The Curse of Christmas (7 page)

The vicar was suddenly unsure if
a foreign countess trumped an English viscount. He did not wish to
put a generous benefactor off-side. While he was deciding who to
introduce to whom the Countess took charge. She ignored the
viscount and addressed herself to Mrs Aspen.

“May I congratulate you on your
work on behalf of female emancipation; an excellent meeting
tonight, Mrs Aspen. Let me make a donation to the cause.” The
Countess handed over a substantial wad of banknotes.

Mrs Aspen gasped at the
generosity. “That is very kind of you Mrs…?”

“Countess Volodymyrovna.”

Viscount Cazenove’s ears pricked
and he would no longer be ignored. He stepped up and introduced
himself, giving the Countess the chance to study him in more
detail. He was possessed of chiselled masculine features softened
by blue eyes, fair hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His clothes
befitted a well-bred gentleman, dashing but not dapper. He was not
at all muscular, and yet there was no hint of weakness in the lean
frame.

The Countess extended a gloved
hand. “I had the pleasure of meeting the Earl of Winchester when he
paid a visit to Melbourne and sojourned with us for a week at our
country estate in the Yarra Valley. I hope your father is in robust
health?”

“Alas, he suffered a stroke last
year. He is paralysed, bed-ridden, and has lost the power of
speech.”

“That is sad news. Please give
him my fondest regards when you see him next.”

“Excuse me,” broke in Mrs Aspen
impatiently, feeling the need to get on with business; her hand
under the vicar’s elbow as she steered him toward a table of
leaflets by the door which needed to be handed out as people
exited.

“I don’t remember my father
mentioning staying with a Russian countess while visiting
Australia,” mused Viscount Cazenove when he was alone with the
Countess.

“Volodymyrovna is Ukrainian. It
is my maiden name. I am widowed. My husband’s name was Jack
Frost.”

“Ah, yes, the hotelier,” he
recollected, nodding slowly. “I believe I recall my father
mentioning your husband suffered a horse-riding accident?”

She swallowed dry and steadied
her voice. “Yes, his new charger threw him. He was crippled. He
later shot himself.”

“I’m very sorry…”

“No need to apologise. Allow me
to commend you on your support regarding the rights of women. Have
you made that support part of your mission as MP for
Angelborough?”

His soft blue eyes made a quick
search of the hall and came to rest on a very pretty cerise hat
decorated with cherries that looked good enough to eat. “No, I am
actually here in the unofficial capacity of guard-dog. The streets
hereabouts are notoriously dangerous yet Miss de Merville will
insist on going about in all weathers and at all hours. We are, er,
engaged.”

“
Felicitations
.”

“It’s, er, unofficial. I must
ask you not to put it about. Did you enjoy her talk?”

“Yes, she is an inspiring
orator.”

“Don’t let her father hear you
say that. He detests her speaking in public and lives in dread that
one day he will be passing Hyde Park corner and find her on a soap
box!”

“You speak of General de
Merville?”

“Yes, he of Khyber fame, an
absolute...”

They were abruptly interrupted
by a crumpled young lady with untidy hazelnut hair who looked like
she’d slept in her clothes. She was wearing the frumpiest hat of
all – green with a bunch of violets tied with white ribbon stuck on
the side as an afterthought. But of course, there was no
afterthought. Green, violet and white were the colours of the
Suffragettes.

“Freddy,” she gushed
breathlessly, wiping a hand across her mono-brow, “Miss de Merville
says you need to go and relieve the vicar at the door so that he
can fetch up more leaflets from the storeroom. There are heaps more
people here tonight than we bargained for. We cannot let them leave
without foisting a leaflet onto them about our forthcoming rally.
Hurry!”

Viscount Cazenove grabbed the
young lady’s elbow before she could rush off. “Lucy, this is
Countess Volodymyrovna. Countess, this mad whirlwind is Miss Lucy
Quilligan, secretary of the Southwark Suffragettes.”

Miss Quilligan blushed profusely
and laughed awkwardly, as if embarrassed at the contact or the
praise or both. “Secretary? Dogsbody! Pleased to meet you!”

They watched her whirl away in a
state of energetic agitation.

“I can relieve the vicar at the
door,” volunteered the Countess, who liked to feel useful. “You can
fetch the leaflets from the storeroom.”

“No, no, it will be to no avail.
I don’t know what the vicar stores down there but he keeps the door
securely bolted. It’s probably full of priceless relics - the bones
of the Bishop of Winchester and the Holy Grail! If you deliver
Lucy’s edict and relieve the vicar I can try to rescue Miss de
Merville. I promised the General I would have his daughter home by
nine o’clock. He is hosting a supper party and as there is no Mrs
de Merville, Violet is expected to play hostess for her martinet of
a father, not that he doesn’t adore her. Don’t get me wrong. He
cherishes his only daughter and indulges her every whim.”

“Whim?”

“You’ve got me there. Wrong
choice or word. Don’t tell Violet you heard me say that. She would
prefer I refer to it as a passion or a mission.”

Half an hour later the Countess
was still handing out leaflets to the last of the stragglers as
Viscount Cazenove was finally ushering Miss de Merville out the
door with a firm hand in the small of her back. There was the
briefest exchange.

“Countess Volodymyrovna, I’d
like to present the indefatigable Miss de Merville.”

“I haven’t seen you at any of
our previous meetings,” said Miss de Merville crisply. “Thank you
for helping out tonight. I hope we meet again soon. Goodbye.”

The hall emptied out except for
Mrs Aspen and Miss Quilligan. The two organisers parked their
derrieres on a front pew and heaved a breath.

“The night was a huge success!”
declared Mrs Aspen.

“What a turnout!” whooshed Miss
Quilligan, wiping her mono-brow.

“I counted at least
seventy!”

“Violet is the best speaker
we’ve ever had!”

“I hope we can talk her into
coming to the rally!”

“Oh, yes, if she comes it will
draw an absolute crowd!”

The Countess interrupted them.
“Where would you like me to put the remaining leaflets?”

Mrs Aspen was startled out of
her rallying reverie. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot your name. I was
introduced to so many people tonight. My head is still spinning.
Thanks for that donation. We can take out advertisements in all the
newspapers for our rally.”

“Countess Volodymyrovna – don’t
mention it. The leaflets?”

Mrs Aspen looked around and
frowned. “Where is Pater?”

“He slipped away fifteen minutes
ago,” explained Miss Quilligan briskly. “I forgot to tell you. He
said we should store the leaflets in the cupboard by the front door
from now on. He doesn’t want us traipsing in and out of the
storeroom. He said it’s dank and someone might slip on the stairs
in the dark.”

“I wondered why Pater never let
anyone go down there. That makes sense. But who will turn off the
light and lock up if he isn’t here?”

“Pater said Deacon Throstle
would do it.”

“I haven’t seen him all
night.”

“Nor have I.” Miss Quilligan
jumped to her feet to relieve the Countess of the remaining
leaflets and was carting them to the cupboard when the deacon burst
through the door. He was soaking wet and his shoes squelched as he
tracked across the floor, leaving little puddles.

“How did it go, ladies?”

“Oh, just marvellous!” gushed
Miss Quilligan as she stacked the leaflets in neat piles on the top
shelf.

“Why are you putting your
leaflets in there?” he quizzed. “They will get mixed up with the
song-sheets.”

“There are no song-sheets in
here. Pater told us to put our leaflets in here instead. He doesn’t
want us traipsing in and out of the storeroom. It’s too dangerous
on the stairs.”

Deacon Throstle stared long and
hard at the door in question, which the Countess had assumed led to
the crypt mentioned by Dr Watson. It was referred to by all and
sundry as the storeroom. Tucked away into a poorly lit corner, it
was no surprise Reverend Paterson feared someone slipping on the
stairs and breaking their neck.

“Hmph, so where are all the
song-sheets?” huffed the deacon, arms on his hips. “We will need
them first thing tomorrow for the funeral.”

“I think I saw Pater putting
them behind the coffin,” supplied Miss Quilligan.

“I can check,” offered the
Countess. “Is that the box covered with a horse blanket?”

“Yes.”

While the others were distracted
straightening the pews and sweeping out clumps of mud that had been
tracked in by the cartload, the Countess, prompted by curiosity,
had a quick peek inside the coffin. She didn’t really expect to see
anything unusual – no ghouls or vampires or skeletons. The pale
corpse was that of an emaciated girl with stunning red hair that
framed her ghostly pallor; frightfully young – not more than
sixteen.

She placed the song-sheets into
Deacon Throstle’s arms just as Fedir appeared at the door.

“Ah, here is my coachman. I will
look forward to joining you at the rally, Mrs Aspen. I have kept a
leaflet for myself. Now, where did I put my umbrella?”

“Here it is with the other lost
property,” called Miss Quilligan cheerfully. “It matches your dress
that’s how I know it’s yours. There are two scarves, one pair of
gloves, four handkerchiefs and a pair of broken spectacles!”

“What did you make of the Temple
precinct?” the Countess put to her manservant as they sliced
through the rain toward the landau being temporarily minded by a
beggar for a shilling.

“It is good,” he said in broken
English, attempting to hold the umbrella over her head. “Near of
tavern there is lane to Temple Church. All around are many
footpaths, archways, gardens, courtyards and gates that come and
go. There is colonnade that can hide the coming and going too.
There is big garden that runs down to river where one can take
boat.”

“Perfect,” she said, without
elaborating. “Now, there is another matter to deal with. There is a
brothel in Union Street around the corner from where we are
standing. It is just to the left of that brick warehouse. After you
drop me home I would like you to return and pay a visit. I am
interested in two girls. One is called Miss Rose Pennyhill and the
other is called Miss Jemima Shepstone. They are known as Pennyrose
and Mims. Repeat the names,” she instructed.

“Penrose and Mim,” he said.

“No, no, Pennyrose and Mims,”
she enunciated. “Repeat once again, slowly.”

“Pennyrose and Mims.”

“Well done,” she praised,
“memorise the names. I would like you to become a regular visitor
to the brothel. Forget your normal duties. I will use the Mayfair
Mews coachman. He got his nose out of joint tonight when I said I
would be taking you. There is hardly anything for you to do anyway.
Ponsonby has it all in hand. Xenia is going mad with boredom and
she is starting to upset the regular routine of the servants.
Tomorrow you will rent a room somewhere hereabouts. Xenia will meet
with you every day at midday inside St Saviour Church next door to
the Borough Market, which I pointed out to you as we came here
tonight, the big church near London Bridge,” she reminded. “I want
you to keep your eyes open and report anything of interest. I want
to know who are the regulars at the brothel, what the girls are
like, if there is anyone there who is wealthy or who doesn’t fit
in. Take care. It could be dangerous.”

The Chinaman Theatre off Drury
Lane had been empty for seven years before the Ghost Club took up
the lease. The Shanghai performing troupe who had had it for barely
six months had departed hurriedly one night, some might say fled,
leaving behind gorgeously painted oriental backdrops, Chinese
costumes, strange musical instruments and weird props, including a
sinuous lion-dragon that was twenty feet in length, plus strings of
colourful Chinese lanterns suspended from the ceiling. The
departure had been prompted by a series of fatal accidents said to
be caused by a Hungry Ghost.

In Chinese mythology a Hungry
Ghost was an ancestor who had died of neglect or a person who had
died violently. A Hungry Ghost roamed the earth like a starving
beggar with a painfully thin neck and a distended belly, constantly
in search of food to appease its eternal hunger. Needless to say,
it was a bad omen to be visited by a Hungry Ghost.

The theatre was smallish,
leaning towards the dilapidated, sandwiched between a Bengali curry
house and a Jewish pawn broker, but the location was perfect and
the rent was cheap. The structure suffered from loose floorboards,
creaky doors, rickety stairs, poor lighting, and the odd
inexplicable knocking sound. On the plus side no one had died since
the Ghost Club had moved in.

The Ghost Club had started with
four members three years ago and now had thirteen. The members had
voted last year to maintain the membership at that misfortunate
number. A new member could only be admitted if they were replacing
one who was leaving. The members were all male but they were not
averse to women joining and the next on the waiting list was a
certain Mrs Eugenia Ronder.

The committee consisted of a
president, under-secretary, minute-secretary and treasurer. The
president was akin to a Master of Ceremonies. He chaired the
meeting and oversaw the proceedings for the night. The
under-secretary was tasked with placing a weekly advertisement in
The Strand Magazine
inviting members of the public with
paranormal problems to make contact. He presented the
correspondence for discussion. The minute-secretary took down the
minutes, made notes on all their activities, filed reports and kept
everyone posted between meetings. The treasurer collected the fees
and paid the bills.