A Christmas Carol Murder

by Heather Redmond

  Charles fixed his gaze on Mr. Hogarth with an impertinence he’d never before dared. “In this season of the Christ child, how can I not save a defenseless infant from the censure and cruelty of the world? I’ve done nothing wrong.” He lowered his hands, holding the man’s eyes.

  After a long pause, Mr. Black’s gaze went to the other editor’s unsoftening gaze, then returned to Charles’s. “You need to clear out your desk, Mr. Dickens. I am sorry, and I wish you luck.”

  Mr. Hogarth dropped back into his chair, saying nothing. Charles walked out, knowing that he did not take good wishes from his mentor.

  William stood again when Charles came to his desk but Charles shook his head. They could talk later.

  He emptied his wastebasket into William’s, ignoring the sidelong glances from other reporters, and piled his belongings into his own. When he pulled an old damaged coin from its spot in the drawer, one he’d never sold because no one had been able to figure out what it was, he realized he should have gone coin hunting with Fred after all. There had been times last winter when the old coins they’d found around the law courts had paid for things they needed to keep their nascent household going.

  His body went cold as he stopped moving for a moment. He felt faint. How could Kate be so vindictive as to share her feelings about the baby with her parents, especially after having kept Timothy a secret for a full week? He had trusted in her good sense. What changed? Surely she hadn’t stopped loving him.

  “I’m missing something, William,” he said in a weak voice as he securely stoppered his ink pot. “Not just about what sweet Kate has done to me, but everything. The baby, Mr. Harley, everything.”

  “I can see what has happened and it is not right. However”—William turned in his chair—“you scarcely sleep. You’ve taken on an indomitable amount of work. It’s no wonder you are having problems.”

  “I have to manage everything.” Charles slid his fingers around his desk drawer, gathering the last few things as he tried to find his strength. Three shillings lingered, tucked into a corner behind a bit of paper. Attempting to show manly levity, he tossed them into the air and juggled them. “My life is like this.”

  One of them dropped to the floor as he fumbled. He went to his knees and crawled under his desk, looking for it. After the events of the summer, he’d promised himself to manage his finances more carefully, so that he’d never be caught out by a charlatan again. Hating himself for caring about one measly shilling, he snatched it from a dark, cobweb-infested corner and shoved it into his pocket, dust and all.

  “After you’ve finished your revisions, maybe you can finally find time to have that career on the stage after all.” William grinned at him.

  Charles shook his head. “I’ll apply at the rival papers. Someone will want me. I’m the best, indomitable.” He warmed to his theme. “I’m the Inimitable One.” He liked the sound of William’s word. But inimitable described him perfectly.

  “That’s it, Charles. Leave with your head held high. Another paper might pay you even more.”

  Charles winced at that, though he kept his face calm. He knew Mr. Hogarth paid him better than he perhaps deserved, because of Kate. He’d promised more than he’d delivered where his sketches were concerned, but he’d been pelted with opportunities like his book, and he hadn’t thought anyone minded, as his reputation grew. Without Kate, his prospects could diminish.

  He locked his hands around his wastebasket and stood soldier straight. “Onward, always onward.”

  “I’ll see you very soon,” William promised. “Little Timothy had a fever this morning so don’t come over tonight, though.”

  Charles nodded and marched out of the reporters’ chamber. The baby’s fever was another worry to add to his litany of troubles. He must have income to pay for the child’s care. No one turned away, exactly, but no one met his eye or wished him well, either.

  It didn’t matter. He’d neglected his relationships at the newspaper of late, spending his free time with Ainsworth and other literary types. He’d make up for all of it when his book revisions were done.

  * * *

  Charles had a lonely night bent over his deal table in front of his fire. Fred had dashed in long enough to use up all of their water to wash his hands and face before departing for some seasonal spectacle or other with his friends. Charles could not blame him. When he’d first been out in the world he’d gone to the theater almost every night, too.

  Eventually, when his throat grew dry from the coal smoke, he took their water can outside. The night air beckoned him as soon as his feet hit the stairs, so after he returned with his can, he bundled up more warmly for a long walk.

  He decided to avoid the river after recent events. After all, they couldn’t offer any more charity in that direction as they had to pay for Brother Second’s siblings and help with school fees. His feet took him toward Brompton without him realizing it; he’d made the journey on foot so many times.

  On one of the more dilapidated thoroughfares, a woman stepped from the mouth of a dark court, her hair covered with a shawl.

  For a moment, Charles thought Julie was stalking him as she had last winter, in order to get away from her abusive mother. But the woman dropped her shawl and he saw she was a good fifteen years older, her face lined with care.

  She held out her hand, beckoning him, a smile exposing broken front teeth.

  He shook his head. “Not tonight, lovey. Stay warm.”

  She tilted her head and he considered giving her a coin to make her go away, but he had to be careful with money, now. He moved away. She didn’t protest, abuse him in strident tones like sometimes happened. Maybe she wasn’t a lightskirt at all, but the lookout for a gang of thugs, ready to fall upon him and steal his possessions when he went with her to the wall, where the likes of her usually did their work.

  His stomach turned over, and Kate’s face came to mind. Hers was the only hand he wanted to take, the only form he wanted to embrace. His entire being was settled on her, despite her betrayal.

  He walked on, tallying up her faults, but knowing his fault was greatest, for not trusting her with the truth from the first. Why hadn’t he brought Timothy to Mrs. Hogarth at the start? Even if she’d only kept him for a night, he’d have established his innocence.

  Or at least as close to innocent as he could have made it. The character of the Scots was a more judgmental one, with their long history of Calvinist leanings. He might have wound up in hot water right then and there, without Kate and a hungry babe in his arms.

  But he never should have chosen Julie as his confidante over Kate. What a fool he’d been.

  He reached his old territory, footsore after a long week, wishing he still lived here so he could sit for a while. At Selwood Terrace, he peered in the windows of Breese Gadfly’s lodgings, a fine apartment on the main floor, but the chamber was dark and he had no idea where his songwriter friend was on a Friday night.

  Strolling on, he buried his exhaustion in contemplating the previous summer, until he found himself alongside the orchards on Fulham Road. Behind him, a gust of wind shook the apple trees and then what had been a relatively pleasant night vanished in a pelting of hail. He pulled his muffler over his mouth and nose and tried to protect the back of his neck with his coat collar. Shards of ice coated his arms in an instant. He couldn’t stay outdoors.

  Across the street lay the comfort he’d been denied, the Hogarths’ hearth and home. But Lugoson House next door was all lit up. He could claim sanctuary there. It appealed to him more than going to a tavern.

  He crossed the road, keeping his gaze resolutely away from the Hogarths’ gate, his eyes filling with tears from the biting wind and no other reason. Trotting, he went past the orchard on the side of the Hogarth property and along the formal garden, then rang the bell at Lugoson House.

  He huddled in the colonnade, waiting for the door to open. By the time it did, he felt half frozen. Still, he was taken by a ferocious sneeze when the door
opened and warm air tickled his nostrils.

  When he blinked away moisture, he saw Panch looking down at him, his head held at the habitually strange angle from his stalk-like neck. The butler opened his mouth as slowly as a snail, so it seemed to Charles.

  “Mr. Dickens,” he said in lugubrious tones.

  “Panch!” Charles showed his teeth to the butler. “Would Lady or Lord Lugoson be so kind as to receive a half-frozen writer this evening?”

  “Hoping to spend some time in the library?”

  “I would indeed,” Charles said. He enjoyed escaping there and used the privilege shamelessly when encouraged by William.

  Panch stepped back. “The Agas are not here this evening.”

  “I know,” Charles said. “I was out for a walk, but as you can see, the weather worked its foul magic on me.”

  “Better hail than the yellow fog,” the butler opined, waiting politely for Charles to work his frozen fingers over his clothing.

  He handed his coat to the butler. “There you are.”

  Panch held the dripping garments away from himself as he turned. “You know the way, sir. I will alert the household and send in a tray.”

  “You are a king, Panch,” Charles exclaimed.

  The butler sniffed but said nothing as he left the foyer. Charles went to the library, finding the remains of a fire and an old paper theater on one of the tables. Perhaps young Lord Lugoson had resumed the hobby he once shared with his sister. Charles glanced at the decorations and the paper players, recognizing a Mozart opera. He hummed under his breath as he perused the shelves, looking for something to occupy his time.

  The first tome to catch his eye was Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. He opened the leather-bound volume, his gaze lighting on the frontispiece. An uncouth creature with a spear and wings stood manfully on a rock, master of all he surveyed. It had only been a week since Charles had felt the same way, before he lost Kate. But he couldn’t lose his confidence now.

  No, he needed to find Timothy’s father in order to fix everything with the Hogarths, instead of waiting for the information to come to him. He shut Byron’s work and went to a writing table, not even bothering to stoke the fire before he put quill to ink, writing letters that he left unaddressed to the steward at Hatfield House and the local vicar there. He’d learn their names later.

  What else? He needed to figure out who had killed Mr. Harley so that Mr. Screws could recover his health and release his hold on Charles’s life. He decided to methodically list out the suspects in Mr. Harley’s death and rule out as many as he could.

  Before he could do more than write in the general listings of Dorset, Appleton, Harley, and Pettingill, the door opened. He looked up, expecting his tray, but instead, a vision of beauty presented herself, like something out of Byron’s poetry.

  Lady Lugoson, a mere decade older than Charles, glided into the room. Out of mourning for her daughter now, she wore a navy gown that set off her golden beauty in a vision of severity. At moments, she had a tendency to overindulge, but this evening she looked clear eyed and steady on her feet.

  Charles stood, ready to pay his respects, but instead of looking happy to see him, she shook her head at him.

  “Mr. Dickens, what are you doing here so late?”

  “Hailstorm, my lady,” he said, taking her hand in playful fashion. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before. Panch didn’t seem to mind.”

  “He’s the butler, not the master of my son’s home,” she murmured.

  He stared into her eyes, sensing a distance that had never been there before. “What is wrong, ma’am?”

  “I have happy news,” she said, pulling away and clasping her hands in front of her.

  “Oh?” He didn’t sense happiness from her.

  Her lips turned up. “You may congratulate me. I am to be wed.”

  “I had expected it long since,” Charles said. And indeed, he had, for she was a beautiful woman. Despite what she’d suffered at the hands of her first husband, she was made to wed again. He wouldn’t allow himself to feel the pain of another loss of safe harbor again, not tonight.

  “Yes. Do you know Sir Silas Laurie?” she asked.

  “Indeed I do. I’ve even been to his home,” Charles said, surprised. “What a brilliant choice! Excellent man. You’ll be very happy, I’m sure.”

  She nodded. “I am used to busy men. My son has decided to attend Oxford next year, and so, c’est le temps pour un change.”

  “You are well matched in every way,” Charles promised. “Title, fortune, industry.” He winked. “Even looks.”

  She blushed prettily. It took a decade off her age, hiding the fine lines around her eyes.

  Charles nodded, warming to his theme. “I am gratified to have my friends find a life together.” At least he hoped the coroner regarded him warmly. He hoped Lady Lugoson would find some happiness in what had been a difficult life.

  “You can be my son’s guest for tonight, but then you must leave for propriety’s sake first thing tomorrow,” Lady Lugoson said.

  “I hadn’t thought to spend the night,” he protested.

  “You must,” she announced. “It’s too ghastly to walk and I can’t send the horses out either, not in this hail. I could hear it pounding outside the windows in my little parlor. The windows are thicker here.”

  Charles listened for a moment. The sounds outside were muted by glass and curtains, but he did hear the clatter of the hailstones. “Very well. I’m surprised you don’t think I should go over to the Hogarths’.”

  “I know you and Miss Hogarth are having problems,” she said delicately. “I know about your position as well, dear Mr. Dickens. I can’t offer you work in my household, I’m afraid, not with my son leaving, but I will buy ten copies of your book as soon as it is available.”

  This was unwelcome news in the extreme. Aghast, he asked, “How did the news travel so quickly?”

  Her mouth screwed up, as sour as if she’d bit into a lemon. “The Hogarths’ maid and my son’s valet have become friends.”

  “Oh, dear,” Charles said.

  “Yes.” She curled her upper lip. “We’ll break up the romance if my son takes him to Oxford. I have to decide what to do about that. I didn’t want to interfere in Mrs. Hogarth’s domestic matters, but given what that family has done to you, well, perhaps I should not mind.”

  “You are a good friend to me,” he reinforced.

  Flustered, she busied herself with the coal hod, casually dropping a shovel of coal onto the fire as if she often played tweenie. “You have been a very good one to me, Mr. Dickens. I do hope we will always be friends, but you will have to be careful. Mr. Hogarth is well respected in your field.”

  “You don’t think he’ll prevent me from gaining work elsewhere?” Charles asked.

  He heard the lady sigh. “Perhaps Sir Silas can help you after we are wed.”

  Charles closed his eyes, afraid he would not be able to find work if even Lady Lugoson couldn’t help him. He had solved her daughter’s murder less than a year before. Would the break with the Hogarths destroy his standing in the world? He’d thought his own natural ability could conquer any difficulty, but if Mr. Hogarth destroyed his character, what did he have left?

  * * *

  Charles woke abruptly the next morning when he heard a clink in the room. He pushed himself to a sitting position on an unusually soft bed, a curtained bed. Pulling open the edge of the fabric, he saw a tea tray on a table. The window curtains had been drawn back and he smelled a fire.

  He leaned back, smiling. This was how the upper classes lived. He’d been so deeply asleep that he’d forgotten Panch had shown him into a bedroom at Lugoson House after an hour or so. After he struggled free of the feather bed, he washed his face and hands in the basin and poured tea, then took it to the fire. He rocked in the rocking chair, utterly lost despite the comfortable surroundings. Who was he without his position? How should he balance looking for another against his book responsibil
ities? He supposed he should be happy he didn’t have to factor setting up his household with Kate into this twisted bargain. No more did he need to save for furnishings or improved chambers at Furnival’s Inn. And Fred had his own income now. Charles did sums, made calculations, still saw his money running out by the end of winter if he didn’t take other employment. He had Timothy to support until they found the boy’s father, if William couldn’t be persuaded to pay all the bills. How long before he could be weaned?

  Giddy with frustration and loss, he shoved his arms into his frock coat, then went to search out one of Panch’s deputies so he could retrieve the rest of his possessions.

  Half an hour later, he’d resisted accepting an invitation to breakfast with the Lugoson family and left the house. What he did not resist was walking across the apple orchard in between the houses. When he reached the edge of the Hogarths’ herb and vegetable garden he stopped and sighed.

  The jumbled rows and tangling herbs reminded him of the Hogarths’ untidy home. While he’d meant to break Kate of her mother’s habits, now he just wanted her again, messiness and all.

  The kitchen door opened while he stood, contemplating. He looked up, heart leaping in his chest, but instead of his darling, her sister Mary appeared. As he watched, she pulled her shawl tightly around herself and after shoving her feet into clogs dashed through the garden until she met him.

  Though smaller and darker than her older sister, he delighted in Mary’s wit and appreciation of himself. He forced a smile through his dreary mood and bowed his head to her.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asked.

  “I stayed next door last night. I was caught in the hailstorm.”

  “I heard that. Father is fretting about the state of the roof.” She paused and blushed. “But I don’t imagine you want to hear about him right now.”

  “He has hurt me both personally and professionally,” Charles responded.

  Mary let out a breath and pulled up her shawl to protect her head. Charles felt the first raindrop fall on his arm and hoped more hail did not follow. Even for him, an inveterate walker, the weather was displeasing.