by Andy Conway
The giant had gone, Tim thought, and now Black Caesar had vanished. That left one more ghost to come.
“That’s right, run, Black Caesar! I ain’t afraid of you!” Pike yelled into the night.
He had but barely said it when the light flared again and shot out from the chapel tower. Pike recoiled and covered his eyes.
In the second before the beam of light hit Slogger Pike, Tim thought he caught sight of something. Up in the roundel window of the chapel, a round disc as the light hit it, a mirror perhaps, and the face of a young man with long hair. Just for a moment. And then the beam of light had blazed forth.
Pike was muttering to himself now. Was he praying like Polly, begging angels to intercede and save him from these ghosts?
The boys found bravery from somewhere and all came to the door, spilling out onto the wall-walk.
Slogger Pike went to the steps and took one step down when there came an unearthly clank of chains.
But not from below.
The sound came from their right. Tim turned.
Standing on the wall-walk was a dark shadow. The beam of light crawled along the courtyard and up to their level and illuminated the figure in the corner.
They all stared in horror.
Oh what a ghastly sight!
An old man pointed a finger — pointed a finger at Slocombe Pike. He had a bandage under his chin, tied at his crown. He undid it and his jaw flopped right down onto his chest, his obscene gaping mouth and all his teeth falling open.
Horror!
It was Jacob Marley’s ghost.
Pike screamed. The boys screamed. Polly screamed.
Then they scampered, like a pack of rats, fighting their way down the steps.
And suddenly, there were ghosts flying all around the courtyard!
Tim found his feet take him not to the stairs to follow them but to the guard house. He darted in, ran to the cupboard, grabbed the wad of money, shoved it in his pocket and ran for his life. Let the ghosts take him to Satan himself, if they must, but even if it was too late for them, he would try to clear his conscience and at least go to Hell knowing he had tried to give the money back.
The boys had shoved, jostled and fallen their way down the stone steps and scrambled across the courtyard and out of the gate.
Slogger Pike ran into the night shouting, “Get away from me, Marley!”
His howling faded off into the dark with Polly’s scream.
“Tiny Tim!” Marley’s ghost called, reaching out for him.
Tim dodged his grasping hand and ran for the steps. He stumbled and missed and found himself falling.
He hit the snow in the courtyard and his ankle cracked, a sharp jolt of agony shooting through his leg.
Figures came through the open gate: the giant, though now he was a normal-sized man dragging a long train of robe; Black Caesar, grinning a bright smile; the cloaked woman — yes it was Miss Belle — and another cloaked woman who was old.
Tim looked back up at the top of the stairs, where Jacob Marley’s ghost pulled his jaw right up over his head and revealed himself to be Mr Wilber.
And then another woman came running into the courtyard, faster than them all, holding out her arms. She reached him first and he was in his mother’s warm embrace once more.
— 30 —
FRED WATCHED FROM THE roundel window as the troupe retreated to the safety of the chapel, going round the rear to the tradesmen’s entrance.
“What a flare that was!” Dickens cried, putting the mirror down and clapping his hands for joy.
Bob Cratchit ran for the stairs and was bolting down them in a flash. Dickens scampered after him, chuckling and hooting with delight.
Fred cast a glance back at the Dungeon — its great gate wide open, a routed castle, its army fled — and took the two lanterns with him to light his way down the spiral stairs. He could already hear them piling excitedly into the kitchen.
He skipped the last few steps to the hallway and pulled up at the sight of a gentleman with a top hat and a leather bag coming out of the drawing room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Ah, you must be one of the relatives come for Christmas. I can hear the festivities.”
“Yes,” said Fred, feeling suddenly woozy, as if on the verge of swooning, the ground unsteady beneath him, like the hallway had become a ship’s deck.
“Mrs Jowett is suffering cramps and spasms,” said the doctor. “It is not, in my professional opinion, the palsy. She is rather overwrought and of a weak constitution. I have recommended a good deal of rest. I’m glad to know that she has her family round her. Merry Christmas.”
He put his top hat on his head and scurried out.
Fred put his palm to the wall and edged down the passageway that led to the kitchen. He pulled himself together as he entered and searched for Belle. She turned in the mob of faces and swept the hood from her face. He started with shock.
Grey haired and aged.
It was Mrs Hudson.
Fred laughed. He’d been fooled, just like Slogger Pike had been fooled.
Belle came through the crowd, patting shoulders, congratulating them all, and her eyes found his across the room.
For a moment she stared, and the moment felt like an age. Their gaze burned up the whole room and no one saw it, and he knew he was madly, utterly, desperately in love with this woman and could not leave her.
Her earnest gaze broke into a friendly smile, the kind she’d give anyone in this room, but he’d seen it, in that moment that lasted an age — he’d seen her love for him too. She pushed through and came to him, the fire of victory burning in her eyes and in the excitement, he pulled her into an embrace and kissed her full on the lips. She pulled back, shocked, and he saw his mistake.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Belle smiled and looked at the sprig of mistletoe hanging from the beam above. “Don’t be sorry.” She squeezed his hand and he knew she didn’t mind, but there was decorum to think of. She’d probably had enough scandal for one day.
Mrs Hudson saw and frowned. Just why was she so against this thing between Belle and him?
Dickens was sounding off on how tricky it was to negotiate the light. “My arms are aching with holding that mirror and angling it just so.”
“It worked like a charm!” said Bob Cratchit.
“Who would have thought,” said Ira Aldridge, “that three lanterns aimed at a mirror could create a light to equal Saul’s on the road to Damascus?”
“A devastating effect!” Mr Fezzwig cried. “Well done, Mr Dickens, Mr Fred and you too, Cratchit!”
“Mr Fezzwig, you scared the bejeebers out of me when you came walking on your stilts!” said Ira. “And shouting Fee Fie Fo Fum as well.”
“A little improvisation,” Fezzwig said modestly. “Not too much?”
“No! Perfect!”
“Your pirate was a triumph, Mr Aldridge,” Fezzwig said. “And your ghost of Jacob Marley sent shivers down my spine, Mr Wilber. Oh and Belle, you were awesome in your gravitas.”
“The swap with Mrs Hudson,” said Forster. “I believe none of them saw it.”
“A simple case of misdirection,” said Dickens. “That is the basis of all magic.”
Tim cried out in pain, sitting on the kitchen table where his mother had dropped him after carrying him in.
“Your ankle is broken, my tiny Tim,” she said.
“Not a break,” said Tim, bravely. “But it hurts to touch.”
“A sprain,” said Forster, “by the look of it. You’ll have to rest it for a month or so.”
Tim reached inside his jacket pocket and took out an envelope — a thick wad of money the size of a book. He held it out to Forster. “Here you are, sir. This belongs to you.”
“How strange,” said Dickens. “This is how we began this morning.”
“I’m so very sorry, sir,” said Tim. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Forster shuffled and harrumphed and pocke
ted the money, patting his heart. “It’s all right, boy. We’ll say no more about it.”
“Am I to go to prison now?” Tim asked.
Emily hugged her son so tight that he let out a little yelp.
“No, boy,” said Dickens. “I think you’ve seen enough of prison. The money is returned so there’s no harm done.”
“Slogger Pike spent a little of it,” said Tim. “A pound, I believe. Although most of it was placed on account at Miss Jagger’s Dining Rooms.”
“I’m sure we can get that back,” said Bob Cratchit.
“A pound is a small price to pay for saving a good boy from a life of crime,” said Dickens. “Isn’t that right, Forster?”
“I believe it is, yes, Charles.”
Fezzwig went to the scullery and came back with a broom. “We need to fashion a crutch for this boy. This will do, I think.”
He got Tim to lie down flat on the kitchen table and placed the broom against him to measure how much he needed to take off so it was just the right height for him. He scored a mark with his thumbnail.
“Do you have a saw, Mrs Cratchit?”
“No, I don’t think so. There’s an axe in the scullery.”
Fezzwig took the broom out to the scullery. They heard three careful strikes of iron on wood and he came back with the broom in two. “That’s done the trick! It will do for now. I’m sure Mrs Jowett can spare a broom.”
“It’s the least she can spare, the old witch,” said Ira.
Everyone fell silent and Ira turned, aware of a presence behind him.
Mrs Jowett stood in the door, leaning on a walking stick, a Carcel lamp in her other hand illuminating her face, old, sick and sour. “What is all this noise? Who are all these people?”
Emily Cratchit, beaming a bright smile, announced, “Oh, Mrs Jowett, I’m so glad to see you’re well again. I’ll be off now, late as it is. I’m going home with my son and my husband. So, I wish you a Merry Christmas.”
“We’ll come with you,” Mr Fezzwig said.
“Yes,” said Mr Wilber.
They looked to Ira Aldridge, who was staring at Mrs Jowett, arms folded.
“Mrs Jowett,” said Belle. “I believe you owe Mr Aldridge an apology.”
Mrs Jowett gazed on the actor, and it seemed her face was hard as flint and she would not move. Then she crumpled, her lip quivering, her eyes on the floor.
“How can you ever forgive me?” she moaned. “Such an awful lie. I apologize from the bottom of my heart for the hurt and shame I’ve caused. But if you only knew why...”
“What possible reason could you have?” said Ira.
Mrs Jowett shook her head, slumped into a chair at the table, placing the lamp before her and held her face in her hands. “A wicked, awful, terrible thing to say. Please forgive me. I shall come this minute to your wife and tell her it was a lie. This very second. I shall beg her forgiveness.”
Ira Aldridge stepped back, as if he feared this old woman and her vehemence. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Christmas Day,” Mrs Jowett said, a little wistfully. “Perhaps we might meet at Christ Church for the morning service.”
Ira bowed his head. “Certainly. Christmas morn,” he said.
Emily Cratchit threw on her coat and pulled Tim off the table. “We’ll be going. Goodbye to you all. I can’t thank you enough for saving my boy.”
Mr Fezzwig and Mr Wilber picked up their sacks containing their clothes and the terrible false jaw contraption and each took one of the stilts.
“May I walk with you, gentlemen?” Ira Aldridge called.
“Certainly, sir!” they replied.
“You’re most welcome,” said Emily Cratchit.
“I must return to my dear wife at the New Royal Hotel,” Ira said. “But it is only up the hill.”
“Perhaps we’ll stop off at the Rose and Crown on Bread Street for a celebratory drink?” said Bob Cratchit.
“Capital idea!” said Mr Fezzwig.
“Well, it is Christmas,” said Ira Aldridge. “I suppose I can send a boy to fetch my wife so she can join us in a wassail.”
“As long as it isn’t this boy,” Bob Cratchit said, patting Tim’s head. “He won’t get very far on that leg.”
They all went out to the hallway, leaving Mrs Jowett at the kitchen table. Emily Cratchit hugged every last one of them: Dickens, Forster, Belle, Mrs Hudson and Fred.
“Come on,” said Bob Cratchit to Tim. “You can’t walk in this.” He picked up the boy and heaved him up onto his shoulder, but he was too heavy.
“Let us help,” said Mr Fezzwig.
“If Tim doesn’t mind being carried by a couple of ghosts,” said Mr Wilber.
They each gave a shoulder and Tim sat on their crossed arms. Emily and Bob carried the sacks. Mr Fezzwig and Mr Wilber each used a stilt as an effective staff to negotiate the snowy ground.
They called out a hearty Merry Christmas and walked off up Pinfold Street, holding tiny Tim up high.
Mrs Hudson, Fred, Belle, Dickens and Forster watched them go.
“What a charming sight,” said Dickens. “If it doesn’t look like the Holy family, and the three wise men.”
They all involuntarily gazed at the Dungeon across the white street.
Forster chuckled. “That evil Pike chap was as scared as a lamb!”
“Did you see them run?” said Charles.
“It was the best production ever!” said Forster.
“Tonight’s Harlequinade excepted of course,” said Fred.
A carriage came down the hill and passed the merry band on their way into the night. It came to the chapel and the driver, wrapped up so thick he must have been wearing half a dozen coats, pulled up, his horses in a cloud of steam.
The carriage door swung open and Ebenezer Swingeford stepped out.
— 31 —
FRED BRISTLED AT THE sight of the old miser, come to demand an explanation. The triumph of the theatre performance and the rescue of tiny Tim soured at the memory of Belle agreeing to meet him here to discuss Mrs Jowett’s slur against her. And ‘other matters’, he’d said.
His proposal of marriage.
Poor Belle had only allowed herself to be bullied into it so the show could go ahead.
Fred stepped in front of Belle as Swingeford entered the hall, but Swingeford merely cast a withering look of scorn on them all and headed for the drawing room.
“Mrs Jowett is in the kitchen,” said Mrs Hudson.
“The kitchen?” said Swingeford.
“Yes. You’ll find her there.”
His scornful gaze went from the drawing room door to the door across the hall that led to the servants’ quarters, and he examined each of their faces — Fred’s, Mrs Hudson’s, Dickens’, Forster’s, Belle’s — as if they might be playing a joke on him.
Mrs Hudson let out an exasperated sigh and flounced off through the door to the kitchen. Fred took Belle’s elbow and guided her forward, making sure he was between her and the old miser. Dickens and Forster followed and Swingeford could stay in the hall all night if he cared to.
Mrs Jowett was still at the kitchen table, the Carcel lamp gurgling before her, its sickly glow lighting up her face so she looked like a ghost.
She barely acknowledged them as they entered, but she looked up at her brother and sighed and nodded with grim determination, as if this was a moment she had long dreaded but she was going to face it nonetheless.
Mrs Hudson sat at Mrs Jowett’s side and put her hand on her arm.
Fred ushered Belle to a seat at the table and did the same, sitting beside her and placing a supportive hand on her arm.
Swingeford stayed standing over them, his cane behind his back. “So it wasn’t that Aldridge beggar. It was this man. You are the man at the theatre who intends to usurp me.”
“I am not a crown, to be fought over by warring princes,” said Belle.
“I do mean to usurp you,” said Fred. “I’ll do ev
erything I can to stop you marrying her.”
“How dare you be so impertinent? And you, her cousin.”
“He is not her cousin,” said Mrs Jowett.
“But you said he was. You confirmed it.”
“I have told so many lies today,” she sighed. “If the Lord take me tonight, I fear I might go to Hell.”
“It’s true,” said Belle. “Mr Smith and Mrs Hudson are no long-lost relations of mine.”
“I thought as much,” Swingeford said. “But why did you confirm their lie, sister?”
“Because I too shall do everything in my power to stop you marrying her.”
“This is abominable,” Swingeford said. “And it shall make me all the more determined to make it so.”
Mrs Jowett gave a sad smile. “Oh no, Ebenezer, you truly won’t. It has come to this. It has come to this.”
Swingeford stared.
Everyone stared. Had Mrs Jowett truly gone mad?
She rose from her seat and picked up the lamp. “The answer lies behind the chapel.”
She walked out through the scullery to the rear door and for a moment, no one moved, unsure if they were to follow or not.
Belle rose and Fred went with her. The others all tramped out to the cold night behind them, following Mrs Jowett’s figure, black against the snow and the lamplight before her.
Fred glanced behind to see Dickens and Forster had both taken a lantern to light the way. They walked through the snow-covered graveyard, a grim procession.
Mrs Jowett stopped at what seemed like an overgrown, empty patch of grass, clumps of weeds and briars poking through the blanket of snow.
Fred saw that it was not empty, but there was a little gravestone, moss-covered, a modest, squat little thing, smaller than a milestone in a hedgerow.
“What humbug is this?” Swingeford said.
Mrs Jowett held her lamp aloft and pointed at the grave. “There is why I told such an awful lie. There is why I’ve sought to sunder your marriage proposal.”
Dickens knelt down and wiped snow from the gravestone, revealing the inscription:
Susannah Bell
And Child