The Curse of Christmas (3 page)

“We?” challenged Dr Watson
gruffly, trying not to picture green velvet smoking jackets with
crimson collars and chartreuse cords. “Don’t you have Christmas
shopping to do?”

“All taken care of while we were
vacationing in Biarritz and Paris,” she parried cheerfully,
picturing the gorgeous velvet smoking jacket being stitched in
Savile Row this very minute. “That’s what servants are for. I
telegraphed a shopping list from across the Channel and Ponsonby
took care of it, a marvellous man, much more than a butler. My aunt
knew how to choose the right help. So, here I am, at your disposal,
gentlemen.”

She could afford to feel
confident. It was not the doctor she had to win over, it was
Mycroft, the imperious civil servant, who held the reins of power
and issued the diktats. And she didn’t for a minute believe a
demigod of his standing was seriously concerned about the ghostly
goings-on in an unconsecrated boneyard in an obscure banlieu like
Southwark. There was something much bigger at stake than keeping a
lid on public panic. But she knew how to play along and her voice
was spun-sugar spiced with sage.

“What puzzles me about the
article penned by Mr Langdale Pike is that resurrectionists should
be back in business at all. I presumed their ‘graves’ were dug back
in 1832 when the Anatomy Act came into being.”

“Quite right,” agreed Mycroft.
“The last official report of body-snatching was back in 1862 in the
Wardsend Cemetery in Sheffield.”

“So it makes no sense to
suddenly resurrect the resurrection-men in the year 1899.”

Mycroft was secretly impressed
by her ratiocination and poetic phraseology, and yet not entirely
surprised. She certainly had Sherlock’s eyes, and there was a fey
resemblance in the elongated face, sharp nose and wide mouth.
Fortunately she had not inherited Sherlock’s thinning hair but was
blessed with her mother’s luxurious chestnut mane. She was not what
men would deem beautiful, but her intelligence and eloquence made
her infinitely attractive. She was Boudicca with brains. Hypatia
and Cleopatra rolled into one. Unfortunately, History and Fate were
never kind to clever women.

Dr Watson picked up the wrong
end of the stick as usual. He appeared to be swallowing the
Southwark bait hook, line and sinker.

“Langdale Pike is deliberately
confusing two issues - body-snatching and Burking,” he expounded
indignantly. “The former involves stealing corpses, the latter
involves cold-blooded murder. I know for a fact that since the
Anatomy Act was passed there has been a regular supply of cadavers
for dissection. Unclaimed corpses and those donated by relatives to
avoid paying for a grave have provided the 500 or so bodies per
annum required by our universities and hospitals. His mention of
Burkers is sensationalist clap-trap, designed to conjure up Burke
and Hare, put fear into the hearts of good men and taint the
honourable medical profession all over again.”

“Quite,” said Mycroft.

“Quite,” said the Countess.

Their eyes met, and in that
transitory moment Mycroft knew that she knew there was more to the
business in Southwark than body-snatching. There was possibly
nothing for it but to include her in the confidential briefing. But
could she be trusted? He had been in two minds, rare for him, ever
since she’d stormed the Stranger’s Room and forced him onto the
back foot. Was she as good as the reputation that preceded her? Six
cases successfully concluded in three months – was it possible that
she might turn out to be even better than the inimitable Sherlock
Holmes?

There was no longer any doubt in
his mind that Dr Watson would need help with the top secret
undertaking he was about to be asked to embark upon. It was too
important and there was too much at stake to leave the outcome to
the well-meaning vagaries of good intention represented by ‘John
Everyman’. Mr Langdale Pike was out of the question. Dr Gregory
might prove useful as a distraction.

A woman was not something he
would have considered. But there was the advantage of the feminine
connection. He could see the sense of that at once with regard to
the clandestine nature of this operation. Her aristocratic
connections might not go astray either. In fact, the more he
thought about it the more sense it made.

“Shall we adjourn to my private
apartment upstairs,” said Mycroft.

After the Countess re-rugged
herself, they re-crossed the black and white chequered marble
entrance hall, silently admiring the Germanic Christmas tree along
the way, mounted the stately stairs, and ascended to the topmost
floor like acolytes following worshipfully in the footsteps of the
master. Mahogany double doors opened to reveal a large round room
enclosed by a necklace of windows which offered a 360 degree
panorama of London. Much of the city was mantled in black fog but
the iconic clock tower poked above the floating rivers of soot. The
peal of Big Ben told them it had just gone six.

There was no open fire in the
dome but radiators warmed the vast space and, since heat rises, the
temperature had reached ambient perfection well ahead of them. They
settled into some deep leather chesterfields agreeably angled for
conversation under the dome. The cavernous ceiling was frescoed
with gold-spangled stars arranged in concentric circles on a dark
blue background that resembled an arc of night sky interposed
beneath the infinite arc of heaven, giving the impression that here
presided the philosopher-king steering the ship of state through
dark and treacherous waters.

As if by divine intervention, a
tray of coffee had arrived ahead of them. It hinted that the mood
was about to turn serious and they would need to have their wits
about them. Mycroft played Mother with a capital M, the archetypal
representation of the ideal in some Utopian Kallipolis, the
Platonic city state where Beauty was worshipped, Truth prevailed
and Wisdom ruled.

“
A true pilot must of
necessity pay attention to the seasons, the heavens, the stars, the
winds, and everything proper to the craft if he is to really rule
the ship…
”

“What are you mumbling about?”
grumbled Dr Watson still feeling unforgiving.

“I’m translating the Latin
inscription that runs around the base of the dome.”

Mycroft passed around the cups
of coffee, sugar bowl and milk jug. “I have invited you here to my
private quarters to discuss a matter of grave national importance
and utmost secrecy. It involves the heir to the throne, Prince
Albert Edward.”

He paused, allowing the gravity
of the noble name to sink in.

“Poor Tum-Tum,” she sighed
sympathetically, stirring in some sugar, “he is always in trouble
with his dear old Mama. Let me guess, this matter of grave national
importance involves a high-born lady who happens to be married to
someone who doesn’t believe in discretion being the better part of
valour?”

Dr Watson tut-tutted at the
flippant tone and decided to take his coffee black, disdaining the
sugar she proffered.

Mycroft congratulated himself on
following his gut instinct. When the Countess reduced the Prince
Regent to a royal pants-man he knew he’d made the right decision.
Her sardonic observation was spot on in more ways than one. Her
Majesty’s stubborn determination to keep her first-born son, now
fifty-eight years of age, away from affairs of state only added to
the infernal problem of his interminable uselessness and thus
talent for getting himself into trouble. Keeping an eye on Bertie
was like minding a naughty puppy in a garden full of stinging
wasps. Pity the men charged with the task, and now this damnable
business had landed in
his
lap.

“This matter is a little more
serious than keeping the Prince of Wales out of the divorce courts.
It is more serious because we do not know who is behind the threat
to blacken the Prince’s name. Let me elaborate. The Prince has a
propensity for, er, how shall I put it?”

“Don’t spare the colourful
phrases on my behalf,” said the Countess.

It was actually the puritanical
Scottish doctor that Mycroft was hoping to spare. Oh, well, there
was no skirting round it. “Prince Albert Edward has a propensity
for prostitutes, not merely for the discrete demoiselles in the
elite establishments around Covent Garden but the cheap and tawdry
kind as found in the vicinity of Southwark.

The future monarch is currently
enamoured of two young ladies of the night: Miss Rose Pennyhill and
Miss Jemima Shepstone, known to all and sundry as Pennyrose and
Mims. This has not proved a problem to date for the Prince’s
indiscretions are tolerated, even by his good wife, but this
morning it was brought to my attention that an unknown person has
become aware of the Prince’s fondness for these two ladies and word
has it that the unknown protagonist intends to catch the Prince in
a compromising act for the purposes of future blackmail.

With the advent of Mr Kodak’s
box camera this poses a new type of threat. Any indiscretion would
of course be damaging once a Prince becomes a King but photographic
proof of an indiscretion in the hands of an unknown enemy is of
vital national concern. The Prince has no particular power at
present to alter the course of state affairs, decide foreign policy
or interfere with government, but as King he will have the power to
grant favours, influence appointments, and so on. His actions must
be above suspicion. If there is any hint of being held to ransom,
well, the result is unthinkable.”

Mycroft paused to gauge whether
his two listeners had grasped the nettle when the Countess proved
she had not only grasped it, she had come up with a handful of
nasty stingers.

“A scandalous photograph could
be the least of the Prince’s worries,” she said. “Since the two
prostitutes in question, Pennyrose and Mims, are not aligned to an
elite establishment, they could be more prone to disease which may
endanger the future-future heir.”

Mycroft nodded for her to
continue.

“Blackmail from
inside
the establishment is more likely than from outside.”

Again, Mycroft nodded.

“I concede I don’t wish to sound
melodramatic but here goes: Jack the Ripper, who notoriously
stalked prostitutes, was never apprehended and this has led to wild
speculation. Theories of his identity have ranged from a medical
doctor to a member of the royal family. Are you following?”

Yes,” said Mycroft.

“No,” said Dr Watson. “Are you
saying Jack is still at large?”

“Not quite.”

“Oh, thank goodness for that,”
he said. “I thought for a minute you were going to suggest we’re
about to go in pursuit of Jack the Ripper.”

“I think it could be more
serious than that.”

“What could be more serious than
Jack the Ripper?”

“If someone wanted to seriously
discredit the Prince Regent for all time why stop at a sordid
photograph or two, why not incriminate Bertie in something so
reprehensible he would never be free of it.”

“How so?”

“One wild theory, held by many
to be true, is that the Duke of Clarence was actually the Ripper
and that the royal family covered up the fact. Now, imagine if
something violent should happen to Pennyrose and Mims. Imagine if a
vile crime could be laid at the feet of Bertie.”

“Good grief!” gurgled Dr Watson,
catching on at last. “A Ripper-style killing would blacken the name
of the future king for all time. It would follow him all the way to
the grave. A deceased royal linked to the Ripper is bad enough –
how does one refute it? - but a future monarch linked to the Ripper
would tarnish the whole of England. This is a job for the Secret
Service or the Horse Guards!”

“Normally, it would be handled
by the groups you just mentioned,” said Mycroft calmly, “but since
we are in the dark about our unknown enemy we must approach this
matter differently. First of all, we cannot let it be known we are
privy to any plot to discredit the Prince Regent otherwise the
source of our information would be compromised, moreover, the
unknown person in question would simply go to ground only to
resurface later when we are unprepared.

Secondly, Secret Service agents
in Southwark would stand out like sore thumbs. What we need are
John Everyman and his sleuthing companion conducting an occult
investigation into the ghostly goings-on in the Crossbones
Cemetery.”

“Oh, so that’s why you circled
the article by Langdale Pike?” surmised the Countess.

“Yes, as soon as I read it and
realized the cemetery was across the road from the brothel in
question I started to wonder how we might make use of it. I think
we can use the ghostly goings-on as a cover while investigating the
brothel, including the women who work there and the men who come
and go. I will alert you to the times the Prince Regent will be
making visits. I don’t expect you to stand guard at these times. He
will have equerries with him. What I envisage is a pair of eyes, or
in this case, two pairs, looking out for anything unusual, anyone
who seems out of place, anything sinister or felonious.”

Dr Watson took a deep breath and
exhaled windily. “In a place like Southwark that leaves the field
wide open.”

“I meant felonious in a
mastermind way. Something over and above purse-snatching,
soliciting and pilfering, even body-snatching is classed as a
misdemeanour not a felony. Body-snatchers are careful to throw
jewellery adorning the corpse back inside the coffin. They want a
cadaver not an appointment with the hangman.”

“Agrippa referred to Crossbones
as an unconsecrated graveyard,” posed the Countess, attempting to
become
au courant
as quickly as possible, “so who exactly is
buried there?”

“The outcast dead,” replied
Mycroft. “It is unconsecrated ground because it falls outside the
diocese of St Saviour Church. It is a small grim plot of land where
females who are deemed not fit to be buried in consecrated
churchyards are interred.