The Curse of Christmas (15 page)

She felt a chill. “He knows we
are onto him, then. He will be on his guard tonight.”

Fedir extinguished the lantern
and tucked it behind a patch of nasty prickles. Alert to every
sound midnight could manufacture – the clip-clop of horses down
Southwark Street, the sound of dogs barking, the sound of a bawling
baby in a nearby tenement - they kept close together as they
slipped into Redcross Way.

Fedir was planning to pay a
visit to Sukie in the brothel on Union Street. He had become a
regular, and though Sukie sported a sprained ankle he found her
obliging enough and easy to talk to. She looked forward to his
visits because he didn’t smell as bad as the others and he didn’t
make her do painful things. He paid for extra time and mostly they
sat back on the bed and enjoyed a cigarette or two. She’d been
given Fedir as a customer because he was a foreigner and less
likely to complain about her sprained ankle, but it had worked out
better than expected for both of them.

Dr Watson and the Countess crept
quietly into the cemetery. It was unlikely Joff and Crick would
come two nights in a row so they perched themselves on the only
slab of stone in the neglected garden. It served as a dry seat and
the headstone sheltered them from the wind.

“I’ve been thinking about that
bundle of rags,” she whispered.

“Mmm?” he said dubiously.

“Might it contain something
valuable?”

“Such as?”

“I have no idea.”

He thought for a moment.
“Actually, when I did the medical examination on Joff he offered me
his savings for a cure-all. He said he had put aside quite a
bit.”

“How is a grave-digger in a poor
banlieu like Southwark in an obscure cemetery such as Crossbones
able to amass any savings? He would be living hand to mouth,
surely?”

“Mmm.”

“The only way he could amass any
savings would be to earn it dishonestly.”

“Mmm.”

“Since dead prostitutes cannot
afford to pay him anything and their graves are nothing special,
who would pay him and for what?”

“Yes, I see, do you have any
idea yet?”

“None at all.”

He took off his battered hat and
scratched his head. “Who actually pays for the funerals? Poor folk
who cannot afford a burial plot usually end up as cadavers at Guy’s
and Bart’s.”

“Reverend Paterson said that
Viscount Cazenove pays for the funerals. He might pay for the plots
as well. Perhaps he slips the grave-diggers an extra few pence for
their trouble. They acted as pall-bearers for Annie. That might
earn them a bit extra. I noticed the body was wrapped in hessian
and tipped into the grave but the coffin was kept back. They must
re-use it.”

“Yes, it is purely for transport
to the grave, a bit of dignity for the corpse. Dr Gregory told me
there are six or more bodies per grave. They are wrapped in hessian
and separated by planks of wood. Coffins would take up too much
space. The grave-diggers jump on the graves after burial to pack
the bodies down.”

“When you dis-interred Annie was
that the case?”

“Yes, she was wrapped in
hessian, lying on planks. The grave was shallow, meaning the corpse
was close to the surface. It may in fact be quite deep, but there’s
no telling how many bodies lie underneath her. I only dug away the
soil around her head. That’s how I saw the bundle of rags.”

“See, we get back to those rags.
If the grave-diggers wanted to show respect to Annie by placing a
pillow under her head, why not place the rags there during the time
of the burial? Why go back and do it secretly in the middle of the
night? That’s what makes me think there’s more to that bundle of
rags than we imagine and we will never know unless we take a proper
look.”

“How do you propose we do that?
We don’t have a shovel. And we cannot possibly do it tonight as we
are watching out for the Prince Regent and our mystery man.”

“We will have to come back
another night.”

They realized that even though
they were whispering, their voices were drifting on the night air.
They decided not to say anything further. With another poisonous
fog settling over the belching manufactories this side of the river
there was no telling who was loitering by the fence.

Hugging themselves to ward off
the cold, they stayed silent for about half an hour and were
growing more wretched by the minute when they both spotted the
yellow-haired wraith at the same time and blood began coursing
through torpid veins, bringing heat to frozen limbs.

The fetch was moving swiftly
through mottled moonlight toward the viaduct. A moment later it
appeared at the top of the railway track where some light from one
of the tenement windows cast a feeble ray across the train track
and the white bed-gown glowed as eerily as a snow white owl out
hunting in the fog of night.

“How the blazes…!” spluttered Dr
Watson. “How did it get up so quickly?”

“Good question - ghosts who can
fly don’t usually bother with footpaths.”

“It’s a pity we cannot give
chase,” he grumbled. “There it goes – along the train track.”

“This Crossbones business is
more of a puzzle than Bertie and his blackmailer. I will not be
able to rest until we examine that bundle of rags and corner that
fetch. What is she up to? She was moving with speed and purpose.
There is no way she was sleepwalking. And no normal person goes
about in winter dressed in a bed-gown.”

“Hush – here comes a
carriage.”

Through the soot-swaddling fog
they could just make out a fine carriage pulled by a fine pair of
horses. There was the sound of hurried footsteps and then all went
quiet. They could safely assume Bertie had been ushered inside the
brothel by his equerries. The carriage moved off at a slow pace,
probably to wait in O’Meara Street until called for. Discretion
being the name of the game being played tonight.

“Look! Over there!” whispered Dr
Watson urgently, fingering the Webley in his pocket. “Someone is
coming this way from under the viaduct. Do you have your
pistol?”

She tapped her coat pocket.
“Yes.”

Together, they ducked down out
of sight.

They thought it might be their
mystery man but the figure stopped midway along Redcross Way and
entered the back gate of the church. They could hear the rusty
hinges creak and the wrought-iron gate snap back into place.

“It was Reverend Paterson,” she
said. “I could tell by the shock of white hair. Odd thing in
winter, but he wasn’t wearing a coat.”

“Yes, it was too short for
Deacon Throstle. Look! Candles are flickering inside the
church.”

“That’s another mystery. Why is
Reverend Paterson burning the candle at both ends?”

“More to the point, what is he
doing roaming the street at midnight? It looked as if he was
carrying a bucket.”

“I thought it was a basket.
Perhaps he was having a picnic with the fetch?” she suggested
facetiously.

“Which reminds me,” he said,
ignoring her hopeless attempt at humour. “I spotted a young woman
with a carpet bag hurrying down Redcross Way just before you and
Fedir arrived. I ducked back into that niche as she flew past me.
She went inside the church through the back gate but she didn’t
stay long.”

“Was she wearing a frumpy green
hat with faux violets tied with a white ribbon stuck on the
side?”

“Yes – how did you know?”

“That’s Miss Quilligan, the
secretary of the Southwark Suffragettes. She was probably picking
up more pamphlets to drum up support for the next rally. Thank
goodness she was uninjured from today’s incident in Trafalgar
Square.”

“Miss Quilligan?”

“Yes, why?”

“Langdale Pike mentioned her
name in relation to the Crossbones business. She is a friend of his
sister. He described her as unhysterical. She confirmed that graves
were being ‘disturbed’. That was his exact word – disturbed.”

“Unhysterical?”

“I was quoting Mr Pike.” He
decided to shift the blame before they got caught up in a verbal
stoush regarding the inherent nature of women. “But what is she
doing out so late?”

“She lives and breathes
emancipation. I doubt she even sleeps.”

“Shhh!” he hissed. “Someone’s
coming.”

They held their breaths and
strained to see but it was only a couple of drunks. They urinated
on the wall of the church and staggered off, leaning into each
other for support, singing a sea shanty as they went. They got all
the way to the viaduct before they suddenly came bolting out. They
sprinted past the cemetery as if the devil was after them, tripping
over, falling, picking themselves up, stumbling again, and haring
off.

“What do you think happened to
them?” said Dr Watson, scratching his head again. He hoped the old
cloth cap from the bottom of the trunk in the attic wasn’t infested
with lice or fleas.

“I cannot imagine. They appeared
terrified. Perhaps they came face to face with the fetch?” She
grabbed his sleeve. “Now, we’re in business. Someone just came out
of the brothel and they’re heading this way.”

They ducked down behind the
headstone and waited with baited breath but it turned out to be
Fedir. He took off his cloth cap, waved it about without turning
his head and kept walking toward the viaduct. They correctly
interpreted the gesture as a signal and moved closer to the gate,
ready to give chase at a moment’s notice.

“If it’s the man we’re after he
will move like Spring-heeled Jack,” advised Dr Watson. “Get
ready.”

Sure enough, a tall man with a
top hat emerged. He was wearing a cape that flapped back as he
moved swiftly along Redcross Way, adopting sure-footed strides
despite the filthy cobbles. The lining of the cape was red.

“It’s him,” whispered Dr Watson,
clamping the Countess’s sleeve to make sure she did not jump the
gun until he said so.

They both knew that Fedir would
be waiting in the viaduct. If they moved too early the man might
leap the fence into the cemetery and flee that way. All they had to
do was channel him forward and not give him a chance to double back
on them. Once the mystery man was inside the viaduct he would be
trapped.

They stepped quickly out of the
gate and began walking double-abreast up Redcross Way. The mystery
man spotted them and began running. They thought they had him
trapped but when they reached the viaduct the man was nowhere to be
seen. There was only Fedir stooping over a dead body lying on the
ground.

Dr Watson remembered the
lantern. He groped behind the prickles, thankful for his gloves,
and lighted it using a lucifer.

“It’s Miss Quilligan!” gasped
the Countess, recognising the frumpy green hat.

The body had been horribly
mutilated Ripper-style, stabbed multiple times, the female innards
butchered; blood and gore and intestines everywhere. The instrument
of death, a small but sharp knife, the sort used for gutting fish,
was lying by the side of the body.

“No wonder the two drunks turned
tail and ran for their lives,” said Dr Watson, suppressing a cold
shiver while looking over his shoulder to check that the maniac who
did this was not about to continue the carnage.

Fedir began scanning the roof
and walls of the undercroft. “Look here. Another word.”

“Angelmaker.” The voice of the
Countess was a ragged whisper. Shock was still coursing through her
and it made her larynx quiver. She wheeled round to re-check the
other word on the opposite side of the viaduct – Anglemaker.”

It made no sense whatsoever. Not
the one; and not both.

Miss Quilligan’s carpet bag was
lying several feet away from the body. It was open and the contents
strewn about, mostly pamphlets, but there was also a small rolling
pin, some house keys, a book of psalms, a pair of broken
spectacles; but her purse was missing.

“Is this a robbery gone wrong?”
said Dr Watson, glancing at the scatter of personal items, shaking
his head in disbelief. “Or the work of Jack the Ripper?”

“Or Spring-heeled Jack?” offered
the Countess, recalling the doctor’s description of their mystery
man.

“No, no, that makes no sense.
Our mystery man couldn’t have entered the viaduct. Fedir would have
seen him.”

Fedir confirmed that no one came
through. He entered the viaduct as planned and concealed himself in
the niche. When he heard approaching footsteps he stepped out and
his foot made content with something soft. He thought it might be a
dead cat or dog. The tall man never entered. Moments before the
doctor and the Countess arrived on the scene he realized the
supposed cat or dog was a dead woman.

The doctor, less affected by the
death of the suffragette, continued thinking clearly. “Even if our
mystery man did enter the viaduct, he wouldn’t have had enough time
to commit the crime, not with Fedir standing guard. The murder was
done between our first visit and our return – that is about an hour
and a half. Why was Miss Quilligan carrying a rolling pin?”

“She was sometimes mistaken for
a prostitute. She carried it to fend off unwanted male
attention.”

Dr Watson sighed heavily. What
use was a rolling pin against a knife? Although anything in the
hands of a maniac was deadly. Even using his bare hands, the
murderer would soon have overpowered the young woman and simply
beaten her to death with her own rolling pin.

Once the Countess recovered her
equanimity, her brain began firing on all cylinders. “The only
person who came through the viaduct was Reverend Paterson.” But
even as she said it she could see the flaws in her logic start to
mount up. “No, no, that will never do. The killer may have struck
after the reverend came through. What’s more, the reverend appeared
to be walking quickly but calmly. He wasn’t running from a hideous
crime, desperate to get away. Besides, he knew Miss Quilligan, so
he would have known she was as poor as a church mouse. He would
never have murdered her for the contents of her purse.”