The Curse of Christmas by Anna Lord

was every bit as
dark and gloomy as she imagined, typical of early medieval
dwellings, but what it lacked in creature comforts it made up in
character. Moreover, it was not her principle place of residence.
It was her bolt hole. One servant would suffice.
    It was a warren of dwarfish
rooms and narrow staircases but it also had beautiful oak beams and
lovely latticed windows set in deep niches that added to the sense
of privacy. Fireplaces abounded and the floorboards were sturdy.
Some of the rooms could be opened up by knocking through a wall or
two. A few Elizabethan tapestries, some Tudor furniture, a bit of
pewterware and it would be perfect.
    On the carved Tudor mantel was a
set of architectural drawings and a note.
    Chere Countess V,
    Purchase of The Buttery has
been expedited in my name.
    Should you wish the title
transferred to your own name you may reimburse me the full purchase
price, see appended sum, at your earliest convenience.
    M
     
    Dr Watson and Dr Gregory sneaked
through the gate and hunkered down behind the one and only
gravestone to catch their breaths. It had been raining steadily all
afternoon and the weeds and soil smelled rank. The odour of raw
sewerage assailed their nostrils and they tried not to gag. A night
wagon rumbled past and they guessed someone must have dumped some
human waste somewhere close. A couple of louts staggering home from
a nearby tavern stopped to urinate against the grey stucco wall of
the church. The ammonia smell drifted on the air. It added to the
fetid stench.
    Dr Watson hadn’t heard from the
Countess all day, nor had he tried to contact her. The last thing
he needed was her interfering presence at their midnight vigil.
These things were best done in secrecy; the fewer people who knew
of it the better; and better left to men.
    The two doctors decided to
separate and take up positions that afforded better cover. They
were rugged up in their oldest clothes and might have been mistaken
for a pair of vagrants. Prepared for a long wait, alert to every
passing sound, they suddenly stiffened. Someone was opening the
creaky gate.
    In a panic, Dr Watson crawled on
his hands and knees until he reached the perimeter where he ducked
down behind a clump of knee-high thistles. He had planned to park
himself midway along the fence so that he could check any human
traffic coming and going along Redcross Way but this was even
better. He was in the corner and had a clear view of both Redcross
Way and Union Street where the brothel was situated. The only
problem was that he didn’t have any cover behind him and felt
exposed to the rear.
    Dr Gregory, in an equal panic,
threw himself flat to the muddy ground behind the headstone,
praying that the midnight intruder didn’t step on him.
    Two men passed fairly close but
he kept his nerve and kept low to the ground. They were making
their way quickly toward the rear of the cemetery. The fact it was
two men hinted at the nefarious business afoot. Grave-robbers
always worked in pairs - one man to do the digging and a
lookout.
    After a few tense moments, Dr
Watson decided to risk it. He poked his head above the thistle
patch. He thought the two trespassers might be the Joff and Crick.
The height and shape of them certainly suggested that to be the
case. Joff, the taller of the two, was carrying something in his
arms. It looked like a bundle of rags. Crick was balancing a shovel
over his shoulder.
    Cocky and sure of themselves,
the grave-robbers didn’t even bother to check that no one was
about. They moved swiftly to the grave that had been recently
filled with the girl called Annie, and Crick began to dig. The
earth was damp and loose. It didn’t take long to move what amounted
to a small mound of wet clods.
    The two men worked without
speaking, indicating they knew what they were doing, or had done
this sort of thing before, or had discussed things beforehand. They
worked with an economy of action, stealthy and silent.
    The winter moon had been