The Humbug Murders

by L. J. Oliver

  “What happens to her is on your head,” he said, looking back at me.

  “I’ll look out for myself, thank you,” Adelaide assured him.

  “You may have to.”

  The ruby rings we had acquired in our adventures set firmly on our fingers, we walked ahead towards Middlehays, the country estate Rutledge had inherited, then put out to let. The isolated house was perched on a rise overlooking the ocean. A frozen fairytale wood reflected the silver-blue moonlight to our left as the ocean lazily lapped at the shoreline far below to our right.

  “How do you think the constable and Mr. Dickens are faring?” Adelaide asked. She hugged herself against the frigid winds, which caressed us like invisible hands.

  Though Crabapple was woefully lacking in compatriots he might draw into our madness tonight, Shen and Dickens were not. Shen had quickly drafted instructions for Crabapple to take to one of his key agents in the drug trade, while Dickens—now weighted down with Shen’s funds—went to pull away the security detail he had assigned to Belle and round up even more protectors. With any luck at all, they would join us within the hour accompanied by a score of hard, dangerous men.

  “I have no doubt they will be here presently,” I lied. For I had every conceivable doubt.

  “The two of you,” Shen said without looking back at us. “You are clear on our objective?”

  We’d talked about little else. Dodger had explained that the photographer—the only man who knew the secret process that made his miraculous image-taking possible—considered himself quite pious. Part of the allure of Rutledge’s country estate had been its chapel. Though the foreign gentleman had accepted that he was damned, he would not begin or end his photo-taking festivities without a private moment of prayer in a sanctified space. No one knew if this was to cleanse himself or to spit in the eye of God, but it was his ritual.

  Guards were stationed at the two main doors leading in or out of the chapel, but there was a secret door hidden behind one of those newly placed Doric columns. That door led to a stone stairwell and a series of underground tunnels coming up into open air far from the house.

  “We hide in the chapel and lay in wait for the photographer,” I said wearily. Shen had made me repeat our plan countless times since we’d left London. It had almost taken my mind off the distinct possibility that once we reached our destination, Miss Owen would give a command to the scum within for our capture, thus revealing herself as The Lady. The chains of trust were not yet secure. “We knock him senseless, bind him, and kidnap him. Later, we offer to trade him for the release of the women and—”

  “Be quiet,” Adelaide hissed. She nodded ahead. The house was in sight, and we dared not risk being overheard by the men standing outside the well-lit front entrance.

  The crimson glow we had glimpsed in the distance now lay far to our east, beyond the house and along the cliffside. We could not see what cast it.

  Rutledge’s house was a modest affair, at least when contrasted to the magnificence of Dyer Manor. We passed a hedge maze that had fallen on hard times, an iced-over fountain sitting smack in the middle of the rounded front drive, a pair of stone lions beside the steps leading to the porch, one cracked so badly half its face had fallen off. A pitiful forced attempt at opulence made the recently added Doric columns stand out in stark contrast to the rest of the house. Two columns bracketed the front double doors where a pair of valets stepped forward and greeted us. They were impeccably dressed—and armed. Masks rested upon red silk pillows cradled in one man’s arms. I might have thought the masks a fortuitous turn, but Shen had been confident they would be presented to us. The men in the photos always wore them.

  No one questioned that we had strolled in from the darkness with no carriage in sight. From the jaundiced look in their eyes, I wagered they had seen far stranger things tonight. One look at the ruby rings adorning Shen’s hand—and my own—settled any possible raised eyebrows. Except one.

  “What’s with the boy?” the nearest valet asked.

  Smiling, Shen draped a casual arm about Adelaide’s shoulders and winked. “We like to have him about when we . . . watch. He serves our purposes.”

  Adelaide, remaining perfectly in character, regarded the men with a ruddy sneer and knowing nod. The men shrugged and turned to one another.

  “Does he get a mask?”

  “I suppose.”

  We three were swept into the warm and noisy antechamber, where a pair of handsome young women rushed at us. Sparkling green and brown wood nymph costumes barely covered their comely bosoms and striking legs. Laughing and frolicking, they relieved us of our hats, canes, and heavy winter coats. My cheeks blazed with a sudden heat as I realized their “costumes” had mainly been painted on, the green and amber leaves glued strategically in one place or another.

  This pair must have been from the Doll House, I reasoned. Those poor women who’d been drugged and held against their wills in their pens at the warehouse simply could not have managed such smiles and unspoken promises of delight. We passed another of the great Doric columns, and my gaze rested upon hooks that had been driven into its side. One thrust out at waist level, the other slightly over my head. Looking about at the low-hanging chandelier, the paintings, and gilt-covered woodworks, the ornate resting couches, I knew that I was walking through a spot used for the terrible photographs.

  I felt as if I were striding through a particularly deep, dark, and inescapable level of hell.

  The women opened a pair of doors, and we strode confidently into a whirling mass of decadence and vice. Dozens of finely-appointed gentleman wearing outlandish masks laughed, ate, and drank to their wicked hearts’ content. Shen was already making small talk with one of them, his grotesque “plague doctor” mask with its birdlike beak drawing little attention. His mouth and chin were yet uncovered, revealing his bright white teeth and perfectly chiseled chin.

  Christmas, now only days away, had hardly been forgotten in this wretched place. A perverse bacchanalian twist had been thrust upon what might have otherwise been a genteel Christmas get-together. The air was thick with myrrh, which smothered all other fragrances, including sweat. Whole hogs had been slaughtered and carved to perfection, served on great tables with orange rinds and deep, delicious-smelling gravies. Joyous music sprang from tautly-tuned instruments as a string quartet supported a stunning cellist. Fires sizzled and gaslights whispered. Staggeringly beautiful women circulated in various states of undress and pagan excess, jewels glittering on naked flesh. Men and women danced in the center of the vast banquet hall. I found myself taking in the sight of a woman whose entire derriere had been adorned in ringlets of bouncing white cream.

  “Remember, no sampling before the main event,” a man in a lion’s mask said, nudging my arm knowingly. “Save it up, you’re going to need it!”

  Across the room, a man with a familiar laugh held court. He was dressed as Father Christmas, perhaps, the founder of the feast. His bare chest shimmering in the glow from the fire, his red velvet coat swept to the floor, gold and purple sashes adorned him along with glittering chains. A crown of wild holly sat on his head. He was masked, like all the fine gentlemen here, but I knew that hyena-like laugh.

  “What an absolute gigglemug,” Dickens said. “Worse than that Pickwick, even!”

  I knew the man. It was Lazytree.

  My mind reeled and hauled me back to the Colleys’ warehouse, where I was tortured and prodded to reveal what Sunderland had done with Roger and Jack’s property. Sunderland as much as said that his many companies were infested by scoundrels, like ships overrun by rats.

  Was I standing in the very presence of Mr. Smithson himself? Was it Lazytree?

  “Friends, eat, drink, be merry!” Lazytree invited, silencing the music with a brief flash of his gloved hand. “Your Christmas presents wait outside. They are being carefully prepared against a spectacular setting to best immortalize this evening’s incredible nature. Dozens of gifts we present you with from all over t
he world, all waiting to be unwrapped with rising excitement. Will you tear at them a bit at a time, greedily, passionately? Or rip them open and see what they contain with no further ado? Whatever your choice, we will immortalize your passions on film. Have no fear of discovery; your masks will protect you.”

  Lazytree signaled the players, and the music resumed. He was immediately ringed in by anxious men who clearly did not appreciate being kept waiting. “Soon, soon,” I heard Lazytree telling them, then the sounds of the party drowned out further intelligence.

  Adelaide grasped my arm. “It’s happening outside,” she whispered, her chest rising and falling with sharp quick movements. She was nearly breathless with worry. “The women aren’t even here.”

  “Quell your panic,” Shen said in his most reasonable voice. “All that matters is that it has not yet begun, and this means that most of their goons are certainly arrayed elsewhere, to prevent the ‘presents’ from wandering off. All we must do is avoid Lazytree and wait for our opportunity. The moment the crowd is sufficiently distracted, we will leave here and take up position in the chapel. Don’t forget why we’re here and don’t forget Humbug’s promise.”

  “Frankly,” I said, “if these men are to be the dozens that were threatened, I think I’d just as soon let carpets run with their blood before lifting a hand to stop them. We both know what they’re going to do with these women.”

  To our right, a man holding court with several of his fellows asked, “What do you call a pearl that’s been dropped from the roof of St. Paul’s?” The jokester smiled. “Nellie.”

  The crowd about him burst into raucous laughter, and my gaze whipped to Shen. I expected to see him tremble with barely controlled rage, teeth grinding, hands ground into fists. But instead, he was detached, smiling thinly, exhibiting no sign of distress other than some drops of perspiration on his forehead.

  Lazytree’s great crimson robes flashed as he made his way through the crowd. Sooner or later, he’d come our way.

  “Should we do something?” Adelaide whispered. “We can pretend to fight and draw all eyes to us while Shen gets away.”

  “No . . . that would draw Lazytree, and we would be found out.”

  “We have to do something,” she said, her voice hitching.

  Just then, fate took the matter out of our hands. A pair of double doors leading to the garden swung in, and a small man flanked by a handful of armed guards was pushed through the crowd. Lazytree did his best to push and shove people out of the way. The diminutive fellow was scowling, intent on something of great import, frustrated that he could not simply avoid attention. I remembered him by his round spectacles and their tinted black glass.

  The photographer, surely!

  “The time is nearly upon us!” Lazytree called out. “This is Mr. Gustuv Bleier, and all of you are, of course, well-acquainted with his miraculous science: photography. He will be immortalizing your stag-like prowess with our vast selection of Christmas nymphs out by the abbey. Now if you would simply be so kind as to make way, make way, yes, there’s a good fellow, he will complete his final preparations and the night’s true entertainment shall soon commence!”

  I had spied the door Dodger had described, the one leading to a hall at the end of which resided the chapel. Now was our chance to slip away unnoticed, except—

  Shen was surging ahead, moving to intercept the photographer.

  “Ebenezer?” Adelaide asked, her voice laced with worry.

  There was nothing either of us could do. Shen surged with such inhuman speed that I barely registered that he had cracked the nearest guard’s nose with his elbow and relieved the man of his pistol before the shot rang out and the little man crumpled to his knees. A neat little red hole had burst into existence upon his brow, and a spray of blood had speckled several men who’d stood behind him.

  Shen lowered the gun, staring down as the little man sank to one side. Women screamed as a pool of crimson spooled out onto the hardwood floor. The Chinaman’s expression was curious, even a bit perturbed, as if the experience had been less than he’d anticipated.

  “Do you know what you’ve done?” Lazytree shouted, grinding the heels of his hands into his temple and screwing them about so tightly I thought his eyeballs might pop out. Face beet red, veins bulging, fit to burst, he studied the other guards, who now stood with their weapons all pointed at Shen. Eyes popping, mouth frothing, Lazytree raised his hands high, balled them into fists, and he loosed his incredulity at his men. “What are you waiting for!?”

  In the moment before they all opened fire on my companion, I was certain that Shen’s serene smile returned.

  Amidst the blaze of gunfire and Shen’s dying screams, Adelaide grasped my hand and hauled me to the hall door. She yanked it open, shoved me ahead, and we were running, following the plan as if it had not just been literally blown to hell.

  We raced down the corridor that we had been told would lead to the great chapel and never learned if that was true or not. Behind us exploded cries of, “Those two were with him” and “Kill them.” My hand grasped the handle to the door at the end of the hall and found it locked. Adelaide hauled on another door, mercifully open, and we darted inside a small, darkened study, slammed the door shut, but did not have a key to lock it against our pursuers, whose footsteps echoed in the hall.

  We upended a towering bookcase, bringing it crashing down in front of the door just as someone shoved it open. A sliver of harsh yellow light from the hall sliced in, but the door was jammed long enough for us to find an open window and slip outside and race into the night.

  We ran back in the direction of the carriage road, teeth chattering, the heat sparked by terror offering precious little defense against the chill of the evening. The guards from the front of house whipped around before us, no doubt drawn by the sounds of gunfire. Shouting bolted outward from the way we’d come. For an instant, I thought we were trapped, but Adelaide grasped my hand, and together we flew towards a gazebo and beyond it, a romantically-lit trail through the woods.

  We skidded on ice, tumbled, and that alone saved us as shots bit into trees that had been at eye level a moment before. I grasped Adelaide by the shoulders, propelled her further down the twisting path, and only the constant sudden sharp turns kept our pursuers from firing again.

  Any notions I yet held that Adelaide was the mysterious Lady were well and truly gone.

  We drew up as a pair of costumed gentlemen shrieked in surprise at the sight of us, preventing a collision as they strolled, cigarettes in hand, back from wherever this path led. Adelaide and I brushed by them, swung them back and away from us, ran on, taking another sharp turn, then another. Our masks kept slipping as we ran, obscuring our view, and we threw them down as we raced on.

  “There!” someone yelled. And without thought, a hailstorm of gunfire exploded at our backs coupled with shrieks of surprise and agony.

  “Don’t stop!” Adelaide hissed. I did not. I surmised that the men we’d passed had been mistaken for us and shot down in our place. I also guessed that our pursuers’ blunder would only keep them from us a short while.

  We burst from the path carved among the trees and saw moonlight tinge the ocean ahead and far below. We’d been harried up along a road paralleling the coastline, and the path had spilled out onto a ruin-littered glade where towering abbey walls flickered with crimson light. In summer, this would be a rich, welcoming meadowland. In winter, it was a frozen waste.

  We could barely take in the madness before us. All activity was centered in the great cradle of the abbey ruins. Fifty people, if not more, had set about the most peculiar industry I had ever witnessed. Cauldrons so great they might have made Macbeth’s witches weep in envy burned with crimson flames. A boy trudged back and forth between a dozen or more of them, examining them, chugging bucket loads of a thick powder onto them when they threatened to burn clean to yellow once again.

  Dozens of women lolled upon stones or incongruously placed velvet chaise lo
ngues. Others stood with shackles upon their wrists, easing out from chains leading back to half-destroyed walls. Though thin and weak, the women had been bathed, their hair washed. They wore translucent gowns of teal, emerald, gold. Attendants, both men and women, circulated among them, painting their cheeks with rouge from palettes they held or placing flowers in their hair. The cauldrons provided not just a gaudy theatrical reddish glow that had suffused the sky even from miles away, but precious heat that kept the barefoot women from freezing to death.

  Guards stood at the perimeters, just as Shen had predicted. They were at every doorway, looking inward, watching the women for any sign that they might escape. And at the heart of it, a half-dozen odd contraptions set up on tripods with cloth hoods, accordion-like extensions, rectangular glass eyes. Long steamer trunks filled with supplies for the strange machines sat nearby. What would happen to these women now that the night’s “festivities” had been spoiled?

  Voices rose at our backs, and Adelaide pointed upward. “We can hide up there,” Adelaide commanded.

  We passed near enough one of the many open steamers to snatch blankets we might use as cloaks against the icy winds as we fled back into the chill. I followed her up a brutally steep winding stone path that cut right through the heart of the ruins to the only structure that had not been razed in whatever attack leveled the abbey. We soon found ourselves in a high tower overlooking the hellish pit below.

  Adelaide sank into my arms, murmuring something about needing the warmth, and I held her tightly. We were both shivering.

  Why had Shen done it? What madness had overtaken him?

  Perhaps I had just answered my own question. And perhaps further, the madness had been upon him far longer than had been evident to my senses.

  Something behind us caught Adelaide’s attention. She pressed a finger to her pursed lips, and I saw the camera I had not noticed when we’d first stumbled in. Of course, it had been placed to peer down at the “Christmas gathering,” as we were now doing, and capture the entirety of the depraved scene set to go off below. Footsteps scraped along stone steps and we pressed against a wall as a pair of young men trudged inside. They complained about the “wretched fur’nor” and wishing he’d take a slow boat off to hell. We snuck down the steps as they set a heavy trunk next to the apparatus and cracked it open.