“How dare you say his blessed name, late in our memory?” Mr. Screws thundered in the tones of a much younger man. “You will leave my business and my home this very day, sir. Charles!”
Charles put his head through the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“Escort Mr. Fletcher to my home and pack his bags, if you please. I do not want to see him again.”
“B-but my wages, sir,” Mr. Fletcher stammered.
“I will pay you nothing,” Mr. Screws said with a snarl. “I am sure your week’s wage will be but a drop in the bucket compared to what you have cost me in thievery.”
Mr. Fletcher’s injury seemed so genuine that as he put his hand over his heart, Charles could feel the hair on the back of his neck rise. “I have stolen nothing. I have been honest every second of my time in this great city.”
“Bah, humbug,” Mr. Screws spat. “Take him to fetch his coat and nothing else. Not a pencil. Not a scrap of paper.”
“Does he have keys that I need to confiscate?” Charles asked.
With a great show of weariness, Mr. Fletcher pulled a ring of keys from his waistcoat pocket. Charles snatched them away.
“And the other one,” Mr. Screws demanded.
Mr. Fletcher pulled one house key from his other pocket. He dropped it onto Mr. Screws’s desk.
Charles inclined his head and removed Mr. Fletcher to his office. He saw the clear signs of the great man Mr. Screws had once been, but knew the exertion would cost him, and he had too much pride in the old man to let Mr. Fletcher see any sign of weakness now.
“You believe me, don’t you, Dickens?” Mr. Fletcher said in tones of utmost honesty when they were in his office, clutching at Charles’s hand.
Charles glared at him and pulled his hand away. “I believe the congressman and the ambassador who made testimony against you. Now fetch your coat. We need to leave.”
He did not like to play the role of the heavy, but Mr. Fletcher was still so sunk in his role of good employee that he did not misbehave, manipulate, or change his persona.
* * *
Back in Finsbury Circus, Charles helped empty the bedchamber wardrobe into Mr. Fletcher’s carpetbag.
“Where will you go now?” Charles asked, watching carefully as Mr. Fletcher packed the miniature of Miss Osborne that waited next to a Bible on the bedside table.
“To confess all to my dear one.” Mr. Fletcher’s voice caught with emotion. “She may want to call off the wedding now.”
Charles was unsure of the wisdom of letting Mr. Fletcher flee into the winds, as it were. He wasn’t entirely sure they even knew his real name. “What will your exact address be?”
“I shall have to return to America, as I am sure Mr. Screws will not provide a character for me,” Mr. Fletcher said with such a lack of understanding that Charles could see the actor in him.
“He had so much respect for you,” Charles said. “You are a man of great talent. Why not find honest employment when you return home?”
Mr. Fletcher lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.
“What did you hope to gain from me?” Charles asked. “You made such an effort to gain my friendship.”
Mr. Fletcher’s mouth crooked up on one side. “You are not the most honest of men, Dickens, but you do have talents. I might have brought you in on my pursuits if I had continued to flourish.”
Chapter 21
Taken aback by Mr. Fletcher’s assertion of his dishonest character, Charles led him downstairs from the bedroom to Mr. Screws’s front door without another word. He had admittedly been dishonest of late, but only because he was guilty of wanting things to be as they ought to, and would be in the future, rather than what they were at the moment. The falsehood perpetuated on him, that of being Timothy’s father, was the real injustice.
Charles saw the disgraced man of business to the pavement, reflecting that this was a dreadful way to spend the day before Christmas. He then returned to the house and summoned Mrs. Pettingill to inform her of Mr. Fletcher’s banishment.
The widow said almost nothing to him, still visibly embarrassed by her proposal of marriage to him. After she promised to notify all the servants that Mr. Fletcher wasn’t allowed on the premises, he walked to the countinghouse, worried about the proprietor’s health after such a dreadful scene.
Along the way, he purchased a cup of potato soup from a street vendor and drank it down, and debated the possibility that he would be asked to take over Mr. Fletcher’s position when he returned. Did he want to take on the responsibility of a countinghouse? He didn’t want to start over in a new business after becoming the best in his former career. Also, if he didn’t prove himself to Mr. Hogarth in such a way that led to his job being returned to him, he’d never have Kate, either.
He had to find Timothy’s father, even if it meant leaving his temporary employment with Mr. Screws. He went inside, nodding at the leaderless clerks who glanced up as he entered, then went to Mr. Screws’s open door, thinking to terminate this situation. The business owner had his chair turned and Charles couldn’t see him. He stepped quickly into the room, afraid.
His palms tingled. “Mr. Screws?”
Slowly, the chair swiveled around, revealing the old man in the same state as before. Charles’s heart began to beat again.
“Have you taken care of the situation?” Mr. Screws asked.
“Assuming he doesn’t have spare keys. With Johnny Dorset gone, you might want to hire some stout manservant for a time.”
“It is Christmas tomorrow, Mr. Dickens,” the older man said wearily. “No one will want to work.”
Charles sighed. “I understand. For myself, I have the responsibility of a younger brother.”
Mr. Screws waved him away like an irritating bug. “I do not request it of you, sir. I want your brain, not your form. I’d like you to spend the day categorizing the papers in Mr. Fletcher’s office. I’ll need to get a new man in as soon as possible. Take this down, will you?”
Thank goodness. Mr. Screws planned to hire someone else. With relief, Charles snatched a quill and a notebook from the end of the table and sat down. “Yes?”
“Wanted, a confidential clerk who thoroughly understands the routine of a merchant’s countinghouse. He must be about thirty years of age, possess an enterprising disposition. Excellent testimonials required.” Mr. Screws cleared his throat. “Our address and so forth. You know the thing. Take it over to the Morning Chronicle, will you?”
Charles’s hand froze on the page. “Why don’t we have a clerk take it to the newspaper? It would be best for me to inventory Mr. Fletcher’s office quickly, in case there is any trouble coming, or any meetings we might miss.”
“Yes, a good idea.” Mr. Screws waved his hand. “Send Smith. He moves more quickly than the others.”
“Anything else, sir?” Charles asked, quickly finishing the advertisement.
Mr. Screws licked his lips. “There is something I had better confess, for the good of Mrs. Pettingill if nothing else.”
“Yes?”
“I buried a good amount of money in my back garden, and I cannot believe I was so foolish as to allow Mr. Fletcher to live on the premises.” The words had flowed out of Mr. Screws in a rush. Once they had passed out of him, he leaned back in his chair.
“Where?” Charles asked, appalled.
“Under the herb garden.” He smiled fondly. “Jacob and I buried the first box one summer night three years ago, when Mrs. Dorset was off visiting her sister.”
“Very well,” Charles said softly. “I assume you mean it to be her inheritance.”
Mr. Screws nodded.
Charles felt very sober. “Very good, sir. Perhaps you should inform your solicitor of this information. May I also add an advertisement for a male servant?”
“Make him young, too young to interfere with Mrs. Pettingill,” Mr. Screws said. “She’s a pretty one, isn’t she?”
Charles bent his head and wrote rapidly. He did not agree.
*
* *
Charles and Fred went to Bloomsbury for Christmas Eve services with their family. A few snowflakes fell as they entered the hushed church, lit by softly glowing candles. A choir matched the tone of the night with gentle carols, celebrating the birth of the Christ child. Charles tried hard to embrace the beauty and hope of the night, promising himself that he and Kate would be side by side at services next year. In fact, he told himself to be nostalgic, that this would be his last Christmas as a bachelor. He prayed for Mr. Screws’s health, and Mr. Cratchit’s. Closer to home, he prayed for baby Timothy, and Julie’s unborn child as well. If he might be so bold, he even prayed for a solution to the murders to come to him, for a killer to be brought to justice.
Fred was garrulous as they walked home through the crowds on the street, enjoying the cleaner air the snow brought, and the joy of the season. Carolers warbled every few blocks, reminding Charles of the night Jacob Harley died. He resolved to put death out of his mind for the holiday, and looked forward to a Christmas Day visit to the Agas, with the gift of a small wooden rattle for Timothy, his very own Christmas child.
They stopped at a chestnut seller, then ducked into a public house for a pint, and finally made their way home when the air became so bitingly cold that Charles felt like his nose might snap off.
In the passage in front of their door, Charles could just barely make out a small shape in the near darkness. Mrs. Pettingill again? Another ghostly visitation? He struck a lucifer against the wall and held it up.
A small woman struggled to her feet, using his door to push herself up. Fred rushed forward and helped her stand.
“She’s half frozen,” he reported. “Do you know her?”
She wasn’t a Hogarth, or a Dickens, or Julie or Mrs. Pettingill. “Let’s get her inside,” Charles said, mindful that angels could be passing through on this holy night.
He unlocked their door and went in to light the fire they had waiting. As soon as the coals had caught, he struck another lucifer and lit the lamp.
Fred was busy trying to help the stranger out of the various shawls she’d bundled around herself. “Help me with these knots. My hands are frozen.”
“Come to the fire,” Charles said gently, and led the woman deeper into their chambers. The fibers of her clothing were damp, but eventually he had the ribbons untied. The fire was warm enough for Fred to break the ice in their water jug and start making tea.
Charles lifted the lamp to the mute woman’s face. Her poor skin had suffered terrible damage. One cheek had been badly burned and the wounds were only starting to heal. “Are you a friend of Lizzie Porter?”
“Who is that?” Fred asked.
“The maid who died. Timothy’s mother.”
“I am Lizzie Porter,” she said in a hoarse voice.
“What?” Charles gasped. His hands went as cold as the maid’s. The poor, broken soul in front of him was Timothy’s mother? “Not dead?”
“Lord Salisbury’s steward told me where to find you. You sent a letter? They took up a collection at Hatfield House to send me here, the servants, that is. I’d lose my position if the master knew about my Timmy.”
Charles’s teeth chattered, either from nerves or from the cold. Gratitude that one of his letters about Timothy had hit the mark made him want to sag in relief. “How did you survive? I was told you had died.”
“Those who found me didn’t know who I was at first. I was unconscious. Some rescuers took me to the charity hospital nearby, but they weren’t any who knew me, see? I just left two days ago. Is my boy here? Is he—” She put her fist to her face.
Charles could see more burns on her wrist. He reassured her quickly. “He is fine, Miss Porter. You needn’t worry. I had a rough time with him that first day but I found him a good home and an excellent wet nurse.”
Her lips trembled. Charles helped her to sit while Fred poured boiling water into their teapot. He handed her a handkerchief, not wanting her tears to touch that burned cheek. “You are a miracle, a real miracle.”
“I’ve been livin’ a nightmare,” she sobbed. “I thought he might be dead. What a little fool Madge is.”
“Why was she so sure I was Timothy’s father?” Charles asked, clearly, so his brother would hear.
Fred paused with his hand still holding the rag-handled kettle.
“My man’s name were Dickinson,” she said with a sniff. “Oh, he’s dead, run over by a cart in Hertford. He was a delivery man, see.”
“Did your sister know him?”
“She saw him once, on her half day. She were invited up to the house. Yer a bit like him, sir, slight with dark curly hair.”
Charles sighed. “I’m sorry he died.”
“Never even saw the baby,” she sniffed. “Dead three months before he came. He’d promised to marry me, soon as ’e could afford his own cart.”
Charles nodded, then glanced up at Fred. His brother inclined his head. At least he had Fred back on his side.
“Can you afford to take care of him?” he asked, blowing on his icy hands. “Your mistress died in the fire.”
“I’m a good worker. The master told the housekeeper I could train in the kitchen. Maybe be a cook someday.” She paused. “Since I took good care of his mother.”
“You have a safe home for Timothy? He’s thriving in his current placement.”
“I have to have him close to me,” she said, tears welling again. “You talked to the family who had him to foster before, at the stable yard? They didn’t know you so they didn’t tell you the truth. They’ll take him back. I can afford it, coz they’re cousins o’ mine.”
Charles nodded. He’d suspected as much, though the family had been closemouthed at the time. Would Julie accept the loss of the baby she’d cared for during these past weeks? He hoped her own child would be born safely, to ease empty arms.
“Drink your tea,” he suggested, “and we’ll bundle you up again and take you to him.”
Charles didn’t even have to ask Fred to assist when the tea was gone. He helped Lizzie with her shawls and even suggested she take off her boots so he could insulate them with fresh newspaper for warmth.
They walked through more merriment on the streets. Charles, feeling better about everything, bought sprigs of holly from his match girl. She pinned them to the lapels of his and Fred’s coats, and on the side of Lizzie’s bonnet. The young mother smiled for the first time at the little gift.
Outside the Cheapside building, parishioners streamed in and out of the church opposite, while the air smelled of smoke and meat from the chophouse, doing a brisk business in bachelor meals. Charles and Fred pulled Lizzie up the stairs between them, careful to touch nothing but her hands, since neither of them knew the extent of her wounds. Charles had asked enough questions of Hatfield’s local doctors when he was writing his article on the fire to know she hadn’t suffered the worst kind of burns, since she had somewhat recovered in a little less than a month.
He knocked on the Agas’ door. No one responded right away and he was about to try across the passage when William opened up.
“Happy Christmas!” he said with surprise. “Is this another mudlark?”
Charles shook his head, but Fred spoke before he could. “It’s Timothy’s mother! Charles isn’t his father, she said so.”
William sagged against the door. “You are Miss Lizzie Porter, returned to life?”
She gave William a little curtsey. “Yes, sir. May I see my baby?”
William smiled at her, but Charles could see the sorrow in his friend. He led them to the fire and insisted Lizzie take one of the good armchairs. After, he went into the bedroom. Julie came out, followed by Lucy, carrying the baby, wide eyed despite the hour.
“Five months now,” Charles said with a flourish of his hand as the baby was presented.
“He’s changed so much,” Lizzie whispered reverently.
Julie seemed to understand at once who this visitor was. She gestured to Lucy, who placed Timothy in Lizzi
e’s arms. The young mother winced a bit, as he must have been put down on a burn, but she rearranged him and smiled tenderly at her son. Baby Timothy freed a hand from his wrappings and waved it in the air. Lizzie kissed the little fingers. A tear rolled down the scarred cheek.
“It’s Dickinson, not Dickens,” Fred announced. “The sister had it wrong.”
“Oh,” William breathed.
“She’s likely related to half the village,” Charles said. “They didn’t want to tell secrets, and poor Mr. Dickinson has been dead these eight months, and was from another town besides.”
“You’ve got to tell Mr. Hogarth,” William said. “Right now, tonight. Don’t spoil Kate’s Christmas.”
Fred nodded effusively. “It’s ever so important to know Charles was telling the truth.”
Charles hesitated. He’d have to take this poor girl and the babe into the cold again.
“I have bricks heating,” Julie said with an intensity he hadn’t seen in her for quite some time. “William will get a carriage or you won’t go, but I agree. Kate deserves to have the truth told to her parents.”
Charles looked at her, really looked. She squared her shoulders and proudly put her hand on her own stomach. Was it rounded? He wasn’t entirely sure, given the heaviness of her winter gown. Nodding, he mouthed his thanks as William agreed to see if a carriage could be found on Christmas Eve.
“I don’t like the odds,” William said, as he layered on gloves and comforters. “All of London is visiting or churching on a night like this.”
“Go to Mr. Screws,” Charles said. “Tell him it’s an emergency. He keeps his own coach and he owes me an errand of mercy.”
They settled in to wait for William’s return, drinking hot apple cider. Fred darted around like a housefly, checking windows, while Lizzie sat in the center of it all, placid with the baby.
“How will she feed the child on the road?” Julie asked Charles in a low voice. “Her milk will be gone by now. Or will you bring her back here tonight?”
A Christmas Carol Murder Page 25