The Humbug Murders Read Online Free PDF

another as if the mere act of standing were a challenge considering the amount of alcohol in which his brain had been soaked.
    â€œSo what is it you want me to do in here?” I asked the constable, my hand sweeping round to the tiny space. “Teach them to waltz?”
    â€œUm, ah, no, Mr. Scrooge, sir,” Humperdink said. “You lot are supposed to be proper refined gents and whatnot. Introduce yourselves to our new guest or you’ll be without a pot to piss in, and I mean that quite lit’rally!”
    â€œFirst things first,” the closest man said as he looked up at me. He was short in stature but vast in presence: mighty black whiskers and dark eyes blazing. He wore a gold silk cravat stuffed in artful folds into a deep-orange quilted waistcoat, buttons shining. “Who might you be?”
    â€œI’m Ebenezer Scrooge,” I said. “A former associate of poor Mr. Fezziwig. I handle investments.”
    â€œDid you receive an invitation?” asked the young woman.
    â€œOnly from the Constable,” I admitted.
    Humperdink wobbled a bit and steadied himself on the door frame. “You see, Mr. Scrooge, sir, this lot had an audience scheduled with the deceased, or so they claim. They says they arrived at the, ah, how would you say, sir, appointed time this morning, only to find Mr. Fezziwig unable to receive visitors, so to speak, on account of being a deader.”
    â€œAnd so,” Scrooge said, “following what I would guess is standard police procedure, you then pressed on with locking them in a closet.”
    â€œWe did, sir! We did indeed!” It took Humperdink a moment to note the sarcasm. “Ah, well, it was just that they was being quite rowdy, sir. Rowdy and disruptive, eh? A murder investigation is a serious business and here’s this lot, refusing to answer civil questions such as ‘Why’d you butcher the poor old sod?’ and ‘What kind of blade did you use to turn that sweet old man into sliced meat?’ and so on and it got a bit wearisome for us, didn’t it. Out of their mouths it was all, ‘Call my solicitor, I don’t have time for this nonsense.’ Well, who has time now, eh? You’re a gentleman, Mr. Scrooge. See if you and your lady friend can get them to talk. It might slip that noose off your necks and onto another!”
    With a snide laugh, Humperdink slammed the door shut. After a moment of silence, the four settled into different corners.
    â€œI suppose we should introduce ourselves,” said the fat little man.
    He looked familiar.
    â€œAh, then you do know me,” he said flatly, noting the flare of recognition in my gaze.
    I nodded. Now that my initial upset had passed, I identified him as a businessman who moved in loftier circles than I might ever dream to, a merchant and builder said to be the true power behind George Hudson’s railway scheme.
    But before I could speak, Miss Owen surprised me by surging forward and presenting her hand for him to kiss. “Mr. George Sunderland,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I am Miss Adelaide Owen, and I’m quite the ardent admirer of your recent ventures in India!”
    â€œWhy, why—how delightful!” he said. And kiss her hand he did. Then he gestured broadly towards the stuffed shirt next to him. “To my left is Lord Rutledge. He numbers princes and moguls of a higher station than even myself among his intimates.”
    Rutledge nodded, fingering the monogram embroidered on his fine glove, and eagerly took Miss Owen’s hand, kissing her fingers, but with something more of a lecherous look in his eyes. She seemed to stare past it, and the man’s ardor instantly ebbed. He straightened up, displaying only a flicker of shame, and adeptly fixed his mask of aristocracy back in place.
    From the corner of my eye, I caught the Chinaman staring at the little woman in the burgundy dress. His stare was piercing, and she