Artie Conan Doyle and the Gravediggers' Club Page 6

  “You know, Artie, it’s getting dark.” Ham cast a glance up at the winter sky. “We really should go home and see what’s for tea.”

  Artie’s only response was a distracted grunt.

  “I don’t know about you,” his friend went on, “but I always do my best thinking on a full stomach. After all, how can your brain concentrate if your stomach keeps rumbling. I’ll bet all the great thinkers like Socrates and St Augustine did their best cogitating somewhere between the steak and kidney pie and the plum pudding.”

  Artie roused abruptly from his reverie, as if only now becoming aware of his surroundings.

  “Dr Harthill is a very clever man,” he said. “I’m quite sure he’s on to something.”

  “You’re right,” Ham agreed. “We should hand the whole case over to him and let him solve it. After all, we’ll be heading back to Stonyhurst in a couple of days. Best clear the mind and get ready for all that Latin and algebra.”

  “We’re not going anywhere until we find the answer to this mystery,” Artie declared firmly. “What we need to do, Ham, is visit the scenes of the crimes.”

  “What? Now?” Ham objected. “Visit three separate graveyards? That will take all night!”

  “If Dr Harthill is right, and the bodies are just a blind for what’s really going on, we may find clues at the graves themselves.”

  “On second thoughts,” Ham replied, “I’m not convinced old Harthill’s so smart after all. Most likely putting all those volts through his innards has unbalanced his mind.”

  Artie ignored him and continued to ponder the problem.

  They turned into Lothian Road, which was much busier than the peaceful elegance of Rutland Square. Horse-drawn vehicles rumbled by and many people were bustling along the pavement, wrapped up in overcoats and scarves. Artie pressed his hand over his nose as they passed a man shovelling horse manure off the street into a cart. Ham coughed and rubbed his eyes, which were watering from the stink.

  Suddenly Artie seized his friend by the arm and yanked him into a narrow close.

  “Look!” He directed Ham’s attention to the other side of the street. “It’s Warren!”

  “What, your lodger? The criminal mastermind himself?” Ham peered across at the pale young man in the dark coat. “And who’s that with him? Oh, Artie, it looks like…” His voice tailed off in horror.

  “Yes,” said Artie, “it looks like the Lady in Grey.”

  The girl at Warren’s side looked about nineteen years old and she was wrapped in the same long cloak they had seen at Greyfriars Kirkyard. The hood had fallen back onto her shoulders to reveal a pretty, delicate face and light brown hair tied behind in a black ribbon. She was sobbing and dabbing at her tears with a small white kerchief.

  “She certainly looks like she’s grieving for her lost sweetheart,” said Ham wonderingly, “just like in the story.”

  “Well, she’s not likely to find him buried in the middle of Lothian Road,” said Artie, “so I think we can forget about the legend.”

  Warren and the girl stopped in front of a milliner’s shop and he tried to comfort her without drawing too much attention from passers-by.

  “If she’s not a ghost,” said Ham, “then what was she doing at Greyfriars in the middle of the night? She certainly doesn’t look strong enough to go around digging up graves.”

  “No, but Warren could. He’s probably tricked her into thinking he’s a jolly fine fellow and all that in order to misuse her somehow.”

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Ham.

  “We should go over there and confront him,” Artie said boldly. “Expose him for the villain he is, right in front of the girl.”

  “Let’s not cause a scene, Artie,” Ham cautioned. “After all, you’ve no evidence that he’s actually done anything villainous.”

  Artie shuffled his feet and chewed his lip, desperate to take some course of action. Before he could come to a decision a voice rang out from further up the road.

  “Warren! Ho, Warren! Is that you there?”

  At the sound of that voice, Warren immediately pressed the girl into the shop doorway, out of sight. He then turned and strolled briskly up the road, as though he were completely alone.

  Striding towards him was a tall, rakish figure in a long frock coat. His long chestnut hair was elegantly styled and his moustache and sideburns had been neatly clipped to give him an aristocratic appearance. He carried a gold-handled cane with which he struck the ground as he walked, as if he was beating the earth itself into submission.

  When the two men met, they struck up what appeared to be a tense conversation: Warren took on the demeanour of a humble servant while the other man questioned him intently. Artie wished he could hear what they were saying, but they were too far away. A horse-drawn bus rumbled by with an advertisement for Dairymaid Condensed Milk plastered down its side, briefly blocking his view.

  “I really think we should go home,” Ham urged nervously for the umpteenth time that day. “That chap over there doesn’t look like the sort of man you want to get mixed up with. Not if you value your well-being.”

  Artie knew what his friend meant. There was an air of confident menace about the newcomer that clearly had the young medical student cowed. The two men turned and walked off together up Lothian Road.

  “I’m going to follow those two, Ham.”

  “Follow them?” Ham bleated. “You don’t expect me to come along, do you?”

  “No, no, that would make us too conspicuous. Wait here and follow that girl to wherever she goes.”

  “But, Artie,” Ham’s voice dropped to an anxious whisper, “suppose she really is a ghost? Who knows where she might lead me?”

  “If she leads you to her grave, take a note of the name on the stone,” Artie instructed, “then report to me in the morning.”

  “I say, you’re not being serious, are you?” Ham pleaded.

  For an answer, Artie darted across the road in pursuit of Warren and the other man, leaving Ham to decide for himself.

  ***

  Artie soon discovered how tricky it was to shadow the pair. He had to keep a safe distance so they wouldn’t spot him, without losing sight of them among the busy crowds. A short way up Lothian Road, the tall man hailed a horse-drawn cab, which pulled up beside them. He and Warren climbed aboard and the tall man gave instructions to the driver that Artie couldn’t hear.

  As the cab pulled off, Artie hurried after it. There was only one way to find out what they were up to. He had once seen a pair of street urchins jump onto the luggage shelf projecting from the back of a cab, taking a free ride just for a lark. When the cabbie noticed them, he stopped and chased after them with his horsewhip.

  Artie’s purpose was more serious and he was prepared to risk getting into trouble. He caught up with the cab as it gathered speed and scrambled onto the shelf, seizing hold of the leather straps intended to hold baggage in place.

  Through a small window in the back of the cab he could see the heads of the two men engaged in conversation. He curled up below their line of sight in case either of them should take a backward glance.

  He strained his ears over the rumble of the wheels and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves to hear what they were saying. One voice, at any rate, made itself clearly heard.

  “When you receive a summons from me, Colonel Braxton Dash, I expect you to come running,” the tall man in the frock coat was saying. “I should not have to keep looking for you.”

  Artie’s heart skipped a beat when he heard this.

  Keep looking! Those were the exact words and the same tone of commanding arrogance he had heard at Greyfriars Kirkyard that night. This was the very man who had been there giving orders.

  Warren made some unhappy comment and Colonel Braxton Dash laughed.

  “Cheer up, Warren!” he urged contemptuously. “You’re in for a jolly evening with the Gravediggers’ Club.”

  11. The Master of the Black Hound

  Ar
tie caught very little of whatever else passed between Warren and Colonel Braxton Dash. The cab rattled and bumped from side to side and it was all he could do to stay on his precarious perch and avoid being hurled to the ground. As he clung desperately to the luggage straps, the last words of the tall man echoed in his mind like the ringing of an alarm.

  The Gravediggers’ Club.

  If the stranger was a member of that club, he was surely its leader, for he had the air of a man who wouldn’t take orders from anyone else. And he suspected they had nothing to do with the honourable work of digging graves, like John Dalhousie.

  They soon left the great buildings of the city behind, passing through Morningside and beyond the Braid Hills. Here they veered left into a rutted track full of potholes and bumps that jarred Artie’s spine every time they passed over one. Far from the city they passed a scattering of ramshackle cottages. Artie was half afraid the clatter of the cab wheels might cause some of them to collapse into rubble.

  The sun was sinking as they approached a large building of faded red brick and rotted timber. As the cab slowed down, Artie slid from his perch and scurried into the cover of some bushes. The cabman reined in his horse and the passengers climbed out.

  The long-neglected building had boarded-up windows and tiles missing from the roof. Above the doorway hung a lopsided sign with flaking paint: Arbuthnott and Cole Leatherworkers.

  It had clearly been many years since any leather had been worked here. Nevertheless a dozen assorted wagons and carriages were parked round about. Clearly some business was afoot.

  Once they had paid the cabbie, Warren and his companion headed for the entrance. A burly, bearded individual greeted them gruffly as he opened the door. Shutting the door behind them, he began cleaning his fingernails with a small knife while keeping one eye peeled for more arrivals.

  Not knowing what was going on inside, Artie couldn’t think of any way to bluff his way past this imposing guard. He crept around to the rear of the building, keeping to the shadows of bushes and trees, looking for a back entrance. Several large wooden vats lay discarded there which, he assumed from the smell, had once been used for soaking leather. Crouching behind one of these, he surveyed his surroundings.

  Off to his right was a midden: a pile of unsavoury rubbish that had accumulated over the years. Beyond the midden lay a shallow ditch from which wafted the stench of stagnant water and decaying refuse. In the rear wall of the building he observed four boarded-up windows and a small door that was firmly closed.

  Now that he was here, alone in the cold and deepening dark, he began to regret the impulse that had sent him rushing off on this dangerous quest. It would take him a couple of hours to walk home from here, even if he could find his way.

  Unless he discovered more about the Gravediggers’ Club and uncovered some criminal activity, this whole rash adventure would be a waste of time. Perhaps McCorkle had been right in his dull, practical way. Perhaps reading adventure stories wasn’t proper preparation for this sort of detective work.

  Just then the door creaked open and a skinny, bald-headed man in an apron came out, carrying a bucket. He stumped around the midden with his back to Artie’s hiding place.

  The yellow light streaming from the open doorway fired Artie’s resolve and he started forward in a low crouch. If he could just get inside while the man was occupied…

  The bald man tipped the foul-smelling contents of the bucket into the ditch, then turned just in time to catch sight of Artie making for the door.

  “Hey! What are you after?”

  Artie froze in mid-step and gaped in horror as the man in the apron came striding towards him. He tried to think of some story to explain his presence here, but the man’s hostile gaze seemed to rob him of the power of speech. He stood there as mute as a haddock while the bald man advanced on him with a scowl.

  “Here, are you the boy they’ve sent in place of Weezil?” he demanded.

  “Weezil?” Artie echoed. It dawned on him that there was an opportunity here and he decided to seize it. “Er, yes, that’s right, in his place… What’s happened to Weezil exactly?”

  The man’s scowl deepened. “Dose of the croup, wasn’t it? Surely they told you.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, dose of the croup it was.” Artie tried to sound confident and not at all like a nervous imposter. “Mr Weezil asked me personally to offer his apologies,” he added, hoping this would banish any suspicions.

  “I don’t care a maggot’s spit for his apologies,” snorted the bald man. “You get yourself inside and set to work.”

  “Yes, yes, right away.” Artie obediently hurried to the door. He realised he had to grab his chance before Weezil’s actual replacement showed up, or in case Weezil himself made a sudden recovery.

  “And take this privy bucket with you!” barked the man.

  Artie backtracked a few steps, caught the outstretched bucket by the handle, and plunged into the disused leatherworks.

  ***

  Inside it was as busy as a market and just as noisy. The walls of the large room were made of plain, discoloured brick, and the whole place was lit by oil lanterns which gave off a greasy smell. A score of rickety tables had been set up where groups of men played games of chance with dice and cards, greeting each turn of fortune with a roar of triumph or a groan of despair.

  Artie set down the bucket and moved through the crowd with his head down, doing his best not to draw attention to himself. In the far left corner of the room a fiddler played a lively jig, to which some couples were dancing unsteadily.

  Off to the right a dozen chairs had been set up on a raised stage. Here sat Colonel Braxton Dash, gazing down at the gathering like a king surveying his court. Seated around him was a band of men that Artie guessed were his fellow ‘gravediggers’. Their round tables were laden with platters of roast chicken, cheese and bread, along with bottles of wine and tankards of ale. A pair of women in grubby aprons and thick make-up passed among the company, replenishing their drinks.

  What really caught Artie’s eye, however, was the huge black dog lying on the floor at Dash’s left hand. It was a ferocious-looking mastiff wearing a studded leather collar. Its long leash was wrapped around the arm of the colonel’s chair. Artie had no doubt that this was the beast whose eerie howls had so unnerved him at Greyfriars Kirk.

  At Dash’s other hand sat Benjamin Warren, his head bowed low, toying unhappily with an empty glass. He looked uncomfortable in this raucous company and for an instant Artie felt a twinge of sympathy for the young student. Then he recalled that Warren had brought the police to their door, and finding him in this disreputable place only confirmed his suspicions that the lodger was up to no good.

  Dash stood up and twirled his gold-handled cane flamboyantly in one hand before rapping it three times on the stage. At this signal the hubbub died down to a scattering of murmurs and whispers.

  “Fellow Gravediggers, friends and honoured guests,” Dash addressed the crowd in a loud, commanding voice. “I also include, of course, toadies, hangers on, and,” he added with a thin smile, “those who have sneaked in to rob the place.”

  Sneaked in! Artie’s blood ran cold with sheer terror. Dash must mean him. He had been spotted. And now here he was defenceless in the hands of a band of ruthless cutthroats!

  12. The Meeting of the Fighting Men

  Artie stood paralysed with fear amidst the crowd of revellers. But instead of taking him prisoner, the whole place burst into peals of coarse laughter. He realised, to his relief and joy, that nobody was even looking at him. Braxton Dash was just making a crude joke.

  “As you all know,” the colonel went on, “we Gravediggers like nothing better than rich food, strong drink, and winning!”

  This prompted another outburst of coarse laughter as members of the crowd rattled their money bags.

  “But one more thing we enjoy is an expert demonstration of the manly art of fisticuffs.”

  As he spoke, the centre of the room wa
s being cleared. Men appeared with ropes and wooden stanchions and started cordoning off a large square. Artie realised at once what they were doing: they were setting up a boxing ring.

  Dash resumed his seat as two fighters entered the ring. A buzz of excitement washed over the crowd. The contestants were stripped to the waist, showing off their muscled chests. One was a towering giant of a man with heavy, stolid features. The other was shorter, but wiry and athletic. Artie judged they were both fit enough to provide a first-class contest. All around the room bundles of notes appeared and coins jingled as bets were made on the outcome of the fight.

  The referee, who, judging by his broken nose, appeared to be a former boxer himself, moved to the centre of the ring and waved his arms to quiet the crowd. He gestured first at the big man and announced loudly, “Presenting for your sporting appreciation, on my right, the man-mountain, the battling behemoth of Musselburgh, Bruno ‘The Slogger’ Buchanan!”

  Cheers and applause greeted The Slogger, but the man mountain’s heavy face showed no flicker of emotion.

  The referee turned to the shorter contestant, who was shuffling his feet and jabbing energetically at the empty air.

  “And on my left,” he continued, “the twinkle-toed terror of Portobello, the man his own shadow can’t catch, ‘Dancing’ Donny Drew!”

  Donny skipped around the ring, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd, before he and his opponent took up position on either side of the referee.

  Artie noticed that they were going to box bare-knuckled, a style which remained popular with those who wanted their sport to be as rough as possible. The referee was giving the two men their instructions: no kicking, no gouging, no wrestling and, above all, no hitting a man when he was down – the contest certainly seemed honourable. As the long list of rules came to an end, the Slogger’s expression did not change, but Artie saw him cast a glance up at the colonel, who gave him a slight nod and a sly wink.