A Christmas Carol Murder

by Heather Redmond

  Johnny growled in response and stared at Charles with pitted black eyes.

  “I can explain,” Charles said, his hands open.

  “Bad,” Johnny said again.

  Johnny’s speech and behavior told Charles the young man suffered from limited understanding and a troublesome temperament. He felt pity for both him and the housekeeper, who only wanted a bit of peace and holiday spirit.

  Would Mr. Screws want to find his dead friend’s murderer if he knew the truth of his actions? Charles couldn’t tell him the housekeeper’s story, for fear that it would affect her position. Mr. Screws might not allow his friend to be maligned, whatever the truth. It sounded like, after his mother died, that he had cleaved to Mr. Harley as his only friend. Pity grew in Charles’s breast. A large family gave so many opportunities for companionship and friendship. A small family isolated a man.

  He nodded at Mrs. Dorset. “I’m going to leave so that you can comfort your son.”

  She nodded quickly, then tucked away her handkerchief and took Johnny by the arm.

  Charles went into the front hallway. A maid scurried up the steps to the first floor as he walked by. He let himself out, then stopped on the pavement and looked up at the house.

  Surely, he’d solved the murder. Johnny killed Mr. Harley. There must have been some incident with his mother that day, or he’d imagined one, and done the strangling and pushing out of the window himself. Charles went around the house to view the back garden in person. The small shed he’d seen wasn’t locked. When he peered in, it held no coffin, no scent of death. Just unused canning jars and garden equipment. Where else might Johnny Dorset have a hidey-hole?

  * * *

  Charles and Kate met at the Chronicle that evening, then crossed the river together in a hired carriage on their way to the theater date with Mr. Screws’s apprentice. They walked into the small entry hall of the theater and joined the throng milling around.

  “It will be difficult to find our companions in this crowd.” Charles had to shout over the crowd. “Look for a man who doesn’t quite fit in.”

  “Is that them?” Kate called, lightly squeezing his arm.

  He looked up and saw Mr. Fletcher on the first landing of the staircase to the left. Mr. Fletcher had dressed well in a brown coat with a velvet collar. Military braiding went down the front and sleeves. “Good eye,” Charles told Kate.

  The American smiled and gestured for them to come up. Charles waved in his direction. Next to him stood a neat, pretty, and decidedly younger-looking woman.

  They threaded their way through the crowd until they could reach the steps. While traffic remained heavy, the other theatergoers allowed them to make their way to the landing with good cheer and many friendly greetings.

  “Hello,” Mr. Fletcher said jovially, lifting his voice over the noise of the crowd. “May I present Miss Osborne? My dear, this is Mr. Charles Dickens and his lovely fiancée.”

  “Catherine Hogarth,” Charles supplied in a carrying voice at Mr. Fletcher’s hesitation.

  Miss Osborne wore a pink-and-white-striped silk dress. Charles watched Kate’s gaze as it drifted from her wide picture hat and followed down the wide ribbons to where green scalloped details decorated the dress at the knee, not that he would think about another gentleman’s fiancée’s knees. But she dressed to great effect, as did Mr. Fletcher, though Charles thought her youthful air more legitimate.

  Kate turned to him expectantly so he helped her with her cloak. “I’ll just dispose of this,” he called.

  Charles bustled to the cloakroom while Kate climbed the steps on Mr. Fletcher’s arm. By the time he made it back, all three of them were at the landing. Kate’s green velvet, while not as wide as Miss Osborne’s skirts, clung to her figure in a way Miss Osborne’s did not. Charles preferred Kate’s attire to the more expensive costume.

  Miss Osborne applied her fan as he reached them. “What a crush!”

  “You’re English,” Charles said as he recognized the local accent. “How did you and Mr. Fletcher meet? Is the engagement new?”

  “So many questions,” she said with a tinkling laugh. “I met him in America when I traveled there.”

  “How delightful.” Kate lifted her own fan to her neck. “I hope we can travel after we marry. Charles could report on American politics instead of British.”

  “Anything for you, my dear,” Charles said gallantly.

  “We should go up.” Mr. Fletcher glanced at the crowd below them in the main lobby. “I ordered a couple of bottles of champagne and we don’t want them to warm.”

  “No point in wasting cold champagne.” Charles offered his arm to Miss Osborne at that agreeable thought. Mr. Fletcher followed suit with Kate and they climbed the steps together.

  They spent ten minutes settling in, pouring champagne, and taking their first sips. Miss Osborne asked Kate about Edinburgh. Kate asked about the boarding school Miss Osborne had attended in Nottinghamshire. Mr. Fletcher described the delights of Virginia tobacco plantations and Boston social life.

  Charles enjoyed the colorful anecdotes. He and Kate took turns telling the other couple about famed Holland House in Kensington, where they had been privileged to be guests. Mr. Fletcher effused about Ditchley House, once part of the Dividing Creek Plantation founded by Richard Lee.

  Charles and Kate exchanged glances. He was impressed by these people. They weren’t far off the mark and could almost fit in at a place like Lugoson House or even Holland House.

  When Kate told her Lord Darnley ghost story, the two flushed pale with imagined terror. Just as Charles was about to tell them about his own spectral adventure, the curtains fluttered, indicating the actors were taking their positions.

  Kate changed the subject from ghosts while there was still time. “What are your thoughts about Mr. Harley’s death and disappearance, Mr. Fletcher? After all, you were in the house.”

  “No one in the house killed him. I can assure you of that,” the American pronounced.

  “What about the possibility of patricide? You think it was a suicide or an accident?” Charles asked.

  “No,” Mr. Fletcher said decisively.

  Kate’s eyes went wide. “How do you know that?”

  “Are you aware that the kitchen door was found wide open the night of Mr. Harley’s death?” Mr. Fletcher asked with an elegant flourish of his hand.

  Indeed? Charles drained his first glass of champagne, then leaned forward eagerly. “Anyone could have entered into the house? Did you reveal that at the inquest?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Fletcher said.

  Charles frowned. “Sir Silas didn’t pursue the issue?”

  Mr. Fletcher shook his head slightly. “He must not have thought it relevant.”

  “Isn’t the garden fenced?” Kate asked. “Does it matter that the door was open?”

  Mr. Fletcher lifted his glass to her. “Yes, but there is a gate leading to the mews,” he explained. “As you know, Mr. Screws keeps a carriage. Johnny Dorset sleeps in the loft along with the coachman. Though the gate is kept locked both men have access to a key. Either of them could have entered the back garden through the gate, then accessed the house through the open door.”

  Satan’s black teeth. Charles hadn’t thought to venture into the mews and check the coach house. Multiple avenues of investigation opened with this news. Not only hints as to how the murder might have happened, but also a new location where a missing body might be hidden.

  “Yes,” Mr. Fletcher said, almost to himself. “Johnny Dorset came in and killed the old man.”

  Charles lowered his voice to match the other man’s. “Why him and not the coachman?”

  Mr. Fletcher smiled thinly. “The coachman isn’t a lunatic.”

  “How can you be convinced it wasn’t suicide?” Kate asked before Charles could respond to the American. “If Mr. Appleton had killed him, the chains made sense, but since Mr. Dickens is so convinced that the man is incapable of murder, surely suicide is more l
ikely? A derangement of the mind brought upon by old age and weakness? He might have repented for his hard business ways.”

  “Men of business do not repent,” Mr. Fletcher said in tones of utter assurance. “No, I keep my door locked at night out of fear of that overgrown monkey.”

  “He’s frightful,” Miss Osborne added, putting her hand on her fiancé’s sleeve. “Dear Mr. Dickens, I suggest you acquaint yourself with Edward Pettingill, Mr. Screws’s nephew, for corroboration on this point.”

  “He’ll tell you we all fear for our lives where Johnny Dorset is concerned,” Mr. Fletcher confirmed.

  Charles understood that, but he remembered Mrs. Dorset’s love for her damaged child, his love for her. Johnny Dorset was blessed to have his mother’s love, but did none of his fellow creatures have pity for him? Was he really that dangerous, or was his appearance merely frightening? Had Mr. Harley attempted to attack the housekeeper again on that fateful night? “Wasn’t Sir Silas interested in Johnny Dorset?”

  “Given his obvious impairment, perhaps any death caused by that overgrown child would be considered accidental,” Mr. Fletcher suggested.

  “I wish our courts would be that kind.” Charles brushed a curl out of his eyes, hoping to change the subject away from poor Johnny Dorset. “What about an inheritance? Is there anyone other than Mr. Screws with an interest in the business?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Mr. Fletcher said. “Mr. Pettingill might know more, since he is family.”

  “Is he part of the business?” Or in the will.

  “No,” Mr. Fletcher said, putting a finger to his lips as the lights dimmed. The conductor lifted his baton and a flute sounded over the rest of the orchestra.

  Charles grinned as soon as the violinists started to play. They were very good. He knew they were in for a special performance. Kate’s hand crept into his in the darkness and he clutched it as the music rose and fell. He forgot about the others in the box, or the champagne warming in the bucket, and simply enjoyed the sensual pleasure of the touch of fingers against his own, and Kate’s shoulder pressing his.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Charles went to see Edward Pettingill, Mr. Screws’s nephew. He lived in a redbrick building on Cale Street, not far from the Hogarths.

  Charles could see St. Luke’s from the windows as he climbed up to the second story, where the Pettingills’ chambers were. He couldn’t help but note that the nephew did not live anywhere near the uncle. For that matter, he had no idea of Pettingill’s parents, but assumed that Mr. Screws must have had a sister.

  A very neat young woman in cap and apron opened the door. She didn’t seem much older than Kate, and her brown dress, while not overadorned, had fashionable sleeves and didn’t look like something a servant would wear. “Mrs. Pettingill?” he inquired, hoping there was such a person.

  “Yes, sir?” she said uncertainly.

  He handed her his card.

  “The Morning Chronicle?” Her brow creased.

  “Is your husband available, madam?” Charles asked. “Mr. Fletcher at Screws and Harley gave me this address.”

  “Has something happened to my husband’s uncle?” she asked, confirming her identity. “He is very old.”

  Charles frowned. “When did you last see him?”

  “My husband saw him on the last quarter day. Mr. Screws pays out on a family legacy those four times a year.”

  “On Michaelmas, then.”

  “Yes, and he will visit again at Christmas.” She forced a pallid smile. “One moment please.”

  She closed the door. Charles still had no idea if the nephew had a profession. He hadn’t asked Mr. Fletcher at the performance; his ears had rung from the glorious singing and Kate had been his focus.

  The door opened again, widely this time. Mrs. Pettingill beckoned him in. “Right this way, Mr. Dickens.”

  Charles ventured into a short passage in between two rooms. She took him to the end of a dining table, where a fire blazed merrily.

  “Please, take the best chair,” she urged. “My husband is at his desk. I’ll fetch him for you.”

  “He is a man of letters?”

  “He writes scientific tracts about birds. His great love is tramping Hampstead Heath.” She smiled self-importantly. “He is considered the leading expert in the migration patterns of birds of prey.”

  “Fascinating,” Charles murmured. “One does like to meet an expert.”

  “What are you an expert in?” the woman asked.

  “London life, I’m told.” He gave a modest chuckle of self-deprecation. “I call myself ‘Boz’ when I write about it.”

  “Perhaps you can include my husband in one of your sketches, Mr. Dickens,” she said, her cheeks brightening. “You see, it took me a moment, for my brain is never so quick as Mr. Pettingill’s is, but I know who you are now.”

  He inclined his head and she trotted out of the room. While he expected preening and posturing in the upper-class salons he had occasional entry to, he had not expected it in a room with no decoration beyond a shelf of pewter cups and brown glazed stoneware jugs. Still, the woman had known of him, which spoke volumes.

  A couple of minutes later, he heard a short burst of commotion in the passage, and then the door opened again. The man who entered was in his late twenties, despite the blue nightcap on his head. He had no hair, or rather, he had no eyebrows, so it might be assumed he suffered from some sort of condition that caused him to easily take a chill in these cold winter months.

  “Mr. Dickens,” the man said, coming forward and shaking his hand. “One does not expect a newspaperman in one’s private chambers.”

  “I am visiting at your uncle’s request,” Charles explained. “Please see me as a private person.”

  The door opened yet again, and the lady of the house arrived with a tea tray. The towel over the surface sparkled white, though the pot and cups were of the same glazed stoneware as the jugs.

  Mr. Pettingill saw him looking. “My father-in-law, dear man, is a potter, you see.”

  “Not a potter, my dear,” the lady reproved. “He owns a pottery.”

  “My uncle, lovely man, helped him start it,” Mr. Pettingill explained. “Elevates the family, you see.”

  “I do,” Charles said, hoping Mrs. Pettingill’s father could afford to pay off his loans. “Thriving, I daresay?”

  “Oh yes,” Mr. Pettingill assured him. “Excellent man, man of business.”

  Mrs. Pettingill gave a coarse little laugh and flounced from the room.

  He put his hands to his cheeks. “My wife, excellent woman, does not see me as a man of business, you see.”

  “She seemed rightfully proud of your status in the bird community,” Charles offered.

  “Milk?” Mr. Pettingill asked. When Charles nodded, he prepared the tea. “No biscuits today, I’m afraid. I couldn’t secure an invitation that she’d hoped for and I am not in her good graces. Sorry you have to be punished for it, poor man. Why did my uncle send you to me?”

  “I’m afraid I misspoke,” Charles admitted. “It was his apprentice, or rather, his fiancée, who suggested I speak to you.”

  “Whatever for?” Mr. Pettingill set down his tea strainer.

  “To ask about Johnny Dorset.” Charles, whose stomach was rumbling, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and spilled chestnuts onto the table. He’d picked them on the way. “If you have a knife and a pan, we can roast these.”

  “A capital notion!” He went to a box on the mantelpiece and took out a knife, then took up a pan from its place on a lower shelf.

  While he made X marks through each chestnut, Charles leaned back and considered the plain room. “Why don’t you work at the countinghouse? They had to bring in an apprentice. Everyone there seems busy.”

  Mr. Pettingill’s bitter chuckle was reminiscent of his wife’s. “Uncle Emmanuel, dear man, doesn’t want to employ relatives because he doesn’t think we would work hard enough for him. Mind you, I’m his
only close relative.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Charles said, watching as his host put the nuts in the pan, drizzled them with water from a jug, and put it on the hob.

  “Mrs. Pettingill prefers to cook in the other room, but I keep my things here as I do like a bit of toast in the wee hours.”

  “You must write in here,” Charles said, observing the desk in the corner.

  “It’s the best room, in my opinion. But she has headaches, poor woman, and prefers the darker rooms.”

  Mrs. Pettingill reentered. She’d obviously been listening at the keyhole, because she announced, “Uncle Emmanuel would rather have a slave like that family man Mr. Cratchit than a young dandy like his nephew.”

  Charles looked at Mr. Pettingill, bent over the hob, the tassel at the end of his nightcap dangling over his shoulder, and did not see a dandy, though the young man seemed intelligent enough. Could he have first offed Mr. Harley, then planned to murder Mr. Screws, in order to inherit the business?

  Or Mrs. Pettingill herself, who seemed like she had the ability to make strategic decisions.

  She sniffed. “Chestnuts?”

  “Mr. Dickens, excellent man, brought them,” said her husband.

  Her nostrils flared and she darted through the door again.

  “Doesn’t like me to spoil my tea,” Mr. Pettingill explained.

  Charles realized the time. “I had best not either. I have now remembered I am due in York Place for the meal.”

  “Oh, who do you know there?”

  “The Hogarths. I am affianced to the oldest daughter, Catherine.”

  Mr. Pettingill tutted. “I do not know them.”

  “They are next door to Lugoson House. Musical people. They have fruit trees.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Them. Beautiful house, but those Lugosons are dastardly people.”

  “I understand the late baron was as you described,” Charles said. “But the current Lord Lugoson is but a lad of sixteen.”

  “His sister was murdered.” Mr. Pettingill put his finger to his nose. “That is what comes of mixing into political matters. My uncle suggested I might become a member of Parliament. Implied he had connections. But I am a scientist, sir.”