Free The Curse of Christmas by Anna Lord

short cut along
Bear Pit Alley toward High Holborn.
    “We can share a hansom,” he
suggested casually to his old rugby pal. “Are you still living off
the Camden Road?”
    “Yes, but it’s not really on
your way. I don’t want to put you out. How long have you had that
cough?”
    “About six months. I picked it
up in Biarritz last summer. There was a bout of Spanish flu going
around. Camden Road will take me around the back of Regent Park to
Baker Street. It’s no bother. I want to chat to you about something
private.”
    “That sounds serious – are you
tying the knot again? I heard you were travelling with a rather
rich and attractive foreign countess.”
    “Countess Volodymyrovna. No, no
nothing like that. We are, er, friends.” He was about to say
‘occult detectives’ but checked himself in time. “Here’s a
cab!”
    Two eerie golden lights like
demon’s eyes were swimming toward them through the murky fog. It
was hard for the driver to see anyone. They had to step onto the
road to gain attention.
    “Camden Market Road,” directed
Dr Gregory.
    Dr Watson waited until the
clip-clop of the hooves muffled the sound of their voices.
    “I didn’t say anything tonight
to the other members but I am on a case already. It’s a bit
hush-hush.”
    “Are you working on a case with
your old friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes?”
    “No, he is still recuperating
from his ordeal in Switzerland.”
    “That was years ago, wasn’t
it?”
    “Yes, eight years ago, but it
affected him badly. His health is not the same. He keeps a low
profile and rarely takes cases now.”
    “Mmm, nasty business that. One
day you must tell me all about it. One hears such wild stories. One
minute your friend is alive, the next he is dead and then he is
alive again and it has been that way for eight years now. Some say
he has retired to the Sussex countryside – bee-keeping of all
things! – and then I read an article in the newspaper about a case
he has solved. I don’t know what to believe. I know you wrote up
the whole extraordinary thing in one of your chronicles but it
sounded so dramatic I thought you must have made half of it up to
please your publisher.”
    “Yes, yes, I admit it sounds
like a tale and a half, but, well, the reason I wanted to speak to
you has to do with the Crossbones Cemetery.”
    “Really? But didn’t you just
vote against?”
    “Yes, I did, because I didn’t
want Mr Pike or anyone else looking into it.”
    “But Langdale laughed off the
whole business. I got the impression he made it all up to stir up
readership or at least he exaggerated it a good deal.”
    “He certainly gave that
impression but you know how these things can get out of hand -
women afraid to go to hospital, the medical profession accused of
body-snatching and murder-on-demand, hue and cry, public
hysteria.”
    “Hmm, I agree the public can get
frightfully het up about such things, but if it is all a beef-up
then it will just peter out naturally.”
    “I’m not so sure it’s just a
beef-up. I have recently been given some information that leads me
to think there is actually something odd going on in the Crossbones
Graveyard.”
    “It’s not a graveyard.
Graveyards are synonymous with churchyards, in other words they are
attached to churches. Crossbones is a cemetery. Information? From
whom?”
    “I cannot reveal my source but
it is someone I trust. By the way, the cemetery in Southwark is attached to a church. There’s a Unitarian church at the
side of it, well, across the way actually, meaning Redcross
Way.”
    “That’s not the same thing. It’s
still not attached and the church has no say on anything regarding
burials or graves. Why so secretive about your source. Crossbones
is fairly obscure.”
    Dr Watson got the impression his
old rugby pal was thinking he might be trying to invent things for
the sake of a good story and his publisher.
    “It is someone I trust as much
as I trust you. My source doesn’t tilt at