A Christmas Carol Murder

by Heather Redmond

  “It’s not the act of a gentleman to blame a lady for his sins,” Charles said.

  The American snorted. “After we came to London together, I was working as a waiter in a London club when I heard Mr. Harley and Mr. Screws discussing the need to bring in a younger partner.

  “She forged the letter giving me the credentials I’d heard the men discussing so I could go to the countinghouse. Mr. Screws gave me the position and Miss Osborne began to plot how I could take over the entire valuable business.”

  Charles felt rain drip on his bare head. He shivered. “How did Mr. Harley die?”

  Mr. Fletcher smirked. “Will you let me go if I tell you?”

  Charles shrugged. “That’s not to say we won’t send the police after you.”

  Fred went wide eyed, but Charles hadn’t offered to release the man. In fact, he picked up another rock just to make his point clear.

  The American licked his bloody lips, staining his teeth. “I wrapped the chains around a chair. I killed Mr. Harley by strangling him with the chains when I was away from the dinner table.”

  “But he fell out of the window,” Fred exclaimed.

  He tried to pull his coat over his shoulders. “The chair tipped over at some point after I’d returned to the dinner table. Mr. Harley fell out the window in front of you. I’d opened it because of the smell of the dead man, hoping to keep the odor from coming down the stairs. Just my bad luck that you were outside at the wrong moment.”

  “Did you pay the undertaker to hide the body?”

  “What is going on?!” Mrs. Pettingill shrieked from the kitchen door.

  “Send for a constable,” Charles called. “We’ve caught our killer.”

  “But you said you wouldn’t,” Mr. Fletcher protested.

  “You imagined that,” Charles said. “Where is the body?”

  The door slammed behind them as Mr. Fletcher said, “Mr. Harley’s body is in a crypt under the church across the street. We stole it in the hopes of keeping Mr. Screws off-kilter.” He giggled. “We won’t see that undertaker again anytime soon. Paid him from Mr. Harley’s own cashbox.”

  Disgusting. While Mr. Fletcher may have been the charm and muscle of the con operation, Miss Osborne must have been the brain. “Help me get Mr. Fletcher into the house. We all need to get out of the rain.”

  Fred was bare headed as well, and rain dripped into his face. Together, they reached for Mr. Fletcher’s arms and dragged him into the house. He fought, attempting to head-butt Charles and kick Fred, but between the two of them they managed to get him into the kitchen, where Mrs. Pettingill had rope ready to tie him up.

  They were both huffing and puffing by the time the deed was done. Charles had never noticed how large the man’s hands were, or how strong his arms. No wonder it had not been difficult for Fletcher to overpower an ill and elderly man.

  “The kitchen girl has gone to fetch the police,” she said, making expert knots around Mr. Fletcher’s arms and a ladder-backed chair after the Dickenses coiled the rope in all the most strategic places.

  “I’d like some coffee,” Mr. Fletcher said pitiably, but he was ignored.

  “I hope the constable comes soon,” Charles said. “We have much to tell him about Mr. Fletcher and Miss Osborne. After that, we need to change and go to our parents’ home.”

  “You’d be home much sooner if you let me go,” Mr. Fletcher offered with a dazzling grin.

  He looked much older and smaller when soaking wet and tied to a chair. Charles no longer enjoyed the man’s jests. “Do you have a handkerchief you could stuff into his mouth?” he asked Mrs. Pettingill in his most pleasant tone.

  * * *

  Before Charles left the Screws household, he obtained Mrs. Dorset’s address from the cook. He and Fred went home and changed as soon as they had explained to the constable and Mr. Screws what had happened in the back garden, what Mr. Fletcher had said, and where to find Mr. Harley’s corpse, if not the undertaker who had gone missing.

  After a calm holiday with the Dickens clan, wherein Charles thrilled his family with the story of Mr. Fletcher’s dastardly plan to take over the lucrative countinghouse, and delighted them with the news that he’d proven himself to be an honest man and had his position at the newspaper back, he went out again, alone this time.

  He found Mrs. Dorset at her sister’s home in Camden Town, near the canal. Her sister’s husband worked on a boat, and the small two-story house had a briny scent to it. The former housekeeper received him in the small parlor in the front, a fire being especially lit for the occasion.

  “I have a letter for you, ma’am, from Mr. Screws,” he told her, after her sister, a shrinking woman with Johnny Dorset’s protruding eyes, brought in a tea tray, nearly dropped it after tripping over Charles’s foot, apologized, and ran out again.

  “Why are you in charge of Mr. Screws’s business?” she asked acidly, her hands remaining in her black-clad lap.

  “Come, Mrs. Dorset. Weren’t we friends once? It was your son who threatened me,” he coaxed.

  She took the letter when he offered it again.

  “There we are,” Charles said. “I have been acting as Mr. Screws’s private secretary over the holidays.”

  Mrs. Dorset glanced at him before returning her spectacled eyes to the letter. An expression of delight grew on her careworn face, but then, worry wiped out the happiness. “Mr. Screws is offering me my position back. What has changed?”

  “Mr. Fletcher killed Mr. Harley and Mr. Pettingill. He killed the old man by strangling him with the chains during the dinner. He had opened the window, and somehow Mr. Harley’s body fell out while we were caroling. We were all fooled by the belief that he had died when he fell from the window, instead of somewhat earlier.”

  Mrs. Dorset looked to the plain cross over the fireplace and murmured a prayer. “Mr. Pettingill?”

  “Everyone thought Mr. Fletcher was so busy at work, but all he had to do was close his door and climb out the window to return to Finsbury Circus.”

  “Will Johnny be able to return to the house, too?”

  “Don’t you think you should send him to the country? To work on a farm, maybe?” Charles asked.

  Mrs. Dorset poured tea with a shaking hand. “I could not be apart from my boy, Mr. Dickens. I love him and he loves me.”

  “I think Mr. Screws might be able to love you himself, if you gave him your attention.”

  She set down the teapot so abruptly that the table rattled. “I want no man. After what’s been done to me by men, I’d be just as happy to retire if I had the slightest infirmity. But the Lord has blessed me with strength, you see, so I had best return to work, if my Johnny can stay in the carriage house like before.”

  “He can,” Charles verified. “I am sorry for any way in which I pointed the finger at him.”

  Mrs. Dorset inclined her head. “Mr. Fletcher is a slippery one. I didn’t suspect him myself. I still don’t see why he did it.”

  “He wanted control of the countinghouse.” Charles explained the man’s history. “Now, I must go, but I hope you accept Mr. Screws’s offer. He needs you.”

  “I will write him today, Mr. Dickens. You needn’t wait for my reply.”

  “His coachman drove me here. I’m sure Mr. Screws wanted me to return with your response.”

  “Very well. Drink your tea while I write.” Mrs. Dorset rose and took the letter to a small writing case.

  “May I borrow a sheet of paper?” Charles asked.

  She handed him a sheet. He wrote on it in pencil while she scribbled a few words on the back of Mr. Screws’s letter and handed it to Charles after she had sealed it into the envelope.

  “Will you return immediately?” Charles asked.

  “Yes.” She forced a smile. “Johnny is eating my sister and her husband out of their home. I will see you in Finsbury Circus soon.”

  Charles returned to the coach outside with the letters.

  “Back to Mr. Screws?” the man as
ked.

  “No. I want you to take me to York Place in Brompton first, and then you can return us to the mews.” Charles sealed his letter while the coachman coaxed his horses south, and then he dozed in the comfortable carriage until they were on Fulham Road.

  He had the coachman stop at the Hogarths’ house and jumped down. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  No word had come from Kate, but there had been no time for any. He thought he’d preempt her joyous resurrection of their engagement with his own note.

  When he knocked on the door, hoping his love would answer it, or at least friendly Mary, his own sweet supporter, Mrs. Hogarth answered it, still clad in her navy going-to-church best.

  “Good afternoon, Charles,” she said.

  He greeted her. “I’m sure Mr. Hogarth has told you about the baby, and that it isn’t mine,” he said. “Does Kate know? Can I see her?”

  Mrs. Hogarth shook her head. “This is a sacred day. We’ve had no talk of such things.”

  “You obviously know.”

  “Mr. Hogarth told me,” she said calmly.

  He thrust his note at her. “Would you please give this to Kate? After she’s told the truth? I just want to assure her that my love is still true.”

  She took the note without saying anything. He hesitated, but he could hardly push past her and shout that he’d solved the murder. Kate might not even be pleased, since she had missed so much of the excitement. Finally, he wished Mrs. Hogarth a happy holiday and returned to the carriage, feeling less like a conquering hero and more like a man who’d been hit on the head with a shovel handle and had to sleep in his clothing without so much as a blanket.

  He woke up when the coachman turned into the mews. When he went into the house, he found Mrs. Pettingill reading to Mr. Screws in the parlor from a book of sermons, and they both had peaceful looks upon their faces.

  “What are you doing here?” Mr. Screws asked.

  “Your voice sounds stronger,” Charles said.

  “The danger is passed, my boy,” Mr. Screws said. “Now that I know the truth. Thank you. Why don’t you return to your family for the rest of the day?”

  Charles smiled and wished them a peaceful evening. Hopefully, Mr. Screws would live long enough to put Mrs. Pettingill in his will. And Mrs. Dorset as well as the counting-house clerks, like the long-suffering Mr. Cratchit.

  He had just reached the front hall when the door opened again and Mrs. Pettingill slipped out. “What is it?”

  Mrs. Pettingill smiled uneasily at him. “I want to thank you especially.”

  “For what?”

  She laced her fingers together. “Mr. Fletcher was kind to me and I am very grateful you uncovered the terrible truth before I fell into his clutches.”

  “Good heavens, I am so glad as well.” He shook his head. “Especially since Miss Osborne controlled him.”

  She nodded. “Women of evil nature are simply the worst. You see it in the Bible. You seem happier, Mr. Dickens.”

  He smiled broadly. “Never better. It has been a very good Christmas.”

  “We will see you tomorrow. Come early, mind, because Mr. Screws believes employees should work all the earlier on December twenty-sixth after having a holiday on Christmas.”

  Charles nodded and opened the front door. Then he remembered and turned. “Tomorrow is Sunday, so I will not be in early tomorrow. But I will be here Monday.” He walked outside and stood on the top step, feeling like the mood of Finsbury Circus had changed. Though he’d never be able to come here without seeing that body drop through the upstairs window.

  “Mr. Dickens!”

  He glanced down and saw the constable on the pavement. Stopping the door from shutting, he told Mrs. Pettingill to look out. “Happy Christmas, Constable Thornton,” he said, recognizing the man.

  “I just wanted to tell you that we picked up that Osborne woman at her rooms,” the constable said. “There shouldn’t be any more danger to the household, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Pettingill clutched her shawl. “Mr. Screws will be so relieved, Constable. Thank you.”

  She and Charles smiled at each other, and then she went back inside and shut the door.

  Whistling, Charles walked to Bloomsbury to join his family for charades. On the street, the mood remained a happy one, even if there were drops of rain instead of cleansing snow. He bought a kissing ball from one girl, and more lucifers from another, then a pie from a third. By the time he arrived in Bloomsbury, his arms were happily burdened with several little gifts for his family.

  * * *

  The next day, after another round of church services, Charles visited the Agas, concerned about what Lucy Fair would do without an infant to tend. He wanted to make sure she had seen her charges safely to Hatfield and that William had agreed to keep her employed.

  “Charles!” Julie said when she opened the door. “It has been ever so quiet here these past few days.” She had ivy wound into her red hair and her color was very bright.

  He smiled at her and handed her a package of fruitcake that his mother had insisted would be good for an expectant mother.

  “How kind,” she said when Charles had explained. “Your mother is a delightful woman. Did you have a nice Christmas?”

  “I solved the murders,” Charles said proudly.

  “You what?” William came around the corner as Charles took off his coat.

  “Make me a hot toddy and I will reveal all,” Charles declared as Julie led him close to their fire.

  William and Julie sat, enraptured, while Charles dramatized his and Fred’s Christmas morning adventure.

  “I wish I had been there,” Julie fretted. “I have so little amusement these days.”

  William scoffed. “Training a mudlark to be a maid?” he asked. “Caring for an unexpected foundling?”

  She glared at her husband. “It wasn’t so long ago that I walked these streets in the night, having my own adventures.”

  “I am glad those days are over,” William said sourly. “Another drink, Charles?”

  “Lucy will have a home?” Charles asked.

  “We sent her up to my father’s school as a special treat for the boys for the week, but Julie will continue to train her as a maid of all work, and she will stay to care for our baby when it is born in May.”

  Charles exhaled. “I am glad to hear it.” Though Julie knew only a little about practical housekeeping, her heart was true and he felt reassured that Lucy Fair had a long-term home.

  * * *

  Charles went home after eating dinner with the Agas, feeling the Boxing Day letdown. He sat in front of his fire that night, working on edits and thinking about writing a novel. He had no use for this much solitude. When would Fred return home?

  When he heard a knock on the door, his pulse jumped. Then he remembered that all danger had gone. He’d gone out for the evening newspapers and had seen a report that Mr. Harley’s body had been recovered.

  Thinking maybe it was Aga, or Ainsworth, or even his publisher, he jumped up to open the door.

  Instead, it was a smaller form, dainty in an expensive cloak.

  “I’d recognize those eyes anywhere, Miss Hogarth,” he said gravely.

  “Oh, Charles.” Kate pushed back her hood and fell into his arms, laughing.

  Across the hall the doorway opened and Mr. Whitacre glanced out.

  “No phantoms this time. I hope you had a lovely Christmas,” Charles called out.

  The lawyer looked at him, confused, and shut the door again.

  Charles laughed and returned his gaze to Kate. “How did you get here?”

  “I used my Christmas money to hire a carriage.”

  “No chaperone?”

  She blushed and shook her head. “I’m your daring girl again, my love.”

  He pulled her inside and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, speaking into her pink shell of an ear. “I was afraid you were the mere phantom of my hopes and dreams.”

  She turned until her lip
s were just a breath apart from his. “No, your goodness has brought me back. My father told us about poor Timothy Dickinson’s mother. What a tragic tale.”

  “Very,” he agreed.

  “I suggest we marry very soon, so that any further misunderstandings cannot tear us apart,” she said, her eyes very bright.

  “I will do my best to put my finances in order,” he said, leaving unsaid the problems her father had cost him. “But you must promise me something.”

  “Anything, Charles.”

  “You must promise you will cleave to me in the future and trust me, not your parents.”

  “I did trust you, Charles, but I am under their control.”

  “Not for much longer.” He kissed her cheek. “Why don’t you make us some tea, and I’ll open the tin of fruitcake my mother sent home with me?”

  “Very well,” she agreed. “But let us spend our private time better than this. It is so rare.” She shivered delightfully. “And forbidden.”

  He winked at her and quoted Shakespeare. “Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.”

  She laughed and dropped her cloak on the ground, then returned to his arms. He rained kisses down on her forehead and cheeks, until he dared to find her soft, rather chilly mouth.

  “Oh, Kate,” he whispered against her lips. “I was afraid I’d lost my bonny lass.”

  “Never,” she promised. “But wed me quick, before anyone else dies at our feet.”

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank you, dear reader, for picking up this third book in the A Dickens of a Crime mystery series. If you haven’t read the first book, A Tale of Two Murders, and the second, Grave Expectations, yet, I hope you take the opportunity to enjoy more Dickensian adventures through 1830s London. I am so grateful for the book reviews you wrote and please keep them coming.

  Thank you to my beta readers Judy DiCanio, Dianne Freeman, Walter McKnight, Mike Flynn, Eilis Flynn, Cheryl Schy, and Mary Keliikoa on this project. I also thank my writing group for their support: Delle Jacobs, Marilyn Hull, and Melania Tolan. Also, thank you so much to my agent, Laurie McLean, at Fuse Literary, and my Kensington editor, Elizabeth May, for your work on the series, along with many unsung heroes at Kensington.