Artie Conan Doyle and the Gravediggers' Club

by Robert J. Harris

  In subsequent years I heard rumours spreading among the veterans of the Crimea. On the eve of Balaclava, it was said, a Russian prince had been robbed and killed for a golden cross worth a small fortune. There was speculation that it had fallen into the hands of some British soldiers and was even now concealed somewhere in these isles.

  Whether Evermore’s feverish ranting had given rise to these rumours, or whether one of the others had foolishly let slip the tale before the battle, I could not know. But my great fear was that someone would connect the cross to Brand, and Brand to me. So I moved my family from place to place to elude any who might seek me out, taking care at all times to keep the cross hidden.

  Finally we settled in Edinburgh a little over two years ago, shortly after which my poor wife died. As my health declined, I pondered what I should do with this cursed treasure. To turn it to my own profit would, I was sure, bring more ill fortune down upon our heads, but I could not leave the cursed treasure in your hands, dearest Geraldine.

  At last I concealed it in the earth at the foot of an open grave, mere hours before the funeral party arrived to bury a coffin on top of it. There it lies in the place of my brethren under the mark of DC, in honour of the Six Hundred, as Tennyson famously called them.

  It is my prayer that should it be found, the cross will be used to help the survivors of that terrible charge. Many of them, like me, were badly wounded and have fallen into poverty. Some have been driven into the workhouse, while others have been compelled to turn beggar. Perhaps one day the Russian Cross can be used to bring them some comfort and dignity in their final years.

  This is a true testimony, as God is my witness. And now that I face the final night of my soul, I pray for His mercy and forgiveness.

  Francis Poulton,

  Late of the Fourth Light Dragoons

  19. The Doctor Makes a Deduction

  Once he had finished reading Francis Poulton’s narrative, Dr Harthill removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  “A remarkable tale,” he declared. “Remarkable.”

  “Artie, you were right about the DC being Roman numerals,” said Ham.

  “And you were right about that pointing to the Light Brigade,” said Artie.

  Geraldine Poulton’s eyes had been downcast throughout the reading, but now she looked up and took a deep breath to steady herself against her grief.

  “Though skilled in the care of horses,” she said, “my father found it difficult to retain employment As well as being lame in one leg, the headaches he suffered were often so severe that they robbed him of his wits. My mother earned what she could as a seamstress and by taking in laundry, and as soon as I was old enough to assist her, I took up my share.”

  “It’s not right that men who have fought for their country should be forced to live in such a way,” said Artie. He knew only too well the difficulties a family faced when the father struggled with ill health, and he had every sympathy for Geraldine’s circumstances. For a moment his mind was clouded with foreboding over the future of his own family.

  “Such, I am afraid, is the way of the world,” Dr Harthill commented sadly.

  “As you’ve heard,” Geraldine continued, “we moved frequently from place to place, though I did not know the reason why. When my mother died nearly two years ago, the care of my father fell to me. For the last weeks of his life he was bedridden.”

  The painful memory made the girl pause and Warren took the opportunity to add his part of the story.

  “It was at the pharmacy that I first met Geraldine,” he said. “She was buying medicine to soothe her father’s headaches and could barely muster the price. From her conversation with the pharmacist I gathered that she could not afford the services of a doctor, so I offered to assist.”

  “Benjamin has been kindness itself.” Geraldine smiled at the student. “Coming by whenever he could to minister to my poor sick father.”

  “I obtained some laudanum to alleviate his pain,” said Warren, “and it was while under the influence of the drug that he began to tell us about the precious relic he had brought back from the Crimea.”

  “He made frequent reference to its being buried under the mark of DC,” Geraldine added.

  “And how did this villainous Colonel Braxton Dash become involved?” inquired Dr Harthill, frowning.

  “That was my fault,” Warren admitted with a grim shake of the head.

  Artie could tell by his unhappy expression just how ashamed he felt.

  Geraldine laid a gentle hand on the medical student’s shoulder. “Benjamin, you have nothing to reproach yourself with. It was an accident of circumstance.”

  “I was spending an evening at a gambling house with a group of my fellow students, as well as some less reputable company,” Warren recalled. “Wine had loosened my tongue to the point where I mentioned that I had a patient under my care who was a veteran of the Light Brigade. I even let slip his name, Francis Poulton. Somehow Braxton Dash overheard. He drew me aside, shared a bottle of whisky with me, and lured me into an expensive card game. By the end of the night I owed him more money than I could possibly repay.”

  “No doubt he has all manner of tricks for cheating at cards,” said Geraldine.

  “I know that now,” said Warren ruefully. “Anyway, Dash made light of the debt and told me I could pay it off with a small favour. It seemed an uncle of his who had served in the Crimea had told Dash the rumour of the stolen cross and mentioned the names of some who were suspected of the crime. He asked if Poulton had ever mentioned such a thing, and I’m ashamed to say that I told him I had heard him talk of it.” He threw back the last of his sherry and set down the empty glass.

  “He pressed me to bring him every scrap of information I could obtain concerning the hiding place of the treasure,” said Warren. “He was sure that while the invalid was under my care, he would let slip the secret sooner or later.”

  “Benjamin confessed his mistake to me from the start,” said Geraldine. “My greatest fear was that Dash and his henchmen would break into our house and try to obtain the information by force.”

  “That was why I shared only enough of the story to convince him to leave the task to me,” said Warren. “First I told him that it was buried in a grave, for that would be of little help. Eventually I let him know about the mark of DC, for we ourselves could make little sense of this.”

  “I would imagine that the number of gravestone inscriptions containing those letters must be beyond counting,” said Geraldine.

  “Not so many as you think,” said Artie. “The graves he had dug up all featured the letters D and C as capitals and in that order.”

  “Yes, Dash became impatient waiting for more information,” said Warren, “so he began his search for the cross using only those clues.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said Ham, “is why didn’t he just leave the bodies by the graveside? Why go to all the bother of carting them away?”

  “As I explained to you on your previous visit, Mr Hamilton,” Dr Harthill steepled his fingers thoughtfully under his chin, “it was most likely a matter of misdirection.”

  “Dash doesn’t want anyone to suspect what he’s really up to,” Artie explained.

  “When Mr Poulton passed away,” said Warren, “it was all I could do to keep Dash from kidnapping Geraldine to force more information from her. I persuaded him to let me continue working with her in attempting to locate the cross. But he has been pressing me hard.”

  “I assume that night you came dashing into the house out of the fog, you were escaping an encounter with him?” asked Artie.

  “Yes, I was supposed to meet Geraldine at Greyfriars that night so we could search together,” said Warren, “but one of my lecturers, Dr Bell, made me stay late to help him inventory his lab equipment. By the time I arrived Geraldine had entered the graveyard without me.”

  “As soon as I heard voices I took to be Colonal Dash and his henchman, I regretted my impatience,” said Geraldine.
“I escaped the graveyard and fled down the street where I ran into Ben as he was coming to find me.”

  “I escorted Geraldine home,” said Warren, “but as soon as I left her, Dash waylaid me and pressed me for what I had learned. I managed to lose him in the fog and ran off in a bit of a panic.”

  “Benjamin and I have visited various cemeteries around the city,” said Geraldine, “hoping to spy some definite clue to the hiding place of the cross.”

  “Our intention was to find it ourselves before Dash can get his hands on it,” said Warren.

  “But we can’t even fathom out which graveyard my father alluded to.” Geraldine sounded frustrated. “Perhaps you kind gentlemen can help us solve this mystery?”

  “I believe, now we have all the information to hand, that we can,” said Artie resolutely. “Didn’t he say, It lies in the place of my brethren?”

  Professor Harthill slipped his glasses back on and scrutinised the last page of the manuscript. “Yes, that is correct.”

  “But that makes no sense at all,” said Geraldine. “My father had no brothers or sisters that I know of.”

  “Might he have been talking about his fellow soldiers?” Ham suggested.

  “I did think of that,” said Warren, “but there is no graveyard in Edinburgh set aside specifically for soldiers.”

  “I may be able to shed some light on this.” Dr Harthill removed his glasses and tapped the manuscript with his forefinger. “Tell me, Miss Poulton, was your father a religious man?”

  “In his later years,” Geraldine replied, “he did wonder what fate might await him beyond the grave. He gained much comfort from reading The Lives of the Saints and his last words to me as he passed away were, ‘God is love’.”

  Dr Harthill clapped his hands gleefully and said, “The saints! Of course!”

  Ham leaned close to Artie and whispered, “The old chap’s acting very peculiarly. Do you think all that electricity has affected his brain?”

  “No, Ham, I think he’s just deduced something very important.”

  “I have indeed, my young friend, I have indeed,” Dr Harthill confirmed with a beaming smile. “I can tell you where the grave in question is to be found. It is elementary, my dear boy.”

  20. The Finding of the Final Grave

  “I believe I have deduced which burial ground you should be searching,” proclaimed Dr Harthill.

  “The ‘place of my brethren’, you mean?” said Artie.

  “Precisely,” said Dr Harthill. “Miss Poulton, you stated that in his latter years your father took comfort in reading The Lives of the Saints.”

  Geraldine looked bewildered. “Yes, but how does that help us?”

  “Your father’s name was Francis,” said the doctor, “which is the name of one of the most famous saints in all of history.”

  “St Francis of Assisi,” said Artie.

  “Quite correct, Mr Doyle,” the doctor complimented him.

  “Maybe I haven’t studied my saints hard enough,” said Ham, “but I’m still not seeing any light in this.”

  “St Francis formed a religious brotherhood,” said the doctor, “an order of monks.”

  “Yes, they were called Franciscans,” said Artie.

  “Quite,” Dr Harthill agreed. “But they had another name. Because of the distinctive grey robes they wore, people commonly referred to them as the Grey Friars.”

  “The Grey Friars!” Artie gasped. “Of course, Greyfriars Kirkyard!”

  “I did find myself drawn to that particular kirkyard,” said Geraldine. “Which is why I was so determined to visit that time, even so late at night.”

  “Hmm, yes, the clue your father left was working in the deepest part of your psyche,” Doctor Harthill theorised, “prompting you to visit that place. Now that the knowledge is at the forefront of your brain, you may act more decisively.”

  “Yes, we must!” Warren jumped to his feet. “Now Dash knows that I am working against him, he will pursue us with all the resources at his command.”

  He offered Geraldine his hand and drew her to her feet.

  “We must start our search immediately,” she said, “and pray that we are guided to our goal.”

  Artie got up and stood by Warren’s side. “Dash has already dug up two DC graves at Greyfriars. With any luck we can find the right one before he overtakes us.”

  Ham looked deeply unhappy at the prospect of another night in a graveyard. He rubbed his hands on his knees, as though trying to coax himself into movement.

  “Yes.” He forced himself up and out of his chair. “We must see this business through to the end.”

  “Well said, Ham,” said Artie proudly.

  “You’ll need the correct equipment,” said Dr Harthill. “My gardener keeps a pair of shovels at the back of the house and I can loan you some electrical lanterns.”

  “Electrical lanterns?” said Ham suspiciously. “They won’t fry us or anything, will they?”

  “Not at all, Mr Hamilton,” the doctor chortled. “They are the very newest thing.”

  Carrying the equipment provided, they returned to the carriage. Harthill wished them good luck from his open doorway as they clambered aboard. Warren was flicking the reins to set the horse in motion when Artie suddenly started in his seat.

  “What is it, Artie?” Ham asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing, Ham.” Artie quickly regained his composure. “Nothing important.”

  Artie didn’t wish to cause alarm, but he could swear he had glimpsed someone watching them from the fog-shrouded square – a shadowy figure hiding in the darkness. He touched a finger to his lips to signal Ham to say no more about it as they drove off through the murky, benighted streets.

  ***

  By the time they reached Greyfriars Kirkyard, there was a determined gleam in Geraldine’s eyes.

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Warren asked as he helped her down from the carriage.

  “I am fixed in my purpose,” she answered with her head held high. “I will rescue my father’s honour and be daunted by nothing.”

  Her courage brought an admiring smile to the young man’s face.

  While Warren and Ham carried the shovels, Artie and Geraldine each held one of Dr Harthill’s lanterns. Following the doctor’s instructions, they rapidly wound the handle at the base of each lantern until the tube inside lit up with a bluish white fluorescence.

  With this light to guide them, they passed through the gate into the damp, grey kirkyard.

  “What puzzles me,” said Ham, wrinkling his nose, “is why old Mr Poulton didn’t just come out and say, ‘Listen, my dear, here’s where I buried the blessed thing. You go and dig it up whenever you think the time is right.’ Why be so mysterious?”

  “Through the years,” said Geraldine, “perhaps because of his guilt over what happened in the Crimea, he became more and more secretive.”

  “Also,” said Warren, “he was deathly afraid of the cross falling into the wrong hands. This way, only someone who knew him well could even attempt to follow the subtle clues he left behind.”

  “Well, it’s going to be a hard search.” Ham gazed out at the rows of gravestones. “The letters DC don’t exactly leap out at you, even in daylight.”

  “Then we had best begin at once,” said Geraldine decisively. “We should form two parties and examine the names on the graves as swiftly as we can.”

  “Just a moment,” said Artie as they started up the path. “We may have been going about this all wrong.”

  Everyone turned to face him as he rubbed his brow in concentration.

  “What do you mean, Arthur?” asked Warren.

  “Well, we’ve been assuming the letters D and C formed part of the name of some deceased person,” said Artie.

  “How could they be anything else?” Geraldine frowned.

  “The last words your father spoke to you, what were they again?” Artie asked.

  “He told me, ‘God is love’.
He was trying to comfort me in my grief.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Artie thoughtfully. “I think he was giving you the final clue you needed to find the cross.”

  “Artie, you’ve lost me completely – again,” sighed Ham.

  “Remember your Latin.” Artie was certain now that he had the truth of it. “God is love in Latin would be Deus Caritas.”

  “DC!” Warren exclaimed. “Why, yes, it makes perfect sense.”

  “Now, only a few of the gravestones here have Latin inscriptions,” said Artie, “and I’ll bet only one has those exact words.”

  “Oh, let that be the case!” Geraldine’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Quickly, let’s delay no longer!”

  There was a large area to cover, but with the brilliant light of Dr Harthill’s electrical lanterns to guide them, they were soon gathered in front of a stone: Here lies Roderick Tulloch 1809–1871. Beloved husband and father. DEUS CARITAS.

  21. The Honour of the Light Brigade

  “Now that we’ve finally found the right grave,” said Geraldine, “I feel uneasy about disturbing this poor man’s place of rest.”

  “We shall disturb Mr Tulloch as little as possible,” Warren assured her, “and we shall see him decently covered up again before we depart.”

  Artie thought of the shadowy figure they had spotted spying on them when they left Dr Harthill’s house.

  “We had best get started.” He took the shovel from Ham and passed him the lantern. “There’s no telling when Braxton Dash may catch up with us.”

  “Right, Arthur, you and I will commence digging,” said Warren. “Geraldine, you and Ham keep a lookout for anyone approaching.”

  Warren did most of the digging while Artie and Ham took turns helping him. It was a long, arduous task to dig through the frozen ground, but at last Warren’s shovel struck the coffin lid. The closeness of their goal gave Artie and him renewed energy as they excavated around the foot of the coffin. Once they had cleared enough space, Artie squeezed down between the coffin and the side of the hole.