a while,
Petheridge,” he said in a chummy manner. “I’m just on the way to my
club for a decent coffee, the stuff here is atrocious, and maybe a
brandy or two. I don’t suppose you would care to knock a few balls
around the billiard table of the Carlton Club.”

Petheridge’s eyes lit up. “Did
you say Carlton Club?”

“That’s right, old boy. I hope
I’m not interrupting anything.” The friendly newcomer ran his eyes
swiftly over the trio before bringing them back to Petheridge. “How
about it? We can walk. It’s not far and the rain has just
stopped.”

The two men stepped lively out
the door and were soon lost in the bustling crowd of Christmas
shoppers keen to nab a bargain before panic set in.

“Who was that?” asked Dr Watson,
curious and not a little worried.

“Major Inigo Nash. He had
something to do with sorting out that unpleasantness at Ascot last
year. I don’t really know him and I’ve never seen him in here
before. I got the impression Petheridge didn’t really know him that
well either. Queer thing is I thought he was a member of the
Diogenes Club. Now, where were we?”

“My mind is blank.”

“Miss Quilligan,” prompted
Langdale.

“Oh, yes, my friend was
acquainted with Miss Quilligan through the Southwark Suffragettes
and Miss Quilligan contacted her after the rally to tell her she
recognized the fire cracker man but she was frightened of revealing
the name to anyone because it was someone in the government.”

Now Langdale gasped.
“Government? She actually said government?”

“Yes, that was how the Countess
put it to me. Miss Quilligan would only give the name to the Prince
Regent –”

“My God!” expostulated Langdale.
“Oh, sorry for interrupting, keep going. Are you sure I can’t write
this down?”

“No notes or I shall leave.” Dr
Watson made as if to go.

“Sit down, sit down; don’t be
foolish. I don’t think you realize the sort of bomb you are sitting
on. Sorry, poor metaphor. Keep going.”

Dr Watson was reaching his
stride. “Countess Volodymyrovna considered Miss Quilligan to be
reliable and sensible so she arranged for the Prince Regent to meet
the suffragette. The Prince Regent insisted the meeting take place
in his carriage because he feared a trap of some sort. Naturally,
the meeting was in Southwark because Miss Quilligan was a member of
the Southwark Suffragettes.”

Langdale was in seventh heaven.
His readers were going to love this; his editor was going to love
it even more; circulation was going to go through the roof. “What
happened at the meeting?”

“Well, that’s the rum thing.
Miss Quilligan failed to show. They waited and waited until finally
the Prince Regent could wait no longer. As I said, he feared a
trap. Miss Quilligan’s body was found the next day. You know the
rest.”

Langdale began talking quickly,
slurring his words, though he was fastidiously articulate. “I know
you have told me all this in the strictest confidence, worried for
the reputation of your friend, Countess V, with good reason, but I
can handle this delicate information with consummate skill. Your
friend will not come out of this badly. I can assure you she will
be painted in a positive light, along with Miss Quilligan, who is
the true victim in all this. The monarchy and her minions have been
applying pressure, threatening new censorship laws, deformation
suits, and all the rest of it, but they will be singing a different
song when I paint the Prince Regent in a glowing light. If only I
had a name. Are you sure Miss Quilligan did not hint at the name of
the government man?”

“I’m sure, very sure. My friend
has agonized over it for days. She even blames herself for the
death of Miss Quilligan and the terrible predicament of the Prince
Regent. I don’t suppose there is any way to keep her name out of
it?”

“Out of the question! No one
will believe a word of it without her name - she ties all the
protagonists together. It is like the Iliad without Helen of Troy.
Over the next few days I can add articles by Mrs Aspen, Miss de
Merville, and even my sister – she will be thrilled to be famous
for a day. Thank you for this information, Dr Watson. I will not
forget how you placed your trust in me. I will not let your friend
down.”

Stirring the pot of conspiracy
was not for him; Dr Watson recalled that suave fellow who came out
of nowhere; he felt sick at the thought of what could yet go wrong.
“Take care what you print. Don’t embellish things. This isn’t about
ghosts and things that go bump in the night. There’s danger and
death and, well, you need to watch your back too.”

For the first time in his life
Langdale Pike felt the truth inherent in the words he normally
manipulated to create fear and confusion in dull imaginations. He
was a master wordsmith, a master manipulator, but this time he
would choose his words with care. “I am aware of what is at stake,
Dr Watson. How goes your investigation into Crossbones?”

“It is on-going. Don’t mention
anything about that in your article. It’s a strange business,
that’s all I can say.”

“Can I have the story when you
are done?”

“That depends on how you handle
what I have just imparted.”

“You can trust me. By the way,
don’t forget the twenty-third of the month.”

“Twenty-third?”

“It’s when a preacher blesses
the graves of the outcast dead. Do you mind if I come along to
watch?”

“I don’t have the right to keep
anyone away. Come if you like. I might be in Sussex for Christmas
by then anyway. When will you publish what we discussed?”

Langdale considered the question
thoughtfully. “Not before tomorrow afternoon’s edition. It’s not
something I can dash off. I need to write it up and then speak to
my editor. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of an interview with
the Countess?”

“Not before hell freezes
over.”

Langdale glanced out of the bow
window. “That could be sooner than you think. It’s just started to
hail.”

Dr Watson leapt into the first
available hansom. “Mayfair Mews,” he directed at the cabbie out of
habit before recalling
she
hadn’t bothered to invite him to
her Christmas Eve bash. He knew he wasn’t in the same league as the
Vanderlindens or the Cazenoves. Still, it rankled. Christmas used
to be about family and friends, now it was about tinsel and
glitter. “On second thoughts, make that 221B Baker Street.”

Glorious red hair cascading down
a slender back like a waterfall of rubies meant there was no
mistaking Pennyrose. The young woman was seated in the front pew of
the Unitarian church sobbing her eyes out. Seated either side of
her were Sukie and the one called Molly who was still sniffing and
wiping her runny nose on her sleeve.