The Curse of Christmas (2 page)

“Is that why you were going
clothes shopping this afternoon? I remember you mentioning the
House of Worth. I didn’t realize they had branched into men’s
garments.”

“House of Mirth,” she corrected
with asperity. “The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning;
but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth. I was quoting a
line from the bible, rather facetiously, I’m afraid. I was
intending to pay a call on Dolly Vanderlinden at Mirth House in
Belgravia when I heard her butler had died, and decided otherwise.
I never actually go clothes shopping. Clothes-shopping is a male
ploy to keep women stupid. Hypatia never shopped for clothes and
after Cleopatra it was all downhill for thinking. Madame
Coqueliquot keeps a mannequin with my measurements and sends me all
the
haut couture
I might require at the commencement of each
saison
. It saves me countless hours of froufrou.”

“You are at least six inches
shorter than Sherlock,” persisted Dr Watson irascibly, running a
rollicking eye back over the male garb. By golly! Well-spotted by
Mycroft! That was quick work! For a moment he had actually believed
she
really was Sherlock!

She was
not
one of those
females a man might describe as pretty. Her facial features were a
little too well-defined, strong and sharp rather than soft and
sensual; take away the rich sweep of chestnut hair and she could
pass muster as a man easily enough. And though she was slender and
svelte, one would never call her delicate or weak. She was taller
than most men too. In a time when a lot of Englishmen were
malnourished and stunted, she was a tower of vitality. Five feet
and six inches at least.

She uncrossed and re-crossed her
legs for the sake of it. “Quite right, but with some proper insteps
in my shoes and some work on my gait I could probably walk right
into the War Office next.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, young
lady,” warned Mycroft judiciously. “Can I offer you a drink? We
don’t do American cocktails but I believe we have selection of
vodka.”

“A glass of port will do nicely,
thank you.”

Mycroft went to the bell pull
and gave three gentle yanks. “May I suggest you replace the
deerstalker and muffler before the butler wonders what the deuce is
going on and you find yourself out on the street.”

Taking heed, she slapped on the
silly hat and finished wrapping the prickly muffler around the
lower half of her face just as the butler arrived and she
remembered to bury her manicured hands in her pockets. Damned
nuisance being a woman! Hands were the hardest thing of all to
de-feminise.

“Some decanted port, Waldegrave,
make it the 75, and three glasses.”

It was traditional for the
waiters at the Diogenes Club to be referred to as butlers and
addressed in the manner of faithful family retainers of the sort
who were the mainstay of large country houses. They responded
accordingly. “Very good, Mr Holmes.”

Dr Watson waited until the door
closed and he heard the decisive click. “How did you know where to
find me?”

She was tempted to say:
‘Elementary, my dear Dr Watson’, but bit her tongue.

“I decided to take a leaf out of
Sherlock’s book. After returning to London and settling into Aunt
Zoya’s mansion in Mayfair Mews and dispensing with the usual
household business in record time, I set about engaging a dozen
lads and lassies. Not illiterate guttersnipes, mind, these are
master criminals in the making who will one day rival the Shinwell
Johnson gang. Housebreaking is a specialty. They found number 221B
Baker Street child’s play. A quick sweep of your desk revealed a
rendezvous tonight which you had failed to mention when we met for
lunch at the Criterion. A serious oversight on your part, Dr
Watson, not mentioning something when given the chance means you
have something to hide. I had an itch to see what that something
was and an urge to meet Uncle Mycroft – two birds with one stone –
so here I am.” She looked blithely from one man to the other,
making a warm and engaging connection to both. “I take it you did
not get together tonight for a social chit-chat? Am I the topic of
conversation or is something brewing?”

Dr Watson, hackles rising,
pulled back from the chummy wreath. “We were not discussing
you
. We have other things to talk about. And they are a
private matter.”

“If by private you mean secret I
am all ears.”

The door opened and Waldegrave
entered balancing a silver salver. Conversation ceased until the
butler retreated. Mycroft did the honours.

“You chose the 75,” she noted
approvingly.

Mycroft acknowledged the
observation with a tacit nod as he handed round the glasses.

“What’s special about the 75?”
said the doctor peevishly, biting down on the end of his beautiful
ebony mouthpiece and almost snapping it.

“My year of birth. Nazdorovya,
gentlemen!” She waited for the two men to savour the first mouthful
of vintage port. “Is the Bank of England about to be raided? Are
the Crown jewels under threat?”

Mycroft gave a whimsical chuckle
and handed her a copy of
The Times,
folded in half, open on
page three. She perused the article that had been circled in
red.

“Read it out loud, if you
wouldn’t mind,” he instructed.

“Ghostly Goings-on in a
Graveyard! Is the Crossbones Cemetery being haunted by the souls of
the undead? Or is it a human hand and a soft shovel behind the
sinister shenanigans in Southwark? Who is digging up the graves in
the unconsecrated graveyard in the dead of night? Do we have some
resurrectionists in our midst? Are hospitals once again dabbling in
dead bodies? Is there a new, nefarious, black market for body
parts? How long before innocent citizens are having their throats
slit by Burkers keen to supply a growing demand for fresh cadavers?
All of London is disturbed by these dark deeds and it seems that
our Peelers have no answers. It is high time the Yard took this
matter seriously. We await further developments. Agrippa.”

The Countess looked up. “Who is
Agrippa?”

Mycroft butted his cigar in the
ashtray where it had been reduced to a burnt out stub and refrained
for the time being from lighting a fresh one. “Agrippa is the
pen-name of an independent reporter who specializes in the
sensational, otherwise known as Mr Langdale Pike. He writes a
regular society column for
The Strand Magazine.
You can
catch him most days sitting in the bow window of the St James
Street Club. That’s where he picks up the gossip that provides his
bread and butter. In his spare time, for the price of one penny per
line, he reels off supernatural guff about séances and magic
lanterns and assorted tosh which he sells to newspapers that need
to fill column inches on slow news days. He is a member of the
Ghost Club, of which Dr Watson is also a member, hence the
impromptu meeting tonight. Nothing clandestine or top secret I can
assure you. But it could become a troublesome issue if not nipped
in the bud.”

“Troublesome for whom?”

“The Yard. Hospitals.
Universities. Church. Law and Order. Peace of mind. It is
surprising what a bit of paranormal panic will do to common-sense.
Before we know it people will be taking the law into their own
hands, women too afraid to go to hospital or visit a doctor,
accusations of murder-on-demand for body parts, hue and cry,
general fear and terror on the streets, same as the Ripper
years.”

She directed her next question
to Dr Watson. “I take it that Langdale Pike is a friend of
yours?”

Dr Watson felt more at ease now
that Mycroft had raised the reason he had been summoned to Pall
Mall at such short notice. He affected a casual tone. “Not really a
friend, more of an acquaintance. I suspect he joined the Ghost Club
merely to pick up supernatural tittle-tattle, much the same way he
picks up gossip from members passing through the St James Street
Club.”

“Langdale Pike? Langdale Pike?”
she muttered, drumming her fingers on the leather arm rest. “I
believe the name rings a bell. Didn’t Sherlock consult a certain Mr
Langdale Pike when he was after inside information on various
persons of interest - a sort of
declasse
Debrett’s?”

Mycroft nodded; secretly amused
that she should refer to her so-called father by his Christian
name, and with such
nonchalance.
There seemed little doubt
she was the off-spring of Miss Adler, the current Mrs Godfrey
Norton, for he had finally managed to track down a member of the
acting troupe from twenty-four years ago and the now elderly
actress recalled a conceited and coquettish Miss Adler suddenly
gaining weight, falling inexplicably ill and missing the
all-important Christmas panto. Moreover, a mid-wife in the area at
the time, now in her seventies, also recollected assisting in the
delivery of a girlchild around the time the acting troupe was
performing the annual pantomime in a small theatre in the
backstreets of Covent Garden. A vain young lassie, preening even as
the babe was crowning, she said, and such a bonnie babe too, all
pink and plump. She couldn’t remember the name of the lassie but
she remembered a good-looking foreign gent paid her fee and added a
large tip. It was the size of the tip that recalled the business.
There was a fussy foreign lady too; but she got the impression the
fuss-bag was not his lady-wife; she was a right bossy madame; and
there was a foreign wet-nurse waiting in the wings, quiet as a
mouse. It made her think the babe was going to some rich
foreigners; not French or Italian – she knew that much.

And then there was Sherlock -
last week his little brother in a rare lucid moment free from
confabulation had admitted to vaguely recalling a one-off encounter
of the sordid kind with one of the pretty stage actresses of the
time, meaning the time he was indulging the post-adolescent fantasy
of basking in the limelight of the Globe. What a travesty of an
idea that had turned out to be - the actress
and
the
acting!

Not that Sherlock had any
trouble learning his lines, and his performances were not too
wooden either, alas, he had the habit of prompting his fellow
thespians before they could deliver their dialogue. It caused a
revolt. They issued an ultimatum. It was either he goes or they
would. He went and his acting aspirations went with him. Theatrical
ambition prematurely thwarted, he drifted aimlessly for several
years until he found his métier in detective work and his acting
skills found a natural vent in his many masterful guises.

Mycroft intended to share all
that he had discovered with Dr Watson just before the Countess
breached the defences of the Diogenes Club like Boudicca storming a
Roman barricade and made it all the way to the sanctity of the
Stranger’s Room. She certainly possessed sass in spades and her
disguise would have fooled everyone save him. There was no point
ticking-off the hall porter, still, he might issue a mandatory
edict about visitors removing hats and cloaks before venturing
beyond the entrance hall.

This latest business which had
been brought to his attention not more than five hours ago proved
once again that Nature abhors a vacuum and that security needed to
be ramped up. The void left by that criminal mastermind, Professor
Moriarty, was finally being filled. The question was – by whom?

“You are quite correct, Countess
Volodymyrovna. Sherlock regularly consulted Mr Langdale Pike on
matters of social standing. The man is a walking social
encyclopaedia.”

“So you intend to rope him in to
help you solve the ghostly goings-on in the Southwark cemetery?”
She flicked her steely blue-grey eyes from one man to the other in
the manner of a sleuth trying to ascertain who was lying and
why.

Dr Watson shrugged his shoulders
and looked blank. “I only just arrived a few minutes ahead of you.
I’m not sure how I can help except to provide an introduction to Mr
Pike.”

Mycroft topped up the port
glasses. The Countess got the distinct impression he was stalling
for time before answering.

“I was rather hoping you could
look into the matter on your own, Dr Watson, however, if you feel
that Langdale Pike may be helpful in getting to the bottom of this
strange business in Southwark I defer to you.”

Defer to you! Mycroft was
jesting, surely!

Dr Watson ruminated on the high
honour. “Yes, well, no, if it comes to that I would much prefer to
call on Dr Gregory’s assistance. He is likewise a member of the
Ghost Club and a chum from rugby days when we both played for
Blackheath. He was a brilliant winger and might have made his
fortune but for a knee injury. I think he would be my first choice.
I don’t think we need things getting into the newspapers before
we’ve had a chance to verify them. Dr Gregory was instrumental in
debunking that extraordinary haunting in Smithfield last year.
Someone rigged a camera obscura inside a carcass of beef in order
to make it seem as if the meat market was haunted by a Minotaur.
Two butchers managed to steal twenty-five carcasses from under
everyone’s noses. It was quite ingenious. They were making a tidy
profit supplying meat to the best hotels in London. Several meat
workers were so terrified of the mythical monster they refused to
enter the abattoir even after the camera obscura had been found and
the scam exposed.”

“Yes, quite ingenious,” agreed
Mycroft, recalling the incident. “I concur we can do without
newspapers fomenting fear and confusion. Discretion is the better
part of valour. That is precisely why I called you in. You have
gained a reputation, both of you in fact,” he paused and smiled
briefly at the Countess, “as occult detectives.”

While the doctor reddened, the
Countess, eager to capitalize on the fulsome praise, was quick to
seize the moment. “We should pay a visit to the cemetery first
thing tomorrow. We need to explore the possibility of staking it
out after dark. Dr Gregory sounds fairly imaginative. He might have
some helpful suggestions in that regard.” She was keen to start on
a new case before Dr Watson thought it best to go his separate way,
and now that she had settled into the house in Mayfair Mews and had
given instructions for getting rid of the green flock arsenical
wallpaper in the drawing room and replacing it with flame red
damask she had nothing to keep her occupied. She had no special
friends and acquaintances in London that she particularly wanted to
catch up with and the mindless prattle of the demi-monde bored her
to tears. A new case, a baffling mystery, a dangerous adventure was
what she craved. She craved it as much as those of her sex craved a
triple-stranded pearl choker or a juicy social scandal.