The Curse of Christmas (30 page)

Or had he?

Had he deliberately wound her up
and then waited for the idea to spring forth from girded loins?
Everything had happened so swiftly after that, too swiftly –
Colonel Damery in Battersea Park, the invitation to tea at
Marlborough House; and who was there to greet her but General de
Merville and Mycroft’s very own man for all seasons, Major
Nash.

She had felt protected because
of her association with Mycroft, the secret bond, the ties that
bind. He was the one she had done it for, not the prince of pricks,
not for status and social acceptance. It had been for Mycroft.

Did he set her up? Did he use
her? More, to the point, would he disown her if it all went
horribly wrong? Was Moriarty right?

Deacon Throstle made his way to
them with the last two candles in his basket. She exchanged the
candles for some alms for the poor, hoping it would actually get to
the poor. Was everyone out for themselves? Could anyone really be
trusted?

Amen…

Reverend Paterson had recited a
prayer, and in the manner of an Orthodox priest was now moving
between clumps of rank weeds, flicking holy water on the unnamed
graves, swinging a Byzantine censer that gave out a faintly
aromatic smell that mingled with the fetid odours. She was
accustomed to the ritual. The week following Easter was the
blessing of the graves. Everyone in the village and estate went to
the cemetery. It was joyous - a celebration of life in the midst of
death.

This was sad and slightly
pathetic. The wretches buried in this horrid little graveyard
didn’t even have names and yet it was all they had. It was their
place. Someone long ago had set it aside for the outcast dead. She
hoped it was never built over and forgotten.

Reverend Paterson returned to
the headstone for one last quick blessing. Joff and Crick had blown
out their candles so they could save them for later. Some of the
girls were growing restless, and some were shivering
uncontrollably.

She gave the signal. Fedir
opened the coffin and moved away into the darkness.

“Look!” someone called out, and
everyone saw it - a beautiful red-haired wraith floating out of the
ground.

Several girls cried out and one
fainted, but the rest stayed rooted to the spot, too much in awe of
the supernatural to break the terrible spell. Mrs Kronski crossed
herself, again and again.

Reverend Paterson jumped back
with fright. But it was the look on Deacon Throstle’s face that was
most telling. He gasped and looked straight at his counterpart to
gauge his reaction.

Shimmering in the golden
lamplight, a female vision appeared on the train track, her
ethereal yellow hair and white bed-gown eerily glowing, trembling
and pulsing against the blackness that framed her ghostliness.

“Over there!” someone cried.
“The fetch!”

And this time it was once again
Deacon Throstle’s face that gave the game away. He was petrified,
white as a ghost. Reverend Paterson glanced fearfully at his
helpmate.

Everything the Countess
suspected was confirmed. When the impossible is eliminated, things
fall into natural place.

The two grave-diggers ran for
their lives. Mrs Kronski, still crossing herself to stave off the
unholy demons, led her gaggle back to the brothel. The girl who
fainted revived and stumbled after them, terrified of being left
behind and dragged to hell.

Reverend Paterson mumbled
something as he hurried past. Deacon Throstle, lost for words,
dropped the basket and chased after him.

The basket was empty. The
Countess picked it up and hoped it wasn’t a sign the alms had been
pocketed for personal gain.

Sukie the red-haired revenant
and Molly the fetch were taken to Ye Old Cock Tavern where they
would be housed until suitable lodgings could be found and
arrangements for their education set in place. They had played
their parts well and the Countess would live up to her end of the
bargain. Mr Langdale Pike followed them, eager to get their story;
Miss Pike and Dr Gregory just wanted to get out of the cold so they
went too.

“Hello there,” said a voice Dr
Watson recognized in an instant.

It was Inspector Lestrade. He
and five of his men had been waiting patiently under the viaduct at
the request of the Countess who had promised to deliver Miss
Quilligan’s murderer and a whole lot besides.

“What’s the go here?” he said
laconically, belying the fact he was ready to spring into action.
“It’s been a while since we crossed paths, Dr Watson. I see you
have a new partner now, and much prettier than the old one!” He
laughed at his own joke. “How is he doing with his bee-keeping? Not
too bored down there in Sussex?”

Dr Watson shifted awkwardly.
“Not too bored, no, the climate and the hobby agree with him.” He
decided to change the subject. “How are you doing, Lestrade? When
are they going to put you in charge of the Yard?”

The burly inspector laughed
heartily. “Any day now! Any day!” He heard the five men behind him
snigger. “No cheek from you young fellows, now!” he warned
good-naturedly. “Or you’ll be back pounding the beat.” He turned
next to the Countess. “So, where is he – our murderer?”

“She,” she corrected.

“She!” Incredulity added a
higher pitch to the laconic tone. “The Ripper is a She?”

“I believe so.”

“You believe so,” he echoed
unhappily. “Please tell me you have proof.”

“No proof at all and that is why
I need you to gain entry to that church.” She indicated the
Unitarian church that backed onto Redcross Way.

“And what will we find in
there?”

“I’m not sure but I think
whatever we find will prove interesting and fruitful.”

Lestrade looked helplessly at
his muddy boots for guidance. He knew that this woman who called
herself a countess was presently the most famous woman in all of
London and that to offend her was to offend the Queen, the Prince
of Wales, the Princess of Wales, every Member of Parliament,
starting with the Prime Minister and working down to the
backbench.

He liked to keep abreast of
world news and so he knew this countess whose name he couldn’t
pronounce had been travelling with the doctor when he solved the
Baskerville murders, the Lammas murders, the York murders, the
murder on the Irish Sea, the murders in the French countryside and
most recently the gruesome murders in Paris.

Now, it’s not that he had a poor
opinion of Dr Watson, he had great respect for him, but there was
no way the doctor had solved all those murders off his own bat.
Which meant one thing; she had had a hand in them. Which meant she
was either an extraordinary detective or she was some sort of
witch, and since he didn’t believe in witches, that only left the
other.

He had nothing against women
detectives. He had met several who had opened up their own
consulting agencies but they worked mostly with divorce matters and
the like. They were hard-working and clever, and he had no doubt
that one day the Yard would allow women to join its ranks. There
were women doctors and women pilots and women scientists. Why not
women detectives, he asked himself?

So, here he was, ready to break
down the doors of a church at the say-so of a woman who was a
countess whose name he couldn’t pronounce who he couldn’t afford to
offend who had told him she didn’t know what they might find.

Hell’s bells!

“I don’t suppose you have a
key?” he said, thinking that church doors were notoriously hard to
break down.

“No, but my man can climb
through the open window and unbolt the door from the inside. We
cannot allow the two men who are inside to hide or destroy any
evidence. A couple of your men can follow to make sure my man is
not coshed on the head.”

“Hang on? You just said the two
men who are inside? A moment ago I thought you said the Ripper was
a woman?”

“Yes, but as I have no proof, it
will be better to do things this way.”

Lestrade looked helplessly at
his muddy boots and then at Dr Watson. Sherlock was never as bad as
this. “Do you know what’s going on?”

“Not a clue,” said Dr Watson,
amused that he wasn’t the only one in the dark for a change.

Lestrade nodded at his men.
“Jones and Kendrick, you follow the Countess’s man. Withers,
Smithson and Beckingham, you wait at the front door on O’Meara
Street. Stay alert. We don’t want these two blighters to flee. And
make sure they don’t destroy any evidence. Look lively, lads!”

A short time later the front
door flew open and something bounced down the steps. The Countess
picked it up – a Christmas wreath of holly berries and a red
ribbon. It had been hanging on a nail that was now lost to the
darkness.

Inside, the first shock came
quickly. Deacon Throstle was sprawled on his back, on the dais.
There were no obvious injuries or fatal wounds. It appeared as if
he’d died of fright, which fit the theory of meeting his own fetch,
if one believed such things. Otherwise, his heart gave out from
sheer terror, which was probably the same thing as dying from
fright.

His bedroom was checked first
and there came the proof – a yellow wig and a white bed-gown, torn
and soiled from his recent sprint through the dungeon-esque
waterways of Southwark.

Reverend Paterson was nowhere to
be found.

“Try the crypt,” offered the
Countess.

The door was bolted on the
inside. No amount of banging with fists made a difference. One of
the policemen suggested the lectern. It was carved from a solid
piece of oak and made a useful battering ram.

“Bring some candles,” ordered
Lestrade when the door caved in.

Reverend Paterson, dressed in
his best surplice, was standing at the base of the stairs, bathed
in darkness, waiting to greet the trespassers who dared to venture
into his cobwebby kingdom. He was first and foremost stunned to
learn Deacon Throstle was dead. They had returned to the church
after the midnight blessing. He came straight down to the crypt and
he presumed his deacon had taken himself off to bed.

Lanterns were lighted and the
crypt thoroughly searched. It was a small, tight space. Lestrade,
Dr Watson, the Countess, Reverend Paterson and three policemen soon
filled it. The barrel-vaulted, brick ceiling hung oppressively low,
the floor was made of stone. An unpleasant musty smell permeated
the air. Around the wall ran a set of shelves that held church
archives, moth-eaten bibles and numerous boxes full of candles. A
refectory table was the only piece of furniture. On it sat candles
in tarnished brass holders and a bible that sat open on a page
twenty-five.

“There’s no chair,” observed the
Countess.

“What?” said Lestrade.

“There’s no chair for sitting at
the table,” she repeated.

“I prefer to stand whilst
reading the good book,” volunteered the reverend.

Shelves were searched and
nothing untoward found – no black velvet cloak, no can of paint, no
bones. Bitterly disappointed, they climbed the steps, happy to
leave behind the fetid smell of centuries of damp and dust and
mouldering books.

Reverend Paterson, coated in
cobwebs, began dusting himself off.

“That’s odd,” said the
Countess.

“What’s odd?” said Dr
Watson.

“Cobwebs – why is the reverend
the only one covered in cobwebs?” She snatched up a lantern. “Grab
another lantern. I want to conduct another search.”

The worried look that came over
the cleric told her she was right. There was more to the crypt than
a bible-reading room

It didn’t take long to discover
less dust and fewer cobwebs on one side of the crypt than the other
three sides. Behind a bookshelf that abutted the steps was a hidden
door. It led into a secondary vault that might at one stage have
safe-guarded church valuables, silver candlesticks, or saint’s
bones, or even the priests themselves in times when having the
wrong religion was dangerous.

“Oh, God, it’s sickening!”
gagged Dr Watson, trying not to dry-wretch. “It smells like
death!”

And that’s exactly what it was.
The floor was made of earth and someone had been burying bodies.
There were at least three corpses recently interred. A coffin
rested on the ground and in it was a young woman with red hair. She
was not swaddled in mummy cloth. She was naked. Around her vulva
was a lot of slimy secretion.

Dr Watson leaned closer for a
smell and pulled back at the foul odour. He didn’t need to test it
with his fingers. He felt himself go hot and cold and hot again. He
felt ill at the thought of the rottenness of man. He searched for
the right words, any words, but when he looked into the eyes at his
counterpart he realized that she knew what the secretion was
too.

“You have heard of necrophilia?”
he said.

“Yes, of course, I think this
might be Mims. In the place over there where the earth has been
recently disturbed we will probably find Annie. And who knows how
many others are down here. And, look, here is a small can of paint.
I bet that is the paint Miss Quilligan was using when she was
murdered.”

“Reverend Paterson must have
murdered her and put the paint can in his bucket or basket that
night.”

“Yes, I agree about the can of
paint in the basket, but he didn’t murder her, just as he didn’t
murder Deacon Throstle. If you recall, he wasn’t wearing a coat yet
it was bitterly cold. No one in their right mind would go out at
midnight without a warm coat. Moreover he didn’t have blood on him
and yet whoever killed Miss Quilligan must have been splashed with
blood and possibly some paint too.”

“So, he didn’t do the deed but
he was with the person that did?”

She nodded. “Reverend Paterson
isn’t the sort of cleric who would visit his parishioners late at
night with a batch of mince pies – we now know he had other things
on his mind - so why did he have the basket?”