He heard a knock on his outer door. A message from Mr. Screws perhaps, to send him on an errand? He opened it and received a delivery boy along with a blast of frigid air. The boy’s muffler sat so high over his face that Charles could see nothing but a pair of bright blue eyes.
He thanked the boy and shut the door, then took the note over to his teacup and opened the missive. He took in the words, but not the meaning, so he read it again.
Mr. John Macrone presents his compliments to
Mr. Charles Dickens, and, in returning the
enclosed manuscript, begs to express his regret that
the controversy in which the author is involved is
not one that he can hopefully or usefully enter
into. If the concerns about the author’s moral
turpitude are positively resolved in the future, per-
haps this excellent work will be able to return to
our publishing calendar.
Charles’s vision washed with red. The letter had not actually come with his text, but alone. Macrone was playing chess with him, by placing his book on hold. The publisher had concerns about his moral turpitude? How dare he? Now he couldn’t afford to go to Hatfield himself and make another attempt to learn the truth about the baby.
He drained his teacup and groaned. Fred did not need to hear of this financial blow. He was nervous enough, and little though he remembered of his father’s early adventure in debtor’s prison, he knew all too well the drama of over a year ago, when his father went to a sponging house while Charles tore around the city gathering loans from everyone he knew. They’d ended up here at Furnival’s Inn as a result.
He’d have to trek to Pall Mall and give his publisher a piece of his mind immediately. After fighting the hold, he’d then go to Mr. Screws’s home to commence his workday. After all, ever since his novelist friend William Ainsworth had introduced him to John Macrone, he’d considered the man a friend. The publisher had been depressed since losing his first-born child in November, but he couldn’t lose faith in the Sketches. They both needed to make money on the project.
Charles marched into the offices after a damp walk, hoping to find one of his friends about. Macrone published many wonderful authors and had the clout to persuade the well-respected mad genius George Cruikshank to do his illustrations.
His publisher, only a few years older than he, usually greeted Charles with a ready smile and a warm handshake, but today, the charisma had vanished from his face and his hair stood up in tufts. He was alone, standing in front of the fireplace in his inner chamber.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Didn’t you receive my note?”
Charles pulled off his gloves and held his hands to the crackling fire. “I will swear on the holy Bible that I do not have an illegitimate child,” he promised. “Will that satisfy Mr. Hogarth and his cronies who are bent on doing me ill?”
Macrone collapsed into a desk chair. “It does not seem likely. I can’t afford to publish the book now, Charles. It won’t get any notices, thanks to Mr. Hogarth.”
Charles sat next to him, knowing he fought for his professional life. “I can provide proof of never being in Hatfield before last month,” he said. “There are no articles, no travels, nothing. Even Miss Hogarth doesn’t believe this slander.”
“How did her father find out?”
“One of his other children overheard a conversation and repeated it.”
Macrone sighed. “I must take the respected Mr. Hogarth’s word that you are a degenerate.”
“You know me better than that.” Charles touched his publisher’s shoulder. “Who wept with you when little Frederick died? Me, not Mr. Hogarth. Who vouched for me? Ainsworth, not Hogarth. He’s rigidly against bastard children and rushed to judgment, but it was a false judgment.”
“Charles,” Macrone began.
Charles shook his head. “It is Christmas Eve. I saved a four-month-old infant from certain death. I brought that child to London because his distraught aunt was confused and upset due to her sister’s death in the Hatfield fire.”
“But,” Macrone interjected, his handsome, intelligent face marred with deep emotion.
“I acted on Christian charity, not degeneracy. Quite the opposite.” Charles set his hand on his publisher’s arm. “You were a father, John. You would have done anything to save Frederick’s life if it had been possible. How can you imagine that I, having seen what you went through, would have done anything less for fatherless Timothy than I did?”
“But Mr. Hogarth?”
“You must believe me. I demand it, John, I really do. I am not little Timothy’s father, but I am his guardian, his angel if you will.”
Macrone’s jaw worked. His eyes went glassy. Charles almost felt bad at his manipulation, but Timothy’s future was at stake as well as his.
Macrone took a deep breath. “I am very glad my little Frederick brought some good into the world. I am glad you saved the child, Charles. You are a good man.”
“Thank you.” Charles smiled at him. “Will you resume preparations for my book to be released?”
Macrone nodded. “Though it may destroy me.”
Charles pulled his latest revisions from his pocket with a flourish. “I am almost done. Here are the latest edited sketches.”
Macrone took them with sober intent. “I’ll give Cruikshank the next set of instructions for his illustrations.”
Charles stood and shook his publisher’s hand. “Thank you. You won’t be sorry. Please wish Mrs. Macrone a very happy Christmas for me.”
He walked back to the street, feeling pleased with himself, though his stomach felt greasy and queasy with nervous energy. Every orphan should have a protector like Timothy had.
* * *
“Where have you been?” Mr. Screws said irritably from the parlor as Charles entered the house. Dressed for the outdoors, he was seated, but with his cane between his knees, ready to help him rise.
He had noted Mrs. Pettingill had not opened the door as he’d been used to her doing; rather, she’d allowed a maid to do so. Likely she’d kept out of sight due to her embarrassment over her behavior the night before.
“I apologize. I had an urgent matter to take care of regarding my book. As you know I had planned to devote my time entirely to the project.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Screws said, the side of his mouth turning up in a sneer.
“You are not working in the dining room today?” Charles asked.
“I am quite restored,” the old man snapped. “Congressman Winthrop has requested a meeting with me this morning and I wanted you along.”
“Ah,” Charles said. “Some more intelligence about Mr. Fletcher?”
“I would imagine so.” Mr. Screws scratched at his hook of a nose, then stood. “I really cannot afford to lose Mr. Fletcher, you know. I had hoped he would remain in London until I died.”
He brushed past Charles and walked out the door. Charles followed in his employer’s wake as he carefully stepped down to the street, one hand clutching the stark railing, the other, his cane. The Screws carriage came up the street and they climbed aboard.
“Are your hopes dashed over Mr. Fletcher?”
Mr. Screws clicked his false teeth. “It is likely. I knew I’d have to increase his salary since his workload has increased, which irritated me, but his loss is unimaginable.”
“Is there anyone else? Anyone you’ve missed?”
“I have cast about for whom to leave the business other than Primus. I did have a cousin, Mehetabel Screws, who lived in Kent. He and his wife, a woman of some private fortune, have died but Mr. Pettingill still corresponded with his son. They would have been related through my father.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Pettingill has the address?”
“Indeed. She is the one who reminded me. Just this morning we wrote a letter to inquire as to the son’s circumstances. My cousin was trained for the church. I have to assume his son has an education, as w
ell as some sort of interest in science, or my nephew would never have bothered to correspond.”
Charles wished for some sort of novelistic ending to the story, finding out that baby Timothy was related to Mr. Screws somehow, and that he would inherit a fortune. Alas, that was not how real life worked. But he had a thought. “It sounds promising. One wonders if you’ll discover that he’s been in London all this time?”
Chapter 20
The coach rattled, bouncing the two men up and down. It had run over something in the road. On the pavement, boys stared at Charles curiously as he passed. He wondered what had gone underneath the wheels.
“No, Mrs. Pettingill said the address on my cousin’s letters had always been from Kent,” Mr. Screws said in answer to his question. “Mehetabel’s wife had a lifetime interest in a fine house.”
Charles knew his point had gone entirely over the old man’s head. If this cousin knew he was in line to inherit a fortune, he might be the previous heir’s killer. But it sounded like he might have money. “It would be good to know more about your young cousin.”
“Mrs. Pettingill will know more. Mehetabel and his wife were in close communication with Mr. and Mrs. Pettingill. I believe Mrs. Pettingill received all of Mrs. Mehetabel’s personal effects after her death.”
“That must account for why Mrs. Pettingill has such an unusual wardrobe.”
“What do you mean, sir?” The old man thumped his cane between his legs against the floor of the coach.
“She has both fine gowns and mended ones.”
Mr. Screws lifted his chin. “I do not pay attention to such things. She is a woman of clean habits, which is enough for me.”
Charles decided to stop pressing the subject. “Is Mr. Fletcher in the countinghouse today?”
“Early this morning, I sent him across the river to investigate a business that has asked for a large loan. He should be back by now.”
They went slowly through the fog-cloaked streets but soon Charles was helping Mr. Screws onto the pavement in front of the Screws and Harley countinghouse. Just behind them another coachman called to his horses and pulled to the side of the road behind the Screws carriage.
Mr. Screws waited, shivering, while the second carriage discharged two men. Congressman Winthrop had on a brand-new overcoat, though it would not remain perfect for long, given the casual way he held a cigar with a long ash at the tip. The second man appeared to be about the same age, but of a more continental appearance.
Charles recognized him. “That’s Aaron Vail, the American chargé d’affaires.”
“I wonder what he’s got to do with Mr. Fletcher,” Mr. Screws said in a low voice.
The congressman held out his hand for a hearty shake before he had even reached them. He quickly made introductions.
“Do you have some helpful information for us, Mr. Vail?” Charles asked.
“Based on the provided description,” Mr. Vail said with a surprising French accent, “I would like to see this Powhatan Fletcher.”
“Is the name familiar to you, sir?” Mr. Screws asked.
The new man nodded.
Mr. Screws let out a long, pitying breath and brought them inside. One of the clerks, warming his hands in front of the stove, squealed when he saw his employer and raced, rat-like, back to his desk.
“That’s him,” Charles said into Mr. Vail’s ear. “The man who is standing next to the seated clerk.” He nodded at Mr. Cratchit’s desk, where he and Mr. Fletcher were looking at a ledger.
“Escroc,” Mr. Vail said to himself. “Where can we speak in private, Mr. Screws?”
“My office, right this way.” Mr. Screws led them through the clerk’s room and into his office. Four men were a tight squeeze, as there were only three chairs.
Charles gestured the visitors to take the seats. “I believe you recognized him, Mr. Vail?”
The man’s long face looked even more mournful. “I am afraid so. This Mr. Fletcher is a ne’er-do-well who disappeared with a British actress from a troupe visiting the District of Columbia.”
“Go on,” Mr. Screws said, steepling his fingers in front of his chin.
Mr. Vail crossed his legs. “They left after fleecing a wealthy American widow.”
The congressman shook his head angrily and pulled another cigar from his pocket. Charles wasn’t sure where the first one had gone. “Do you know his name?”
“I believe he told you the truth about that,” Mr. Vail said. “While he is indeed the descendant of Tidewater Virginia aristocracy, his parents died bankrupt, having lost their plantation when he was a boy.”
“So he never worked for my friend,” Mr. Screws said.
“As far as I know his only career was that of a waiter in a chophouse.” Mr. Vail glanced at the newly lit cigar with distaste.
“You brought him in as an apprentice. You taught him the business,” Charles said, feeling the need to defend Mr. Screws’s instincts. “He might be doing his work here properly. For now.”
“He did seem to have some basic knowledge,” Mr. Screws said, considering. “It could have come from books.”
“I would not trust him,” Mr. Vail said, seeing, as Charles did, that Mr. Screws wanted to justify keeping the man. “If he stole from a widow, as a confidence man, he might be playing the same game with you.”
“What would you expect will happen?” the congressman asked.
“Fletcher might ask Mr. Screws here to invest in a business of his own. Or simply suggest an investment in a business that only exists on paper, and pocket the funds.” Mr. Vail gestured in Gallic fashion. “He will learn enough to gain your confidence and decide how best to remove a great deal of money from you. Meanwhile, he is living a comfortable life. He is in no rush.”
Charles remembered what Julie Aga had said about another woman named Osborne. “Was Amelia Osborne the name of the actress? From what you are saying, it sounds like the same woman.”
“I do not know,” Vail admitted.
Charles’s heart rate increased. He knew they’d uncovered a new suspect. “Could he be a killer? Mr. Screws’s partner died recently, though whether by accident or murder we don’t know. However, just a few days ago, Mr. Screws’s nephew was slain.”
“Have you made him a partner? An heir?” Mr. Vail asked.
“No,” Mr. Screws said.
“Then it seems unlikely. He is after the money,” Mr. Vail said.
“What if Mr. Harley discovered the truth?” Charles asked. Outside of the office, he heard the sounds of doors opening and closing, then muffled greetings.
“He would have told me immediately,” Mr. Screws said. “Given how ill he’d been, that scenario is most unlikely.”
Charles ran a finger around the edge of his neckerchief. It seemed to be tightening around his neck. “The money is enough of a motive to stay in the countinghouse.”
Mr. Screws nodded suddenly, his cheeks wobbling. “I shall have to make an end to it then, and hope my young cousin can come into the business.”
“Hadn’t you better move slowly?” Charles asked. “For the sake of the business?”
“Very little will be accomplished in the next two weeks,” Mr. Screws said. “People say that no one celebrates Christmas anymore, but they assuredly do not trouble themselves with much industry at this time of the year.”
The Americans nodded and rose. Mr. Screws struggled out of his seat. “Thank you very much, sirs.”
“I am glad to have helped,” Mr. Vail said.
The congressman waved his cigar and they left.
“Send Mr. Fletcher in to me,” Mr. Screws said, his face freezing into a mask. “Stay out of my office, but within earshot, while I deal with him.”
“Yes, sir,” Charles said quickly, seeing a hardness in the man he scarcely recognized, or at least had forgotten. Kate would not like this version of Mr. Screws.
He went to Mr. Fletcher’s office. The American glanced up with a smile. “What is it, Dickens? I have to leave f
or the St. Katherine Docks in a minute.”
“What are you going to do there?”
“Meet with a wine merchant. Wants a loan to get his product out of the warehouses down there.” He tapped a file. “I need to bring him this paperwork.”
Charles picked up the file. “Come with me.”
Mr. Fletcher frowned but stood up from his desk and buttoned his coat. Charles handed the file to Mr. Cratchit and told him to take it to the merchant, then led Mr. Fletcher to Mr. Screws’s office.
The American showed no sign of fear. Either he had no idea what was coming or he was playing his role until the bitter end. He might very well not have seen the other men.
Charles passed Mr. Fletcher into the office and leaned the door closed but didn’t shut it, so that he could hear and assist if needed.
“Mr. Fletcher,” Mr. Screws said in a biting tone, “it has come to my attention that you are not a man of business, but a waiter.”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Fletcher asked.
“Have you even met James Dobbin? For I assure you, he does not seem to be aware of your existence.”
Mr. Fletcher tucked his fingers around his coat lapels and thrust out his chest. “Oh, sir, I can explain, you see, I admired your business so much and wanted to be a part of it.”
“All the way from America? Where you made a business out of fleecing widows?”
The American deflated slightly. “I’m a reformed man, due to the education I experienced here, sir.”
“You don’t say.”
His hands went in front of him, open palmed. “I’m respectable now. I’m to marry soon. I’m in an honest trade.”
“You are in a trade where you gain a great deal of intimate information and trust,” Mr. Screws snapped. “I have no doubt that you were here to set up some of my unfortunate customers, or even myself, for the biggest confidence game of your career. To think I let you stay in my home.”
Charles heard a chair squeak back. He peeked into the doorway and saw Mr. Fletcher go nimbly to his knees at the side of the desk.
“I beg of you, sir,” Mr. Fletcher said, tears choking his voice. “At your hand, and Mr. Harley’s, I have learned an honest trade for the first time in my life. I was cursed with intelligence and no education. I had the breeding for a better life but no opportunity. You have given me all that.”
A Christmas Carol Murder Page 24