The Curse of Christmas (6 page)

“Twenty-third?” prompted the
Countess before the deacon shrank so far inside himself he
disappeared altogether and all that was left was a pair of
eyeballs.

Reverend Paterson spoke up for
him. “On the twenty-third of every month a ghost is said to appear
in the graveyard. It is a fairy story which began circulating about
a year ago when one of the streetwalkers claimed to have seen a
fetch. A month later another girl also saw a fetch peering in her
window and then everyone began seeing it. The girls are
malnourished, often inebriated and addicted to opium – visions and
hallucinations are not uncommon. I have subsequently taken it upon
myself to say a prayer for the souls of the outcast dead on the
twenty-third day each month. It helps to allay fear and
superstition.”

“That is very decent of you,”
commented Dr Watson, his admiration for the plain-speaking reverend
increasing in leaps and bounds. “I see you will be conducting a
funeral tomorrow?” He turned to look at the coffin the Countess had
appeared keenly interested in before the deacon made an
appearance.

“Yes, one of the local girls –
Annie. It will be a quiet affair. One or two of her friends from
the brothel may attend. The rest will be too exhausted to get out
of bed.”

“May I ask who paid for the
coffin?” interceded the Countess, wondering how a penniless
Winchester goose could afford a pine box when the majority of her
sisters would be lucky to have a funeral at all.

“Certainly. It was Viscount
Cazenove. He is the local MP for Angelborough. He pays for the
funerals for all the girls. He is a great benefactor to the poor
folk of Southwark. He also gives generously to the cause of the
suffragettes. The money helps to offset the cost of printing
pamphlets, paying for the candles, and so forth.”

“The son of the Earl of
Winchester?”

“Yes.”

“Are you acquainted with
Viscount Cazenove?” Dr Watson put to his counterpart.

“I met the Earl of Winchester
when he visited Melbourne. He spent a week with us at our summer
residence in Mount Macedon. I am not acquainted with the son.”

Reverend Paterson regarded the
irritating female reporter with fresh eyes. Her aristocratic title
had struck him as the sort of attention-seeking thing her ilk
invent to make themselves sound self-important, Agrippa being a
case in point, but it seems the title was genuine and she actually
moved in exalted circles. Well, there was a turnaround! He would
never have believed it if not for Dr Watson putting the question to
her with such civility. He trusted the chronicler of Sherlock
Holmes implicitly.

By the time Dr Watson and
Countess Volodymyrovna emerged from the Unitarian church on O’Meara
Street and turned the corner into Union Street where the brothel,
evidenced by a bright red door, was situated it was raining
heavily.

Joff and Crick were nowhere to
be seen.

Countess Volodymyrovna managed
to talk Dr Watson into going home via the Temple Library. “We need
to acquaint ourselves with the layout of the library,” she argued
convincingly. “It is no use hunting for the book on Templar lore
when we are in a panic – should it ever come to that. It is an
ingenious way to communicate,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Yes, yes, very well,” he
grumbled, “I agree it is best to locate the book at our leisure but
I am starving. That walk this morning honed my appetite. Let’s stop
for lunch first.”

They alighted from their
carriage outside the Temple Precinct and walked back through the
Temple Gardens, through a Tudor arch to Ye Olde Cock Tavern on the
Strand. It was a dark and gloomy eatery that conveniently backed
onto Tanfield Court which fronted the Temple Church and
Library.

“What impression did you form of
Reverend Paterson?” Dr Watson asked as he tucked into a hearty
ploughman’s lunch and prepared to wash it down with a pint of
Guinness.

Despite the vigorous morning
walk she was still picturing steaming excrement on a plate; a cup
of coffee and a buttered scone was all she could swallow. “If the
Unitarians are looking for a Luther or a Wesley or a Calvin to
espouse their God he would be their man.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” he
said, feeling vindicated when she summed up the man’s perspicacity
so succinctly. “He struck me as forthright and sincere – and I’m
not just saying that because he praised my stories,” he finished
quickly before he became the butt of merciless teasing.

She desisted from mocking his
perennial fear of big-noting himself. “The reverend is all of the
above, and I find your stories well written despite my father
occasionally criticizing them. In fact, I think he did so because
he wanted to disguise how chuffed he was that you always portrayed
him so heroically. After spending several months in your company I
feel confident to be able to assert that you played up Sherlock’s
strengths at the expense of your own.”

In fact, she felt sure of it – a
man could not be a scientist, surgeon, soldier and chronicler
without a modicum of brains. The only thing that tripped the good
doctor up was the fact he trusted in the simple goodness of others.
He was not naïve - he had seen too much of the evil in the world
for that - but he was a genuine gentleman, he gave others the
benefit of the doubt first and foremost, so that by the time he
realized the error of his ways it was often too late.

Dr Watson took a gulp of frosty
cold Guinness to minimise the heat that had suffused his cheeks.
“What about Deacon Throstle?”

“I found him a bit creepy. His
bulging eyes were very disconcerting.”

He swallowed a pickled onion
that made his own two eyes bulge. “Hmm, again we concur.”

“Case number seven,
mon
ami
, we are starting to develop unspoken rapport in the manner
of a married couple.” She called for the bill. “I am looking
forward to the suffragette meeting this evening. I feel ashamed
that I have totally ignored the fight for female emancipation. Was
your late wife terribly stupid?”

“I beg your pardon?” he retorted
defensively, getting his back up on Mary’s behalf.

“Just answer the question. Would
you say Mary was a bit dull and simple?”

“Of course not! Far from it! She
was wise, sensible, interesting and the best companion a man could
wish for!”

“Have you ever met a man less
intelligent than Mary?”

“Certainly! She could run rings
around half the men in London! They wouldn’t be half a match – oh,
I see where you are going! You want me to admit women are the equal
of men!”

“The only person to out-smart
Sherlock Holmes was a woman – I rest my case.”

He knew very well she was right
– that was the annoying part about the whole argument. What’s more,
he was thinking emotionally, not logically, which was even more
annoying since that was the argument men always deployed against
women. She paid the bill while he finished his Guinness and cooled
down.

Since arriving in London and
settling into her aunt’s Mayfair Mews residence, the Countess had
been thinking of purchasing a second house. The great consulting
detective on whom she wished to model herself had apparently kept
several secret addresses ready for habitation at short notice
should the need call for it. It seemed an eminently sensible idea.
The Mayfair Mews place, though comfortable in every way and ideal
for entertaining, was not suited to a consulting detective. It was
like living in a fish bowl; fifteen servants all up. She would
naturally hang onto it - she had had one hundred calling cards
printed up and the location was impressive, but what she had in
mind was something secluded and private, small yet luxurious, with
several entrances and exits that would allow her to come and go
unobserved.

She had always admired Gothic
architecture and here, standing before her, was a fine example of
the Gothic in the Temple Church. She wondered fleetingly if an
adjoining building might be sectioned off for private sale, perhaps
Dr Johnson’s private rooms or some legal chambers no longer in
use.

Admittance to the library was
not an issue once they flashed their calling cards. They declined
the offer of assistance from the librarian and decided to search
out the book on Templar lore for themselves. It wasn’t difficult to
locate. No time like the present for putting Mycroft’s
communication system to the test. She wrote a brief note and popped
it inside the book while Dr Watson wandered off to peruse the
shelves.

Cher M,

I was wondering if a section of
Temple Court might be available for private sale.

I am after a second home in
London and have a view to purchasing something small and Gothic.
Cost not a consideration.

Amicalement, V

Upon returning to Mayfair Mews
the Countess searched out the writing of John Stuart Mill from her
aunt’s well-stocked library. She wanted to familiarize herself with
the latest literature on women’s rights and quickly settled down to
read in a deep-seated armchair by the fire.

When dinner was served it only
made her more determined to find a second home. She felt ridiculous
eating at a dining table that sat sixteen in a palatial room
panelled with gilded verre eglomise walls that reflected her
loneliness back at her every which way she looked.

She promptly instructed Xenia to
make sure that future meals were served on a tray in the
library-cum-study, except for breakfast which she would take in her
boudoir at a small round table set by the window that overlooked
the cobble-stoned courtyard of the mews.

Living in such a big house
recalled the time after Jack’s suicide when she suddenly found
herself mistress of Ripponley in Melbourne sans husband and
children. What a magnificent mansion of grand proportions that was!
Italian Romanesque! But big houses called for large families and
hordes of friends. An empty house was a recipe for melancholia and
addiction to laudanum.

Rain continued to pelt London
and on the south side of the river the raindrops seemed even
bigger, colder, heavier and blacker. Fedir acted as coachman and
this time she made sure to take the landau with the Z on the door.
He had been given strict instructions to deposit her at the
Unitarian church and then proceed to Ye Olde Cock Tavern on the
Strand to have a pint with the locals and check the precinct around
the Temple Gardens with a view to the purchase of property.

Coup de foudre!
The
lecture on female emancipation was in full swing and it was love at
first sight. Miss Violet de Merville, bathed in candlelight, was a
militant sister the Countess could embrace. Passionate,
charismatic, intelligent and ethereally beautiful; here was no
namby-pamby, wishy-washy, fair and fragile English rose, but a
flower in full bloom, thorns and all. She opened with John Stuart
Mill:

“It will not do to assert in
general terms, that the experience of mankind has pronounced in
favour of the existing system. Experience cannot possibly have
decided between two courses, so long as there has only been
experience of one.”

And finished with him: “Women
cannot be expected to devote themselves to the emancipation of
women, until men in considerable number are prepared to join with
them in the undertaking.”

In between, she hammered home
the wilful oppression of one half of the human race that brought
forth cat-calls of outrage on behalf of the audience, not against,
but for. The applause was thunderous and almost brought the roof
down.

The president of the Southwark
Branch of Suffragettes, Mrs Aspen, fronted the lectern, thanked
their speaker, and the crowd of mostly women and a few men once
again applauded with fervour and foot-stamping. The Countess, who
had arrived late and had been forced to stand at the back of the
packed hall, tried to fight her way toward Miss de Merville. Alas,
the throng of well-wishers surrounding the young lady was
tremendous. It was impossible. She decided to hunt out Reverend
Paterson instead. She recognized him by his white mane. He was
acting as sentry at the steps leading down to the crypt.

“Dr Watson not with you
tonight?” he said by way of greeting.

“He is attending a meeting of
the Ghost Club.”

“He believes in ghosts?” His
inflection gave rise to approbation.

“Quite the opposite - the Ghost
Club was established to debunk the existence of ghosts. The members
devote their time to exposing supernatural fraud.”

“I wish him luck in debunking
the supernatural stories surrounding Crossbones.” His tone was dry,
tinged with pessimism.

“I wanted to ask you - who
employs the grave-diggers?”

“Viscount Cazenove. He is here
tonight. I can introduce you if you like?”

Her eyes lit up as she scanned
the sea of frumpy hats. “I would like that very much.”

He aimed a backward glance to
make sure the crypt door was still bolted then attempted to beat a
path through the excited throng. It was like wading through a
gaggle of geese locked in a barn all gabbling at the same time. The
chatter was deafening. Viscount Cazenove had his back to them when
they finally managed to track him down. He was conversing with Mrs
Aspen, a broad-shouldered lady wearing a sensible felt hat,
fortyish in years, with firm resolve stamped all over her
no-nonsense face. She cut short the conversation as soon as she
perceived they were about to be interrupted.

“Good-evening, vicar,” she
trumpeted.

Viscount Cazenove immediately
swung round.

The Countess was expecting an MP
in his forties of fifties with a fondness for a tipple to make
itself evident in some ruddy features. The Earl of Winchester, a
man in his seventies, had been a devoted connoisseur of whiskey,
liberally lacing his morning coffee with the stuff and going from
there until bedtime with cheeks so rosy they glowed in the dark.
But the son was younger than she pictured, handsomer than she
imagined, and sober.