by L. J. Oliver
Finally, Jack said, “I don’t think he has anything to tell us. Nothing of substance. No value to him.”
Baldworthy looked crestfallen. “So I don’t get to . . .”
“Hang it all, take both eyes before you kill him, do whatever you wish,” Roger said. Then he looked down at me . . . and at something lying beside me. “Hold on, now. What’s this?”
Roger bent down, his knees clicking, and then rose again gripping my locket. He held it before me. He popped it open and inside I saw a cameo portrait of my beloved Belle. And despite the horrid way we had left things when she released me from our engagement, I would not, and could not, ever stop loving her.
As I was choking and kicking, my brain on fire from the agony of hanging, I heard them describe the vileness they would perpetrate upon Belle. Things they would do together or taking turns. A “party” for all their happy lads.
I could not let that happen. I would not. I scoured my mind for all the ghostly Fezziwig said to me and shouted, “Chimera!”
The mockery came to an abrupt silence. Roger and Jack paled.
“Cut him down,” Roger commanded.
“Cut him down now!” echoed his brother.
Roger advanced on me. “Tell me what you know. End this. Be straight and we’ll forget about the girl. We’re not monsters, Mr. Scrooge.”
And just then, while I was sprawled on the floor, panting, spitting, coughing, the warehouse erupted into a hellish crescendo of activity. The doors burst open and men with lanterns flooded the place. Cries of “mutton shunters” exploded from the criminals. A warning that the police were here. Roger ran off even as Baldworthy and the man with the claret mark bested a handful of constables and scattered into the darkness like cockroaches. The other thugs fell or surrendered, wishing to keep all their teeth. And their knees. Jack sprang from the darkness.
“I’ll kill you!” Jack screamed. “Kill you!”
Then a baton clipped him at the base of the skull and down he went. Crabapple stood behind him, that faint smile I’d seen earlier today playing on his rough-hewn face.
As Jack was dragged to his feet, he screamed. “Where is it, Scrooge? Where’s our shipment? Where is it?” Crabapple’s men led him away, screaming. “When Roger finds your woman, he’ll make what was done to that old bastard Fezziwig look like a mercy a thousand times over,” Jack promised, as he was dragged past me. “Then Baldworthy can have her eyes, put them in his fun jar. His pickled pleasures. His—”
I was on my feet by then. And somehow, Crabapple’s baton had found its way into my hand, as if the man had slipped it there himself.
I made good use of it. And down went Jack, falling in a heap.
And for the first time ever, I heard Constable Crabapple laugh.
On the dock, beneath the stars I found Miss Owen waiting for me. There had indeed been a hose in the warehouse, and after stripping off my clothes, I had used it thoroughly to wash the hellish stink of the Thames from me. A policeman who’d served in the war as a medic and always carried his doctor’s bag had seen to the cuts, disinfecting and dressing them. One of Colley’s goons who was about the same size as me had been stripped, his dry if ratty clothes given to me. His shoes were a size too big; I moved clumsily, which made Miss Owen smile.
“I owe you my life,” I said. Crabapple had told me how Miss Owen had doubled back, watched as I went into the river with Sunderland, saw his men take me from beneath the docks, and followed me here. Then she’d made her way back to the precinct and convinced Crabapple to stage this raid. He wouldn’t have given the woman’s pleas credence had it not been for her precise descriptions of so many of Colley’s “soldiers,” particularly the man with the claret mark. Crabapple had returned here with her, and when he saw the mountains of stolen goods in the warehouse, he sent one of his men to round up enough strong fellows for the raid.
“I owe that poor fellow who worked for Mr. Sunderland mine. He fought so that I might go free.”
“I don’t have much time,” I cautioned her. “There are arrangements I must make.”
Crabapple had pledged to send men to watch Belle’s home on the chance that Roger might make good his threats against her. But he would not keep them there beyond morning. By then the villain’s rage would have cooled, Crabapple assured me. And the man would be on to more pressing matters. I was not so sure.
“I expect nothing to be given to me,” Miss Owen said. “My entire life, I have earned what little I have received. You are in the midst of a business venture, I believe? Suppose I had information that might prove useful to you in securing investors. Would you not consider partnering with me under those terms?”
“I would certainly be interested to know what you consider ‘useful information.’ But first, what nature of partnership are you proposing?”
“Partner with me in the solving of Fezziwig’s murder, Mr. Scrooge. So that my Tom might be set free. I shall make certain your investment deal benefits.”
“Yes . . . your Tom.”
She held out her hand like any gentleman might when proposing a business deal.
I frowned. “You will receive the bitterly disappointing wage I had reserved for a clerk. You will perform the duties of a clerk but out of sight, and you will not speak of this; you will receive no letter of recommendation from me. This is a finite arrangement, is that understood?”
Her hand did not waver. And as a chill wind rose off the river, I took it—and found in it a warmth I had not felt in many a year.
“And as your first order of business,” I told her, “I want you to investigate something called Chimera.” She knew that Fezziwig’s spirit had spoken of it, and her eyes widened as I described the strange effect that single word had upon the Colleys. “I’ll need to know things about George Sunderland and what Fezziwig might possibly have known about him to cause the businessman sleepless nights. I also must know about this Tom fellow. Any reason you might conceive why he had been at Fezziwig’s in the first place.”
At the far edge of the warehouse, I saw Dickens and his fellow reporters arrayed before Inspector Foote, who had arrived just in time to take all credit from the fuming Crabapple once more. I knew the ways of London’s press. There would be fear-mongering and mass panic brewing in the vile cesspools on either side of the city’s class divide unless I could have words with Dickens before this night was over. Miss Owen caught my gaze.
“What I tell you about Tom . . . it will be in the press?” she guessed.
“It will. I must preserve Fezziwig’s name. It is all I may do for him now. And I cannot guarantee that what’s written will help Tom’s case at all.”
“But you will try?”
I did not need to reply. She saw in my eyes how all of this benefitted me, and how the night’s events had strengthened my resolve to circumvent the ghost’s terrible prophecies.
She nodded and promised she would be forthcoming. But another matter weighed on her as well: “We have to know why Fezziwig summoned those people. I know of a gentleman who might be able to help you squeeze that arrogant prick Rutledge. Of the four we met in that room this morning, he struck me as the weak link. Something about him was simply not as it seemed.”
“Then squeeze him we shall, but not right away. There are other more pressing matters to deal with first.”
Like keeping a dead man from visiting me once again, I silently added.
CHAPTER FIVE
ONE CAN REASONABLY assume that dancing at the end of a rope can leave a man proof against further shocks to the system, but the vile swill that passed for dinner at the Cock and Egg challenged most assumptions. I leaned back in my seat barely two hours after the incident at the warehouse and closed my eyes. I wanted to wish away the bitter tang and thick oppressive odor of the seasoned egg and cheese slop Dickens greedily slurped and swallowed. The din and clatter of the pub crashed over me, Christmas songs merrily slurred by those full to the brim of mulled cider and whiskey pressed me like an inquisition’s v
ictim. It pushed down on me with the thick smell of stale beer, rotting straw, sickly sweet perfumes, unwashed bodies, and urine. Shuddering, I opened my eyes and reached for the flagon of spiced rum I shared with my guest and drank. I couldn’t wait to be far from this bristly underbelly of Whitechapel and the stench of beer batter. But first I had business to conduct with the young reporter seated across from me.
Dickens smiled thinly as he pushed the scraped-clean plate away and mopped at his chin with a worn handkerchief. An air of confidence settled about him as he withdrew a small notepad and pencil from his jacket and set them down between us. “Right we are then, Mr. Scrooge. Tell me all there is to know about your secret association with Mr. Sunderland and how it ties to those wretched Colley boys. And what business dealing were they and this Tom fellow mixed up in that led to poor Fezziwig’s horrible demise? Mr. Scrooge, imagine the publicity this story will get you. The people who will line up at your door to do business with the final confidant of George Sunderland. That’s what I will make of you.”
A hot flush burst in my cheeks. “Dickens, you always have your ear to the ground. So what’s life like in the gutter, anyway?”
“My theory is, the Colleys took you because of a kidnapping gone terribly wrong,” he went on, ignoring my slight. “The big fish, as it were, got away, drowned in the Thames, and the Colleys thought to make do with you. See what gold they might squeeze from you in return for your miserable life. And perhaps find out if you knew where Sunderland keeps his cash.”
I leaned across the table, brushing his notepad aside. I felt a throbbing in my temple that had nothing to do with the rum. “Mr. Dickens, I did not ask you here for this. You know what I am after. You promised to write a favorable article on Mr. Fezziwig, extolling his many virtues. I would see him remembered as he was in life, not death.”
I shuddered, remembering the ghastly sight of the man’s body disintegrating before me as his voice echoed in my ears. Humbug, Humbug, HUMBUG—
“I’d have done that anyway,” Dickens said. “He was a good man who did not deserve such a miserable end.”
“Beyond that, though, you said you could assist me, as you have done on previous occasions.”
“Yes, and as to that, what you failed to consider is twofold: first, this is different from running some minor line of inquiry into someone’s background. And second, why should I even consider such an undertaking? What do I get from it?”
I thought of the threats Roger Colley had made against my fair Belle, and Crabapple’s only mild interest in helping to keep her—and by extension, her new family—safe. I had to arrange reliable protection, and Dickens knew his way around the darkest corners of London. “A young mother and her family are in danger and here you are with your hand out? And they call moneylenders cold-hearted and tight-fisted. Fine. Name your price.”
“I already have. Information.”
“You won’t get it.”
Shrugging, he gathered up his notepad and made to stand up.
“Stop,” I said wearily. “There must be something else you want.”
The reporter’s smile grew as he eased back into his seat. Suddenly the smell of cloves turned a switch in the reporter’s head, and he couldn’t concentrate. He looked up. A curly-haired vixen in an emerald dress planted a black-gloved hand on her hip. She grinned at us with an infuriating familiarity. Worse, she had a girlfriend with her. With thick ginger curls and slightly parted cherry lips, her bosom heaving as she breathed, the girlfriend was absolutely stunning.
“Move off,” I warned the prostitutes. “There’s no trade for you here.”
“It’s a free country, sir,” said the lady in red. “I ’ave a mind to take me supper ’ere tonight in the company of my nice friend Miss Piper.” She leaned over the merrily distracted Dickens, almost spilling out of her corset. “ ’Ave you met my nice friend Miss Piper, Mr. Dickens? You said to keep me eye out for persons of interest and talent.”
“And in saying that, Irene, I meant those whose abilities lend themselves to the arts. The wealthy are always looking for talented types to reward with their patronage. Painters, dancers, musicians, of that type. I sense quite the story in it.”
Irene shrugged. “Well, Miss Piper ’ere, she’s ever so talented. And that’s drawing a great deal of interest!”
Dickens reddened and smiled broadly. “Irene, thank you. Very obliged to meet you, Miss Piper.” He held her hand a little longer than convention.
Miss Piper fluttered her eyelashes. Looking directly into Dickens’ eyes, she bit her lip. “Up for a bit of nanty narking? I could sing you a song . . . or do somethin’ else with me mouth.”
“Ho, ho!” He smiled and kissed her hand. “Now I bet you have a tale to tell, don’t you?”
“Damn it, Dickens, will you focus! Be gone, women. Leave us to think. Eat your supper somewhere else, I’m sure there are other gentlemen who would welcome the two of you slopping your soup down your busts as they attempted to conduct a negotiation, but we are not they!”
“Oh! Well, we ain’t wanted ’ere, Miss Piper. Let’s go somewhere else.” She linked arms with her friend and sashayed away. “Ta-ta, Mr. Dickens, sir. See you round the corner!”
Laughing, the women were swallowed up by the crowd.
“A journalist,” I groused. “I feel that I’m supping with the devil. Or a vulture.”
“I’m feeling much the same, sir. But I’ll sit with anyone who has an interesting story. Even you.” Dickens tapped his chin. “Tell you what: I am curious about the mechanics of your enterprises. How things work, vis-à-vis, in the world of moneylending. And how it feels to put desperate, hopeless, and helpless families out on the street.”
I shook my head. “When would feelings come into any of it? It is a matter of business, nothing more.”
Dickens strummed his fingers on the wooden surface separating us. “Mr. Scrooge, it seems you leave me no choice. What price would you pay for my services?”
I named a generous sum, a pitiful one I knew would make his blood curdle. I’d make that vulture of a pen-pusher squirm for every farthing he bled from me.
“Yes, now, that is quite fair, surprisingly so. I would have thought your opening bid would be far less, and that—”
“That’s my number,” I told him, stabbing the table with my forefinger. “Not a farthing more. And I’ll have no more of you wasting my time. I asked you here to hire you for a job of work, that is all. I need a capable man to handle the discussed matters with speed and discretion. Are you to work for me or not? I would have your answer, Dickens.”
The reporter’s upper lip twitched. I knew something of his background. With a father who lived far beyond his means and ended up hauled off with his entire family to debtors’ prison, Dickens believed he would be raised a fine young gentleman. He got the shock of his life at the mere age of ten when he was taken to the blacking factory to help work off his father’s debts. Yet still, that twitchy sense of entitlement, despite it all, that grasping, grubbing desire to be well off and accepted in the world of his betters. At odds, surely, with his painfully earnest desire to see change done to what he considered the corrupt and unjust mechanisms that made this city what it was: mine for the taking.
“I’m quite gainfully employed already.”
“I can see the markings of your success from your ratty sleeve, worn shoes, and pitiful excuse for a razor.” I nodded at the thin reporter’s stubble. His lean stomach growled. “And from your full to overflowing belly.”
“I’m interested in truth.”
“I’m interested in protecting a woman’s life.”
Dickens glanced down at his wiry, unthreatening frame. He was anything but a hard man. “If it’s hired muscle you require, I’m afraid I’m apt to disappoint. My weapons are my brain and my quill, not—”
“But you know such men, yes? You prowl the city streets night after night, acquainting yourself with all manner of vermin and scum. I’ve seen you as I’ve mad
e my rounds. I doubt there is a rat in London you haven’t named and fed a bit of cheddar.”
Dickens sighed. “It may be as you say.”
“So you know those who might be trusted. Former soldiers, fallen on hard times, perhaps, but not fallen far from the ways of duty and honor.”
“I’ve met more than a few.”
“I know. I’ve read your accounts.”
Dickens was clearly pleased at this turn, but he attempted to hide his smile behind the flagon as he took it from me and tipped it back for a scorching swallow.
“So you’ll do it?”
“Go on, then,” Dickens promised. “I know a few I can contact before the dawn.”
“Good. And while you’re at it, there are a few others I would have you make discreet inquiries about. Well-to-do types.”
“The others who answered Fezziwig’s summons,” Dickens ventured. “The lord, the actress, the Asian?”
“And Sunderland himself,” I said, recalling the industrialist’s mad fit on the bridge.
“Tell me what’s going on, Scrooge. I can do far more for you if I know the full truth.”
I looked away. I had no doubt that it was just as he said. And what did I know of poking about in matters generally left to the police? An investigator of his caliber would be a near priceless boon in solving this mystery. There was just one problem: “How do I know I can trust you, Mr. Dickens?”
He smiled. “I have no answer to that. I only hope that you will.”
I thought about our many conversations, and one in particular exploded into my thoughts.
“Dickens, you told me that you want out from under the yoke of your publishers, did you not? That you dreamed of becoming a publisher yourself, so that you held the editorial reins and none might censor or change your words unfairly.”
A light came into his eyes. One of yearning and hope. “The kind of money that would require . . .”