“Look, steps!” Artie pointed. A broad stone stairway cut right up the hillside and the boys bounded up it two steps at a time. Behind them they could hear the rasping breath of the hound drawing ominously closer.
Artie knew there was no way they could outrun the great beast. Worse than that, he knew that he had dragged Ham into this and if anything were to happen to his friend it would be his fault.
Suddenly he spotted a thick branch that had snapped off an overhanging tree during one of the recent storms. He snatched it and gave Ham a push to keep him staggering up the hill.
“I’ll hold it off,” he gasped. “You go! Get help if you can!”
Ham stared at him in shock. “Artie, no!”
“Go!” Artie propelled his friend upward with a determined shove. He spun round and saw the black shape of the mastiff charging towards him. A line from the poem about Lochinvar flashed through his mind.
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none.
This branch wasn’t much of a broadsword, but then he probably wasn’t much of a knight or he wouldn’t be so afraid. Gripping the makeshift weapon in both hands, he thrust it out in front of him.
The hound was undeterred. With a savage howl it launched itself into the air, coming right down on top of its prey. The branch snapped in two and Artie’s back hit the stone steps so hard it knocked the breath out of him.
Pinned beneath the mastiff’s massive paws, he felt the blood drain out of his face. Great, slavering jaws hung over him and the monster’s lips curled back to expose its vicious fangs.
17. The Affair of the Crimean Soldier
The mastiff’s massive head swung from side to side above Artie, as if the hound were trying to make up its mind whether to rip out his throat or bite off his head. He was so crushed by its weight, he could barely draw breath.
“This way, Slogger!” he heard Colonel Braxton Dash call. “I swear they went this way. Erebus, where are you, you cur?”
“I can’t see ‘em, Colonel,” The Slogger’s slow, heavy voice responded.
Artie knew his only choice now was to face his fate bravely like Sir Lancelot, or Sir Galahad, or the great knight Roland who died heroically defending the pass at Roncevalles. With any luck Ham had made a clean getaway and would set the police on the trail of Dash and his Gravediggers.
The last thing he expected was to hear Ham’s voice saying coaxingly, “Here, boy. Here’s a treat for you.”
Artie swivelled his eyes upward. Ham was crouched on one of the steps above him with an aniseed cake in his outstretched hand.
“Here, boy, this is really good. Much tastier than old Artie there.”
“Ham, I told you to—”
“Quiet, Artie!” Ham cut him off. He resumed his coaxing tone. “There’s a good dog. I bet you’d like a nice treat, wouldn’t you?”
The hound stared fixedly at the cake. The growl in its throat softened almost to a purr.
The voices of Colonel Dash and the Slogger drew closer.
“Ham, you need to get away,” said Artie in an urgent whisper, “before they catch you.”
Ham ignored him. “Here you go, boy,” he said to the dog.
He tossed the cake towards the hound. It opened its massive jaws, caught the cake, swished it around in its mouth then swallowed it. It licked its lips and panted approvingly.
Ham reached into his pocket and produced a second cake. “Good boy! See, I’ve got another one here for you.”
The dog rose up from its haunches, lifting its weight from Artie’s body so that he could breath again. It stared hungrily at the sweet treat.
“Here, why don’t you fetch it?” Ham drew back his arm.
He flung the cake and sent it bouncing down the hill into the mist. With a gleeful yelp, the mastiff bounded off in pursuit and vanished into the murk.
“Ham, what came over you?” Artie asked in astonishment, as his friend helped him to his feet.
“I’m not sure.” Ham shook his head. “I think I had a sudden attack of courage. I hope it doesn’t happen again. My knees are shaking.”
“Let’s get moving.” Artie led the way up the stairs.
“I say, you’re not going to rag on me for bringing those cakes along, are you?” Ham asked.
“Definitely not,” Artie assured him. “Those cakes of yours turned out to be a real life saver. Now let’s hope there’s a place up there we can hide.”
“Boys! Boys!” a voice called urgently. “Come with me!”
Through the mist Artie saw Benjamin Warren standing at the top of the hill, beckoning them on.
“What on earth are you doing here?” Artie demanded.
“Look, will you just follow me,” Warren insisted, “before they catch up!”
For a moment a suspicion flickered through Artie’s mind that Warren was in league with Braxton Dash and was leading them into a trap. But that made no sense. All he had to do was call out to the two villains to bring them running.
Warren rapidly led the way over the top of Calton Hill and down the grassy slope on the far side.
“I suspected that you’d overheard Dash talking about Calton Burial Ground,” he panted, “and would be unable to keep your nose out of it. That’s why I decided to keep a watch out for you, but this blessed mist put paid to that.”
“Why didn’t you show yourself sooner?” asked Ham.
Warren shook his head. “I couldn’t risk Dash catching sight of me. He’s already suspicious and I can only keep Geraldine safe for as long as he thinks I’m playing along with his scheme.”
“Who the dickens is Geraldine?” Ham wondered, sounding more confused than ever.
“I think we’re about to find out,” said Artie as they reached the bottom of the hill.
Here in Royal Terrace a horse-drawn carriage awaited them. Painted on the side was a shield bearing the images of three thistles and a moorhen. Seated in the carriage was the Lady in Grey. Climbing aboard, Warren hastily introduced the girl as Miss Geraldine Poulton. Artie noticed that under her cloak she was clutching a canvas bag in her small, white fingers. There was just enough room for all of them with Artie and Ham squeezed between Warren and the girl. With a flick of the reins the student started the horse and they trotted off down the road.
When they turned a corner Artie gasped and Ham let out a squeak. Colonel Braxton Dash was charging towards them, brandishing his cane. The Slogger was at his side, hauling the black hound along by its leash.
Muttering an oath, Warren swerved into a side street, away from the two villains.
“Warren, rein in, curse you!” Dash roared, striking his cane against the ground in frustration.
The carriage rushed on, leaving the colonel and his henchman lost in the mist.
“The game’s up now,” said Warren through gritted teeth.
“We can’t go home,” the girl pointed out. “He knows where we both live.”
“I know a place where we’ll be safe,” said Artie. “But when we get there, you have to tell us everything.”
“I suppose the truth might as well come out now,” said Geraldine, “now that we must confront those villains.”
“Alright, Arthur,” said Warren. “Where are we headed?”
***
They soon arrived outside Dr Harthill’s house in Rutland Square. Warren tethered the horse to the railings while everyone dismounted from the carriage.
“Is that a coat of arms?” Artie asked, looking at the decorative shield painted on its side.
“Yes,” Warren replied, “I borrowed the carriage from one of my wealthier classmates, the young Lord Strathairn.”
They walked towards the grand front door of Dr Harthill’s townhouse.
“You say this friend of yours is a doctor?” asked Geraldine.
The girl seemed weak from lack of food or sleep, but she bore herself bravely.
“I’m sure Dr Harthill can mix you a tonic if you need one,” said Artie. “More importantly, he is the cleverest m
an I know, so if there’s a mystery to solve, he can be of enormous help.”
“There is certainly a mystery to solve,” said Geraldine as they approached the front door, “and I’ll be glad of some extra minds to help me thwart that awful man Braxton Dash.”
“If we all put our heads together,” Warren added, “we may yet crack this problem.”
For the first time since they had met, Artie noticed a faint smile on Geraldine’s lips.
Artie was ringing the bell for the third time when Dr Harthill opened the door. He peered curiously at his visitors down the length of his nose. He was fully dressed but his tie was loose, his shirt partly unbuttoned, and his long hair disordered.
“Mr Doyle,” he said, blinking, “this is a highly unorthodox hour to come calling.”
“I’m sorry about that, Dr Harthill, but we desperately need your help. It’s to do with the matter of the six stolen corpses. I fear we are in grave danger.”
“Indeed!” Harthill’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Well, well. Come inside at once. As a medical man, it is my sworn duty to help those in any sort of need.”
They followed him down the hallway, where Warren and Geraldine stared curiously at the photographs and anatomical drawings hanging on the walls. The doctor led them into a modestly furnished parlour. Artie and Ham each took a chair while Warren and Geraldine shared a divan. After Artie had made the introductions, Harthill presented Geraldine and Warren each with a glass of sherry then poured two tumblers of elderflower cordial for the boys.
“There,” he said, smoothing back his long hair, “that should soothe away the chill of a winter’s night.”
He settled himself in a comfy armchair and raised his own sherry glass to Benjamin Warren. “A medical student, eh? It is a noble profession, but you must apply yourself, young man – yes, apply yourself.”
“I’ll be better able to do that, sir,” Warren responded, “if we can extricate ourselves from this awful predicament.”
“Tell me what you know, and we’ll see how I can be of service,” said the doctor.
“You were right, Dr Harthill, to suggest that the bodies were a mere distraction for what was really going on.” Artie brought their host up to date with the case. “A ghastly criminal gang is at work, searching for a long-lost treasure, something to do with ‘the Six Hundred’.” He turned his attention to Warren and Geraldine. “Maybe it’s time you explained the rest. What is this Russian Cross that Colonel Braxton Dash is searching for?”
“And what has it got to do with the Charge of the Light Brigade?” asked Ham.
Geraldine took a sip of sherry to fortify herself then set the glass aside. “I suppose I should tell the tale.” She drew herself up straight. “It is all to do with my father, Francis Poulton, late of the Fourth Light Dragoons.”
“In the Crimean War,” Warren added, “that regiment was part of the famed Light Brigade.”
“For many years my father suffered ill health because of the wounds he received at the Battle of Balaclava,” said Geraldine. “Then just last week he… he…” Her voice faltered and her eyes dropped to the canvas bag in her lap.
Warren interposed, squeezing her hand to comfort her. “Last week Mr Poulton passed away, leaving behind him only a few clues to the location of a treasure he brought back with him from the Crimea some eighteen years ago.”
Geraldine looked up and Dr Harthill gestured at her to continue. She opened the canvas bag and pulled out several loose pages covered in elegant handwriting.
“The story is here,” she said, “dictated to me during the last few days of my father’s life.” As she gazed at the manuscript, tears glinted in her deep grey eyes.
“Perhaps, my dear, I should read that out,” Dr Harthill suggested, leaning forward to take the pages from her.
“Yes, if you would,” the girl gratefully agreed.
The doctor settled back in his armchair with the manuscript in his hand. He slipped on his reading glasses and moved them up and down his long nose until the page came into focus. Then he cleared his throat and began to read aloud.
18. The Tale of the Four Companions
Dictated by me, Francis Poulton,
to my daughter, Geraldine Poulton,
this January, in the Year of Our Lord 1872.
I fear I have but a short span of life remaining to me, and that soon I will be joining my dear wife Martha. I will be better fitted to face the Lord’s judgement if I make a clean breast of the whole matter of the Russian Cross and of the crime that brought it into my hands.
There were the four of us cavalrymen who had become fast friends and constant companions since joining the Fourth Light Dragoons: John Evermore, Dennis Hayes, Marcus Brand and myself. We were a rowdy crew to be sure, indulging overmuch in beer and gambling. While none of us was what I would call a virtuous man, Marcus Brand was the worst, for there was in him a streak of genuine cruelty that went beyond the careless high spirits of youth.
In 1854 we and our horses were shipped out to the Crimea where our regiment formed part of the Light Brigade. Along with our French allies, we were there to assist the Turks in their war with the Russians. It was our aim to prevent the Russians from taking control of the Black Sea, and thus gaining access to the Mediterranean.
A hard time we had of it, what with the bad weather, the poor rations and the constant thunder of artillery on both sides. Our enemy was more ferocious than we’d been led to expect, and our allies less dependable. Our forces were gathered at Balaclava to block the Russian advance and it is here that my story begins.
The four of us were often sent out together on scouting missions. On one such occasion we came upon a gaudily clad Russian officer watering his horse at a stream. Dismounted as he was, we caught him unawares and made him our prisoner. He barely looked old enough to shave, but from his finery, he was clearly of high rank.
His name, he told us, was Prince Alexei, a cousin and favourite of Tsar Nicholas, the ruler of Russia. He pleaded for his freedom and brought out from under his shirt a fabulous jewelled cross as big as your hand. Solid gold it was and studded with rubies and emeralds. Encased inside the cross was the finger bone of some Russian saint, and the Tsar had gifted him this holy relic to keep him safe amid the dangers of war.
He offered to give us this treasure if we would only set him free to return to his own lines. We accepted the deal and Evermore took the cross from him. But then, as the Russian turned to leave, Brand levelled his pistol at him and shot him dead.
The rest of us were outraged by this ignoble act, but Brand pointed out that the only way we could keep the cross for ourselves was if nobody else knew we possessed it. If our own generals knew of it, they would take it for themselves. When the war was over neither Queen nor country would have any care for our welfare, but the profit we made from selling the gold and jewels would keep us all in comfort for years.
Ashamed as we were of how the matter had turned out, none of us was going to refuse his part of the treasure. We buried it together behind a ruined mill on the edge of our encampment and all swore an oath of secrecy. However, even as we returned to camp, I felt in my heart a dark presentiment that no good would come of it.
Next day, battle broke out in earnest – the Battle of Balaclava it was called in the newspapers, which reported very fully the dreadful events. As infantrymen swarmed over the hills on either side of us and cannon thundered across the valley, we of the Light Brigade awaited the order that would tell us where to strike. When that order came there appeared to be some confusion among our officers. We were to charge the guns, but which guns nobody had made clear. It was Captain Nolan of the 15th Hussars who drew his sword and pointed to the Russian artillery positioned at the far end of the valley.
“There is your enemy!” he declared. “There are your guns!”
All down our line, trumpets sounded the advance and forward went the Light Brigade. Who has not heard that tale of tragedy and courage? Mr Tennyson wrote truly when
he said in his famous poem that there were cannon to the right of us, cannon to the left of us, and we were riding into the Valley of Death.
The Russian guns blazed all around us, bringing down men and horses as we thundered on. Captain Nolan himself was one of the first to fall. Of over six hundred of us who made the charge, barely fifty reached the end of the valley. Then they had to turn back or risk being surrounded by enemy cavalry. My horse was shot out from under me, and in the chaos and confusion, I staggered back towards our lines on foot. A shell exploded at my back, knocking me to the ground, unconscious.
Some of my comrades must have carried me the rest of the way, for when I awoke I lay in a cot in the hospital tent, surrounded by the groans of the wounded and the dying. My leg had been broken and was bound with a splint, and I had taken a piece of shrapnel in my head that pained me for the rest of my days.
I learned that Brand and Hayes had both died in the charge, while Evermore was in a cot not far from mine. He was so badly injured that he was half out of his mind and not expected to live through the night. As I lay there, I could not shake off the notion that the murder of the prince and the theft of the cross had brought down a curse, not only on the four of us, but on the whole of the Light Brigade.
Poor Evermore was running a fever and his mouth was running off too. “The cross,” I heard him rant, “it was the cross that done it. Oh, if only we had never set eyes on it!”
I limped painfully over to his cot and tried to calm him. “Hush there, Johnny,” I told him. “You mustn’t speak of that.”
I touched a finger to his lips to quiet him and realised at once that his breath had stopped.
Of the four of us I was the only survivor. I gazed warily around me. What thoughtless words of his had been heard among the wounded and the medical staff? Might he in his delirium have given away the location of the cross?
That night, in spite of the agony of my wounds, I made my way in secret to the hiding place and dug up the jewelled cross. I wrapped it in a linen cloth and hid it in my pack beneath my shaving kit. As I was no longer fit to fight, I was shipped back to England some weeks later, there to rejoin my dear wife Martha and our infant daughter Geraldine.
Artie Conan Doyle and the Gravediggers' Club Page 9
