The Humbug Murders

by L. J. Oliver

  “Say one word about the pointlessness of trying to help someone who’s beyond help by any measure, and I will cave your teeth in, Scrooge. That’s a promise.”

  I shrugged.

  Speaking loud enough to be heard over the roaring of the whipping wind in our ears, we discussed Shen’s threats—and intimations—not the least of which implicated Adelaide herself.

  Dickens dismissed the notion. “He’s trying to get under our skins, that’s all. He clearly knows that we broke into his office and found what we learned. That information about the opium trade is useless now. Deliveries, routes, couriers, even bosses . . . all will have changed at this point.”

  “So it’s a good thing Jack Colley didn’t take me up on my offer.”

  Dickens nodded.

  We trudged past a frosted shop window displaying towers of Turkish delights and candied almonds. The door tinkled open to release a rosy-cheeked mother and her child. A waft of heavenly scents of fir, pine, hemlock, sweet spices of cinnamon, and cranberry rushed out with them, coupled with the woman’s own rose perfume. The woman and her little daughter walked off in the wind, laughing.

  I thought of Belle and her daughters . . . and turned away.

  I steered our conversation back to Adelaide and told Dickens of the bold-faced lie I’d caught the woman in. And I described the manner in which she’d so quickly and icily gone from tears with Dyer to joyous laughter with Rutledge. I further reminded him that Adelaide had vanished before Rutledge’s murder and not reappeared until sometime later, with only the flimsiest explanation for her disappearance.

  “I hold to the notion that Humbug is a man,” Dickens said. “Small, athletic, perhaps circus trained. As to Adelaide’s ability to hide her sorrow after an ordeal, well, I think you’re making too much of that. That she lied to you to protect Lord Dyer . . . yes, perhaps you should be cautious around her. Consider your words carefully before revealing what you’ve learned. But don’t dismiss her; hold to the old adage of keeping friends close, enemies closer.”

  “Close is not where I wish to keep a knife-wielding killer, but I’ll consider it. Another thing, Dickens, that rhyme . . . and Rutledge’s reaction when I sang, ‘Pretty maids, all in a row . . .’ ”

  I noted that Dickens’ face had hardened and he could no longer look me in the eye. “Roger Colley is still loose, there are Shen’s threats, Humbug has killed again, now there’s this Lady . . . I don’t know that I can keep on with this. I’m a curious man, yes, but I also value my life, Mr. Scrooge.”

  My hand gripped my cane so tightly that it began to ache. “What of our deal? With the pledges I received at the party, I will be a rich man in a matter of weeks. A month, no more, and then it will be nothing for me to finance your publishing venture—”

  “As I said before, it’s not all about profit.”

  We stopped walking, stared into each other’s eyes through the snow-laden wind. His dark and resolute. My own . . . I could only guess from his expression. But that changed as I spoke.

  “I received . . . word . . . after Rutledge. Two more, then me. Please, Dickens. You know it isn’t easy for me to ask. Any chance I might have had of the police helping me is gone now, after what happened at Jacob’s place. And with Miss Owen proving herself untrustworthy . . .”

  He lit another cigarette, looked about, took long moments considering what I’d said. “Fine, fine. You know, of all the odd things we’ve encountered, including those photographs you beheld, it’s Dodger’s scarf that gnaws at me. What could he possibly have come in contact with that would make the flames react so explosively?”

  “I don’t know,” I said earnestly. “And frankly, I hope never to find out!”

  Adelaide was in fine form at the counting-house. She had strung fragrant boughs and garlands from the mantle, framing a glowing fire of crackling pinecones. A weeping couple nearly bowled me down in the street as they hurried out my door, and a line of clients waited within.

  After hanging my snow-laden hat and coat on the hat stand, I set about my own duties and did not disturb Miss Owen until the last of her visitors had flown. A common bond united them all. They had entered uneasily, filled with suspicion, and then, after unburdening themselves of considerable sums of real cash money in my unusually warm and atmospheric office, had fled with laughter in their hearts. The couple I had witnessed on my way in here, those were not tears of grief I had beheld on their faces; instead, they had been tears of relief!

  “What scheme are you up to now?” I barked, counting the small fortune she had collected today.

  “Well, you may want to sit down for this,” she offered. Her gaze swept over my face, searching for signs of my continued fury at her.

  Though I still felt flames in my heart, I focused on my genuine curiosity about her new scheme. Her hunched shoulders relaxed. My ploy to disguise my upset with her had worked. “I’ll stand, thank you.”

  “Here it is, then: I sent word to each of these debtors that if they came and paid us a particular amount, different for each, of course, that we would never again hound them, never darken their doors. That their obligations to us would now and forever be at an end.”

  Outrage lit in my eyes. “You mean . . . you settled for pennies on the pound?”

  Adelaide rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Mr. Scrooge, what kind of a businesswoman do you take me for? Look at the paperwork Mr. Snarkwick just signed.”

  I knew his account quite well. “There must be some mistake. This makes out that his total debt was the amount he paid. But I know for a fact he owed five times this!”

  “And so he did, yesterday. Before I sold the rest of that debt to several of your competitors. They were most happy to take it on for the actual amount owed. Those amounts will grow substantially in the coming months of course as their own interest and fees accrue.”

  “Wait. You didn’t tell our clients that you had sold the lion’s share of their debts? They paid what they did believing they were leaving our company with a clean slate?”

  “I said nothing that wasn’t true,” she told me. “It’s not my fault if people don’t ask questions, or if they make assumptions. They should know full well what they owe. They told me many of a story of you pounding on their doors, reciting amounts, demanding recompense. It is all perfectly legal; the paperwork will hold up in any court.”

  I rubbed my temple, a heat bursting within me that made our surroundings feel like they were warmed by the fires of hell. “I have to admit, I’m shocked.”

  She stared into my eyes, unapologetic, remorseless.

  “Shocked I didn’t think of it myself!” I cried, laughing and startling both of us by sweeping her up into my arms and locking her in the heartiest embrace I’d given anyone since Belle and I parted ways. “That’s brilliant!”

  She reared back, grinning, and nearly lost her balance. I held her tight, steadying her, all too aware of her wildly beating heart against mine. Her lips were inches from mine, her eyes and the promise they held intoxicating. Or was that simply the reflection of the crackling fire in her eyes?

  “All right then,” she said, breaking into peals of laughter while smacking my hands. “Let go!”

  I did so, stepping back. “I’m sorry, that was—”

  “It was hysterical,” she said. “You . . . and me? The thought of it!”

  She was right. The thought if it: me and someone who had broken trust and faith and thought nothing of it. Someone who kept untold secrets and, as Shen said, that I barely knew. “And there is ‘your Tom.’ ”

  Her laughter stopped dead away, and the breeching silence in my offices was broken only by the sound of her scooping up her dress, sitting back at her desk, and scratching away with her pen. “I don’t understand you,” she said at last. “One moment we are allies, respected confidants. The next you glare at me as if I were the architect of all your misery. I understand fully that simply because we have been thrust into this madness together, it doesn’t mean we must also be .
. . friends. But sooner or later you’re going to have to give an accounting of the reasons behind your strange behavior. Otherwise, I will be forced to find employment elsewhere and endeavor to get to the bottom of this mystery on my own. I don’t expect an answer now, but soon, Mr. Scrooge. I will not wait forever.”

  Clearing my throat, I asked, “Have none of the men from Sunderland’s circle sent word?”

  Adelaide shook her head.

  “Well,” I said confidently. “We have one more day. I’ll call upon that solicitor first thing. He is probably coordinating all their bids. That was the point of it, to bring the warring factions together through profit.”

  “Um,” she grunted, not looking up from her files.

  “Damnit, woman, are you even listening to me?”

  She grunted again, flipped a page. “It’s the files Billy Humble sent over. Rutledge was on the brink, there’s no denying that, but there’s clearly more to it. If you look at the numbers, he should have lost his primary estate a year ago. There isn’t a payment made for taxes in an age.”

  “But that wasn’t one of his problems,” I said.

  “No. I have tax certificates here dating back a year saying he was now caught up and paid in full. Quarterly statements since then showing he had no worries along those lines.”

  “The endless cash draws, the succession of mortgages and loans . . .”

  “All of which has been going on for years, mounting and mounting. And there were threats from the tax office of foreclosure, a number of them . . . but that stopped suddenly, even as the rest went on, unabated. Who has the power to forgive debts of this magnitude?”

  “Someone in Whitehall, perhaps?” Like a certain Lord Dyer, I mentally added.

  Adelaide opened another file. “Here, letters of thanks from the police superintendent for Rutledge’s many donations over the past year. But he made none. It was as if someone were using him as a shill.”

  “For bribery?”

  “Criminals need respectable types to ‘front’ for them,” she said. “And Rutledge . . . his needs were vast.”

  “I must know more of this,” I said, turning my back to her as I removed a certain ruby ring from my inner desk drawer and hid it in my fist. “Keep digging.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “No place dangerous, I hope.”

  “Certainly not,” I lied. “Another possible investor.”

  “Good!” she said. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten my promise to find you a few, oh, what do they call them? Whales, I believe. Big-time investors, that’s what they are often referred to as, are they not?”

  “They are indeed,” I said with a bow. “Good hunting, Miss Owen.” I dropped the ruby ring into my pants pocket while grabbing up my cane, hat, and coat.

  “And to you,” she said.

  I slipped on my coat, popped my top hat firmly on my head, and hesitated. Perhaps I should just have it out with her, I considered. Vent my anger and get to the root of why she had lied.

  Yet there was something so fetching about the confounded woman as she sat there, brow furrowed, blowing that lock of curls from her face and seeing it fluttering slowly back into place, that instead I spun and rushed out into the bracing chill of the snow-covered streets.

  I passed a choir singing a carol I’d only ever heard in the last few weeks, and hesitated despite myself as they joyously bleated:

  God rest ye merry, gentlemen,

  Let nothing you dismay,

  For Jesus Christ our Savior

  Was born upon this day,

  To save us all from Satan’s power

  When we were gone astray:

  O tidings of comfort and joy,

  comfort and joy,

  O tidings of comfort and joy.

  “You’ll never be led astray, so long as you’re true to your nature,” I said with a grumble, my cane digging into the snow as I whirled and stalked away. Thoughts of the money my house had just made by Miss Owen’s ingenuity and guile warmed me, despite my rage at her betrayal. I laughed and hurled back at the rosy-faced cherubs, “And the devil, like Jesus, looks after his own!”

  With a happy heart, I strode away, heading north to another hell entirely.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I RETURNED TO the Royal Quarter alone. It was much changed by day, a desolate range of warehouses and tenements. But I could feel eyes on me. Shapes scurried behind shuttered windows. Whispers reached from darkened alleys. The stench of desperation whipped towards me on the cold breeze: gin, sweat, foul and diseased breath, unwashed clothing and flesh . . . Beneath it all lay need and want, those ever-present demons.

  Clearing his throat, Fagin stepped from a storefront and presented himself with a ridiculous flourish. “Good sir, kind sir, my heart fills at the sight of you—and that tasty bauble you wear.”

  I peered down at the gleaming ruby ring perched upon my ring finger.

  “Well, I must see what I can do to help you, mustn’t I?” He groveled before me, touching my waistcoat like a fool until I smacked my cane on the cobbles and instantly arrested his attention.

  “The Doll House,” I said. “And be quick about it.”

  “Forthwith, my dear!” he cried, spinning and leading me through the maze of buildings to where I had glimpsed Shen and the Nellie look-alike. “Most haste! Without hesitation!”

  I raced up the icy steps to the whorehouse as the grasshopper-like Fagin took them two or three at time, then burst into the warm but empty receiving hall before him.

  “Fine treasures, sir. Fine,” he promised and clapped his hands. Footfalls came from the corridor and the stairs as I looked about. Lining the hall’s lush oak paneling were magnificent classical oil paintings of the biblical women of sin: Eve, Jezebel, Bathsheba, Tamar. Each had been mounted in her own gold-leaf frame, their bosoms bare.

  Then the women appeared. A handful of prostitutes wearing elaborate costumes, makeups, and wigs lined up in the foyer, a parade of bare legs and full bosoms. Once I perused their ranks, I understood why this place was called the Doll House. I took in the living dolls before me: a busty Boudica, a jaunty Joan of Arc, a practically bare Eve and her equally revealed twin, a Lady Godiva, a dark-skinned Cleopatra, a smirking Marie Antoinette, a haughty Catherine the Great, even a forgiving Mary Magdalene and a sly Lavinia Edwards, a famous actress . . . who was clearly a man!

  “Tell us what you desire,” said the Cleopatra with a melodious laugh, breaking from her sisters to stroke my arm. She might have been a succubus for her deep yellow and red exotic robes, her dark haunting emerald eyes, and her rich mocha skin. She was the most striking creature I had ever seen. She promised me delights both cruel and kind, and assured me that any fantasy I might dream up could be made true in this place.

  “Maybe another time,” I said. “I have something particular in mind.”

  Cleopatra sighed. She exchanged looks with Fagin and nodded to the steps.

  My hand slid smoothly along the banister as I was ushered up the wide staircase. A bronze gargoyle was perched at the top, grimacing. Fagin led me to a room with blood-red walls he called the Long Gallery. The familiar floral aroma of Indian tobacco whirled through the air and found my nostrils. From front to back the room was filled with laughing men sporting elaborate muttonchops, polished boots, and a surplus of swagger. These were not men one would expect to see at this end of town. Gentlemen gambled, drank, and conducted whatever business could not be dared anywhere else. Garlands of holly, mistletoe, and fresh evergreens laced the Long Gallery, hung high under the ceiling with deep-red ribbons. So, the birth of Christ is celebrated even in the depths of Hell. . . .

  Business was surprisingly brisk for the middle of a work-afternoon. Every man here wore a ring like mine—except for those like Fagin and other servants who circulated, distributing liquors and exotic delicacies such as raw but seasoned fish in a bed of curry. I stepped out of the way of a serving wench adorned by a pearl necklace and nothing else, and bumped into a warm
squealing mass that rewarded me with peals of giggles.

  Peering down, I saw an odd little man cradled in a huge leather chair that enveloped both him and the half-dozen women pressed all about him. His clothing was ostentatious: a zebra-striped suit, crimson cravat with tiny white stars, glasses with little round lens tinted black as night. He patted bottoms with white silk gloves and tipped his stovepipe hat back in order to welcome kisses from his harem of admirers. Beaming a wide, greasy grin, he yanked off his gloves the better to feel the flesh of his admirers, and I saw that unlike all the other visitors, he wore no ring. He murmured something in a language not at all familiar to me, his voice deep, guttural. I turned away, wishing to see no more.

  “A little shy, perhaps, my dear?” Fagin asked. “This ain’t the place for lily-white hands, sir!”

  “It’s thorough repugnance that you mistake for shyness, Fagin. No matter—I’m here for Annie Piper,” I said.

  “But of course you are, sir, of course you are. Why, ain’t no girl fairer than ’er. Fine gentleman like you, you likes ’em well-traveled, eh? Been all over the world, have you? Just like our Annie? Ah, a fair one is she. Speaks more languages than I can count, that naughty little ginger. Speaks them at just the right moment, if you understand me there, both of us being men of the world and such. You like girls with foreign tongues to flick, my dear?”

  I recalled what Dodger had said of “The Lady,” that she spoke with an accent that was “passing strange.” Interesting.

  “Get her for me,” I insisted.

  “Now there’s the ever so slight chink in our agreement, Mr. Scrooge. Not entirely feasible, see? Seein’ as how she has become the personal favorite of Mr. Smithson himself, you see . . . I just couldn’t take you to ’er, no, don’t make me! I’d be ruined, I’d starve, you’d find me lying in a gutter on Christmas morning!”

  I swallowed hard as I slipped a small bribe into his grubby mitt. “I just want to talk to the woman. Surely your Mr. Smithson wouldn’t object to that.”