The Humbug Murders (10 page)

I held out all manner of objection to this, but in the end relented, giving him statements with which he could do what he liked. Dickens took it all down eagerly, like a drunk who had been dry at least a month. I also told him what little information Miss Owen shared about “her Tom.”

“Thomas Malcolm Guilfoyle, Piermont and Piermont Acquisitions,” he muttered, scratching madly at his notepad. “A history of floundering from one menial position to another despite a fine upbringing at good schools, parents long-deceased. Tasked with securing a number of properties in Fezziwig's neighborhood, including the one his shop had been built upon. He'd made considerable strides with adjoining properties, but Fezziwig refused to sell.”

“Fezziwig never mentioned any of this to me,” I said.

Dickens frowned. “This makes it look all the worse for Miss Owen's young man. It gives him clear motive.”

“I know. All I ask is that you keep Miss Owen's name out of this.”

“Of course. But I will need to speak to her further, to better understand—”

Just as we were finishing, an explosion of laughter rocked the tavern. I massaged my temples and caressed my sore neck. “We should—”

“Wait!” someone yelled. “He gave you as much as that for no slap and just a cuddle?”

“That he did!” Miss Piper said, tossing back her ginger locks. “And believe you me, a cuddle's a lot less work than all the rest we lot get up to!”

The men in the crowd guffawed and cheered.

“They call their sort fallen women,” I whispered. “I doubt
they
had far to fall.”

The women sat close together, Irene with her arm about her companion's shoulders. Miss Piper wiggled her shoulders and gave her onlookers a bit of a bounce. “Well, you know what I always say. If some fool punter wants to throw his money away, I'd just as soon he'd throw it away on me!”

Irene shook her head. “Oh, Annie, you're a wicked one.”

“Perhaps you're right. Poor lad fancies himself in love. Pays for the 'ole night, not just for a little knee tickler. But the opium . . . no friend to his arched back, if you get me drift. Spent 'alf last night listening to him blubber that he's not even a man.”

A man in a worn waistcoat said, “Wait now, this isn't the same bloke—”

“Yes, the very one.” Miss Piper—Annie to her friends—rolled her eyes.

“They've got him right fitted up for murder!” the man said.

“They got it wrong. They always get it wrong. Oh, he went there all right, but he arrived after the dawn, just ahead of those fancy-fancy types. Had to have, my poor Tom. He was with me until then. He couldn't have done the wicked-wicked with that knife to that doddering old man.”

“You've got to tell them.”

“Hah! They'd send me down as his accomplice. I don't need me neck stretched, thank you. It's quite swan-like as it is, wouldn't you say?”

An icy hand gripped the space between my shoulder and neck, and I felt a ghostly breath upon me.
The young man is innocent.

“They're talking about Mr. Guilfoyle,” I said.

“An alibi,” Dickens agreed.

Together we sprang to our feet, the dizziness gone, my world solid as my will and resolve. But an obstacle literally stood in our way. One of considerable girth and, judging from his wine-soaked breath, considerable merriment as well.

“Bless my old chestnuts!” said the happy fat man as he adjusted his spectacles. “If it isn't Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge I see before me, large as life and twice as pleasant. How are you tonight, my good sir?”

“Mr. Pickwick, we do not complain about your shortcomings, but your long stayings. If you will excuse us?”

“Nonsense. And you, Boz—or should I say Mr. Dickens—don't you move a muscle. I have quite the tale for you!”

They tried to skirt the portly man's generous girth, but escape proved impossible. An exodus had begun all about Pickwick. Those he had trapped into conversation now swarmed about them as they tipped their hats and fled. The prostitutes and their audience lay beyond the stampede.

“I've heard that you may have some kind of investment opportunity, is that correct? I just might know someone. Well, bosh, that is to say, I know most everyone, now don't I? But in this most singular regard I may be of considerable value to you. Do you know my good friend Nathaniel Winkle?” Pickwick looked about, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Winkle? Winkle, my fine chap, where are you?”

Pickwick waddled past me, so I grasped Dickens by the arm and rushed for the side exit.

“Winkle? My dear Winkle, where are you going? I was just about to have them bring out the grouse pie!” Pickwick called behind them.

We spotted an opening and ran for it. But the gathering around the painted ladies had evaporated and only a splash of crimson hair heading for a far exit gave any hope. We raced for it, and the burly bartender eased out before us, blocking the way to the shadowy corridor and the door opening on to pools of moonlight glistening in puddles formed by broken bottles in the alleyway beyond.

“Forgetting something, gents?” the barman asked.

Cursing myself, I dug into my pockets, found the necessary coin, and dropped it into his palm—making sure I shot him my nastiest look. He receded and we ran down the narrow dark corridor, slammed open the far door, and came up quick in the darkened alley beyond, a gathering spot known locally as a marketplace for prostitutes. Laughing whores were lining the alley walls, waving mistletoe at passersby, but there was no sign of Irene and Miss Piper.

On the bustling street beyond, I surveyed the sinister mass of fellow Londoners at midnight. I looked away as we passed a clutch of tattered and tired beggars with outstretched and blackened hands. Each pleaded for coin to buy a bit of “Christmas cheer.”

“I don't make merry myself at Christmas, and I can't afford to make idle people merry, either. Be off with you!” I turned from them, towards the probing stare of the reporter.

“She's right, you know,” Dickens said. “Even if she went to the police, no one's going to believe the word of some slag. Though perhaps Mr. Guilfoyle shared more with her about his dealings than he did with Miss Owen. Opiates tend to loosen the tongue, I've heard. That ring is of considerable interest, I would say. How would such a poor man acquire such a rich item as that? And might he know something of this Chimera? Perhaps it is a person. Or a place . . .”

The ghostly voice whispered, perhaps at my ear, perhaps only on a shallow tide of memory:
Remember that I chose you, and think long and hard upon why . . . and the consequences of volunteering a blindness to what you know is right.

“Find those men to protect the woman in the brief and then find the prostitute. Her name is Annie Piper, yes. Your girl knows her. Start there.”

“Oh, is that
all
, my lordship?” Dickens practically spat.

“That's all for now.”

“And what will you be doing?”

“Don't be impertinent. You're in my employ now. But if you must know, I have work to do and I must give my statement to that wretch Crabapple in the morning. And while I am there, perhaps I might gain an audience with this Tom fellow. Good evening to you, Mr. Dickens. I will expect frequent reports!”

“Remember your pledges, Mr. Scrooge,” he called after me. “I have expectations as well, and they are great indeed!”

Tuesday, December 20th, 1833

Five Days to Christmas

I SKIPPED BREAKFAST
the following morning, feeling uneasy and troubled. Mrs. Doors, my landlady, stood in the doorway with a hurt expression on her face. She clutched a bowl of uneaten porridge and a pot of tea as I hailed a cab to drive me to Scotland Yard. I was dreading the interview with Constable Crabapple, fully expecting him to treat Miss Owen and me with the sensitivity and common decency of a feral pig.

The cab turned up an alley into a little paved court in which a number of great-coated policemen ambled to and from the front doors. One tugged at his coat's high reinforced collar, designed to help prevent garroting, a common concern. Crowds had gathered outside, picketers bundled against the Christmas chill held up signs that read, “HANG HUMBUG!” and “LET JUSTICE BE DONE!” Chants and shouts erupted whenever a policeman even glanced their way. Disgust threatened my composure. Even though London's most notable businessman had met his watery demise purely of his own doing, the press knew very well that murder sells more newspapers than accidental drowning. The so-called Humbug would no doubt remain a headline for weeks while London's economy crumbled around us.

I approached a dock, the walls behind which were littered with police notices. One of the posters illustrated a portrait of a wanted pick-pocket. The police artist had even taken care to draw dirt and smudge on the young boy's face, his top hat askew. He'd been given the colorful nickname “The Artful Dodger.”

A short discourse with the sergeant behind the desk revealed that Crabapple was expecting me within an inner office. I thanked the officer and went to relive the torture of Crabapple's gentle and respectful “questioning.”

Forty-five minutes later, furious and on the brink of throttling the smug constable, I signed the witness declaration and slammed Crabapple's pen on the interview table.

“Just doing my job, Mr. Scrooge, sir,” hummed Crabapple, picking up the pen and sliding it into his breast pocket with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“The hell you are,” I shot back. “You're so crooked, you swallow nails and spit out corkscrews.”

Crabapple snorted and gestured for me to hold even as I made to rise from my chair. “One thing. Regarding your statement, are you
sure
you want to leave in that bit about the Colleys naming George Sunderland?”

“It happened.”

“Sure of that, are you?”

I tapped down my fury. “What are you implying?”

“Just this,
sir,
” he said. Each time he used that word I believe he meant for me to substitute the nastiest phrase I might conceive. Clearly, Inspector Foote had dressed Crabapple down for his handling of gentlemen like myself, who should ever be treated with respect, and so he had found a less direct way of being disrespectful. “You say the Colleys were after Sunderland and you were an innocent bystander. That they tortured you on the off chance you knew the whereabouts of something Sunderland had promised to the Colleys. Doesn't quite sound right.”

“It doesn't, does it?” I asked.

“Nah,” Crabapple said. “But if you flip it about, see, and say Mr. Sunderland was the innocent bystander and the Colleys were after you, a money-lender up to who-knows-what, well . . . that has quite the ring to it! And it doesn't have you throwing dirt on a dead man's name and reputation in order to gain more attention for yourself.”

With that, he scooped up a newspaper from the chair beside him and slapped it down on the table. It had been opened to Dickens' article which positioned me as Sunderland's secret advisor.

“Do you ever stop with this?” I asked.

“Maybe when you start to tell me the truth. Why ‘Humbug,' eh? When I first stepped into your office, you saying that very word, that woman, terrified of you.”

“Not of me.”

“Of who, then?”

“You waste time with me when there are villains on the loose,” I said, exasperated. “Roger Colley the worst of the lot, and he and those other two, Baldworthy and the man with the red mark, are free, having escaped
your
net last night.”

“I think the words you're searching for,
sir
, are thank you again for saving my life.”

“Roger Colley vowed vengeance on me and those I care about. I barely slept last night for fear of waking with that grinning gargoyle arched over me. What say you to that, Crabapple?”

“I say there's a lot of reasons a man might find it difficult to sleep. A guilty conscience being one. Do you have one of those, Mr. Scrooge?”

I shuddered. “The Colleys own the London docks and their empire grows by the day, from what I've heard. I'd urge you to press the brother you have in custody.”

“Ah, well, it's so good you're assisting us, sir. Never would have thought of that on our own, now would we? As to their ‘ownership' and whatnot, well . . . the raid on their warehouses yielded thousands of pounds of contraband, literally thousands. Took my men hours to extract the goods. Illegal trade, of course, no paperwork. The case against them is solid, even more so now thanks to your testimony,
sir
. Whatever stranglehold they might have had over the criminal elements in that part of the city is well and truly broken. Roger Colley, well, he's just a rat left with a couple of mates and few options. If I was him, I'd be on a boat to the colonies by now.”