The Humbug Murders (2 page)

The imposter stood before me, boiling in his own pudding, so to speak.

“But there is yet a way I might recoup the time and expenses you've cost me. When you speak to Greville, tell him the name of his savior and advise him to bring his checkbook when he pays me a visit to thank me for his liberty and even his life. After all, I do have a business to run. Good day, sir!”

The imposter's arms were pulled slightly out to the side, he had lifted his chin and his eyes were darting from me to the door and back again. I could tell he was calculating whether or not to attack me. I felt my hand close around the poker, and my nostrils flared despite my efforts to control them.

“You're a devil, sir,” he told me. “You'll pay for your sins.”

“No. Today I mean to collect.”

Then, eyes glazed, he nodded once, turned, and bolted towards the door at the same moment it opened from the outside, a woman's gloved hand clutching the knob. With a tinkling crash, he thudded into the door and nearly collided with a snow-covered female visitor. She stepped back and held the door as the angry gentleman vanished out into the cold London morning.

“Mr. Jasper!” she called out. “Are you quite well?” With a sigh, she entered and hung her umbrella on the hat stand. She stomped the snow off her tightly-wound black boots and straightened her coat. The straight edge of a plain but craftily hand-sewn burgundy dress poking out under her coat betrayed a simple background, yet a high regard for quality. She was a true English rose, the hair tucked under her snowy and simple hat a rich and dark chocolate, her skin so velveteen it was like poured cream. Unwinding her crocheted scarf, she smiled and sent me a quick glance with her sparkling emerald eyes. Then, with delicate hands encased in smart but inexpensive gloves, she discretely applied a pomade to her pink peony lips and checked her timepiece with a snap.

“Young lady,” I said, intent on drawing her attention so that I might dismiss both her and Fezziwig and get on with more pressing matters.

But now she was digging into a satchel, rummaging about for papers, from the sound of it. “One moment, sir,” she said with a polite exuberance.

“Whatever charity it is you represent, I can assure you I want none of it,” I told her. “Be on your way, you're wasting your time—”

“One moment,” she said again, her smile cheery and beguiling as she continued rustling about through her papers. “Almost ready . . .”

I breathed out and turned to my friend. “Pardon me for extending our conversation to a later date, Fezziwig, I must make ready in the event that the actual Greville pays me a visit wishing to reward his true savior—me.”

Fezziwig's brow crinkled. “And for that possibility of profit you let a criminal loose?”

“Call it a calculated investment.”

“I call it cause for immense regret, as should you,” Fezziwig groused as he retreated back into the shadows, his eyes narrowed and glued to the woman who had swept in from the cold. Was that recognition in his eyes? I heard the rustle of his fingers twitching nervously against his pocket. My friend was eager to speak with me—but as he had taught me, business always comes first.

“Have I the honor of addressing Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge, sir?” asked the young lady, one hand outstretched to shake mine and the other clutching a packet of neatly tied papers. Delicate yet strong handwriting marched across the sheets.

“I am, and—hold on now. Do you
know
that gentleman who just left my offices?” I asked.

“I believe so, yes,” she said. “Did he not give you his name?”

“Jasper, you called him?”

“He bore the look and untoward demeanor of a choirmaster I have seen here and there, a certain John Jasper, but I could be wrong. He did not turn when I called after him.”

“I see, I see. Well, what is it you want? I've already told you, if it is a charity—”

“I have come to speak with you in regards to your advertisement. My name is Adelaide Owen.” Her voice was soft yet her tone determined, and surprisingly, it sent a tingle of pleasure up my neck.

“Advertisement?” I frowned. I couldn't recall advertising for the services of any woman. Her hand was still stretched towards mine, so I shook it. “Are you certain you have the right address?”

“In your window, sir, you advertise the need of a clerk.”

I stared at Miss Owen, and then at my window. True enough, the paper hanging there against the frosted pane announced an immediate opening for a junior clerk, against a payment, which I thought far more generous than ideal, of one hundred pence a week. In truth, it had been so long since I had seen a single applicant I had forgotten it still hung there. I have a bit of a reputation among clerks, it seems . . .

“Here are my papers.” She withdrew her hand and laid a series of crisp white sheets out on my desk, jabbing at one of them with her gloved finger. “As you can see here, I have excellent references, particularly concerning my outstanding eye for detail, a skill which I am sure you value most highly in any clerk within your employ.”

I stared at her in confusion. “You mean to say you know someone who might be appropriate for the job?”

“Of course!” she said with a smile that seemed to illuminate my office all the way to the dark corner where Fezziwig waited. “Me! Why else would I be here?” She leaned forward again to scrutinize her own papers, and a strand of her chocolate hair tumbled down her forehead. She blushed and hastily tucked it back. “I can begin immediately, and I shall require some initial instruction and training, but I'm sure you'll agree it'll be worth the investment of your time. As you can see from my papers—”

“Surely you don't mean to say that
you
are seeking employment as a
clerk
in
my
office?” I said, emphasizing the words I felt certain would highlight the absurdity of what she was proposing.

Her shoulders tightened and drew back, her spine straightened just a touch, but her polite smile never wavered.

“What I mean to say is, ah, well,” I sputtered. “I've simply never heard of such a thing. You have clerked before?”

“In an unofficial capacity.” Her confidence and resolve were impressive.

My eyes drifted from hers to Fezziwig, still looming in the dark corner, and despite the shadows, I could make out a mild grin spreading across his wrinkled face. “Perhaps she is a devotee of that Mary Shelley woman, who espouses equality between the sexes. You might put her to ‘the question,' yes?”

I quite liked the idea. Glancing at more of her papers, I said, “You have a head for numbers, it says here. You are used to balancing accounts?”

Her smile widened. “Certainly, Mr. Scrooge. You will find evidence in these papers of my experience working both in the city and in the country. I'm sure you'll agree the post will require the ability to relate to and conduct discourse with a wide range of types, and you'll find me just the right person to build mutual relationships with any client, old or young, rich or poor.”

I laughed.

“Do you think me foolish, Mr. Scrooge? Applying for a position normally held by a man?”

“I would have reacted so no matter your sex,” I told her, and it was true. “It seems you have my needs all figured out. So I say to you, sit down at that dusty desk in the corner and remove the red leather folder. You have ten minutes to balance the spread within. Do so, and I will seriously consider awarding you the position.”

“What if I don't need ten minutes?” she asked, taking herself and her crooked smile to the little cell, as I jovially called the cramped work area.

A dusty shuffle sounded as my old master emerged from the shadows, the sound competing with Miss Owen's grunts of displeasure and the scratching of her quill as she attempted to work with the hopeless ledgers I used as a test for prospective clerks.

I looked at my former master in surprise. He was paler than usual. “Fezziwig—are you well?”

“No, no. This is not about that,” he said. “This is more urgent. More urgent.”

“I doubt your business can be more pressing than the railway deal. I have very little time. But I could meet with you tomorrow afternoon perhaps.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Miss Owen will be done in just a bit. Perhaps you might walk her out of the district?”

“You must listen to me, you and this girl—”

“I cannot, Fezziwig. You have my word, tomorrow afternoon. Good day.” I rose from behind my desk, went to his side, and gestured to the door, where I wished to lead both him and the girl. As I touched his elbow, a wave of icy dread fell down me. The room darkened as a thick cloud moved in front of the morning sun outside. “We will speak . . . soon,” I whispered.

Miss Owen sprang to life and hastily gathered her papers, stuffing them in her satchel with less care than she had extracted them. “Mr. Scrooge, I have come to you with the utmost respect, but you and I both know the test you have put me to has no solution. Any one of those ledgers might be balanced in and of its own, but together they are mush. I think it is time for me to do as you desired from the start and take my leave.”

The hurt in her voice was palpable, but unimportant. I cared for profit, not feelings.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, brow furrowed, taking a step back. Then I smiled, and she shared in it. She was right: there was no balance to be found; that was the whole point, and in all my years, no other prospective employee had ever deduced that, let alone with such blinding speed.

I can't say what I might have done next. The idea of hiring a female clerk was so audacious and attention-generating that I might have given in to it for the sheer perversity of seeing my competitor's scandalized looks at the Exchange. But a wretched dark working was setting upon my counting-house. I looked to her as she approached. Her face was pale, her lips parted in a silent “O.” As she turned to the door, the flames in the fireplace flickered and died, leaving the candle on my desk the only light.

She froze.

“Peculiar,” I muttered. A physical chill seeped through me. The temperature within my office seemed to have fallen several dozen degrees in the blink of an eye.

Fezziwig stood as still as a corpse, his eyes as wide and white as marbles.

“Ebenezer,” he whispered. “Listen to me now. You have both been chosen to glimpse beyond the veil of mortal men. Together you must protect the innocent.”

I stopped, suspended in a sudden overwhelming unease, and was only barely aware of Miss Owen standing beside me, her chill hand brushing mine. Fezziwig's words came out as white steam in the cold, darkened office. I dropped my grip of his elbow and held my breath.

“I am dead.”

Scowling, I narrowed my eyes. His complexion was paling before my eyes, dark blue veins appearing in his face like a gruesome cobweb of decay.

“Don't be absurd,” I mumbled.

“Such things are not possible,” whispered Miss Owen. She shrieked as Fezziwig flung himself at me.

He gripped my shoulder suddenly, black and cracked fingernails digging into me, ice creeping into my blood through his touch. “The young man is innocent, Ebenezer!” he urged. I glanced at Miss Owen, who was staring back at me.

I shrugged out of Fezziwig's grip and noticed that his hand had withered. The bluish skin was cracking, revealing grey muscle beneath. Panic rose in the pit of my gut. Desperately searching for something logical and tangible to bring my mind back to reality, I spotted a ring on his finger. He had never worn that before. Ostentatious, a gleaming ruby-red stone in a gold setting; not something he'd be likely to wear, yet there it was.

“Innocent,” he whispered once more, and Miss Owen gave a quiet whimper, almost inaudible, because he was looking at her now. Was she the “girl” he had expected to see when I first greeted him? Madness!

Then, his once thick hair wilted and fell, revealing a cracking scalp beneath. His breath was putrid, and I recoiled. “I see shadows of the past, present, and future, and exist within them all. What may be . . . what must be . . . Not all is known to me, Ebenezer. But he is innocent. Of this much I am certain. And you are in danger!”

My mind was reeling. I could not accept the evidence of my senses. “Forgive me, Fezziwig, I think I am unwell. Indigestion, perhaps. A blot of mustard, an undigested bit of beef. I'm certain there is more gravy than grave about you.” I backed from him to leave my office. My imagination was playing tricks on me.

But as I inched my way towards the door, Miss Owen grasped my arm so tightly I thought her nails would bite through my jacket and into my flesh. Before us, Fezziwig's throat split open and deep, black gashes appeared in his face and chest. He drew a pained, rattling breath. Before my eyes his clothes became dust and fell from his decomposing body.

Miss Owen and I dashed for the door, but despite our combined strength, it would not open. Fezziwig approached, shuffling slowly as if to avoid completely disintegrating. The girl squeezed between him and the wall and dashed to the window: it too was stuck.

Fezziwig was upon me. Once more he gripped my shoulders, sending dark daggers of ice into my bones. My legs weakened, a ball of nausea rose in my gullet.

“Leave him!” Miss Owen cried. And when the grim specter would not release its grip, she snatched a heavy book from a nearby table and raised it as if to strike the withered apparition. One hand sweeping from me, he brushed it over the air separating her from him and she froze, bewildered, shaking, unable to take another step.

Then his terrible gaze held mine once more.

“Many more will die. And then you, Ebenezer Scrooge. Though still a young man of thirty with much potential for good or ill, you will die, too.” His flesh began to rot, his eyes became solid grey and shriveled into his skull. “Remember ‘Chimera,' Ebenezer. It may save you. And 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.”