“I find that hard to believe,” Charles snarled. “Given his behavior when I last saw him. You remember he reached for me, and threatened to hit me. If you had not been there to stop him, I think he would have attacked me.”
A key clicked in the door and it pushed open. Mr. Screws came in. “I’ll take my lunch now, Mrs. Dorset.” Then he caught sight of Charles. His face lengthened almost comically as he took in the pitiful sight.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“Pushed down in the street,” Charles thundered. “I’m looking for Johnny Dorset.”
Mr. Screws’s jaw fixed in place. Mrs. Dorset burst into tears and ran from the room, her face covered by her apron.
The old man thundered, “He will leave my house this day if it is true, Mr. Dickens, I swear on it.”
Charles nodded, gratified by the man’s trust in his word.
“Let us go into the dining room,” Mr. Screws suggested. “We’ll ring for a maid to bring you slippers while your shoes dry.”
Charles pulled off his coat, a difficult matter because the mud seemed to have molded the fabric to his body in the fashion of mummy wrappings, and left it in the hall. He followed his host into the room, where one setting had been laid out. Mr. Screws rang the bell.
By the time Charles had his stiff shoes removed, a small maid had dashed into the room. Mr. Screws gave his orders. She took the shoes, fixed the fire in the stove, and departed.
“Claret?” Mr. Screws suggested. “As a hedge against the day you are having?”
“Excellent, sir,” Charles said, quite in charity with the old man for once. He used his handkerchief to bind up one palm and Mr. Screws sacrificed his white square for the other.
Mrs. Dorset came in five minutes later, holding a tray with two cold plates. Mr. Screws looked in disfavor upon the beef, cheese, and bread. “Where is the soup, madam?”
“In the kitchen, sir. I’ll bring it presently. Cook was just adding a bit of fish.” She sniffed. “My Johnny has come in, sir, and swears he was never near Princes Street this morning. He went to the market.”
“Did he bring back anything?” Charles asked.
“No. He often wanders.”
“Right,” Charles muttered, as Mr. Screws’s eyes shifted from him to his housekeeper and back again.
“My son did nothing but protect his mother from a situation he didn’t understand,” she insisted.
“What is that?” Mr. Screws asked, eyes narrowing. “You’re now admitting he pushed Mr. Dickens?”
“No, sir.” Mrs. Dorset straightened into military posture. “The other day, when my son wanted to attack Mr. Dickens. Johnny thought he’d been cruel to me. He misunderstood.”
“It sounds like he might have thought he had a reason to attack this gentleman,” Mr. Screws said.
“You’ve watched my boy grow from an infant, sir. Have pity. He has no evil in him.”
“Yet he attacked that baker. He’s becoming more violent. What if he decides John Coachman has done something to you? Or me? Are we safe?” Mr. Screws growled.
“How I miss your sainted mother. I’ve stayed for her memory, sir, but I won’t have my boy insulted. I’ll give my notice, sir, right away, and remove us both from this house.” Mrs. Dorset pressed her lips together very tightly. She waited as if expecting protest. The old man said nothing. A spot of red circled her cheeks and she left the room after a short pause, as regal as old Queen Charlotte.
“What will happen next?” the old man muttered, staring blankly. “My business partner dead? My housekeeper fled with that great idiot son of hers?” He put a hand to his forehead. It trembled visibly.
Charles did not like to see Mrs. Dorset give notice, but he could not tell a man how to order his own servants. He hoped she had resources, such as other relatives. “These troubles seem to have no end, sir.”
“In removing Johnny Dorset from the household, we may solve some of our concerns.”
“Mr. Fletcher fears him,” Charles said.
Mr. Screws nodded thoughtfully. “Then all the residents of the household are in agreement. The Dorsets have to go.”
Chapter 12
Charles could see before him a man at his limit, despite the elderly man’s bravado. He tried to think of someone to run Mr. Screws’s house since he was responsible for removing Mrs. Dorset. His sisters were too busy and so was Julie Aga. He had no ideas for once in his life. “Do you have a housemaid you can promote?”
“There are two or three young idiots in the household. No one with any age, experience, or gravitas,” Mr. Screws said.
“Is there a Mrs. Cratchit?” Charles suggested.
“Dead, I believe. His daughter keeps house for him.”
Charles sneezed. The explosion set his forehead afire with pain. He drained his glass of claret.
“You had better remove yourself to your domicile and have your servants draw you a hot bath,” Mr. Screws advised. “Otherwise, I do not credit you with the opportunity to stay in good health, sir.”
Charles tried to blink and discovered his eyes ached. “I’ll sweat it out over a steaming bowl of water when I return home.”
Mr. Screws stood and limped to the cabinet that hulked against the wall. He rattled his keys and opened a locked door. A moment later he came back and set a bottle in front of Charles. “Glenturret whisky,” he said with satisfaction. “That will cure you. Take it home and toast to my good health.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Charles said. How could he hate a man who gave him such a kind gift?
“The least I can do,” Mr. Screws said gruffly. “Injured in the line of duty, only a cold lunch? What is the world coming to?”
“Mrs. Dorset seemed like a good housekeeper,” Charles said, a shade of guilt at her fate coming now that he was calmer.
“Fair, fair, but I can’t have her son about under the circumstances.”
Charles sighed. “No, they have to go. A pity, excellent woman.” He pushed himself to his feet and shook the old gentleman’s hand. The slippers had never arrived so his feet were still frozen. However, an evening at home over a steaming bowl, whisky at his elbow, would suit him very fine.
* * *
Charles had to attend a political meeting out of town the next morning and found himself riding down Fulham Road early that afternoon, his palms aching whenever they jostled against the reins. His thoughts had not strayed far from Mr. Screws and baby Timothy as he recorded the accusations between politicians in shorthand. It seemed his Christian duty was to take responsibility for two souls, one on each end of life. The baby had excellent caregivers, unlike the old man. He feared Mr. Screws was not long for this world if he received indifferent care at home, and given Kate’s fondness for the old sinner, he had best keep the man alive if he hoped to reunite with his beloved.
After leaving his rented horse at a stable, he walked over to Cale Street to see Edward Pettingill, in the hopes of persuading Mr. Screws’s nephew to take on the problem of the old man. A bedraggled maid let him in, probably someone they hired weekly to do the heavy work.
He saw himself into the dining room, and found Mr. Pettingill, in a red nightcap this time, bent over some writings. The scientist dropped his quill into its stand and rose to greet Charles.
“I had not expected to see you again so soon, Mr. Dickens,” he said, shaking hands. “Tea?”
“Thank you,” Charles said. “It was a cold ride in from Wembley.”
“I do not like to ride,” Mr. Pettingill said as he took a tea chest from inside a cabinet.
“Is your wife out today?”
“Paying a call on her mother. She’ll be back before dark. Until then I have Marla to watch over me. I’m hopeless without the tender ministrations of the fairer sex.”
Charles wished he could say such a glib thing himself. How he wanted to come home to hot meals and warm embraces. But the urge to curse the little barmaid who had doomed him was not the impulse of a good Christian. “I
have news,” he said, abruptly getting to his business.
“Oh?”
“I was attacked yesterday in London. It might very well have been a pickpocket gang irritated at their inability to get to my purse, but, while a boy made the first move, I think I was pushed by a much larger person, and I had to tell Mr. Screws, because Johnny Dorset had threatened to attack me in his house once before.”
Mr. Pettingill’s hand paused, kettle over the teapot. “Did you have Johnny arrested?”
“No, but Mrs. Dorset removed herself and her son from your uncle’s household, leaving him without a housekeeper.”
The man resumed pouring. “I see.”
He pressed forward. “Such an unfortunate business. I must implore you to watch over your uncle despite your hard feelings. I think there is good in him, but he is old and not well.”
“You like him?” Mr. Pettingill asked, his expression full of surprise.
Marla came in with a tray of ham sandwiches. “Your tea, sir?”
Pettingill clapped his hands together. “You are a miracle, my dear. Just in the nick of time.”
Grateful, Charles took one of the thick sandwiches and a pickle.
“This will warm you up, sir,” the man said. “After all these years, my tendency is to do nothing more than sneak into Finsbury Circus under the cover of darkness and check on things without interacting.”
“Who would let you in?”
“I have a key to my uncle’s house. I’m not considered untrustworthy, just beneath consideration.”
Charles frowned. “Who was your mother?”
“She was four years older than my uncle. A close connection but my uncle did not like my father and was against the marriage. Long dead now, both of them.” He bit into a pickle and poured weak tea for them.
Charles made his way through an even half of the food and drank most of the pot of tea while his host pointed out features of the birds he was sketching for a monograph by another scientist. “You are a paid illustrator?”
“Yes, I put myself out to hire for anything to do with birds. I have a good reputation. And, as you can see, my work is portable.” He stared at the line drawing of a bird in flight. “I see that I shall have to cage myself into my uncle’s world until new staff can be hired. My wife and I will pay a visit. After all, Mr. Harley’s room is available.”
“That does not trouble you?”
“I do not believe in ghosts.” Mr. Pettingill smiled, a facial expression that confused the eye given his lack of eyebrows.
Charles remembered his recent spectral encounter, and told himself stoutly that he did not believe, either. After all, he had been in the presence of a few tragic deaths over the past year, and those unfortunates had not troubled to haunt him.
The door burst open and Mrs. Pettingill came in, pulling off her gloves. She wore a green wool dress that peeked out from under a purple cloak embroidered with black. An expensive ensemble. Had her family paid her dress bill, or had she hand-me-downs from someone who had married into wealth?
“Interesting tidings, Mrs. Pettingill,” the scientist said as she walked over to him. “We are going to stay in Finsbury Circle for a time due to complications in my uncle’s household.”
She had parted her lips, ready to greet him, but now they compressed into a thin line. “Has he invited us to stay for the holidays?”
“We will be taking over his housekeeping.”
“What?” gasped the lady of the house.
“Mrs. Dorset has been vanquished.”
“Good heavens,” she said. “But she was such an efficient woman.”
“I found her rather likeable once Mr. Harley had gone to his reward,” Charles admitted. “She seemed lighter.”
“True, but that son is dangerous. Mrs. Dorset and I disagreed, rather loudly I admit, about the ingredients in mock turtle soup one day and I was afraid Johnny would strike me.” She shivered. “Mrs. Dorset sent him from the room before anything happened. Is he gone as well?”
Charles nodded. The young man had violence in him, very possibly murder.
She perched herself on the edge of the chair closest to Mr. Pettingill. “I don’t imagine we’ll be able to hire new staff until after the first of the year. We will have to pack for a month.”
“But you can do it, my dear?” her husband asked.
“Yes.” She patted his hand. “It will be a relief, not having to pay the food bills for this time of year. I’ll bring our pudding, since it is already prepared just the way you like it, but we will dine in style during the Twelve Days for once.”
Mr. Pettingill’s forehead wrinkled. “My uncle doesn’t keep Christmas.”
His wife’s smile was much more wolf than human. “He will this year, or my name isn’t Betsy Pettingill. Such roasts we will have, and good claret, and puddings. Roaring fires, hot cider, and iced cakes. We shall make the best of it.”
* * *
As Charles left the Pettingill chambers and the calculating wife, he thought of who else might aid Mr. Screws. He decided to go to Spitalfields to see Primus Harley before meeting his sisters for an outing he’d promised. Mr. Harley seemed to have some regard for Mr. Screws, even if they disagreed vehemently over his mother.
He could hear the loom clacking as he went into the rooming house. Mr. Harley’s door was open. He knocked and entered, immediately entranced by the work on the loom under the window. Blues shimmered and danced with creams and yellows.
“Very fine, no?” Mr. Harley said after he turned.
“No wonder the nobility commissions your work,” Charles exclaimed.
“I’d rather be hired by the middle class. They pay their bills,” Mr. Harley said sourly. “What brings you back, Mr. Dickens?”
At least some of them did. Charles thought of his father’s perilously casual ways. “I am concerned about Mr. Screws’s household and I wanted to make you aware of the situation, since you must stand in the place of a nephew to him.”
“In a way,” Mr. Harley agreed, setting down his shuttle. “What is wrong?”
“Mrs. Dorset has left, because I accused her son of attacking me in the street yesterday. If a costermonger hadn’t rescued me, I’d have been struck by horses until I was dead.”
Mr. Harley turned on his stool. “I congratulate you on ridding Mr. Screws of the Dorsets, sir.”
He liked Mr. Harley better on this visit. “Are you aware that Mrs. Dorset accused your father of molesting her?”
“She was an attractive woman in her time, and a servant. My father would have seen nothing wrong with such an act,” Mr. Harley admitted.
“I asked the Pettingills to keep an eye on Mr. Screws until a new housekeeper can be hired. I wanted you to keep an eye on things as well.”
“Are you any closer to figuring out what happened to my father?” Mr. Harley asked.
“I wish I knew if Johnny had pushed me. If I did, I’d be certain he had done the same to your father.” Charles paused. “Should I have any reason to suspect you?”
Mr. Harley scratched the back of his neck with those enormous, hairy hands. “I admit I had angry thoughts about my father but I didn’t kill him. In fact, I want his murderer found.”
He didn’t see how anyone of Mr. Harley’s short stature could have overpowered his larger-than-average father, unless the death had been to some degree an accident. “Should I give Johnny’s name to the magistrate?”
Mr. Harley winced. “He can’t defend himself. His understanding is poor, his facilities diminished. Without his mother to control him, I fear for his future. I have no doubt that his neck will see the inside of a noose someday, but my father was a crooked old sinner and anyone might have wanted him dead, assuming he didn’t get tangled in those chains and fall all by himself.”
“It does trouble me to accuse a man so clearly lacking in wits but he’s also one with a violent temper.” He took one last glance at the beautiful shawl on the loom. “I suppose I can’t afford your wares.”
<
br /> Mr. Harley chuckled. “You couldn’t even afford the silk. You dress well enough, but you aren’t exactly a gentleman.”
“I am a gentleman’s son,” Charles said coldly and turned on his heel.
* * *
Charles returned to the Strand. He had time to spare before he went to collect his sisters. But a few doors away from the Chronicle, he saw Kate. Though she wasn’t close, he recognized her by the tilt of her head. She and her sister Mary must have been visiting Mr. Hogarth. Both young ladies wore bonnets trimmed with green, either new or freshly updated, and cloaks that he recognized.
His steps quickened instinctively. He went toward them, dodging a newsboy, a fellow reporter, and a flower girl, with a hand raised in greeting. But the coachman helped Kate into the carriage without noticing him, then reached to Mary while Charles was still two doors away.
“Mary!” he called, attempting to project his voice over the noise of the street. Too many carriages and hawkers and Londoners prevented his call from reaching her ears. Before he made it to the offices, the carriage was in motion, moving away from him.
In truth, he’d been lucky to miss them at the office. Mr. Hogarth would have asked questions if Kate had behaved strangely toward him. Thus far, she had continued to trust in him and keep her own counsel. What he’d give for the soft touch of her hand right now, for his beloved to tend his aches and pains.
* * *
Charles had seen theater notices for a stirring performance about the last days of Pompeii, along with acrobatic exhibitions, at the Victoria, so for a holiday treat he took his sisters Fanny and Leticia to the show.
In their box, the sisters were full of news about their loved ones.
“Mr. Burnett,” dropped from Fanny’s mellifluous voice. “Mr. Austin,” came from Leticia’s more strident tones.
“Kate,” he sighed.
“What?” Fanny asked, her curls brushing his arm as he dropped a freshly purchased orange into her hands.
“Is something wrong?” asked Leticia.
He handed her an orange, then removed his gloves so he could peel his own. “I admit I’m in a rough spot with Kate.”
A Christmas Carol Murder Page 15