The Humbug Murders (6 page)

She raised her eyebrows. “I would not be so quick to accept Nellie's tale either, Mr. Scrooge. There was a tangible unease in her eyes. I sense it, you see—woman's intuition.”

“Woman's folly. Members of the fairer sex are so quick to condemn their sisters. Don't forget the gravity of the situation, Miss Owen. This is not the time for idle accusations.”

Miss Owen took a deep breath and her eyes drifted to the falling snowflakes. The icy wind blew a gust and she pulled her shawl tight. “And there was something more, this Chimera business,” she continued. “What do you make of—”

Gasping, Miss Owen stopped suddenly as a man who had more in common with a wall than with flesh and blood slipped in front of us with a quietness and sureness that made me start.

“Apologies, sir,” he said in the deepest, most gravelly voice I'd ever heard.

“You can make the attempt to apologize,” I offered, “but I'm not sure apologies come in sizes large enough to suit the likes of you!”

Despite herself, Miss Owen could not restrain a snicker beside me.

The man's enormous girth filled my vision. Yet his ridiculously muscled bulk had been poured into one of the finest tailored suits available in London. And the particular way he ordered his cravat marked him as an Oxford man. He remained unmoved by my barb. “My employer, Mr. Sunderland, wishes to speak with you further.”

“Does he now?” I asked warily. “Is it about a business matter, or about the awful affair we were both caught up in this morning? As you can see, I am in the middle of a discourse.”

The man glanced at Miss Owen and grinned. “I wouldn't ordinarily interrupt a man in the middle of a . . . discourse. But I believe it is about an advertisement you placed, looking for investment partners?” he said. “You are Ebenezer Scrooge, the investment banker, are you not?”

I tipped my hat. “A moneylender, in point of fact. But I will be more, and soon. Have no doubt.”

“Well, my employer takes great pleasure in helping others achieve their aspirations.”

I laughed. It was very close to a line I had used myself on many an occasion. Still, George Sunderland, despite the terrible manner in which we had met, could prove just the ally I'd dreamed of enlisting. “Very well. He can make an appointment to see me at my office—”

“It is urgent. He requests your presence now. And in a place of privacy.” The big man nodded to London Bridge—where George Sunderland now waited in the exact spot I thought I had spied Fezziwig's spirit.

I nodded and exchanged glances with Miss Owen. She smiled and crooked her arm.

“Perhaps this lovely gentleman would deign to walk with me for a time?” she asked warmly.

The giant's knees buckled as he tipped his bowler to her and allowed her to take his arm. I frowned, not particularly fond of the idea of Miss Owen going off with some man I didn't know, but business was business. And if he worked for George Sunderland, well, that was recommendation enough. They strolled towards a spot off to one side of the bridge, while I climbed it eagerly.

Not one of us was aware of the malevolent shadows detaching from the alley far behind us.

Or the weapons they carried.

The stink of rotting fish and the clanging of ropes against ship masts helped me navigate through the thick orange mist. The wooden docks were slippery under the December sludge, so I kept my distance from their edges, blurred above the black Thames below.

Sunderland was waiting for me alone under the bridge, his cigar adding heavy grey swirls to the polluted air. As I approached, Sunderland gave an almost imperceptible nod towards the shadows, where his burly bodyguard was leaning with arms folded against the brickwork of the bridge, Miss Owen chatting away beside him.

Together Sunderland and I ascended the steps to the bridge, and as we reached the top, the wind blew cold and bitter. I heard slow, almost silent steps following behind; heavy boots placed carefully on cold stone. Sunderland's ever-present shadow. The Oxford Man. And next to his, the light graceful steps of Miss Owen.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Scrooge,” said Sunderland as we reached the middle of the bridge. I looked back to the bodyguard, who was nearly hidden at the end of the bridge, and the lithe form of Miss Owen beside him.

Sunderland appeared to guess my thoughts. “Rest easy, Scrooge. I raised that man up from nothing. He would give his life in my service. Miss Owen is quite safe, I assure you.”

“But it's hardly proper—”

Sunderland laughed and guided me ahead. “Surely after what we have shared today, and considering the spot we are all in, propriety is the least of our concerns, yes? Besides, look at them. I'd be more worried about my man than Miss Owen should he even think of doing or saying anything untoward. Wouldn't you?”

I nodded and said flatly, “I consider the expenditure of my time as an investment. Are there dividends to be reaped from our discussion?”

“That depends on you. But it's distinctly possible, yes.”

“Then the pleasure is entirely mine, Mr. Sunderland. Your commercial acuity built you a veritable empire of industry, and I am still looking for an investment partner. Need I look any further?”

“Not if your eyesight is worth a damn.” Holding his thin cigar, he pointed out over the Pool of London and at the vast expanse of ships, docks, and warehouses. “A fine sight, isn't it? And beyond, to the city. So many buildings that only exist because I had vision, I had will and strength. I have built so much and, naturally, I must protect it by considering only the most lucrative business proposals. But this horrible bit with Fezziwig, it casts a damper, does it not?”

“You knew him, then?”

Sunderland looked away. “I wish I could say that I did. From the tales the others told this morning, he sounded like a saint, not a sinner deserving of such treatment. I answered his summons only because I wanted to know if there was truth behind his legend. The wealthy look for novel ways to entertain themselves.”

“At least the culprit has been found.”

Sunderland sighed. “I must say, I'm not generally the type to concern myself with matters such as this, but when a man is gone, who is there to protect his legacy, his reputation? I saw what was done to him. You?”

“A ghastly business.”

“And now he will be remembered as a weak old man who must have been involved with God knows what to deserve such a fate. I can't help but think: if it were me found like that, if tales were being concocted out of convenience that destroyed my good name and ruined the reputation and future of my family, would I not wish that someone would do something? That someone would stick out their neck a bit and say that couldn't possibly be true? Yet I see four people: Rutledge, the actress, the Chinaman, and yourself, and when the press is scurrying about looking for a story to tell, not one of you is there to be found to speak to the character of Mr. Reginald Fezziwig.”

My gaze narrowed. He raised a valid point. I would need to give Dickens something about Fezziwig's death in order to keep the newspaperman—and, hopefully, his contemporaries, who often did little more than copy his take on things—from inventing provocative and slanderous fictions to fill the void left by a lack of facts. It was indeed something I should have done rather than slinking off when the wolves were chewing on other meat.

He offered me a cigar and I took it. “What is it you have in mind?” I asked, hiding my eagerness behind the flare of sulphur as I lit the tobacco.

“I have a secret, Mr. Scrooge. Can you guess what it is?”

“I am no detective, sir.”

“You sell yourself short, I think. Are you not a keen observer of any who might provide money or advancement? Do you not study the slightest tick, the faintest hint that what a man says to you may be only one lie in a house built on them? I do.”

“I employ others to ferret out such details.”

“But only after your instincts flare and tell you something is not as it seems. Do that with me, now, and if you succeed, I will know beyond any doubt that you are the man for the job I have in mind.”

I looked at him closely and could see nothing amiss. Nothing obviously amiss, in any case, though . . . yes, perhaps it was simply because he had planted the seed in my mind, but there was
something,
was there not?

“I'm no miracle worker,” I told him. “I cannot sniff a man's tobacco and effortlessly reconstruct his every movement of the past day as I've heard that Frenchman Dupin supposedly can. But human nature . . . its baseness, its crass, grasping desires . . . with these I am familiar. From these I have learned how to profit. And your eyes have a melancholy, your voice a note of defeat that is entirely at odds with everything one would think to associate with you. It's not loss born from grief, not from a loved one dying; I know that look all too well. But your talk of how Fezziwig will be remembered . . . you're dying, are you not?”

As soon as I'd brought up death, an image of a crumbling Fezziwig flashed in front of my mind's eye, but I blinked it back out. Even in the icy chill, the Thames seemed to stink a little fouler.

Sunderland shuddered. “Indeed I am, sir. And I wish to hire you to safeguard my legacy.”

“Me? As you said, I ran from the chance to do my mentor and his survivors a good turn.”

“True. Because you did not stand to gain from the act.”

“You make me sound like a monster.”

“Just what may be needed. And before you volunteer it, worried as you may be that anything less than full disclosure may change my mind about you, I am well aware of the unpleasantness with your employer of just a year ago. A certain Mr. Marley?”

“He was never my employer,” I said firmly. “More a trusted referral source.”

“But trusted no longer.”

I said nothing. The wind's deep growl was response enough.

Sunderland warmed his arms. “My legacy is all I have left to me. I have no one I can trust. Ensure for me that when the name George Sunderland is spoken of in decades to come, it is with appreciation.”

I frowned. “Is your promised investment in the rail deal contingent on my accepting these other duties?”

“No, Mr. Scrooge. They are, what is the phrase? Fish and corn, you see?”

I nodded and turned away to think it over. Why would he want me for this task? I was not a solicitor or an estate specialist. Was it because of my association with Dickens?

I looked over and was about to ask that very question when I heard a rasping beside me. Sunderland was covered in sweat, shaking, eyes wild. He clutched at his stomach and a thin line of blood ran from his nose. Sharp stabbing pains seized him as he convulsed.

“You need a doctor,” I said.

Suddenly, Sunderland was stony calm, a statue gathering snowflakes. Then, in the distance, a foghorn sounded, and just like that, the fat man's calm demeanor crumbled. His face flushed red with rage, he grabbed my lapels, thrust me towards the steel railing. “Enough of these games! What did Fezziwig tell you, Scrooge? How much do you know?”

“What?” I snarled. “Are you mad? Unhand me, or I won't care that you are a sick or a wealthy man, I will—”

Then, even in the mist, I could see the color drain from his face. I followed his stony stare to the end of the bridge. Facedown, with the butt of a knife protruding from the base of his neck, lay the shadowed bodyguard.

Miss Owen was nowhere to be seen!

Three figures were swiftly moving towards us, one in the lead and two close behind. The unmistakable silhouette of a gun glinted wet through the smog. Sunderland clutched my arm and spun me round to start running the opposite way, but just as we turned, two more figures appeared at the other end of the bridge.

We had no escape. The men were closing in on us.

I caught Sunderland's eye. Reason had returned to him. A sharp clarity needed for survival. We looked at the black water below—but I hesitated, thinking of Miss Owen.

“She's escaped, surely,” Sunderland said. “My man must have fought and given his life to give her that chance.”

The men neared.

“What is it you think Fezziwig knew?” I asked. “Sunderland, what have you done?”

“We can do nothing for them if we're dead!” shouted Sunderland.

With a swift leap, I hopped up onto the stone ledge and braced myself for the jump. Then Sunderland cried, “Scrooge!”

I looked over my shoulder: he was struggling to heave his vast bulk up onto the ledge, and the men were just yards away on either side. My lip curled at him. There was no time, I had to jump. I grabbed his arm and he grabbed mine. I hauled his weight onto the ledge and just as a snarling, scarred beast of a man reached out for us with a cry, we both went hurtling down towards the frozen pit below.

Weightlessness, for just a second.

Then a sharp pain split my body in half as I struck the water and the river wrapped its frigid fingers around me and held tight, pulling me down. Ice pierced my skin, and I felt the shock tugging at my lungs. I knew I would have ten minutes or less before hypothermia weakened my judgment and core motor skills, but to save myself I first needed air. Kicking forcefully, I swam towards the surface. Preparing to break, to my horror I realized a thick, frozen film of pollution separated me from that gasp for air, sticking to my face and hair like tar.