by Carla Coupe
“How kind of you,” Annabelle said.
Her mother rose. “And now, Mr. Cratchit, I’m sure you will want to continue making your inquiries.”
Tim found himself floating down the front steps of the house in a trance—odd, how icy winter had suddenly turned balmy as spring.… Unbidden, his feet made their way toward the law offices of William Janders, Esquire.
* * * *
Peter Cratchit regarded his younger brother’s air of general discombobulation and laughed. “Who is she, then?”
Tim found he was, after all, capable of stringing words together and telling the tale yet again, this time appending its most recent chapter. Peter’s expression went from laughter to bemusement to astonishment. At last he emitted a long whistle. “So you think old Fezziwig and Belle are two of Scrooge’s ghosts, eh?”
“I suspect Belle of being the Ghost of Christmas Past with its crown of flame,” Tim replied. “I suspect her father, Fezziwig, of being the Ghost of Christmas Present, for by all accounts he was a hearty soul who loved to celebrate the holiday.”
“And the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?” asked Peter. “Who was, if I’m remembering the old man’s tale aright, a much more sinister figure, hooded in black.”
“That is where you come in, brother, you and your esteemed senior partner Mr. Janders. Can we trace these properties that Belle—Mrs. Redlaw—made over to Dick Wilkins, only to die so conveniently soon thereafter?”
“Why yes.” Peter conducted Tim into the next chamber, the book-lined office of William Janders, Esquire, himself.
The man’s thick gray eyebrows, like caterpillars, lofted up his brow as though they would crawl onto the sleek hairless dome of his head and there set up housekeeping. “Well then,” he said, upon being familiarized with the facts of the matter, “there’s no need to delve into the record-books. I remember the case quite well. It all happened when I was but a clerk writing law in these very offices, younger and more junior than you are now, Peter.”
“Pray tell me what you know,” Tim asked politely, envisioning making his successful report not only to Scrooge but to the delectable Miss Pumphrey.
“The circumstances of Mrs. Redlaw’s death were peculiar, quite peculiar. Spontaneous combustion is a well-known effect of excess drink, but, being a lady of fine breeding, she was hardly given to imbibing. Still, nothing could be proved.”
That was as Mrs. Pumphrey had said, thought Tim.
“What is exceedingly interesting,” Janders went on, “is that the next year Dick Wilkins was brought up on charges of murder.”
Peter and Tim exchanged a significant glance.
“The circumstances were similar, save that this time the dead woman was a spinster. Again, though, she was of good family and modest property, which she had made over to her landlord, Wilkins. Her death was very obviously caused by poison. Poison in the plum pudding.”
“Murder is vile enough,” Tim exclaimed, “but to use an instrument of celebration in the commission of a murder!”
“Was Wilkins convicted of the crime?” asked Peter.
Janders nodded affirmatively. “That he was. And yet it was not he who prepared and served the pudding, and who then nursed the ailing woman until she died. There was some talk of charging his wife as well, but since wives are weak and subject to their husband’s will, she was never tried. Not that Mrs. Wilkins struck me as being weak-willed, no, on the contrary.”
Peter swallowed a chuckle, but not at this tale of murder most foul, Tim thought. Their mother was the strongest woman he knew, and Peter’s own wife ruled their household firmly but fairly. There was something in the set of Miss Pumphrey’s chin, Tim added silently, that told him she, too, was a woman to be reckoned with. As, in a very different way, no doubt, was Mrs. Wilkins.
“Dick Wilkins was hanged,” Janders continued, “and without his guiding hand his business failed. I daresay he was guilty of abetting the murder, even initiating it. So justice was done. But as for the death of Mrs. Redlaw.…”
“No charges could be brought because no one could prove that a murder had been done,” said Peter.
“I am at as great a loss in the matter as you are.” Janders took up his pen and dipped it in the fine brass inkwell that sat upon his desk. “Now Peter, Tim, you will excuse me.…”
“Just one more question, please, sir,” said Tim. “Do you remember Mrs. Wilkins’ Christian name? Was she an Englishwoman?”
Janders considered a moment, tapping his nose with his pen. “Theodora, her name was. Yes, she was as English as you or me, but I do believe her father was a native of Greece. She was quite lovely, very young, with jet-black tresses and flashing eyes.”
“Thank you.”
Peter took Tim by the collar and steered him through the doorway and into the outer office. There he said, “There’s a proper tragedy for you. Poor Belle! Scrooge will not be pleased to hear of her fate.”
“No. And yet.…” Tim’s brows knit tightly. “Do you suppose that the visit of her and her father’s ghosts to Scrooge had more than one purpose, not only to show him the error of his ways but to reveal the truth of her death? Her murder?”
“But how could the truth be revealed?”
“I wonder,” Tim said, as his thoughts moved reluctantly from Annabelle Pumphrey’s lovely face to the open page of a book in Lord Ector’s library. Christmas Eve. A pudding soaked in brandy and set ablaze.…
He took his leave of Peter and went back out into the cold afternoon air, this time directing his steps toward Ector House.
* * * *
Lord Ector reminded Tim of an eagle, with his arched nose and small dark eyes always alert, whether to the movement of a mouse in the grass or to a ripple among England’s allies in the east, no matter.
Now he turned from positioning yet another marble bust of some ancient worthy upon a pedestal in his library and answered Tim’s question. “Yes, when I served as a diplomat in Turkey I did hear stories of the tunica molesta, the fiery cloak that brought the hero Herakles to his death.”
“If I remember the story,” said Tim, holding a stepstool so that his lordship might safely regain terra firma, “the burning cloth clung to him and could not be removed, nor could the flames be doused by water, so that he burned to a cinder.”
“Indeed.”
“But surely this story is only legend.”
“Not at all,” returned Ector. “You have heard of the Greek fire employed by the ancients—a mixture of quicklime, sulfur, naphtha, and saltpeter, that would cling to, say, an enemy’s ship and only burn the fiercer when wetted.”
Tim nodded, even as he tried not to let his imagination dwell too long on images of flowing, clinging, unquenchable flames. “And this chemical process could be applied to cloth?”
“Cloth is manufactured using the same ingredients: dyes and pigments can be made from sulphur and petroleum and fixed with a mordant of quicklime. Tar is used as a waterproofing agent. If such materials were ready to hand, one with knowledge of the ancient formula could impregnate a cloth with petroleum, sulphur and lime. If it were stored away from the air . . .”
“In a chest,” Tim murmured.
“…it might well ignite at a very low temperature and continue to burn even when wet.”
“And if the cloth were a counterpane say, covering a woman incapable of crying out for assistance—ah, what a diabolical plan!”
Ector would not have regarded Tim so quizzically had he started to speak in tongues. “A diabolical plan? Do you mean to say someone has committed murder using this infernal Greek recipe?”
“Yes, yes—the key to the murder is that it took place on Christmas Eve, when either a flaming pudding or the candle used to light it set the counterpane ablaze. The scheme would certainly turn upon Belle being alone in her room at the moment of conflagration.… Ah yes. The guests downs
tairs would have insured that she was.” Tim dashed his right fist into his left hand. “They even thought to provide smelling salts, to cover the odor of the chemicals in the cloth, which had, I’m sure, been manufactured in their own establishment. A clever scheme, but the circumstances did not favor its execution twice, and so did he—they, the souls of avarice—attempt a variation that worked less successfully.”
“My dear fellow,” said Ector, laying a restraining hand upon Tim’s arm, “either you have quite lost your wits, or you have some wonderful tale to tell me—and no doubt, in time, to tell your readers.”
“Yes, my lord, I shall most certainly tell all. And yet the tale is not finished, not quite yet.”
* * * *
Between his father’s ledger books and his brother’s legal documents, it took Tim only a day to trace Theodora Wilkins to a poor lodging house.
The old woman admitted him to her room, then seated herself beside a small fire, no more than a few coals piled upon a dirty hearth—the remains of another victim? Tim asked himself caustically.
Her beauty had long ago been sacrificed to age. Now her hair was sparse and drab, and she was as wizened as though she had gnawed nothing but the bones of avarice these long years. Reaching for the container of grog that was warming in the ashes, she drank deeply. The reek of the cheap liquor seared Tim’s nose. He wondered whether she had used expensive brandy to soak Belle’s pudding, and whether she had ever wished she had drunk it instead.
“Have a care,” he told her. “You have heard of what happens to those who drink too freely, and then expose themselves to fire.”
“Bah,” she said. Her voice was like the scrape of bare branches across a windowpane.
A basket beside her chair overflowed with scraps of cloth and packets of thread and needles, leading Tim to deduce that she eked out a meager living stitching and mending. “You have always worked with cloth,” he said. “Did you once make a counterpane for a woman named Belle Redlaw, who lodged with you and your—late husband?”
“What is it to you?”
“I am a friend of Mrs. Redlaw’s friends and family. Her death was mysterious. I’d like to know the truth of how it came to happen.”
“She drank herself to death,” Mrs. Wilkins said, and began to cough as rackingly as though she expelled smoke from her lungs.
Tim asked himself why he had come here. Did he hope to hear a confession? What if he did? What difference could it make, now? He felt sure that he stood looking at a murderess, and yet it was not his place to judge, either in this life or in the hereafter. For her crimes against humanity, Theodora Wilkins was now suffering the sharp bite of loneliness and poverty. He could do nothing else to her.
He could, however, do something for her. Had not Belle’s ghost, and her father’s, and yes, Dick Wilkins’ dark ghost as well, carried a message of pity and compassion from the next world into this?
From his pocket Tim produced a gold coin. He held it in his hand a moment, warming it, then laid it down upon the mantelpiece. The beldame’s rheumy eyes flicked upwards, so that he could almost see the gleam of gold reflected in them. “Merry Christmas,” he said, and left the chill, acrid air of the room for the frosty air of the city street.
The vapor of his breath hung in the air before him like a ghost. The windows of even the meanest shop and lowliest hovel glowed with a rosy, anticipatory light. Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve. He would join his brothers and sisters, by blood and by marriage, and they would raise a glass to Scrooge, the founder of the feast. And yes, they would eat plum pudding ablaze in brandy, with a sprig of holly adorning its round and savory top.
* * * *
The bells of Christmas morning were pealing, setting the bedcurtains to shivering delightfully, like children first sighting their Christmas presents. And indeed, Scrooge had almost returned to a childlike state, opening his mouth trustingly as Mrs. Gump spooned gruel into it.
The nurse’s gaze met Tim’s. Not much longer, it said.
Behind him stood his father, and Scrooge’s nephew and his wife, all kitted out in their Sunday best, for it was, after all, Christmas Day.
Scrooge tried to wave his hand and succeeded only in twitching his finger. Mrs. Gump, though, understood his meaning. Wiping his face with a corner of her apron, she vacated her chair.
Tim stepped closer to the bed. “I have the answer to your question, Mr. Scrooge. I know who your ghosts were. Who they are.”
The old man’s pale face seemed infinitesimally to brighten. His eyes turned in their sockets to where Tim stood. “Tim,” he whispered. “Always a good lad, Tiny Tim.”
Tim forbore to comment on his present height, but simply folded it onto the chair. He took Scrooge’s hand between his own, gently, for it was as thin as a bird’s wing. Slowly the old man’s cold flesh began to warm. “The Ghost of Christmas Past,” Tim told him, “of your past, is Belle Fezziwig. Belle Redlaw, as she was when she died. She is the spirit of former joys and former regrets.”
“Ah,” said Scrooge, summoning a blissful smile. “Belle.”
“The Ghost of Christmas Present is Arthur Fezziwig, her father, the robust spirit of both gratitude and reproof. The spirit of every Christmas that has past and is yet to come.”
“Fine old fellow, Fezziwig.” Scrooge sighed, his smile abating only briefly.
“The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is your old friend Dick Wilkins. He was consumed by greed, sadly, and died with the black hood of the condemned criminal upon his head. Perhaps, though, by helping you his spirit was redeemed.”
Scrooge’s lips tightened to a narrow slit. “Poor old Dick. If only he had been visited by three spirits, as I was so fortunate to have been.”
Tim nodded. “I have this very afternoon been invited to call upon Miss Annabelle Pumphrey, Belle’s granddaughter, in whom Belle’s beauty and compassion live on. I intend to take your advice, sir, and not neglect the finer sentiments.”
“Good. We were not meant to be alone in this world, Tim.” His hand twitched feebly.
Behind Tim’s back Mrs. Gump was chatting with Scrooge’s niece, a woman of sprightly disposition and great interest in the doings of mankind: “I heard it on my way here this morning, madam. The poor woman went at her pudding so greedy she ate the sprig of holly stuck in its top and choked to death upon it.”
Tim glanced round. Of all the women in the city of London, surely.…
“Her name was Wilkins too, so I hear. Dead as a doornail, the undertaker said, as sure as though someone had driven a stake through her heart.”
“Not now,” said Scrooge’s niece, quelling the nurse’s gossip.
Too late. Tim looked down at his strong young hands cradling Scrooge’s blue-veined and fragile one. Had those same hands, then, brought justice at last to Theodora Wilkins, however unwittingly? Had she died—no. Even though she had died unredeemed, her spirit would now be walking abroad amongst her fellow human beings. Perhaps she would find peace at last, as her husband had done. As their victim had done.
Scrooge’s eyes widened, beholding another vision. “I am light as a feather, I am as giddy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy.” His voice cracked and then steadied. “I hear old Fezziwig now: Clear away, Dick. Clear away Ebenezer. It’s Christmas, a time to celebrate.… Why, Belle, you wish to dance with me? Gladly, my dear. Gladly.”
Tim felt the others gathering close. Their hands, too, reached out for Scrooge’s. He smiled, brilliantly. “God bless us, every.…” And he sank back upon the pillow, giving up his own ghost.
Tears started in Tim’s eyes. Carefully he laid Scrooge’s hand down upon the clean, white counterpane, and leaned his head back against his father’s chest. Perhaps Scrooge would also find his mortal life too short to spread the compassion he had learned—and learned very well—nineteen years ago today.
“He would not think it sad to di
e upon Christmas Day,” Bob said softly, pressing his son’s shoulder. “Not Ebenezer Scrooge.”
“No,” said Tim. And in his heart he repeated the words that his own childish mouth had once uttered, as fine an epitaph as any man could wish: God bless us, every one.
_______________
Lillian Stewart Carl writes multiple stories and multiple novels in multiple genres. All of them strike at least a glancing blow at history and myth. Her most recent novels are the Jean Fairbairn/Alasdair Cameron mysteries: America’s exile and Scotland’s finest on the trail of all-too-living legends. Her work is available in a variety of print and electronic editions. Her website is www.lillianstewartcarl.com
A REVERSIBLE SANTA CLAUS, by Meredith Nicholson
I
Mr. William B. Aikins, alias “Softy” Hubbard, alias Billy The Hopper, paused for breath behind a hedge that bordered a quiet lane and peered out into the highway at a roadster whose tail light advertised its presence to his felonious gaze. It was Christmas Eve, and after a day of unseasonable warmth a slow, drizzling rain was whimsically changing to snow.
The Hopper was blowing from two hours’ hard travel over rough country. He had stumbled through woodlands, flattened himself in fence corners to avoid the eyes of curious motorists speeding homeward or flying about distributing Christmas gifts, and he was now bent upon committing himself to an inter-urban trolley line that would afford comfortable transportation for the remainder of his journey. Twenty miles, he estimated, still lay between him and his domicile.
The rain had penetrated his clothing and vigorous exercise had not greatly diminished the chill in his blood. His heart knocked violently against his ribs and he was dismayed by his shortness of wind. The Hopper was not so young as in the days when his agility and genius for effecting a quick “get-away” had earned for him his sobriquet. The last time his Bertillon measurements were checked (he was subjected to this humiliating experience in Omaha during the Ak-Sar-Ben carnival three years earlier) official note was taken of the fact that The Hopper’s hair, long carried in the records as black, was rapidly whitening.