“Y-y-you aren’t a k-k-killer?” Fred stammered, peeking a little from behind Charles.
She smiled. Red lip paint made her mouth the most visible feature on her face.
Charles held the candle stub high, trying to keep it steady. “Why did you haunt me? How did you break that window?”
“You are a cool customer, Mr. Dickens.” Miss Osborne put a hand on her hip. Her yellow silk skirt swished as her legs shifted invisibly underneath. “I like that in a man.”
She took a couple of steps closer.
Brave, given that she didn’t know if they had weapons. “The ghost was taller,” Charles said.
“I know all the tricks of the trade, my dear,” she cooed.
“Did Mr. Fletcher destroy the window from below?” he asked.
“I know all about your lost position at the newspaper.” She reached out a hand and ran a manicured finger down Charles’s shirt. “I like a younger man. How about I give up on Mr. Fletcher and teach you? I bet you wouldn’t get caught.”
Fred opened his mouth, but Charles quickly held up his hand.
She continued. “Together, we can still take over Mr. Screws’s countinghouse. Charles, you are already working for the old man.”
“I didn’t give you permission to be so familiar,” he snapped.
“Oh, Mr. Dickens,” she cooed, reaching up and running her long fingernail over his sensitive ear. “You poor dear. I can teach you so much.”
His entire body seemed to seize at the intimate gesture. He put up a fist and snarled, “You’re a day late. I’ve been proven innocent and I have my old job back. Besides, I’m an honest man.”
Her lips curved. She slid her finger down the side of his face. “There is such violence in you. I like that in a man.”
He shoved the candle at Fred. “I may not be a perfect gentleman but I’m not a murderer. Did you kill Mr. Harley and Mr. Pettingill?”
“Of course not, you silly man,” she said, soft voiced but cold eyed. “I have an alibi for Mr. Harley’s death. Mr. Screws himself was at the dinner table with me that night.”
“Who did you and Fletcher pay to do it, then?” Charles demanded. “Johnny Dorset?”
“Don’t be silly. I had no need to kill anyone. I had an inside man. We’d have taken over soon enough, with nothing more than doddering old men in charge, or that fool Pettingill.”
“When would you ever have met Mr. Screws’s nephew?” Charles asked with narrowed eyes.
“Mr. Fletcher had worked there long enough to meet him at various gatherings, with me on his arm, of course.”
“He was no fool,” Charles said. “A sad loss, I assure you.”
“How droll that you want to educate me.” She smirked.
“Did Mr. Fletcher kill those men?” Fred asked.
“No.” Her eyes went flinty. “He worked hard for those old men. He’d come up in the world under my tutelage, you see. From chophouses to a countinghouse. He fancied he’d be like one of those ancient Lees with their trader businesses in London.”
Charles frowned. “I thought they were plantation owners in America.”
Miss Osborne lengthened her face and let the tiniest tip of her tongue poke out. “There were a lot of Lees. I could write a book about that ghastly family by now.”
Charles’s brain rattled through possibilities. She’d admitted she desired to be a criminal, but what had she actually done if she wasn’t a killer? She had conspired, but had she achieved anything? “Forgery.”
“What?”
“Did you forge those letters to Mr. Screws?” he asked.
Her eyes narrowed into slivers. “We are at an impasse, Mr. Dickens. I could call the night watch and have you arrested for stealing.”
He spread his hands. “I’ve stolen nothing and we are old friends. Also, you are not a respectable person, while I am. No, no one would believe I was guilty of anything.” He hardened his voice. “When will Mr. Fletcher be here?”
“I have no idea,” she said calmly.
“H-he isn’t dead, is he?” Fred asked nervously.
She tittered. “No, silly boy.” She leaned closer to him. “Boo!”
Fred jumped back. Charles grabbed her by the arm and shoved her onto the bed. He meant to seat her there, tower over her given that they were about the same height, but instead she relaxed until her torso and head were against the coverlet, her glorious hair spread like Medusa’s snakes over the yellowed fabric.
Charles thought of Kate, and Christmas, and Mr. Screws’s safety. “We’ll leave,” he said. “For now.”
He grabbed Fred’s arm and marched him out.
“Candle?” Fred asked, lifting it.
“Keep it. I wouldn’t put it past Mr. Fletcher to ambush us in the dark passage.”
They went back to the mews. Charles could see Fred’s huge yawn. Around them, bells pealed as the clocks in the churches of London hit midnight.
“Happy Christmas, brother,” he said, squeezing Fred’s arm.
Fred grinned sleepily at him. “Happy Christmas. What do we do now?”
“Warn Mr. Screws. He won’t trust Mr. Fletcher again, but he doesn’t know Miss Osborne was the mastermind.”
“Won’t he be asleep?”
“Elderly people don’t sleep well. And Mrs. Pettingill needs to be warned.”
“She might be the killer,” Fred pointed out. “We can’t trust her.”
* * *
“You were right,” Fred said when they arrived at Finsbury Circus. He blew out the candle. “There’s a light on.”
“Dining room,” Charles explained. “Warmest room on the ground floor.” He stepped in between bushes in front of the window and knocked at it.
A minute later, Mr. Screws’s face appeared at the window. He looked pale and his mouth rounded with fright. Charles waved and the old gentleman pointed to the left, looking annoyed.
They went to the front of the house. A minute later, Mrs. Pettingill opened the door.
“You aren’t abed?” Charles asked, then blushed to have asked such an inappropriate question.
“I prefer to stay up and meditate on the Christ Child,” she said piously.
“This is my brother, Fred,” Charles said.
His brother inclined his head and then they followed the widow into the dining room.
“You must have news,” Mr. Screws said, rising wearily to his feet. He wore carpet slippers but otherwise had remained dressed.
“Has something happened, Mr. Screws?” Charles asked. “You look as if you’ve had a dreadful shock.”
“I fell asleep in my chair here, but I woke when the fire died down. And then I saw it, along the wall.” The old man trembled.
“Saw what?”
“I saw Jacob Harley’s ghost,” Mr. Screws whispered, spittle appearing at the edges of his mouth.
Charles drew back instinctively. It couldn’t have been Miss Osborne. She’d been with them. No drafts swept through the room. No windows had been broken this time. “In a cloak, like I saw?”
“No, he was a mere shadow in the corner.” Mr. Screws pointed his shaking finger again. “But he spoke to me.”
“What did he say?”
“That it is time for me to reflect on all I have done in life, before it is too late.”
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?” the old man said with a hint of petulance. “I do not wish to meet Our Lord with stains upon my soul. I shall spend the rest of what life is left to me in prayer. I will be like Christian and learn from my mistakes.” He lifted a leather-bound volume of The Pilgrim’s Progress that had been on the table next to him.
“What stains are on your soul, sir?” Charles asked.
“I must make things right with Mrs. Dorset,” said Mr. Screws, pushing one hand heavily against the table. “I have done that dear woman a terrible wrong.”
“If you write her a letter, I will take it to her,” Charles promised. “But that is for another moment,
during daylight. I have something important to relate.”
He coughed wetly. “What?”
“Sit,” Charles insisted. “You must sit first.”
Mr. Screws did as he asked.
“Thank you. We found Mr. Fletcher’s fiancée this evening and discovered she was an actress, not a lady of quality. She, or possibly Mr. Fletcher himself, played the ghost who warned me to stay away from this house.”
“They broke your window,” Mrs. Pettingill said. “Surely they were in cahoots.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Charles confirmed.
“Did he kill Jacob?” Mr. Screws asked with a wheeze.
“You yourself gave them an alibi,” Charles pointed out. He poured tea into Mr. Screws’s cup and pushed it toward him. “Can you break it?”
Mr. Screws picked up his cup and closed his eyes. After a long, pregnant pause, he said, “I admit that Mr. Fletcher did leave the dining table for an extended period of time the night of Jacob’s death.”
Fred let out a loud “huh” but Charles shushed him, knowing Mr. Screws had more to impart.
“He claimed some stomach trouble had kept him away.”
“He could have killed Mr. Harley?” Mrs. Pettingill asked. “How I wish I had been there that night, Uncle.”
Mr. Screws wheezed again and shook his head regretfully. “It was a good twenty minutes before Mr. Harley fell from the window.”
“Some misdirection,” Charles said. “Could he have started a sort of slow strangulation that led to Mr. Harley falling twenty minutes later?” That must have been what happened. Mr. Fletcher had done it somehow.
Mr. Screws bowed his head. “I know not, but your brother’s head is nodding.”
Fred sat up abruptly, then let out an enormous yawn. “We won’t leave you, sir, not with these confidence people on the loose.”
“I should hunt down Mr. Fletcher now,” Charles said. “I’m sure he killed your friend and nephew, Mr. Screws.”
“Sleep first,” Mr. Screws said. “You can’t bring back our lost ones. No need to make yourself ill.”
Charles nodded. “We’ll stay downstairs. Mrs. Pettingill, if we light a fire in the drawing room we can sleep in there.”
She stood. “A blessed idea. I will light the fire if you take Uncle upstairs.”
Charles helped Mr. Screws to his feet and together they tottered up the stairs. When he had the old man in bed with his curtains drawn against the cold, he went back downstairs and spread himself out across the sofa while Fred stole all the chair cushions and made himself a nest in front of the fire.
Charles smiled to himself as he fell asleep. He’d find Mr. Fletcher in the morning, and then once that was sorted, he’d see Kate.
* * *
Charles woke early Christmas morning with a light heart and a sore back. The fire had gone out, so he stepped over Fred, who was wrapped in his coat, and did his best to get a blaze going again, then left the drawing room in search of the kitchen.
A kitchen maid still slept in front of the fire there. She stirred when Charles entered and sleepily went to fetch water to start tea for the household. Charles lit the hanging lamps since only a watery winter light came in through the windows even after he opened the curtains. He found a wrapped loaf of bread and cut a slice for himself.
Outside, he heard the ring of metal against something. Was the fog carrying carriage noises across the mews? He went back to the window.
In the garden, he saw the shadowy shape of a man and a shovel. Charles’s senses heightened. He sincerely doubted any gardener worked on December twenty-fifth. Grabbing a long roller meant for pastry work, he unlatched the back door and went out onto the paved area between the house and the garden.
Squinting through the gloom, he could only see the back of the man. He continued forward, holding his rolling stick in both hands. The man looked up as he approached.
Despite the cap and thick gray muffler, he recognized Mr. Fletcher. The murderer had come to call. What was he after?
The American recognized him, too. He yelled something, maybe a Virginia war cry, and rushed at Charles with the shovel.
Charles feinted back, lifting his stick. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for the money, you fool!” Mr. Fletcher came at him again, ululating something that sounded right out of the Welsh Marches this time.
Charles lifted his stick with a two-handed grip, clashing it against the wood above the shovel bowl. The old shovel wood splintered. Calling his stagecraft into memory, what he’d learned during his brief attempt to train as an actor, he jabbed with his stick as if it were a sword, placing his other arm in a fencing posture, and broke the shovel handle in two.
Mr. Fletcher, still light on his feet, threw the shovel handle directly at Charles’s head. The metal hit him with a glancing blow. He stumbled back, dazed. Mr. Fletcher ran toward the shed.
Behind him, a female shrieked.
“Get the police!” Charles called to the maid, holding his head, then took off after the American. He didn’t have his coat on, and his shoes slid through the muddy paths as he careened around them. Realizing he was being a fool, he took off across the grass. If Mr. Fletcher found more weapons, who knew how much longer his rolling stick would last?
Mr. Fletcher rattled the lock on the shed, then kicked at the door with his foot. Charles, acting with instinct, threw the rolling stick at the man’s back. It stunned him and he fell to his knees.
Charles raced forward and grabbed the rolling stick before Mr. Fletcher could. He tugged the man’s coat down to his elbows, imprisoning his arms.
“Charles!” Fred yelled behind him. He came pell-mell across the yard.
“Check him for weapons,” Charles wheezed, holding Mr. Fletcher against the door.
Fred checked coat pockets in three layers of clothes. “Nothing.”
“Check his boots,” Charles suggested.
Fred came up with a knife holstered in a boot top.
“Be reasonable, Charles,” their prisoner said. “I was looking for money, not trying to kill anyone.”
“I know you were the ghost,” Charles said in Mr. Fletcher’s ear. “Miss Osborne offered to cut you out of your scheme after you were thrown out and take me on, instead.”
“What?” Mr. Fletcher shrieked and bucked. One arm came out of his imprisoning sleeve and he flailed widely. Charles wasn’t prepared and he fell back, still dizzy from the blow earlier. Fred held him up.
“Yes,” Charles pressed. “You’ve lost. You’re a failure. Your puppet master is done with you.” He grabbed Mr. Fletcher’s free arm and spun him around. His head hit the wooden shed door hard. Charles watched his teeth crunch into his lower lip.
That had to hurt. He took the knife from Fred and brandished it at the American.
Fred crossed his arms over his scrawny chest and glared in tandem with Charles.
The other man swore and pulled his coat back up over his other arm, blood trickling from his cut lip. “After everything I’ve done!” he growled. “I left America for that bitch.”
“And your beloved Lee plantations,” Charles mocked.
“She was happy.” Mr. Fletcher’s voice rose. “She said she was happy!”
“No woman likes a man who has lost his position,” Charles pointed out.
“I killed for her,” Mr. Fletcher said. “Killed. For. Her.”
“I know,” Charles said, vindicated by the confession. He wanted to dance around, but stayed in control. “Your greed made finding you easy. Thank you for that. We can enjoy our Christmas.”
“Why did you kill Mr. Harley?” Fred asked.
“He was a drain on the business.” The man’s voice rose again. “Then Screws had the audacity to bring in his weakling of a nephew.”
“Did Miss Osborne order the murders?” Fred asked.
“She was willing for me to do anything to make her rich. He’s rich, you know, Screws. A miser. He buries chests in the garden here, then gloat
s over the map of his burials late at night. I couldn’t kill him or I’d lose access to this treasure trove.” He lifted his coatless arm in a sweep over the landscape.
Charles understood why the plantings were so underdeveloped. Their roots didn’t have a place to spread. He didn’t know how much money waited under the soil, but Mr. Fletcher’s words matched what Mr. Screws had said.
Mr. Fletcher’s eyes moved in their sockets. Charles could see he was looking for a way to run. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how many constables were walking their beats today. He held up the knife again, the threat obvious.
“We can’t let him get away,” Charles whispered to Fred. He spoke louder. “Out of curiosity, how did you break my window that night?”
“She did it,” Mr. Fletcher said, drawing himself up. “From outside. If you think to have me thrown in prison, I assure you she is just as guilty. I expect her to hang at my side.”
“Such tattered dignity,” Charles mocked, more alert to danger than he’d ever been in his life. “As if I don’t know you are going to try to escape, and if you don’t, you’ll be attempting to take the guards into your confidence. I almost saw through you so many times, and then you’d pull me in again with your games.”
“Do you know Amelia tried to kill you, Charles?” the American said with a sneer.
Fred’s mouth dropped open. “When?”
He shifted from side to side. “She followed Charles and was the one to push him into the path of the carriage, afraid that he was going to reveal our plans.” He turned his head to Charles. “You aren’t as intelligent as you think you are, blaming that half-wit Dorset boy.”
Chapter 24
Charles bristled at Mr. Fletcher’s insult. “I certainly am exactly as intelligent as I think I am.” A genius, really. Bending his knees, he picked up a rock he’d spotted and handed it to Fred as a weapon.
“Amelia Osborne is the truly evil one,” Mr. Fletcher opined, his eyes still fixed on the knife Charles held. “My life in America didn’t have much future because of my father’s bad reputation, and when I met Miss Osborne, she shared her dream of becoming a fine London lady. Bit by bit, she put me on the path to destruction.”
A Christmas Carol Murder Page 27