Artie Conan Doyle and the Gravediggers' Club

by Robert J. Harris

  “Well, well, here’s a fine pair of lads to be wandering about at this late hour. Lost, are we?”

  “No, no, we’re on our way home, in that direction.” Artie pointed south.

  “Yes, we’re on our way home,” Ham added anxiously, “so we won’t trouble you any further Mr…”

  “I am Constable George McCorkle.” The policeman drew himself up to his full height. “And as a diligent guardian of the law, it is my duty to investigate anyone abroad at this hour, especially boys who should be in bed and resting up for school.”

  “We don’t have school,” Ham blurted out.

  McCorkle’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “No school? Are you gypsies then? Or vagrants?”

  “What my friend means,” said Artie, “is that we do not attend school in Edinburgh. We are pupils of Stonyhurst College in Lancashire.”

  “That,” McCorkle raised a questioning eyebrow, “is even more peculiar, for are we not well into the school term? And are you not many miles removed from Lancashire?”

  “There was a storm,” Ham explained. “Half the school fell down.”

  “Well, not quite half,” said Artie. “But we can’t go back for another week or so, when the repairs should be completed.”

  Constable McCorkle chewed on this for a moment. “Very well, but that does nothing to explain why you are hurrying down the street at this late hour of the night.”

  Faced with the stern might of the law, Ham fell into a panic.

  “We’re not doing anything,” he blurted. “By all that’s holy, nothing, I swear!”

  “By all that’s holy?” the constable repeated, intrigued. “That’s a strong oath indeed.”

  Artie resisted the urge to clamp a hand over Ham’s mouth to shut him up.

  “What my friend means,” he said, “is that we have been out on an errand delivering groceries to a sick relative, and we lost track of the time. Realising the lateness of the hour, we are hurrying home to spare our families any worry.”

  “Well, that’s motive enough for haste,” the constable allowed, “and a worthy task for honest young gentlemen.”

  His small brown eyes darted up and down as he scrutinized each of the boys in turn, then he stood for a moment, stroking his moustache. “You appear to be in possession neither of stolen property,” he surmised, “nor harmful weapons. You are decently dressed and for the most part well spoken. From this I conclude that you are respectable citizens. You may proceed on your way.”

  “Thanks very much, sir,” said Artie gratefully. But his relief was short lived.

  Just as he and Ham started up the road, the constable stepped back into their path.

  “Just a moment, if you please,” he said. “As you are honest young gentlemen, I am sure you won’t mind lending me some assistance with my inquiries.”

  “I really don’t think we can be of any help.” Artie tried to edge his way past.

  “No, we’re not very observant,” Ham agreed, “and we don’t have any contacts in the criminal underworld.”

  “I don’t suppose you do,” said the constable, with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “However, you do appear to be coming from the direction of Greyfriars Kirkyard and there have been rum doings afoot in that area. I’m sure not much would slip past a pair of well-schooled young fellows like yourselves.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Ham mumbled.

  “So, did you notice anything peculiar while passing the kirkyard?”

  “Do you mean ghosts?” squealed Ham. “Or dogs? Or pirates? Or—”

  Artie jabbed an elbow into his friend’s ribs to stop the nervous flow of words pouring out of his mouth.

  “What sort of thing do you mean, constable?” he asked in a business-like manner.

  “Lights, perhaps,” said the constable, “or perhaps some rough-looking knaves skulking about with shovels under their arms?” He raised both eyebrows to indicate the seriousness of the inquiry.

  “What, do you mean gardeners?” said Artie innocently.

  “I mean,” said McCorkle grimly, “graverobbers.”

  3. Drumbeats in the Night

  “You haven’t spotted any devious-looking scoundrels with shovels, have you?” inquired the constable.

  Artie felt a chill run down his spine as he recalled the voices in the graveyard. If graves had been robbed and they admitted to being at Greyfriars at the time, he and Ham might find themselves accused of the crime.

  “We definitely didn’t see anybody with shovels,” he answered truthfully.

  “Or dead bodies,” said Ham. “I say, they don’t go around with corpses slung over their shoulders, do they?”

  “Well, young gentlemen,” McCorkle tapped a finger below his right eye, “you keep your eyes peeled, and if you have anything to report, ask for me at the Police Office.”

  “We will, sir,” Artie promised. “And a very good night to you.”

  The policeman moved on. As his heavy footsteps faded into the fog, Ham asked Artie in a shocked tone, “Do you suppose those voices we heard might have been graverobbers?”

  “They were definitely looking for something, so quite possibly,” said Artie.

  As they hurried through the foggy streets, now desperate to get home, Ham shuddered. “Ghosts. Graverobbers. Why on earth would anybody want to dig up a grave? I should think the smell is awful.”

  “Sometimes rich people have valuables buried in their coffins, so thieves dig them up searching for loot. Sometimes bodies are used in medical research – you know, to teach anatomy.”

  “Well that rules out a career in medicine as far as I’m concerned,” said Ham.

  “Years ago, right here in Edinburgh,” said Artie, “those famous criminals Burke and Hare dug up graves and even murdered people so they could sell the bodies to unscrupulous doctors.”

  “Suppose there were graverobbers in Greyfriars tonight,” Ham’s voice trembled, “and they’d caught us snooping around. Why they might have…” His voice tailed off in dread.

  Artie decided it was best to reassure his friend to stop him going into a panic. “The voices we heard were probably watchmen. And the ghostly figure might have just been a grieving young woman.”

  “But if she was a ghost, Artie,” Ham suggested uneasily, “it might be that someone dug up her grave, and that’s why her restless spirit is roaming abroad. If I were dead and some bounder dug up my grave, I would be jolly cross, I can tell you.”

  “I don’t think you’ll ever be a wandering spirit,” said Artie. “It’s hard enough getting you out of bed, never mind stirring you out of the grave.”

  The flat expanse of the Meadows opened up before them and, after a final farewell, Ham veered aside to cover the last short distance to his home in Buccleuch Street. Artie carried on across the dark Meadows, leaving the path to take a shortcut through the damp grass.

  On sunny days the Meadows was a happy park with children playing tig and football, and families laughing over their picnic of sandwiches and lemonade. But on this cold, dark night with fog shrouding the city on every side, Artie felt like he might be tramping across a barren moor or some deserted Highland glen.

  For a moment his mind was filled with ancient tales of lost travellers being waylaid by fairies and never again returning to the friendly lights of the mortal world. Shaking such fancies out of his head, he pressed on until the fog became smudged by streetlamps and the yellow glow of tenement windows.

  A few dimly lit streets brought him to the cul-de-sac of Sciennes Hill Place, where the fog had banked up so thickly he could barely see his way to the front door. Once inside, he climbed the narrow steps by the flickering light of a weak gas jet until he came to the third floor where the Doyle family had lived for the past five years.

  He entered quietly so as not to wake his two younger sisters, who would be sound asleep by now. With luck his parents would also have gone to bed, leaving nobody to ask him what he was doing out so late. The hallway was dark, but a fa
int light filtered out of the half-open kitchen doorway. Artie approached silently and peeped through the gap.

  Slouched in a wooden chair by the stove was his father, Charles Altamont Doyle. A plaid blanket was draped loosely about his shoulders and his nightcap sat askew on his head. His long white fingers were wrapped around a glass tumbler and on the table before him stood a bottle of inexpensive white wine with barely a glassful left at the bottom.

  He tossed back the dregs of what was in his tumbler then reached out an unsteady hand for the bottle. Artie could tell at once that his father was in a melancholy mood, as he so often was during the dark months of winter. It was as though having no inner warmth of his own, his mood could only follow that of the seasons: happy in summer, gloomy in winter.

  Just as Artie was thinking of sneaking off to bed, his father noticed him in the doorway. Charles Doyle blinked his red-rimmed eyes and stared hard at the boy, as if trying to make up his mind whether or not he was dreaming.

  “Arthur, my boy,” he said, his lips twitching in a thin smile as he waved his son forward. “You’re home late.” He paused and cast a doubtful glance at the window. “It is late, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is quite late,” Artie admitted, stepping into the kitchen. The faint warmth emanating from the stove felt good after his long walk through the chilly night.

  Charles Doyle’s shoulders drooped, the exertion of a smile seemingly too much for him. “Been out on some errand?” he inquired drowsily.

  “I was over at Edward Hamilton’s, revising history and geography.” In Artie’s mind this wasn’t entirely a lie. He had started out at Ham’s, leafing through some schoolbooks, before dragging his friend along on their graveyard adventure. Surely it wasn’t wrong to think of exploring the kirkyard as an exercise in history and geography. Perhaps it even counted towards religious studies.

  “That is very conscientious,” said his father, with an approving nod.

  “Well,” said Artie, “Father Colley told us we mustn’t let our minds grow rusty during the enforced break and that constant study was the best way to keep our wits sharp.”

  “A sharp mind is a wonderful thing,” his father murmured. “It’s very cold out though.”

  “Yes, it is,” Artie agreed. He warmed his hands in front of the stove while his father sipped at his drink.

  “I find the winter is colder in the city than in the country,” Charles Doyle observed, tugging the blanket more tightly around his thin shoulders. “Curious that, isn’t it? You’d think the city would be warmer, what with all the bodies pressed together in these narrow streets.”

  Artie knew his father hadn’t ventured out that day. He had absented himself from his job as a surveyor at the Office of Works, claiming he had taken a chill. Artie noted a few spots of paint on his father’s hands, evidence that he had been attempting to complete one of his paintings.

  “When I find success as an artist,” Charles Doyle mumbled, “we shall move to the country, you, your mother, your sisters and myself. We shall go for boat rides on the river, we shall fish for… for…”

  At that point his weary eyes closed and his head drooped until his chin was resting on his chest. He began to snore softly. Gently Artie removed the glass from his father’s thin fingers and set it down on the table beside the empty bottle. He tucked the plaid blanket more snugly around the sleeping artist, then left quietly so as not to wake him.

  It was much colder in Artie’s own room. He struck a match and lit the small oil lamp on his bedside table, as much for the meagre heat as for the light. Pinned to the wall was a half-finished painting his father had given him of a knight emerging from a cave, shielding his eyes against the brightness of the sun.

  In a corner, invisible in the shadows, was a stack of schoolbooks, covering maths, geometry, history and Latin. Beside the small bed was a larger pile of books, which were more to Artie’s liking: tales of adventure and suspense. On top of the pile was a copy of The Legends of King Arthur, the ancient king after whom Artie was named. It always fired his imagination with thoughts of noble quests and heroic battles.

  Artie pulled out a chair and sat down at his desk. He opened his journal and turned to a new page.

  The Case of the Greyfriars Graverobbers

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

  Greyfriars

  Grange

  Dalry

  Calton Burial Ground

  Dean

  Newington

  Rosebank

  Warriston

  Greyfriars Kirkyard, Thursday, January 18, 1872, 10.00 pm

  Graverobberies in this location confirmed by Constable McCorkle.

  Overheard two men’s voices, searching for something. Heard the howl of, and saw footprints of, a gigantic hound. Saw a ghostly figure, possibly the legendary Lady in Grey.

  Next course of action: investigate Grange Cemetery.

  Artie put away his pen and inkpot, changed quickly into his nightshirt, keeping his thick woollen socks on, and jumped into bed. Burrowing down under the covers, he waited for his fingers to stop shivering, then pulled a book from under his pillow. It was The Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper, an exciting tale of war in America. He flipped to the part he had reached last night, where, guided by the brave hunter Hawkeye, some British colonists were hiding in a cave from the fierce Huron warriors who pursued them. Only now, as he was reading, did tiredness catch up with him, and he dozed off.

  Far down in his dreams, he too was concealed in a cave, hiding from fierce enemies. Off in the distance he could hear the sound of war drums beating louder and louder as the ruthless foe drew closer.

  All at once he started out of his sleep. It took a moment for him to realise that, although he was awake, he could still hear drumming from outside his window.

  No, not drumbeats but rapid footsteps in the street below. Jumping out of bed, he pressed his nose to the glass and peered down at the gloomy cul-de-sac. By the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp he could just make out the figure of a man hurrying out of the fog, so pale and breathless he looked like he was being chased by the devil.

  It was their lodger, Benjamin Warren.

  4. The Mystery of the Unwanted Lodger

  The bedside lamp was flickering weakly. Artie snatched it up, annoyed that a lot of oil had burned off while he’d been dozing, and padded out into the narrow hallway. Holding the lamp aloft, he was just able to make out the face of the clock on the mantelpiece through the open parlour door. It was almost one o’clock in the morning.

  What could Warren possibly be up to, skulking about at this time of night?

  A few months ago his older sister Annette had been sent off to school in France, just as his mother had been when she was a girl. Artie had expected to move into her larger room. Instead, his mother had rented it out to this medical student.

  “The extra money will be a great help to us,” she explained to her disappointed son. “Also it will be a comfort to have a medical man in the house when there are so many winter ailments going round.”

  “Medical man?” Artie responded sceptically. “He’s just a student.”

  “A student doctor,” his mother insisted. “And every day he learns more and more of the healing arts.”

  The front door opened and the lodger stumbled in, panting from his rush up the stairs. He was careful to shut the door quietly behind him before facing the hallway. Seeing Artie, he gave a start.

  “Oh, Artie, it’s only you,” he gasped, almost faint from relief. “For a moment I was afraid I’d seen a ghost.”

  Artie held the lamp under his chin, casting a sinister shadow over his face. “And why should anyone be haunting you, Mr Warren? Do you have something to be guilty about?”

  “No, no, not at all,” Warren responded, too quickly to be convincing. “It’s just a manner of speaking, that’s all. And do keep your voice down. We don’t want to wake up the whole house, do we?”

  “No we don’
t,” Artie agreed in a rough whisper. “We don’t want them to find out what you’ve been up to.”

  Warren frowned uncomfortably then forced a twisted smile. “You’re joking, of course. And what are you up to, my fine lad, wandering about at this unholy hour?”

  “I heard someone running in the street below. I thought it might be an escaped convict or a burglar on the run.”

  Warren gave a nervous chuckle. “Oh, Artie, what an imagination you have. You should be in your bed, dreaming about pirates and princesses.” He brushed past Artie and opened the door to his room, casting a guilty glance back over his shoulder before disappearing inside.

  Artie stood for a few moments, gazing at the door. There was no doubt in his mind that their lodger was concealing a sinister secret.

  ***

  Following his long night out in the cold, Artie slept late and lay in bed even later, reluctant to leave the warmth of his covers. He heard his two younger sisters being ushered off to school, but only got up when the smell of fresh porridge wafted from the kitchen.

  He dressed quickly and went in search of breakfast. His mother was standing over the stove stirring a pot of porridge. She licked the spoon then added a dash of milk.

  “Up at last, eh?” she greeted her son as he sat down at the table, rubbing his eyes.

  “I couldn’t sleep for dreaming,” said Artie.

  “Well now, that makes no sense,” said his mother with a twinkle in her blue eyes. “If you were dreaming you must have been sound asleep.”

  “Sometimes a dream is so vivid it wakes you up, don’t you find?”

  “Oh, when I dream, I just relax and enjoy it,” said his mother. “Last night I dreamed I was in France, dancing through a vineyard under a summer sun.”

  “I was being chased by bloodthirsty enemies,” said Artie. “I’m not sure if I escaped or not.”