by L. J. Oliver
For the next hour, I met with one key member of Sunderland’s various businesses after another. I expounded upon the virtues of rail, how it was indeed the portent of all things in our future. How the railways would expand our reach as businessmen and builders, and the fine, beautiful money that would be made by those strong enough and brave enough to invest now.
They listened intently. They took me into confidences, one, in particular, a portly man named Greenback, saying, “Have you seen in the papers all this nonsense I’ve been speaking about the import of saving the Brazilian razor-beetles? Hah! I’m only doing it because if I can have that land near Knightsbridge declared a preserve, then Henry Wartfellow will suffer and my wife will be most charitable towards me. She loathes his new wife and sympathizes with the old one, you see. The old one being not that old and still quite lovely to my eyes. My dearest dear has promised me a bit of French delight with her and her friend should I pull this off. What is the term for it, menagerie of three or some such? I only know that as the years go on, I find one too few, three too many. . . .”
Others laughed at the very charities to which they had generously donated this evening. They derided the halfways and “Social Houses” for the poor or addicted and instead backed the workhouses and prisons, for which we were already taxed so grievously. But it was popular these days to be seen as beneficial, and so the checks were written.
I had kept Rutledge in my line of sight the entire time, but now he was on the move. It appeared he had set his sights on the reclusive Lord Dyer, a white-haired gentleman who had put in a brief appearance and was now shrugging off the mob and retreating into the maze-like series of hallways beyond the ballroom.
After securing pledges for an astounding array of investments—my fortune would be made if even a single one materialized in proper funds—I happily grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray of a servant, ducked and weaved through the lavish crowd, and spotted Rutledge easing through what looked like a secret passage!
Squeezing past a group of gossiping ladies in vast bulbous dresses, I examined where my quarry had vanished. The wall in the corner had the telltale absence of perfect symmetry between two panels, betraying a passageway that must have been installed to allow servants to pass unnoticed between rooms. I tapped the corner and the panel slid open with a near imperceptible whisper.
I slipped through the passage.
It led from the ballroom to the great library, which was empty. It seemed that Dyer was leading Rutledge on a merry chase, and, by extension, me as well! The ceilings were high, and the murals depicted angels flowing from the heavens, bringing the gift of knowledge to mankind. The first occasion of misguided benevolence, I thought to myself. A globe stood in the corner, so I gave it a spin. It was heavier than I expected and barely moved. Yet I knew that with the rail deal assured, the globe was merely my next step in business: international trade!
The quiet, distant buzz in the next room became hypnotic and soothing as I took another sip of champagne and leaned against a leather chair while examining the spines of some of the library’s books. Perhaps by dislodging one of these I’d find the next secret door.
Heavy footsteps approached the large double doors on the opposite side of the room. Without missing a beat, I jumped to my feet and dashed back to the secret passageway, but the panel had closed with a click and I couldn’t get my fingernails to grip the crack. I tapped each corner, but the panel stayed closed. There was no other way in or out of the room but through those doors, and I would be seen the moment someone entered. It would not do for a party guest to be caught wandering about the private areas of this opulent abode. In fact, I might be publicly ejected and thus publicly shamed. And how might that look to my investors?
The footsteps stopped, and a muffled voice boomed out right outside the door, so I chugged back the champagne, bubbles bursting in my sinuses, and slipped behind the curtain.
Lord Dyer entered the room, closed the door behind him with a thud, and released a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and shook his head lightly. Then he went directly to the big globe, tapped the side, and the top half swung open, revealing a collection of bottles. He chose one, popped out the cork, and took a swig. The door opened again, and Lord Dyer slammed down the lid of the globe. A woman entered, with her rich chocolate curls tumbling over porcelain shoulders.
“Adelaide!” cried Lord Dyer.
I wondered quite how tipsy this bit of champagne had made me. Were my senses playing tricks with me? Or did Lord Dyer actually know Miss Owen? What on Earth could be connecting these two?
Her hair was elegantly styled, and a cluster of sparkling crystals hung at the milky hollow of her throat. Her dress worth more than I might pay her in a year’s time. She appeared more at ease with these surroundings than many I had brushed shoulders with in the ballroom.
“I thought I made it clear when we met at the servants’ entrance,” he said. “This conversation is over. And how did you get in here?” He sighed. “No, never mind explaining yourself. It’s always been so. When you set your mind to a thing, locks and dismissals seem to you suggestions easily ignored.”
She walked over to him and placed her hands on his shoulders, gazing directly into his eyes. “I hoped that was one of the things you admired about me. I learned it, after all, from watching you.” Her eyes were wide and wet, and even through the slightest crack in the curtains I could see the sparkles from her diamond earrings reflecting in her tears. How did she even own such things?
“You must see him,” Adelaide said firmly. “He might not last the night.”
“To what end?” Dyer asked. “He wouldn’t even know I was there, would he? But others would. And then the questions would start.”
She took his hand, brushed it upon her cheek that he might feel the moisture of her tears. “Thomas would know. And so would I.”
“I can’t,” he said firmly. “I’ve done everything I might for him, and see where it leads us all.” He shuddered. “A gruesome business. Is he . . . are his wounds . . .”
“Should he survive, he will still be presentable, if that’s what you mean,” Adelaide said, standing up and wrenching her hand from his. “He will not embarrass you in that regard.”
“Adelaide, it was not what I meant! Please . . . tell me you have not inherited your mother’s cruelty.”
“No. But I’ve learned from yours.” Skirts whirling as she spun, Adelaide hurried to the wall, pulled on a curtain hook, and the passage I had taken here opened. The sounds of the Christmas party swelled, and she rushed from the room, leaving Dyer to rise on uncertain legs and drag himself away out the double doors through which he had entered.
I waited a few minutes. Then, with my head swimming with new mysteries and unanswered questions, I crept out of the room and immersed myself back into the heaving fog of roast goose, brandy breath, mistletoe, and misplaced benevolence.
Altogether certain I had missed my opportunity with Rutledge, I returned to the party intent on collecting up Adelaide and questioning her about the odd business I had just witnessed. But in moments, I saw the solicitor snaking my way and, wishing to avoid another discourse with them until my head had cleared from the champagne and the startling scene I had accidentally witnessed, I put my hand on the shoulder of a lone woman and turned her to face me.
It was Belle. My Belle. As beautiful as the day she left me sitting on that park bench, though a few new lines had appeared by her eyes. Her cheeks were as pink as the rose detail embroidered into the band that secured her perfect ringlets to the side of her head. Not a hair out of place. No chocolate curl tumbling in front of a knowing grin. Belle was pristine, her expression polite.
We stared at one another in stunned silence, then she laughed, took my hand, and curtsied. A fit of madness must have then overcome me, because I felt my heart leap into my throat, my nerves burst to a tingling mass of needles. I cupped her face in both my hands and tried to press my lips to hers.
So many things I wished to say, so much forgiveness I wished to beg, and all, all, I was certain, would be encapsulated in this magnificent gesture.
Our lips did not meet. She shrugged out of my grasp and shoved me away. I heard titters from the group of society wives clustered together under a rich sprig of mistletoe and sewn to the hip of the plump Lady Gertrude, who was clutching her stomach and looking mortified. But within seconds they had moved on to tastier nuggets of humiliation and gossipy ruin.
Belle’s fury reddened her words. “Ebenezer, you can distinguish, can you not, between that which is past, that which is present, and that which is future?”
I could not meet Belle’s gaze. “I apologize. I don’t know what came over me. I am delighted to see you well.”
I scanned the room and saw several bulky men in ill-fitting suits watching Belle from a distance. The guardsmen Dickens had hired.
“I would not see the light from your eyes extinguished,” Belle said with a softness and generosity I did not deserve. “It is a fair and good thing to see. But the flames should not be lit for me. You know this.” She looked to Adelaide. “What of that one? She hasn’t stopped looking your way all evening!”
Adelaide stood gay and charming as ever, a shimmering star that had drawn the attention of many men and made satellites of them, Lord Rutledge included. Her misery of only a few moments ago had miraculously vanished. Though she made each of the men about her feel as if he had her complete attention, her gaze flickered back to me time and again.
I cleared my throat roughly. “Her? She’s a . . . a business acquaintance. We seek to profit by means of a common end, nothing more.”
“Profit, then? It is still all that guides you?”
“It does not betray me. It can be counted on to be fair and just.”
“My hope for you has come to pass,” she said distantly. “You are happy in the life you’ve chosen.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Her wan smile was the last I saw of her as she breezed over to a clutch of friends.
Dickens regained my side, a crystal tumbler of hot brandy in hand. “Is it not a curious thing?” he asked. “How much easier a lie passes one’s lips, like a perfectly struck note off a finely-tuned instrument, than the flat and heavy thing that is so often the truth?”
“You’re drunk.”
He nodded. “Doesn’t make me wrong.”
“What of your conquest?”
He sighed and raised his glass in the direction of a radiant young lady whose circle of male admirers put Adelaide’s to shame. “I thought there might be some future with me and that one . . . but, though I had been led to believe otherwise, that is clearly not how she sees things between us. She’s nothing but a dirty puzzle.” Under his breath he muttered, “Blast that Havisham woman!”
I nodded, but I could not share his current disdain of the other sex. I had deserved Belle’s thorough rebuke. Perhaps, I thought as I gazed at Adelaide, it was time I looked to my future. . . .
“Blast that Havisham woman?” said a willowy voice at our backs. “I would second that—with interest!”
A handsome woman, close to ten and thirty in years, bore down on us. Dickens blanched at the sight of her.
“Miss Shelley,” he said. “How very pleasant to see you again.”
“Oh, Mr. Dickens, really now. You must know that my feelings towards you entirely mirror yours to me.”
He frowned. “Delightful. Then we shall have no misunderstandings between us.”
She smiled. “If that’s everything?”
He breezed before her. “I understand we share a mutual friend. A Mr. Jingle?”
Her smile fell. “That reprobate. Why am I not surprised the two of you are acquainted?”
Shrugging, Dickens admitted, “We’re not. I may have stretched the truth on that point. I have never met him.”
“But you seek him out? For a news story, I presume?”
“A criminal exposé, yes.”
“I suppose I should be grateful that you are not scurrying about my coattails seeking an endorsement for some ridiculous novel. How tiresome.”
Dickens bristled, then caught himself. “Clearly not, madam.”
I stepped back, unsure of what this exchange signified. Then I recalled Dickens’ promise that he was nearing the whereabouts of Miss Annie Piper. He did not trust in the pledges of Fagin and his gang to arrange an audience, and Fagin’s initial hesitation to set the meeting nagged at him greatly. This Jingle must hold important knowledge, I wagered.
“Suppose I help you? As our American friends might say, what’s in it for me?”
“What would you have of me?”
“St. Raphael’s Hospice for Paupers. Go there. Report on the brave men and women staffing that hellhole. Report on the wretched conditions that force fallen women and the helpless to go there. Promise me you will shine some light on that pit of darkness and perhaps assist in its desperate needs for funding by letting the public know what you see . . . will you do that?”
A strange look came into Dickens’ eyes. Fortified steel. “Whether you help me or not.”
She nodded and took his arm. “Come this way, I’ll tell you what I know. . . .”
So intent had the two writers been on one another—and the clear spark that existed between them, despite, or perhaps because of, their evident friction—my presence had never been acknowledged. Though perhaps that was for the best, considering the mention of St. Raphael’s. I had been there numerous times attempting to collect what was owed me. . . .
“Mr. Scrooge!” Lord Rutledge cried as Adelaide led him straight to me. He was the tallest man in the room on account of his preposterous and frankly outdated wig. “I have heard of the successful outcome of your rail scheme. Congratulations are in order!”
“Not just yet,” I said, nodding at Adelaide as she melted back into the crowd.
“Well, as I was saying to Miss Owen there, a delightful woman, I understand what you see in her . . . my country estate, you see, has become quite the bother. I’ve held on to it for sentimental reasons, but it is a sin to see such a lovely place sit empty. A new owner is in order, surely. You should see it, Scrooge. Newly fitted Doric columns, a hedge maze, and so much more!”
I shrugged. “What you call taste is living proof that nature does not abhor a vacuum.”
Rutledge stiffened. “Sir?”
I smiled. “And here I might have thought your true motive for selling was because you’re in debt up to your eyeballs, as they say.” It took only moments for me to recount the information I had gleaned from young Billy Humble’s research. Lord Rutledge was on the brink of complete financial ruin. And in his circles, that meant also social devastation.
“Oh, you tried to marry off your daughters, but the price you sought was too high, the dowry exorbitant for ladies a bit beyond the freshness of the ones you seem to like,” I said, nodding at the clutch of debutantes who now looked his way.
“You’re the devil,” Rutledge murmured.
“Then fear me, because I could bring about your ruin with a few well-placed words. Do not even consider having me harmed or what I’ve learned will find its way to the press almost instantly.”
Trembling, the blood draining from his cheeks until his face was as white as his hairpiece, he gripped his walking stick and nodded sharply. “What is it you want?”
I thought back to Jack Colley, and a mad gambit sprang to my mind. It seemed my group of suspects liked to use odd phrases to hide their secretive and dark dealings.
I began to hum the nursery rhyme. When I neared the end, I gently sang, “And pretty maids, all in a row.”
He buckled, tears suddenly welling in the corners of his eyes. Through gritted teeth he said, “Ask . . . your . . . questions.”
“Tell me what you know of ‘The Lady’ and ‘Chimera.’ The connection between you and Sunderland and the Colleys. The rings, the Royal Quarter. Tell me all of it. And do not lie to me. I’ll know if you’
re lying.”
He snatched a drink from a serving tray moving at nearly a blur and downed it greedily. Wiping his mouth, he said, “Do you know one of the loveliest things about having a title before one’s name? It frees you to speak simple unvarnished truth. Particularly to those who are lesser than you. Mr. Scrooge, I cannot possibly be the first to tell you that you are an insufferable bore. Worse, you are a conniving, clutching, cold-fisted beast whom I would see put down.”
“But not today.”
“No,” he agreed in a trembling tone. “Not today.”
“Out with it. Tell me. I mean to know why Fezziwig was murdered.”
Rutledge stopped short at that, confused. He acted as if I had just completely changed the subject. Then he steadied himself and said, “I only know parts of it. ‘Chimera’ is simply something I overheard once, in somewhat low company, and when I inquired as to its meaning, my life was threatened by those I counted as friends.”
“Like Shen?”
He shook his head. “Others. So I have said nothing of it since. The Lady, she is some kind of rival to Smithson and the Colley Brothers. She trades in the foreign, the exotic; that’s all I know.”
“How would Fezziwig have known of her?”
“I haven’t the first notion,” Rutledge said earnestly. “But it was the mention of her, in his summons, that prompted me to be at his place that terrible morning. If he knew of her, he might know of my other . . . pursuits.”
“You feared he might blackmail you? Expose you?”
“No, no, never,” Rutledge said. “I feared for him. I worried he had stumbled across something and did not understand its true nature. That he might unwittingly put himself in danger. And, now that I consider things in such light, you’re right: that may be just what happened.”
“I need more. This Humbug will strike again. First Fezziwig, now the lad we found and assumed to be the murderer. Sunderland is dead. Of the small group of us that were thrust into that room, the numbers dwindle. Much as I normally admire the trait, now is not the time to be stingy, Lord Rutledge.”