William grinned and rubbed gravel off his mittens, whispering, “Now we know how they have come to be better friends.” He raised his voice. “It’s William and Charles! Come downstairs.”
Charles pulled him back. “I can’t see her. She doesn’t want to see me.”
“Nonsense,” William said firmly. “It’s her sister who is the problem, not her.”
They waited outside, shifting from side to side to stay warm. Charles made Os with his frosty breath. William patted his pocket as if thinking of a cigar but Charles shook his head, not wanting the scent to attract any other Hogarths.
Eventually Kate opened the kitchen door and stepped out, sliding her feet into pattens. She wore her navy cape with the velvet collar, and Charles could only imagine, with an unsettling feeling at the base of his spine, the nightdress she wore underneath.
“We need your counsel, sweet Kate,” William said.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, lifting her candle, staring only at Charles. “If my father saw you I’d be in a great deal of trouble.”
Charles lifted his hand, wanting to take her in his arms and ban the cold, but he saw her warning glance and kept his distance. “There’s been another death, darling girl.”
Her gaze sharpened. “What? Who?”
“Poor Pettingill, Mr. Screws’s nephew. Strangled in the same room Mr. Harley fell from.”
“What do you think?” William asked. “Two killers?”
Kate frowned. “Of course not. Just one killer.”
“I’ve been puzzling over the notion that perhaps Mrs. Pettingill killed her husband,” Charles said. “She’s a strong personality and an unhappy woman at that.”
“Never,” Kate insisted. “A wife would never be so unnatural toward her husband.”
“Yet a fiancée would be,” Charles countered.
“A fiancée is still ruled by her family, until she joins in holy matrimony,” Kate snapped.
William chuckled and put his arm in front of Charles as if to hold him back. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Come, Kate, give us something to work on.”
“Why was he in that room?” she asked.
“They moved in to care for Mr. Screws,” Charles said.
Kate tapped her lower lip with her fingers. “What had Mr. Pettingill learned that caused his death?”
Charles answered promptly. “He’d learned that Mr. Screws was going to give him the business to run.”
“That’s the reason then. Who didn’t want him to run the business?”
“Birding enthusiasts?” Charles answered.
She stepped closer. “Be serious, Charles. Two men have died. An old man lost his dearest companion. A woman has been widowed. You need to stop this. Whoever Mr. Screws appoints next will be marked for death.”
Charles saw the bleakness in her eyes. She was so close now. He could smell the rose oil in her uncovered hair. His hand went out to touch hers.
She recoiled, her eyes going glassy with tears. Without another word, she turned and dashed back into the house. The wind caught her candle flame and extinguished it.
“It’s like she vanished,” Charles whispered after the door closed.
“She’ll reappear when you need her.” William slapped him on the shoulder. “She still loves you, you nob-head.”
* * *
The next morning, Charles appeared early at Finsbury Circus, spurred on by Fred’s enthusiasm for his new position.
Mr. Screws, at his dining room table, grunted when Mrs. Pettingill, wreathed in black, ushered him into his dining room. All signs of Christmastime had been removed from the outside due to the mourning period. Who had taken the time to gather the trimmings?
“I understand how Jacob felt in his last days, confined to these quarters,” Mr. Screws said, his shaking hand setting down his teacup. He had dressed but still wore carpet slippers instead of shoes. His feet were turned toward the stove but Charles thought he detected a continuing shiver.
“The weather is so unwholesome. I’m sure you’ll feel much better by April.”
“If I live that long. But if I do not, who will take the business?” he fretted.
“I have pondered that very question, sir. Who is your heir now? For surely, that person is in danger.”
“It must be Primus, for there is no one else,” Mr. Screws said wearily. “The business put into trust, for lawyers to pick over, and him to receive the proceeds.”
Having been in Primus’s home, Charles knew the man had no security. He would welcome anyone, in order to sell his wares. “He must be protected. I am assuming that his lady friend agreed that he couldn’t have been here to kill your nephew?”
“Yes,” Mr. Screws said. “The police assure me that he was seen by half a dozen people at the time. He could not have been in my house then. Mrs. Pettingill sent him home.”
Mr. Fletcher poked his head through the half-open doorway, his top hat and gloves ready for the outdoors. “I am off to the countinghouse now, sir.”
“Send Mr. Cratchit directly here,” Mr. Screws ordered. “He’ll know what ledgers to bring.”
Mr. Fletcher nodded and winked at Charles, then vanished.
Mr. Screws opened his writing desk and wrote a quick note before handing it to Charles. “Take this to my solicitor. He’ll need to come and make me a will. You can witness it.”
Charles took the note. He still felt like he had icicles in his nose, but back into the busy streets he would go. “Should I go to see Mr. Harley?”
“No. Let us not draw attention to him. Pray return with my solicitor or one of his clerks.”
Charles nodded and followed in Mr. Fletcher’s wake. His errand didn’t take terribly long. He returned with the solicitor, a fellow even older than Mr. Screws, in a hired coach, then waited in the hall while the men talked, since the solicitor asked for privacy. Luckily, he’d brought part of his book folded into his pocket and he worked on his edits while he waited.
Eventually the solicitor left. Mr. Screws instructed Charles to wait in the hall for Mr. Cratchit to arrive, leaving him to feel like some sort of bodyguard instead of a secretary. He edited on, jumping up when he heard the knocker, happy for a distraction since he’d nearly made it through the pages he’d brought with him.
“At work? With Mr. Screws?” Mr. Cratchit asked. His nose gleamed red with cold and he had a hole exposing skin in his left mitten.
“Confidential secretary. For a couple of weeks.”
Mr. Cratchit frowned. “I daresay he needs the help, poor man. Mr. Fletcher scarcely leaves the countinghouse. He’s trying to do the work of Screws and Harley along with his own.”
“It’s unfortunate that young Mr. Harley wasn’t trained for the business.”
“Some high sticklers as clients. I don’t think Mr. Harley could have brought in a bastard son without damaging the trade.” Mr. Cratchit sneezed. The mighty wind he created sent the stack of ledgers he carried crashing to the ground.
Charles knelt to pick them up as the clerk pulled a grimy, hole-pocked handkerchief from his sleeve and blew.
“Goodness me, such a sneeze! Careful not to bend the edges, good sir. Mr. Screws has very high standards, you know.”
Charles carefully slid each loose paper back where it belonged and handed the ledgers to Mr. Cratchit. “I wonder about the state of your shoes, sir, now that I know what care is taken with the ledgers.”
Mr. Cratchit stared down at the mud caking his old, stained brown shoes. “Very muddy in the Dials today. Rained hard overnight. Expect the good folks on the top floor, Irish, you know, found a goodly dose of clean water leaking through the roof early this morn.”
If Mr. Cratchit lived in the Dials with the poverty-stricken Irish immigrants, he must be poor indeed. What kind of wages did Mr. Screws pay? Had he been a fool to take the position? There had yet to be a mention of his pay.
Mr. Screws had considerable wealth but everyone around him seemed impoverished, except Mr. Fletcher,
who would have his own resources.
Mr. Cratchit gave him a creaky little bow and went to the dining room to deliver the ledgers. Charles sat back on his chair, rather dazed. He’d bring more work with him tomorrow, telling himself that it didn’t matter if he was paid little if he spent most of the time cast on his own work. He spent a good twenty minutes thinking up a new sketch about clerks and their shoes, but then remembered he probably had nowhere to send it. Had Mr. Hogarth begun to slander him across London yet? This was hard times, indeed.
As he leaned against the wall, musing, Mrs. Pettingill came down from the stairs, a couple of stuffed flour sacks dangling from each hand. He rushed forward to help her.
“May I ask a kindness of you, Mr. Dickens?” she asked, her eyes downcast, very unlike the Mrs. Pettingill he was used to seeing.
“My time is your uncle’s, madam, but with his permission I will aid you.”
She held out the sacks to him. “Will you please take my husband’s clothing to a secondhand dealer for me? I cannot bear the commission myself.”
“If that will help.” No widow would want to see her husband’s intimate possessions sprawled across a table, much less hung on lines around a used clothing stall. But why would she want to be rid of everything so soon? He stared at her more intimately than ever before.
As she blushed at his frank perusal, he saw the repaired lace at her collar, and the practical strip of black muslin sewn around the hem. She must need the money the clothes could bring. Had the old miser not offered her an allowance?
He nodded and took the bags from her, gently settling them against the wall. “I will interrupt Mr. Screws and beg permission.”
“Oh.” She put her hand to her throat. “Do wait until his meeting is over. Is it with someone important?”
“His clerk.” They shared a glance. Poor Robert Cratchit was no one important.
“I will make dear Uncle Emmanuel a fresh pot of tea and bring it in. Then you can come in behind me and ask,” she decided, and went down the passage toward the kitchen.
Why couldn’t she ask Mr. Screws himself, since it was her commission? His suspicion renewed. Had she wanted the clothing out of the house because seeing it would remind her of something very bad she had done, like killing the gentle man she had wed?
Mrs. Pettingill was no fainting, flyaway slip of a girl, but a sturdy woman of more than middling height. She probably stretched wider than her late husband across the middle. Yes, she might have overpowered him from behind.
Charles winced as his fertile imagination saw the possible scene unfolding. He should tell Mr. Screws to ensure that she didn’t leave the house, in case she went after Primus Harley. No new widow should be seen out of doors anyway, especially a genteel one.
Once again, he found himself regretting the loss of the competent Mrs. Dorset. She’d have been a better gatekeeper than the old gentleman.
When the widow reappeared, he followed her into the dining room, where Mr. Screws was berating Mr. Cratchit about some fault of one of the lesser clerks. He paused long enough for his niece to gesture Charles forward and gave permission for Charles to go to the shops for her.
* * *
Upon exiting the house, Charles sucked in the smoky air outside like it was spring again and he was walking through country hedgerows. He was far too active a person to sit doing nothing in a front hall for hours. Given the time of day, he didn’t need to return to Finsbury Circus again until morning.
He decided to see Reuben Solomon in Middlesex Street. The old clothes man, known to Charles from last summer’s lack of financial liquidity, radiated kindness and honesty. The man had taken in some items he’d purchased, and offered good advice as well.
Mr. Solomon, seated on a bench in front of his table, had bundled into his winter costume. Though hidden under a canvas roof and behind a line of hanging clothing, he still worked outdoors. To his habitual top hat, the long beard of red streaked with white, and the heavy coat, he’d added mittens, a muffler, and a blanket. Instead of a cup of wine at his elbow he had a pottery mug of coffee. Charles recognized the two women huddled against the wall of the building at the back of the stall from previous visits, sharing a wool blanket while they sewed.
“Mr. Dickens.” The old man nodded. “I never forget a face, you see.”
Charles grinned and stepped up to his table, ducking under a pair of secondhand winter coats upgraded with shiny buttons. “It has been a few months.”
“You look the same,” the man responded, fingering his beard. “Sit down.” He waved to the women to bring another cup.
One of them took a pot off of a brazier and poured steaming liquid into another pottery mug. Charles took it with thanks and breathed in the dark brew.
“What is in those sacks? Have you had another turn of fortune?”
“It is a long story, Mr. Solomon, but I am carrying out a commission for a new widow. She wished to have the price of her late husband’s clothing and I knew you would give me an honest deal.”
The dealer grunted and pushed the breeches he’d been piecing together to the side. He called out in Hebrew to the older woman, who scuttled forward to pick it up, leaving the table clean. “I have time for a story while I look through these sacks.”
Charles hefted his sacks and set them on the table, then undid the strings at the top of each. “Let us make sure nothing is hiding in these garments.”
“Like jewelry? We will check each pocket.” Mr. Solomon took off his gloves, exposing long fingers reddened with cold. While he loved his walks, Charles could not imagine spending the day outside without being in motion. He took the stool opposite the dealer and drank his coffee.
“Well?” The dealer looked at him expectantly.
Charles’s sip of the nearly boiling coffee went down the wrong way. He coughed, tears springing to his eyes. “I’ve lost her.”
“Who? The sleepy-eyed young lady with a love of ribbons?”
Charles nodded and wiped his eyes with his mitten. He sipped more cautiously, feeling the warmth move down his chest. “I rescued a baby from a silly maid who thought I was the infant’s father.”
“Are you?”
“Absolutely no chance of it, but the mother died and I was a handy fool. I brought the babe to London and my Kate found out about it. I think she believes me, but someone overheard a conversation about the baby and told her parents. I’ve lost Kate, and my position, and my reputation.”
“Why doesn’t anyone else believe you?”
Charles shrugged. “I think it’s easier to believe a lie than the truth. As successful as I’ve been over the past year, I’ve had my rough spots, as you know. I had to put the wedding off a few months. We should have been married by now. Her father might have thought I was a bad bargain, even though I’ve continued to make progress in my career. I even have a book coming out next year.”
Mr. Solomon nodded wisely, his fingers still moving through the clothes. Charles recognized the blue nightcap and felt a pang for the lost bird expert.
“If your Kate truly loves you, you will have her back in the end. If not,” his watery eyes twinkling, he added, “I have a lovely granddaughter, Hannah, who would make you a good wife.”
Charles tried to smile but couldn’t find the expression. “I am honored, sir, but I love Kate. I am resolved to have her and she has not entirely given up on me. I do not think I will become the man I was meant to be without her.”
“Then don’t doubt her. You’ll find a path to the truth.”
“Of course,” Charles added, “in the midst of all this personal disaster, people have been dying again. Including the man whose clothes you hold.”
“Oh?” Mr. Solomon’s fingers stilled. “How did this man die?”
“Strangled,” Charles said succinctly. “In the same room where another man died some weeks ago. We think they are dying over a business the first man co-owned and the second man was going to manage and inherit.”
“Who do you t
hink killed them?”
“I would like to point a finger at the widow, but I have to trust my Kate, don’t I?”
“She doesn’t think the widow killed her husband, despite her desire to rid herself of his clothing?”
“No, she thinks the murders are business related. I must say the clothing being sold so soon surprised me. The widow is not hungry, or cold, or in any kind of danger, even if she might be poor. Her husband’s uncle has been very protective of her.”
“Could he have other kinds of feelings for the widow?”
“He’s very ill. I don’t think so. I think he’s holding close what little family he has left.” Charles drained the last of his mug. “Kate said it would be unnatural for a woman to kill her husband, but I must say there are definitely unnatural aspects to this situation. A ghost, a missing body . . . it is all a tangle.”
Mr. Solomon arched an eyebrow at the word “ghost” but asked the obvious question. “Who benefits from these deaths?”
Charles had a flash of memory. “The widow wore a mended dress today, but I’d seen her in an expensive dress before.”
“Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know anything about her wardrobe.” Charles thought through the possibilities. The Hogarth girls had plenty of fine clothes they couldn’t have afforded thanks to the generosity of Lady Lugoson. Did Mrs. Pettingill have a similar benefactor? Or was there a more sinister story behind the differing quality of her wardrobe?
“Then you will have to investigate.”
“Isn’t a widow better off with her husband alive?” Charles said. “I think so, based on what I know. He seemed to be a very nice man, distinguished even. His uncle trusted him.”
Mr. Solomon nodded. “Then you have to agree with your Kate for now. Who inherits the business?”
“A Mr. Harley, but he is a dwarf. I don’t think he could have killed the victims. There is another wrinkle to the situation.”
“What is that?”
“A damaged creature whose mother was employed in the house. Johnny Dorset might have sneaked in and done it, but he had no reason to kill the second victim.”
“Reason for the first?”
A Christmas Carol Murder Page 22