The Curse of Christmas (8 page)

Each month it fell to a
different member to collect the curry for dinner on the occasions
when they convened. It fell to another member to pick up some wine
from the vintner around the corner – this month the cup-bearer was
Dr Watson.

Members congregated around a
large round table under the roseate glow of Chinese paper lanterns,
wolfed down hot curry, downed copious amounts of wine to cool their
burning gullets, informed members how cases were progressing and
discussed new cases for possible investigation.

Occasionally, a member would
organize to demonstrate a paranormal effect using a camera obscura,
smoke machine, photographic trick, spirit writing, invisible wires,
and so forth. This was done on the stage and was a theatrical event
in its own right. The meetings started at precisely eight o’clock
and rarely finished before midnight.

Dr Watson, heeding Mycroft’s
warning, and mindful of the presence of Mr Langdale Pike, had
decided ahead of time not to share his investigation into the
ghostly goings-on in Southwark with his fellow members. Members
might start scouring the Crossbones Cemetery with a fine-tooth comb
and scare off whoever was planning to implicate the Prince Regent
in something scandalous. In fact, when the article by Agrippa was
brought to everyone’s attention by the under-secretary and Langdale
Pike laughed it off as a bit of creative journalism, it was the
journalist himself who put forward a motion
not
to pursue
it. Dr Watson was relieved when the motion was carried 8-5.

They voted to look into the
haunting in the North Audley Mews instead. The owners of the
stables had offered a substantial reward for the solving of the
so-called mysterious ghost cat spooking their horses. It was not
that the Ghost Club members were mercenary, far from it, they
usually worked gratis, but the fee would pay their rent for a whole
year. Major Doige and Colonel Voysey were chosen to head the North
Audley Mews investigation; they would call on help should the need
arise. Mr Osterly and Reverend Greene were still looking into the
spirit writing on the wall of St Olaf’s that appeared as if by
magic. Signor Sciamma, Mr West and Dr Pomeranz were still hard at
it putting together a case against the beguiling psychic, Madame
Houri, who had fleeced dozens of widowers and left them
destitute.

Everyone else had their hands
full with the ghost train on the Victoria line. That was proving a
real puzzler. It was taxing the brain power of four club members,
including Mr Pike, and took up most of the discussion time of the
evening. A camera obscura was suspected as the likely culprit for
the ghostly images of the train. There were literally hundreds of
places a camera could be hidden. Any wall would suffice for the
grainy projections.

The Victoria line was so long it
was impossible to keep an eye on every inch of it at any given
time. Unfortunately, each time the ghost train appeared someone
died soon after, usually within minutes, usually struck by a real
train. Solving the paranormal mystery was probably going to be a
matter of pure luck; a case of someone seeing something odd and
reporting it to a station guard who could apprehend the villain at
the scene.

Dr Watson was the only member
who didn’t currently have a case because he had just returned to
London after three months of travel with the Countess. He played up
his chesty cough when cigarettes were passed round and was spared
any fresh investigation. He agreed to help out where he could.

The time was five minutes past
midnight when he caught up to Dr Gregory taking a short cut along
Bear Pit Alley toward High Holborn.

“We can share a hansom,” he
suggested casually to his old rugby pal. “Are you still living off
the Camden Road?”

“Yes, but it’s not really on
your way. I don’t want to put you out. How long have you had that
cough?”

“About six months. I picked it
up in Biarritz last summer. There was a bout of Spanish flu going
around. Camden Road will take me around the back of Regent Park to
Baker Street. It’s no bother. I want to chat to you about something
private.”

“That sounds serious – are you
tying the knot again? I heard you were travelling with a rather
rich and attractive foreign countess.”

“Countess Volodymyrovna. No, no
nothing like that. We are, er, friends.” He was about to say
‘occult detectives’ but checked himself in time. “Here’s a
cab!”

Two eerie golden lights like
demon’s eyes were swimming toward them through the murky fog. It
was hard for the driver to see anyone. They had to step onto the
road to gain attention.

“Camden Market Road,” directed
Dr Gregory.

Dr Watson waited until the
clip-clop of the hooves muffled the sound of their voices.

“I didn’t say anything tonight
to the other members but I am on a case already. It’s a bit
hush-hush.”

“Are you working on a case with
your old friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

“No, he is still recuperating
from his ordeal in Switzerland.”

“That was years ago, wasn’t
it?”

“Yes, eight years ago, but it
affected him badly. His health is not the same. He keeps a low
profile and rarely takes cases now.”

“Mmm, nasty business that. One
day you must tell me all about it. One hears such wild stories. One
minute your friend is alive, the next he is dead and then he is
alive again and it has been that way for eight years now. Some say
he has retired to the Sussex countryside – bee-keeping of all
things! – and then I read an article in the newspaper about a case
he has solved. I don’t know what to believe. I know you wrote up
the whole extraordinary thing in one of your chronicles but it
sounded so dramatic I thought you must have made half of it up to
please your publisher.”

“Yes, yes, I admit it sounds
like a tale and a half, but, well, the reason I wanted to speak to
you has to do with the Crossbones Cemetery.”

“Really? But didn’t you just
vote against?”

“Yes, I did, because I didn’t
want Mr Pike or anyone else looking into it.”

“But Langdale laughed off the
whole business. I got the impression he made it all up to stir up
readership or at least he exaggerated it a good deal.”

“He certainly gave that
impression but you know how these things can get out of hand -
women afraid to go to hospital, the medical profession accused of
body-snatching and murder-on-demand, hue and cry, public
hysteria.”

“Hmm, I agree the public can get
frightfully het up about such things, but if it is all a beef-up
then it will just peter out naturally.”

“I’m not so sure it’s just a
beef-up. I have recently been given some information that leads me
to think there is actually something odd going on in the Crossbones
Graveyard.”

“It’s not a graveyard.
Graveyards are synonymous with churchyards, in other words they are
attached to churches. Crossbones is a cemetery. Information? From
whom?”

“I cannot reveal my source but
it is someone I trust. By the way, the cemetery in Southwark
is
attached to a church. There’s a Unitarian church at the
side of it, well, across the way actually, meaning Redcross
Way.”

“That’s not the same thing. It’s
still not attached and the church has no say on anything regarding
burials or graves. Why so secretive about your source. Crossbones
is fairly obscure.”

Dr Watson got the impression his
old rugby pal was thinking he might be trying to invent things for
the sake of a good story and his publisher.

“It is someone I trust as much
as I trust you. My source doesn’t tilt at windmills.”

“What is his interest?”

“Public interest.”

“Crossbones?” he said dubiously.
“It is a rum sort of place to take a public interest in.”

“I agree. I went there today to
have a look for myself and met two grave-diggers. I’m going back
tomorrow to give one of them a health check. I think he has
syphilis.”

“Syphilis isn’t my field and I’m
already involved in the ghost train mystery. Besides, if anything
odd is going on it’s probably just a case of tooth-robbery.”

“Tooth-robbery?”

“The Anatomy Act made stealing
corpses pointless but teeth are lucrative. With the advent of
nitrous oxide there has been a huge increase in dental work.
Dentists cannot get enough teeth. Animal bones have sufficed to
date but those with money want the best, the real thing, and that
means human teeth. There’s quite a bit of money in teeth.
Crossbones is unconsecrated ground despite the Unitarian church
across the way, meaning it is not overseen by a church warden, so
there’s no one to check how the bodies are buried. I bet the graves
are shallow, only about four feet deep instead of the usual six,
and I bet bodies are stacked one on top of the other, separated by
planks of wood so that they can be packed down tighter. It also
makes it easier and quicker for corpses to be dug up and rifled.
You will only see one name on the headstone, but there will be six
or more bodies in the grave. Moreover, grave robbers no longer want
the whole corpse. They are only interested in the head. They only
need to expose the head and yank out the teeth. Did your two
grave-diggers have wooden spades?”

“I can’t say I noticed –
why?”

“No matter; they probably use
normal spades during the day and wooden ones at night. When Agrippa
used the term ‘soft shovel’ he was referring to wooden spades. They
make less noise. If you stake out the cemetery you will catch them
at it in no time at all.”

“Well, that’s where I’d like
your help. I intend to stake it out but I’m not sure how to go
about it. You did a first rate job with the Smithfield case and I
was hoping you could help me with Crossbones. Plus it’s not the
sort of place I would wish to stake out on my own. I hope you don’t
think I’m turning into a coward but as you just pointed out - it
really is a rum spot.”

“Coward! Good heavens no! I
agree it’s not the sort of place you want to be hanging about on
your own after dark, old boy! I can give you a hand staking it out
but I won’t be able to spare much time in chasing things up. You’ll
have to follow-up the tooth-robbery aspect on your own. Ah, here’s
the Camden Market Road. ” He banged on the roof of the hansom and
prepared to alight, putting his hand into his pocket for some
change for the driver.

“Let me take care of the fare,”
offered Dr Watson, pleased that his friend had relented after that
shaky start. “Shall we say tomorrow evening? Midnight? I’ll meet
you there.”

“Midnight it is then.
Cheerio.”

Dr Watson slept later than he
intended. A glance at the clock on the mantel told him that the
funeral at the Unitarian church would already be underway. The
thought of a ticking-off from the Countess made him feel grumpy.
His head fell back on the pillow while he mustered the energy to
get up. The only way to avoid an unwanted lecture was to avoid the
Countess. That’s when he decided to stop by the St James Street
Club. He could speak to Langdale Pike and ascertain how much of the
article written by Agrippa had been invented and where the source
of his information had originated.

According to Reverend Paterson
the journalist had not even visited the cemetery in question. Was
it possible none of it was true? And if that was the case, did he
really want to drag his old rugby pal into a wild goose chase at
midnight. Best of all, calling at the St James Street Club would
give him an excuse for not attending the funeral.

The St James Street Club was not
exactly a gentlemen’s club despite the name. It was more of a
coffee house, a haunt for gossips and scribblers. Anyone was
welcome as long as they weren’t female. There were enough tea
houses for ladies in London already. This was an information
exchange for men. Mr Langdale Pike was seated in his usual spot in
the bow window. Dr Watson climbed out of the hansom, and through
the panes of glass acknowledged his Ghost Club colleague with a
firm nod of his head, feigning surprise rather convincingly.

“Won’t you join me?” invited Mr
Pike affably when Dr Watson stopped by his table to say hello. “I’m
just about to order breakfast. I slept late this morning. That
meeting went on and on last night. Voysey loves the sound of his
own voice. And Greene can never get to the point without beating
around the bush. Sit down. Here’s the waiter now. What will you
have?”

Dr Watson slipped into the seat
opposite his friend. “I’ll have a full English breakfast and a pot
of tea. No, make it a pot of extra strong coffee?”

“Same for me, Lechlade,” said Mr
Pike, addressing the waiter by name. “Put it all on my tab.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said
Dr Watson, knowing he was about to pay in kind.

“I heard you were travelling
with a Russian countess?”

Oh, well, here goes. “Ukrainian
– Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna.”

“Can you spell that for me?
Better still; just write it here on this notebook. A widow?”

“Yes, her husband died from
suicide.”

“In Australia?”

“Yes.”

“There is a rumour she is
eye-wateringly rich?”

“Indeed, she is quite
wealthy.”

“You lucky devil! How did you
meet?’

“We met by chance at an
unrolling party in Belgravia.”

“Do I hear wedding bells?”

“No, no, nothing of the kind. We
are simply friends.”

“Is she planning to make London
her home?”

“She has a residence in Mayfair
but I think she enjoys travelling too much to ever settle in one
city for long. She has homes all over the world. Fifteen at last
count.”

Dr Watson understood that to
receive information from Mr Pike he first had to give some. He just
hoped that what he gave up would not cause the Countess any grief.
He thought most of it was common knowledge. He was careful not to
divulge anything he felt was confidential or too specific. They ate
breakfast while Mr Pike scribbled feverishly in his notebook.