Artie Conan Doyle and the Gravediggers' Club

by Robert J. Harris

  Daisy O’Connor

  Marie de Certeau

  “D and C?” said Ham doubtfully. “Well, yes, I’m sure thousands of perfectly ordinary names have the letters D and C in them. Yours does: Arthur Conan Doyle.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Artie, “but very few names would have them as initial letters in the right order, D then C, or beside each other, as in the case of William Bruce DCM.”

  “What’s DCM?” Ham asked.

  “It stands for Distinguished Conduct Medal. It’s a medal given to soldiers for gallantry in the field.”

  “It could still just be a coincidence,” said Ham dubiously. “I can’t see that a couple of letters mean anything.”

  Artie chewed the end of his pencil so hard flakes of wood came off in his mouth. Suddenly he jumped up, waving the notebook in triumph.

  “No, it’s not a coincidence, and I have the proof of that!”

  “Artie, sit down. You’re creating a scene.”

  A museum attendant was looking at them sternly and shaking his head.

  “Now what on earth are you talking about?” said Ham.

  Artie sat back down and gave his friend a poke with the pencil. “Remember your Roman numerals!” he urged him excitedly. “You know, from Latin class.”

  “Roman numerals? Why should I want to remember them? Frankly they always made my head hurt.”

  “Because the letter D was used by the Romans to represent the number five hundred,” Artie explained. “And the letter C represented one hundred.”

  Ham stared at him blankly.

  “Don’t you see? Put them together and you make the number six hundred. It must point to the same six hundred Warren and Dash were talking about in that terrible place last night.”

  “Six hundred what?” Ham exclaimed “Miles? Graves? Bottles?”

  Artie twirled the pencil over and over in his fingers. “I don’t know that yet,” he admitted. “But I’m going to find out.”

  “Really? And how are you going to do that?”

  Artie’s jaw tightened. “Dash said he was going to try his luck at Calton tonight.”

  “What, at Calton Hill?”

  “He must have been talking about Calton Burial Ground.”

  “So what about it?” Ham’s face was so dismal, he obviously wasn’t looking forward to the answer.

  “We’re going to get there ahead of him, Ham,” Artie declared. “We’ll catch him in the act and get to the bottom of this affair at last!”

  15. Into the Valley of Death

  An icy breeze whispered down Nicolson Street as two figures, hugging themselves against the cold, trudged across town. The pavements were slick with the day’s rain and, as the midnight hour approached, the gas lamps formed yellow haloes in the drifting mist.

  Ham shivered and pressed a hand to his mouth to keep his teeth from chattering.

  “I can’t believe I’m following you into another graveyard,” he said wearily. “And in the middle of the night again. It’s a good thing my mother is a sound sleeper. And that she snores, so I can hear when she’s dozed off.”

  “With any luck this will be the last time we go searching in a graveyard.” Artie tried to sound reassuring.

  “Luck?” said Ham. “The only luck we’ve had so far is not being murdered by crooks or eaten by ghouls. I don’t know why… why…” He stopped suddenly and remained standing where he was until Artie realised he wasn’t following.

  Puzzled, Artie turned back and rejoined his friend. “What’s the matter, Ham? Don’t you feel well?”

  “That’s just it, Artie,” Ham groaned. “I am sick of this business. Why do you keep dragging me along? Why don’t you get somebody more adventurous to accompany you? Or even a faithful dog?”

  Artie was struck dumb. He rubbed his arms for a few seconds then cleared his throat. “Because I need you by my side, Ham. You know, as my stalwart companion.”

  “Is that because the heroes in your books always have a stalwart companion?” Ham retorted. “One who isn’t quite as clever or brave as they are?”

  There was a hurt in his voice that Artie had never heard before and it made him feel queasy inside. “N-no, it’s not like that at all, Ham,” he stammered.

  “Is it just to keep me from the cakes then?” Ham pressed. “That’s what you said when we started all these capers.”

  Both of them stared in silence at the rain-soaked pavement, casting only the occasional glance towards each other.

  “I had to say something to persuade you,” Artie muttered at last. Somehow the night seemed even colder than before.

  “Really?” Ham’s hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and under his cap his face had withdrawn into the upturned collar of his coat.

  “The truth is…” Artie stamped his feet a few times to get the feeling back into his toes. “The truth is… I need you.”

  “Need me for what?” Ham wiped a sleeve across his damp nose. “I don’t know anything about medical Calvinism–”

  “Galvanism.”

  “Or how to trick cannibals. I couldn’t even follow that ghost girl without losing her.”

  “None of that matters. The point is…” Artie paused as, off in the distance, somewhere on the Forth, a tugboat sounded its mournful horn. “The point is, you give me courage.”

  “Me? Give you courage?” Ham’s voice was husky with incredulity.

  “Yes,” Artie said, “it is a dangerous venture and, to tell you the truth, I don’t have the nerve for it all by myself.”

  Ham considered this for a moment. “I am pretty scared, you know. I don’t mind admitting it.”

  “We both are. But when you lost your father,” said Artie with a catch in his voice, “getting through that, taking care of your mother, that calls for a special kind of bravery. I can only hope that I would be half as brave.”

  Ham looked abashed. He gave a very forced shrug. “A chap does what he must.”

  “Yes, he does.” Artie’s frozen lips formed a smile.

  “And sometimes, I suppose, he must be a stalwart companion.” Slowly Ham’s round face emerged from the shadow of his upturned collar into the pale gaslight. He was smiling too.

  Artie clapped him heartily on the back. “Come on then, old fellow! We have work to do!”

  They set off again, and suddenly, as though the winter night had eased its grip, they both felt warmer.

  “My mother takes good care of me too, you know,” said Ham. “Many’s the time she’s said to me, ‘We may not have much, Eddie, but I’ll not have anyone say you look ill fed. ’”

  “She’s succeeded admirably,” Artie assured him.

  They crossed North Bridge and turned into Waterloo Place, then halted before the entrance to Calton Burial Ground. Beyond the graveyard, the dark mass of Calton prison was a sombre reminder of the danger they might be walking into. As at Greyfriars, the lock had been tampered with and the gate opened easily.

  “You don’t suppose they’re here already, do you?” Ham wondered as they entered, carefully closing the gate behind them.

  Artie signalled him to silence and led the way up the sloping path between the graves. He picked out a large tombstone on the left and they crouched down behind it. Through floating shrouds of mist they glimpsed a tall granite obelisk at the top of the rise, pointing up at the sky like a warning finger.

  “No sign of anybody that I can see,” Artie muttered.

  “We’ll be lucky to spot them in this murk.”

  “Keep a watch on the path. Colonel Dash will be here,” Artie said confidently, “to dig up a grave marked with those letters D and C. I expect he’s had one of his men scout it out in daylight.”

  “I’m not sure we’ll learn much by watching out for him.”

  “If we keep our ears sharp,” said Artie, “we may overhear them say what it is they’re looking for.”

  “Something to do with the mysterious six hundred.”

  Artie nodded and gave an affirmative grun
t.

  Ham shifted his position to ease a cramp in his leg. “You know, Artie, there’s something familiar about that number and it’s been nagging at me.”

  “Yes, it’s probably got something to do with mathematics.” Artie rubbed his knees.

  “No, not sums, Artie. Poetry.”

  “Poetry? Ham, it’s not like you to talk about poetry.” He stared at his friend and saw that his face was screwed up in intense concentration.

  “Do you remember that time in English class when Father Vaughan made us each choose a poem to memorise?”

  “Yes, I picked ‘Lochinvar’ by Sir Water Scott,” said Artie, “you know, about the bold young knight.” He cast his mind back and began to recite in a whisper:

  “O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

  Through all the wide border his steed was the best,

  And save his good broadsword he weapons had none—”

  “Yes, yes,” Ham interrupted brusquely, “I remember you reciting the whole blessed thing. There’s no need to do it again.”

  Artie was slightly put out at being cut off before the end of the stanza. “So what is it you’re talking about?” he demanded.

  “Well, I picked Robbie Burns’ ‘Address to a Haggis’.”

  “Not a soul in the class was in any way surprised by that, Ham.”

  “But I looked at a lot of other poems first,” Ham continued, “including that one about the Crimean War.”

  “Right,” said Artie, “when our army teamed up with the French to keep the Russians out of those ports on the Black Sea.”

  “Well, I read that poem about the famous battle, and I’m sure it mentions the Six Hundred. It was ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ by Keats.”

  “By Alfred Lord Tennyson.”

  “Fine, have it your way. But I’m sure I remember part of it. It goes something like:

  Forward, the Light Brigade!

  Was there a man dismayed?”

  Ham paused and slipped a hand under his cap to scratch his head. “Something, something…

  Theirs not to make reply,

  Theirs not to reason why,

  Theirs but to do or die…”

  When he paused again to recall the next line, a mocking voice came from behind them.

  “Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.”

  The boys swung round with a start and fell back against the damp tombstone. They looked up to see the menacing smirk of Colonel Braxton Dash.

  16. The Enigma of the Russian Cross

  The boys scrambled upright and faced the sinister colonel. He loomed over them with a heartless grin on his face, clearly smug that he had crept up on them while they were busy reciting poetry. Behind him the Slogger appeared out of the mist, a shovel gripped in his right hand. In the other hand he held the leash of the great black hound Erebus. The dog gave a growl that sent a shiver down Artie’s spine.

  Braxton Dash poked the end of his gold-handled cane hard into Artie’s chest, pushing him back against the tombstone.

  “So what have we here? A pair of junior ghouls?”

  Artie lowered his gaze, trying to keep his face in shadow so that the colonel wouldn’t recognise him.

  “What, nothing to say for yourselves?” Dash turned his attention to Ham and gave him a prod with his stick.

  “We were just burying a piece of hair,” Ham blurted out.

  Artie gaped at him in amazement, wondering if his friend had lost his mind.

  “Burying hair?” Dash echoed.

  “Yes, my g-granny says it’s a sure way to g-get rid of warts,” Ham stammered.

  “Ham…” Artie began, but there was no stopping his friend.

  “You see, you cut off a bit of your hair,” the words tumbled uncontrollably from Ham’s lips, “and bury it in a graveyard – at midnight if possible, but just so long as it’s dark it should still work. So you bury the hair, as I said, and when you wake up in the morning all your warts are gone.”

  “Much troubled with warts, are you, boy?” Dash drawled.

  “Yes, very much so.” Ham bobbed his head. “We’ve buried the hair some place over that way.” He waved a vague hand. “So as our business is done, we’ll be on our way and let you get on with whatever you’re about, because it’s certainly no concern of ours.”

  Braxton Dash squinted at Ham for a few seconds and frowned. “Simple minded,” he muttered. He turned back to Artie. “And what about you? Cat got your tongue?”

  He placed the end of his cane under Artie’s chin and forced him to raise his head. He leaned forward to peer closely at his young prisoner’s face.

  “I know you, don’t I?” There was a menacing edge to his voice. “Last night, I sent you to fetch gin and some other sprat came back with the bottle. I thought at the time there was something out of place about you.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Ham interrupted, “but he was with me last night. We were studying horoscopes. Did you know there’s going to be an eclipse?”

  “Quiet!” Dash snapped, cuffing Ham on the side of the head.

  Artie’s hands curled into fists. “You’ve no call to treat him like that.”

  Dash let out a dry chuckle. “Well, well, well. There’s trouble in you, boy, isn’t there?”

  Artie tried to control his temper. It was obvious that he and Ham would be no match for the colonel and the Slogger. And he had no wish to tangle with the black mastiff.

  Dash drove the end of his cane against Artie’s chest again, pressing him back against the tombstone.

  “Yes, you left to fetch the gin, then Warren disappeared right after.” He ran a hand across his moustache. “Rather suspicious that.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Artie could see the look of helpless despair on Ham’s face. Perhaps if he could distract the two villains, there might be a chance for his friend to escape.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” he told the colonel, his face reddening with frustration, “so you might as well let us go.”

  Dash appeared not to hear. “You and Warren, taking off together like that,” he murmured. “Could it be that you’re in league with him, that he’s planning a double cross?” He reached out a gloved hand and clamped Artie’s jaw between his fingers. “I don’t like rascals who double cross me.”

  Artie could hear Ham panting in panic and his own heart was hammering in his chest. The Slogger dropped the shovel and cracked his knuckles. The noise was as frightening as a pistol shot.

  “I’ve a notion you know a good deal more than you’re telling.” Dash’s fingers dug hard into Artie’s cheeks. “If you and your friend want to keep your throats from being cut, I suggest you tell me everything you know about the Russian Cross.”

  The Russian Cross!

  Artie’s thoughts reeled. He had no idea what the colonel was talking about. He couldn’t even think of a lie that would buy them some time. But it seemed Dr Harthill had been right – this mystery wasn’t about the bodies themselves; it was some form of criminal treasure hunt.

  Braxton Dash released his grip on Artie’s face and tapped him under the jaw with his knuckles. “My patience is wearing very thin, boy. Tell me about the Russian Cross!”

  The clues were whirling around in Artie’s brain like leaves in a whirlwind. The Six Hundred, the six graves, DC, the Light Brigade charging the Russian guns…

  “It comes from the Crimea,” he blurted, thoughts flashing in his brain like the sparks from Dr Harthill’s machinery. “The Light Brigade brought it back with them, after the battle, after the charge.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Dash, his eyes glittering with greed. “But did he tell you where it’s hidden? Curse you, boy, tell me which is the grave!”

  Even though his flesh was crawling with terror, Artie was beginning to see the pattern now. If he could only think of a way to divert Braxton Dash.

  Just then an unseen owl hooted loudly in a nearby tree. The huge mastiff Erebus stiffened, its ears pricking up as
it turned towards the sound. It let out a deep-throated “Baroo!” and charged off after the bird, dragging the Slogger behind it.

  “Slogger, hang onto him, man!” Dash roared, lunging after the pair. “Erebus, heel, drat you! Heel!”

  Seizing the chance, Artie grabbed Ham by the shoulder and hauled him down the slope towards the gate. The hound was still baying furiously, chasing the owl.

  Ham tripped on a lump in the ground and rolled over several times in the wet grass before coming to a halt at the base of a tombstone. Artie helped him back onto his feet, dragged him along again and demanded, “What on earth was all that nonsense about hair and warts?”

  “I was remembering what you said about cannibals,” Ham puffed. “You know, making them think you’d caused an eclipse by magic. I thought if I said we were doing magic, they might let us go.”

  Artie couldn’t help grinning. “Well, it was a game effort. Come on, let’s get out of here!”

  Suddenly the dog fell silent and Braxton Dash cried out, “Slogger, those brats have escaped! Unleash the dog! Erebus, take ’em!”

  “Oh my goodness, he’s setting the hound on us!” Ham squeaked.

  “We could do with a spot of magic right now to get us out of this.”

  They raced for the exit as fast as their legs would carry them.

  The gate appeared out of the mist like the way into some dark fairy land. Artie flung it open and they stumbled out into the street, leaving it to clang shut behind them. There came another jarring crash as the black mastiff flung itself at the metal bars.

  “He can’t get through!” Artie breathed. “It only opens inwards. Come on!”

  He and Ham hurried up the street, pelting blindly through the mist. Suddenly they collided with a wall of solid rock.

  “We’re at the foot of Calton Hill!” Artie exclaimed. “We can’t climb here: it’s like a cliff face.”

  Behind them the gate of the burial ground swung open and slammed shut again with a harsh metallic reverberation.

  “Dash has let the hound out,” Ham panted. “We can’t stop now!”