The Humbug Murders (13 page)

My friend bowed and turned to receive another visitor, and I glanced at Adelaide. Her chin was wobbling and she was biting her lip so hard it had turned white. Her eyes were fixed on the crumpled newspaper in the waste-paper basket. I knew she had seen the police statement next to the portrait of the “Humbug Killer,” promising justice and a speedy hanging. She took a deep breath and pulled herself up, but her anguish was palpable. I reached out and gave her shoulder the slightest pat.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her big emerald eyes locked on to mine.

“Yes, well,” I began, when a thunderous voice interrupted.

“Ebenezer Scrooge!” it boomed.

It was Pickwick. I sighed.

“Shocking, shocking!” he wheezed when he had pushed past the mingling mourners and stood before me like a rosy-cheeked golem. “What a shock for us all. But why didn't you say last night? To think, there I stood, harping on about this and t'other, and all along . . . but where's Boz?”

“Dickens is on to another story by now, I'm sure,” I said. “Besides, I hardly think the press would be welcome here, all things considered.”

“Quite right!” he roared. “But what luck they caught the monster red-handed, eh! Word has it you nabbed the man yourself!” He slapped me on the back, and I felt the welt spreading. “I'm quite the detective, too, you know. Why, when I was in India . . .”

“India?” said Adelaide suddenly. She had seen my growing frustration, linked arms with Pickwick, and began leading him away. “Why, you must tell me all about India!” She turned and nodded towards the corner of the room. I followed her gaze, and there, at the far end of the room, his head barely visible over the sea of black hats and veils, was Lord Rutledge. She walked off with a very happy Pickwick, listening and nodding to his verbose tales.

I moved through the crowded room towards him, and as I approached, I noticed with confusion that he was rummaging through a rolltop commode. His fingers were quickly flicking through papers, darting about the little drawers, opening and closing them as if he were conducting some strange symphony. Whatever he was searching for remained hidden, and his desperation was growing.

“Good morning,” I said politely.

“Nothing!” He slammed down the lid of the rolltop and winced as it caught his finger. His eyes darted round the room for a split second, then rested on mine, and his face softened into a smile. “I'm glad to see you, Scrooge,” he said. “In fact you found me at a most coincidental time, for I had just placed an envelope on the surface of this desk and momentarily lost it amongst the papers, but have now retrieved it.”

He was lying, of course. He had not retrieved a thing before he slammed his own finger in the lid. Sunderland believed Fezziwig knew some secret of his . . . did Rutledge share that belief?

It seemed that Adelaide's instincts about this fop were dead on.

“Rutledge, the more I think of you, the less I think of you,” I said jovially.

“Pardon?” he asked, not really listening. As I'd expected.

“What was your connection to Fezziwig?” I asked bluntly, raising my voice and speaking slowly and clearly.

He leaned in conspiratorially. “There wasn't one, really. Not as such. My father, you see, he served with Fezziwig during the war. Owed Mr. Fezziwig his life. It was a debt of honor my father never had the chance to repay, and so along with his estate and holdings, it was a debt I also inherited. Not that I saw it as such. I introduced Fezziwig to the shawl wool traders of the Punjab for an important partnership. I have quietly funneled funds to Mr. Fezziwig's accounts over the years when his business was ailing. But that hardly seemed payment enough. When I received his urgent summons, there was no question of attending in person.”

“What happened to that summons? I would like to see it.”

“Lost,” Rutledge said, one finger absently tracing the monogram on his opposite glove. “Try as I might to find it.”

“And you truly never met Sunderland, Shen, or Miss Pearl before?”

“Oddly, no,” he mused. But a muscle twitched at the corner of his eye and his body tensed when he said it. “But from what I read in the papers, it seemed you knew Sunderland quite well!”

“You can't believe everything you read in the newspapers,” I assured him. “Often they don't know the half of it!”

Beaming with smiles that didn't quite reach his eyes, Lord Rutledge searched his breast pocket and pulled out a cream envelope, a thick red company seal firmly pressed onto the flap. He did not extend it to me, just held it tight.

“Listen, Scrooge,” he said, his voice lowered. “Some friends of mine are throwing a party tomorrow night, a seasonal thing, you know. At Lord Dyer's place. I'm sure you know it.”

I didn't. I was not one of the fortunate few who would ever step foot in such circles. “Splendid.”

“A number of high-profile politicians, of course, other personalities of worth, you know, investors . . . Quite the opportunity for someone seeking to, eh, further their business acquaintances.” He gave me a look from under a darkened brow, and I nodded. Then he smiled and handed me the envelope. I turned it over.
Ebenezer Scrooge
in stunning calligraphy already decorated the front.

“Why?”

“It's terrible business all this, such a shame the likes of you and I have been dragged into this mess. Such a shame. Feel a sort of solidarity, I suppose. We can all do with a celebration, I think. In fact, bring your, uhm . . .” He nodded towards Adelaide, who was listening intently to something Pickwick was laughing about too loudly for a wake, at the other side of the room. “Your, eh, your . . .”

“Miss Owen. You've clearly forgotten her name.”

“Yes, yes, Miss Owen. Precisely. And mind you bring the invitation; security will be fairly tight, of course. You know how savage the riff-raff get so close to Christmas, hah!”

“Indeed,” I said, and a painful twinge nudged my conscience as I thought about the grieving riff-raff outside, carrying their humble possessions to give to the widow of a man they had loved.

Rutledge strode off, giving a matronly woman just the curtest condolence before swooping past Dick at the door and vanishing into the frosty morning.

It was Mrs. Fezziwig! My heart leaped when I saw the woman. She spotted me, and her eyes lit up, she opened her arms, and I rushed to her. She enveloped me in an embrace as she allowed herself to weep into my chest. I patted the back of her head, feeling her soft curls bounce under her black veil. The familiar smell of her talcum powder warmed my heart.

“I'm so sorry, Jane,” I whispered, my lip shaking and my breaths short and pained. Sorrow burned in the back of my throat like acid, so I straightened my back and cleared my throat.

Mrs. Fezziwig blew her nose on a handkerchief, which she tucked up her sleeve. “Oh, you foolish boy,” she soothed, and I realized with humiliation that my eyes were wet and red. I cleared my throat again. “Old Mr. Fezziwig would not have you in such a state!”

I mumbled something, but as I was about to protest that I was most calm indeed, my heart stopped. A figure was drifting through the room wearing a dark shroud. I felt my breath shortening, the blood draining from my face. Were those thin, bony fingers stretched out before it, feeling their way through the deathly atmosphere? My body became lead. My mouth was dry and I couldn't swallow. Could this be yet another cruel spectral trick? Could it be the Humbug Killer?!

A glass smashed somewhere behind me, and the figure turned, revealing its face. I evaporated into relief. The figure was no Humbug Killer at all, but Dora Fezziwig, my friend's oldest daughter, her shoulders hunched under her grief and her black veil falling about her face like Death's own shroud. I pressed my eyes closed and felt the hot redness burst like stars in my mind. I was exhausted.

The pressing matter at hand shot back into my consciousness.

“Jane,” I said. “There were four summonses sent by Mr. Fezziwig that night. Do you know what they contained?”

“No, dear,” she answered. “Reginald minds his own business these days. I barely know what he sells.
Sold
, of course.” Once again her face twisted into sadness.

“What of George Sunderland? Was there some spark of friendship between him and Reginald? Were they in business?”

“Oh, that poor man who drowned. No, not so far as I am aware. I can't say I recall Reginald ever mentioning him.”

“Jane, do you know of anyone who might have wanted Reginald . . .”

“Dead? No, as I said to the police, I can't imagine why Guilfoyle wished him harm.”

“Guilfoyle, yes. Or anyone else for that matter?”

“No, Ebenezer. No more questions now. I read Mr. Dickens' account of Mr. Fezziwig, and your kind, kind words about him. How we all cherish his memory; all that is left to us now. Come and let's toast to Reggie, my husband . . .” She fell into sobs, and I pulled her back to my chest.

“He was most ardently admired by many influential people,” I tried, but it sent her into more tears.

“Oh, they
admire
him certainly,” she cried, her eyes and nose streaming. “But his friends, the people outside, the ones he helped, they
love
him!”

“Although you can't see their faces,” came the soft voice of Adelaide, “their hearts can still reach yours.” She was standing next to me, unfolding the silk kerchief she had accepted from the beggar woman, which she handed to Mrs. Fezziwig. My friend's widow took it and beamed. She glanced between us, her tear-stained cheeks bulbous in smile.

“It's from Rosie,” Adelaide continued. “She wished me to pass on the message that your husband was a good man. There are scores out there who have come to offer their warmth.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you so very much, Miss . . . ?”

Adelaide held out her hand. “Owen. Miss Adelaide Owen. Oh!” She was suddenly startled, and as I followed her gaze back to Mrs. Fezziwig, it became clear why.

The widow's face was white, set in an expression of fury and thunder, nostrils flared and lips pursed. “Well! Adelaide Owen indeed!” she snapped.

Then I saw a blur as her arm swung and her open palm smacked me across the face. The pain burst into stars behind my eyes and acute heat spread over my cheek. My ears were ringing. Adelaide moved to calm the woman, but Mrs. Fezziwig pushed her away.

“How
dare
you come here with this trollop?” she shouted, shaking. The visitors all hushed and turned to me and Adelaide. “She is campaigning for the monster who killed my Reggie!”

The crowd took a collective gasp, and Adelaide held her hands out.

“No, no,” she implored. “I assure you that's not the case at all! The evidence is damning, I know, but there is a witness, an alibi, and she can prove my Tom did not do this thing!”

“You admit it,” cried Mrs. Fezziwig. “The police gave me a full report—you are seeking to free the demon who
murdered
my Reggie!” She sank to her knees, so I stooped down to help her up, but instead of taking my hand, she slapped it away.

“Get out now, Ebenezer!” she sobbed. “You have betrayed his memory! Oh, how could you mock me so, Ebenezer? I am so disappointed in you, so very hurt.”

Dick rushed to her, his eyebrows raised at me as if begging for an explanation, but all I could do was shake my head. Adelaide was frozen. The sadness and grief were tangible and intense, and Adelaide stood like an iron chasm between me and the woman who had been like a mother to me. The place was heavy, hot, and aggressive so I had no choice but to take my leave with Adelaide in tow.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered to the room.

Dick cradled Mrs. Fezziwig in his lap as we made for the door and rushed outside.

“Foolish of me, so very foolish,” Adelaide said when we were blocks away, the icy winds blowing snow and sleet about us as a nearby street hawker laid out his wares on a fold-up table: sloppily crafted tin soldiers and wooden toy carts. He was about to call out to us when I shot him a warning look.

“It will be fine,” I promised, barely aware that I was holding Adelaide, comforting the weeping girl much as I had Mrs. Fezziwig.

“Why should anyone believe my Tom is innocent? If—if we had not seen and heard for ourselves . . . if Fezziwig's spirit had not . . .”

“No,” I said forcefully. “Even without the haunting, you would never have believed him capable of this. Never. And we're going to prove it. What did you say the name was of that man who might help us squeeze Rutledge? I think it's high time I paid him a visit. . . .”

IN THE HEART
of London, I found the narrow sign leading to the narrow stairs and the narrow man who was the sole employee of this minor branch of Shopshire, Shopcraft, and Shoplift, a legal office I'd had occasion to frequent. The main offices, several blocks from here, were spacious, lavishly appointed, a bit like a museum display. Ideal for wooing clients. But the true labors of legal representation took place in this and another additional office. There a dozen lawyers and their dogsbody found ways to make cases drag out as long as possible to accrue the highest legal fees imaginable. Here was the dump, a wretched place of unappreciated toil and misery. In this place, old cases came to die, and those unsound and in need of hiding were bricked up behind row after row of filing cabinets.