The Humbug Murders (35 page)

Where the hell have you been?
I wanted to ask.
And what happened to the guardsmen I requested for Miss Owen and myself?

I slammed the door and locked it behind us against a roar of accusations and questions, then tweaked the curtain and peered through the windowpane. From their ravenous demand for “statements,” it was apparent that the mob was a crowd of other reporters on a feeding frenzy, the taste of blood on their lips.

Dickens slammed a folded newspaper on the desk beside me, and I jumped, turning to see my office already occupied. A trio of stern-faced and expensively dressed gentlemen stood there with folded arms, and behind them Adelaide, Constable Crabapple, and Shen. Their expressions were dark, their looks grim.

I glanced at Dickens, quizzically, but he too was staring at me from under a heavy brow.

“What have you to say for yourself, Scrooge?” he said. “Did you do it?” Then he chuckled and unfolded the newspaper. Beneath the headline “HUMBUG STRIKES AGAIN” and a drawing of poor Nellie Pearl sat a story about me. The title read, “IS HUMBUG THE ONLY KILLER?” My image was crammed beneath it, next to that of George Sunderland.

Just as I opened my mouth, a shocking whirlwind of accusations and angry statements spun round the room, led by the three gentlemen. They were solicitors, it emerged, associates of Lazytree. One of the men handed me a large brown paper envelope. “I am officially, and in the presence of witnesses, serving you with court papers, sir . . .”

Civil proceedings were being launched, they said, by the heirs of the Sunderland estate. The administrators were accusing me of besmirching the reputation of the estate by allegations of an ongoing association, as well as fraud on account of using those claims to further my business ends. They then made it very clear that any offers of funding for the rail deal from Sunderland's people had, naturally enough, and with extreme prejudice, been withdrawn.

To cap it off, they pointed to the newspaper story suggesting Mr. Sunderland did not fall from that bridge, that instead, he was pushed. By me.

I sank into my office chair.

“You'll be hearing more very soon,” promised the lead solicitor, “on
all
accounts!”

He turned and gave a short bow to Adelaide, and the three of them left the office. A roar of voices rang out as soon as the door opened, the solicitors pressing their way past the protesting reporters. Dickens locked the door again. I caught his gaze and could not mistake the silent apology in his eyes. Capitalizing on my time with Sunderland had been his idea. I turned away but not before awarding him a quick shake of the head and a stiff raising of my lower lip. He had forced me into nothing. My own greed had been my undoing.

“Well,” I said, “Lazytree, that sly bastard, told me I would receive
quite the visit
this morning. I certainly have!”

I turned to the constable.

“What are
you
doing here, Crabapple?” I asked, but before he could answer, I spotted something past him and shouted out in surprise. The door to my vault was wide open, a ransacked mess spilling out on the floor. I jumped to my feet to rush over, but as I passed Adelaide, she put her arm out to stop me.

“We've been robbed, Ebenezer,” she whispered. “It's all gone. All your money, all your valuables.” I stared at her, her green eyes glistening with sorrow. “All I collected for you, all our hard work, for nothing.” Her voice cracked and she looked away.

Ruined.

I was ruined. The blood drained from my face, and I had to lean against the desk to steady myself.

“There were services you requested,” Dickens murmured, clearly referring to my need for more protectors. “But I had not the coin to put them into effect. I'd hoped to receive an advance this morning, but . . .”

My head was swimming. The worst had come to pass. This feeling was much like the day Belle broke off our engagement on a chilly park bench, and that wound had never healed. I had lost it all—all my money, my very purpose.

“They left a calling card,” said Dickens, handing me a small piece of paper that I now saw had been shoddily hammered into my plaster wall. I looked at it. A bull's-eye had been crudely painted on it, in what looked like blood.

“Bill Sikes,” I fumed. “Delivering a warning.”

“Or a promise,” said Dickens.

“Just here to get a statement, Mr. Scrooge,” said Crabapple, chewing a toothpick. “In your own time.”

“And you?” I raged at Shen. “What is your purpose here? Come to gloat over what you and Marley promised would happen? Well?”

I stared at him, and finally it registered that Shen had changed. The fire had gone from him, his back was bent under an invisible weight, and his once dashing face was pale and tired. He lifted his eyes to meet mine, and I was startled to see a cobweb of blood red vessels creeping over his eyeballs. He had succumbed to grief.

“I have little left to offer the world, Scrooge,” he said, with a voice that was dry and hoarse. “But I can yet offer you my apology.” He moved towards me, his feet shifting on my dusty floor like those of an old man, cautious, fragile. I saw his left shoulder twinge from the stab wound inflicted by Humbug, but his hand was planted in his pocket and he said nothing. Instead, he reached his right hand out, and I shook it.

“I did not look deep enough in your eyes before I judged you,” he said. “For your valor last night I release you from the bonds of oath. You owe me nothing, nor I you.”

I nodded.

“Last night?” asked Crabapple, spitting the toothpick onto my floor and perking up. “What, you mean that raucous display with the carriages and that bus? I thought only Miss Owen had been there when Roger Colley's past caught up with him.”

Adelaide had told the police that men who claimed to be former victims of Colley and his boys had ended him. She'd left Shen and myself—and the business at the cathedral—out of her account.

“So you were there, then?” Crabapple asked. “Both of you?”

A dark look passed between me and Shen, a moment so tense that I felt the room pressing in on me. I had little left to lose and gave him a sharp nod.

“Exactly so, Constable,” said Shen. “Exactly so. . . .”

Then, with the arm that still worked, he reached into his jacket and withdrew a thick, brown envelope. I had seen its twin before: Dodger had presented it the night before last. I pictured its contents and shuddered.

Shen handed the envelope to Crabapple, and Dickens and Adelaide sent each other looks of confusion.

“This may be of use to you, Constable,” said Shen. “I believe it might be connected to Miss Pearl's death.” Then he sank to his knees on the cold floor, and Adelaide rushed to his side.

Crabapple opened the envelope and withdrew the packet. His eyes were wide and his mouth agape as he flicked through the images, one by one, the series of ill-used women. Shaking his head, he stopped when he arrived at one featuring the fake Nellie. He dropped the photographs on the desk and rubbed his forehead. Dickens saw the motifs and drew back horrified before grabbing his notepad and pen and beginning to scribble.

Slowly, Crabapple raised his head and looked at me. “You
knew
about this!” he shouted. “It's written on your face, as clear as ‘Humbug' in blood!”

I simply nodded. There was little else I could say. Adelaide pulled herself up from where she had been comforting Shen, frowned at me, and went over to the desk to see what Crabapple was talking about.

“Don't, Adelaide!” said Dickens, but she lifted a card and then immediately dropped it as if it were acid.

“Oh!” she said, her hand to her mouth. Her soft and pretty features were twisted in an expression of utter disgust. Her green eyes flashed at me. “
This
is what you were keeping from me?”

“In part,” I mumbled. “Yes, I have seen these monstrosities before.”

“Hang on,” said Crabapple, lifting one of the cards again and examining it closely. Then another. “I know this girl. Oh, Lord above! The missing-persons cases—right here, this very girl, and this one, too!”

I suppressed a feeling of nausea. The blood drained from Adelaide's face. Dickens helped Shen to his feet, dumped him in a nearby chair. The loss of Nellie Pearl had devastated him.

“Pretty maids all in a row,” I muttered. Feeling a burning threat in the back of my throat, I bit my lip to stifle the erupting emotion. Rutledge had flared when I sang those words to him.

Realization dawned on me, and the fog lifted like dawn mist.

“Let me see those photos,” I urged, reaching over and gathering up the vile things.

“Take them,” said Crabapple. “Remove them from my sight.”

“Adelaide! Rutledge said he was trying to dispose of his country estate, didn't he?” I asked her, studying each card, searching past the women, my eyes squinting to discern the detail behind the deplorable acts frozen in time.

“Yes,” she said. “That's right . . . he said it was becoming a burden.”

“And he went on about some recent addition to the house, didn't he?” I went on.

“The columns. He had lined the great hall with Doric columns, some homage to an architect or something. And he said something about having a hedge maze, too. But why?”

I stopped flicking as I reached the photograph of the Nellie doll, her hands bound behind her back, her neck tied with rope to a squat, white, Doric column. I sat down and handed the card to Adelaide. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she looked at each of the cards. Columns in each of them, some shrouded in shadow, some obscure in the background, but this was no coincidence. Other details of his country house that Rutledge had coughed up also matched, including the hedge maze, though it was hardly new from the look of it. The backdrop for these hideous images was his remote estate.

Adelaide drew a deep breath and stood tall, dropping the photographs like dead rats. “He was taking payments for the use of the estate,” she deduced. “All under the table. It explains much about his finances.”

“These are sold to wealthy men at forty pounds apiece,” I told her, and everybody except Shen gasped.

“Wealthy and
powerful
men . . .” said Dickens, scrutinizing the images.

“Powerful enough to settle a man's tax bill and make contributions to the police,” Adelaide added.

Just as I was about to agree, a thud sounded as Crabapple slammed his fist on the desk.

“That's it!” he fumed. “Enough of all this! What the
hell
is going on here? You'd better tell me everything, Scrooge, like I've been warning you to do right from the day we met. What's all this? Well?”

I exchanged looks with Dickens, Shen, and Adelaide. Collectively, we silently agreed.

“Crabapple, a few days ago I deemed you deserving of no more respect than the fleas in poor Rutledge's wig,” I said. “It is clear I underestimated you, for you deserve at least the same level of respect I show the moths in Dickens' coat, if not more. I shall tell you everything. It began on Monday. I was here, in my offices, entertaining a man who wasn't quite what he seemed. . . .”

Crabapple dropped his elbows onto the desk and his head into his hands. Between Dickens, Adelaide, and me, we had told him the whole story, from Fezziwig's ghost to the soul-destroying chase on the top of St. Paul's. Shen had only looked up briefly to nod a short assent when we disclosed to Crabapple everything we knew about the Chinaman's criminal endeavors. A silence fell over us as we watched the story sink in.

The constable drew a breath, then stood up. “Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“We didn't think you'd believe us,” Adelaide said.

“Nor could we trust you as far as we could spit a dead rat,” I said flatly. “Besides, you like things simple, remember? The truth isn't always like that.”

Dickens lit up a cigarette. “Really, Scrooge . . . ghosts? You're a curious man!”

Crabapple eyed him angrily. “I've seen things. Things that can't easily be explained,” he said to the reporter. “I know darkness in all its forms, and I know it better than to dismiss any possibility because it upsets your way of thinking.”

Shen cleared his throat. “There is something more.” He produced a smaller envelope. At first I thought it The Lady's invitation from last night, but his name had been etched on its surface in the same florid handwriting.

Crabapple snatched it up, fished out the sheet of parchment within, and read the summons aloud:

Sir,

I bet you'd love to avenge your tasty crumpet's death. Wasn't her scream hysterical? Bit of a pulpy mess when she hit, though.

Well, do meet me at the party tonight. You know me as a most colorful type. I'll be adding a splash of red to the festivities. Death by the dozens, I expect.