“Oh, yes.” Charles saddened at the thought. “Johnny is unlikely to plan to kill. He is capable of rage, but not forethought.”
“Perhaps he’s decided he enjoys killing, if he is mad.”
Charles sighed. “Or there are two killers. There is also a man, a manufacturer who had a loan, who has every reason to be angry at this business but I’ve met with him and he did not seem like a killer.”
“Who else is on the scene?”
Charles shrugged. “Servants of the household, people who work for the business.”
“Could any of them have done it?”
“None of them would benefit. Other than the business, the two victims have nothing in common.”
Mr. Solomon fished a yellow nightcap from a coat pocket. “It is a puzzle. A wise scholar of my people once said, ‘Before a thief steals, he has learned to lie.’ ”
Charles thought about the saying. “You are saying that someone may not be who I think they are?”
“Indeed.” Mr. Solomon stroked his beard. “I agree with you that this widow is unlikely to be impoverished. This is good fabric, nothing more than two years old. She feels guilt, this person. She does not want to look on her husband’s possessions.”
“Will you buy them?”
“Yes.” The dealer spread his long, chilblained fingers. “It is good cloth. It will sell, and quickly. There is nothing hidden in the fabric.”
They agreed on a price and Charles securely pocketed the money before departing for home, none the wiser. Still, he had plenty to do with his time. He wanted to get his book edits home and another stack under way.
* * *
On Wednesday, Charles went to Finsbury Circus prepared with triple the amount of papers to edit in his coat pocket. He asked Mr. Screws about his salary and they set a very respectable renumeration for his efforts, much relieving him. Then, Mr. Screws sent him to the countinghouse with a load of ledgers early in the afternoon, once he had worked through what Mr. Cratchit had brought him midmorning. After that, Charles needed to escort Mr. Screws to the inquest for Mr. Pettingill.
He switched out the ledgers with the aid of Mr. Cratchit and was turning to leave when Mr. Fletcher stuck his head out of his office door.
The hair over his ears had started to grow, highlighting the gray parts. He looked frantic and overworked, perhaps unready to have moved from apprentice to principal so quickly. Despite that, his voice was cheery as he suggested, “Fancy the theater tonight?”
“The theater?” Charles said, juggling the ledgers.
“Yes, a musical performance, a benefit I believe, with myself and my fiancée, and you and yours?”
Charles cleared his throat. “It pains me to admit, but I am not able to see my Kate in public at the moment.”
Mr. Fletcher’s eyebrows rose. “What a calamity! What happened with dear Miss Hogarth? Miss Osborne had so looked forward to deepening the friendship.”
Charles kept his expression blank. “Yes, it is very sad, but I have not yet lost hope, nor has she. It’s an issue with her father.”
“I see.” Mr. Fletcher patted him awkwardly. “Fathers can be trouble. My Miss Osborne is an orphan. Her parents raised her and then conveniently died before I met her.”
“I see,” Charles murmured, not sure of how to respond. While his parents could be troublesome, he did not wish death to befall them.
Mr. Fletcher’s very being electrified, as if he’d been transported by some great idea. “My dear sir, you must go with us,” he insisted. “Just the thing. Music for the shattered soul. We will take care of you.”
“Mr. Screws might need me,” he temporized.
“Not in the evening. He is not that sort of master. Where will you be? We shall fetch you in a hired carriage.”
Charles gave in. Who knew what he might learn from Mr. Fletcher? An evening spent with Fred glaring at him did not sound soothing. Especially after the ordeal of another inquest.
* * *
Several hours later, Charles’s head ached as he stood on the mezzanine level of the sumptuous theater, a glass of champagne in his hand. The gas lamps smelled. His shirt felt too tight, courtesy of sitting too much lately, instead of walking.
He’d spent hours seated at the inquest. The coffin had been open, though at least they had not left Mr. Pettingill’s body in situ for the jurors. The sight of that placid face, never again to speak enthusiastically about birds, made Charles’s stomach ache. This time they had brought back a verdict of “sudden wrongful death by the hand of another where the offender is not known.” Sir Silas had nodded significantly at Charles after the verdict was read, making him think that Mr. Harley’s death might be reconsidered now.
“Are you well, Mr. Dickens?” Miss Osborne inquired as she ran her fingers down the gold-tasseled edge of a curtain. “You have a greenish cast to your skin.”
“I think that light is defective,” Charles said, pointing to the sconce on the wall. “Would you mind if we moved away from it?”
“As long as Mr. Fletcher can find us, I have no objection. The poor man suffers from a weak stomach at times, and even I agree that the cockles were off. I hope our drinks will counteract them.” She smiled and emptied the contents of their champagne bottle between their glasses, then walked with him away from the milling music enthusiasts.
That had been part of the problem, too. The sopranos screeched and the basses rumbled, none of them very good. Charles had been raised in a musical family, as had Kate. His standards had become too high to appreciate such a ruckus.
He grinned to himself.
“What is amusing you, sir?”
“Ruckus,” he said, trying out the word on his tongue. “I just thought of that word. Your fiancé must be rubbing off on me, for me to think of such an Americanism.”
She put her hand through the crook of his elbow and drew him farther down toward the subscription boxes. “I think it is absolutely perfect that you are working for Mr. Screws. Just think of it. You and Mr. Fletcher can run the business together for the poor old dear.”
“Why is it that women like him so?” Charles asked. “My Miss Hogarth sees him as a dear old thing, too.”
“Men return to infancy in their great old age,” Miss Osborne said complacently. “We think of them like we do babies. Don’t you agree?”
He started to demur, but she asked after his family then, and his childhood, before moving on to his career to date. His head pounded, Mr. Fletcher did not return, and he began to have the uncomfortable feeling that he was being grilled for information about himself and his friendships.
Perhaps it was simply that his head ached so. He had enjoyed his share of exciting adventures, bowling his way through the country, even up to Scotland, in search of stories. Any woman with a love of exciting tales would find what he had to offer satisfying.
“You must—” Miss Osborne stopped and blushed prettily.
He put his glass to his mouth and discovered it empty. “What, my dear? You must ask me.” His voice had developed a thick quality.
She put a hand to her décolletage, drawing his attention to the soft curve of her breasts. He blinked. His vision swam. He’d become a little drunk. Had he eaten dinner?
“You must allow me to acquire an autographed copy of your book when it is released. I will treasure it always, as a sign of our special friendship.”
He wanted to protest that he scarcely knew her, but her finger fluttered distractingly at the slopes of her breasts, first touching one side, then the other, like a pendulum.
“There you are.” A hearty American voice reached Charles’s ears.
He drew back and attempted to smile at Mr. Fletcher. “I apologize. The light where we were waiting was not working.”
“I could smell the gas.” Mr. Fletcher peered at him. “Are you well? You are flushed.”
Miss Osborne touched his forehead with cool fingers. “He’s warm, my love.”
Charles handed Mr. Fletcher his glass. “I
beg your indulgence but I think I must go home.”
He nodded. “You must be well for tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” He could only sketch a wave and dart down the hall to where he knew a back staircase hid in the darkness.
Once outside, he felt immediately better. His eyes cleared. Cigar smoke had been as thick in the theater as gas fumes.
No wonder theaters burned down so often. He made his way home with bleary inattention. The air, though not clean or clear, was an improvement from indoors. He went into his rooms reluctantly, hoping his brother had gone out.
Instead, Fred sprawled across the sofa, the fire blazing merrily in front of him, their stoneware ale jug on the rug at his feet.
“No outing?”
“I haven’t wanted to spend the coin, given the unsteady state of your career,” Fred fretted.
Charles let his body fold into the couch in rag-doll fashion. “I still have my book deal and my temporary position.”
“For how long?” Fred asked, draining his glass.
“Until Mr. Screws dies, I imagine. He does not keep me busy but it is enough that I know he needs me.”
“People die at this time of year.”
“Yes, the weather is unforgiving,” Charles agreed. “But I assure you, I am not our father. Mr. Screws offered me a generous number of shillings a week.”
“You are awfully passive about the baby,” Fred argued. “It is not like you.”
“I have written letters that I hope will bring new information to light. I should go to Hatfield again myself and sort out the situation,” Charles admitted. “I have relied too much on William.”
“I’m worried,” Fred stated. “I know you. These murders weigh too much on you, and you haven’t Kate to provide comfort now.”
“That’s not true. When I see her I know she still loves me.” Charles’s tone sounded bleak even to himself. “It is something.”
“Something,” Fred muttered, staring at the fire. “We all need something.”
Charles had just resolved on going to bed when a knock came on the outer door.
Chapter 19
Charles forced his resistant body to rise in response to the door knock. He missed those days when the person at his Furnival’s Inn door was usually William, ready with a cheerful plan for the evening. These nights he didn’t know what to expect.
He took a deep breath of the evergreen boughs Fred had piled in the tiny entry, no doubt prefatory to decorating their rooms. The sharp scent lent a little energy to him, but his shoulders still stiffened when he opened the door.
“Yes?” he asked cautiously.
The black-cloaked figure did not have the height of his previous ghostly visitor. This one also had a lacy veil over her face. Though it obscured her features, he preferred it to sepulchral makeup.
Her hands indicated a desire to move into his chambers. He blocked his door with his arm. “What mischief is this, madam? What do you plan?”
“Mr. Dickens, it is I.”
Charles frowned. The voice had some air of familiarity, but he couldn’t quite place it. “I, madam?”
“Betsy Pettingill.” She had an air of exasperation.
His eyes widened. “How do you know where I live?”
“Mr. Screws had it in his papers.”
Charles sighed and let his arm drop. “Very well. You may enter. My brother is here to chaperone.” As a widow she might not need a chaperone, but he felt the need for one himself.
She brushed past him. He could smell the dye in her veil as she passed. It must have been a white veil before today, reminding him of her recent loss. He also remembered that she might be a killer. Was she not surprisingly eager to remove to Finsbury Circus when he’d announced Mr. Screws’s household distress? Far more than her husband, and he suspected her to be an intelligent woman.
Once he had the door closed and locked, he very deliberately helped her with her cloak and veil, to remove any hint of the ghost from her person.
Fred stood and bowed.
“Fred, this is Mrs. Pettingill,” he explained. “She runs my employer’s household.”
Fred nodded. “Do you want me to stay?”
“I couldn’t ask you to take the trouble,” the lady said sweetly, ignoring the evidence that Fred had been very much at home in front of the fire. “Really, my dear, you must run along.”
Fred’s gaze slid past Charles and he moved fluidly until he’d vanished into the bedroom. At least his brother would be safe if Mrs. Pettingill wanted to do him harm.
But he began to get the feeling the new widow had other ideas. When she turned, he discovered she’d blackened her eyelashes. He noticed because she blinked at him several times, a coquettish gesture that didn’t match her forthright personality.
Then, she twisted her hands together and seemed to shrink. “I beg an audience of you, my dear Mr. Dickens.”
“Would you like to be seated?” He gestured to the sofa, only then noticing Fred must have spilled his ale, given the wet spot in the center.
Instead of replying, she threw herself into a huddle at his feet. Her skirts rustled against the carpet and she clutched at his shoes. “I will be a good wife to you!” she howled.
“What?” Charles, too shocked to process her words, stepped back.
She oozed forward and grabbed his ankles. “Please do me the honor of proposing marriage!” Looking up at him, her eyes transformed into slits by the heavy cosmetics, she blinked rapidly. “I’ll be a good, true wife to you.”
He swallowed hard but realized he wasn’t truly affected. She’d set them both up as characters in a play. In real life, no woman would behave this way. “Compose yourself. You cannot possibly be so desperate, madam.”
“It is not desperation, but desire, Mr. Dickens. A desire to be your wife.”
“Won’t Mr. Screws leave you something in his will? You’re Mr. Pettingill’s heir and you are still living in Mr. Screws’s abode. Dedicate yourself to him.” He attempted to lift his foot, but she held tightly above his shoes.
“I cannot.”
“You are but freshly a widow. Cease this panicking and allow yourself to mourn, as surely any wife of such an excellent man as Mr. Pettingill should.”
“Oh, my dear Edward.” She gasped, choked, bent her head and coughed.
Charles waited, paralyzed by her clutching hands. They inched up his thick wool socks. Did she mean to find his bare flesh?
“I admit I have no faith in my uncle-in-law, but, Charles, by marrying me, you are gambling that you are marrying an heiress.”
“I did not give you permission to be so familiar.” Kate called him Charles often now, a process that had come on gradually after their engagement. It was special, his name an endearment from her lips. He didn’t want to hear it from anyone else.
She lifted her head and howled again. “I apologize. You are so dear to me that ‘Charles’ is my own heart’s name for you.”
He felt acutely uncomfortable at this turn of events. What was wrong with the widow’s behavior? He rapidly calculated the possibilities. Could she be trying to cover up some kind of relationship with Mr. Harley or Mr. Appleton? That expensive gown he’d seen her wear in a previous encounter might have been a gift. He’d heard of impoverished widows remarrying quickly, but this was downright insanity. The body had not yet been buried. In fact, he wasn’t sure where it had gone after the inquest.
“I implore you, madam, to think of your Edward, so tender in his grave, though I do not know if he even has one.”
“He does,” she sobbed. “A private family vault. He is already there, poor soul.”
“You had him taken there directly after the inquest?”
“Yes. The Pettingill cousins took him. I couldn’t trust anyone else after what happened to poor Mr. Harley.”
Poor Mr. Harley? Now here was the first time he had heard that man spoken of with any tenderness.
“Poor Mr. Harley indeed,” he muttered. “How can you spe
ak of leaving dear Edward’s elderly relative for another man? I am sure both your husband and Mr. Harley would want you to watch over Mr. Screws.”
“Who will watch over me?” she cried, clutching at him again. “Am I not my husband’s heir?”
The skin around Charles’s neck tingled. Why were women continually throwing themselves at him? This never happened before he met Kate. “I cannot stay with you. I have a young brother to watch over. You must be strong and vigilant for both you and Mr. Screws.”
She sniffled. She let go of him and wobbled to her knees. “I see I have come to the wrong man for help.”
He stiffened. “I am promised to another, but I assure you that as long as I am Mr. Screws’s secretary, I will be in his house or about the duties he assigned as faithfully as anyone could. I also promise you I will learn who murdered these men and bring them to justice.”
He helped lift her to her feet, while making sure to touch her as little as possible. “What can you do that the coroner could not?” she asked.
“I have solved murders before,” he said darkly. “I can do it again.” And set his world back to rights.
* * *
On Christmas Eve morning, Charles pushed his brother out the door early, for the fog lay thick outside their windows and he knew Fred would have a slow walk to work. He made sure Fred wore gloves under his mittens and dressed very warmly. They would attend church services tonight after the workday was done. Tomorrow would be a feast with their family. Charles could already taste the Christmas pudding, presently hanging in his mother’s pantry.
After that, he thought he’d take a coach to Hatfield, assuming Mr. Screws didn’t need him on Saturday. People who’d left the area might return for Christmas, and he hoped to gain new insight as to who Timothy’s father was. He might also find the little maid had an older relative in town who might be able to take the child in, or at least be made aware the Agas had him.
He hummed a merry tune as he gathered his clothes and notes. While he sat in Mr. Screws’s hall waiting for orders, he planned to draft a story, originally meant for the Evening Chronicle. It would go in his book now. The revisions were almost done.
A Christmas Carol Murder Page 23