The Humbug Murders (7 page)

I burst through, managed a desperate gasp of the sulphuric air, and heard the angry voices above. They had already turned and were running back across the bridge. They would reach the shores soon. I glanced around for Sunderland.

He was nowhere to be seen. He would no doubt have had a heart attack by now and was sinking to his horrid death.

Many more will die, Ebenezer. Then you. You will die, too.

Battling the uncontrollable shivers that my body had activated to keep warm, I made it to the docks. My fingers were too numb to grip the slimy wood, so I used my elbows to haul myself up the jagged sides. A protruding nail gashed my arm open. I'd need to stem that bleeding soon.

Gasping, I lay on the pier for just a moment to regain some strength. Peering down through the cracks between the planks, I saw the reflection of a figure loom above and behind me. I scurried to roll off the pier, but something flew at my head and—

I WOKE ON
my side, shivering, my clothes soaked. A cloth had been fitted over my face, tight as a birthing caul. My wrists were bound tightly behind my back, my shoulders ached a hot pain—the only warmth I felt. I moved my head ever so slightly, and a thunderous agony exploded in my skull. Memories of nearly drowning flooded back. I had been struck down and taken—

Where?

I could hear the eerie clanging and clinking of ropes and pulleys against ship masts. The unmistakable waft of fish drifted to my nostrils through the cloth. I smelled seawater. A blood-curdling scream rang out nearby, making my heart skip a beat.

“Damned seagulls,” a man said. “Pests. Fish-eating, squawking, arrogant pests. Aren't they s'posed to migrate in winter?”

“Unless it was Roger and Jack, finishing off another one before startin' here!”

They laughed.

It was widely but not
officially
known that the Colley brothers, Roger and Jack, operated from the fish market under the stealthy veil of night. Was I in their tender care now? And though I knew my life was in danger, all I could think was: Miss Owen. Had she truly made it to safety? Or was she similarly bound and close by?

I tried to sit up, but I only succeeded in flopping around like a gasping fish. I had a sense that I was not on a ship, yet the slightest movement made me seasick and elicited white-hot lances of searing pain from my bruised head.

“He's moving.”

“I can fix that.”

A heavy boot smashed into my stomach, and I doubled over onto my side once more, vomiting into the hood. My mouth was full of foulness; I couldn't swallow or breathe!

Someone crouched beside me as I flopped about in panic, a strong hand pinning my shoulder in place while another yanked at the hood.

“Baldworthy, whatca doin' there?”

“It won't do if he chokes on his own puke.”

The hood tore free and I spilled the rest of what had been in my guts onto the floor.

“You get any on my shoes, I'll kick you again!” shouted the scarred man standing over me, the hood clutched in one hand. Baldworthy, I took it from his shiny pate. The man with him was slightly hunched over, and the right side of his face bore a bright red claret mark. He sneered angrily when he caught me staring and I looked away quickly.

I was locked in a dark warehouse, a wide river on one side and a brickwork hell on the other. My chest and ribs were on fire, my head throbbed and burned. Still wearing my clothes drenched in icy river water, I shivered like a newborn fawn, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. I imagined that the stench of my sick was nothing compared to the putrid odor of the Thames, which wafted from me.

I heard footsteps. A handful of others joined us.

The vertigo I'd been experiencing finally subsided, and this time when I attempted to sit up and take in my surroundings, no one stopped me. I saw a ramp on the far end leading into the dark and chilling Thames. There a crane might be led to the side of a boat to unload crates of cargo. Industrial rails, chains, and hooks furnished the expanse. But most interestingly, directly before me sat two men at a rudimentary desk made from barrels and crates. They talked between themselves and paid me no attention for several minutes as I caught my breath and gained my bearings. Large bulldogs of men huddled in dark corners.

I finally recognized the objects the brothers were scrutinizing: they were the contents of my emptied pockets.

At last, they turned to face me.

“Good evening, Mr. Scrooge. I trust you are having a hitherto jolly Christmas season,” said the shorter of the two. “The name is Jack Colley. I expect you're wondering why we've brought you to our, ah, temporary offices.”

I nodded, hating that I could not stop shaking.

The older brother looked over his shoulder at me. “I'm Roger Colley. By the way. Can't say I'm pleased to meet you.”

Jack snorted. “Roger, Roger. Don't be discourteous to our honored guest. Please excuse my brother, Mr. Scrooge. He ain't far evolved beyond beast, and some disturbing recent developments within our trade”— his eyes flashed at me—“have rattled the beast's cage. But don't you fret, I won't let him loose quite yet. Not until I've properly made your acquaintance. We've heard so much about you, Mr. Scrooge. You're what some call a legend in the making, you are.”

I wanted to refuse their bait. Whatever “developments” they were alluding to sounded dangerous, far beyond my desired involvement . . . but something within me snapped at it anyway. “Why is that?”

“Because you're what we are on the inside. Us, then, we're all men of the people on the outside, all thief on the inside. Did you know we pass out Christmas turkeys to the poor throughout these neighborhoods? And children's toys. We help others to pay off debts and keep themselves from the streets. Oh, we take our pound of flesh for it, just as you do. But we make them love us for it, unlike you, you greedy miser. You're the type if you owned a rundown building and the tenants complained of rats, you'd charge them for the meat. Still and all, Mr. Scrooge, we have much in common, you and us. Much indeed!”

But I didn't terrorize or murder those who refused to play my game. A slight difference I elected not to mention to these grinning lunatics.

“Roger and Jack Colley,” I murmured. “Top of the criminal food chain. So it's true what they say.”

“What's that, Mr. Scrooge?” Jack obliged.

“The cream rises to the top. So does scum.”

Jack laughed and put a steadying hand on his brother's arm. Roger looked ready to gut me on the spot.

“I don't understand why I'm here,” I said. “Have I done some injury to one of you?”

Roger frowned. “I'd say the injury's more what's going to happen to you. Unless you tell us what we want to know. You're the only one left we can ask, is how it is. My boys got a little overeager. They done in that bruiser Sunderland had with him, and didn't see no value in chasing after that fair bit of crimp that went running. A pricy piece, she looked like, but what would a woman know of business, yeah?”

I kept stock-still, willing my face to betray none of the emotions surging through me. They assumed Miss Owen to be a well-dressed prostitute, a bit of afternoon delight for Sunderland. She lived. She was free. Somehow, that made all of this easier. My life, and mine alone, I would be bargaining for. And I was an expert deal-maker.

“What is it . . . you want to know?” I managed.

“It's simple,” Jack said reasonably. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

Roger rolled his eyes. “Oh, no. It's going to be like this, then.”

“Wait, wait, give him a chance. He's probably still waking up from that little nap Baldworthy gave him.” Jack looked my way. “Now take a moment and think, Mr. Scrooge. George Sunderland, that enormous fat bastard that you were fraternizing with on the bridge, didn't deliver certain goods that were promised and paid for. We are extremely angry. Our clients are extremely angry. There is a whole network of extremely angry people on account of that stolen shipment what we no longer have. Quite the humbug Sunderland turned out to be, yeah?”

I flinched at that.
Humbug
? The word scrawled in blood beside poor Fezziwig's body.

Jack Colley was still ranting. “We want to know where he took it
to
. Simple as that. You know or you don't know. You tell us the truth, or you lie. The choice is yours. Helping us will gain you great rewards. Do you like whores? Opium? Boys, whatever? We can supply any need or desire.”

“That we can,” said his brother. “Or . . .”

“Well, it puts me in mind of a little tale our father used to tell, back before we smothered him in his sleep, then cut off his head.”

“We are given to our passions.”

“We are, we are . . . He wasn't very helpful, our dear old papa. What about you?”

“Well, you're kind and likable chaps,” I said. “Why wouldn't I want to give you the shirt off my back?”

“You'd smell a damn shade better if you did,” Roger said, laughing. “The devil only knows what diseases you might have caught in that water. Perhaps we should hose you off?”

“With the hose jammed down your throat,” Jack promised.

I faced two widely-feared gangsters and a handful of thick and expendable soldiers. They wanted information, and once they had it, their promises of reward would mean nothing. I had to sweeten the pot, if I could. “In fact, I can think of many ways I could help you and your enterprises. And vice-versa.”

The Colley brothers said nothing but exchanged a glance between themselves.

“This one's a cheeky monkey, ain't he?” said Roger, his froglike sneer taunting me. “Worse'n that stinkin' mutton shunter you shanked last week. Tell us and be quick about it.”

Jack twiddled a knife and then used it to poke between his teeth.

“I
want
to help you,” I said. “But I can't. I don't know what you're talking about. Sunderland said nothing about a warehouse or goods. Now if a sound investment is to your tastes, I happen to be on the cusp of—”

Bang!
Jack slammed the knife into an upturned crate and it quivered where it stood. He stood up slowly, glaring at me. The brothers looked at each other, and although they kept their expressions stony, the atmosphere changed noticeably. The bulldogs were more interested now, openly staring at me. Was this entertainment for them?

“Trying to make a stuffed bird laugh,” Jack said.

“It's not preposterous,” I said. “I can make you money.”

The brothers regarded each other—and burst into gravelly guffaws. The sneer lodged permanently on Roger's face sent a repulsed shiver down my spine.

“Oh, but bless your little cottons!” said Jack suddenly with a grin. Looking around his beefy entourage, he laughed. “He hasn't heard!”

Coarse and dark laughter followed.

“
Never
?” grunted a jovial voice from the left of Jack.

“Hasn't he ears?” barked another, laughing.

“What a terrible shock for him, very terrible, hate to be the one.”

“Sad news, Mr. Scrooge, sad indeed.” Roger had moved beside him and was breathing stale breath down the side of his neck. He nodded at Baldworthy, and the brute's scarred and disfigured mouth twisted into a mocking grin.

He gave a curt nod. “Right you are, sir!”

Baldworthy hauled me to my feet as Jack approached.

“As I said, very terrible,” Jack sneered.

“What is?” I asked at last.

“That if we don't get to the bottom of this mess, our kingdom, London's dank and putrefied underbelly, comes falling down. You might think that's a good thing, Mr. Scrooge.” Jack was eyeballing me, his nostrils flared, but I could tell from the shaking of his hands that some fearful desperation was fueling his attack on me. He continued. “Trying for another business deal, when, in truth, you should be bargaining for your life? Even if you make it out of here alive, your business will topple within weeks without the creeping, crawling, criminal network what keeps your clients in the need. You need us to like you. And right now, we don't.”

Roger jerked my scarf back and painfully crushed my Adam's apple into the back of my throat. With a blow, he slammed me against the wall and held me fast.

One of the goons quickly pulled a large crane hook along its rail by the chain, the clanging and clattering filling my head. I tried to speak but choked. A punch to the face and a knee to the stomach, I was doubled over before I realized it.

Roger Colley hooked the cold metal around my scarf and tightened the knot, quick as a flash. Choking, I struggled and kicked. With a heave, Roger and his bully friend yanked the chain, and I was lifted into the air by my neck. My legs flailed.

Desperately, I reached for the chain above my head and lifted myself up slightly to relieve the pressure. A blow to my stomach blasted the last of the air from my lungs, but I had just enough strength to kick my assailant in the face. I heard teeth crunch. A good sound.