The Humbug Murders

Chapter 2

FEZZIWIG’S WORKSHOP IN the tight streets of Spitalfields was normally fairly calm and quiet, but this morning it was bustling with police. The bracing cold on the ride here and the sharp-as-a-tack nerve-piercing shrieks of Christmas carolers had helped revive and focus my thoughts. I could no sooner explain the vivid and horrible dream (or visitation or moment of madness) I had experienced any more than I could reasonably accept that the man who had been more of a father to me than that of my own flesh was now dead. But I was a rational man, and I stood accused of a crime. Only calm and reason would keep me from the noose, and so I vowed to apply them.

Only . . . the presence of Miss Owen beside me on the ride here had upset my claims to reason. One look into her dark, shocked, and quite literally haunted eyes and there was no denying that she had seen what I had. And that made the visitation real.

“You, Missy, I have questions for you,” Crabapple had demanded of her. “I think you’re a witness. To what, I’m not exactly sure. But I come into the moneylender’s lair and what do I find? You, a pretty, young thing, pressed up against a wall, terrified; and him looking half out of his gourd. I mean to get at the truth of things!”

And so he had “invited” her along.

Constable Crabapple now sat in Fezziwig’s chair by the rudimentary fireplace, muddy boots unceremoniously plopped on my old friend’s mahogany pedestal desk. Miss Owen had been taken away, presumably to be questioned elsewhere, apart from me. He was twiddling a calling card, and a ghost of a smirk was playing at the corner of his mouth. I scowled at him.

“Let us cut to the chase, Crabapple. What’s your purpose in bringing me here? Is there perhaps some . . . arrangement . . . you seek? I understand a constable’s salary is far from enviable.”

Crabapple said nothing but used the calling card to pick something out of his teeth. He swung his legs from off the desk and leaned forward, sliding a single sheet of crisp paper towards me. Frowning, I took it, and read:

Sir,

’Tis the season for generosity, and I simply must repay you for your earlier kindness. This time you shall receive in kind a gift no less life-altering than the gesture you once paid me, a symbol of my most profound gratitude for what you have done for me. I shall not accept a refusal!

—An Admirer

“I know nothing of this,” I barked, crumpling the paper and tossing it back at Crabapple. “It’s not even in my hand.” The inspector caught the paper ball and smoothed it back out.

“Handwriting is easily forged,” he smirked, holding up the card he had been twiddling. “And I wonder why Fezziwig was clutching your calling card when he died?” he said, looking at it.

“How the devil should I know? We are men of business who knew each other exceedingly well: he has no need for it.”

“Don’t you sell me a dog!” he growled.

I sighed. “I can assure you, I am not lying.”

“Perhaps you did know each other, Scrooge, but certainly no longer. Did he have business with you recently?”

“He may have been intending to pay me a visit, I really could not say. I last spoke with him on Thursday. He seemed well.”

I heard angry voices and knocking coming from the back room, and another constable called out, “Keep it down, back there!”

“Your accomplices,” said Crabapple, twiddling the calling card again. “An eclectic mix of characters, but no doubt they each had a use to you. You’re all cut of the same cloth, now ain’t you? But perhaps your cut ain’t quite so fine as theirs, so blackmail is what I’m thinking. Moneylenders learn all kinds of secrets, now don’t they?”

“You have a mind like a steel trap, Constable. Anything entering gets crushed and mangled.”

“You done him in, didn’t you?”

I knew there was no point in arguing that I had no idea what he was talking about. I remained silent, simmering with suppressed anger. “Where have you taken Miss Owen? Far from this place, I should hope.”

“Worried about her, yes? About what she might say? Confess now, before she spills all your secrets.”

I chuckled. “I would confess that I find your manners appalling, Constable. But first you would have to have some.”

“I see. Let’s discuss this upstairs in the workroom, shall we?” Constable Crabapple got up, strode to the fragile staircase, and turned, waiting for me to follow. Clearly, he would tell me nothing of Miss Owen’s whereabouts. He had another card to play.

My stomach was heavy with dread. I’d been informed that Fezziwig’s body was up there. I could already smell the rot. And there Crabapple stood, grinning as he waited patiently for me to take the first steps. The last thing I wanted to do was go up that narrow staircase and through the trap in the floor. But I was not a coward.

The workroom was spacious, approximately the size of both the front and back rooms downstairs, lined with cases holding books and ledgers. Three looms and several spinning wheels cluttered the floor. Here Fezziwig would conduct his business, with a team of boys weaving fabrics and materials for trade across the country. The familiar smells of wood, velvet, and sweat lingered. But there was another smell: sweet, pungent.

A long, narrow window spilled light into the room, slashed across the floor like a laceration through the air.

Then I saw the body and froze. Fezziwig lay sprawled under the window, drenched in a harsh winter light, a gaping black wound in his throat. At first glance, his face looked peaceful, as his powdered wig lay askew across half his head. Then I spotted deep stab wounds that opened his face and chest, his velvet waistcoat in shreds. His cheek had been sliced to the ear. As promised, the word, “Humbug” was scrawled in blood on a nearby wall.

Suddenly my heart stopped. I spotted the heavy-set gold ring on his finger. The ring I had seen only once before, on a rotting corpse in my office. My head swam and I doubled over and vomited.

“Terrifying sight, ain’t it? Did you cut his throat before or after you sliced his face open?”

A prickling dizziness spread across my face as I struggled to clean myself with my handkerchief. Grief threatened to unbalance me, I felt it forming in the back of my throat, but there was too much to process to succumb to it. I couldn’t help staring at the cut in his throat and the black pool of sticky, coagulated blood spreading from it.

“He must have been unconscious when he was attacked,” a calm and familiar voice said, fragrant tobacco smoke sweeping in behind me. I turned and was surprised to see my young “investigator” entering the scene. Thin but well-dressed, scowling, sketchbook at the fore with pen poised, his usual cigarette hanging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t so much as look my way.

“What the . . .” Crabapple began. “Dickens!”

“Judging from the color of the old man’s skin, I’d say he died late last night,” the sometime reporter added. He was rarely without his sketchbook, and he often added drawings to his articles and observations. If Dickens—or Charles, as I had referred to him earlier—was correct, then Fezziwig had been struck down around the time I was making my nightly “collections.”

“And how did you achieve that?” asked Crabapple, turning back to me, his voice calm and inquiring, as if asking me whether I used a rag or brush to polish my shoes in the morning.

I stared at the constable, anger rising. That damned smirk was still playing at his mouth; he was toying with me.

Dickens began sketching both the room and the body. “That sweet smell, Constable. I’m sure you have noticed it. The killer used chloroform, and plenty of it.”

“Enough out of you,” Crabapple said. “We pay you for a rendering of crime scenes, not your commentary.”

“You don’t pay me at all,” Dickens muttered, wincing as he pinched out his smoke between finger and thumb.

“You get no money for your exclusives?” Crabapple chided. He looked back to me. “The old man was drugged first. So you showed your friend some mercy. You have a heart after all.”

I had had enough of this trumped-up thief-taker and his attacks on my good name. “If Fezziwig met his violent end late last night, then I’m as innocent of this crime as you are of knowing which fork to use at a formal dinner, you oaf!”

The constable started to reach out for me with his large callus-covered hands.

Before he got to me, I pointed at something that had been bothering me about the gruesome business. “Good Lord, Crabapple, you couldn’t find your way through a maze even if the rats helped you. There’s no blood on his hands. Think. What do you make of that?”

The young reporter jumped in. “No struggle, see? He didn’t clasp at his throat when it was cut.”

Crabapple smacked the top of Dickens’ head as he began to pace. His venomous words were for me alone. “He was not expecting to be murdered when you called upon him; I doubt he even had time to resist you.”

“I’d agree with you, Crabapple, but then we’d both sound like idiots. If this attack happened late last night, then I have a dozen tenants who can confirm my exact location. I was collecting weekly rents until the wee hours of the morning,” I said as I turned away from Fezziwig’s b****y remains.

“You got witnesses for the whole night?” Crabapple barked. “Otherwise, shut your gob!”

“He’s right, it doesn’t add up, Constable,” Dickens supplied. “I’ve read many case reports similar to this. I’d say he was attacked from behind, and then spun round and laid on the floor. See the marks on the floor here from where he was moved to the window?”

Crabapple shuddered but kept his gaze on me. “Was he heavy?”

“The killer would not have had to use much strength, judging from the angle of the body,” Dickens declared. “He simply laid the unconscious victim to the floor. There is very little blood around the stab wounds. They were inflicted after he bled to death.”

Staring right at me, Crabapple added, “Got a might annoyed that he went so quick, did you? Needed to vent your anger? And what’s this ‘humbug’ you wrote on the wall, presumably in your victim’s blood? A humbug is a liar, a fraud. What did he lie to you about, Mr. Scrooge? How did he defraud you? Is that why you butchered him?”

Gold glinted in the sunlight. I pointed at Fezziwig’s right hand. “I have not seen him wear that ring before.”

“Yet you didn’t steal it. You had another motive, perhaps. Mrs. Fezziwig? No, she is far too fat and old for you. One of his delicate daughters, perhaps.”

Fury blinded me. With a lunge, I spun round, grabbed Crabapple by the throat and slammed him against a bookshelf. “Damned be you, Crabapple,” I growled through my teeth. “You know perfectly well I didn’t do this. You are just trying to find out what I know. Well, I know nothing about this, do you hear? So stop wasting my time!”

He was startled, but not afraid. “Assaulting a constable is not a wise move given your circumstances, Scrooge.” With cold hands he moved my grip from his throat. “And perhaps you’ve a point after all. What need would you have of Fezziwig’s daughters when you have that fair bit of crumpet I found you with? What does she do for you, Mr. Scrooge? Really?”

This time I refused to be baited. Though I did not know Miss Owen well, she had earned my respect with her quick thinking and brave acts. The best way I could think to see her reputation left untarnished was to give the constable absolutely nothing.

At length, he turned from me, growling with frustration. “I am a simple man. I like things simple. Simple crime is proper crime. For example, only last week a man was found murdered quite to death next to some anonymous lady. Never identified his bit of crumpet, but a London theatre owner was he! Both slashed to smithereens. Obviously a crime of passion. Obviously an enraged missus. I like those types of cases. Husband opens his wife’s neck for cheating on him. Business partners fall out over money and one ends up stabbed. Simple!”

Dickens shrugged. “I believe we have a position open in the mail room, if you’d like to apply for that. It’s simple work. Perhaps it would suit you?”

“Humperdink!” Crabapple called, his face red, his hands balled into fists. Long seconds passed in silence before the heavy, slow steps on the staircase began. A ruddy-faced constable appeared at the trap in the floor, wheezing and reeking of gin as he climbed the last steps. “Escort Mr. Scrooge downstairs, detain him in the back room with the others. And you, Dickens. You make sure I get the credit for all this in your article. Not Inspector Foote. You hear me?”

I glared at Crabapple as I followed Humperdink back downstairs. Behind me, Dickens issued a sharp cough. When I glanced his way, his fingers not-so-subtly described a brisk rubbing of the thumb against forefinger and middle finger, a motion universally signaling that payment would be expected for services rendered.

I didn’t dare reply in any form, but it wasn’t a concern for either of us. He knew that unlike most of the thieves and rotters populating this foul city, I always, begrudgingly, paid my debts.

As Humperdink unlocked the door to the back room, a cacophony of protests rang out from behind it.

“Now see here!”

“Do you know who I am?”

“I demand to be released this instant!”

“Humperdink, really,” I said as the rotund man reached for the door. “What is Crabapple playing at here?”

With a shrug, Humperdink hauled the door open. A forceful shove to my back sent me stumbling into the middle of the room where not only Miss Owen waited, but also three men and another woman. Everyone except Miss Owen scrambled out of my way, then immediately took up challenging positions against me.

“For the love of God, Humperdink,” I said, shrugging off his rough treatment. “We all spring from apes, yet you did not spring far enough!”

Three well-dressed men of business, one heftier than the other two, one a stuffed-shirt member of the aristocracy if ever I’d seen one, the last a hard-eyed Asian fellow. The woman was very young, barely over twenty, I guessed. Quite beautiful, yet slight, and certainly able to awaken a protective instinct in any male caught in her orbit, judging by the way all three of the men stationed themselves between me and her. She wore a burgundy dress with a gold partridge pin over her breast. An impeccably crafted chain of holly sprigs adorned her felt hat.

Opposite me, Miss Owen surveyed their faces intently, then cast me a look that was equal parts warning and exasperation. Warning of what, I had no notion.

The back room normally served as a joint kitchen and privy, so the four characters staring at me looked deeply uncomfortable and out of place. Subtle conspiratorial looks passed between them.

The door was still open. Humperdink stood framed there, shifting his weight from one foot to another as if the mere act of standing were a challenge considering the amount of alcohol in which his brain had been soaked.

“So what is it you want me to do in here?” I asked the constable, my hand sweeping round to the tiny space. “Teach them to waltz?”

“Um, ah, no, Mr. Scrooge, sir,” Humperdink said. “You lot are supposed to be proper refined gents and whatnot. Introduce yourselves to our new guest or you’ll be without a pot to piss in, and I mean that quite lit’rally!”

“First things first,” the closest man said as he looked up at me. He was short in stature but vast in presence: mighty black whiskers and dark eyes blazing. He wore a gold silk cravat stuffed in artful folds into a deep-orange quilted waistcoat, buttons shining. “Who might you be?”

“I’m Ebenezer Scrooge,” I said. “A former associate of poor Mr. Fezziwig. I handle investments.”

“Did you receive an invitation?” asked the young woman.

“Only from the Constable,” I admitted.

Humperdink wobbled a bit and steadied himself on the door frame. “You see, Mr. Scrooge, sir, this lot had an audience scheduled with the deceased, or so they claim. They says they arrived at the, ah, how would you say, sir, appointed time this morning, only to find Mr. Fezziwig unable to receive visitors, so to speak, on account of being a deader.”

“And so,” Scrooge said, “following what I would guess is standard police procedure, you then pressed on with locking them in a closet.”

“We did, sir! We did indeed!” It took Humperdink a moment to note the sarcasm. “Ah, well, it was just that they was being quite rowdy, sir. Rowdy and disruptive, eh? A murder investigation is a serious business and here’s this lot, refusing to answer civil questions such as ‘Why’d you butcher the poor old sod?’ and ‘What kind of blade did you use to turn that sweet old man into sliced meat?’ and so on and it got a bit wearisome for us, didn’t it. Out of their mouths it was all, ‘Call my solicitor, I don’t have time for this nonsense.’ Well, who has time now, eh? You’re a gentleman, Mr. Scrooge. See if you and your lady friend can get them to talk. It might slip that noose off your necks and onto another!”

With a snide laugh, Humperdink slammed the door shut. After a moment of silence, the four settled into different corners.

“I suppose we should introduce ourselves,” said the fat little man.

He looked familiar.

“Ah, then you do know me,” he said flatly, noting the flare of recognition in my gaze.

I nodded. Now that my initial upset had passed, I identified him as a businessman who moved in loftier circles than I might ever dream to, a merchant and builder said to be the true power behind George Hudson’s railway scheme.

But before I could speak, Miss Owen surprised me by surging forward and presenting her hand for him to kiss. “Mr. George Sunderland,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I am Miss Adelaide Owen, and I’m quite the ardent admirer of your recent ventures in India!”

“Why, why—how delightful!” he said. And kiss her hand he did. Then he gestured broadly towards the stuffed shirt next to him. “To my left is Lord Rutledge. He numbers princes and moguls of a higher station than even myself among his intimates.”

Rutledge nodded, fingering the monogram embroidered on his fine glove, and eagerly took Miss Owen’s hand, kissing her fingers, but with something more of a lecherous look in his eyes. She seemed to stare past it, and the man’s ardor instantly ebbed. He straightened up, displaying only a flicker of shame, and adeptly fixed his mask of aristocracy back in place.

From the corner of my eye, I caught the c******n staring at the little woman in the burgundy dress. His stare was piercing, and she turned from it, hugging herself uncomfortably.

“Charmed, Miss Owen,” Rutledge said. “And my apologies at, well, ignoring you until now. This whole matter has been most confounding.”

“Yes,” I interjected, “it has been a most shocking and confusing time. For instance, Humperdink’s assertion that Miss Owen is my lady friend—”

“Couldn’t be further from the truth,” Adelaide assured him. “I’m actually considering an offer of employment from Mr. Scrooge, even as we speak.”

I tossed a thoroughly vexed look her way, which she caught and deftly returned with a sparkle in her lovely eyes.

“In what capacity?” the other woman asked. The woman’s delicate complexion was blotched from tears, and her wide blue eyes were red from crying.

“Domestic, of course,” she said quickly. “Though I do dream of one day owning a business of my own. A millinery, I should think. I do so adore hats. Yours is truly enchanting for this Christmas season!”

“Yes, Miss Pearl,” I added. My onetime associate, Jacob Marley, had been quite taken with her and had dragged me to several of her performances a few years back. I’d stayed awake through at least one. “Nellie Pearl, charmed to meet you in person. Yes, I recognize you, of course. The Lady of Shalott posters are all over town.”

“But you have not seen it yet?” she asked.

“I—”

“I will have tickets sent to you.” The actress curtsied politely and sat down on a small wooden stool, still eyeing me uneasily.

“And Mr. Shen Kai-Rui here is with the House of Liu,” said Sunderland. “He is a powerful lobbyist within the East India Trade Company.”

Miss Owen smiled and delivered a half-curtsy, all one might manage in these cramped confines.

The handsome Chinese man turned away disdainfully and would not meet my gaze. “A moneylender? I do not associate with common muck snipes.”

I bristled at the accusation that I was a person of low morals or a vagrant but let it go. I was more interested in the intense gazes Shen cast at the clearly unreceptive Nellie Pearl.

Sunderland threw open his hands, a born orator. “What the drunkard said is true. Each of us, separately, as we did not personally know one another before this morning’s unpleasant events, received a summons from, ah, the deceased. He asked us to meet him here at seven precisely on a matter of great importance. I have no idea how many of these summonses he may have sent throughout London, but we four were respondents. We arrived, we found him, we called the constable. And from the moment they arrived, we have been treated like criminals.”

I could not restrain a smirk. Crabapple’s tactics were consistent, if nothing else.

“Is this funny to you?” the foreigner asked.

“Certainly, it is not,” Miss Owen rushed in to assure him.

“May I see the summons?” I asked.

Sunderland cleared his throat. “I’m sure the summons is back at my office. A viewing could be arranged.”

“Do any of you have the letter on your person now?” I asked. “I’m sure that producing it would go some way to substantiating your tale.”

Miss Owen smiled kindly and nodded encouragingly. I could not fail to notice that they looked at her for cues more than they did at myself.

Interesting. Perhaps she might have a place in my dealings after all.

If she had the stomach for it.

Not one of them had the invitation with them. Before I could ask another question, Rutledge’s stool shattered and he fell, shouting and smacking at the wall beside him as he attempted not to go down with it. The stool must have been nursing a wounded leg.

A shriek and a scrambling sound from the other side of that wall caught my attention. It was followed by a mad scratching, like a sharp instrument striking and dragging along it. Rutledge stumbled from the wall in fright, then quickly recovered. Shen brushed Nellie behind him protectively, and stood with one hand near his belt. Had he a weapon secreted there?

“Did you hear that? A scratching?” Miss Owen asked.

“Rats, I’m sure,” said the frustrated Sunderland.

I ignored the businessman and drew closer to the wall. “I recall this room from when I was an apprentice here. Fezziwig let us play games. He encouraged it.”

“You, playing games,” Miss Owen said with a twinkle. “I should like to see it.”

I reached up to the corner of the embroidered tapestry tacked to the wall. The moment my hand touched its cold threads, I heard a ghostly sobbing echoing from the other side of the wall. I glanced at Miss Owen, who nodded at my unspoken question: she had heard it, too.

Then she looked down and I with her. Together we spotted the footprints in the dust matting the table, noted the items that had been swept from it: a pair of candles, scissors, a piece of cloth. Empty spaces among the dusty surface marked where each had been.

The scratching and the sobbing intensified. Nellie gasped in fear at the sounds, and the portly Sunderland tossed a protective arm about her shoulders.

The sound echoing from the other side of the wall rose from a man’s throat.

The young man is innocent, the spirit had insisted.

Could he have meant the poor creature secreted in a cubbyhole we adolescents used to play hide and seek? Perhaps this was one of Fezziwig’s current apprentices, a child who witnessed the brutal events of last night?

Ignoring the strange lightness of the scurrying and the plaintive sounds, I shook off the unsettling memory of Fezziwig’s apparition. It would not be Bedlam for me. I smacked at the corner of the embroidery and a panel popped open, just as I recalled. I pried it open, stuck my head inside.

Had I been wrong in my conclusions, I might well have been attacked by rats. As it was, I saw, in the dim light from the outer room, a sight nearly as frightful and ghastly as Fezziwig’s spirit. A young man—though no child, perhaps of the same age as Miss Owen, two and twenty—with wild hair and wilder eyes clutching a carving knife. He was covered in blood. It matted his hair, dark, dried flakes peeling off his cheeks. He trembled, raising the blade defensively, but made no attempt to strike.

The young man is innocent.

“Call for Crabapple,” I said. “Tell them the murderer is ready to confess.”

With that, the man in the hole’s sobs turned to shrieks and he lunged at me with the blade.