Part of McFergus’s mind regretted not talking to Sampson more about possible motives for the murder, but another part figured the young man had already been through most of the obvious ones and had decide the youth would just have been annoyed by talking about it. He shook his head: it might be easier if he could find someone a little less bright than the Hill youth.
Assuming that Jacob Marley had indeed been helped to go headfirst down the stairs, the first question would be, “who benefits?” And the obvious answer to that one was Ebenezer Scrooge. For one thing, virtually all Marley owned went to Scrooge. But if so, Scrooge didn’t seem to be enjoying his additional wealth very much. Word on the street was that, crabby as he was, he was fair. Totally ungenerous, but fair. He bore no rancour against anyone that bested him in finance, though, truth to tell, few actually managed that feat.
Possibly Scrooge had had a first -rate quarrel with Marley. and killed his business partner. Perhaps Mr. Cratchit would be able to tell him something about that. McFergus was less than a block away.
Perhaps he could determine whether or not Mr. Cratchit had boosted Marley over that first top step. God knows, clerks had eliminated their nasty bosses often enough, and had been hanged often enough for it in the public square. If Marley had been worse than Scrooge, murder might have seemed reasonable to a poor clerk. What if Marley had been about to fire Cratchit? Seven years before, at the height of a recession, Cratchit’s family might have been off to the poorhouse.
Then again, neither Scrooge nor Marley could have attained their wealth without bankrupting, quite legally, a lot of people who’d borrowed from them and been unable to pay the loan back. That was just the way finance went, and, of course, at the time of his death, that recession would have put quite a few people into jail for non-payment of loans. McFergus frowned; that trail would be a long one.
Less likely, he decided, was murder by housekeeper. Some were desperate enough to do that, especially if they’d been caught stealing from their rich employer. Another path to follow.
As he came up to the window by which Cratchit sat writing, McFergus calmed his mind. Then he pulled his hat low across his face. In an afterthought, he took off his coat and carried it, rolled up, under his arm.
The streetside window of Scrooge and Marley Inc. was open a bit. It may have been dubious whether the outside air was any better than that inside a building, but at least it was a change, most people figured. There was no light inside the building, making it hard to tell if anyone was in.
McFergus looked around for characters appearing more suspicious than himself, then decided that if a London street weren’t full of suspicious-looking people, that would be, in itself, most suspicious. But at least he saw no one that he recognized. He leaned against the wall by the small, window, then coughed gently.
The voice of Cratchit came back through the bars. “Are you the police inspector that was here this morning?”
McFergus hesitated. There was nothing in that sentence that told him whether Scrooge had gone or not. But he took a chance. “I am. Ex-inspector Ian McFergus. Mr. Cratchit?”
“Yes. Mr. Scrooge is off to the exchange this afternoon.”
“And I’m not taking you away from some important work?”
“Thank you for asking. Yes, Mr. Scrooge always makes sure I have work to finish when he’s gone, but I can work faster than he knows, and can talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Mr, Cratchit. I’m making inquiries into the death of Jacob Marley.”
“Ah. It’s been a long time, you know. Is the police force looking into it again.”
McFergus laughed. “The case is as dead as is Mr. Marley. I am retired now, and indulging a bit of my own curiosity.”
Cratchit chuckled. “Hanging around the house and getting in your wife’s way, perhaps?
“Perhaps,” McFergus said drily. He could see, through the glass darkly, Scrooge’s clerk making notes in a ledger. The clerk in the dark, he thought, making up a rhyme.
“And,” Cratchit said, “you think the death of Mr. Marley might have been other than an accident? Why?”
“My instinct, let’s call it.”
“And your instinct is seldom in error?”
“It is often, in error, but....”
“Well insp…Mr. McFergus, there is a possibility that you may be right.” There was a long pause, marked by the scratching of the pen. “I saw, myself, no reason to doubt that the old man had got up to chase a rat, and, being old, had tumbled down the stairs, thereby breaking a neck that was excessively scrawny from age.” Another pause. “But after that, several people asked me if his death weren’t suspicious, and….”
“And?” McFergus looked around. A couple of street urchins approached, saw his glare, and went off in search of other prey.
“When one listens to suspicious people one can become himself suspicious, seeing conspiracy in the mating of sparrows on the window ledge.”
McFergus nodded, knowing Cratchit could see him better than he could see the clerk. “That happens more often than most people would give credit to. Did you believe them?”
“There was no reason to. People’s tongues wag without the slightest wind to stir them. Until….”
“Until?”
“Until a former police inspector showed up at my window.” He must have noticed McFergus looking around. “Mr. Scrooge will not be back for several hours.”
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”
“Mr. Marley?” A laugh. “Mr. Scrooge and I are the first suspects, are we not? We knew him best. We would have been most affected by his personality, and would have known Mr. Marley’s habits.”
“If you had killed a rich man,” the cop said, “you might have profited more.”
“More than continuing to work my life away trying not to freeze in this little office? I should think so. And if I had joined with Mr. Scrooge in such an evil endeavour, he would have had to reward me, or to kill me with other than overwork and low wages. Neither of which, you may observe, has happened.”
It was McFergus’s turn to laugh. “But Scrooge himself? I understand he profited nicely by his partner’s death.”
“You would not have know it at the time, with all the complaining he did.”
When McFergus said nothing, the clerk continued. “There was a lot of paperwork, and there was the matter of Mr. Marley’s funeral. And, of course, Mr. Marley’s accommodations. Mr. Scrooge moved into Mr. Marley’s rooms.”
“Did he say why he did that?”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Marley’s accommodations were larger and more convenient than Mr. Scrooge’s. And, more importantly, the lease was less. That’s what Mr. Scrooge told me, although I don’t know the truth of it.”
“And Mr. Scrooge got the bulk of Mr. Marley’s estate?”
“Got it all, as far as I know. Neither of them were on speaking terms with their relatives, and they had an agreement from the time they founded this company to that effect.” A pause. “Feel free to visit my house at 9025 Marlbank Lane to see if I’ve now got a golden pot to piss in from murdering Mr. Marley.” He chuckled again, and handed McFergus a piece of paper introducing the inspector to his wife.
“Might you know of any other person who would have wanted to kill Mr. Marley?”
“Mr. McFergus, there were dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people who might have wanted either of those misers dead, having lost everything to fate and an inability to pay loans, but all any of them could have known was the name of some company or other that issued money through some other company. The link to Scrooge and Marley would have been difficult to find.”
“And you know of no other reason someone might want Mr. Marley dead?”
“There are ten thousand people in London for whom a silver candlestick would mean a month’s food and lodging, but you’d have known if there had been a robbery, of course. And if Mr. Marley was doing things that are unspeakable, then they were never spoken of.”
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McFergus sighed. “I thank you, Mr. Cratchit.”
“Let me know if you find anything you can tell me. I worked with Mr. Marley for many years and am curious. Merry Christmas.”
“Of course. Although it’s not Christmas yet.” McFergus moved away from the window, watching the street. He could detect no one that was watching him.
It was still early in the afternoon, and although the air was damp, it was neither snowing nor raining. Still keeping an eye out for drunken sailors, he walked slowly towards the train station at Victoria. The only suspicious thing that happened was a glimpse of Bill Sikes, making his way in the opposite direction. Their eyes met briefly. Bill Sikes was a good reason not to be in the police any more. The man had an animal energy that attracted interest from women and kept most of the rest of the criminal element away. It was something in his eyes that let a person know that there was an instability there. A person always had the impression that someday Bill Sikes would be the ruin of Bill Sikes, but that another person or three would be harmed in the process.
Victoria Station was, as usual, crowded, and the queues were long, but eventually McFergus got to the front. He hesitated a moment, then bought a ticket for second class. Third class, or “Parliamentary Train” class, was an open box, sometimes without a roof; acceptable enough in summer, but just a bit rough in winter. The British government had mandated the use of these, at less than a third the cost of second class, in order to enable the poorest people to travel, however uncomfortably. Without a higher social class, McFergus would have felt quite out of place in first class, so it was into second class, with rich men’s servants, he would travel. He tucked the ticket into a pocket, looking forward to the morrow’s train ride.
Suddenly he wondered if he should have saved the money and gone in the open car. He mentally shrugged; he had no doubt Amy would tell him whether he’d made a wise choice or not.
The early dusk was settling in as McFergus pushed his way out of the station and onto the street. As he did, he crossed the path of a man with a dog on a light chain. The dog, a large black mongrel, lunged at a smaller dog, and, in doing so, wrapped the chain partly around the inspector’s legs, then stared into the eyes of man above him, and growled. McFergus stopped, and looked up into the angry face of a man he knew well.
“What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?” said the man, with a fierce gesture.
McFergus didn’t smile. “Well, well,” he said. “Mr. Bill Sikes, if I’m not mistaken.”
Sikes slid into a practiced sneer. “Well, if it ain’t the local former constabulary. I should let my dog have at you, I should.” He pulled at the chain, which McFergus managed to step over. “Sneaking around places you aren’t wanted are you?” He dragged the dog roughly. “You don’t usually go in this part of town, do you? Looking for me, maybe? Be careful if you are.”
“Or?” Both men ignored the people moving by them.
“It’s a dangerous part of town.” Sikes tried to stare McFergus down.
“Dangerous for me?”
“Even coppers disappear sometimes when the tide goes out. You ask too many questions hereabouts and I ain’t going to be able to help you.” He tilted his head. ‘There’s hard people here.”
“I stand warned.” McFergus smiled, but didn’t move. Sikes half-dragged his dog into the crowd, giving it a kick to encourage it.
It was dark by the time he unlocked his own door. He climbed the stairs slowly, his bad leg hurting more than usual. Amy, at the top of the stairs, welcomed him with a candle and a smile. “You’re tired,” was all she said, serving him a bowl of hot stew and a cup of tea. The stew was more than the basic food he and much of England subsisted on, root vegetables with a piece of pork fat for flavour. It being the weekend, she’d added a small piece of salted beef. It was always a treat to McFergus, but faster ocean ships and the railways in Britain and in North America had brought down the price of meat considerably. If this keeps up, McFergus thought, it could undercut the poor man’s need to poach from the rich landowner.
On his second cup of tea, unasked, he began to describe his day to Amy.
First, he told her about his interview with Scrooge. She listened, and asked, “Isn’t he the only one who definitely benefited from Mr. Marley’s death?”
“Scrooge got the company,” McFergus acknowledged. “But he doesn’t seem to have done much with it.”
“When you’re wealthy,” Amy noted, “the acquisition of more wealth is often all one wants, however foolish it seems, and however little it seems to affect one’s happiness. Then again, Marley had not, you told me, been in good health for some time. All Scrooge had to do was wait.”
McFergus nodded at the truth of the observations. “Then,” he noted, “are not some people killed for vengeance? The acquisition of wealth by one man may have resulted from the diminishment of wealth from several others.”
“A man who seeks vengeance,” Amy said, shaking her head, “is more likely to beat his victim into shapelessness and leave a message than to make a careful plan to have his victim die in a seeming accident.”
“Maybe….” McFergus hesitated.
“I know what you are thinking,” said his wife, “but vengeance for such crimes would most likely involve mutilation of the… appropriate parts.”
“Nothing like that was done,” he said, firmly.
“And after you talked to Mr. Scrooge,” Amy prompted.
He told her about Bob Cratchit's morning offer to talk to him again in the afternoon.
“And he did?” Amy lit another tallow candle from the stub of the first one.
“He did. He said he knew of no reason to murder Mr. Marley, but asked me to keep him informed of any developments in the case.”
“You would do that?”
“I will,” Ian said, “unless I learn of some reason to suspect him.” He raised a palm to Amy’s enquiring eyebrow. “He is more likely to be of help than of hindrance, and sometimes one must play the odds.”
“And the rest of your day?” Amy asked her husband, quietly.
He told her next about the gift to Betty, the mudlark, and how he’d asked her to enquire about Jacob Marley.
“You think she will?”
“There is the chance I will buy her another present,” he said. “And it’s cold in London, now, and she’s getting to old to be mudlarking.” He noticed Amy’s look. “I tried to make sure it would look like she found the wood-scraper. I do hope she isn’t in any danger for asking about Marley, although I’m less sure than I was.” Then he told her about the bookseller and the sailor at the market.
“Interesting,” was all Amy said, until he showed her the pamphlet with the words, “Scrooge is next: Christmas eve.”
She looked at it in the candlelight. “What did the young Mr. Hill have to say about this?”
“Not much that was useful. And you?”
“It changes everything, doesn’t it?”
He said nothing, then nodded. “Unless it’s a fraud, it does.” He looked into her eyes. “It means the person or persons I’m looking for must have a reason to kill both of them.” He sighed.
“Doesn’t that simplify it?”
“I do hope so. I really do.” He didn’t feel confident. “I have four days, he added.”
“And,” Amy went on, “it had to be someone for whom waiting seven years was acceptable. And someone who knew both Scrooge and Marley.” She paused.
“I bought a train ticket to Millbridge Abbey,” he said, “or at least to the closest station.”
“A good move,” Amy agreed. “Are you taking me?”
“Of course,” he said. “We can pick up another ticket in the morning.”
“So,” she said, changing the subject, “aside from Mr. Sikes, drunken sailors, and Constable Oftan, are there any other people out to get you in London town?”
“Well,” he said, “I ran into Bill Sikes twice. Haven’t seen him in a long time.”
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br /> “You seem to have a lot of enemies out there. Is Sikes dangerous?”
“Mr. Sikes is a very disturbed man, but not very intelligent. That makes him dangerous.”
“I’m surprised he isn’t in Australia.”
“He isn’t intelligent, but he has some cunning. And he has had more luck than most men deserve. We know he’s closely associated with a man named Fagin, who deals in stolen goods –.”
“’We?’” Amy asked.
“Sorry. The police know of the association between the two.”
“But that’s outside the scope of your investigation, I presume.”
“I imagine so.” McFergus looked at the candle, now almost gone. “Bedtime, my love.”
It was only when they’d snuggled down in the dark and he was looking out the frosted windows that McFergus remembered that he hadn’t asked Amy how her day at her job had gone.
***