Free The Curse of Christmas by Anna Lord Page B

not
exactly a gentlemen’s club despite the name. It was more of a
coffee house, a haunt for gossips and scribblers. Anyone was
welcome as long as they weren’t female. There were enough tea
houses for ladies in London already. This was an information
exchange for men. Mr Langdale Pike was seated in his usual spot in
the bow window. Dr Watson climbed out of the hansom, and through
the panes of glass acknowledged his Ghost Club colleague with a
firm nod of his head, feigning surprise rather convincingly.
    “Won’t you join me?” invited Mr
Pike affably when Dr Watson stopped by his table to say hello. “I’m
just about to order breakfast. I slept late this morning. That
meeting went on and on last night. Voysey loves the sound of his
own voice. And Greene can never get to the point without beating
around the bush. Sit down. Here’s the waiter now. What will you
have?”
    Dr Watson slipped into the seat
opposite his friend. “I’ll have a full English breakfast and a pot
of tea. No, make it a pot of extra strong coffee?”
    “Same for me, Lechlade,” said Mr
Pike, addressing the waiter by name. “Put it all on my tab.”
    “That’s very kind of you,” said
Dr Watson, knowing he was about to pay in kind.
    “I heard you were travelling
with a Russian countess?”
    Oh, well, here goes. “Ukrainian
– Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna.”
    “Can you spell that for me?
Better still; just write it here on this notebook. A widow?”
    “Yes, her husband died from
suicide.”
    “In Australia?”
    “Yes.”
    “There is a rumour she is
eye-wateringly rich?”
    “Indeed, she is quite
wealthy.”
    “You lucky devil! How did you
meet?’
    “We met by chance at an
unrolling party in Belgravia.”
    “Do I hear wedding bells?”
    “No, no, nothing of the kind. We
are simply friends.”
    “Is she planning to make London
her home?”
    “She has a residence in Mayfair
but I think she enjoys travelling too much to ever settle in one
city for long. She has homes all over the world. Fifteen at last
count.”
    Dr Watson understood that to
receive information from Mr Pike he first had to give some. He just
hoped that what he gave up would not cause the Countess any grief.
He thought most of it was common knowledge. He was careful not to
divulge anything he felt was confidential or too specific. They ate
breakfast while Mr Pike scribbled feverishly in his notebook.
    “Now you can tell me something,”
said Dr Watson when the plates were cleared and he settled back
with a cup of strong black coffee in one hand and his calabash in
the other.
    Mr Pike was in an understandably
ebullient and generous mood. “Ask away.”
    “I was wondering about that
article you penned under the name of Agrippa. Was any of it
true?”
    “Crossbones, you mean?”
    “Yes.”
    “Despite what you may believe,
old chap, I don’t make things up, neither the social gossip nor the
supernatural stuff. I don’t claim not to embellish things
but I never invent things for the sake of it. I recount what my
sources tell me and allow the public to draw their own conclusions
using their own imagination which I admit to giving a good prod
with a big colourful stick.”
    “Did you visit the cemetery to
verify the story?”
    “No, of course not, why should
I? I’m not going to travel to Australia to verify what you just
told me about the Countess’s husband either. I deal in human
interest stories not historical fact. This table is my office, my
world. The stories come to me. Why would I want to travel all the
way to Southwark?” He gave a shudder.
    “Who was your initial
source?”
    “Gosh, you really are a stickler
for detail. I guess it comes from writing all those detective
stories. Are you thinking of investigating Crossbones for the Ghost
Club despite it being voted down last night?”
    “Yes, I’m thinking about it.”
The lie came easily to his lips, so easily it surprised him, so
easily he decided to continue while he was on a roll. “It