by L. J. Oliver
“Case closed,” mumbled Crabapple. “You and all your cronies may return to your lucrative businesses, yeah? To hell with answers. Or justice. Or the truth.”
I smiled thinly and hugged myself against the chill. “I thought you liked things simple, Constable. Murderer. Knife. Blood. Hang him. How could it be any simpler than that? Or is it that you don’t believe he’s guilty?”
“I’d like to. And as things sit now, he’ll surely hang for it. But he’s ranting and raving like he’s afraid he’ll be the next victim, and that just doesn’t sit right. Those four Humperdink introduced you to . . . I stood listening at the door as they went on a fair while. There’s quite a bit they’re hiding, I’m certain of it. And you’ve hardly been forthcoming yourself! Nor that little lady of yours.”
“Miss Owen is not my ‘little lady.’ But no matter. You can take heart that our reluctance has nothing to do with your courteous and efficient manner, Constable. You have a way with people that I believe is second to none. In fact, I’d wager you have a great number of well-wishers. They would all like to throw you down one.”
He glared at me. “Get out of here before I charge you with obstruction. But remember: innocent people tend not to spin wild stories or to hide the truth the way you lot did. All of you. There was something strange about the way I found you and that woman at your counting-house. And you saying ‘humbug’ like that, the same thing scribbled on the wall beside the corpse. I’m not done with this, Mr. Scrooge. And neither are—”
The constable stopped short as a hundred paces ahead, a bulky man in an expensive coat opened his arms before Dickens and the flock of reporters who had glued themselves to his sides. The man brushed his neatly trimmed mustache and began to hold court for the crowd.
“Ah—damn!” Crabapple snarled.
“Inspector Foote, I would assume?” I asked. But Crabapple wasn’t listening. He stormed off towards the ring of reporters and the inspector who was surely taking credit for the young man’s arrest.
Crabapple stopped suddenly. “Hey now, what’s this here?”
Miss Owen burst from the crowd just as the policemen slammed the gate on the wagon and clanged the lock. “Tom!” she screamed, and pushed past me, racing towards the wagon just as its horses neighed and the vehicle jolted into movement. “Tom, I’ll help you, I know you’re innocent!”
The face of the accused appeared in the back window of the wagon, his hands clutching the bars. He grimaced and yelled, “Be gone, wretched woman!”
Miss Owen began to run after the wagon as it trundled up the uneven road. I frowned, staring at the hands clenched around the bars, and before the wagon turned a cobbled corner, I noted a circle of pale skin about his ring finger. It looked about the size and shape of the peculiar ring Fezziwig had worn in both his final “ghostly” and earthbound states. But I wanted no more of this. I was a man of reason, a man of business, and I needed to be far from here.
I walked away, towards the river. I needed time to compose myself, order my thoughts . . . and banish the specter of my dead friend, which now haunted my reason.
It wasn’t long before I saw that I was being followed. Miss Owen trudged after me, her boots sloshing in the snow, and her gaze locked fiercely on me each time I chanced a look over my shoulder.
I stopped and allowed her to catch up when I had reached a quiet alley in a derelict maze of damp brickwork. There was little evidence of Christmas approaching in this part of town, neglected by all but the most wretched. The bone-chilling December wind and the whipping sleet it carried were the only hints of the season.
Nobody would hear us in this shadowy spot.
“Mr. Scrooge, sir, please . . .” she began. “I know I have no right to ask, but will you help me?”
A pained sigh escaped me. “Miss Owen, I don’t know what you would have of me. Employment is not a topic I wish to discuss now. Nor your evident connection to the man taken into custody for murder. Your . . . Tom.”
She flinched at the mention of his name but otherwise remained not just resolute, but hard as flint. It was difficult not to admire her strength. Yet I had been through much today.
I went on, “My oldest friend—a man who was more father to me than the wretch who sired me ever was—is murdered. I would have time, alone, to mourn. If that is not too much to ask?”
“Clearly it is,” she said insistently, taking my arm. “Considering your dead friend didn’t wish to stay dead. Considering the warnings he came to deliver.”
I could not meet her gaze. “What is it you think you saw?”
“Everything you did. And I heard everything you heard. He said, ‘The young man is innocent.’ Have you forgotten? It is my Tom he was speaking of. How can you have any doubt? And what could he have meant by ‘humbug’? He screamed the terrible word so frightfully that it still haunts me.”
“Humbug? No doubt that the killer is an imposter, a fraud of some sort. Or, more likely, that the whole ghastly situation is a setup. You ask me how I can have any doubt. Well, I doubt many things,” I said, shrugging from her grasp. “Most things,” I added, looking into her pleading eyes. “Including you.”
“Me?”
I felt hot anger rise in furious prickles up my face and walked briskly from the alley, towards the great bridge in the distance. “What we—what I experienced this morning was impossible. The only rational explanation is that something happened, yes, but not what I have been duped into believing. This city is crawling with charlatans and crooks. Those who prey on the living in the name of the dead. Table rappers. Fortune-tellers. Mystics and more. All done with mirrors, illusion, sleight-of-hand. Yuletide is the worst season for such tricksters. You recognized that scoundrel I ejected from my office. You share some bond with the man who threatened to kill me at Fezziwig’s. Perhaps I have been drugged and hypnotized. Made to believe what you lot would have me believe so you might fleece my pockets and—”
We drew up suddenly, myself and Miss Owen, because next to the bridge was Fezziwig. Large as life. His back not bowed by the horrible toils of time, his hair grey, not salt-white. He was laughing, smiling, tolling a Christmas bell and holding a pail for charitable donations. The morning light ringed his ill-kempt locks in a way that never failed to bring a smile to me. A bit of drifting snow fell into my eye, startling me, and when I wiped it away, the bridge was empty once more.
I didn’t realize how I was shaking until Miss Owen boldly took my hand.
“Mr. Scrooge—Ebenezer—if truly, in your bones, you believe I am nothing but some opportunist, if you think your mind and will so fragile they could be manipulated as you have described, then I will leave and you will never have to suffer my presence again. I would not displease anyone so. Let alone . . . suffice to say, a man of deep character, as I perceive you to be.”
I drew my hand away slowly. Adjusted my waistcoat and shawl. “I may know a barrister. I fail to see what else I can do for you. For your . . . for this Tom.” Was there a hint of jealousy in my tone? Absurd.
Miss Owen lowered her voice and leaned up to my ear. “There is more to it, and you know it. You heard what Fezziwig said,” she whispered, and my heart stopped. “He said that more would die.” She pulled herself away and stood tall, lifting her chin, and said, “Including you.”
Chills crept down me like thin cobwebs of dread. “And of the four suspects in Fezziwig’s pantry just now? Did you believe the tales spun by any of the four in that room?”
“Not in their entirety. And you?”
“Not at all. Apart from the actress, I would say every one of them is lying.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I would not be so quick to accept Nellie’s tale either, Mr. Scrooge. There was a tangible unease in her eyes. I sense it, you see—woman’s intuition.”
“Woman’s folly. Members of the fairer sex are so quick to condemn their sisters. Don’t forget the gravity of the situation, Miss Owen. This is not the time for idle accusations.”
Miss Owen to
ok a deep breath and her eyes drifted to the falling snowflakes. The icy wind blew a gust and she pulled her shawl tight. “And there was something more, this Chimera business,” she continued. “What do you make of—”
Gasping, Miss Owen stopped suddenly as a man who had more in common with a wall than with flesh and blood slipped in front of us with a quietness and sureness that made me start.
“Apologies, sir,” he said in the deepest, most gravelly voice I’d ever heard.
“You can make the attempt to apologize,” I offered, “but I’m not sure apologies come in sizes large enough to suit the likes of you!”
Despite herself, Miss Owen could not restrain a snicker beside me.
The man’s enormous girth filled my vision. Yet his ridiculously muscled bulk had been poured into one of the finest tailored suits available in London. And the particular way he ordered his cravat marked him as an Oxford man. He remained unmoved by my barb. “My employer, Mr. Sunderland, wishes to speak with you further.”
“Does he now?” I asked warily. “Is it about a business matter, or about the awful affair we were both caught up in this morning? As you can see, I am in the middle of a discourse.”
The man glanced at Miss Owen and grinned. “I wouldn’t ordinarily interrupt a man in the middle of a . . . discourse. But I believe it is about an advertisement you placed, looking for investment partners?” he said. “You are Ebenezer Scrooge, the investment banker, are you not?”
I tipped my hat. “A moneylender, in point of fact. But I will be more, and soon. Have no doubt.”
“Well, my employer takes great pleasure in helping others achieve their aspirations.”
I laughed. It was very close to a line I had used myself on many an occasion. Still, George Sunderland, despite the terrible manner in which we had met, could prove just the ally I’d dreamed of enlisting. “Very well. He can make an appointment to see me at my office—”
“It is urgent. He requests your presence now. And in a place of privacy.” The big man nodded to London Bridge—where George Sunderland now waited in the exact spot I thought I had spied Fezziwig’s spirit.
I nodded and exchanged glances with Miss Owen. She smiled and crooked her arm.
“Perhaps this lovely gentleman would deign to walk with me for a time?” she asked warmly.
The giant’s knees buckled as he tipped his bowler to her and allowed her to take his arm. I frowned, not particularly fond of the idea of Miss Owen going off with some man I didn’t know, but business was business. And if he worked for George Sunderland, well, that was recommendation enough. They strolled towards a spot off to one side of the bridge, while I climbed it eagerly.
Not one of us was aware of the malevolent shadows detaching from the alley far behind us.
Or the weapons they carried.
The stink of rotting fish and the clanging of ropes against ship masts helped me navigate through the thick orange mist. The wooden docks were slippery under the December sludge, so I kept my distance from their edges, blurred above the black Thames below.
Sunderland was waiting for me alone under the bridge, his cigar adding heavy grey swirls to the polluted air. As I approached, Sunderland gave an almost imperceptible nod towards the shadows, where his burly bodyguard was leaning with arms folded against the brickwork of the bridge, Miss Owen chatting away beside him.
Together Sunderland and I ascended the steps to the bridge, and as we reached the top, the wind blew cold and bitter. I heard slow, almost silent steps following behind; heavy boots placed carefully on cold stone. Sunderland’s ever-present shadow. The Oxford Man. And next to his, the light graceful steps of Miss Owen.
“Thank you for meeting with me, Scrooge,” said Sunderland as we reached the middle of the bridge. I looked back to the bodyguard, who was nearly hidden at the end of the bridge, and the lithe form of Miss Owen beside him.
Sunderland appeared to guess my thoughts. “Rest easy, Scrooge. I raised that man up from nothing. He would give his life in my service. Miss Owen is quite safe, I assure you.”
“But it’s hardly proper—”
Sunderland laughed and guided me ahead. “Surely after what we have shared today, and considering the spot we are all in, propriety is the least of our concerns, yes? Besides, look at them. I’d be more worried about my man than Miss Owen should he even think of doing or saying anything untoward. Wouldn’t you?”
I nodded and said flatly, “I consider the expenditure of my time as an investment. Are there dividends to be reaped from our discussion?”
“That depends on you. But it’s distinctly possible, yes.”
“Then the pleasure is entirely mine, Mr. Sunderland. Your commercial acuity built you a veritable empire of industry, and I am still looking for an investment partner. Need I look any further?”
“Not if your eyesight is worth a damn.” Holding his thin cigar, he pointed out over the Pool of London and at the vast expanse of ships, docks, and warehouses. “A fine sight, isn’t it? And beyond, to the city. So many buildings that only exist because I had vision, I had will and strength. I have built so much and, naturally, I must protect it by considering only the most lucrative business proposals. But this horrible bit with Fezziwig, it casts a damper, does it not?”
“You knew him, then?”
Sunderland looked away. “I wish I could say that I did. From the tales the others told this morning, he sounded like a saint, not a sinner deserving of such treatment. I answered his summons only because I wanted to know if there was truth behind his legend. The wealthy look for novel ways to entertain themselves.”
“At least the culprit has been found.”
Sunderland sighed. “I must say, I’m not generally the type to concern myself with matters such as this, but when a man is gone, who is there to protect his legacy, his reputation? I saw what was done to him. You?”
“A ghastly business.”
“And now he will be remembered as a weak old man who must have been involved with God knows what to deserve such a fate. I can’t help but think: if it were me found like that, if tales were being concocted out of convenience that destroyed my good name and ruined the reputation and future of my family, would I not wish that someone would do something? That someone would stick out their neck a bit and say that couldn’t possibly be true? Yet I see four people: Rutledge, the actress, the Chinaman, and yourself, and when the press is scurrying about looking for a story to tell, not one of you is there to be found to speak to the character of Mr. Reginald Fezziwig.”
My gaze narrowed. He raised a valid point. I would need to give Dickens something about Fezziwig’s death in order to keep the newspaperman—and, hopefully, his contemporaries, who often did little more than copy his take on things—from inventing provocative and slanderous fictions to fill the void left by a lack of facts. It was indeed something I should have done rather than slinking off when the wolves were chewing on other meat.
He offered me a cigar and I took it. “What is it you have in mind?” I asked, hiding my eagerness behind the flare of sulphur as I lit the tobacco.
“I have a secret, Mr. Scrooge. Can you guess what it is?”
“I am no detective, sir.”
“You sell yourself short, I think. Are you not a keen observer of any who might provide money or advancement? Do you not study the slightest tick, the faintest hint that what a man says to you may be only one lie in a house built on them? I do.”
“I employ others to ferret out such details.”
“But only after your instincts flare and tell you something is not as it seems. Do that with me, now, and if you succeed, I will know beyond any doubt that you are the man for the job I have in mind.”
I looked at him closely and could see nothing amiss. Nothing obviously amiss, in any case, though . . . yes, perhaps it was simply because he had planted the seed in my mind, but there was something, was there not?
“I’m no miracle worker,” I told him. “I cannot sniff a man’s toba
cco and effortlessly reconstruct his every movement of the past day as I’ve heard that Frenchman Dupin supposedly can. But human nature . . . its baseness, its crass, grasping desires . . . with these I am familiar. From these I have learned how to profit. And your eyes have a melancholy, your voice a note of defeat that is entirely at odds with everything one would think to associate with you. It’s not loss born from grief, not from a loved one dying; I know that look all too well. But your talk of how Fezziwig will be remembered . . . you’re dying, are you not?”
As soon as I’d brought up death, an image of a crumbling Fezziwig flashed in front of my mind’s eye, but I blinked it back out. Even in the icy chill, the Thames seemed to stink a little fouler.
Sunderland shuddered. “Indeed I am, sir. And I wish to hire you to safeguard my legacy.”
“Me? As you said, I ran from the chance to do my mentor and his survivors a good turn.”
“True. Because you did not stand to gain from the act.”
“You make me sound like a monster.”
“Just what may be needed. And before you volunteer it, worried as you may be that anything less than full disclosure may change my mind about you, I am well aware of the unpleasantness with your employer of just a year ago. A certain Mr. Marley?”
“He was never my employer,” I said firmly. “More a trusted referral source.”
“But trusted no longer.”
I said nothing. The wind’s deep growl was response enough.
Sunderland warmed his arms. “My legacy is all I have left to me. I have no one I can trust. Ensure for me that when the name George Sunderland is spoken of in decades to come, it is with appreciation.”
I frowned. “Is your promised investment in the rail deal contingent on my accepting these other duties?”
“No, Mr. Scrooge. They are, what is the phrase? Fish and corn, you see?”
I nodded and turned away to think it over. Why would he want me for this task? I was not a solicitor or an estate specialist. Was it because of my association with Dickens?