Artie Conan Doyle and the Gravediggers' Club

by Robert J. Harris

  “Careful there, Arthur,” Warren cautioned, handing Artie a small trowel, which also came from the store of Dr Harthill’s gardener.

  Pressing himself down as far as he could, Artie pushed the trowel under the foot of the coffin and used it to loosen the earth.

  “There is something here,” he reported excitedly. “I can feel the point of the trowel bumping against it.”

  His three companions leaned over to watch, their lanterns held high, while he forced his arm through the loosened earth beneath the coffin. His heart hammered with excitement as the tips of his fingers touched an object wrapped in cloth. Pushing his arm in as far as it would go, he closed his hand around his discovery and dragged it out.

  It was a piece of dirt-smudged linen wrapped around a cruciform shape nearly as long as his forearm. He hoisted it aloft with a hoarse laugh that was both exhausted and triumphant. Warren gripped his other hand and hauled him up out of the grave.

  Artie stood before them, his face and clothes caked with dirt, his find laid across the flat of his hands.

  “Artie, it can’t be really, can it?” Ham breathed in astonishment.

  “I don’t know, Ham.” Artie stared at the dirty linen wrapping. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

  “Geraldine, you should do the honours,” said Warren. “After all, it belongs to you now.”

  Geraldine stretched out a tentative hand towards the object. “I can hardly bring myself to do it.” Her voice trembled with emotion.

  Delicately, as though the treasure inside might break, she peeled back the folds of the linen covering. All four of them gaped as she lifted up a magnificent cross of pure, shining gold. Down its length and across its arms, rubies and emeralds flared like stars under the brilliance of the electrical lanterns.

  Artie let out a whoop of sheer elation and everyone laughed.

  But their joy was cut brutally short by a ghastly howl that echoed across the churchyard.

  Aaaahrooooo!

  “The hound!” Artie gasped in horror.

  Geraldine clutched the cross tightly as the black mastiff came bounding out of the mist towards them, howling like a vengeful spirit. It ran around behind them and stood there growling, daring them to make a move.

  From the other side of the grave, Colonel Braxton Dash stepped out of the shadows with the Slogger close on his heels.

  “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Poulton,” he said.

  “I take no pleasure from the meeting,” Geraldine retorted sharply, “and there shall be no satisfaction in it for you.”

  Two more of Dash’s men emerged from the shadows: one with a black beard and an eyepatch, the other a crafty-looking weasel of a fellow. They spread out, surrounding the party at the graveside. Behind them the hound gave a warning growl to keep them from retreating.

  “You really should have chosen a less conspicuous means of transport,” the colonel drawled. “All I had to do was promise a guinea’s reward to anyone who brought me word of a carriage bearing that particular coat of arms.”

  He and the Slogger began to make their way around the open grave, the colonel’s eyes fixed greedily on the jewelled cross.

  “Keep your distance, Dash,” Warren warned. “I’m done with you and your schemes.”

  “You forget that you are in my debt,” Dash reminded him, “not only because of the money you owe, but because I generously allowed you to continue your dalliance with this young flower. Hand over the cross now, and I’ll consider both debts cancelled. Otherwise, I promise that the future for both of you will not be rosy.”

  “That cross belongs to the soldiers who served in the Crimea,” Artie defied him, “not to a fraud like you.”

  “Fraud, is it?” Dash snarled angrily. “Those who fall foul of me find me real enough, as you are about to learn. Slogger, fetch me that trinket! And don’t bother to be gentle about it.”

  The moment the Slogger took a step towards Geraldine, Warren raised his shovel and swung it at him. The boxer caught the handle in his beefy hand and used it to yank the young student into range of his fist. One hammering blow to the stomach knocked the breath out of Warren and left him doubled up on the ground, gasping painfully like a fish thrown out of the water.

  Geraldine and Ham pressed together for protection as the other two henchmen and the great hound blocked off any escape. Artie realised he was the only one standing between them and the advancing Slogger. He would sooner have faced a dragon than the giant boxer, but he raised his fists and took up a fighting stance as he had seen in a manual of fisticuffs.

  “Let’s have you then,” he challenged. “You’ll not trick me as you did Dancing Donny.”

  The Slogger’s face contorted in a mixture of surprise and puzzlement that a mere boy should have the nerve to confront him.

  Colonel Braxton Dash let out a harsh, contemptuous laugh. “Beat him into a pulp, Slogger,” he ordered, “then we can get back to business.”

  The Slogger took a swing, but Artie ducked under his fist and landed a jab at the big man’s belly. The blow was too light to hurt the boxer but it angered him.

  “Why, you little worm,” he rumbled. “I’ll knock you clear out of your skin.”

  He took another swing but Artie again avoided it. The boxer was not used to so small a target. Artie concentrated all his attention on drawing his opponent forward while staying alert to his surroundings.

  “I don’t think you can beat anybody without your master pulling a cheat for you,” he taunted the big man. “I’ve seen snowmen move faster than you.”

  “I’ll show you how fast I can be!” the Slogger roared, lunging forward behind an outstretched fist.

  At that precise instant Artie threw himself to the ground right at his opponent’s feet. Carried forward by his own momentum, the enraged Slogger tripped over him and toppled headlong into the open grave, landing with a crash on top of the coffin.

  Artie jumped up, but the man with the eyepatch immediately seized him from behind, trapping his arms against his sides. The weasel-faced man caught hold of Geraldine and tried to prise the jewelled cross from her hands.

  “Ham, take the cross and run!” yelled Artie, struggling in the grip of his captor.

  Geraldine let Ham pull the cross from her grasp, then seized onto Weasel-Face to keep him from chasing the boy.

  Dash chased after the treasure, and as he passed the open grave commanded, “Get out of there, Slogger!”

  Clutching the cross in both hands, Ham tried to run, but found his way blocked by the great mastiff. The dog was not growling, however. Its tongue lolled out and it settled back on its haunches with one paw upraised, as if begging.

  “I’m s-sorry, boy,” Ham stammered, suddenly understanding what the beast wanted. “I’m afraid I’m completely out of cakes.”

  In a few quick strides Braxton Dash closed the distance between them. He grabbed Ham by the shoulder and spun him round.

  “I’ll have that cross off you now,” he snarled.

  Ham’s face was white with fear but he tightened his grip on the treasure and set his jaw.

  “You shan’t have it,” he stated defiantly.

  “You miserable pup!” snapped Dash. He raised his gold-handled cane and dealt Ham a vicious crack on the side of the head.

  With a cry of pain Ham crumpled to the ground. Artie watched helplessly as Dash raised the cane to strike again, but then something extraordinary happened.

  The great mastiff let out an angry, booming bark, and launched itself at its master. Braxton Dash was caught completely by surprise and thrown flat on his back. The cane dropped from his startled fingers and rolled away across the grass.

  “Drat you, Erebus!” he cursed. “Get off me, you mangy animal!”

  He tried to rise, but the dog pinned him down under its massive paws, baring it sharp teeth in a menacing snarl. Dash went still, numb with terror, as the beast’s fearsome jaws hovered inches above his throat.

  The
colonel’s henchmen were momentarily taken aback. Seizing his chance, Artie broke loose of Eyepatch’s grip and darted to his friend’s side. “Ham, are you alright?” he asked anxiously, crouching over him.

  Ham groaned. “I feel a bit peaky actually.” He was still holding on tightly to the Russian Cross.

  “I think you’ve made yourself a friend.” Artie glanced over to where the huge dog was holding Dash prisoner.

  “Don’t just stand there!” the colonel ordered his men in a choked voice. “Help me!”

  The Slogger, who had climbed out of the grave by this time, moved to assist his leader, but a warning growl from the mastiff made him freeze in his tracks. While Weasel-Face wavered indecisively, Geraldine hurried to Warren’s side and helped him stagger to his feet.

  It was then that a shrill chorus of police whistles pierced the air.

  Out of the mist came Lieutenant Sneddon, accompanied by McCorkle and two other constables, brandishing lanterns and waving their truncheons.

  “Stand where you are!” yelled Sneddon. “Edinburgh Constabulary!”

  At the sight of the police, Weasel-Face and Eyepatch took to their heels and vanished into the darkness. Still shaken from his fall into the grave, the Slogger merely stood with his fists clenched at his sides while the officers surrounded him and his chief.

  Handing the jewelled cross over to Geraldine, Ham approached the great hound, which was still standing guard over Braxton Dash. The colonel was seething over his defeat, but dared not move.

  Ham reached out hesitantly and patted the dog’s huge head. “There now, boy,” he said soothingly. “You can let him up now.”

  The dog abandoned its prisoner, opened its great maw and licked Ham three times across the face.

  “Berrybus,” Ham laughed, “you’re getting me all wet!”

  “I believe his name is Erebus,” said Artie.

  “I think Berrybus suits him better.” Ham gave the dog a friendly scratch behind the ear. “Don’t you agree, old Berrybus?”

  The dog responded by panting happily in Ham’s face.

  “Dr Harthill!” Artie exclaimed as his friend appeared, hurrying after the constables. “It was you that fetched the police.”

  “Indeed, Mr Doyle,” said the doctor. “As you pulled away in your carriage I saw a suspicious-looking character spying on you. I reasoned that the villain Dash must have sent his minions to track you down, so I deemed it wise to summon the authorities.” He nodded approvingly as Lieutenant Sneddon and the constables placed the colonel and the Slogger under arrest. Dash glowered balefully at the two boys as he was led off into custody.

  “Thank you, sir, for all your help,” said Artie. “As you can see, we’ve completed our quest.”

  “You have, you have,” Harthill congratulated him with a smile. “And from the signs of struggle, I perceive that you had yourselves quite a battle.”

  “We did, sir,” Artie agreed. “It was a battle for the honour of the Light Brigade.”

  22. The Arrival of a Noble Visitor

  Wednesday, January 24, 1872

  Hurrah! The mystery is solved, the villains arrested, and we are all safe. However, Dr Harthill says there is one further piece of business to be settled and has invited us all to tea at his house.

  Mrs Doyle tugged at Artie’s jacket to straighten it then stepped back to inspect him.

  “Yes, you’ll do for polite company now,” she decided. “But be careful to keep clear of all the muck and soot out there.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be very careful,” Artie agreed impatiently. “Can I go now? Ham will be waiting for me.”

  He started for the door but his mother called him back sharply. “One more thing, young man. A fresh handkerchief.”

  She neatly folded a cotton handkerchief and placed it carefully in his breast pocket. “If you’re visiting a doctor, you must look your best. I assume that Benjamin is invited also.”

  “Yes, I expect so.” Artie edged towards the door, only for his mother to pull him back by the elbow and begin adjusting his collar and tie.

  “I am so glad you two are getting on now,” she said.

  “Yes, he’s not such a bad fellow, once you get to know him.” It had been two days since they had faced Colonel Braxton Dash together at Greyfriars, and being comrades in battle had given Artie a different view of the young student.

  “I still don’t understand what all this business has been about,” Mrs Doyle tutted. “When that officious little man Lieutenant Sneddon brought you back from the Police Office, he said you had assisted him with his inquiries, but the details must remain confidential.”

  “There are diplomatic complications, I think he called them.”

  “Well, if you ask me, he’s just trying to puff himself up into somebody far more important than he actually is,” said Mrs Doyle scornfully.

  Before Artie could make it to the door a voice called out, “Arthur, before you go you must see this!”

  Charles Doyle emerged from his room carrying a watercolour painting before him like a trophy.

  “It’s finished at last,” he declared. “My painting of Sir Lancelot’s castle of Joyous Garde.”

  The completed painting showed a tall, slender castle of pure white marble rising loftily above the earth as though it had been woven out of gossamer and candlelight. Waving green trees and flights of doves surrounded it, while a golden sun shone down on the scene out of a flawless blue sky.

  “Why, Charles, that is splendid!” Mrs Doyle exclaimed in delight.

  Artie hardly knew what to say. It was the first painting his father had completed in weeks and it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. “Father, it’s like a vision of summer.”

  Charles Doyle smiled and some trace of colour returned to his pale cheeks. “Yes, I rather fancy the weather has taken a warmer turn. In fact, I think I am well enough to return to the office tomorrow. I expect they’ve got into rather a mess without me.”

  Artie felt an impulse to embrace his father, to encourage this rekindling of his spirit, but he was afraid of damaging the painting.

  “I think that belongs in a gallery,” he said instead. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”

  “Well, off you go then.” His mother ushered him towards the door. “You mustn’t keep dawdling when there’s company waiting for you.”

  ***

  Half an hour later Artie, Ham, Warren and Geraldine were gathered for afternoon tea in Dr Harthill’s parlour. Also present was Berrybus, as the great hound was now named, who occupied a large stretch of carpet beside Ham’s chair. They sipped their Darjeeling tea and sampled some freshly baked shortbread while the doctor related the latest news of Colonel Braxton Dash.

  “The villain Dash has somehow escaped police custody and appears to have vanished from the face of the earth,” he reported with an unhappy frown. “It is a most vexing development.”

  “My guess is that he’s fled to Glasgow or Aberdeen or somewhere else where his face isn’t known, so that he can adopt a new identity,” Warren speculated. “I don’t think we’ll see him around here again any time soon.”

  “I should hope not,” Geraldine added. “But I’m glad we no longer have any secrets he might be after.”

  “I still can’t believe that after all we’ve been through, the police took possession of the Russian Cross.” Artie expressed his frustration by biting off a large piece of shortbread and crunching on it furiously.

  “To be fair,” said Geraldine resignedly, “it is technically stolen property.”

  “And I think we’re lucky they didn’t arrest us for digging up that grave,” said Ham.

  Berrybus let out a loud Gruff! as if in agreement with his new master.

  “And how is your canine lodger settling into his new home, Mr Hamilton?” Dr Harthill asked.

  “Oh splendidly,” Ham beamed. “I don’t think that bogus colonel treated him very well at all.”

  “How does you mother feel abo
ut sharing her home with this new member of the family?” asked Artie.

  “She’s taken it very well. There have been some burglaries in the neighbourhood, so she’s glad to have a dog there to guard the house.” He slipped a piece of shortbread to his pet, who munched it down happily.

  “Yes, I don’t think any burglars would want to tangle with Berrybus,” said Artie.

  “Well, if no other good comes of all this,” said Geraldine, “there is that at least.”

  “It was very kind of you to invite us all here today, sir,” said Artie. “Ham and I are off on the train back to school tomorrow, so I suppose this is as close as we’ll get to a victory celebration.”

  “Kindness wasn’t my only motive,” said Dr Harthill, rising from his chair as the front doorbell rang. “There is one more part of this adventure yet to be settled.”

  He disappeared down the hallway and returned with two visitors. One was Constable George McCorkle, looking very official in a freshly pressed uniform. The other was a tall, portly gentleman in an astrakhan coat and a top hat made from felted beaver fur. The stranger fixed a monocle to his right eye as everyone rose to greet him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Dr Harthill, “I have the honour to present Count Rostov, the Russian ambassador to the court of Her Majesty Queen Victoria.”

  The Russian acknowledged the introduction with a small bow.

  “The authorities contacted the ambassador by telegram,” McCorkle explained, “to inform him that, thanks to the strenuous efforts of the Edinburgh Constabulary, with a little help from certain quarters, a valuable property has been recovered, which belongs by rights to the Russian royal family.”

  Dr Harthill introduced each of the party in turn to the count, who shook hands with Warren and the boys and bowed low to Geraldine before kissing the back of her hand.

  “On behalf of my government,” he said in a thick Russian accent, “I thank you all for your efforts in recovering the Cross of St Demetrius, as it is properly called. When the cross went missing during the unfortunate conflict between our countries in the Crimea, the Tsar Nicholas offered a substantial reward for its safe return. Though many years have passed, our present Tsar Alexander fully intends to honour that commitment.”