by L. J. Oliver
Then I saw a blur as her arm swung and her open palm smacked me across the face. The pain burst into stars behind my eyes and acute heat spread over my cheek. My ears were ringing. Adelaide moved to calm the woman, but Mrs. Fezziwig pushed her away.
“How dare you come here with this trollop?” she shouted, shaking. The visitors all hushed and turned to me and Adelaide. “She is campaigning for the monster who killed my Reggie!”
The crowd took a collective gasp, and Adelaide held her hands out.
“No, no,” she implored. “I assure you that’s not the case at all! The evidence is damning, I know, but there is a witness, an alibi, and she can prove my Tom did not do this thing!”
“You admit it,” cried Mrs. Fezziwig. “The police gave me a full report—you are seeking to free the demon who murdered my Reggie!” She sank to her knees, so I stooped down to help her up, but instead of taking my hand, she slapped it away.
“Get out now, Ebenezer!” she sobbed. “You have betrayed his memory! Oh, how could you mock me so, Ebenezer? I am so disappointed in you, so very hurt.”
Dick rushed to her, his eyebrows raised at me as if begging for an explanation, but all I could do was shake my head. Adelaide was frozen. The sadness and grief were tangible and intense, and Adelaide stood like an iron chasm between me and the woman who had been like a mother to me. The place was heavy, hot, and aggressive so I had no choice but to take my leave with Adelaide in tow.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered to the room.
Dick cradled Mrs. Fezziwig in his lap as we made for the door and rushed outside.
“Foolish of me, so very foolish,” Adelaide said when we were blocks away, the icy winds blowing snow and sleet about us as a nearby street hawker laid out his wares on a fold-up table: sloppily crafted tin soldiers and wooden toy carts. He was about to call out to us when I shot him a warning look.
“It will be fine,” I promised, barely aware that I was holding Adelaide, comforting the weeping girl much as I had Mrs. Fezziwig.
“Why should anyone believe my Tom is innocent? If—if we had not seen and heard for ourselves . . . if Fezziwig’s spirit had not . . .”
“No,” I said forcefully. “Even without the haunting, you would never have believed him capable of this. Never. And we’re going to prove it. What did you say the name was of that man who might help us squeeze Rutledge? I think it’s high time I paid him a visit. . . .”
CHAPTER EIGHT
IN THE HEART of London, I found the narrow sign leading to the narrow stairs and the narrow man who was the sole employee of this minor branch of Shopshire, Shopcraft, and Shoplift, a legal office I’d had occasion to frequent. The main offices, several blocks from here, were spacious, lavishly appointed, a bit like a museum display. Ideal for wooing clients. But the true labors of legal representation took place in this and another additional office. There a dozen lawyers and their dogsbody found ways to make cases drag out as long as possible to accrue the highest legal fees imaginable. Here was the dump, a wretched place of unappreciated toil and misery. In this place, old cases came to die, and those unsound and in need of hiding were bricked up behind row after row of filing cabinets.
I found the young clerk Miss Owen had told me about buried within an alcove brimming with precariously balanced, madly stacked packets of files and letters. Papers were piled from floor to ceiling behind him, beside him, before him. He’d carved something of a snaking path through the paperwork to one side of him, and burrowed out a kind of teller’s window before him. He scratched away, pausing only to dip his quill in a bottle of heavy liquid, his ink-blackened fingertips moving in a blur. His hair was ink-black, as were his trousers and vest. He was, head to toe, as neatly polished as his shoes.
That was how I found Billy Humble.
When he spoke, it was with the melodious voice of a born actor. “Oh, joy. Oh, misery. How you walk hand in hand in your cruel, wicked way. Beside me ever you travel. An imp. A gimp! One leg bold, one leg twisted. Oh, would that I had but a window. Would that I had the torturous means to see that there is a life outside the towers—the incendiary towers of toil—oh, but for a flame, a light of righteousness, of truth. Just a flicker, perhaps, to know that Christmas is upon us! What yuletide joy for me? Forever in faith I am, faith and belief, and what does it get me? It gets me fresh stacks of misery and pain to keep me shackled here forever. But there is a light. There is joy. I know her touch. I know her scent. Elsewhere, elsewhere . . . elsewhere.”
I cleared my throat. He leaped, knocked over a tower of haphazardly piled papers, shrieked, squealed, squeaked. He set to all fours, piling it up again. I sighed. “Really, sir, I do not fancy speaking to your derriere.”
“Oh, no sir, no, of course,” he said, leaping nimbly to his feet. The clerk smiled, bowed, greeted me with a flourish, one hand fisted behind his back, the other making a motion I had made many times when I meant to convey “get on with it.” But I knew it was his best attempt at formality and respect. “How may I assist you, sir? I’m sorry to say my master is not present. He infrequents this place, you see. I am left like a prisoner, my chains are papyrus and India ink. This is what is referred to as a secondary office. A morgue. A repository of miserable endless toil.”
“Then we are completely alone?” I asked.
“Order, sir, a point of pride,” the clerk went on. “Deceptive it is. Looks like a mad mess, it does. That’s the trick of it. Things aren’t always what they look like, are they? Ah, but this miserable place. Some days I fear I will see nothing but this. The rest of my miserable, sure to be short-lived existence will play out here. But to you, sir, a merry Christmas! Very, very merry!”
Miss Owen warned me that Mr. Humble took a bit of getting used to. Had this poor sod gone mad in this place?
“The horror of it is I have pals, see. They have my look, my height, my competence,” said young, narrow Billy. “Why, if I had the money I could pay them to take my place here a few days a week. That I might see sunlight. That I might know love. I have a girl, you see. I yearn! I ache! I waste away! Oh, to have time to spend. But time is a precious coin. To spend with my Dolly. Dolly Dally, we say, jokingly, for there is nothing I’d rather do than dally with my Dolly. Oh, sir, have you ever felt such longing, and been so thwarted?”
“Mr. Humble, if I may—”
“But poverty is the other chain binding me here. Oh, forgive, sir. And I pray, keep this between us. I see so very few other souls that when I do, I run at the mouth, I do. I—you know my name?”
“Indeed. And what you’ve said is a pity, for I was hoping to find one in your position who could be counted on for discretion. Quietude. At least about certain delicate matters. For that discretion, I would and could pay handsomely. Enough to have you rid of this place for weeks or more. But perhaps I’ve come to the wrong man . . .” I turned, as if to take my leave.
“No, no, no!” he cried. “No! I could be all those things, sir. I was just, ah, surprised. At the company. At any company. But yours is an august company, I would take from your appearance. A fine gentleman, honored and true. Pray, how might I be of assistance?”
I told him that I wanted to see certain documents pertaining to his client Lord Rutledge and proposed a hearty sum.
“Gracious, sir. Bless you, sir. Yes, sir!”
“And you would be bound by an oath of silence?”
“Yes, sir! By the lady of goodness and the mother of mercy, yes! What is it you would seek to know about his lordship?”
I smiled. “Nothing less than everything at all.”
I arrived early at my offices and was surprised to find the front door unlocked. A stab of cold reached between my shoulder blades as I clutched the door handle and thought of Roger Colley, Baldworthy, and the man with the claret mark on his face, all three still at large. Would they be waiting for me within?
Instead, I was treated to an astonishing sight. Miss Owen had taken down and laid out a series of ledgers and assorted documents
which she had set before a certain Mr. Benjamin Bungily. Bungily had been a nuisance of high ranking lately. He’d come to me seeking financing for a mad venture, but his capital was all too enticing for me to turn down. He was what many would call a remittance man, a Frenchman whose wealthy family paid him a generous allowance simply to reside far enough away that his “exploits” would not reach the ears of anyone who might be embarrassed by his dalliances. But when his venture failed, I’d been unable to track the sod down. It seemed he lived with a series of friends and accomplices and was always on the move—as were they. I’d promised Humperdink and his cronies a fair commission if they tracked down the wretch and brought him to me.
And now—here he was, and Miss Owen had somehow reduced the man to tears.
“Here, here, take this,” the Frenchman said, yanking off one expensive cufflink, then its mate. His rings followed, then an expensive set of chains he wore about his neck. When he had divested himself of a silk tie and tie clip and was on the brink of abandoning modesty altogether to deliver literally the shirt from his back, he saw me and thought better of it. The man flung himself at my feet, took my hand, and showered it with kisses. I drew back as he gestured at Miss Owen and blubbered, “This one, she is an angel of mercy, she saves me, saves me from my sins. Mr. Scrooge, I will be back, yes, I will, you have not the doubt, I beg of you, return I shall, au revoir!”
He flung himself to his feet and ran for the door.
“How in the deuce did you manage that?” I asked, as the front door slammed behind the Frenchman.
“I said that I would help you with your rail scheme, Mr. Scrooge,” she said brightly. “How better, or more reliably, to infuse your concern with fresh capital than to call in some of your more egregious debts?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said.
“So I didn’t,” she agreed. “But as you might have gathered from your meeting with Mr. Humble, I have made the acquaintances of many colorful characters in my day. One knows another who knows another and very quickly, when tracking down a known rogue like Bungily—voilà! And don’t think I’ve forgotten my vow to find you more well-monied investors. That, too, is in the works.”
“But, but—he paid! How did you get him—”
“There is value in secrets, I find. Now, before our next visitor arrives, here is all I have learned about this ‘Chimera’: but I warn you, it isn’t much.”
The dossier Miss Owen had prepared informed me of the mythical Greek creature associated with the name: part male, part female. A single beast with attributes taken from a lion, a snake, and a goat that breathed fire.
“As you see, I have cross-referenced any mention I could find of criminal enterprises composed of three elements, such as the Asian Triad; interesting considering the pedigree of one of our suspects. Beyond this, I cannot shine much light on why that word seems to carry so much weight in underworld circles. Perhaps it refers to a person, a place . . . perhaps it is a key that opens locks, like that ring my Tom somehow acquired. But we’ll get to the truth. We have to.”
“And Sunderland? Have you uncovered any ties to Fezziwig?”
“None. I can see no way that their circles overlapped.”
“This Piermont and Piermont Acquisitions that employed Mr. Guilfoyle. Was it owned by Sunderland or one of his affiliates? There has to be a connection.”
Adelaide shook her head. “I’ll keep digging, but I warn you, there seems to be precious little to find.”
Scowling with frustration, I asked, “How did you get in here, anyway? I didn’t give you a key, and I’m certain the place was locked tight as a drum when I left.”
Miss Owen’s smile widened. Pride crept into her eyes. “That may be your curse, Mr. Scrooge. Always underestimating people.”
“Infuriating woman.”
“Well, at least I have your attention.”
I walked over to the desk where she had splayed open my ledgers. I had told her to stay hidden, and she had done anything but. Despite my annoyance, however, I was intrigued. “Miss Owen, you have the mind for this work, of that there is no doubt. But do you have the stomach? I am attempting to grow my business more in the direction of investment banking, yes, but I have a long road ahead of me before that is my sole focus. Until then, this is a counting-house, and I am a moneylender. This work is not for anyone. It can, in fact, be grim indeed.”
Miss Owen sat before the table and flipped through my accounts. “Mr. Scrooge, I have spent my years dealing with what is, not what may be. These are numbers in ledgers. Signatures of agreement. Balances. Imbalances. They do not have thoughts. They do not have feelings. I deal with them as such. As to the misery often laid at the doorstep of counting-houses like this one, I say, I see no evidence of deceptive or unfair business practices here. You do not engineer the miserable state of affairs these people find themselves in. You do not force or entice anyone to knock on your door. Every possible term and contingency is addressed in your contracts. You ensure that your clients read them, do you not?”
“Aloud,” I added.
“Well, then. However would I be shocked?”
“There are nightly collections. It is not always a pleasant experience.”
“I should wager not. But fair is fair. One owes what one owes, and payment must be made, in one form or another.”
I smirked. “Then you would not find it disagreeable to seek out a moneylender in a time of trouble?”
“I would sooner leap in the Thames.”
I choked on what I was about to say next and returned to my labors.
“Wait,” Adelaide said. “This is interesting.”
I went to her. She pointed at an entry as if all would instantly become clear to me. It did not. The names were not familiar. There had been so many through my doors.
“Ezra Scrimp and Cyril Shillet,” Miss Owen said, beaming. “Tom knew an Ezra Scrimp. We laughed together over the name.”
I nodded. Yes, I remembered now. I had privately mused that if Mr. Scrimp had lived up to his name a bit more where his spending was concerned, he wouldn’t have found himself in such a bind. “I remember him very well. He also used to call me ‘the hog grubber’ and never by my name. Fine by me if clients want to see me as a mean, stingy fellow. Certainly they should never see me as their friend!”
“Little chance of that, I think,” Adelaide said melodically, her smile unfaltering.
“Perhaps that solves the mystery of why my face was familiar to your Mr. Guilfoyle. He probably saw me trying to get my money out of his friends. But I don’t see—”
“Tom is a gambler. He won something of great significance from this Mr. Scrimp. In fact, it is listed here, among his assets. Do you see?”
I ran my finger down the entries until I came to the item she meant. A ring identical to the one found on Fezziwig’s finger. And the one Roger Colley wore.
“Look at this address he gave you,” Miss Owen continued. “The one for his solicitor, should he die before his debt is paid.”
“What of it?”
“It’s a warehouse district. No one lives there, let alone has law offices there.”
I sighed. Yes, it was an early arrangement, when I was eager to sign any client. My error had proven quite the embarrassment. Yet there was a darker turn to it. “Scrimp and Shillet are dead, I’m afraid. Fished from the Thames. We’ll gain no information from them unless you number ‘medium’ among your many talents.”
“I still don’t see—”
Adelaide flicked a finger across my skull and stabbed at the journal again.
I read aloud the address above her finger. “King’s Head Lane. What of it?”
“Don’t you understand? ‘King’s Head? The Royal Quarter! This is what Tom was on about earlier. This is where we find Smithson and perhaps get to the bottom of this.”
“That ring was the last of Fezziwig. You saw that, didn’t you? As he crumpled, it remained. The Quarter is at the heart of this. It must be.”
>
“So it’s where we start!”
I nodded, then thought it over. “No,” I declared at last. “It is not.”
“But why? It must be investigated. And if this is a place where all manner of sin may be sated, would it not be the logical place to seek Miss Annie Piper, the prostitute?”
“It will all be investigated. But not by you. I will question Dickens about the place and go there with him. It sounds like the ideal place for that rake Roger Colley to be hiding, and if I am correct, I will not see you subjected to his tender handling.”
“But this Annie woman, her friend Irene said she’d gained a great deal of interest. The Royal Quarter—”
“What part of ‘no’ is challenging that brain of yours?”
Miss Owen drew in a deep breath, centered herself, and smiled pleasantly. Her words, however, did not match her calm and lovely demeanor. “I saw Sunderland’s man murdered. I have, as Constable Crabapple deduced, seen my fair share of wretchedness, sickness, and even death in my time. I am no delicate flower for you to protect.”
“But you are my employee, are you not?” I asked.
Shuddering, her smile firmly in place, she said, “I am.”
“Then,” I said, rising and reaching for my coat, “do what you are told and stay here!”
CHAPTER NINE
I WAITED UNTIL dusk before braving the so-called Royal Quarter. With Dickens at my side, I traversed the ankle-deep gum of rotting straw and sewage covering the slippery cobbled streets. We hurried through the warren of damp brickwork until we arrived at King’s Hill Road. From there it was no more than a few hundred sodden steps through the polluted slush, a few turns down God-forsaken alleyways, before we emerged into a square surrounded by warehouses. No, they might have been called by such an innocuous term by day, but as the last crescent of dull December sunlight vanished behind the grimy edge of London, the warehouses transformed. Red lights flicked on in windows, the hollow bass of music erupted from somewhere and was carried on the icy wind through each building. Doors clanged open and the square filled with people.
