A Scrooge Mystery, page 1
‘He had no further intercourse with spirits . . .’
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
. . . As far as he would admit, at least . . .
CONTENTS
The Ghost
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
The Ghost
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
The Ghost
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The Ghost
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
The Ghost
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
The Ghost
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
The Ghost
Chapter 15
The Ghost
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
The Ghost
Chapter 19
The Ghost
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
The Ghost
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
THE GHOST
THE PAIN IS SUDDEN AND SEARING. I FEEL A BLOW TO THE BACK of my head, then a slice at my throat. It is at once cold and on fire with agony. My hands clasp at my neck as if my fingers can keep the blood inside, but there is no time. I am already on my knees, and then I am pulled from my body like a child being jerked away from a beloved toy. I barely have time to think I am dead before a tide of fear swallows me, sucking me under, deep into the darkness, whirling me around, engulfing me in a sensation that is new and strange. A feeling of nothing.
No. It is too soon. I want to live.
I flail frantically with limbs I no longer have, claw with fingers which do not exist, as if I have tumbled into the freezing Thames but without the pull, the buoyancy of being in water. There’s no chance of struggling to the surface. I am trapped in terror and blackness, fighting against nothing.
I feel it now, the temptation to relax into slumber, to admit I no longer have arms or legs or a voice or any power at all and simply allow myself to drift. But I cannot. I will not. I fight, like I always have.
I feel eternity passing, and no time at all.
And then I hear the voice. The only part of me which is not frenzied with fear wonders if it is an angel calling me to the afterlife, but this is not a heavenly sound. It is creaking, dry and crabby, and it says: ‘This is a good proposition. We could make a lot of money.’
The voice acts as an anchor, pulling me towards it, back to the living. There is a whirl of colours and light and then the familiar scents of Christmas draw me in – spiced, mulled wine and a warm coal fire. Then, the complacent sound of male laughter. My surroundings are a blur but amid it all I can see one face. It is a miser’s face, hard and craggy, brow lined from years of frowning, lips thin from a lifetime of being pressed tight together in disapproval, skin pale from hour after hour spent inside hunched over ledgers, counting coins. I know him. I have seen him before.
It is Ebenezer Scrooge.
1
MARLEY WAS STILL UNDOUBTEDLY AND UNDENIABLY DEAD. ONCE a week, his former business partner Ebenezer Scrooge visited his graveside to confirm that he remained so. And also, if he was honest with himself, to talk.
Time was he would have thought it foolish to sit at a deceased man’s graveside and chit-chat as if Marley could hear – the man was dead as a doornail, after all. Even deader, since doornails had never even lived. But that was before last Christmas Eve, before the terrible visitations which had changed the way he saw the world for ever.
Scrooge shivered, pulling his weathered greatcoat more tightly around him as he picked his way through the frozen churchyard. It was an uncommonly cold day, even for the middle of December. The feeble half-light of the sun had done nothing to melt the frost which lingered on the tombstones, sprinkled like sugar on the fat cheeks of each carved cherub. However, Scrooge had never been susceptible to the cold. It was not the temperature which made his skin chill.
A churchyard is a place for ghosts, and Scrooge never wanted to see another spirit in his life. And so he kept his gaze fixed on the uneven ground before him and continued.
Marley had been buried with minimal pomp. Of course he had, because his business partner had been the one to bury him. Scrooge had chosen a burial plot in the cheapest, meanest corner of the churchyard. Not for him the grand statuary which was becoming the fashion. No weeping angel or veiled urn to signify the passing of such a solid man of business as Mr Marley. No, his gravestone was the smallest and plainest Scrooge could get away with while remaining respectable. Why waste money when it benefits no one living? Which meant that as he picked his way carefully across the rough, weed-tangled ground, nearly tripping over the tumbled tombstones, he had only himself to blame.
He rested for a moment, leaning on Marley’s grave, his breath puffing steam into the cold air while he recovered and noticed, to his consternation, that there was another mourner hunched in the tangled weeds nearby. The figure of a woman, kneeling on the patchy frosted ground, grey skirts billowed out around her. There was something familiar about her shabby attire – the faded, worn quality of the skirt. There was a grubby, reddish heart-shaped stain on the sleeve and Scrooge was sure that he had seen it before but could not recall when. He had no intention of asking the woman herself. She was slumped forward, arms outstretched as if prostrating herself on the grave of her loved one. Scrooge turned away. The sight of someone else’s grief disturbed him, making him feel that his own deep-buried and less intense ache for Marley, and all the others he had lost, was somehow not good enough. In the past, he would have masked his own unease by scoffing at the woman’s mawkishness, but he knew better now. He was a changed man. He truly was.
‘Good morning, old friend,’ Scrooge spoke softly. He might be a changed man, but he did not want the woman nearby to hear him do something as foolish as talking to the dead. He still had a reputation to protect, one which had been damaged somewhat by last year’s singing and dancing and throwing coins in the street. He had kept the supernatural part of the story to himself, as few men of business wished to deal with a fellow who swore he had seen the past, the future and the dead carrying chains through his own bedchamber. But without this added colour, his joyful display of festive feeling was regarded by some as quite improper.
He crouched low next to the grave, close enough to see the lichens forming on Jacob Marley’s name, and talked on, telling his partner of the progress of their business.
He had imagined that profits would be damaged by his new softer-hearted approach to affairs, not least by all those extra lumps of coal expended on keeping Mr Bob Cratchit from freezing to his clerk’s stool. But there had been surprising benefits to the expenditure.
‘It turns out, my friend, that warmer hands make for swifter writing, and when a mind is not focused on fear and hunger it becomes sharper and more efficient,’ Scrooge told the lump of granite. ‘He is completing six days’ worth of work in the space of five. Would you believe it?’
As a result, Scrooge had begun to allow him a few extra hours to himself on Saturdays and he returned to work on Monday morning replete with energy and eager to continue. Scrooge did not share this fact with Marley, though. He knew what his old partner would have said in life. If a man completes his work early, you are clearly not giving him enough to do!
Scrooge still found it difficult to tread the path between being a good, fair man and being a naive milksop, disrespected by all, and was never quite sure on which side he currently stood. But it was strangely satisfying to see Cratchit scuttling off early, weaving his threadbare white comforter around his neck and bidding his master a good day.
‘I know,’ Scrooge admitted. ‘I have grown soft-hearted towards my clerk and his family. I even have his young lad in my employ! In between his schooling Tiny Tim is my office boy. Of course, he is not precisely fleet of foot when I send him on errands, but his strength has revived somewhat this last year. The boy is eager and willing, and nobody could question his trustworthiness. Oh, my friend, how you would mock me now! But . . .’
He gave a sigh. His knees ached from crouching to hide from the nearby mourner, and he eased himself down onto the frozen turf at Marley’s graveside. Scrooge could not remember the last time he had sat upon the ground in this way. It was freezing and uncomfortable.
‘Goodness is not an easy path, Marley. Last year, it was simpler. I was so full to the brim with the joy of living, the sight of my own grave still fresh in my memory. I danced and sang carols and played parlour games through sheer relief that I had survived. But as the season approaches I find . . . merriment is not in my nature.’
He hesitated, the admission hanging in the air as he struggled to find the words to explain himself. Changing one’s ways was not as straightforward as changing one’s socks. Each morning when he rose from his still-meagre bed, dozens of decisions lay before him. Was it miserly or saintly to keep the grate in his own room cold, to breakfast on the thinnest of gruels? Was it generous or foolish to lend that street-boy Jem money to buy boot polish to start his own enterprise? Was it kind or madness to allow the Scrapley family extra time to pay their debt to him, even though he knew they would never be able to afford to pay, no matter how much time he gave? His reputation as a changed man had spread as the new year had begun and since then he had been subject to hordes of chancers and tricksters thinking him a soft touch, trying to wring money out of him. Those he had not trusted, he had sent packing. Had that been wrong?
The compassionate choice might prove disastrous for his business now, but the tight-fisted, hand-at-the-grindstone choice could provide another link in the heavy chain of sins he would have to bear in the afterlife.
That chain.
He dreamed of it. It clattered, link by link, through his mind every night, and by day he fancied he could still hear it clinking in the background of his thoughts with every choice he made. He could still remember Marley’s own burden from last Christmas – the sins of his lifetime weighing him down, preventing his soul from taking flight. And Scrooge had been far, far worse.
‘Better, I know, to suffer now than in eternity,’ Scrooge said with a sigh. ‘But maybe a small extra link would be preferable to another meeting with the widow Tassell and her charity committee.’
Scrooge laughed a dry little hah and began the difficult prospect of struggling to his feet. It was no easy matter and was not conducted with dignity involving, as it did, pivoting onto his knees, then enduring their creaking protests as he dragged himself upright using Marley’s tombstone as a support. Conscious that the woman nearby might have noticed him, he pulled himself up to his full height and brushed away the crust of ice which had formed on top of the stone.
‘Farewell, old friend, until Christmas Eve.’ Those words hung in the air and Scrooge realised what he had said. He flushed hot, his breathing became rapid with panic. ‘That is to say I will return here, to your graveside six days from now. Please . . . do not feel obliged to visit me on Christmas Eve night once again. I would not put you to the trouble.’
The thought of another visitation ripped away the shreds of Scrooge’s dignity, the pride he still foolishly clung to, and once again he was the begging wretch he had been on Christmas morning almost one year ago, clinging to his own bedpost in fear. He backed away from the grave, bowing obsequiously to his old friend’s memorial, stuttering his excuses and fleeing across the crunchy, frosted grass.
In his haste, he stumbled into the part of the yard he hated the most. A corner even more tangled and neglected than Marley’s grave site, where a few narrow spaces remained, awaiting new tenants. Just there, in a space currently occupied by a clump of withered weeds, was where his grave had been in the vision he’d seen of Christmas future. Where he would be buried some day, if he did not change his ways. The late, unlamented Ebenezer Scrooge.
Scrooge struggled to control the creeping, clawing fear inside him. Of all the spirits that had visited him, the . . . the creature . . . which represented the future had been the most terrifying, the most merciless. Faceless, voiceless, wrapped in grey robes – its bony finger pointing the way. And it had brought him here. He hurried back towards the path, and in doing so nearly tripped over his fellow mourner.
‘I do beg your pardon!’ He righted himself, lifting his hat and adding an overly cheery ‘good morning to you, madam’ to compensate for his previous odd behaviour.
She didn’t respond. She was still slumped in front of the gravestone – quite unnaturally now Scrooge came to think of it, her pale white hands clawed into the frozen dirt. They looked like they were carved out of marble. She was still, too still.
Scrooge leaned closer, a sickening feeling creeping over him. ‘Madam, are you quite all right?’
That was when he saw the blood.
2
THE OLD MAN WAS LATE FOR WORK. BOB CRATCHIT FELT A prickle of unease down his already chilly spine. The old man was never late. Even now, after his strange festive transformation last year, Scrooge loved his business more than anything and was always the first in the office in the morning and the last to leave at night. He glanced up towards the door, then over to the clock on the wall, then back to the meagre fireplace.
He shivered. Here was a dilemma. The office was cold, so icy he could see his breath as he bent over his ledger, and he needed to start a fire. The old man had been very clear when he reset the rules last year. Whenever Bob needed fresh coal for his fire he should not hesitate or be in the slightest bit afraid to come into his employer’s office with the shovel and request it. It had not occurred to Bob to ask Scrooge what he should do in his absence because, apart from the occasional visit to the Royal Exchange, he was always there.
Bob slid hesitantly off his stool and picked up the shovel.
Surely the old man wouldn’t mind if he just went in and helped himself . . .
He took a couple of steps across the office floor, his heart beating faster at the excitement of his own daring. Scrooge was different now, he told himself. He rewarded industriousness, he gave him time off. Last Christmas he had dandled Tiny Tim on his knee and laughed – actually laughed. He was compassionate and warm-hearted now. He was good.
And yet still Bob hesitated in the middle of the room, his hand trembling as he gripped the shovel. Yes, the old man had changed, but he still knew, down to the last lump, exactly how much coal was in the scuttle. And if he came in to find a merry fire already blazing, would he say that Bob had overstepped?
Bob did not fear losing his job, at least not as much as he had last year, but he had more to lose now. Scrooge & Marley had become a good place to work. He had decent pay; he had Saturday afternoons off; his employer had even taken Bob’s sickly youngest son under his wing, paying his doctor’s bills and employing him when no other person would. Scrooge was kind to him now, but if he ceased to trust him, would that kindness disappear?
He is a good man now. Bob stepped towards the office.
But what if I disappoint him . . .? Bob stepped back again.
The door flew open with a crash and Bob flinched, instinctively trying to hide the shovel under his desk. It slithered from his cold-fingered grip, streaking his waistcoat with soot before it fell to the floor with a clang loud enough to wake old Marley from his resting place.
‘Sir, I was j-just . . .’ he stammered, whirling around.
And then he stopped. It wasn’t Scrooge. It was worse than that. It was the widow Tassell bearing down on him, a vision in black bombazine.
Mrs Lucretia Jane Tassell always seemed to be in motion, performing at least three tasks at once. Currently she was striding across the office floor towards him, while also rummaging for something in her reticule and simultaneously casting her eye towards Scrooge’s office door.
‘Is he at home?’ the widow asked. ‘Stupid question, of course he is. Come now, Mr Scrooge, you know that hiding under your desk doesn’t work, I will find you out!’
Bob experienced a rare moment of pity for his master. ‘He is not . . . I swear it!’
Mrs Tassell produced a large handkerchief from her bag, too large to be fit for a lady, and handed it distractedly to Bob. ‘Here, to brush off the soot. What do you mean, he’s not in? He’s always in.’
‘Not today.’
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Is he ill?’
Bob looked aghast; the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Scrooge had never had a day’s illness in his life beyond his happy episode of madness last Christmas. He felt a pang of concern, and wondered if he should send someone over to Scrooge’s house to check on him.
‘No, it can’t be that.’ Mrs Tassell dismissed the idea almost immediately, shaking her head, causing her numerous veils to flail about. She was around forty-five years old, but the air of energy about her made her seem younger. She had a neat waist (not that Bob noticed such things), sparkling eyes and hair which, while threaded with silver, was still several shades darker than the norm. There were whispers that she was not a native to these shores, although nothing in her demeanour ever gave that impression. Widowed some two years ago, her only outward signs of mourning was her black attire and the occasional reference to her ‘dearly departed Hubert’. Beyond that she seemed happily engaged in offloading her husband’s entire hard-earned fortune trying to, as she put it, ‘repair the world’.
