A Christmas Carol Murder

by Heather Redmond

  * * *

  Charles went to a political meeting on Friday morning and then spent the afternoon transcribing his notes for the Chronicle. The meeting required several columns. After work, he decided to return home and collect Fred. He’d take his brother to a chophouse and refresh himself on the possible murderers of Mr. Harley. He felt uneasy about Johnny Dorset and wondered if he should speak to Sir Silas. Should such a large, maybe lunatic be running free? What if he hurt Mr. Screws? The man didn’t have much life left in him.

  He went in his front door, pulling off his gloves. “Fred! Get your coat! Let’s go out!” He didn’t hear an answer so he went into the sitting room, where he found Fred sitting on the sofa with Kate. Charles was shocked to see her there unannounced. Her eyes were red and she twisted a handkerchief between her fingers, braiding a pattern through them.

  Fred jumped to his feet, gave him a stare of pure death, and stomped into the bedroom. The door slammed.

  Charles gave Kate a wide grin. “What was that all about, darling? Did something happen at his job?”

  Kate’s lips trembled.

  Charles sat next to her and took her hand. “What is it? I’ve just left your father. Is it your mother? One of the children?”

  She shook her head and pulled her hand away. Her full lower lip trembled against the sweet curve of the upper. “How could you?” she whispered.

  “How could I what?” He tried to put his arm around her, but she tilted in the opposite direction. “I’ve been at work all day, darling. What has upset you? Allow me to fix it.”

  Her head snapped to him. “You have betrayed me, Charles. Allow me to end our engagement with dignity.”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “End our engagement? Over what imagined betrayal?”

  The cushion flattened under her hands as she pushed herself to her feet. “You know very well what betrayal. I called on Julie Aga today.”

  The words came instinctively. “I told you not to.”

  “I thought you misunderstood her needs. How could you know what a woman wants in such a situation?” Her face took on a mulish expression he’d never seen before as her voice rose. “It never occurred to me that you were hiding a bastard infant from me!”

  “He isn’t mine,” Charles said calmly, attempting to take her hand again. Hers stayed at her sides. “There was a mix-up after the fire at Hatfield. Timothy belongs to a maid who died in the fire.”

  She stepped back. “You fathered a child on a maid?”

  “Of course not, Kate. I’d never been to Hatfield House. I hadn’t even been to the town of Hatfield until the fire. It’s a mix-up.”

  “Julie said the baby’s aunt identified you.”

  “She was in a sorry state,” Charles said. “I must have looked trustworthy. I assure you, William is looking into it. We’re supporting the baby between us until the father is found.”

  She sniffed emotionally. “You expect me to believe such a ridiculous story?”

  “You can’t possibly believe this of me. A bastard child?”

  Tears dripped from Kate’s eyes. “It was before we met, Charles. Just before we met.”

  “What was?”

  “You did”—Kate worked her fingers—“that, before we met. And hid it from me. That is the worst thing, Charles. You hid it.”

  “I hid Timothy because I knew this would happen.” Charles ground his teeth together. “I might have told you, but it was so obvious your parents would jump to the wrong conclusion. I promise you, I will prove he isn’t my child.”

  She wiped at her tears. “You thought I’d believe anything you told me, despite the facts right in front of my nose?”

  “We promised to believe in each other, Kate,” Charles said. “I expect that. Because I will always tell you the truth.”

  She shook her head. “You told me to stay away from Julie Aga for the wrong reasons, Charles. I can’t trust you.”

  For exactly the right reasons. Couldn’t she see that? “I was trying to spare you pain. Please, don’t end our engagement. Give me time to show you what the truth is.”

  She crossed her arms. Her slim body shook. Charles went to her, attempting to pull her closer to the fire, but instead, she called for Fred.

  His brother came out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him again so hard that the floorboards shook.

  “Please take me home, Fred.” Kate’s voice trembled.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t confide in you, Fred,” Charles said. “I’m helping a sad and confused girl take care of her nephew. Nothing more.”

  “You trust William Aga more than me, your own brother,” he accused.

  “That’s another thing,” Kate said. “After all the trouble we had with Julie Aga earlier this year, you still trust her more than you trust me.”

  “She’s a married woman. You could not have cared for the infant. If you love me at all, Kate,” Charles said to her back, “please don’t tell your parents. I will make this right. Please say you’ll marry me.”

  She lifted her hands into the air, then let them drop. Fred put her cloak around her shoulders, and they departed. Charles stared at the door after they were gone, then forced himself to his table to work. He had so much work to do that night, to earn money to keep Kate in comfort. If she didn’t give up on him. At least she hadn’t said the words, she hadn’t ended their engagement in any final way. He pushed his fear to the side and picked up his pen.

  * * *

  Charles took Cousin Arthur to Mr. Aga’s school on Saturday afternoon, since he was so young and had never been in a coach before. The boy had kept his new clothes very clean and his hair, displaying reddish highlights unseen on the foreshore, had been freshly cut by Julie. He appeared a proper, if nervous, new student.

  Charles visited with Little Ollie and Poor John in the students’ sitting room. They both seemed content and Little Ollie had gained enough weight that he needed a new nickname. Mr. Aga, so like his son William in appearance, if not dress or charming cityish personality, took custody of the latest mudlark with an air of gentle confusion, and didn’t ask for funding, though Charles promised him he’d do what he could. He knew how hard it was to keep a school. His own parents had utterly failed at it, no thanks to Mr. Screws.

  On the way back, inside the bumpy coach, he puzzled over Mr. Harley’s death and disappearance, though his thoughts kept returning to Kate. She loved a mystery, and if he uncovered the truth, maybe she’d forgive him. As long as her parents didn’t learn about Timothy, he still had time to repair her broken trust. After all, he hadn’t fathered the baby. Kate’s family might be above his on a social level, but she wouldn’t find a better husband among her acquaintance, no matter her present upset.

  * * *

  When Charles arrived at 332 Strand on Monday morning, he found a note from Mr. Screws nestled in the pile of correspondence and assignments. After taking a quick look through his commitments and deciding they could be put off, he walked to the countinghouse.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dickens,” said Mr. Cratchit when Charles entered. He dropped off his high stool to shake hands.

  “Added another lump of coal?” Charles asked. “It seems a degree or two warmer in here today.”

  Mr. Cratchit patted his cravat, not overlain by a thick comforter this morning. “Mr. Screws had some shipyard people in here this morning. Very prestigious.” He leaned closer. “They stay longer if they remove their overcoats, so we warm up the place. Otherwise, Mr. Screws don’t like it.”

  “Is that Mr. Dickens?” Mr. Screws’s voice, coming from his office, pitched over his clerk’s comments.

  Charles patted the clerk’s arm and went to the owner’s office. “Good morning, sir. You wanted a word?”

  “Come in, come in,” Mr. Screws gestured. “Close the door, will you? No need for eavesdroppers.”

  “I don’t have any news,” Charles apologized. He would never take the old man into his confidence regarding the status of his engagement.
“I was out of town.”

  “No worries, no worries. I am afraid we have a new problem.” Mr. Screws poked a bony finger at his desk.

  Charles bit back frustration. He had to take steps to find Timothy’s father before it was too late. What else could be more important? “Did someone else die?”

  Chapter 11

  “Not yet,” Mr. Screws said darkly. He fiddled with the lamp on his desk, causing it to flare. “In another age, sir, a bloodier age, you might have found a body across the doorway when you came in.”

  Charles held back a chuckle. He did agree with Kate, upon reflection, that the man seemed much too feeble to murder anyone. “A betrayal?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps,” Mr. Screws said. “I have paced, sir, until my feet hurt. Ever since the post came.”

  “Something in the mail.” Charles nodded. “Bad news?”

  “No news.” Mr. Screws pushed a thin piece of paper in between his inkwell and a pile of files. “Take a look at this, my good man.”

  Charles soaked in the approving phrase as he glanced at the letter. Mr. Screws had come to believe in him, despite his dismissal of the Dickens family years ago.

  The letter dated from late October. The correspondent was one James Dobbin from a firm in Boston, who seemed to be on excellent terms with Mr. Screws. The letter contained reminiscences of some forty years past and the doings of Mr. Wintersea’s apprentices. This Dobbin must have worked with Screws and Harley in his youth. He mentioned a new grandson being born, the first male heir of the generation, and no doubt the reason for the letter to be written. A paragraph unraveled some shipping business in byzantine detail that Charles merely skimmed. Then, Mr. Dobbin made a few rude remarks about the American president Jackson before closing.

  “Very well, sir, I’ve read it.” Charles folded it and handed it back. “What is the importance of this missive?”

  Mr. Screws folded his hands over the letter. “I employed Mr. Fletcher on the word of my old friend, James Dobbin, based on a letter of introduction that Mr. Fletcher arrived with, here at my office.”

  “Ah, that is how you came to take him on.” Charles nodded wisely.

  “Yes, early this spring. But now, here is a new letter from James Dobbin, transported all the way from America, dated after the letter Mr. Fletcher arrived with, with no mention of his protégé.”

  Charles grasped the problem. “You have not had a letter from your old friend for months. Mr. Fletcher arrives with a letter of introduction in when, the spring?”

  “About April,” he agreed.

  “This letter is dated October. Why would he not check on Mr. Fletcher’s doings?”

  “Suspicious,” Mr. Screws declared.

  Charles frowned. “Do you have the first letter?”

  The old gentleman’s hands shook as he went to a ledger box and unlocked it. He poked through some piles until he pulled out the letter. Charles came around the desk and they spread the letters out side to side.

  “Same letterhead,” Charles said.

  “Same handwriting?” Mr. Screws inquired. “Your eyes will be better than mine.”

  Charles scanned them, looking for any obvious mistakes. “I see nothing obvious. I can understand your concern, but how can you investigate it except by writing Mr. Dobbin again?”

  “I will do that today,” Mr. Screws vowed. “But I am glad to know that you don’t see any sign of obvious forgery.”

  “He is a grandfather,” Charles said carefully, taking a seat. “Perhaps he merely forgot Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps. But he was the sharpest of us apprentices. I’d hate to think his powers were slipping, sir.”

  A knock came on the door. Screws raised his voice and said, “Enter.”

  None other than Mr. Fletcher appeared. “I’ve just settled with Mr. Skye, sir. Two hundred profit on the loan.”

  “Very good, Mr. Fletcher,” Mr. Screws said, then scratched the tip of his nose. “Tell me, how did you find Mr. Dobbin when you last saw him. Was he well?”

  Mr. Fletcher leaned his head from side to side. “His vision is growing poor, Mr. Screws. Has to have letters written for him, ledgers read to him, and so forth. But still sharp, sharp as a needle.”

  “Tragic for a man to lose any of his powers of faculty,” Charles murmured with a significant glance at Mr. Screws.

  Mr. Screws nodded. “Very well. Mr. Cratchit will have a list of accounts for you to visit this afternoon.”

  Charles stood. “I’ll walk out with you.” He inclined his head to Mr. Screws and went back into the main room.

  “Any word on Mr. Harley?” Mr. Fletcher asked, his mouth close to Charles’s ear. “I know it’s weighing on the old gentleman.”

  “Nothing.” Charles coughed. “I really must get back to my own office. But we did enjoy the opera very much. Thank you so much for the invitation. Good day.”

  Mr. Fletcher offered his own salutation as Charles took his coat from Mr. Cratchit and went outside.

  He started up Lothbury, dodging some people in front of a bank with signs, three beggars, and a hot potato seller as he contemplated how Mr. Screws might best manage Mr. Fletcher and the Dobbin situation. His fingers still felt warm after a pleasantly cozy visit in the counting office, but the heat had dried out his throat. He stopped at the corner to purchase a cup of saloop from a costermonger. Three ragged boys ran in his direction as he drank the hot, thick beverage. He knew the art of misdirection so he didn’t flinch, put his hand over his purse to reveal its location, or stop casting his gaze around. Pickpockets could come at any direction and did their best when their mark was distracted.

  He set the cup back on the costermonger’s tray with his thanks, keeping his purse side facing toward the tray until the boys went past.

  “No shoes,” said the saloop seller with a frown. “In this cold.”

  Charles merely raised his eyebrows, just in case the costermonger was the misdirection, instead of glancing at the boys again. A street sweeper stepped off the pavement, setting his broom into the assorted muck in the road. Charles stepped into Princes Street after the boys, arms tight against his coat, during a break in the traffic.

  He felt something against his left arm. Jerking, he turned and saw a youth darting away. He stepped into the middle of the street, not overly concerned. It wasn’t possible for the boy to have reached under two layers of clothing to his inner waistcoat pocket in that brief of a moment. Then, he felt a sharp push on his back.

  He stumbled forward into the filthy middle of the street. Glancing up, he saw the heaving bodies of high-stepping black horses. They were coming right at him. Without full control of his body, he went down on his knees heavily, squishing into the mud.

  Sheer terror kept Charles in motion. His sore knee screamed indignantly, but he could see the horses’ eyes now, coming right at him. Shoving his hands into the muck until he reached the surface of the road, he struggled to push himself up. He could smell offal, feces, and mud all around him. Thoughts of Kate kept him moving. He couldn’t end like this.

  He fought against the sucking effluvia before it was too late. Above him, the carriage driver dropped his whip. His mouth dropped open in shock at the sight of Charles in his path.

  “Oi!” someone shouted behind him.

  Hands reached under Charles’s armpits and hauled him upright and backward. The horses thundered past, their hooves only inches from his dangling feet. Confused and scared out of his wits, he allowed the hands to pull him onto the pavement. When he turned around, he saw a friendly face. He blinked and recognized the costermonger.

  “Wot’s wrong with you, then?” the man demanded, beating his fingerless mittens free of muck. “Don’t you know how to move those plates of meat?”

  Charles glanced down at his shoes, which were coated in stinking waste. “Did you see who pushed me?”

  The costermonger shook his head.

  “I saw a boy run off. Did you see him touch my arm? Was he wearing shoes?”


  The man shrugged.

  “Did you see anything?” Charles demanded. “I appreciate you saving my life, but I must know who was responsible.”

  The man looked over Charles’s shoulder and smiled, holding up a cup. “Saloop, my fine sir? Best quality.”

  Charles gave up and stepped carefully back into the road, making it across this time on the flames of anger, if nothing else. Was his fall an accident or deliberately caused by those pickpockets? Or could it have been the mudlarks? Johnny Dorset? The hand that shoved him felt much larger than a boy’s. And who did he know with overly large hands? Johnny Dorset.

  The mere thought of Johnny Dorset made his blood boil. Not much he could do about ragged boys, but if Mr. Screws was supporting a violent murderer, he’d put a stop to it now.

  * * *

  Charles marched to Finsbury Circus, ignoring passersby who stared at the ruin of his fine clothes. It was one thing for a certain sort of man to walk around looking like this, but no one would doubt Mr. Dickens was a gentleman, especially not Mr. Screws. Under his topcoat, his frock coat, waistcoat, and silk cravat were spotless. Only his topcoat, shoes, and trousers had been ruined.

  He stopped on the main road to have a boot boy scrape the mud off his shoes, but they were too wet to polish. He thanked the lad for his attempt and pressed on, limping.

  When he rang the bell at Mr. Screws’s abode, Mrs. Dorset answered promptly. She smiled; then her lips flattened when she saw his state. “What has happened?”

  He pushed past her into the house, too angry for pleasantries. “Where is that son of yours?”

  “What? Johnny? Why?”

  “Do you know where he is?” Charles scanned the hallway, becoming acutely aware of the pain in his hands and knee. “Is he here? Can you account for his whereabouts?”

  “No, Mr. Dickens,” she said fretfully. “What do you think he’s done?”

  He ripped off his gloves and showed her his bloody palms. “Someone with large hands pushed me down in Princes Street. I could have died. I nearly did.”

  Her hands flew to her mouth, covering it. “He’s not here, sir. But I swear he wouldn’t hurt you.”