A Scrooge Mystery, page 7
He pushed through the crush of people and found himself a place next to a woman with unwashed blonde hair tucked carelessly under an ill-fitting bonnet. She gave him a gap-toothed smile as she made room for him on the bench. Across the courtroom he could see gentry gathered – ladies, even. Good grief, there was Mrs Tassell herself, gaze flickering around the room, her brows pinched together in concern. Behind her was another charity do-gooder Lady Crick, wife of Sir Crispin Crick who was doing terribly well in shipping. A resourceful lady, she had thought to bring opera glasses to improve her view. She was talking to a young fashionably whiskered gentleman who was also no doubt here for the spectacle.
He searched the crowd for Mrs Cratchit and found her towards the front, with her eldest daughter Martha at her side, whispering urgently into her ear. Her jaw was set, her clothing neat as a pin as she stared straight ahead. The picture of virtue and dignity. He thought about going to her side and trying to comfort her, but although she was always polite to him, he sensed her mistrust. And who could blame her, he thought with a stab of shame. If he had not been so tight-fisted Tiny Tim might never have been so ill.
Bob Cratchit was dragged into the courtroom, not because he was fighting against his police captors but because he could barely walk. Mrs Cratchit gasped as he clung to Constable Baldock for support. He was hunched, his clothing was stained with blood, one eye blackened and there was a swelling around his mouth which made his face look curiously simian. This was not the gentle, merry Bob Cratchit that Scrooge knew so well. To someone who did not know him, he looked like a brawling ruffian.
‘There he is!’ A ripple of excitement ran through the assembled crowd.
‘Murderer!’ someone shouted.
Bob looked at the floor, broken, and Scrooge felt a surge of guilt that it had come to this. After Bob had been dragged off, he had sought out the station’s superintendent and petitioned for his release, but the man had refused to listen. Scrooge, with all his influence, could not make the charges go away. This was a travesty, a gross miscarriage of justice.
When the magistrate entered, Scrooge recognised one Mr George Frome, an associate of Scabble’s with whom he shared a nodding acquaintance. To Scrooge’s mild surprise, Scabble himself was there too. It was true that half of London seemed to be in attendance, but Scrooge had not imagined Scabble to be interested in the latest crime sensation. So, why had he come?
With sickening certainty, Scrooge understood. Scabble was there to make sure that scandal did not attach itself to Scrooge & Marley, that their joint venture would not be dragged into this sordid affair.
Scrooge raised his hand nervously, beckoning Scabble to come over, but the man merely inclined his head and continued to stand aloof by the door.
He is afraid to be seen with me, Scrooge thought.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Edgar Parley take a seat towards the back of the courtroom, near to where Scabble was standing. His shadow, Amos, stood behind him, as though on guard. Other members of the public scattered before him, eager to offer him their place. His man Amos sat down beside him, the flimsy bench straining under his bulk. Edgar whispered something to his henchman as a well-to-do-looking clergyman with a sizeable belly and a double chin straining against his collar ascended to the stand, was duly sworn in and pronounced to be the curate of St Gideon’s Church.
‘I witnessed the deceased in the churchyard, with the accused,’ he said, pointing at Bob to make himself completely clear. ‘They were having what looked to me like a lover’s tiff.’
‘Do you mean to say a disagreement of some kind?’
The curate nodded. ‘The young person was clutching at the man’s arm and appeared to be imploring him about something.’
‘Could you hear what they were saying?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I was too far away, and besides, eavesdropping is a sin. But the chap looked furious and pulled himself away from her. Then I clearly saw him grab her shoulder and shake it.’
Someone seated near Lady Crick murmured ‘the brute!’.
It was Scrooge’s turn to shake his head. The Bob he knew did not tell lies. He did not meet young women of dubious family. And he would never, ever shake a woman by the shoulders. But clearly he did lie, clearly he did meet this young woman . . . Have I been mistaken in him all along?
No, this curate must be lying. As he stepped down, he cast another glance towards the back of the courtroom. Towards Parley.
Next, the red-faced sergeant Scrooge had encountered at the police station, whose name was Dumberley, took the stand.
‘The corpse was discovered by the defendant’s employer, Mr Ebenezer Scrooge,’ he said.
Frome raised his eyebrows, and across the room Lady Crick turned her opera glasses upon him. Scrooge fought to keep his demeanour as still and dignified as Mrs Cratchit’s.
‘We do not suspect Mr Scrooge to have any connection with the crime,’ Dumberley added hastily.
‘I should think not!’ Frome said. ‘Mr Scrooge has his – ah – eccentricities but his name is still good upon ’Change and should be respected.’
Scrooge’s cheeks burned, but thankfully the audience lost interest in him as Dumberley described the situation of the poor wretch’s body, the dress which police enquiries had confirmed had formerly belonged to Mrs Cratchit. Dumberley notably failed to mention the gold watch chain that had been found in her hand.
His assessment of Miss Parley’s character was also very different when there was a judge present.
‘It’s true she’s not from a reputable family, but Christina Parley and her brother have been estranged for many years. She left his care as a child and willingly entered the workhouse, where she remained until she left to go into service with a respectable family. We have reason to believe she did not see her brother for that whole time.’
Scrooge glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder at Edgar Parley, who sat, face neutral as stone as his reputation was discussed. He wondered what the quarrel had been between them. Had it been bad enough to kill over – and then frame his former friend Bob?
‘It is clear to us,’ Dumberley continued, ‘that Miss Parley was a naive innocent who was led astray by a married man, who no doubt charmed her with the gift of a dress and false promises he had no intention of keeping.’
There was a murmur of outrage from the assembled crowd. Women whispered ‘poor angel’. Men proved themselves right-thinking by murmuring threats. The woman next to Scrooge wept into a grubby handkerchief.
Dumberley then held up the razor blade that had been found in Bob’s desk and pointed out the dried brown bloodstains. The public craned forward as one to gain a closer look. Bob gave a desperate kind of half-sob. Scrooge could see it as panic, but to the rest of the room, it clearly looked like guilt.
‘Watch out, Cratchit, the Gentleman’s gonna skin you alive!’ a female voice in the crowd shouted, causing a ripple of agreement from the people around her.
Scrooge glanced towards Edgar, whose lip twitched into a superior smile.
‘If there is any further disruption I shall be forced to clear the court,’ Frome said sternly. ‘Now we must hear from the prisoner himself.’
Bob was helped to his feet. The prosecuting solicitor told him that he was not obliged to answer any of the questions put to him unless he chose, and that he was not at all bound to incriminate himself.
‘Did you know Christina Parley?’
‘I did.’
‘And did you know her well?’
‘I did.’ Bob’s voice wavered. ‘She was a dear friend. But there was no impropriety between us.’
There were murmurs of ‘tommyrot’ and ‘that’s what they all say’, but Mrs Cratchit’s tightly controlled neutral expression did not waver for a second.
‘None at all?’ the prosecuting solicitor asked. ‘Then your wife knew about this dear friendship? She knew that you had given this young woman her second-best dress?’
Bob’s gaze sank lower. ‘No, she did not.’
There were wry chuckles from some of the men in the room. Mrs Cratchit reddened, but she remained motionless.
‘And she knew you were meeting Miss Parley outside the church?’
‘She did not.’
‘And your employer, Mr Scrooge? Did you tell him where you were going?’
‘No. I told him I needed to fetch medicine for my boy.’
‘Mr Scrooge is a good man of business and known to pay you well . . . at least he does now.’ A small titter ran around the court and Scrooge flushed. ‘Why would you lie to him?’
‘It . . . it’s private. But I am innocent! I would never hurt anyone, least of all a woman.’
There was a flurry of voices and activity. Mrs Cratchit got to her feet and tried to speak in defence of her husband, but the judge’s voice overruled her.
‘A wife’s testimony has no value,’ the judge said. ‘Is there nobody else who will speak for you here today? Someone who will bear witness to your supposed strength of character?’
This was his chance. Time to stand up, to declare his own sworn testimony that Bob Cratchit would never commit violence upon a woman, that he would trust the clerk with his life. He took a breath to do so, but then he heard something: the polite clearing of a throat.
He looked over his shoulder to see Edgar Parley’s gaze boring into him. His words echoed in Scrooge’s ear: I’ll come for you too.
He was trembling now, but still ready to stand, to speak. But then another figure caught his eye. Aldous Scabble surveyed him with heavy disdain and then, ever so slightly, he shook his head.
What would he think if Scrooge became part of this public spectacle? He would cancel their bargain but, still worse, a man of his stature could ruin Scrooge’s reputation. He would never be able to do business in this city again.
But . . . Bob . . .
Scrooge remained frozen to his bench, gaze fixed to the floor, shame washing over him until it was too late to stand. The prosecutor was talking at length now about brown smudges which had been found on the defendant’s shirt, which could possibly be blood.
‘It’s not blood. I don’t know where those marks came from. The night before I was playing with my children, my shirtsleeve was probably dirtied then and I just did not notice it the next morning. I would never hurt Miss Parley, I swear.’
The jeers of disbelief were open now, as Frome called the court to order. ‘Robert Cratchit, it is my intention to remand you until Wednesday next for the production of further evidence and witnesses.’
There was a murmur about the court, and a clerk approached Frome, whispered in his ear.
‘Ah yes, I am informed that Wednesday next is in fact the twenty-fifth of December. So we shall instead convene upon the twenty-seventh of the month, in order that we may celebrate the season.’
There was a scoff of contempt from the back of the room. Scrooge glanced back and saw Edgar sneering at the mention of Christmas.
With the court adjourned again, the assembled masses flocked to the door and Scrooge remained on his bench for a few moments longer, hoping to avoid the press.
‘How anyone could hurt that poor young thing I do not know,’ the woman next to him said, genuine sorrow in her voice. ‘She was the sweetest soul and did so much to help the poor!’
Scrooge was perplexed by this statement. He had been under the impression that Miss Parley was the poor.
‘You knew her?’ he asked.
‘I did. She was a dear friend of mine from our workhouse days. She was always different, she was. The rest of us had been dragged kicking and screaming in there. She turned up one morning and asked to be let in to get away from that brother of hers. She was sweet and kind and honest – and there’s nobody I’d rather have had beside me in a fight!’
Scrooge knitted his brows, struggling to align the two qualities of kind and good in a fight and to apply them both to the spectre which currently stalked him with such relentless determination.
He leaned in closer, gritting his teeth at the proximity.
‘Listen to me, madam, this is very important. Is there anyone else who might have wished the poor girl harm? Anyone other than Bob Cratchit?’
The woman gave a slow smile. ‘Oh, there were so many. Like that toff she worked for. Led him a merry old dance, she did! What was his name again? Scratchit? No . . . Scribble? That’s it. Mr Scribble.’
After the main attraction was dragged out of court into a waiting Hackney carriage, the last of the crowd quickly dispersed, leaving Scrooge alone feeling drained and disorientated and most of all shamed that he had not spoken out, not once, to defend his trusted clerk.
As if sensing weakness, the ghost flickered into life, inches from him, her neck still bleeding scarlet, soaking into the faded grey of Mrs Cratchit’s dress. There was a smell, too – lavender and blood. She gazed at him, accusing.
His breath grew short, tiny puffs of steam; his shoulders tightened, rigid with fear. If she took him now, froze him like she had the man in the mortuary, he would deserve it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. The spirit screamed silently, her mouth a gaping red chasm. It warped and grew, bigger and bigger as if to swallow him. Scrooge cried out, throwing up his arm in defence. But the pain and cold were relentless, he felt his very soul being dragged from his body and—
A polite cough caused him to look up into the piercing grey eyes of Aldous Scabble.
‘I thought I would find you here in this circus,’ he said, his every word dripping with implied contempt. He drew out a fine gold pocket watch and inspected it. ‘We are late already. The paperwork is ready and waiting at Merrypaw’s for you to sign. To business, Mr Scrooge.’
The apparition had gone, and with it the sense of cold, of being swallowed whole. Scrooge’s heartbeat began to return to normal. He clenched his gloved hands tight, urging himself to stay calm, professional. He was a sober man of business, reliable and solid. Not weird, not haunted and definitely not the sort of man who would abandon his work merely because his clerk had been arrested for murder.
‘Very well,’ was all he said, in clipped tones. As he followed his business colleague out of the courtroom, the blonde woman’s words sprang back into his mind. She’d said Christina had worked for a Mr Scribble. And it seemed that Scabble had recovered his watch and chain after losing it the day before. And Merrypaw had mentioned that he was one for the ladies . . .
Scrooge shook his head. It was impossible. Scabble was a grandee, a leader of the business community, well known to be of upstanding moral probity, not to mention Scrooge’s new business partner in an exciting and profitable new venture. The idea that he could be a vicious killer was unthinkable.
Absolutely unthinkable.
7
TIM HAD NOT REALLY TAKEN IN THE NEWS THAT JEM HAD BROUGHT. Yes, he had heard the words ‘your pa’s been arrested for murder’ but they didn’t make sense.
As he and Jem moved through the streets he could hear the gossip buzzing around them, the broadside sellers screaming headlines of FOUL BLOODY MURDER and CAMDEN TOWN MAN ARRESTED YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHO IT IS. He could not comprehend that they were talking about his father. This was not his reality, this was not his life.
But then he arrived at the family’s cramped two-storey terraced house to find Mother was not there.
Mother was always there. She rose before him each morning, so that by the time he stumbled sleepily downstairs the stove was already on and the air was warm and full of her voice. At night she would stay up late, talking with Father or bent over the sewing that had kept the family afloat for years. Other family members came and went, but Mother’s presence was constant, as solid and reliable as their worn oak kitchen table.
Instead, his eldest brother, Peter, sat there, holding court over a concerned huddle of friends and neighbours and assuming the role of man of the house as if he had been rehearsing it for years. His thirteen-year-old sister Belinda was in Mother’s place at the stove, heating a large and delicious-smelling pot of soup.
Unease seethed in Tim’s stomach. This was all wrong.
‘Mother’s at court,’ Peter explained, ruffling his brother’s hair the way Father often did. ‘That’s a big room where a judge sits. He will hear Father’s case and hopefully release him. Have courage, Tiny Tim. Not a soul on our street believes these lies and the judge will see through them soon.’
There was a murmur of agreement from the surrounding neighbours.
‘He’s a good man.’
‘He helped us so much when we had that trouble last year!’
‘Salt of the earth! And as for the girl, she comes from a family of ne’er-do-wells . . .’
But Tim was not reassured. Peter had spoken with that gentle, soothing tone that his parents used when they lied to him, and the feeling in the pit of Tim’s stomach got worse – a curdling mix of anger and panic and sheer helplessness.
Then he remembered the one saving grace: his father was not without powerful friends.
‘Mr Scrooge will speak for him,’ he said.
Belinda, who was spooning out a bowl of soup for her brother, scoffed. ‘That old skinflint? Only if there’s money in it for him.’
She dropped the ladle back into the pan at the sound of hooves outside. The Cratchit children, plus assorted hangers-on, crowded outside to see a Hackney carriage standing in the street, the horse stamping. Tim’s heart leaped. A cab – only Mr Scrooge could afford one of those! He must have intervened, secured Father’s release and was bringing him home in style. Beastly Belinda would have to eat her words.
But instead Mrs Tassell descended, followed by Mother. There was a bleakness, a mechanical nature to the way she moved. His eldest sister Martha supported her – she had been crying too.
‘They have committed your father for trial,’ Mother said quietly. ‘It will take place next Friday and he will be held in prison until then. I’m afraid your father won’t be with us for Christmas this year.’
The entire company fell silent with shock. Everyone knew how important Christmas was to Bob, how joyful and playful it made him.
