The Curse of Christmas (5 page)

She flashed an optimistic smile
but she might as well have been reciting blank verse to two blind
and deaf moles. A handful of shiny shillings repaired the
linguistic disconnect between tongue and brain. Hobgoblin eyes
sparkled greedily but the troll looked unimpressed. He regarded her
even more suspiciously, coughed up a gob of horrid green phlegm,
spat it out with disdain, and smiled maliciously when greenish spit
besmirched her lovely new umbrella.

“Who’s that cove?” he demanded
gruffly in a voice that sounded as if he was churning gravel in a
vatful of gobby phlegm.

Fighting the urge to clock the
troll with her soiled umbrella, the Countess made an exaggerated
pretence of looking back over her shoulder. “Oh, that is Dr Watson.
He is a member of the Ghost Club. He is here to examine the
paranormal phenomena of which I speak. Your little cemetery is
quite famous now that Mr Pike has written an article all about it.
By the way, did Mr Pike interview you for his article and did I
mention I pay handsomely for any interview?”

“Did you say doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Proper doctor like?”

“Yes.”

Dr Watson was perambulating the
boneyard choked with weeds. There was just one marker that dared
raise its head above the thistles. Unsurprisingly, it had no
inscription. There were a large number of wooden crosses that
appeared to have been set too shallow into boggy ground and were
now leaning every which way like a gathering of hopeless drunks
about to topple over.

“Dr Watson, this gentleman is
interested in the fact you are a doctor,” she addressed to her
sleuthing counterpart when he joined them. “By the way,” she
continued, turning back to the two men, “my name is Countess
Volodymyrovna, and you are –”

“Joffencrick,” said the troll,
eyeing the doctor warily, taking in the measure of the walking
stick and the plain cut of the wool coat that announced a cove of
good-standing, not a rich gent, but well-to-do – he didn’t normally
trust doctors but this one had an honest face.

The Countess pulled out a
notebook and pencil. “Is that your Christian name?”

The two men guffawed loudly.

“I’m Joff and he’s Crick,”
clarified the troll with a greasy smirk.

She wrote down the two names,
putting T for troll next to Joff and H for hobgoblin next to Crick
to aid her memory, not that she would easily forget the two
grave-diggers. It was merely a precaution in the event there might
be more than two moles who scratched a living in the Crossbones
Cemetery.

“Good- morning, gentlemen,”
greeted Dr Watson cordially.

Bless his heart! The Countess
could have hugged him! John Everyman would win these two surly
grave-diggers over in no time at all.

“Are you a proper doctor?”
checked the troll.

“Yes, certainly, one is either a
doctor or one is not, how can I help?”

The troll turned bright red and
shifted uncomfortably. His goblin friend laughed crudely. The
medical matter looked like the sort of thing not fit for female
ears. The Countess concluded the chance for a meaningful interview
had passed and decided to make an inspection of the cemetery. She
left the men to it.

Crossbones seemed more like a
human dumping ground than a cemetery. The unfortunate girls who
were buried here were probably homeless, born out of wedlock, year
unknown, possibly orphaned early in life and forced to eke out a
living in the worst way imaginable.

The Countess came to the end of
a rough dirt path and paused by the fence that ran along Redcross
Way. Across the narrow lane was a tall gate surmounted by a
Christian cross which indicated a rear entrance to the place of
worship mentioned by Mycroft. The rear wall was of stucco painted
grey, indicating an austere utilitarian building of no
architectural or ecclesiastical merit. There was no bell tower or
stained glass window to be seen. The gate had two notices pinned to
it.

Dr Watson re-joined her a few
minutes later.

“That was a fast consultation,”
she said.

“I told him I’d return tomorrow
with my medical bag. I think from the description he gave of his
symptoms he might be suffering from syphilis.”

“Mmm, you can hardly do an
examination here in the open.”

“He told me there was a
cellar-cum-crypt under the church across the way. He thinks the
vicar might let us go in there.”

“That’s a stroke of luck.”

“What? That the vicar will let
us use the crypt or that he has syphilis?”

“That we have an excuse to speak
to the vicar.
Allons-y.
”

Joff and Crick went back to
their scratching while our sleuths moved to check out the church.
The first notice pinned to the back gate told of a funeral service
for someone called Annie. It was to take place tomorrow morning at
nine o’clock. All welcome, it said.

“That could be why they are
digging a fresh grave,” reasoned the Countess.

The second notice announced a
meeting to discuss Women’s Rights at seven o’clock in the evening.
It was being organized by the Southwark Branch of Suffragettes. The
president was Mrs Emma Aspen, the secretary was Miss Lucy
Quilligan, and the guest speaker was Miss Violet de Merville. The
last name was printed in large bold font to catch the eye. Miss de
Merville was clearly a draw card.

“I feel an urge to join the
militant sisterhood,” said the Countess. “Would you care to join
me?”

“No thank you,” he declined
firmly. “I’m keen to chat to Mr Langdale Pike this evening at the
Ghost Club. The club members meet once a month and tonight’s the
night. Eight o’clock sharp in a small disused theatre off Drury
Lane.”

“That’s not far from here. You
can come to the suffrage meeting at seven and still get to the
Ghost Club for eight.”

He began shaking his head. “No,
no, I am not against women having rights but giving women the vote
will be the downfall of this country. I want to speak to Dr Gregory
as well. I’ll approach him discretely after the meeting.”

They walked around the corner
into O’Meara Street to the front of the church where the same two
notices were pinned to the entrance door. The Countess tried the
iron handle and was unsurprised when the door swung back. English
churches were rarely locked during daylight hours. A gust of wind
caught the wooden door and it gave a resounding bang as it slammed
back into place.

The interior of the church
recalled the drab halls favoured by temperance societies. There was
not a single item that was not purposeful or useful. In other
words, there was nothing decorative, colourful, or imaginative in
sight. Straight rows of plain wooden pews were set symmetrically on
both sides facing a dais at the front. There was no altar, no
vaulting, no carving, no icons, no incense and no vases of flowers.
There was a plain wooden lectern from which someone preached, and
nailed to the wall behind the lectern was a simple wooden cross,
presumably to remind the worshipful why they were there. A few
low-level bookshelves housed dusty bibles. A couple of small
cupboards of the sort generally found in Sunday schools housed
items unknown. Plain wooden candelabras studded with stumpy candles
would have provided the light along with a row of clerestory
windows.

There was only one item of
interest as far as the Countess was concerned and that was a coffin
positioned just behind the lectern. She was about to take a peek
inside when a voice waylaid her.

“May I help you?”

A stick thin insect wearing a
check suit that clung tightly in all the wrong places, in the
colour known as olive green, never flattering to those with sallow
complexions, emerged from the right of the platform, a bit like an
actor playing a praying mantis emerging from the wing of a
provincial theatre purporting to be a country garden. A pair of
bulging eyes showed how startled he was that anyone had ventured
inside the church. The Countess went straight into acting mode.

“Oh, hello, I am a reporter with
The Quotidienne.
I am writing an article on the ghostly
goings-on in the Crossbones Cemetery across the way from your
charming little church. Countess Volodymyrovna, pleased to meet
you, Reverend…” She paused, allowing him to fill the gap.

“The reverend is currently, er,
occupied. I am Deacon Throstle.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Deacon
Throstle,” she gushed, turning to her companion. “This is Dr
Watson, a fellow with the Drury Lane Ghost Club, who is
investigating the paranormal phenomena of which I speak.” She added
the ‘Drury Lane’ to make the Ghost Club sound more prestigious.

“Yes?”

“Have you seen anything odd
going on across the way?”

“Odd?”

“Graves being dug up in the dead
of night? Body-snatchers? Corpses? Empty coffins? Ghosts? Ghouls?
Resurrection men?”

“Certainly not!”

“Is that a coffin?”

“What?”

“On the dais – is that a
coffin?”

Bulging eyes stared fixedly at
the pine box. So far his responses had been monosyllabic and just
when she was hoping for something a little more expansive a fresh
voice intervened and they all turned to look.

“Yes it is. Good-morning, I am
Reverend Paterson. May I ask your interest in the coffin?”

Reverend Paterson appeared to
have emerged from the crypt, for he was hurriedly fastening his dog
collar and straightening his surplice - a scrupulous white smock
with just a touch of embroidery on the hem. It came to mid-thigh
and sat on top of his less than scrupulous black vestment. His
leonine mane of white hair was covered with cobwebs and the toes of
his shoes were coated with dust. The Countess went through the
introductions again and this time the response was much more
heartening.

“Did you say Dr Watson? Not the
author of the adventures of the great consulting detective, Mr
Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes,” confirmed Dr Watson in
his usual modest manner, perennially surprised that anyone should
recognize the name.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,
Dr Watson. I have read all of your stories. I think some of them
have the makings of a full length novel. I hope you will expand on
the narrative of several of them and give your readers a
treat.”

“I don’t know if I could sustain
the reader’s interest over the length of a novel. But you have
certainly given me something to think about.”

The reverend assured him that an
author of his talent would manage it easily but when the praise got
too much for the modest doctor to bear, and cheeks started turning
cherry pink, he moved on. “What brings you to our modest Unitarian
church? Are you a suffragist?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A male interested in the cause
of female emancipation. A woman is a suffragette. A man is a
suffragist.”

“Oh, yes, I see, well,” said Dr
Watson, licking his lips – he never felt comfortable telling lies
and it showed – “not exactly. You see, my companion and I are here
to investigate the strange business in the Crossbones
Cemetery.”

“Are you referring to the
article penned by Agrippa?”

“Yes, did you happen to speak to
the reporter about what might be going on?”

“No, he made no approach to
speak to me, nor to my deacon. As far as I know he didn’t even
visit the cemetery. I don’t know where he got his information from.
It was a most scurrilous article. I felt quite incensed when I read
it.”

The Countess interceded. “So
there has been no body-snatching?”

“Certainly not! The Anatomy Act
got rid of all that terrible business. And not before time!
Crossbones is often associated with ghosts and the undead and that
sort of thing simply because it is unconsecrated. People are
superstitious. Some credulous fools will believe anything.”

“Such as corpses rising from the
dead on the third day and that sort of thing?” she said.

“Yes, that sort of thing,” he
mimicked with disdain.

“I was of course referring to
the Holy Ghost,” she clarified. “But the 3 personned-God does not
apply to Unitarians does it? They believe that Jesus was a prophet
but not divine; he was not resurrected. Unitarians are not
Trinitarians, is that correct?”

“Yes, quite correct. Most people
cannot make that distinction. We are a small denomination made up
of people who prefer to take God at his word rather than
re-interpret the good book to suit the fashion of the times. What
newspaper did you say you write for?”

“
The Quotidienne
.”

Bushy white brows drew down
thoughtfully. “I don’t believe I have heard of it.”

Unlike Dr Watson, the Countess
had no trouble at all telling lies when the occasion called for it,
though she was usually honest to the point of blunt – it was just
that she understood when one was called for and the other not. “It
is a monthly publication printed by the residents of Mayfair. I can
put you on our subscriber’s list. There is a modest joining fee.
For twenty pounds you get twelve publications per annum and a
special Christmas edition. I am penning an article on the
Crossbones Cemetery in time for Christmas. I pay handsomely for any
interviews.”

He baulked visibly at the
outrageous sum. “Quotidian means daily yet you publish
monthly?”

“An ironic conceit. Well
spotted! I must congratulate you, Reverend Paterson. Most readers
fail to recognize the little joke. Now, about Crossbones…”

“I can assure there is no
body-snatching.”

“Be that as it may, Agrippa also
hinted at some ‘ghostly goings-on’ – what could he have meant by
that?”

“I have no idea.”

Deacon Throstle coughed to clear
his throat. “He was probably referring to the twenty-third of the
month.”

The other three had forgotten
the deacon was even there. They all turned to face him. He appeared
to shrink under the glare of the tripartite spotlight while his
bulging eyes seemed to grow alarmingly large with fright.