Free The Humbug Murders by L. J. Oliver

up enough strong fellows for the raid.
    â€œI owe that poor fellow who worked for Mr. Sunderland mine. He fought so that I might go free.”
    â€œI don’t have much time,” I cautioned her. “There are arrangements I must make.”
    Crabapple had pledged to send men to watch Belle’s home on the chance that Roger might make good his threats against her. But he would not keep them there beyond morning. By then the villain’s rage would have cooled, Crabapple assured me. And the man would be on to more pressing matters. I was not so sure.
    â€œI expect nothing to be given to me,” Miss Owen said. “My entire life, I have earned what little I have received. You are in the midst of a business venture, I believe? Suppose I had information that might prove useful to you in securing investors. Would you not consider partnering with me under those terms?”
    â€œI would certainly be interested to know what you consider ‘useful information.’ But first, what nature of partnership are you proposing?”
    â€œPartner with me in the solving of Fezziwig’s murder, Mr. Scrooge. So that my Tom might be set free. I shall make certain your investment deal benefits.”
    â€œYes . . . your Tom.”
    She held out her hand like any gentleman might when proposing a business deal.
    I frowned. “You will receive the bitterly disappointing wage I had reserved for a clerk. You will perform the duties of a clerk but out of sight, and you will not speak of this; you will receive no letter of recommendation from me. This is a finite arrangement, is that understood?”
    Her hand did not waver. And as a chill wind rose off the river, I took it—and found in it a warmth I had not felt in many a year.
    â€œAnd as your first order of business,” I told her, “I want you to investigate something called Chimera.” She knew that Fezziwig’s spirit had spoken of it, and her eyes widened as I described the strange effect that single word had upon the Colleys. “I’ll need to know things about George Sunderland and what Fezziwig might possibly have known about him to cause the businessman sleepless nights. I also must know about this Tom fellow. Any reason you might conceive why he had been at Fezziwig’s in the first place.”
    At the far edge of the warehouse, I saw Dickens and his fellow reporters arrayed before Inspector Foote, who had arrived just in time to take all credit from the fuming Crabapple once more. I knew the ways of London’s press. There would be fear-mongering and mass panic brewing in the vile cesspools on either side of the city’s class divide unless I could have words with Dickens before this night was over. Miss Owen caught my gaze.
    â€œWhat I tell you about Tom . . . it will be in the press?” she guessed.
    â€œIt will. I must preserve Fezziwig’s name. It is all I may do for him now. And I cannot guarantee that what’s written will help Tom’s case at all.”
    â€œBut you will try?”
    I did not need to reply. She saw in my eyes how all of this benefitted me, and how the night’s events had strengthened my resolve to circumvent the ghost’s terrible prophecies.
    She nodded and promised she would be forthcoming. But another matter weighed on her as well: “We have to know why Fezziwig summoned those people. I know of a gentleman who might be able to help you squeeze that arrogant prick Rutledge. Of the four we met in that room this morning, he struck me as the weak link. Something about him was simply not as it seemed.”
    â€œThen squeeze him we shall, but not right away. There are other more pressing matters to deal with first.”
    Like keeping a dead man from visiting me once again, I silently added.

CHAPTER FIVE

    ONE CAN REASONABLY assume that dancing at the end of a rope can leave a man proof against further shocks to the system, but the vile swill