The Humbug Murders (22 page)

The reporter threw his arms back, and the flaps of his jacket billowed open, revealing a silver flask.

“Are you drunk again?” I asked, adjusting the pressed white waistcoat under my jacket and checking that the brass buttons were still as brilliant as when I polished them.

“Inebriated with excitement,” he said. “Ah, Mr. Scrooge, do not put a damper on this for me, I beg of you. It's Christmas, after all! And I have arranged quite the assignation tonight.”

“A woman?” I cried. “Our lives weigh in the balance and your concern is with some woman?”

“No one's threatened
my
life,” Dickens said, sneaking another gulp from his flask and screwing the top on tight. “Now, shall we wait for Miss Owen or go in?”

I checked my pocket watch. “No, if she was coming, she would have met with us by now.”

“I hope Mr. Guilfoyle hasn't taken a turn,” Dickens said.

And uncharitably, terribly, I know, I recognized that deep within that black bit of coal I thought of as my heart . . . a part of me would not have been unduly troubled if he had. Was it because I wished Adelaide to look at me with the kind, loving gazes she awarded “her Tom”?

To that, I could say only this:

Humbug!

“OH, EBENEZER!” DICKENS
cried. “Did no one tell you the purpose of tonight's event? For shame. I can only imagine how all this must make you feel!”

I stood in the crowded, oppressive foyer where a placard boldly revealed the legend, “An Evening of Hope sponsored by the Haberdashers' Peacock Charity for Poor Debtors.”

A charity for poor debtors, of all things. I shuddered. The party would be a frightful event, a terrible soiree of hypocrisy, with the wealthy classes of London, swollen with
noblesse oblige
, pretending to care for an instant about the plights of the less fortunate. My face contorted in disgust. “This is nothing but butter upon bacon!”

“Yes, it's a bit excessive,” Dickens conceded. “I suggest describing yourself as an investment banker, if the question should arise, which it undoubtedly will. Somehow I don't think moneylenders are typically invited to these affairs!”

With that, he swept forward into the surging crowd of expensively attired well-wishers, meeting each hand with a firm shake, each smile with a twinkle of delight.

I considered turning and fleeing into the chill night, but ahead, in the crowded main ballroom, I noted Lord Rutledge speaking with an elegantly dressed man wearing a gigantic top hat. Distracted for a moment by Rutledge's ludicrous periwig, a powdered hairpiece adorned by old-fashioned peacocks of his station, it took a moment for me to realize that Shen was his companion. Then harsh words appeared to be exchanged, and the Chinaman stormed away and disappeared into the crowd of hundreds who had arrived for the festivities.

I made my way through the wretched congregation of rich bigots, expertly evading those I recognized as chronic do-gooders who stalked the Exchange seeking contributions to various causes. I had stopped at the offices of the young clerk Billy Humble on my way here. He had provided most damning evidence on Rutledge that I hoped would secure a better result than my attempts at negotiation with Jack Colley. Now I just needed to speak with Rutledge, gain what information I might from him, and
leave
.

But the crowd pressed in on me. Fat women squealed and young ladies raised eyebrows. Enterprising gents surveyed me, appraised me. Was I someone who might help elevate them? Older gents peered at me with suspicion. Was I a threat to all they held dear?

Madness.

And the opulence of it all. The sickly sweet smell of the candied chestnuts, the garish holly wreaths hanging at every inch of wall not adorned with oil paintings of the wealthy, the songs, the lights . . . The isolated philanthropy that would evaporate as fast as the last falling snowflake soon after this wretched season of giving was over.

“Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge!” a cheerful voice called out. A hand landed on my shoulder and spun me about to face a rosy-cheeked man I did not know. “Merrick Lazytree, Esquire,” he said, breaking into a shrill hyena-like laugh. “I am one of the chief solicitors for the estate of George Sunderland.”

“Oh. I ah, well . . .”

“No need to be shy or modest, sir,” Lazytree said. “Though no specific provision was made for you in Mr. Sunderland's will, I can assure you that he spoke of you often and wished to see you well taken care of. Oh! But that look of yours. I see you do not believe me. Well, I will say this. As he feared, a good deal of infighting has broken out among those in charge of his various empires. It has been kept out of the financial sections thus far, but . . .”

“Excuse me,” I said roughly. “I fail to see what any of this has to do with me.”

“He entrusted me with the duty of executing a scheme that might bring these various parties together in a manner that puts you squarely in the center. Your rail deal, of course. Let me introduce you to some fine fellows and you tell me what you think . . .”

I had come here to squeeze Rutledge, who was now entertaining a flock of impressionable young debutantes. He was going nowhere. And if I left here with even one sizable investor for the rail deal, then perhaps this “high society” whatnot would indeed prove to my tastes!

For the next hour, I met with one key member of Sunderland's various businesses after another. I expounded upon the virtues of rail, how it was indeed the portent of all things in our future. How the railways would expand our reach as businessmen and builders, and the fine, beautiful money that would be made by those strong enough and brave enough to invest now.

They listened intently. They took me into confidences, one, in particular, a portly man named Greenback, saying, “Have you seen in the papers all this nonsense I've been speaking about the import of saving the Brazilian razor-beetles? Hah! I'm only doing it because if I can have that land near Knightsbridge declared a preserve, then Henry Wartfellow will suffer and my wife will be most charitable towards me. She loathes his new wife and sympathizes with the old one, you see. The old one being not that old and still quite lovely to my eyes. My dearest dear has promised me a bit of French delight with her and her friend should I pull this off. What is the term for it, menagerie of three or some such? I only know that as the years go on, I find one too few, three too many. . . .”

Others laughed at the very charities to which they had generously donated this evening. They derided the halfways and “Social Houses” for the poor or addicted and instead backed the workhouses and prisons, for which we were already taxed so grievously. But it was popular these days to be seen as beneficial, and so the checks were written.

I had kept Rutledge in my line of sight the entire time, but now he was on the move. It appeared he had set his sights on the reclusive Lord Dyer, a white-haired gentleman who had put in a brief appearance and was now shrugging off the mob and retreating into the maze-like series of hallways beyond the ballroom.

After securing pledges for an astounding array of investments—my fortune would be made if even a single one materialized in proper funds—I happily grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray of a servant, ducked and weaved through the lavish crowd, and spotted Rutledge easing through what looked like a secret passage!

Squeezing past a group of gossiping ladies in vast bulbous dresses, I examined where my quarry had vanished. The wall in the corner had the telltale absence of perfect symmetry between two panels, betraying a passageway that must have been installed to allow servants to pass unnoticed between rooms. I tapped the corner and the panel slid open with a near imperceptible whisper.

I slipped through the passage.

It led from the ballroom to the great library, which was empty. It seemed that Dyer was leading Rutledge on a merry chase, and, by extension, me as well! The ceilings were high, and the murals depicted angels flowing from the heavens, bringing the gift of knowledge to mankind.
The first occasion of misguided benevolence,
I thought to myself. A globe stood in the corner, so I gave it a spin. It was heavier than I expected and barely moved. Yet I knew that with the rail deal assured, the globe was merely my next step in business: international trade!

The quiet, distant buzz in the next room became hypnotic and soothing as I took another sip of champagne and leaned against a leather chair while examining the spines of some of the library's books. Perhaps by dislodging one of these I'd find the next secret door.

Heavy footsteps approached the large double doors on the opposite side of the room. Without missing a beat, I jumped to my feet and dashed back to the secret passageway, but the panel had closed with a click and I couldn't get my fingernails to grip the crack. I tapped each corner, but the panel stayed closed. There was no other way in or out of the room but through those doors, and I would be seen the moment someone entered. It would not do for a party guest to be caught wandering about the private areas of this opulent abode. In fact, I might be publicly ejected and thus publicly shamed. And how might that look to my investors?

The footsteps stopped, and a muffled voice boomed out right outside the door, so I chugged back the champagne, bubbles bursting in my sinuses, and slipped behind the curtain.

Lord Dyer entered the room, closed the door behind him with a thud, and released a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and shook his head lightly. Then he went directly to the big globe, tapped the side, and the top half swung open, revealing a collection of bottles. He chose one, popped out the cork, and took a swig. The door opened again, and Lord Dyer slammed down the lid of the globe. A woman entered, with her rich chocolate curls tumbling over porcelain shoulders.

“Adelaide!” cried Lord Dyer.

I wondered quite how tipsy this bit of champagne had made me. Were my senses playing tricks with me? Or did Lord Dyer actually know Miss Owen? What on Earth could be connecting these two?

Her hair was elegantly styled, and a cluster of sparkling crystals hung at the milky hollow of her throat. Her dress worth more than I might pay her in a year's time. She appeared more at ease with these surroundings than many I had brushed shoulders with in the ballroom.

“I thought I made it clear when we met at the servants' entrance,” he said. “This conversation is over. And how did you get in here?” He sighed. “No, never mind explaining yourself. It's always been so. When you set your mind to a thing, locks and dismissals seem to you suggestions easily ignored.”

She walked over to him and placed her hands on his shoulders, gazing directly into his eyes. “I hoped that was one of the things you admired about me. I learned it, after all, from watching you.” Her eyes were wide and wet, and even through the slightest crack in the curtains I could see the sparkles from her diamond earrings reflecting in her tears. How did she even own such things?

“You must see him,” Adelaide said firmly. “He might not last the night.”

“To what end?” Dyer asked. “He wouldn't even know I was there, would he? But others would. And then the questions would start.”

She took his hand, brushed it upon her cheek that he might feel the moisture of her tears. “Thomas would know. And so would I.”

“I can't,” he said firmly. “I've done everything I might for him, and see where it leads us all.” He shuddered. “A gruesome business. Is he . . . are his wounds . . .”

“Should he survive, he will still be presentable, if that's what you mean,” Adelaide said, standing up and wrenching her hand from his. “He will not embarrass you in that regard.”

“Adelaide, it was not what I meant! Please . . . tell me you have not inherited your mother's cruelty.”

“No. But I've learned from yours.” Skirts whirling as she spun, Adelaide hurried to the wall, pulled on a curtain hook, and the passage I had taken here opened. The sounds of the Christmas party swelled, and she rushed from the room, leaving Dyer to rise on uncertain legs and drag himself away out the double doors through which he had entered.

I waited a few minutes. Then, with my head swimming with new mysteries and unanswered questions, I crept out of the room and immersed myself back into the heaving fog of roast goose, brandy breath, mistletoe, and misplaced benevolence.

Altogether certain I had missed my opportunity with Rutledge, I returned to the party intent on collecting up Adelaide and questioning her about the odd business I had just witnessed. But in moments, I saw the solicitor snaking my way and, wishing to avoid another discourse with them until my head had cleared from the champagne and the startling scene I had accidentally witnessed, I put my hand on the shoulder of a lone woman and turned her to face me.

It was Belle. My Belle. As beautiful as the day she left me sitting on that park bench, though a few new lines had appeared by her eyes. Her cheeks were as pink as the rose detail embroidered into the band that secured her perfect ringlets to the side of her head. Not a hair out of place. No chocolate curl tumbling in front of a knowing grin. Belle was pristine, her expression polite.