The Humbug Murders (43 page)

“Chimera,” I said.

“Well!” Nellie clapped her hands together. “Very good, my darling dear, quite wonderful you are. The Lady was Greek and had grown up with all those ancient legends of three-headed beasts. The Colleys added to the Greek mythology with their despicable use of our own English children's rhyme.”

I took a step towards Nellie, who drew back, nearly falling. I stood rock still. “
Mary, Mary, quite contrary . . .”
I sang. Nellie winced.

“Pretty maids all in a row,”
she continued, her voice choked. “They used it as a code to alert the other factions of the trinity to any new shipment of women. Telegrams and message boys delivered the rhyme, the men themselves sang it while they . . .” She stopped suddenly as the memories darkened her face. “Even waking moments were shrouded in shadows. I grew so sick of shadows.”

“Killing Villiers wasn't enough,” I said, giving the poor killer some solace from her haunting memories. “The Lady had those photos and wanted more.”

“Tut-tut,” Nellie said, raising a finger to object. “Smithson, by way of his lackey Lazytree and that fool Rutledge. Villiers had been The Lady's lover, he was quite astounding in that regard, even I must admit, and through her, he had known of Sunderland's double life. But you see, what kicked off all the ruckus was that the whore I had slain along with Villiers actually
was
The Lady! He had plenty of her photographs, examples of her writing, and so on. So, because I'd removed both those foul beasts from the face of our Earth, she vanished just after the latest delivery had been made to that warehouse where the girls were stored. Oh, what a mess I caused, quite outside my intention! You see, I finished her before she could tell the Colleys where to take ownership of their delivery! Whoops!”

Adelaide was nearly out of breath with worry as she asked, “Then my Tom, he knew none of this terrible business?”

“Just a pawn. He knew something illegal was being delivered to those warehouses, and he was handsomely compensated for his services, but the details, no, I don't think so. Thinking back on it, though, I can't help but surmise that he had planned to bring about old Fezziwig's ruin. I think he was going to, ah, ‘tip the coppers' to the idea that something illegal was in Fezziwig's remote warehouses, then be on hand to pick up the pieces somehow when the old man was dragged through the courts.”

“The land deal,” Adelaide said, lost and saddened. Her hand brushed mine—and I took it.

“So that was what did it for poor Fezziwig, then,” Dickens said, rubbing his journalist's brow. “You assumed the worst when you received Fezziwig's invitation mentioning The Lady, that he was a party to what had been done to you.”

Nellie scampered about, tempting death. “When I received it, I thought back to the day he introduced me to Villiers—”

“And you decided that Fezziwig might have known the kind of man Villiers really was,” I said. “He clearly knew
something
of all this. And that's why you killed him. You sent him an anonymous letter promising a repayment for an earlier good deed, and when he met you, you delivered.”

“Clever duck,” Nellie said, “so clever.”

“But he just wanted to warn you. To warn all of you, people he had helped in the past. I'd wager that there was even something he had done for Sunderland before, though that fat, lying bag of filth went to his death denying it. You thought Fezziwig the liar, the Humbug, but you were wrong.”

She laughed. “I took that word from some of his correspondence to you!”

Yes, Fezziwig's offices had been ransacked. She'd gone through his papers trying to understand what he knew and how he'd found it out.

“You didn't have the heart to do to him what you did to Villiers and The Lady,” Crabapple said. “You still had feelings for the old gent. It's why you put him out, slit his throat while he slept, and then went about your business.”

She nodded, unashamed at the retelling of her barbaric acts. “As for your involvement, Mr. Scrooge, I found your card and tried to, ah, frame you, as they call it. If you had not meddled, had not continued to poke and prod at things that did not concern you, I might have let you go . . . or I might not. After all, you were clearly close to the old man. What might he have told you? No, in truth, I'd have come for you eventually. So I slipped you a letter, like I did for that
dreadful
Shen, just to aid you along a little. You see, sometimes the supporting characters need a little prompt, just to keep the play going smoothly. I almost had you. The final victim of the Humbug Killer. I wanted to be sure this was done. I wanted my life back. . . .” She touched her scarred face. “Just a dream, I see that now.”

“Enough of this,” Crabapple said, stalking towards her. “You're coming with me.”

“I have a prior engagement. . . .” Nellie perched one teetering foot over the void.

“No!” shouted Adelaide. Wrenching her hand from mine, Adelaide ran at Nellie, approaching at a sharp angle. Even the actress gave a sharp, startled cry as Adelaide flung herself at the woman, pounding into her, and together they fell from our view.

I ran ahead, heart in my throat, waiting to hear their screams or the horrible impact of their bodies being smashed below. But instead, there was only a low, soft weeping.

I peered over the edge and saw Adelaide with one arm around Nellie, the other holding onto a solid perch on the sole outcropping just past the cliff's edge. I grabbed her arm, pulled her up, and Crabapple took custody of the crying, broken young Nellie Pearl. Humbug no longer.

“Stop crying,” Adelaide snarled. “You're not getting off that easy.”

“Let me die, let me die . . . ,” Nellie pleaded.

“Soon enough,” Crabapple said. “After your trial!”

The carriages pulled away. As the snow settled in their wake, I spied an old man watching me from behind the skeletal branches of a frosty willow tree. Though he was some ways off, I could not mistake him for another. It was Fezziwig, his hands in his pockets, a warm smile spread across his elderly face. As our eyes met, a soft breeze picked up, breathing relief and calm into my broken body. Now that the episode had passed and the mystery had been laid to rest, my old friend's spirit that had haunted my conscience expelled its last breath down my spine and dissolved into the swirling snowflakes. Like morning mist, I felt the tension leave me, and at that moment, it became clear to me that no spectral visitation had taken place that morning six days ago. No more than a blot of mustard, an undigested bit of beef at the most curiously placed moment. Although the week had been short, it had been the longest week of my life. I welcomed normality with open arms.

The gentle movement of the carriage started to lull both myself and Adelaide into a desperately needed slumber. We sat close together in the small carriage, huddling together partly for warmth and partly . . .

But just as I was about drift off, I heard a gentle voice calling to me.

“Ebenezer,” Adelaide whispered in my ear.

“Yes, Adelaide.”

“I need you to understand that this must never happen again.”

“What are you talking about? What must never happen again?”

Soft hands cupped my face and Adelaide's rose lips met mine. Leaning into the kiss, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her closer. Her lips were so warm, despite the cold, and their warmth spread to my heart in a way not even Belle had induced.

Then, just as quickly, she pulled herself away.

“You know what I am, Ebenezer. I'm the illegitimate daughter of a nobleman. I have a brother who is an opium addict. He is weak and needs to be cared for. I'm no fit wife for any man who plans to rise in the world of business.” Her words were direct, focused, and enunciated. She had rehearsed them well.

I tried to argue, but she held up her hand.

“My family will always come first for me,” said Adelaide, with tears in her eyes. “As your business will always come first for you.”

Sunday, December 25th, 1833

Christmas Day

I WAS SPENDING
the holiday alone with a dust-covered bottle of cheap gin. My feet rested upon my desk, my offices were cold and dark. Since Sikes robbed my offices, I could no longer afford coal for the fireplace, let alone oil for my lanterns. It would be a long time before I earned the money back, and in the meantime, I would certainly mind each penny with more frugality than even before.

I might have parted my curtains, it was early enough, sunlight still played about the laughing, singing children as they breezed down the street. I would have none of it. I was aching from my many wounds, only a handful of them visible upon my flesh. Adelaide and I had barely spoken a word since the nightmarish events at Rutledge's country home. Even now, she sat at the side of her sleeping brother, her father with her. She would forgive Tom any sin, it seemed. But I could not. Had it not been for Thomas Guilfoyle's weakness and guile, my oldest friend, Reginald Fezziwig, might still be alive.

Even after that warming embrace, we had argued over this and parted not on the best of terms. Yet I was still haunted. Not by spirits—Fezziwig's ghost had of course not reappeared given that it had merely been a symptom of stress, indigestion, and woman's folly—but by the lingering feeling of Adelaide's hand in mine, and Belle's suggestion that perhaps my only hope at future happiness lay in that bold young woman's direction.

“You're a sinner, Ebenezer Scrooge,” I told myself in the distorted reflection cast upon the smoky green bottle I'd held. “A prideful beast. And an absolute fool!”

A knock came at my door. With shaking hands, giddy as a schoolboy, I hid the bottle, wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve, and bounded to the door.

Adelaide! It had to be her.

I hauled open the heavy wood door—and found myself confronted by a woman I'd never seen before. Her age was difficult to discern. She was handsome enough, not quite comely, perhaps one and twenty, perhaps one and thirty, I simply could not tell.

Her wealth, however, was instantly apparent from her stunning dress, fine jewelry, and near regal carriage. “Excuse me, hello, is this the counting-house of Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge?”

“Madam, I believe
that
is what's written on the sign upon the door you've just come through. Perhaps you could set my mind at ease to that fact, as you walked through it more recently than I. Now, if you are seeking a charitable contribution—”

“I am not,” she said swiftly and decisively. “I am here on a matter of utmost urgency. A fiduciary matter, in a way, as I certainly intend to compensate you for your time.”

I spied beyond her a gentleman standing on the street before a carriage. He frowned openly in my direction.

“Wait for me out here, Mr. Pocket,” she commanded. “My cousin, you see. He's quite protective.”

I showed her in, gestured at my finest visitor's chair, yet she simply stood. The woman gazed into my eyes as if mirrors lurked behind them, and in whatever reflection she beheld, she might take full measure of not only the man I was, but the one I would be.

A thin smile etched firmly in place, she said, “I was referred by a former associate of yours. A Mr. Jacob Marley?”

I reeled, thunderstruck. Surely this was another blow, another move in my former associate's game of revenge?

But what if it was? I wasn't exactly busy, and there was no further I could fall. I was ruined financially, my life in all other regards equally in tatters.

“Perhaps you might sit,” I said, gesturing at the leather chair, “and tell me how I may be of assistance?”

“My name is Miss Havisham,” she said, rushing forward, taking my hand, and squeezing it with surprising fierceness. “And you must save me. You see—I think I just
killed
a man!”