The Humbug Murders by L. J. Oliver

us.
    â€œNow, unless I may be of further assistance . . .” began Crabapple, pointing to the door.
    Just then, Inspector Foote strode by—and stopped as he saw me. “Why, if it isn’t Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge. Why, I was just reading about you!”
    Foote smiled, shook my hand, and asked if there was anything, anything , that his men could do for an illustrious fellow like myself. Clearly Dickens’ plan to raise me up by association to Sunderland was working.
    â€œYou may,” I said. “I’d like to gain an audience with Fezziwig’s murderer.”
    â€œWould you now?” said Crabapple, his eyebrows raised high into his hat. “On what account?”
    â€œHe has murdered my friend. I wish to ask him why.”
    â€œLot of good that’ll do you, sir. The bastard hasn’t said a word, nor will he. But no matter, the evidence against him will qualify a trial, have no worry, with a verdict all but assured. So if you’ll excuse me . . .”
    Inspector Foote flushed. “Please excuse Crabapple. He’s studying to become a half-wit.” He placed a hand on Crabapple’s shoulder. “Constable, I believe we talked about this. Politeness to the public we protect, that is the watchword of the day. If Mr. Scrooge wishes to speak with the suspect, I can see no harm in it. It’s Christmas, after all! That woman has already been to see Mr. Guilfoyle, has she not? In fact, here she is now!”
    I turned to see Adelaide, her face tear-stained and blotchy, walking up the corridor from the cells towards me.
    â€œAh,” sighed Crabapple, stopping. “It appears the murderer’s schedule has just opened up.”
    Adelaide strode up to me, her full skirts swishing on the stone floor. “Are you to speak with Tom?” she asked me, her big eyes gleaming.
    â€œMiss Owen, like you, insisted on visiting the suspect,” said the inspector, with more than an air of superiority. Foote turned to her. “I cannot imagine how difficult this must be for you, Miss Owen. Men sometimes hide double lives. A dreadful business, simply dreadful. Thank you for all you revealed in your statement. Crabapple there couldn’t even get his name out of him!”
    â€œThank you, Inspector,” Miss Owen said softly. “If Mr. Scrooge is going to see Tom, I’d like to come along.”
    Foote spun on Crabapple. “Show Mr. Scrooge the way. Mr. Scrooge, you should stop by my club sometime. We can talk of this and that. There are many crimes we simply do not have the manpower to follow up on as much as we’d like. Look here!”
    He pointed at several documents tacked to the wall. Missing-persons notices. Attractive women, housewives, mothers, daughters. A half-dozen spread over the past few months. “If some generous benefactor might step forward and help us to hire more men, we might be able to get to the bottom of cases like this.”
    â€œI’m handling those,” Crabapple said, crossing his arms over his chest, his body tensing. “Nothing to ’em. Young women run off with their sweethearts. Wives get tired of running the household and go off to communes like the one that Shelley woman keeps talking about forming.”
    â€œOr maybe their bodies just haven’t been dragged from the Thames yet,” Miss Owen said. “Like poor Mr. Sunderland.”
    â€œWell,” Foote said. “Crabapple, extend these two every courtesy.” He looked my way. “I want to hear about it if he does not, yes?”
    I smiled and delivered an amused nod.
    When the inspector had gone, Crabapple walked us down the hall. He sneered at Miss Owen. “Did you enjoy your congregation with the killer, Miss Owen? Fitting, is it, for a young woman to be cavorting with dangerous criminals? Pulled yourself up from hard times, haven’t you, miss? Humble beginnings. Difficult to fully scrape off the filth of