The Humbug Murders by L. J. Oliver Page B

jump and dart away. “Enough of that. She loves you. Any fool can see that.”
    Tom stared at me with piercing bloodshot eyes. “And you’re a fool if you believe anything she says.” He looked back to Miss Owen. “He will come, he will deal with this. All of this.”
    â€œTom . . .”
    He began to pace in the small cell, his feet sweeping frantically before him. He smacked the walls, the bars, twitched and shook. “The less said the better. He’ll be here. He’ll be here . . .”
    I wanted to ask whom he was talking about, but Miss Owen’s warning gaze stopped me.
    â€œTell me where you were two nights ago,” I demanded. “When Fezziwig was murdered.”
    Tom remained as he was, hands solidly hidden in his pockets, back facing me.
    â€œI know something of you, and soon, the world will as well. I’ve spoken to the press, and they were keen indeed to hear what I had to say. The gambling, the opium. It doesn’t look good for you. Unless you have an alibi, which I think you do .”
    Tom stopped pacing and glared at me again.
    â€œAdelaide,” he whispered.
    Miss Owen took a sharp breath and turned to me, her hand moving back to the very spot on my arm that she had previously gripped. I felt the pressure of her not-so-gentle squeeze through the rough material but went on anyway.
    â€œOh, is it true?” she asked me, then turned back to Tom. “Is it true, Tom? Whoever saw you, whoever you were with, you simply must tell Crabapple. I’m begging you, surely the alternative is worse?” Her voice broke, and her chin started to wobble, but she pressed her hand to her mouth and calmed her breathing.
    The alternative was worse. Tom’s legs kicking wildly as his vertebrae separated, one by one, all his blood forced into his head until his eyes popped, soiling the inside of that black bag. I peered at Adelaide. She would not like what was coming next, but compared to the alternative, my revelation would hardly harm a string in her heart.
    â€œDo you know a Miss Piper, Tom?” I asked. “Pretty woman, ginger hair tightly wound in curls, blue eyes, five foot four or thereabouts? She was overheard at the Cock and Egg testifying to having spent the night with you when the murder was taking place. Laughed about it openly, in front of a pack of drinkers and whores.” I stole a sideways glance at Adelaide, but instead of crumbling into heartbroken sobs and accusations of infidelity, she was clutching the bars and her face was beaming.
    â€œWe must find her,” she urged. “Her account could set you free!”
    â€œDon’t be hasty now,” I cautioned. “The evidence still weighs against him. But Tom, I urge you to explain yourself.”
    Neither sound nor movement came from the cell. I turned to Miss Owen and shrugged; she was shaking her head.
    â€œWhere did you meet with her?” she asked through the bars. “Where can we find her? Tom, I can bring her to Crabapple; her witness statement must count for something.” Apart from an involuntary spasm of the head, betraying a painful withdrawal, no movement came from Tom.
    With a sudden clang she slammed the handle end of her umbrella against the bars. “Curse you, Thomas Guilfoyle! What can it be that has made you so bitter that you are prepared to meet your death in silence? Here you have the key to your freedom and you will not take it?” Tom flinched but did not turn round.
    â€œDo you know who the real murderer was?” I pressed.
    â€œTom, dearest, sweetest Tom,” whispered Adelaide. “Speak to us.”
    â€œWhat were you doing at Fezziwig’s, holding that knife, if not to kill him?” I continued. When he did not answer, I ventured, “I think you arrived, found the door open, and went inside to make sure all was well. You smelled something foul upstairs and found poor Fezziwig dead. Perhaps you