3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England

by Michelle Griep

  “Wait here. I’ll find out.” Narrow stairs forced him to cross foot over foot. A dark ascent, impossible without the candle.

  “What is it?” Clara’s voice called from below. “What’s up there?”

  “Looks like …” The stairs ended, and he held the candle out in front of him. A remnant of Bright Leaf tobacco wafted like a ghost in the darkness.

  “Ben?”

  “It’s a crawl space,” he called down.

  Crouch-walking, he worked his way along a thick timber, the walls barely wide enough for his shoulders. Ahead, a beam of light pulled him forward, not brilliant, but enough to indicate it leaked in from somewhere. He pressed on and stopped where a large circle had been cut into the plaster. Beyond the circle was a shadowy depression with two smaller holes at center and a larger one below. Cautiously, he leaned forward, putting his head into the tiny cave, and peered out the two gaps.

  Below him was the foyer. The front door straight ahead. The sitting room to the left. A view that could only be seen from one angle.

  The lion’s head.

  The Eleventh & Twelfth Days

  JANUARY 3–4, 1851

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Tucking her needle case back into her sewing basket, Clara glanced at the mantel clock as it chimed. Then frowned. Both Mademoiselle Pretents and Ben had disappeared after breakfast—five hours ago. Now that she’d caught up with her mending, she’d have to invent something else to bide her time.

  Across the room, Mr. Pocket gazed at her over the top of the book he’d been reading. “Looking at the clock will not make Mr. Lane appear any faster, you know.”

  Her face heated from his assessment, yet how could she not help but fret? Ever since discovering that locked door yesterday, Ben had been dead set on revisiting the area. She’d held him off, but apparently not for good—none of which was Mr. Pocket’s business.

  She straightened her skirts, smoothing her palms along her thighs. “I could just as easily be waiting for Mademoiselle Pretents.”

  “Could be.” He rubbed a hand over his shorn head, the peppery bristles shushing with his touch, then ended by working a muscle in his neck. “But that pretty blush on your cheeks says otherwise.”

  She averted her gaze, suddenly preferring the burning embers in the hearth to the questions igniting the inspector’s brown eyes. How to turn this around? She bit her lip and—that was it. Turn it around, back onto him.

  She flashed him a smile. “Have you never been in love, Inspector?”

  “As a matter of fact.” He set down his book and leaned forward, hands dangling between his knees. “There’s a certain woman I intend on courting very soon. Tell me, Miss Chapman, have you any advice on the matter?”

  Leaving her sewing basket behind, she crossed the rug to take a seat adjacent to his. “Does the lady return your affections, sir?”

  “She does.” Mr. Pocket scratched at his side-whiskers before continuing. “Her father, however, is another matter altogether.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. You seem a fine-enough fellow.”

  “Thank you, miss. I like to think so.”

  The melancholy twist of the man’s mouth tugged at her heart. He wasn’t a dashing figure, to be sure, but neither were his garments threadbare. She looked closer. A ruddy complexion, but no pockmarks. Teeth somewhat stained, yet all present. Clearly he was a capable man, as evidenced by his keen mind and hale body. She tapped a finger on her skirt as she further evaluated him but came up empty-handed. “What is the problem, sir, if I may be so bold?”

  “I wish I could say it wasn’t money.” Furrows creased his brow. “But it always seems to boil down to that, does it not?”

  “Indeed.” A bitter taste soured the back of her throat. She’d personally experienced all too well how lack of funding and social status turned away those she’d thought were friends. She swallowed and focused instead on the man in front of her. “But surely you make a sustainable living as an officer of the law?”

  He nodded. “I’m comfortable enough, but it’s not so much the jingle in my pocket. It’s more than that. All the trimmings and show of society concern her father the most. He’ll see her live nowhere but in a fine London town house.” A shadow darkened his face, sinister and almost demonic. “As if Clapham wasn’t good enough.”

  Clara edged back in her seat.

  Then just as suddenly, his eyes cleared, and he smiled at her. “Not to worry, though. In three days’ time, all will be remedied. I’ve put a deposit on just such a town house already.”

  Alarm tightened her tummy, and she pressed her hand to it. How did he know he’d be the one to receive the prize?

  “Was that not a bit premature?” she asked.

  His dark eyes pinned her in place. “Not if I can pay it off before mid-January.”

  “But what if you cannot?”

  “Then I lose everything.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Mr. Pocket, do you think that was a very wise act?”

  “Sometimes one must act boldly to bring about a bold hope.”

  “Or a bold failure,” she whispered under her breath.

  He leaned forward. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” She forced a smile and glanced once more at the clock, longing for the sanctuary of Ben’s presence. “I wish you the best with your lady, Mr. Pocket.”

  “Thank you. I believe you mean that, and as such, I am almost sorry my gain will mean your loss.”

  She shot her gaze back to his. “What do you mean?”

  “Thief!” A grey storm cloud blew through the sitting-room door. Mademoiselle Pretents marched over and planted her feet in front of the Inspector—a gun in her hand. “You are ze one who stole my jewels. No wonder you could not tell me who took them.”

  Sucking in a breath, Clara shrank into the chair, putting as much space as possible between her and the crazed woman.

  Mr. Pocket merely chuckled. “You are confused, mademoiselle. I operate on the right side of the law.”

  “Liar!” The woman’s voice shook. So did the gun. “Give them to me.”

  All mirth faded from Mr. Pocket’s face, replaced by the same disturbing shadow of moments before. “Put the gun down. Now.”

  “I will not! I will have my jewels or shoot you like the dog you are.” Her voice rose to a screech. “You think I won’t use this? Give me the jewel pouch.”

  With each quiver of the gun’s muzzle, Clara’s heart beat harder, seeking escape, as did she. She crept to the edge of her seat, debating if the woman would allow her to leave unharmed.

  Mr. Pocket reached inside his dress coat.

  And whipped out a gun of his own.

  Two shots exploded. So did Mr. Pocket’s chest. His pistol dropped from his hand, and he flew back against the cushions with a curse. Blood oozed out the torn fabric of his waistcoat. His hand slammed to his chest as he tried to staunch the flow. Red oozed between his fingers.

  Clara stared, unable to stop a scream.

  The gun barrel swung her way.

  “Shut up, lay-dee, or you are next.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Two shots rang out, violating the solemn January afternoon. Ben jerked away from exploring the drawing room and ran to the door, listening with his whole body. The gunshot was nearby. Definitely on this floor. Down the hall. Likely the sitting room.

  A scream next. Clara’s.

  His heart skipped a beat—then he bolted down the corridor. Oh, God, please.

  Just before the door, he forced his feet to a standstill. Every muscle quivered to race in and sweep Clara away from danger, but he’d be no use to her with a bullet through his own head.

  Holding his breath, he peered around the doorframe.

  And his heart stopped.

  Across the room, Mademoiselle Pretents aimed a gun at Clara. Nearby, the inspector slumped against the settee cushion, bleeding. If that French hothead pulled the trigger again—

  Shoving the consequences out of his m
ind, Ben yanked off his shoe and threw it at the window behind the woman.

  Glass shattered.

  Mademoiselle Pretents whirled toward the sound.

  He strode through the door.

  The woman jerked her face toward him, gun barrel trained on his chest. Excellent. Better at him than at Clara.

  “Homme fou!” The grey menace spit out a host of curses. “Why you do that?”

  He held up his hands, appearing to surrender, but continued walking. Smooth steps. Slow. If he could keep her talking long enough to draw close, he stood a greater chance of disarming her.

  Unless she shot him first.

  “I merely wanted to get your attention.” He spoke as to a wee child on the verge of a tantrum. “What’s going on in here?”

  Across the room, Clara whimpered. Mr. Pocket eked out a painful grunt.

  Ben kept walking. Five more paces, and he’d be in range to snatch the gun.

  Mademoiselle Pretents’s dark eyes rooted on him, murder glinting. “This is none of your concern.”

  He nodded toward the revolver. “Looks like you just made it mine.”

  Three more steps.

  She straightened her arm like a ramrod, the muzzle jutting closer to him. “Stop! Or I will shoot.”

  He took another step.

  A strangled cry garbled from Clara’s throat.

  “I told you to shut up, lay-dee!” Mademoiselle Pretents yelled.

  One pace more. So close.

  “She means you no harm, mademoiselle, nor do I.” He raised his hands higher, shoulder level, and dared a final step. “Do you have a quarrel with me?”

  She opened her mouth—

  He shot out his left hand, grabbing the top of the barrel. His right hand snapped into the tender flesh of her inner wrist. The momentum directed the muzzle toward her belly, and she let go.

  Transferring the revolver to his right hand, he aimed it at her. “Not so nice to be on the other end, is it?”

  Wine-coloured blotches darkened her cheeks. French indictments thickened the air, along with vile names directed at him and Mr. Pocket.

  “Clara”—he spoke without varying his gaze—“fetch me a stocking from your mending basket.”

  Keeping a wide berth from the Frenchwoman, Clara stole over to her basket and retrieved a long silken legging. Perfect.

  He tipped his head toward the seat Clara had recently vacated. “Sit in that chair, mademoiselle.”

  “You are a devil!” She grumbled all the way to her seat, then plopped down, her skirts ballooning like a rain cloud. “I am not the criminal here. He is!” Her evil eye speared Pocket through the heart. “He stole my jewels, I tell you.”

  Before tying up the woman, Ben glanced at the inspector. A little pale, but not deathly. The heel of his hand kept pressure on the wound, upper right chest, near the shoulder. Blood soaked through his shirt and waistcoat, but not in a pulsing stream. It wasn’t a killing shot, unless infection set in. He’d need attention soon, though.

  First to secure the French firebrand. Turning his back to the inspector, Ben traded the gun for the stocking in Clara’s hand. Worried eyes peered deeply into his. She’d likely never held a revolver in her life.

  Mademoiselle Pretents started to rise.

  Ben pushed her back. He tied each of her hands tightly to the chair arms. While he worked, the woman called down all manner of fiery oaths upon his head, his mother, and any future children he might sire. Finally, he fumbled with the knot of his cravat and freed his tie, then shoved the fabric into her mouth. The woman’s eyes widened an instant before tapering to angry slashes.

  For the first time in an eternity, he breathed deeply, pulse finally slowing.

  Clara huddled next to him, face drained of colour. “Thank you. If you’d not arrived when you did—”

  “Then there would’ve been one less person for me to deal with.” Mr. Pocket’s words snarled behind them, followed by the cock of a pistol hammer. “But no matter. I’ve drawn this out long enough.”

  Bile seared upward from Ben’s gut. The Christmas tree fire. The thinned ice. The flying ax head and the loosened stair carpeting. It all made sense now. Fury quaked through him. Pocket hadn’t been sent here to watch him—the man was here to make sure none of them remained.

  “Put the gun on the floor, miss. Then turn around and push it to me with your toe. Slowly.” Pocket’s voice was kicked gravel. From intimidation or pain?

  Ben angled his head, listening harder.

  “Move one more twitch, Lane, and you’re a dead man,” Pocket warned.

  “Don’t worry, Inspector. I’ve got him covered.” The steel in Clara’s voice stabbed him through the heart.

  He’d taken kidney punches before, sharp enough to stop his breathing, but this time, he doubted he’d ever breathe again. He slid his gaze to the left, where Clara backed away from him.

  The gun in her hand aimed at his head.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The revolver shook in Clara’s hands, but not from the cold bleeding in from the broken window or from inexperience with firearms. Her brother had seen to that, instructing her in the pursuit of marksmanship when his friends were scarce.

  So while the weight and grip moulded in her palm was entirely familiar, it was the act of aiming the thing at Ben that caused the muscles in her arms to quiver. Calculating the probability of success for such a wild scheme was impossible. She wrapped her fingers tighter around the grip, heart racing. This had to work. It must. Or they’d both be dead.

  And Ben would go to his grave thinking the worst of her.

  “Hold it right there, missy.” Mr. Pocket’s pistol, smaller than the revolver in her own hand, wavered ever so slightly between her and Ben. “What are you about?”

  She dared one more step back, gaining as much distance from Ben as possible. “I should like to parley, Mr. Pocket.”

  Mademoiselle Pretents whinnied some kind of comment behind the gag in her mouth.

  Ben stiffened, the fabric of his dress coat stretching taut across his shoulders.

  God, please, may Ben forgive me. Her stomach twisted. Had she not just minutes before portended Mr. Pocket’s bold actions might be a bold failure?

  “Parley for what?” Mr. Pocket snorted. “I hold the advantage. You shoot Mr. Lane, and I put a shot through you. There’s nothing to negotiate.”

  “Ahh, but there is.” The slight smile curving her lips tasted like rancid fat. But showing fear of any kind would attract a bullet. She lifted her chin. “Allow me to reach into my pocket, sir, for I have something of value to offer you.”

  Mr. Pocket narrowed his eyes. “In exchange for what?”

  “My life.”

  A curse, foul as any Mademoiselle Pretents had uttered, flew past his lips. “I could just shoot you now and take whatever it is from you.”

  True, except as she studied the pallor of his skin, the red soaking through not only his waistcoat but his dress coat, she doubted he had much stamina remaining. She lifted her chin higher, looking down her nose at him. “You could, but in so doing Mr. Lane would no doubt attack you. You saw how quickly he moves. Do you really think in your state you’d stand a chance of reloading before he disarmed you? Oh, don’t look so surprised, Mr. Pocket. I may be a lady, but I can tell the difference between a pistol and a revolver.”

  She flashed a glance at Ben. It wasn’t much, but would he take the hint?

  The smell of blood and curiosity tainted the chill air. Mr. Pocket’s mouth twisted while he considered her words, as if he sucked upon a lemon sour.

  “All right. What will you trade for your life, Miss Chapman?” he asked.

  “A coin, sir. One of great value.” She dared tiny steps backward as she spoke, inches really, but every bit of gained ground felt like a small triumph. “And in your current financial state, I believe if you add the coin’s worth to the prize offered you as the last remaining guest at Bleakly Manor, your money woes shall be at an end. I give you the
coin, and you let me leave the manor unharmed. Now.”

  Mr. Pocket sniffed, not nearly with as much gusto as usual, though. In fact, his nose barely bobbed at all. “All right. Let’s have a look at it before I go making any promises. But so help me, miss, if you pull out anything other than a coin, I shall shoot you just for the pleasure of it.”

  Without moving his body, Ben arched a brow at her.

  She prayed with each heartbeat that the poison of her movements and words would not taint what he knew of her trustworthiness from the past. Withdrawing the second-chance coin, she pinched it between thumb and forefinger and held it up so the weak afternoon sunlight would cause it to gleam.

  “Very nice.” The inspector narrowed his eyes, his tone lowering to a rumble. “But how do I know that’s real?”

  For the space of a breath, she glanced at Ben, pleading for understanding with her eyes.

  Then she snapped her gaze back to the inspector. “Here. Catch.”

  She tossed the coin to him.

  And Ben wheeled about, diving for the man.

  Grunts, curses, and the crack of gunshot.

  Then nothing but the crash of a picture frame across the room, smashed to the floor by a bullet gone wild.

  Pocket moaned on the settee. For once Mademoiselle Pretents was completely silent.

  Ben turned, chest heaving—with naught but a mark on his cheek to show for the scuffle.

  Clara lowered her gun. “Thank God.”

  Ben’s eyes burned like blackened embers, searching her from head to hem. “Are you hurt?”

  “I am not.” Her voice shook, as did her whole body, but other than that she remained whole.

  With a nod, Ben turned back to the inspector. Heedless of the man’s injury, he yanked open Mr. Pocket’s dress coat and rummaged inside.

  Mr. Pocket cried out like an animal.

  Clara winced, the tender part of her heart competing with the vengeful side.

  Ben retrieved a small black velvet pouch. “Like you, Inspector, I never accuse without solid evidence.”

  Mademoiselle Pretents rocked on her chair, throaty roars fighting to escape the gag in her mouth.