Free The Humbug Murders by L. J. Oliver Page A

that passed for dinner at the Cock and Egg challenged most assumptions. I leaned back in my seat barely two hours after the incident at the warehouse and closed my eyes. I wanted to wish away the bitter tang and thick oppressive odor of the seasoned egg and cheese slop Dickens greedily slurped and swallowed. The din and clatter of the pub crashed over me, Christmas songs merrily slurred by those full to the brim of mulled cider and whiskey pressed me like an inquisition’s victim. It pushed down on me with the thick smell of stale beer, rotting straw, sickly sweet perfumes, unwashed bodies, and urine. Shuddering, I opened my eyes and reached for the flagon of spiced rum I shared with my guest and drank. I couldn’t wait to be far from this bristly underbelly of Whitechapel and the stench of beer batter. But first I had business to conduct with the young reporter seated across from me.
    Dickens smiled thinly as he pushed the scraped-clean plate away and mopped at his chin with a worn handkerchief. An air of confidence settled about him as he withdrew a small notepad and pencil from his jacket and set them down between us. “Right we are then, Mr. Scrooge. Tell me all there is to know about your secret association with Mr. Sunderland and how it ties to those wretched Colley boys. And what business dealing were they and this Tom fellow mixed up in that led to poor Fezziwig’s horrible demise? Mr. Scrooge, imagine the publicity this story will get you. The people who will line up at your door to do business with the final confidant of George Sunderland. That’s what I will make of you.”
    A hot flush burst in my cheeks. “Dickens, you always have your ear to the ground. So what’s life like in the gutter, anyway?”
    â€œMy theory is, the Colleys took you because of a kidnapping gone terribly wrong,” he went on, ignoring my slight. “The big fish, as it were, got away, drowned in the Thames, and the Colleys thought to make do with you. See what gold they might squeeze from you in return for your miserable life. And perhaps find out if you knew where Sunderland keeps his cash.”
    I leaned across the table, brushing his notepad aside. I felt a throbbing in my temple that had nothing to do with the rum. “Mr. Dickens, I did not ask you here for this. You know what I am after. You promised to write a favorable article on Mr. Fezziwig, extolling his many virtues. I would see him remembered as he was in life, not death.”
    I shuddered, remembering the ghastly sight of the man’s body disintegrating before me as his voice echoed in my ears. Humbug, Humbug, HUMBUG—
    â€œI’d have done that anyway,” Dickens said. “He was a good man who did not deserve such a miserable end.”
    â€œBeyond that, though, you said you could assist me, as you have done on previous occasions.”
    â€œYes, and as to that, what you failed to consider is twofold: first, this is different from running some minor line of inquiry into someone’s background. And second, why should I even consider such an undertaking? What do I get from it?”
    I thought of the threats Roger Colley had made against my fair Belle, and Crabapple’s only mild interest in helping to keep her—and by extension, her new family—safe. I had to arrange reliable protection, and Dickens knew his way around the darkest corners of London. “A young mother and her family are in danger and here you are with your hand out? And they call moneylenders cold-hearted and tight-fisted. Fine. Name your price.”
    â€œI already have. Information.”
    â€œYou won’t get it.”
    Shrugging, he gathered up his notepad and made to stand up.
    â€œStop,” I said wearily. “There must be something else you want.”
    The reporter’s smile grew as he eased back into his seat. Suddenly the smell of cloves turned a switch in the reporter’s head, and he couldn’t