A Christmas Carol Murder Read online

  The Dickens of a Crime Mystery Series

  By Heather Redmond

  A Tale of Two Murders

  Grave Expectations

  A Christmas Carol Murder

  A CHRISTMAS CAROL MURDER

  HEATHER REDMOND

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgments

  BOOK CLUB READING GUIDE for

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Heather Redmond

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020937090

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1717-7

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: October 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1720-7 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1720-1 (ebook)

  For Peggy Bird, who is missed. You are welcome to haunt us anytime.

  Cast of Characters

  Charles Dickens* 23 Our sleuth

  Kate Hogarth* 20 His fiancée

  George Hogarth* 52 Kate’s father, music critic, newspaper editor

  Georgina Hogarth* 42 Kate’s mother

  Frederick Dickens* 15 Charles’s brother and boarder

  Mary Hogarth* 16 Kate’s sister

  William Aga 28 Charles’s fellow journalist

  Mrs. Julie Aga 17 An underemployed actress

  Emmanuel Screws 67 A countinghouse owner

  Jacob Harley 67 A business owner

  Primus Harley 30 A member of the Harley family

  Edward Pettingill 28 A member of the Screws family

  Betsy Pettingill 22 Edward’s wife

  Powhatan Fletcher 32 A countinghouse employee

  Amelia Osborne 25 Mr. Fletcher’s fiancée

  Mrs. Dorset 58 Mr. Screws’s housekeeper

  Johnny Dorset 23 Mrs. Dorset’s son

  Hugh Appleton 45 A chain manufacturer

  Sir Silas Laurie 37 A coroner

  Breese Gadfly 23 A songwriter

  Aaron Vail* 39 An American ambassador

  Lucy Fair 13 Leader of the Blackfriars Bridge mudlarks

  Timothy “Dickens” 0 An infant

  *Real historical figures

  “Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.”

  —Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

  “It was only a change in the wind, towards dawn, that enabled the firemen to get the blaze under control . . .”

  —Michael Slater, Dent Uniform Edition

  of Dickens’ Journalism

  “Now I know what a ghost is. Unfinished business, that’s what.”

  —Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

  Chapter 1

  Hatfield, Hertfordshire, England, December 1, 1835

  They hadn’t found the body yet. Old Sal was surely dead. Feathers had caught on candles, igniting the blaze. Maybe a yipping dog had some part in the fiery disaster. The marchioness’s advanced age had surely contributed to the fatal misadventure. The marquess, her son, had nearly killed himself in a futile attempt to rescue her.

  Charles Dickens’s cough forced him to set down his pen. Ink dribbled from it, obscuring his last few words. He found it hard to stay seated, so he pushed his hands through his unruly dark hair, as if pressing on his sooty scalp would keep him on the pub bench. Only three hours of sleep before being dragged from his bed to make the twenty-three-mile journey from his rooms at Furnival’s Inn in London that morning. Nervous energy alone kept his pen moving.

  He rubbed his eyes, gritty with grime and fumes from the fire, both the massive one that had destroyed the still-smoking ruins of Hatfield House’s west wing, and the much smaller one here in the taproom at Eight Bells Pub. Some light came in from out of doors, courtesy of a quarter-full moon, but the windows were small.

  He called for a candle and kept working.

  Putting the messy slip of paper aside, he dipped his pen in his inkwell. Starting again, he recalled the devastation of the scene, the remains of once noble apartments now reduced to rubble and ash. He filled one slip after another, describing the scene, the architecture, the theories.

  When he ran out of words, he let his memories of massive oaken Tudor beams, half-burned; heaps of bricks; lumps of metal; buckets of water; black-faced people; and unending, catch-in-your-throat soot—all that remained of forty-five rooms of storied, aristocratic things—fade away.

  The ringing of St. Ethelreda’s venerable church bells returned him to the moment. Had it gone eight p.m. already? Hooves and the wheels of a cart sounded in the narrow street outside. A couple of men passed by, discussing the fire. The door of the pub opened and closed, allowing the flash from a lantern to illuminate the dark room.

  Charles noted the attempts to make the room festive. Greenery had been tacked to the blackened beams and draped around the mantelpiece. He thought he saw mistletoe mischievously strung up in that recess to the left of the great fireplace.

  Next to it, a man slumped in a chair. He wore a tired, stained old surtout and plaid trousers with a mended tear in the knee. Next to him waited an empty stool, ready for an adoring wife or small child to sit there.

  Charles stacked his completed slips of paper on the weathered table and took a fresh one from his pile, the pathos of that empty seat tugging at him. He began to write something new, imagining that last year at this time, a sweet little girl sat on the stool, looking up at the old, beaten man. How different his demeanor would have been then!

  Charles drew a line between his musings and the lower blank part of the page. His pen flew again, as he made the note. Add a bit of melancholy to my Christmas festivities sketch.

  Unbidden, the serving maid delivered another glass of hot rum and water. The maid, maybe fourteen, with wide, apple-colored cheeks and a weak chin, gave him a sideways glance full of suspicion.

  He grinned at her and pointed to his face. “Soot from the fire. I’m sending a report back to London.” His hand brushed against his shoulder, puffing soot from his black tailcoat into his eyes.

  She pressed her lips together and marched away, her little body taut with indignation. Well, she didn’t understand he had to send his report by the next mail coach. Not much time for sentiment or bathing just yet.

  By the time he finished his notes, the drinks hadn’t done their job of settling his cough. He knew it would worsen if he lay down so he opened his writing desk to pull out a piece of notepaper.

  Dearest Fanny, he wrote to his sister. Where to begin? I wrote to my betrothed this morning so I thou
ght I should send my news to someone else. Was ever a man so busy? I am editing my upcoming book. Did I tell you it will be called Sketches by Boz? I have to turn in the revisions for volumes one and two by the end of the year, in advance of the first volume releasing February eighth. I am also working on an operetta, thanks to that conversation with your friend John Hullah, in my head, at least. I hope to actually commence writing it as soon as my revisions are done.

  I remember all the happy Christmas memories of our earliest childhood, the games and songs and ghost stories when we lived in Portsmouth, and hope to re-create them in my own sweet home next year. How merry it will be to share Christmas with the Hogarths! To think that you, Leticia, and I will all be settled soon with our life’s companions. Soon we will know the sounds of happy children at our hearths and celebrate all the joys that the season should contain in our private chambers.

  He set down his pen without signing the letter. It might be that he would have more to add before returning to London. He had no idea how long it would be before they recovered the Marchioness of Salisbury’s body, if indeed, anything was left. Restacking his papers, he considered the question of her jewels. Had they burned? At least the priceless volumes in the library all had survived, despite the walls being damaged.

  His brain kept churning, so he pulled out his copy of Sketches by Boz. He would edit for a while before retiring to his room at the Salisbury Arms. No time for sleep when work had to be done.

  * * *

  Pounding on the chamber door woke him. Daylight scarcely streamed around the tattered edges of the inn’s curtain. Charles coughed. He still tasted acrid soot at the back of his throat. Indeed, it coated his tongue.

  The pounding came again as he scratched his unshaven chin. Had the Morning Chronicle sent someone after him? He’d put his first dispatch from the fire on the mail coach. Pulling his frock coat over his stained shirt, he hopped across the floor while he tugged on his dirty trousers. Soot puffed into the air with each bounce.

  “Coming, coming,” he called.

  The hinges squeaked horribly when he opened the door. On the other side stood a white-capped maid. She wore a dark cloak over her dress. A bundle nestled between her joined arms. Had she been kicking the door?

  “Can I help you?” Charles asked, politely enough for the hour. To his right, his boots were gone. He had left them to be polished.

  The girl lifted her bundle. The lump of clothes moved.

  He frowned, then leaned over the lump. A plump face topped by a thatch of black hair stared back. A baby. Was she hoping for alms? “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Madge, sir. Madge Porter.”

  “Well, Madge Porter, I can spare you a few coins for the babe if you’ll wait for a moment. Having hard times?”

  She stared hard at him. He realized the cloaked figure was the tiny serving maid from the Eight Bells. “He’s my sister’s child.”

  “I see. Is she at work?” He laugh-choked. “She’s not in here with me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Her mouth hung open for a moment. “No, sir, I don’t think that.”

  “What, then?” He glanced around for his overcoat, which had a few coins in a pocket. “What is the babe’s name?”

  “Timothy, sir.” She tightened her weak chin until her pale skin folded in on itself. “Timothy Dickens?” she warbled.

  “Dickens?” He took another glance at the babe. Cherry red, pursed lips, and a squashed button of a nose. He didn’t see any resemblance to his relatives. His voice sharpened. “Goodness, Madge, what a coincidence.”

  Her voice strengthened. “I don’t think so, sir.”

  He frowned. The serving maid did not seem to understand his sarcasm. “I’ve never been to Hatfield before. My family is from Portsmouth. I don’t know if your Timothy Dickens is a distant relative of mine or not. Who is his father?”

  “She died in the fire.”

  He tilted his head at the non sequitur. “Who?”

  “My sister. She died in the fire. She was in service to old Sarey.”

  Charles coughed, holding the doorjamb to keep himself upright. This was fresh news. “How tragic. I didn’t hear that a maid died.”

  “They haven’t found the bodies.”

  “That I know. I’m reporting on the fire, but then, I told you that. Thank you for the information. I’ll pay you for it if you wait a moment for me to find my purse.”

  She thrust the bundle toward him. “Timothy is yer son, sir. You need to take him.”

  Charles took a step back, waving his hands. “No he isn’t.”

  “He’s four months old. It would have been last year, around All Hallow’s Eve. Do you remember the bonfire? She’s prettier than me, my Lizzie. Her hair is lighter, not like yers or mine.”

  “Truly, I’ve never been in Hatfield before now,” he said gently. “I work mostly in London.”

  She huffed out a little sob. He sensed she was coming to a crescendo, rather like a dramatic piece of music that seemed pastoral at first, then exploded. “I know yer his daddy, sir. I can’t take him. My parents are dead.”

  He coughed again. Blasted soot. “I’m sorry. It’s a terrible tragedy. You’re young to be all alone with a baby.”

  Her entire being seemed to shudder, then, like the strike of a cobra, she shoved the wriggling bundle into his arms and dashed down the passage.

  His arms fluttered like jelly for a moment, as if his bones had fled with the horror of the orphaned child’s appearance, until the baby opened its tiny maw and Charles found his strength.

  Then he realized the blankets were damp. Little fatherless, motherless Timothy whoever-he-was had soiled himself. The baby wailed indignantly but his aunt did not return.

  * * *

  Charles completed his reporting duties with one hand while cradling the infant, now dressed in Charles’s cleanest handkerchief and spare shirt, in the other arm. Infant swaddling dried in front of the fire. When Charles had had his body and soul together well enough to chase after little Madge Porter, the proprietor of the Eight Bells had told him she wasn’t due there until the evening.

  He’d begged the man for names of any Porter relatives, but the proprietor had been unhelpful. Charles had tripped over to St. Ethelreda’s, still smelling smoke through a nose dripping from the cold. The canon had been of no use and in fact smelled of Hollands, rather than incense. He went to a barbershop, holding the baby while he was shaved, but the attendant refused to offer information.

  When the babe began to cry again, he took him to a stable yard and inquired if they had a cow. A stoic stableman took pity on him and sent him to his quiet wife, a new mother herself. She agreed to nurse the child while Charles went to Hatfield House to see if the marchioness had been found yet.

  He attempted to gain access to the marquess, still directing the recovery efforts. While waiting, he offered the opinion that they should pull down the remaining walls, which looked likely to kill the intended rescuers more assuredly than anything else in the vast acreage of destruction. Everyone coughed, exhausted, working by rote rather than by intelligence.

  After a while, he gave up on the marquess. He interviewed those working in the ruins to get an update for the Chronicle, then went to the still-standing east wing of the house to see the housekeeper. She allowed him into her parlor for half a crown. The room’s walls were freshly painted, showing evidence of care taken even with the servant’s quarters. A large plain cross decorated the free space on the wall, in between storage cupboards.

  The housekeeper had a tall tower of graying hair, stiffened by some sort of grease into a peak over her forehead. Her black gown and white apron looked untouched by the fire. When she spoke, however, he sensed the fatigue and the sadness.

  “I have served this family for thirty-seven years,” she moaned. “Such a tragedy.”

  He took some time with her recital of the many treasures of the house, storing up a collection of things he could report on, then let her sha
re some of her favorite history of the house. But he knew he needed to return to gather the baby from the stableman’s wife soon.

  “Do you have a Lizzie Porter employed here?”

  “Yes, sir.” The housekeeper gave a little sob and covered her mouth. “In the west wing, sir. I haven’t seen her since the fire.”

  His fingers tingled. “Do you think she died?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Not a flighty girl. I doubt she’d have run off if she lived.”

  “Not a flighty girl?” He frowned. “But she has a babe.” He was surprised to know she had kept her employment.

  The housekeeper shook her head. “She’s an eater, sir, but there never was a babe in her belly.”

  The story became steadily more curious. “Did she take any leave, about four months ago? In July or August?”

  The housekeeper picked up her teacup and stared at the leaves remaining at the bottom. “An ague went around the staff in the summer. Some kind of sweating sickness. She had it like all the rest. Went to recuperate with her sister.”

  “Madge?”

  She nodded absently. “Yes, that Madge. Just a slip of a girl. Hasn’t come to work here but stayed in the village.”

  “I’ve met her. How long was Lizzie with her?”

  “Oh, for weeks. She came back pale and thin, but so did a couple of other girls. It killed one of the cook’s helpers. Terrible.” The housekeeper fingered a thin chain around her neck.

  It didn’t sound like a group of girls made up the illness to help Lizzie hide her expectations, but the ague had been timed perfectly for her to hide wee Timothy’s birth. Who had been the babe’s wet nurse?

  “Do you know where Madge lives?”

  “Above the Eight Bells, sir. Servants’ quarters.” The housekeeper set down her cup and rose, indicating the interview had ended.