Unaware of what had passed between the two men, Dancing Donny was bouncing on the spot and jabbing his fists first in one direction then the other, as if warding off a pair of invisible opponents. Artie had the uneasy sense that something was amiss with this contest.
The fighters backed into opposite corners, where each man had two attendants to wash him down between rounds and patch up his injuries. After receiving some words of advice from their corners, both men came up to the middle of the ring.
It was then that the referee signalled the start of the contest and the whole crowd cheered. The fighters moved to the attack, the Slogger lumbering forward like an ox, while Dancing Donny pranced this way and that, his head bobbing from side to side.
With everyone’s attention on the fight, Artie took the chance to slip unnoticed through the crowd, working his way towards the stage where Warren and Dash were seated. He passed a group of red-faced men whose beery breath almost choked him.
Glancing back at the ring, he saw that the pattern of the match was becoming clear: Dancing Donny moved in nimble circles around his opponent, poking him in the face and midriff with precise jabs. The Slogger took the punishment without any sign of discomfort, choosing his moment to lurch onto the attack with a swinging blow that either missed or glanced off the other man’s shoulder.
The crowd became more and more excited, yelling and cheering and changing their bets as the rounds progressed. Artie ducked beneath their waving arms and wove around their stamping feet. Keeping his head down low, he sneaked up a small set of stairs onto the stage and sidled up beside a group of men behind Warren and Dash. He was careful to keep well clear of the great hound that lay at its master’s side.
“I don’t know why you have to take that beast everywhere with you,” he heard Warren remark with an unhappy glance at the dog. “He’s hardly inconspicuous.”
“Erebus is the only one of my partners I trust,” said the colonel, scratching the animal behind the ears. “If anyone tries to interfere in my business, Erebus has a way of dissuading them.” He gave a cold smile. “He has other uses too, as you will see.”
Their next few words were drowned out as the crowd roared its approval of a pair of well-placed jabs from Dancing Donny. Betting around the room was moving in Donny’s favour with every round that passed.
When the noise subsided, Artie could hear Warren speaking again.
“You know how he felt about the six hundred. And she feels the same way.”
“Devil take the six hundred, man!” cursed Braxton Dash. “I’ll find better use for it than that.”
“I don’t like it,” Warren grumbled. “This affair is far too risky.”
“You don’t have to like it,” Dash responded with a sneer. “Either you’ll work off your debt this way, or I’ll invent a method you’ll find considerably more painful.”
Warren hung his head low. “As you say,” he conceded.
The colonel drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Tomorrow we’ll try our luck at Calton.”
The two men exchanged a few more remarks, which Artie couldn’t make out over the roar of the crowd. How he wished he could hear exactly what they were talking about. Who was this Braxton Dash, and what on earth was the Six Hundred?
At least he knew where they were heading tomorrow – Calton, another cemetery on Warren’s list. Artie smiled inwardly. He had been right to persist with his investigations. He was fired with a new determination to solve this case and prove both Ham and Constable McCorkle wrong.
Colonel Braxton Dash now focused his full attention on the boxers. Halfway through the seventh round, Artie saw him surreptitiously curl a hand around the dog’s leash and give it two sharp tugs. The giant hound promptly jumped up on its massive paws and set up a terrible barking. Everyone on the stage recoiled in horror from the blood-curdling noise and it was all Artie could do not to dive for cover under a chair.
Dancing Donny’s footwork died on the spot and he instinctively spun round towards the source of the din. The Slogger, on the other hand, seemed completely unaware of the beast’s awful barking. While his opponent was distracted, he drew back an enormous fist and sent it crashing into the side of the smaller man’s head. Dancing Donny dropped to the floor as if the very life had been knocked out of him.
Artie glanced back at Colonel Dash and saw him give the leash another tug. The hound immediately fell silent and sank back down on the floor.
Donny lay motionless. His supporters let out a groan of despair and those who had laid money on the Slogger whooped in triumph.
The referee knelt down beside the fallen fighter. “Are ye alright, lad?”
Donny groaned weakly and made a feeble effort to rise before sinking back down on the floor.
“Aye, ye’ll be fine,” the referee assured him. “Somebody fetch him a dram!” He stood up and took hold of the Slogger by one hand. Raising the big man’s brawny arm into the air, he declared, “I give you your winner, Bruno ‘The Slogger’ Buchanan!”
There were renewed cheers for the victor, though he himself appeared completely unmoved by all the fuss. A well-dressed, weak-chinned young man standing close to Artie leaned forward and clapped the colonel on the shoulder.
“Bless me, Dash,” he laughed, “you’re the very devil for picking a winner!”
Warren turned irritably at the sound of the braying laugh and his eyes flared as he caught sight of Artie.
Artie realised he was in serious danger if the young student decided to expose him as a spy. He began to back away, but before he could take more than a step, he was seized by the arm and yanked forward.
He was caught in the unyielding grip of Colonel Braxton Dash.
13. Concerning Colonel Braxton Dash
Impulsively Artie tried to wrench himself free, but as soon as he did, the black hound swung its large, jowly face in his direction. A low, threatening growl rumbled in its throat. Artie immediately abandoned his struggle, his eyes fixed anxiously on the ferocious animal.
“Don’t fret yourself, boy.” Colonel Braxton Dash gave a dry chuckle. “He’ll not eat you. Not unless I tell him to.”
There was a murmur of unpleasant laughter as the colonel’s friends shared his mirth.
Warren was staring at Artie, his face a mask of confusion and indecision. “Dash…” he began hesitantly.
Paying the medical student no mind, the colonel said to Artie, “Now listen, boy. I’ve a raging thirst on me. Go to the back room and fetch me a bottle of gin. I’ll drink it while I count my winnings.”
Artie saw Warren settle back in his seat with evident relief that his landlady’s son was to come to no harm. Dash sent Artie on his way with a shove and his companions continued to congratulate him on the victory of his fighter.
Artie wove his way through the crowd of noisy revellers, who were either celebrating with toasts or drowning their sorrows. Their games of cards and dice resumed while they chattered about the boxing match, some giving their imitation of The Slogger’s victorious blow.
The room beyond was a combined kitchen and pantry housing barrels of beer, crates of wine and many bottles of spirits, as well as various foodstuffs. A hatchet-faced woman with frizzled grey hair was snapping orders at a few harassed-looking servants.
“What do you want?” she challenged Artie in a voice as harsh as a raven’s. “I don’t know you, you wee tyke.”
Artie could see a door at the far side of the room, but he would have to get past the woman to reach it.
“I’ve come for gin,” he asserted, deciding that playing it bold was his best chance. “I’ve been sent for it and I mean to have some.”
“Gin? For who?” the woman asked sharply.
“For the colonel,” Artie answered quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was rejoin Colonel Braxton Dash and risk being exposed by Benjamin Warren, but for now he had to tough things out with Hatchet Face.
“You’re ower smartly dressed to be working here,” the woman rasped s
uspiciously, “and you’re too much of a bairn to be one of the colonel’s guests. So who are you?”
“I’m… I’m…” Artie stammered. He tried to think of some answer that would take the hostile gleam out of her eye, but could think of nothing that sounded plausible.
“I’ll answer for the boy,” came a voice. It was Warren, marching hurriedly into the room. “And Colonel Dash is wanting his gin.” He grabbed a bottle of the liquor from a nearby shelf and thrust it not at Artie but at a passing servant. “Here, get this to the colonel as quick as you can, before his mood turns sour.”
The servant hurried off with the bottle in a tight embrace. The hard-faced woman’s attention was suddenly caught by another servant who was clumsily preparing a platter of food.
“What? Are you cutting the ham with a cleaver?” she screeched. “Use a knife, curse you!”
She seized the incompetent underling by the hair and gave him a good shake.
Warren took advantage of the distraction to shove Artie to the door and propel him outside.
“You can’t stay here,” he said in a tense undertone. “This place is dangerous enough for me, let alone for a boy of your tender years.”
“There’s nothing tender about me,” Artie told him bullishly.
“Well, I’m getting us out of here anyway,” Warren insisted, leading Artie by the arm to where the cabs and wagons were parked. He bundled Artie into a cab and climbed into the seat beside him. “Take us back into town,” he instructed the driver. “I’ll give you the address later.”
The driver started his horse with a flick of the reins and the cab lurched into motion.
Warren stared hard at Artie, as if the intensity of his gaze might force an explanation. “How did you find this place?”
Artie folded his arms doggedly. “I have my methods.”
Warren shook his head in exasperation. “You have no idea what you’ve walked into.” He kept his voice low so the driver wouldn’t hear over the horse’s hoofbeats.
“I have a few ideas,” Artie retorted. “I must say that friend of yours doesn’t look like he digs graves for a living.”
“Braxton Dash is no one’s friend,” said Warren unhappily. “And he doesn’t practise any honest trade, let alone working in a graveyard.”
“But he and his cronies call themselves the Gravediggers’ Club, don’t they?” Artie challenged, meeting Warren’s eyes squarely.
The student winced at the mention of the club then gave a half-hearted smile.
“It’s a joke,” he explained. “Colonel Dash and his friends lead lives of such reckless excess and dangerous thrill seeking, they say that they’re digging their own graves.”
“A colonel, eh?” said Artie. “He doesn’t strike me as a military man.”
“Oh, he’s no officer, you can be sure of that,” said Warren sourly. “He just calls himself ‘colonel’ and everybody else falls into line. I’d wager his name isn’t really Braxton Dash either.”
“So in fact he’s nothing but a fraud.”
“Whatever he is, he lords it over everyone as if he were Napoleon himself.”
“Has he then,” said Artie, pressing his point carefully, “never had anything to do with any graves?” He watched Warren closely for his reaction.
The student was definitely discomfited by the question and looked away quickly. “Arthur, whatever it is you think you know, forget about it,” he advised sternly. “There’s nothing for you in this matter but mortal danger.”
“I can see that he gambles, and not honestly either,” said Artie. “Is that how you’re mixed up with him? Because you owe him money?”
Warren’s whole frame stiffened and a muscle pulsed in his jaw. “I’m taking you home now, Artie. I’ll have the cabbie drop us some distance from there, so if he’s ever questioned, there will be no direct connection between your household and that dreadful place where we met tonight.”
“I suppose that’s wise,” Artie conceded. He certainly didn’t want his parents ever to learn that he’d been in a house of such dubious repute. They would probably drag him along to confession to tell all to Father Ramsay.
“And let me make this point most emphatically,” Warren added. “You and I will never speak of these matters again.”
Artie said nothing, but in his own mind he promised himself that he would not let these matters rest until he had discovered what it was that bound together the lodger, the Gravediggers’ Club and the six stolen corpses.
14. The Riddle of the Six Hundred
“Well, I’m deuced if I can see any connection!” Ham exclaimed. “It seems to me that the deeper we delve into this mystery the more obscure it becomes.”
It was the middle of the following afternoon and the two boys had taken refuge from the rain inside the newly opened Edinburgh Museum of Science and Art in Chambers Street. Not only were their clothes damp from the winter shower, their boots were caked in mud from trudging around graveyards most of the day. They had visited each of the six robbed graves that morning, looking for any clues to connect them with Warren, the Gravediggers’ Club or the Lady in Grey.
“Calm yourself, Ham,” said Artie as they sat down on a bench in a large gallery with high ceilings. “We just need time to think and review the facts.”
Ham gazed half-heartedly at the exhibits. There was a miniature steam engine, the skeleton of an extinct lizard, and portraits of several prominent engineers and chemists. From an adjacent gallery came the voice of a guide explaining to a group of school children the burial customs of the ancient Egyptians.
Artie flipped through the pages of his journal, where he had recorded all the information he had gathered so far.
Sunday, January 21, 1872
Trailed Warren to disused leatherworks outside of town. He was in the company of Col. Braxton Dash, chief of the so-called Gravediggers’ Club.
What is the 600?
What do they hope to find at Calton?
Monday, January 22, 1872
Visited all 6 graves on McCorkle’s list and took notes from gravestones.
What is the connection?
“Ham,” he said, “tell me again what happened when you followed the Lady in Grey.”
Ham immediately perked up. He clearly relished the fact that he had his own important role in the investigation.
“Well, she left the doorway of the milliner’s shortly after you raced off after your lodger. I played it canny, hanging back so she wouldn’t suspect I was on her trail. I was paying such attention to her that I bumped into three or four people along the way. One of them called me a name I didn’t care for, but he was a big chap, so I didn’t make an issue of it.”
“Yes, I remember you told me that,” said Artie. “Get on with it.”
“So off we went up the road,” Ham resumed. “She stopped briefly outside a pharmacist’s and the sight of it seemed to upset her afresh, you know, as if it brought back bad memories.”
“Yes, that is interesting,” Artie mused.
“Then she crossed the road and I had to move pretty smartly to keep up. I nearly got run over by a coal wagon. Honestly, those coal men really don’t look where they’re going and they use some highly uncouth language.”
“I can see you faced some terrible dangers.”
“Absolutely right,” Ham affirmed. “Anyway, undaunted, I kept the Lady in Grey in my sights all the way up Lothian Road and into Bread Street. I did lose track of her briefly when I was passing a bakery. They were advertising Dundee cake and iced buns in the window.”
“That’s not really relevant,” Artie sighed, as a group of visitors bustled past in search of a stuffed polar bear.
“If you didn’t want a full report you should have said so,” Ham huffed. “I did catch up in time to see her turn into Bread Street Lane. But when I got to the lane myself, she had disappeared.” He waved his hands about mysteriously. “Vanished into thin air.”
“Or more likely she entered one of the houses the
re.”
“Well, yes,” Ham admitted. “I was just trying to make the story interesting.”
“Couldn’t you have knocked on a few doors and tried to find her?”
“Knocked on doors? And said what? Excuse me, you don’t happen to have a ghost hiding in here, do you? A fine thing that would be! They’d have locked me up as a lunatic.”
“Well,” said Artie, “at least we’ve established a connection between Warren and the girl we saw at Greyfriars Kirkyard, as well as between him and this professional rogue who calls himself Colonel Braxton Dash. It was definitely his voice we heard in the graveyard that night.”
“And his dog we heard too, from what you’ve told me.”
“Yes, and I still feel certain that those dratted six graves bind them all together. But how? Let’s look at what we’ve learned about them.” He glanced shiftily around at the other visitors to check none were eavesdropping then displayed the list for Ham’s inspection. “See here, on this left-hand page, I’ve written down the names as they were given to us by Constable McCorkle. Now here on the facing page are the names as they are actually recorded on the gravestones.”
Donald Cafferty Donald Cafferty
Charles Tennant Dr Charles Tennant
William Bruce William Bruce DCM
Richard Chisholm Richard ‘Dickie’ Chisholm
Daisy O’Connor Daisy O’Connor
Marie de Certeau Marie de Certeau
“Yes, there are a few small differences,” said Ham. “But still…”
Artie whipped out his pencil and began tapping the page with it.
“Don’t tell me you’ve cracked it!” said Ham.
“Not exactly,” said Artie with an excited gleam in his eye. “I was studying the list during your… er… most interesting narrative, and I’ve finally spotted a pattern.” He rapidly underscored certain letters on the right-hand page. “Now look at this!”
Donald Cafferty
Dr Charles Tennant
William Bruce DCM
Richard ‘Dickie’ Chisholm
Artie Conan Doyle and the Gravediggers' Club Page 7
