Artie Conan Doyle and the Gravediggers' Club

by Robert J. Harris

“Thank you very much for your advice, sir,” said Artie.

  “Aye, I need to get back to my digging.” Dalhousie grabbed hold of his shovel. “You two had best stand clear or risk a face full of dirt.”

  “Yes, sir, and thank you very much,” said Ham as the earth started to fly.

  The two boys walked briskly away and, as soon as they were out of Dalhousie’s hearing, Artie grabbed his friend by the arm. “Did you hear that, Ham? He as good as confessed to being a member of the Gravediggers’ Club.”

  “To be fair, Artie, he was only talking about having a drink with some friends. You’re the one that called it a club.”

  “And now we know where they meet,” Artie enthused, ignoring Ham’s scepticism, “the Rooster and Trumpet. All we have to do now is work out a way to spy on them.”

  “Artie, we’re just schoolboys,” Ham quailed. “We can’t go poking around a public house. It’s a place of drunkenness and thievery and heaven knows what goings on.” He swallowed hard.

  “It’s true they might not let us in,” Artie admitted, “and if we were spotted sneaking around, there’s no doubt we’d be roughly handled. We need the help of a grown-up to investigate the place.”

  “Good luck finding one,” said Ham. “I don’t know anybody who would march into a den of criminal gravediggers.”

  “You’re forgetting, Ham, that we’ve already met such a man,” Artie reminded him. “Constable George McCorkle.”

  6. The Return of the Stolen Dead

  By the time they reached the Police Office a few flakes of snow had begun to fall. The building loomed over them just off the High Street, at the top of Old Fishmarket Close, which the locals referred to as ‘Poalis Office Close’.

  In spite of the weather, Ham held back as Artie walked up to the door. “Do we have to go in there, Artie?” he complained. “Could we not just stay outside and wait for the constable to pass by?”

  “We don’t have time for that,” said Artie. “Besides, it’s too cold to stand around in the street.”

  “I suppose so,” Ham sighed. He shoved his hands in his pockets and followed Artie inside.

  Beyond a double set of wooden doors was a room where several greatcoats hung from pegs on the wall and descriptions of various wanted criminals were pinned to a notice board. At the back of the room, behind a desk covered in papers, stood a sergeant with a chest so large it looked likely to pop the buttons off his uniform.

  “Well, well,” he said as the two boys approached, “have you two come to confess to something?”

  Ham started at the suggestion but Artie smiled, realising it was a joke.

  “Not at all, sir,” he said. “We’re looking for Constable George McCorkle.”

  Ham nodded his mute agreement. He shuffled his feet uneasily with one eye on the exit, as though he feared the sergeant might take a sudden impulse to toss him in a cell.

  “McCorkle, you say,” repeated the sergeant. “And what business have you with him?”

  “He told us to contact him if we had any information regarding a certain matter,” Artie explained.

  Ham bobbed his head to confirm that this was the truth. At the same time he took a small backward step in the direction of the door.

  “Well, McCorkle is out on patrol, as a good officer should be.”

  “Of course,” said Artie. “Could you possibly tell us where we might find him?”

  “At this time of day?” The sergeant glanced up at the wall clock. He drummed his fingers on the counter as he performed a brisk mental calculation. “I should say that if you lads were to set out at an energetic pace, you might well intercept him at the east end of Victoria Street.”

  “Victoria Street,” Artie repeated. “Thank you very much, sir.”

  Once they were outside, Ham let out a huge sigh of relief, as if he’d been holding his breath for the last few minutes.

  “For heaven’s sake, Ham. Look what a state you’ve got yourself into.”

  “Artie, a chap’s not safe among all those policemen. They’re always on the lookout for somebody to arrest, and once they’ve got their hands on you, they’ll find a way to make you guilty. Next thing you know, you’re on your way to one of those convict colonies in Australia.”

  “I don’t think they send convicts there any more.” Artie turned up his collar as the snow grew heavier and strode off in the direction of Victoria Street. “Although I believe Australia is quite hot at this time of year.”

  “Could we not go home and wait there till it stops snowing?” Ham suggested, struggling to keep up.

  Artie shook his head and lowered his voice. “Listen closely, Ham. I believe I’ve established what’s going on. The gravediggers have formed a club in order to make some extra – and highly illegal – money. They know where all the best bodies are buried. They are digging them up and taking them to Mr Benjamin Warren. He is acting as their agent, selling the bodies on to medical researchers in exchange for a share of the profits.”

  “But, Artie, he lives in your house,” Ham objected. “Where could he possibly keep all those bodies? Under his bed?”

  “He probably has a secret cellar somewhere in town,” said Artie darkly. “In crime stories the villain always has a secret cellar somewhere.”

  “Frankly, Artie,” Ham made a disgruntled face, “I think you read too many stories. All that made-up nonsense is swirling about in your head getting mixed up with real things. That’s why you keep chasing after these fantastic ideas.”

  “What you’re missing, Ham, is that real life is often just as extraordinary as any story,” Artie replied with an excited glint in his eye, “and it’s good to be prepared.”

  “Prepared?” echoed Ham. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, for example, I recently read a story in which the hero was captured by cannibals.”

  “And what did you learn from that?”

  “That it’s best to be captured by cannibals shortly before an eclipse,” Artie explained. “You pretend to cause the eclipse through some sort of magic, and the cannibals will think you’re a god.”

  “It sounds like it takes very fine timing,” said Ham, “and rather a lot of luck.”

  “That’s just one example. The general point holds true: stories give you tricks and plans to deal with all sorts of situations.”

  ***

  Once they reached the east end of Victoria Street they only had a few minutes’ wait before Constable McCorkle came into view. He tipped his top hat to a pair of ladies dressed in furs then spotted the two boys.

  “Well, well,” he greeted them. “I seem to be running into you young gentlemen all over town. A proper pair of nomads you are.”

  “Actually, we were looking for you,” said Artie.

  “Looking for me? Not in any trouble are you?”

  “No, but we have some information to report.”

  “Well, information is always valuable and that’s the truth.” McCorkle pulled out a pocket watch and squinted at it. “I’m on my way to lunch but I can spare you a few minutes while we walk.”

  As they headed down the street the constable shortened his lanky stride so the boys could keep up. Artie poured out his report while Ham slipped a pastry out of his pocket and began to nibble on it. Once he had heard about the interview with Dalhousie and Artie’s suspicions of Benjamin Warren, McCorkle stroked his moustache meditatively before speaking.

  “It appears to me, young sir,” he began, “that you don’t have the correct frame of mind for police work, if you don’t mind my saying so. Too few facts and too much imagination.”

  Artie was affronted, and when Ham nodded in agreement with the constable he gave him a thump on the arm.

  “I could make an excellent policeman,” he protested. “If you like, I could follow Warren and find out where he’s taking the bodies.”

  McCorkle held up a hand to silence him. “No need for that. It is true that we did interview Mr Warren and a number of other medical students about this mat
ter. However, all that is irrelevant now.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Artie.

  “A number of corpses, recently disinterred, were found in a hollow at Blackford Quarry early this morning.”

  Hamwas so aghast he paused in mid-bite. “Are you saying the bodies were just thrown away like rubbish?”

  “So it appears. They were partially hidden but it was a poor job of concealment.”

  “And they are definitely the ones that were recently stolen?” Artie persisted.

  “As well as that can be established, yes.”

  Artie and Ham exchanged puzzled looks. Ham shrugged and munched on his pastry, ignoring Artie’s disapproving expression.

  “I don’t suppose it looked like medical experiments had been performed on any of them?” asked Artie.

  “Not according to my information, no,” the constable replied. “The police surgeon declares that they are all entirely intact. To be frank, the notion of the corpses being stolen for medical research appears to be a dead end, or, as we in the business call it, a red herring.”

  7. The Puzzle of the Six Names

  As he swallowed the last of his pastry, the smell of roasting chestnuts made Ham pause. They were now approaching the Grassmarket, where a man was selling the delicious treats from a cart, using tongs to pop them into paper bags for his customers. Pulling himself away, Ham hurried after Artie and the constable while the seller’s voice echoed after him.

  “Cheeestnuuts! Hot cheeeestnuuts here!”

  Artie was clenching his fists in exasperation as he marched along beside the policeman.

  “This makes no sense,” he burst out. “Why would anybody go to the trouble of digging up bodies just to throw them away?”

  “There seems to be little reason behind this crime,” McCorkle admitted.

  “But I overheard… I mean I thought I heard that the Gravediggers’ Club was supposed to be behind it.”

  “That’s as may be,” said McCorkle stiffly, “but you’d do well to keep clear of those particular gentlemen.”

  “Gentlemen?” said Artie in surprise. “You mean the diggers who meet at the Rooster and Trumpet?”

  “The Rooster and Trumpet? I’m afraid your information is erroneous on that score, my young friend,” said McCorkle, as though correcting a small child. “I suggest you get back to your school work and leave the apprehension of dangerous criminals to me. Now that the missing bodies have been recovered, to all intents and purposes, this case which you are so agitated about is closed.”

  They headed down West Bow where a ragged musician was playing the fiddle in the hope that his jig would coax a few coins out of the passers by. McCorkle gave the man a stern look, as if to let him know that the law had an eye on him.

  “So what’s happened to the bodies?” Artie asked.

  “Oh, they have been taken to the police mortuary,” said McCorkle. “It is hoped that the deceased can be identified and returned to their graves, there to rest in peace, as they say.”

  He halted outside an eating house with a sign over the door showing a muscular arm flexing its bicep. Above the picture were the words ‘The Lord’s Arm’ and below, in smaller letters, ‘Truth, Virtue, Temperance’.

  “This, young gentlemen, is a temperance house,” the policeman informed them, “meaning that no alcoholic beverages of any kind are served here, only sound, healthy fare. It is here I intend to take my lunch.”

  “Just a moment, please,” Artie pressed him. “How are they going to identify the bodies?”

  “Well, the doctor will ascertain what physical aspects remain and match them as best he can with the names on this list.” McCorkle pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper and displayed it. “All six names are recorded here along with the cemetery from which each was taken.”

  “Could I have a look at that?” asked Artie.

  “You can keep it.” McCorkle handed the list over. “I have the names memorised, in case they should prove useful.” He tapped his forefinger against his temple. “As I told you, I have the right sort of mind for police work. And now I will bid you good day.”

  With those words he disappeared inside the eating house. Ham watched him enviously. “I don’t suppose we could go in there and get a bite to eat?”

  Ignoring his friend’s plea, Artie stared intently at the names on the list. “I don’t understand this at all,” he grumbled.

  “It sounds to me like you’ve been reading the wrong stories, Artie.”

  “You needn’t be so smug about it.” Artie stuffed the piece of paper into his pocket. “Come on home with me and we’ll give this some thought.”

  “There will be a warm fire there, I take it,” said Ham hopefully. “And lunch?”

  ***

  Half an hour later they were at the Doyle house and Artie was pacing back and forth across his room.

  “If you’re going to keep up this pacing, Artie, we could do with a larger room,” Ham complained from where he sat, hunched up on the bed. “You’re making me dizzy.”

  “I can’t sit still when I’m chewing on a problem.”

  “I wish I had something to chew on,” Ham muttered.

  “We had those scones my mother baked,” Artie reminded him, still marching across the room. “And you ate most of them.”

  “Oh, yes, those little scones,” Ham recalled. “Those very little scones. You’re going to wear out the carpet at this rate,” he warned. “Besides, you heard McCorkle. The case is closed.”

  “How can it be closed when nobody knows who stole the bodies or why?” Artie protested.

  “Well, there’s nothing to be gained by fretting about it. Nobody cares except you.”

  “Read the names and cemeteries to me again,” Artie instructed.

  Ham flattened the list out on his knees, and read the names and associated graveyards aloud.

  Donald Cafferty, Greyfriars Kirkyard

  Charles Tennant, Greyfriars Kirkyard

  Sidney Bruce, Dean Cemetery

  Richard Chisholm, Dean Cemetery

  Daisy O’Connor, Dalry Cemetery

  Marie de Certeau, Dalry Cemetery

  “There,” said Ham as he finished reading. “Are you any the wiser yet?”

  “There has to be some clue to this,” Artie muttered, marching to the door and back to the window. He plucked the list from his friend’s fingers and studied it. Then he dropped into a chair and pulled his journal from his pocket. Snatching up a pencil, he began scribbling.

  “What on earth are you doing?” asked Ham.

  “I’m comparing lists.” Artie scrawled frantically in his journal.

  The Mystery of the Gravediggers’ Club

  List of graveyards found in the suspect’s overcoat pocket:

  Greyfriars

  Grange

  Dalry

  Calton Burial Ground

  Dean

  Newington

  Rosebank

  Warriston

  “All the graveyards where bodies were dug up are on Warren’s list!” yelped Artie, jumping to his feet. “Look, Greyfriars, Dalry and Dean Cemetery!”

  “But half the graveyards in town were on that list, Artie. What does it prove?”

  “Nothing – yet. But it confirms my suspicion that Warren is involved.”

  “You’re pacing again,” Ham noted unhappily.

  Artie suddenly paused in mid-step, an excited gleam in his eye.

  “Suppose,” he suggested, “that the doctor who wanted those bodies wasn’t planning to cut them up. Suppose he wanted to perform some other kind of experiment, one that left no traces for the police to see. And when he’d finished his work, he disposed of them.”

  “You really do have the most fantastic ideas, Artie,” said Ham. “Next you’ll be telling me that those corpses came to life and leapt into the quarry by themselves.”

  “Came back to life?” Artie repeated, his eyes growing wide. “Ham, you may have hit upon something there!”

  “Oh
no, Artie, you can’t be serious,” Ham protested.

  Artie reached under his bed and pulled out a book. Excitedly he flipped through the pages until he found the passage he wanted. “Listen to this, Ham.” He lowered his voice to a sinister solemnity and read aloud.

  It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

  “What on earth was that all about?” asked Ham.

  Artie showed him the cover of the book. “It’s a novel called Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, about a doctor who brings a dead body to life using electricity.”

  “But that’s just bosh,” Ham snorted. “Nobody could actually do that.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Artie put the book down and stared at his friend meaningfully. “I think I know a man who could.”

  8. The Episode of the Dangerous Doorway

  The next day was Sunday and Artie fidgeted so much during Mass at St Margaret’s church that his mother had to give him three sharp jabs in the ribs to settle him down. Back home he squirmed restlessly as he sat with his sisters and parents, and gobbled down his plate of stewed beef and boiled potatoes.

  “Is Mr Warren not joining us today?” his father wondered.

  When the Doyle family returned from church, Benjamin Warren usually joined them for Sunday lunch.

  “He offers his apologies,” Mrs Doyle explained, “and says he will be absent on an errand of mercy for most of the day.”

  “Errand of mercy,” Artie scoffed through a mouthful of potato.

  “What was that, Arthur?” his mother demanded sharply.

  Artie daren’t mention his suspicions of what Warren was really up to. He swallowed the potato and said, “Nothing. I’m just surprised he’s working on a Sunday.”