A Scrooge Mystery, page 10
Mrs Tassell’s mouth gaped in the most unladylike fashion.
‘Do you seriously believe the poor of London would willingly enter a workhouse on Christmas Day? I recommend that you all read more widely and educate yourself on the realities of London life.’
‘Oh, come now, I’m sure they would do anything for a good meal.’ Lady Crick waved her hand dismissively. ‘Heaven knows, maybe some of them will be persuaded to stay there, rather than cluttering up the streets, living in squalor.’
There was a gasp of horror from Mrs Tassell’s end of the room, a murmur of agreement from the Crick followers.
Scrooge shifted uncomfortably as he was reminded of the charity collectors’ words less than a year ago, that many would rather die than enter a workhouse. And his own callous response: If they would rather die, they had better do it and decrease the surplus population.
He had been pleased with the line at the time. It was sharp, succinct and had put the pushy charity collector in his place. But thinking of it now left him hot with shame and . . . yes, he could definitely hear the clanking of a chain now.
Mrs Tassell had gone a shade of puce Scrooge had never seen before. He saw her bite back a retort and understood that the alliance between her cadre and Lady Crick’s was a delicate balance, and without it the feast would not happen. He had not known being female was so complicated.
‘I am sure it will not come to that.’ Mrs Tassell changed tack briskly. ‘Moving on, I would like to make a plan for how to proceed in the new year. Once our feast is successful we need to build on it, to create a bridge between rich and poor and see how we can help them further improve their lot.’
‘Oh,’ exclaimed a jowly woman sitting on the Crick side of the room. ‘But surely once the Feast is over, we have done our Christian duty . . .?’
‘Yes, quite,’ the lady herself spoke with a nod. ‘There are limits.’
Mrs Tassell put down her notebook – always a danger sign – and placed her hands on her hips.
‘That’s it? You think that one feast is going to solve the dreadful poverty of this city?’ Her voice was assertive, a little too strident for the confines of a drawing room. Scrooge’s fleeting moment of admiration for her was crushed by bone-deep embarrassment on her behalf.
Lady Crick rose to her feet, clawed hand leaning heavily on a silver-topped cane but keeping her back ramrod straight, her piercing glare fixed on the widow.
‘It is our duty to help ease the burden of the poor,’ she enunciated. ‘But it is not our place to interfere with the Lord’s plan. His guiding hand put them in their lowly station just as he granted us our high estate. That is simply the way things are.’
It was a view Scrooge had heard time and again, from the pulpit, at the Royal Exchange, in the newspapers. He had never thought deeply about it before, but now he felt there was something awry with Lady Crick’s words and it added to the deep quagmire of turmoil in his soul. That uneasy suspicion that he had got something wrong again, that goodness was a lively, living creature which constantly squirmed out of his grasp.
Just then, he noticed that the spectre’s fluttering had ceased. She was beside him, stock-still, gazing at the group ahead of her. For the first time she had removed her hand from her throat, and Scrooge caught sight of what was beneath. He fought not to cry out. The wound was scarlet, gleaming. He could see layers of tendon and muscle, sliced clean open like a surgeon’s diagram but bright as Mr Bailey’s ink.
He gradually became aware of Mrs Tassell’s voice in the background. And then slowly, to his horror, discovered that everyone in the room was looking at him.
‘Mr Scrooge, you are by far our most generous benefactor,’ the widow was saying. ‘What do you think? Should we continue the movement into 1845?’
The widow’s words made Scrooge even more uneasy. He was the Feast’s greatest patron? Truly? Did this mean he was giving more than was appropriate?
Lady Crick’s needle-sharp gaze fixed on him. Mrs Tassell folded her arms, the corner of her mouth tugged slightly upwards in amusement. Damned woman, she was enjoying this! The thought of being carried further along by her wild schemes filled him with dread.
The ghost chose that moment to move forward, silently gliding across the room towards the Crick group. Scrooge twitched in panic.
‘Well . . . I think the Feast is quite enough to handle at the moment.’ His voice came out as an unmanly squeak, causing him to flush with shame. Mrs Tassell made a sound akin to disgust.
‘Search your hearts, ladies and gentlemen,’ she said. ‘We shall discuss it again at Lady Crick’s festive fundraising party. I will not let this matter drop.’
Scrooge did not have time to respond. He followed the ghost across the room, to where it had approached a quiet, colourless young lady sitting at the edge of Lady Crick’s camp and had begun to raise her hand again, just as she had done in the mortuary that morning.
‘Mr Scrooge, will you kindly stop gaping at Miss Frome?’ Lady Crick’s tones were chilly and Scrooge flushed. He had been staring, although it had been at the apparition in front of her. Now all the ladies in the room were looking at him – even Mrs Tassell had looked up and raised an elegant, dark eyebrow. With a surge of shame he thought he was in danger of becoming one of those strange older bachelors Mrs Cratchit warned her daughters about.
‘Miss – ah – Miss Frome, is it?’ he stammered wondering whether to venture another of his smiles but settling for a polite bow. ‘George Frome’s daughter? Ah, I saw your father in court today.’
The ghost glared at him translucently and his heart thudded. There was nothing he could do to stop her attacking the poor young lady in front of him.
‘Of course, a most disreputable business,’ Lady Crick said. ‘You must be so disappointed in your clerk. One must be so careful who one employs . . . Goodness me, man, kindly stop staring at my niece, she is to be married on Christmas Day.’
Scrooge jumped, flustered, unsure of where to put his eyes.
‘That is very fortunate!’ he said. ‘What a lucky, lucky, lucky young man!’ It dawned upon Scrooge that he sounded exactly like one of the bachelors Mrs Cratchit warned her daughters about. The spectre gazed at him thoughtfully, blood still pumping from the glistening gape at her throat.
‘Her betrothed, Dr Bailey, is here. Have you met him? I believe you two are about to do business together.’ Lady Crick raised her gloved hand and beckoned. ‘Alastair, come here.’
A slim, carelessly dressed fellow with light reddish-blond hair and side whiskers detached himself from the Tassell group and sped across the room. Scrooge recognised the gentleman he had seen with Lady Crick in court. He was carrying a half-full wine glass – Scrooge was not sure where it had come from since everyone else was drinking tea. He was smiling in an overfriendly, almost maniacal fashion. Scrooge drew back instinctively. This was Aldous Scabble’s nephew?
‘Why, Mr Scrooge! It is so, so, sooo wonderful to meet you!’ Bailey grabbed Scrooge’s hand with his free one and shook it vigorously, spilling a little of his wine on Scrooge’s sleeve. His accent was Scottish, and his words slightly slurred. ‘It is my ink you are using for your cards! We are part of a wonderful joint venture! I with my chemical formulations and you with your . . . own singular qualities!’
Scrooge leaned away from the alcohol fumes on his breath and as he did, he stumbled back into the ghost, which had been lurking behind him. Instantly, it was as if freezing water flooded the marrow of his bones.
‘We must celebrate!’ cried the oblivious scientist. ‘You must join me in a toast! And you too, Maribel! And Lady Crick! To Blood Scarlet and Foliage Green! May many people enjoy them this Christmas!’
Scrooge felt his mouth settle into that familiar line of disapproval. The man was drunk. And he seemed to speak almost entirely in exclamations. Was this truly the serious-minded individual Merrypaw had talked about, the one who had been unable to attend the meeting earlier because he was ‘tied up with matters of research’? His presence was agitating the ghost, who had shot to the ceiling and was weaving in and out of the chandeliers, darkening and growing in size like a blood-tinged storm cloud. He shuddered.
Lady Crick flared her nostrils in distaste and Miss Frome reached out and touched Bailey’s sleeve.
‘Alastair, perhaps this isn’t the best time?’
‘Oh, dear heart, you’re right, you’re right as ever, my pumpkin of joy! We must meet again, Scrooge, and then we can celebrate!’ He drew out a card. ‘Come and visit my laboratory! I have so, so much exciting work in progress!’
Miss Frome coloured deeply as Bailey tossed back the remains of his wine, his throat moving as he swallowed the red liquid. A tiny drop escaped and ran down his cheek, but he did not seem to care. Scrooge saw it now, the brittle edge to Bailey’s smile, his bloodshot and red-rimmed eyes. When Scrooge looked into them he did not see merriment and joy, but a well of desperate sadness.
It was then that the room seemed to darken. The ghost-cloud above had grown thicker and blacker. A wisp of shadow began to move slowly downwards, one tendril reaching towards where Lady Crick and Miss Frome were standing.
The background noise of the room fell away as Scrooge’s heart thudded in panic. A scream caught in the back of his throat as the dark, tangled cloud reached closer to the two ladies. And there was that smell again – lavender and butchery.
‘I must go,’ he panted, and fled as quickly as he could to the door, hoping for the first time that the phantom really was tied to him, that in leaving them behind he would pull the ghost away too. It worked – the invisible string between them snapped so tight he could feel it, a ripping pain in his belly as if it was knotted there in his viscera. The creature seemed to claw the air, to fight it, and as he reached Mrs Tassell’s front door she was still pulling, fighting to get back inside.
‘I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did.’ Mrs Tassell’s amused voice rang out through the hallway as Scrooge struggled into his shabby coat. Curse this woman and her habit of popping up when he was at his most flustered, his most disarrayed.
He mouthed a few polite words of thanks, which she waved away.
‘I need your help. I will pick you up in my carriage at nine o’clock prompt tomorrow morning. Please do not try to hide again.’
Scrooge fought to stay upright, the tearing feeling in his stomach growing in severity until he feared that she might be able to see his flesh distend from his belly. He wrapped his arms around his middle.
‘Uh . . .’ was all he could manage to say. He tried to flee, but her voice summoned him, and politeness made him turn to look at her once more.
‘I meant it when I said you should read more widely,’ she said, handing him a small booklet. Scrooge took it, wondering what deathly dull religious tract she was attempting to foist onto him, but it turned out to be a flimsy-looking booklet which bore the title Virtue and Vice: a Tale of London by LJ Pettigrew. A cheap penny blood, dreadful sensational fiction that rotted the brain and – he had definitely read this somewhere – encouraged moral decay.
‘Why would you give me this?’ he asked, the shock jerking his attention away from the pull in his stomach. ‘It’s just rubbish produced to entertain the masses!’
Mrs Tassell smiled. ‘Exactly. And because the masses read it, it’s the only place you’re likely to find a convincing representation of the problems of our city. I’m not saying the plots are realistic, but they are often rooted in true crimes, and they are an excellent place to start if you wish to learn a little about your fellow man.’
The air outside was cold and a fog was starting to weave itself through the streets of London, so thick that Scrooge could barely see the gas lamp on the corner. The ghost’s pull on him slackened to a dull, hopeless tugging, and he slumped against the widow’s iron railings for a moment to catch his breath.
He pushed the penny blood into his pocket alongside the mysterious note. He felt the corner of Alastair Bailey’s card in there too. His pockets were filling with scrap paper, it seemed.
Drawing the card out, he sighed at the thought of meeting the young chemist again, as politeness decreed he must. Scrooge had disliked him on sight. He was too merry, too much.
It was then he looked at the address on the card. He had half expected it to direct him to a laboratory at one of London’s new colleges, but instead it gave a location in the city that Scrooge already knew. It was Aldous Scabble’s residence. So Bailey’s laboratory was in his uncle’s own house.
Which meant it was likely that he too had known Christina Parley. The ghost had been drawn to Miss Frome at first but became extremely agitated when she saw Dr Bailey.
Could he be the one who gave Christina Parley the ring?
The ghost was dancing circles around him, occasionally pulling, trying to get back into the house, to get back to the young betrothed couple. Her movements were becoming smaller, sadder, and Scrooge could feel heartbreak and grief thrumming across the connection between them. He understood then, without a shadow of a doubt, that Alastair Bailey had been her sweetheart.
THE GHOST
I SINK BACK INTO THE DARKNESS WITH A TEARING, AGONISING GRIEF. I recognised his too-bright eyes, the too-wide smile on his lips, I have seen them before when he has dipped too deeply into the bottle. I feel guilty. This is my fault, I have driven him to this.
And yet I saw her too, at his side, meek and pink-cheeked, innocent and unknowing. His betrothed. So, he has not told her. His uncle, too, has kept the secret, shielding her from my existence in the same way the slaughtermen don’t show cattle the knife. No need to spook the merchandise, it spoils the taste of the meat.
I have no body, I do not sicken, but the chain writhes around my waist as I think of it, of him going through with this marriage, with my corpse not even in the ground yet. His uncle and her family must be thrilled that I’m out of the way. I wonder how he feels about it, when not two days ago he made outlandish gestures to prove his love, swore we would run away together and make a new life, tucked away in the country where nobody would know us. I almost believed him, but Minnie’s words came back to me unbidden. ‘All men are liars,’ she always said. ‘All men will take what they want and think only of themselves.’
Remembering those words pulls me back again into the darkness. This new afterlife seems to give me two choices: Either stay in the present by my murderer’s side or relive my life and confront my own sins. And now I am in the past again, kneeling down, a grubby cloth in my hand. My fingers are stained black, but that is no clue to where in my life I have landed – my fingers are always stained black one way or another. I look up to see I am kneeling in front of an ornate cast-iron fireplace, in the process of blacking the hearth. I shudder because I know what is about to happen. I am eighteen and everything is about to change.
The master of the house comes in, kneels behind me, his body close as he leans into me, a gentle pressure on my back. I breathe faster, my chest pushing against the stays I fastened too tight this morning, as if they were some kind of armour. His hand closes over my black-stained fingers.
‘Those poor hands,’ he said. ‘So hard-working. So dirty.’
A shudder runs through me, and I start to tremble. Minnie once told me that this moment would come, that it came to all young women whether they are fair of face or not. ‘It’s the youngness they like,’ Minnie had said. ‘New flesh. Innocence what they can bend and break. You won’t be able to scream for help – they know how to get you in places where that won’t work. You’ve got three choices. Firstly you can knee ’em in the balls. It’s satisfying but you need to have somewhere to run to where you won’t never see them again. Or you can close your eyes and put up with it, get it over with. Most of us prefer that.’
I had been young then, but even so I’d connected her words with the muffled sighs she made in Pa’s bed late at night. The sounds I blocked out with a blanket around my head.
Still, her advice rings in my head as his body presses closer. I play for time, pretending it isn’t happening, polishing the plump limbs of a cast-iron cherub with my cloth.
‘Why so shy?’ he says. ‘You are a member of my household. It is my right to inspect your work. Very fine attention to detail. Excellent.’
For a mad moment I believe him, that he is merely being a conscientious master and I a servant who needs proper instruction. Then he leans in closer, so I can feel hot breath on my earlobe.
‘Let me see those dirty hands.’
I put down my blacking and cloth and stand. He removes his gloves and takes my cold hands in his warm ones. I resent the relief this gives me as he rubs at the black stains with his fingertips murmuring. ‘Oh no, no, no, we cannot have this.’
A strange sensation prickles up my spine. A combination of revulsion and longing. He has a way of talking that makes me feel small and less than human, but pushing against this is another feeling. Not since those times in Midden Mansion has anyone been so tender with me. I can almost believe he cares. Maybe he does, in his way. Maybe he thinks he will Improve me and Raise Me Up.
He puts my hand to his lips and kisses it. A little blacking smudges onto his mouth and I fight an instinct to brush the mark away for him. If I do that, I am no longer the victim, the put-upon housemaid. That gesture would make us co-conspirators, and my sin would be a hundred times more disgraceful than his.
The way I choose to react now will set my future on a different path, and my options are narrowing.
As wise Minnie said, there is no point in screaming. If my cries reach the ears of my mistress I’ll simply be accused of hysteria or deliberately tempting my poor employer, and turned out onto the street. The knee to the groin would give me a moment’s satisfaction, but again, it would be cobbles for me. I’d have to go crawling to Edgar, or to Wantage if he’d have me back. I fled that life years ago to be good. To be virtuous. I can almost hear Edgar’s mocking laughter because look where I ended up – covered in hearth blacking and a rich man’s plaything.
