A Christmas Carol Murder

by Heather Redmond

  “So this isn’t a case of a body remover masquerading as an undertaker,” William mused.

  “Someone must have paid him off,” they said together. And smiled.

  “Who would benefit from the body missing?” William asked.

  “Who among the interested parties has a hiding place for a corpse?” Charles rejoined. “Not Mr. Screws. I checked.”

  “I saw Mr. Hogarth this morning, and he told me about your eerie visitor.”

  Charles leaned his mouth to his friend’s ear. “Speaking of the Hogarths, say nothing to Mr. Hogarth about Timothy.”

  William quirked his lips. “I assumed as much. Nothing like the Scots for a dour interpretation of morality.”

  “Sometimes the man is the picture of reason, but his wife is not a fan of bastardy. I fear the consequences of her learning about the baby before I can prove I am not the father.”

  William leaned back in his chair and pulled a cigar out of his pocket. “Speaking of fatherhood?”

  Charles lifted his brows as he realized William was smiling even more than usual. What was going on with his friend? “I detect a certain glow about you.”

  William grinned. “My wife is in an interesting condition.”

  Aha! Charles clapped him on the arm. “Such good news! And it explains the fainting.”

  William nodded. “She will have to rest. I don’t want her losing another baby, like back in the spring.”

  “No, she was in a sorry shape for months,” Charles agreed. Would she completely give up her acting career now? A pity, for she had been such a hit with her young supporters. She had traded fame for respectability. “I will cease my appearing for free meals.”

  “Oh, you can’t stop that, with Timothy there.”

  “Do I need to remove him?” Charles said anxiously.

  “No, no.” William cut off the tip of his cigar. “Lucy is coming along. But when you do visit, bring food.”

  “Agreed,” Charles said, putting out his hand for a shake.

  “So back to this missing corpse—what is your plan?”

  Charles told him about Primus Harley. In rooms, he couldn’t be hiding his father’s remains. “Hugh Appleton has plenty of space at his smithy. Could even have burned up the body.”

  “But you can’t imagine such a character haunting you.”

  “No,” Charles agreed. “He did not seem like a killer and had no obvious partners who might have been so inspired. I will have to check the countinghouse property for hidey-holes.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “No, but I met Mr. Screws’s apprentice outside the inquest, an American called Fletcher. I’ll write him a letter and he can show me around.”

  “It’s a plan.” William chewed on the end of his cigar.

  “I’ll send the note right now and head over after I write up an article.” Charles rubbed his chin. “Visiting Appleton was Mr. Screws’s idea. I’ll have to get a list of enemies with deep pockets from him. Who could afford to pay a man to shut down a thriving concern? Who wants Appleton out of business?”

  * * *

  The countinghouse was in Lothbury, home to a number of banker and merchant offices. Screws and Harley occupied the ground level of an old soot-encrusted stone building. The sign had been freshly painted and the window and step scrubbed very clean, all the signs of prosperity.

  When Charles walked in, he found a small entry with an unused coat tree. He soon discovered why. When he opened the inner door, he found an open room warmed to a degree above freezing by an old cast-iron stove. It had only one coal burning in the grate. The ornate detail above the door looked like a screaming man’s face. The establishment welcomed people in, but then froze them right back out again.

  Charles hunched into his overcoat and glanced at the three men at work on stools, quills clutched in gloved hands. Their bodies might have warmed the room somewhat, but all three were thin, weak, sickly specimens and would probably have been rejected if they tried to take the king’s shilling.

  The oldest of the three, perhaps thirty-five, set down his pen and slid off the stool, hand outstretched. “May I help you, sir? I am Robert Cratchit, the lead clerk.”

  Charles shook his hand, his gaze taking in three doors to the right. Mr. Screws’s office, Mr. Harley’s, and . . . a lumber room? If that were the case, he would have thought not quite so many chests, boxes, and ledgers would be strewn about the room, but perhaps the workers considered it a form of insulation. “I sent a note to Mr. Fletcher. Is he in?”

  “Ah, I see. He is not here.” Mr. Cratchit genially exposed a mouth of tan-colored teeth behind his thin, bloodless lips. “He has been forced to take on a number of Mr. Harley’s responsibilities due to the unfortunate circumstances. I do not know if you are aware?”

  Charles felt the drama of the moment. “I am Charles Dickens. I witnessed his demise.”

  “You don’t say,” the clerk exclaimed. “How very unpleasant, sir.”

  “Very much so, and as I’m sure you are aware, I’ve been taken into confidence.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Mr. Cratchit agreed. “I have heard your name mentioned, sir.”

  Having had his fun, Charles returned to business. “No Mr. Fletcher, and no Mr. Screws, either?”

  “They went across the river, sir, to see to the Appleton matter.”

  “Ah. Proceeding with the liquidation?”

  Mr. Cratchit took Charles’s arm and pulled him into the last office. He ducked out and took his candle from his desk, then joined Charles and shut the door.

  “Mr. Screws considered Mr. Harley quite the equal of Wellington, sir. He would be sure to carry out any of his late partner’s plans, no matter how petty.”

  “You disagree with that intention?” Charles looked around the space. Personal items still decorated the desk, an inkwell and a diary. A map of London, tattered around the nails, hung on one wall. The solitary window looked out over the mews.

  The clerk clasped his hands over his nonexistent belly, his bulky mittens popping up over his knuckles. “I think Mr. Appleton’s business is certain to do well. He just needs an extension on his loan.”

  “Why didn’t Mr. Harley agree?”

  “He was a tight-fisted, grasping sort,” Mr. Cratchit said, then blanched. “Bless him, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. It’s not for me to judge.”

  “His body is missing,” Charles said. “Any place here for a corpse?”

  Mr. Cratchit giggled nervously. “Goodness me, no, Mr. Dickens!”

  “What’s the room next to this one? Storage?” Charles said coldly.

  “Mr. Fletcher’s office, sir. He’s one of the Lees of Virginia, you know.” Mr. Cratchit walked out of the deserted office and opened the door of the next room. Indeed, it was the office of a man of business, complete with a small desk, three chairs, and a sooty window that had a small green curtain to keep out the nonexistent sun in the tiny passage between this building and the next.

  “I thought he was just an apprentice,” Charles said, staring at the mound of files stacked along the wall.

  “In our ways, sir, but he’s a man of business. Learned the trade in Boston. He’s stepped right into Mr. Harley’s shoes, quite energetically so. Spent a year clerking with the rest of us before attaining his office, but we don’t have his education.”

  “How long have you been with Screws and Harley?”

  “Fourteen years,” Mr. Cratchit said. “I’ve raised five daughters on my wages.”

  Charles imagined how low they must be, to dress in rags in a Lothbury office. Fifteen shillings a week? Yet he expected this man worked harder than anyone. “Any other hiding places?”

  Mr. Cratchit made a come-hither gesture with his fingers next to his ear and they left the office. He pointed to an enormous blackened chest under a ledger-covered table against the far wall. “That’s big enough, but last I checked, it was full of old rent books.”

  “It’s thick enough, and cold enough in here, to h
ide the smell,” Charles said. “Let’s look.”

  Mr. Cratchit knelt down on the dusty floor and lifted the lid. The chest wasn’t even locked. Charles peered in and saw that indeed rent books filled it.

  “No bit of garden?” he asked.

  “No, sir. What’s happened, do you think?”

  “Someone’s paid the undertaker to hide it and close his business and run off.”

  “Or Mr. Harley is resurrected,” said Mr. Cratchit nervously. “If he’s sold his soul to the Devil, like.”

  The door to the clerk’s room banged open. Mr. Screws stood in the doorway, weaving as he held the lintel with one hand and an old crooked cane with the other.

  “Sold out his entire inventory,” Mr. Screws quavered.

  “What’s that, sir?” Mr. Cratchit asked, bustling to his master as the other two clerks bent their bodies, vulture-like, over their ledgers. He helped Mr. Screws with his coat, then took his arm gently and trundled him into the first office.

  Charles heard the click of flint against steel as Mr. Cratchit lit a candle and then laid a fire in the office stove. It must be the lead clerk’s responsibility to be a nursemaid as well as maintain documents.

  He followed them into the office. “You’re saying Mr. Appleton is solvent again?”

  “Again?” Mr. Screws said sourly, nodding at him. “For the first time, more like. Someone wrote an article in one of the newspapers about the murder and the chains. The publicity led to one of the shipyards snatching up everything Appleton had in his warehouse. Needed a supply and Appleton had it.”

  “And?” Charles asked.

  “He has paid everything due on his loan,” said Mr. Fletcher, coming in behind him. “The cheek of the man. All our paperwork for nothing.”

  Charles glanced at the American and saw the twinkle in his eye.

  “The police will hear about this,” Mr. Screws squeaked. “A better motive for murder I could not offer.”

  “And at this time of the year, too,” Charles said sarcastically, his loathing for the old miser renewed. Could he not be happy that the man had saved his business? What had happened to Christmas spirit in London? He turned to Mr. Fletcher, saw he was grinning, and felt relieved that one man in the operation had a heart.

  “Why don’t you come with me, Mr. Dickens?” said Mr. Fletcher. “Our employer will want Mr. Cratchit to catch him up on all the day’s doings.”

  “Very well.” Charles inclined his head to Mr. Screws, whose head was sunk rather low on his chest for that time of day, and followed the American into the middle office. He could still feel pity for the frail package that housed the unbending spirit.

  Mr. Fletcher reached for his candlestick and vanished back out the door while Charles seated himself on the second chair in the room. He returned a moment later, candle lit. “I leave the door open since there is no stove,” he explained. “But one must have some light.”

  “Indeed,” Charles agreed. “I had better get to my own office. Did you have any advice for me about hiding places?”

  “I did,” Mr. Fletcher said. “Speak to Mrs. Dorset, since her employer is out of the house. I think you will find her conversation illuminating.”

  Charles’s thoughts sharpened at that word illuminating. “Do you think she knows where the body is?”

  “No.” Mr. Fletcher colored slightly. “I meant that the dear lady would like to speak to you.”

  “I would like that as well,” said Charles. “For no other reason than I want a second look at that large son of hers. Why does she want to speak to me?”

  “The Dorsets are a formidable pair. She has the brains, and he, as is obvious, has the brawn,” Mr. Fletcher said glibly. “I believe she has some history to relate to you.”

  Charles nodded. “Servants see all. Perhaps she can shed some desperately needed light on this situation.”

  “One other thing before you go,” the American added.

  “What is it?”

  “The Royal Victoria tonight?” he asked. “I thought you and your lady might like to join me and my lady for The Jewess. It’s supposed to be a marvelous piece. I’ve rented a box.”

  “How kind of you,” Charles said. He looked at the narrow clock case across from the doorway and noted the time. “I’d have to get word to Miss Hogarth right away.”

  Mr. Fletcher pulled out a sheet of paper and pushed his inkwell to Charles. “Invite, invite,” he suggested. “The postman will be by at any moment.”

  Charles did as suggested, then passed the letter back to the apprentice before leaving. Once on the pavement outside, he decided to go to Mr. Screws’s mansion directly and avoid returning to the Chronicle for now.

  Thankfully he didn’t come across that many dead bodies. Sorting out who had created them took a great deal of time from his revisions.

  A faint, gray winter light continued to break through the cloud cover. The fog had held off for now. Charles hoped the weather would stay that way as he didn’t relish bringing Kate back to Brompton in heavy yellow muck. Horses could stumble or hit something just like a man alone.

  At Finsbury Circus, Charles was astonished to see the greenery in the park opposite now matched by ivy woven through Mr. Screws’s railing. A wreath of evergreens tied with what might have been a floppy red cravat. At any rate, it was much too thick to be a girl’s ribbon.

  He was so stunned that he even glanced up and down the street in case he’d gone to the wrong address. The mood felt so much lighter. The somber tone had gone along with the dark stain of Jacob Harley’s life’s blood on the pavement, scrubbed away by some good soul.

  Some of the staff must have decorated for Christmas. Why? Had it been Mr. Harley who had brought darkness to Finsbury Circus, and not Mr. Screws? Was Kate right about the essential goodness of the man?

  Chapter 9

  Charles dropped the door hanger against the iron face. He’d become used to it now. It no longer seemed to reverberate with an unpleasant memory from his childhood, but, rather, times past and old age. After a few moments, Mrs. Dorset opened the door, still dressed in her usual black, but with a sprig of fresh-cut holly, three glossy leaves and three ruby berries, affixed like a brooch at her neckline.

  Mrs. Dorset managed a thin smile. “Mr. Dickens?”

  He nodded formally. “It is good to see you looking so sprightly, Mrs. Dorset. I understand you wanted to speak to me?”

  She stepped back from the door and led him into the parlor, where the coffin had rested. “I think this will do. Mr. Screws will not be here for hours yet.” She gestured him to a faded purple velvet armchair, then bent over the fireplace with a starter and dropped sparks onto newsprint under the coals until it caught fire.

  Charles noted the scent of polish and the greenery nestled over the fireplace. Two red candles stood guard at either end on the mantelpiece. “Mr. Screws does not seem to be feeling cheerful, so I’m guessing all of this change is your doing?”

  She played with the poker for a moment, settling the coals to her satisfaction, then seated herself on the stool next to the fire. Charles caught a hint of red petticoat under her skirt and averted his eyes.

  “Mr. Harley were all but living here in recent months, Mr. Dickens, and ill at that.” She sighed. “Then the coffin was here. I do like to keep a nice Christmas for Johnny but it weren’t possible before.”

  “Mr. Screws won’t interfere with your arrangements now?”

  “He won’t even notice.” That tiny half smile was back. She seemed quite a different person now.

  “I’m glad to hear he is an accommodating sort of master,” Charles said. “My fiancée likes him rather a lot.”

  “He has grown as cold and hard as Mr. Harley in recent years, but maybe things will change now. We used to have music. He played the violin.” She pointed to a case almost hidden in the corner, on the bottom of a shelf.

  “You didn’t like Mr. Harley.”

  She shook her head and pulled a handkerchief from a hidden pock
et. “He were a bad man, sir.”

  “Bad to you, or your son?”

  Her voice lowered. She didn’t look at him. “Bad to me.” Charles saw the hunched shoulders. He matched his voice to hers. “He hurt you?”

  She nodded quickly and dabbed at her eyes. “It were when Johnny was a baby. My husband died, he were a dockworker, and I needed work.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “Mr. Screws’s mother was still alive then. She were a relative of mine, some sort of cousin. Mr. Screws hired me to take care of her. She were too far gone to mind about the babe being in the house.”

  “Were Screws and Harley already in business?”

  “Yes. It’s over twenty years ago now, but while Mrs. Screws was alive, the gentlemen weren’t close.” She shuddered. “She were a fine lady and didn’t like ’im, either.”

  “Were you badly injured by him?”

  “I could have had another child,” she whispered, then lost herself in a little sob before taking a deep breath.

  Charles closed his eyes. Mr. Harley had been no gentleman.

  Instead of regaining her composure, Mrs. Dorset began to sob in earnest. Charles rose from his seat and knelt next to her, patting her shoulder awkwardly. Had she ever told this story to anyone? He could not imagine Mr. Screws knew. If she had borne another child, she would have been punished, not Jacob Harley.

  “Wot doing?”

  Charles lifted his head. Johnny Dorset came through the doorway, barreling on his stocky legs toward his mother. His arms were at his side, enormous, sausage-like fingers splayed out next to his thighs.

  He reached for Charles, looming over him. “Hit you,” he threatened.

  “No, Johnny!” Mrs. Dorset lifted her head. “He’s a gentleman.”

  “Hurt you?” he asked in a plaintive voice.

  “No, son,” she said gently, then hiccupped. “Good man.”

  “Crying,” her son whined, sounding like a young child.

  Mrs. Dorset struggled to her feet. Charles rose with her to keep her steady. She went to her son and patted his cheek. “I’m fine.”

  Johnny’s thick cheeks puffed out. “Hurt bad man.”

  “Not bad, good,” his mother said.