“My dear Mr. Dickens,” Mary said formally.
Charles felt something lodge in his chest, like a bubble of air keeping the inner workings of his body stretched beyond endurance. “Not you, too, Mary,” he whispered.
She shook her head sharply. “I believe you aren’t the baby’s father.” She patted his arm. “I’m a true friend to you.”
“If you believe me, why doesn’t Kate? She knows my heart.”
Mary took a step closer, until he could feel her breath on his chin. “Kate did not tell our parents about the baby.”
Charles put his hand on her shoulder, steadying himself. Kate hadn’t betrayed him. “Then who?”
Chapter 16
Charles could scarcely believe the evidence of his ears. His feet insisted on a little jig. They slid in the mud outside the Hogarths’ kitchen door and he had to put out his arms to balance himself. “Kate didn’t betray me to your parents?”
“Georgina did it,” Mary said, looking amused at his exuberance.
Charles, so elated that he couldn’t trust his hearing, had to ask again. “Kate hasn’t played me false?”
She smiled up at him and drew her shawl closer against the cold. “No, Charles. Georgina overheard Kate telling me what she knew. Kate told me how much she loved you, dear sir, and awaited proof that could stand up in society about this baby.”
He gritted his teeth. “But Georgina tattled.”
Mary nodded and reached into the pocket of her apron. She pulled out a piece of paper. “Here, it’s a letter from Kate.”
Charles stared at the small slip like it held the words of a Catholic saint. Reverently, he took it from Mary, fingers unsteady in his thick mittens, and unfolded the paper. His gaze went over it so fast that he only caught snatches. Kate, his dear Kate, expressed her confusion and begged him to resolve the matter quickly. “Of course I will, as quickly as I can,” he exclaimed.
Mary peered out from her shawl, her cheeks pink. “What?”
“Sort this out,” Charles said. He lifted the paper to his eyes and read more carefully. Toward the end, she begged him to keep helping poor Mr. Screws as she was afraid the mystery of Mr. Harley’s death would affect his health terribly. “She can’t help thinking of others despite her own cares.”
“You can fix this, can’t you?” Mary asked.
“I must have little Timothy’s aunt recant her accusation,” Charles said. “I may not be able to find the father, so the aunt is my best bet. But to take her from her employment, bring her to London? So she can appear in front of your father and tell the truth?”
“It would terrify her,” Mary said. “Maybe a letter?”
“I could forge that.” Charles sighed. “No, I must prove my innocence with a great show of integrity. Mary, I need my job back.”
As she shook her head soberly, Charles heard a window bang above their heads. He glanced up to the upper story of the Hogarths’ house and saw Kate.
She had drawn back the curtain. Behind the window, he could see her hands under her chin and thought he detected tears on her cheeks despite the distance. He craned his neck to get the best glimpse of her, but, after a quick twitch of her lips, she turned away. He lost sight of her.
“I feel like Romeo,” he told Mary. “If only you had a balcony under the window.”
“With Father in the house it isn’t safe. There is no cover of night.” She touched his arm. “You’d better not be seen here right now, my dear. Go to Hatfield and force a confession out of that girl.”
“Do I do that or help our Mr. Screws?” Charles asked. “Kate wants me to deal with him as well.”
“Be selfish,” Mary urged him. “Do not let this cancer spread.”
“I have thought that someone at Hatfield House might confess the truth. Surely someone knows who the dead maid’s lover was.” He cupped Mary’s chin with his mitten, grateful he still had her at his back. “You are always a good friend to me, Mary. Keep my dear girl strong.”
He tucked the letter into his pocket and watched her run back into the house, sliding on her clogs through the mud. Another raindrop hit his arm and he moved on to the road, deciding to stop in at Mr. Screws’s abode before deciding what to do about Hatfield and Timothy’s aunt.
* * *
It had wanted only a week to Christmas the day before, and now, despite the general absence of holiday spirit in the land, Charles noticed evergreens and holly woven into the rails on the better houses everywhere. The butchers and bake shops had a higher volume of customers than usual.
In Finsbury Circus, Mr. Screws’s home continued to fit in with all the rest, despite the change of staff. Mrs. Pettingill was keeping up the high standards of Mrs. Dorset. The steps were scrubbed free of mud and the evergreens still looked fresh.
When the door opened, Charles did not recognize the very young maid. Her cap didn’t fit on her undersized head. It slipped over one ear as she grandly gestured her approval of his entrance into her master’s house. She still lisped like a child as well, but her “Mithster Thcrews” sounded charming enough that Charles might have tipped her on a more prosperous day.
He was sorry to hear that the man sat in his best parlor today, where the coffin had waited the inquest. In fact, Mr. Screws, fully dressed but also wearing a nightcap, sat on a low stool in the alcove where his partner’s sarcophagus had rested.
“What are you doing, sir?” Charles asked. “This does not appear to be a happy contemplation.”
“It was a sad day in this house when Jacob Harley died,” Mr. Screws said in a quivering voice. “But it brought me you, dear boy, and I am grateful for it.”
“I thank you,” Charles agreed, warming under the praise. “But meditating on your friend’s death is not good for your health.” He went to the wall and leaned against it. The cold room did not please his health, either. Only slightly warmer than the air outdoors, it made his nose drip.
“Have you any report to make?”
“Before we talk, why don’t we go into the dining room? You have that tidy stove in there, and that will get us warm.”
“You require warmth, young man?” Mr. Screws’s voice rattled in his throat. “Human kindness, perhaps? It is a rare thing to find in this house.”
“Sir,” Charles said, holding out his hand. “I offer it to you.”
The old man grasped his hand. Charles managed to lift Mr. Screws to his feet. He supported the icy figure across the hall. The dining room had an occupant, Mrs. Pettingill, who was knitting in Mr. Screws’s chair, her neatly shod feet very close to the stove.
She jumped up. “Oh, sirs, you gave me such a fright.”
“Ma’am,” Charles said. “Mr. Screws needs his stove, I am afraid.”
She nodded briskly and gave a little smile as she edged toward the door. “I am very glad you take such tender care of our uncle, Mr. Dickens. I hope he will take a little broth now. I will speak to Cook.” She scurried out, a hank of yarn bobbing behind her.
“Broth,” Mr. Screws muttered as Charles helped him into his seat. “A waste of good beef, I tell you.”
Charles nodded and sat in the next closest chair to the stove. Mrs. Pettingill had not stinted on coal for her own comfort. “I prefer a good pie, myself.”
“Ah, yes. Is your soon-to-be little wife a good cook?”
“She is coming along,” Charles said. “She is the eldest daughter of a large family. They have kitchen help.”
“Good. Knows all about self-sacrifice, then.” Mr. Screws cracked his bony knuckles. “Now, as to the matter at hand. What have you learned?”
“I am sorry to say I’ve made poor progress, but I have time for sorting out the suspects now, as I do not need to do any more reporting before Christmas.”
Mr. Screws lifted white-threaded brows. “Taken a holiday, have you?”
Avoiding the question, Charles thought quickly. “If this were a play, who would the murderer be?”
“A play? Eh. Haven’t seen one in years. One of t
hose versions of Frankenstein.” He pushed back his sleeping cap on his forehead. “Now that was a tale.”
Charles’s eyes widened at the aside, at the way Mr. Screws smacked his lips. Possibly he wanted to burn down the countryside in pursuit of the one who had murdered his friend. “A lover, probably,” he said, answering his own question. “That would be the choice of a playwright.”
Mr. Screws rubbed his hook-like nose. “I don’t know if Jacob had a mistress in recent months. You know he was unwell.”
Charles pushed his feet closer to the stove, hoping his toes would dry. “If he’d had a mistress, would she have come here?”
“No, not to here or the office. He’d have gone to her, and since no strumpet has asked for money at either location, I suspect you seek a phantom, Mr. Dickens.”
Charles heard the note of humor in the old man’s voice. “Very well, then. At least we know the culprit has some money, as he has paid the undertaker to shut down his business for a good long time. Any sign of theft in the countinghouse?”
“No, sir, there is not.” Mr. Screws sucked at his teeth. “However, I would like you to return tomorrow since I am waiting for a letter that might be of use to us.”
Charles assented just as the door opened and the tiny maid came through with a cup on a tray. Just the one. He took the singular cup as a sign and departed. Kate couldn’t accuse him of ill serving Mr. Screws.
* * *
A trip to the British Museum Reading Room netted him the names of useful Hatfield-area contacts at St. Ethelreda’s Church as well as St. Luke’s, the other local parish. He wrote to the marquess and enclosed the letter he’d written to the Hatfield House steward as well. Maybe someone would be willing to speak to Lizzie Porter’s fellow maids.
Once home, he picked up his pile of papers and went to the Royal Oak in Leather Lane, a pleasant old public house that always had freshly scrubbed walls and a good fire going. He spent the afternoon there, ignoring the customers as they came in and out, putting his sketches in order for his publisher.
When Charles arrived home after dark he found Breese Gadfly waiting for him, playing dreidel with Fred. His friend’s black hair lay tousled over his forehead, and his sideburns scooped under his cheeks, highlighting their leonine perfection. Fred looked like a grubby child next to the elegant songwriter, his fingernails half mooned with ink and a day’s worth of beard on his cheeks. He’d only recently needed to shave every day.
“You look lower than a match girl in the rain, my dear,” Breese observed, lounging back on Charles’s best armchair.
Charles attempted to smile as he crossed to his writing box to stow his papers inside, but his eyes were gritty and red from too many hours hunched over his writing next to the fire. Once the sky outside had darkened, there had not been enough light to work. He’d called for a candle but the barman had run out.
Fred leapt up from his stool to stoke the fire. “Hot rum and water?” he asked.
“No.” Charles shook his head. “I’ve had enough spiced wine to drown my sorrows.”
Breese spun one of the dreidels. It landed on the “nun” side. “I forfeit my turn. What are the sorrows of the day?”
“Better than forfeiting your position.” Charles caught him up to date on his estrangement with Kate and what had led to him losing his post.
After Fred took in the words, he drained a rum and water of his own. “Will I have to support you now?” his younger brother asked.
“Indeed not,” Charles said. “I’ll sort it out, find something to do until the truth is revealed. Kate has remained true to me.”
“That is all that matters,” Breese said soberly. “I might be able to help. It’s too late to sell anything to the panto market, but there are always people needing songs. Why don’t you write with me tonight?”
“Happy to,” Charles said. “There is also my operetta-in-progress. I’d love to hear your opinion on what I have planned.”
“You always have something brewing.”
Charles nodded. “I need to remember that is the wise thing to do. Always juggle, never settle in to just one occupation.”
They spent the evening crafting sad lyrics about a maiden who drowned herself over a misunderstanding. Charles gave in to the rum once his eyes started to feel better, but their heavy drinking made him melancholy, not merry as he wanted. With Christmas only a few days away, would he be able to spend the twelve days with Kate or remain in exile? He wanted to feel pride for his defense of the innocent baby Timothy, but mostly, he just missed his love.
* * *
The next morning, Charles went to see Mr. Screws as requested. The old man had dressed more carefully than usual, and even had a sprig of holly pinned to his tailcoat.
“You look like a man who slept well,” Charles said, feeling quite the opposite. His thick head ached.
Mr. Screws’s thin lips twitched. “This new cook our Betsy hired has cured my indigestion.” However, his hands shook as Charles helped him with his coat.
They took the Screws carriage to a coffeehouse called Cigar Divan, which had an entrance fee, and therefore had a better class of clientele than the usual workman’s morning visitation. Charles had never been there, though its Strand location meant he’d passed by any number of times.
Inside, a fug of cigar smoke hung under the ceiling, casting the room in a yellowish haze. Mr. Screws knew what he was doing, confidently walking past the main room and into a smaller chamber, where sober men of business chatted over their newspapers and morning libations.
A man stood as they reached the far wall. He had a bald head and a deeply lined forehead, but no age spots, putting his time on earth at around forty years. His clothing looked foreign. Too many checks in the fabric, the cut of the breeches a little too tight, the coat somewhat too loose.
“This is Congressman Edward Winthrop,” Mr. Screws said. “From Massachusetts. Congressman, may I introduce the distinguished journalist Mr. Charles Dickens?”
“Very pleased to meet you, sir,” the congressman said. “Have a seat.”
Charles recognized none of the soft lilt that Mr. Fletcher had in his voice as he and Mr. Screws sat. Either he had a head cold or a very different accent. “What an honor, sir. Very pleased. I have sat in the gallery here for years, taking down the words of British politicians, but I’ve never met one of the American breed.”
“I’m here to discuss insurance,” the congressman said briskly. “In our American state of Rhode Island, a company recently sold a fire insurance policy. I’m researching what is being done here in England so I can bring the information back to my state of Massachusetts.”
“I hope you are able to attend a few holiday gatherings at the same time,” Charles said politely. A waiter came and brought them cups of coffee, apparently preordered.
“I have good connections here,” Congressman Winthrop said with the careless assurance of class. “An aunt married an Englishman, and it’s good to see her again after so many years. She was a favorite visitor in my childhood home in Boston.”
“How do you know Mr. Screws?” Charles inquired. “Have you done business together?”
“Mr. Dobbin is one of my dear friends and supporters,” the congressman explained. “I’ve been aware of his dealings with Mr. Screws’s establishment for many years.”
“How nice that you can finally meet.” Charles glanced at Mr. Screws. “I take it that you have some intelligence from Mr. Dobbin regarding our concerns?”
“The thing is, Mr. Dickens, Boston and Virginia don’t mix well. It’s a matter of the original American settlers, Virginia aristocrats versus Massachusetts Puritans.”
“You’re suggesting our Tidewater Virginia aristocrat, Mr. Fletcher, would be unlikely to have a position in Boston?” Charles suggested.
“Let me put it this way.” Congressman Winthrop leaned forward. “I doubt Mr. Dobbin would employ a braggart like this Mr. Fletcher in his business. He’d know that it wouldn’t go over well with
his clients.”
Charles considered. “Mr. Fletcher is very family proud. He told me that a Mayflower descendant married into the Lee family. Let me see. An Allerton, I believe?”
The congressman smiled thinly. “While I believe that Mrs. Lee was a most excellent woman, her ancestor was a more controversial character. He lost his position in the colony due to some ill dealings. It may be that Mrs. Lee was more pleased with the family she married into than her own.”
“Well, well,” Charles murmured. He had nothing to add to that theory. “But for all his pride, Mr. Fletcher has done his job well, and is trusted.”
Mr. Screws coughed in pronounced fashion. The other two men waited until he cleared his throat. “Mr. Dickens, I now believe the original Dobbin letter was a fake.”
“Then Mr. Fletcher will lose his position with you?”
Mr. Screws stared into his coffee cup, as if it held answers. “I must admit, sirs, that Mr. Fletcher does excellent work and is a true gentleman. With the loss of Mr. Harley, I can ill afford to do without his assistance.”
“He bears watching,” the congressman said, lifting his cup to his lips. “Excellent brew.”
“It’s considered the best in London,” Mr. Screws said. “As is my countinghouse.”
The congressman lifted his thin brows. “Yet you are trusting a charlatan.”
“We are the best,” Mr. Screws repeated. “The dear boy likely forged the letter simply to get us to take him on as an apprentice.”
Dear boy? Had the old man latched on to Mr. Fletcher simply because he had no one else? Or rather he did, in his nephew, if only he could see that. Hopefully, proximity would bring the two men to rapprochement.
* * *
On Monday, Charles was shaken awake by Fred. “What?” he mumbled.
“Charles, you’re going to be late for work. Don’t you have a meeting you need to turn up to?”
Charles blinked at his brother. “Lost my position, remember?”
“I think you should give it another try,” Fred urged. “Remember, Kate didn’t betray you. Mr. Hogarth has had a couple of days to calm down.”
A Christmas Carol Murder Page 19