The Humbug Murders by L. J. Oliver Page A

life on the street, though.”
    â€œYou misunderstand me, Constable,” Miss Owen said, sniffing and dabbing her nose with a silk kerchief before folding it neatly away and raising herself up with dignity. “I have never suffered so. But I have done all I could to help those who have. To be in such an entrusted position that you may help and protect Englishmen from the dangers of the lawless, well, you are most lucky indeed.” She smiled at Crabapple through her tears.
    Crabapple groaned. “Maybe that’s what I smell on you. A do-gooder. Even worse than a common trollop. At least whores see this world for what it is. Not what they delude themselves to think it could be.”
    â€œFunny,” I said. “ You lecturing about delusions. They’re the foundation of every one of your piss-poor conclusions in this case. You should watch what you say, Crabapple. One word in the right ear and a man like me could end your career.”
    â€œThe prisoner is down the corridor, Scrooge. You may see yourself to his cell. I’ll return in a few to show you out, and I expect your report imminently, though I shan’t expect any use for it. And do wish the doomed boy a very merry Christmas from me, won’t you.” Crabapple turned his back on us without saying good-bye, strode across the open atrium, and vanished into an office.
    I looked at Miss Owen, her eyes still fixed to mine, gleaming with hope even behind the stinging hurt from Crabapple’s cruel jibe.
    â€œPerhaps I should speak to Mr. Guilfoyle alone,” I suggested. Miss Piper would feature heavily in the subject of my interrogation, and I did not wish her to hear any of it.
    â€œNo, I can tell that you’ve learned something. Whatever it is, I must know. I must know all of it.” She looked straight into my eyes, her gaze unfaltering, her brow set in a firm expression. The subtle scent of rose drifted to me from the nape of her neck, and her grip of my arm tightened. “Please.”
    â€œAs you wish.”
    She led me back to the cells further in the building, down a corridor through a suffocating stench of unwashed crooks and unemptied chamber pots. Behind the bars of the furthermost cell, Tom was curled up on a bench. He tried to cover his face with the rough rug that was his only bed-furniture.
    â€œTom,” said Adelaide, gently.
    â€œI told you before, go away!” came the bitter response. The rug slid off his face, revealing tangled hair and bloodshot eyes. Those eyes landed on me, widened in surprise, and then narrowed under a frown. Did he know me from somewhere? How odd.
    He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve, and I noticed, with a flicker of curiosity, that the cuff of his sleeve was adorned with a mother-of-pearl button. Not something I would have expected to see on the cuff of a man of his station.
    â€œTom, this is Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge,” she said. “He can help us.”
    â€œGo away, Adelaide,” said Tom again, standing up and stuffing his hands into his pockets. He turned his back on us and kicked the wall. His whole body twitched; beads of cold sweat had formed on his pale neck. The threat of hanging may have been weighing heavily on his heart, but so, it seemed, was opium withdrawal. His hands and face had been washed of Fezziwig’s blood, but Crabapple had seen fit to leave him in the same blood-soaked clothes in which he’d been arrested.
    â€œTom, I’m trying to help you—”
    â€œWhat did you tell them?” Tom demanded, rushing at the bars and gripping them so violently Miss Owen gasped and darted from them. He pressed his face between the bars, his eyes those of a wild dog. “Did you really think it ‘helpful’ to tell them about my dealings with Fezziwig? You’ve handed them clear motive. Clear motive for why I might have done this thing. Damn it and damned be you!”
    I clanged my cane against the bars, making him