The Curse of Christmas (12 page)

Using the soft shovel, he
scraped the clumps of soil back into place as best he could,
dropped the tool where he found it by the gate and was preparing to
leave the cemetery when he noticed a man departing the brothel,
striding purposefully down Redcross Way. Now, the height and shape
did not suggest the same gentleman in the top hat and the cape
lined with red silk but the chap seemed suspicious. He kept tossing
glances over his shoulder, as if fearful of being followed.

Dr Watson decided to see where
the chap might be going since he was going in the same direction as
himself but no sooner had he passed under the lamp-post on the
corner than the man was alerted to his presence and began to sprint
off. The doctor immediately gave chase.

Once again, the quarry was
swallowed up by the blackness of the viaduct and once again the
doctor paused in his tracks to sieve the shadows, but this time
someone grabbed the lapels of his coat, swung him round and slammed
his back into a brick pillar. Seriously winded, out of breath and
exhausted, the doctor thought he was a goner. But to his eternal
surprise, the chap who was about to reduce him to a bloody pulp
gasped and stepped back in shock.

“Dr Watson!”

The voice took a moment to
register. “Fedir?”

“What are you doing here?”

“What are
you
doing
here?”

Fedir explained about his
mission to keep an eye on the brothel from the inside. He mentioned
the two visitors who were of interest, the room he had taken on
Winchester Walk, the other room in Ye Olde Cock Tavern, his midday
meetings with either Xenia or the Countess in the church and the
fact he thought the doctor was the mysterious man he was after.

“I thought
you
might be
the man
I
was after,” said Dr Watson, explaining about the
man in the top hat. “He disappeared when he reached this spot. I
was wondering if there might be a convenient hiding place here. If
there is and he knew about it, it means he is familiar with the
area and is the sort of chap who makes use of hiding places.”

They began to scout the pitch
black undercroft and soon found several places where a man might
wedge himself out of sight, especially at night. A drunk staggered
towards the viaduct but seeing two figures lurking in the velvet
shadows convinced him to go home another way.

“I say, what’s this?” Dr Watson
was staring at some writing on the wall.

Fedir turned to look. His
English had improved in leaps and bounds. “Anglemaker.”

“What can it mean?”

Fedir shrugged. He had no idea.
“White paint. Strong smell. Not long here.”

“Yes, that fits. I’m sure it
wasn’t here the last time I came through with Dr Gregory. It must
have been painted between my first visit and my return visit. Odd
thing to write. And why here? Hardly anyone would see it.”

It had just gone half past two
o’clock when the two men decided to call it a night. Fortunately,
the hackney cab was still waiting on O’Meara Street. As they
clambered in, Fedir pointed to the golden glow coming from inside
the church.

“Candlelight?” muttered the
doctor, too tired to think straight any longer. His brain felt as
wishy-washy as the swimmy night. He needed some sleep. And he was
hungry. Not just peckish but starving. He had skipped lunch and
eaten only a little supper before preparing for his midnight vigil.
He explained all that to Fedir, recounting what he and Dr Gregory
had witnessed in the cemetery, and then how he had returned to
check the grave. He didn’t mention the bundle of rags because he
thought it would sound silly.

“Odd,” he muttered to himself
when he finished. “Quite odd.”

When they reached Ye Olde Cock
Tavern, Fedir convinced Dr Watson to come inside for a hot meal. He
had discovered the tavern was a popular gambling den favoured by
the barristers who worked in the law courts. They played a game
called Dominoes with ivory and ebony tiles. Most of the legal
eagles were addicted. Some played all night, slept for an hour or
two and fronted their chambers next day, bleary-eyed and
stony-broke. But it meant hot meals were served all hours, which
suited Fedir nicely.

The game had originated in China
and spread to Venice via trade ships where it earned the name
Domino, meaning hood or mask. Like most gambling games, the players
put their good luck down to skill and their bad luck down to
chance.

Fedir and Dr Watson found a
vacant table in a corner, ordered steak and kidney pie, a pint of
stout, and thawed out in the warm, soporific, smoke haze where the
click-click of tiles was the only noise. Dr Watson’s mind drifted
back to the wraith-like apparition on the railway track. He
described it to Fedir, hoping the Countess’s manservant wouldn’t
laugh, but the fact Dr Gregory had also seen it gave him
courage.

Fedir began nodding before the
doctor had even finished. The whore he was seeing in the brothel,
name of Sukie, had mentioned a yellow-haired ghost-girl in a
bed-gown. She often appeared at the top of the railway track before
vanishing into thin air.

The Countess woke early, briefly
wondered
how
Dr Watson was doing,
what
Dr Watson was
doing,
where
Dr Watson was doing it, then turned her mind to
more important matters.

Xenia had uncommonly beautiful
handwriting so it fell to her to address a hundred envelopes: To
the Lady of the House. When Xenia completed the task in record time
she took a hansom to meet her brother inside St Saviour Church to
discover if he had learned anything that might lead them to the man
who meant harm to the heir to the throne.

Housemaids were dispatched to
drop the envelopes into letter boxes.

The Countess, already dressed
for her luncheon appointment in a light wool costume of
boule de
neige
with white fox fur trim, made her way to Covent Garden.
Miss de Merville was already seated at a table for two.

“Rules is the oldest restaurant
in London,” remarked her hostess as she took the liberty of
ordering two Black Velvets – French champagne and Irish Guinness.
“It opened in 1798. I love it here. It’s very clubby in a manly
sort of way; the menu specializes in game. If men will not allow
women to join gentleman’s clubs, then Rules is the next best thing.
Shall we order?”

“You order for both of us,” said
the Countess, blithely confident Miss de Merville would rise to the
occasion. “You are probably familiar with the menu and know what is
best.”

“Oh, how wonderfully trusting of
you! I’ll try not to disappoint. I would never allow anyone to
order for me. Freddy wouldn’t dare. Papa stopped ordering for me
when I turned twelve. We used to come here on the first Thursday of
every month. It was the Earl of Winchester’s regular dining hole
before he had his stroke. He cannot get out now, poor dear.”

“Such a shame when a man is so
vigorous.”

Miss de Merville coloured. “Oh,
I’m terribly sorry – you’re husband – it must bring back sad
memories. Freddy told me all about it. It was extremely thoughtless
of me not to think of it.” She placed her hand affectionately on
the Countess’s sleeve. “You will forgive me, won’t you?”

“Nothing to forgive. I have
accustomed myself to the loss. What will you order? Everything
sounds so totally delicious and I am simply famished.”

“Three courses, I think. I
cannot do more than three at lunch. And I have dinner at the
Fabriquants tonight. Clarissa Fabriquant always does fifteen
courses. It is sheer hell to get through. And what a bore her
husband is. Craven Fabriquant collects orchids. And does he go on
and on and on about them. Freddy refuses to sit next to him. If
there are place cards, Freddy simply swaps them. If I am sat next
to him I shall simply die. Are you acquainted with the
Fabriquants?”

“No, I haven’t spent much time
in London at all. I spent a good deal of time travelling the world
and for the three years I was married I lived in Melbourne. Most of
the people I am acquainted with were really friends of my late
aunt, so to speak, people such as the Earl of Winchester, the
Marchioness of Minterne-Magna and Viscount Setterfield. I know Mrs
Dolly Vanderlinden because we were at finishing school together in
Switzerland. But that’s about it.”

“Oh, you must let me introduce
you! I know absolutely everyone in London! Dolly is American, isn’t
she? She married that chap in shipping. He’s American too?”

“Yes, Batty Vanderlinden owns
the Blue Steel Shipyards in New York. He comes to England to attend
lectures held by the Royal Society. He is mad about beetles and has
the biggest specimen collection in the world. It drives Dolly crazy
and embarrasses her no end but she puts up with it. They have a
townhouse in Belgravia – Mirth House. Her butler died last
night.”

“Oh dear, it recalls to mind
that line from the bible - the hearts of the wise lie in the house
of mourning; the hearts of fools lie in the house of mirth.”

Well! If they weren’t peas in a
pod! The Countess had never met anyone who matched her for vanity,
vivacity and sense of purpose. She liked everything about Miss de
Merville. Everything!

Her hostess scanned the menu in
three seconds flat. “How about potted shrimp with toast to start,
followed by grouse – just take care with the lead shot - and
buttered parsnips, and for pudding, a nice fig and plum
compote?”

“Lovely!” said the Countess,
“Exactly what I would have chosen for myself.”

They toasted their newfound
friendship with another round of Black Velvets and cemented it when
Miss de Merville plucked a rosette out of her beaded reticule.

“This is for you. Will you be at
the rally tomorrow?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” assured
the Countess, accepting the little offering. “Eleven o’clock. Hyde
Park corner. I have granted the female servants the day off but I
don’t think they will go. They are too frightened of being injured.
I understand that some of the men in the crowd can be violent,
hurling glass bottles and stones, and even some police can be
heavy-handed, using their truncheons to try and force the marchers
to break ranks.”

“Yes, it’s easy for things to
get out of hand fairly quickly. Stick close to me if you’re
worried. Mrs Aspen will be targeted for sure. Miss Quilligan will
usually jump in to protect her. She’s very brave. She really runs
the Southwark Suffragettes. Mrs Aspen is more of a figurehead, the
voice of reason, and all that.”

“Miss Quilligan seems very
protective of you too.”

“Yes, she’s a darling. She was
mistaken for a prostitute one night and it gave her a terrible
fright. I don’t know what she was doing out that late. She’s
hopelessly in love with Freddy and he teases her mercilessly. It’s
so unfair. He’s very cruel.”

“You and Freddy have an
understanding?”

“Oh, I do like the way you
phrased that! Unofficially engaged, is how he puts it. We’re not
unofficially anything. He has proposed countless times and I have
turned him down every time. He’s persistent and I daresay one day I
will relent. He’s frightfully rich, well, not him personally, but
his dear papa, and when Freddy inherits the title and the estate he
will be quite a catch. I will probably say ‘yes’ then. Does that
sound mercenary?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say
something condescending like: Love is all that matters. I just
think about what I could do with all that money; the Suffragettes,
for instance. Daddy and I are not fabulously wealthy. Not like the
Winchesters or the Vanderlindens or the Fabriquants. Daddy is a
decorated war general and I’m an attractive asset at parties, so
there you have it. Money does matter. You didn’t sound judgmental
either. Speaking one’s mind without sounding condescending or
judgmental is an art. I think we shall be great friends.”

Dr Watson woke up and
experienced one of those horrible moments when a man doesn’t know
where he is. He gazed blankly at his surrounds, confused and
slightly anxious. Realization dawned slowly, bringing with it the
relief that comes when a man feels glad he has not lost his mind.
He vaguely remembered staggering upstairs to the attic room at the
top of Ye Olde Cock Tavern and collapsing into an armchair. The
time on his pocket watch told him it had just gone midday. That
meant Fedir had gone to St Saviour Church.

The other events of the night
before came to him gradually out of the dim fog of memory as he
enjoyed a full English breakfast and two cups of strong black
coffee in the tavern. A quick visit to Baker Street to freshen up,
and then he would track the Countess down.

After making himself decent, he
rejoined the land of the living. First stop Mayfair Mews where he
found his elegant sleuthing companion garrisoned in her private
study with an army of tradesmen. She looked like Boudicca
organizing a tactical advance against a Roman fort.

“What’s going on?’ he said when
the tradesmen retreated and she joined him in the adjoining library
where he had been observing from a safe distance her military
strategy in action.

“I have purchased a new
dwelling,” she said. “And it needs some minor renovations.”

He looked around the luxuriously
appointed library and frowned. “What’s wrong with this dwelling?
You’ve just had the wallpaper in the drawing room replaced.”

“There’s nothing wrong with this
dwelling. It’s ideal for entertaining. I’m keeping it. But Sherlock
always maintained more than one residence in London and I have
decided to take a leaf out of his book on the matter of a
consulting detective remaining undetected by those he is detecting.
Oh, here’s some tea. We’ll take it in here. The study is covered in
architectural drawings and the drawing room doesn’t have a fire
because I was out to lunch with Miss de Merville and I will be
attending a Suffragette meeting tonight straight after supper.”