The Curse of Christmas Read Free

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