Death Comes at Christmas E-Book

Vaseem Khan

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 483

Beschreibung

18 festive stories of murder and mystery in the grand tradition of Christmas crime fiction, from the masters of the genre. Including the New York Times bestselling JT Ellison, USA Today bestseller Sam Carrington, Sunday Times bestseller C.L. Taylor, and many more... The award-winning Marie O'Regan and Paul Kane invite you to a festive gathering of bestselling, critically acclaimed and award-winning writers in tribute to classic crime stories. From locked room mysteries on Christmas Eve to devilish whodunits and tales of simmering rivalries unfolding at the dinner table, these eighteen seasonal tales will delight and shock at every twist and turn. So, unwrap the presents, pour a mug of mulled wine and follow the bloodstained footprints through the freshly fallen snow as winter descends and darkness lurks in the shadows. Featuring stories by: Fiona Cummins Angela Clarke A. K. Benedict Susi Holliday J. T. Ellison David Bell Sarah Hilary Claire McGowan Tina Baker Sam Carrington Liz Mistry C. L. Taylor Helen Fields Russ Thomas Tom Mead Vaseem Khan Samantha Hayes Belinda Bauer

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Introduction | Marie O’Regan and Paul Kane

How to Commit Murder in a Bookshop | C. L. Taylor

Christmas Yet To Come | Helen Fields

What She Left Me | Tina Baker

The Red Angel | Russ Thomas

O Murder Night | J. T. Ellison

Christmas Lights | David Bell

The Midnight Mass Murderer | Alexandra Benedict

The Wrong Party | Claire McGowan

Upon a Midnight Clear | Tom Mead

Last Christmas | Fiona Cummins

The Naughty List | Sam Carrington

Indian Winter | Vaseem Khan

Postmarked Murder | Susi Holliday

Frostbite | Samantha Hayes

A Deadly Gift | Angela Clarke

Secret Santa | Liz Mistry

Marley’s Ghost | Sarah Hilary

Icarus | Belinda Bauer

About the Authors

About the Editors

Acknowledgements

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Death Comes at Christmas

Hardback edition ISBN: 9781803369419

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803369433

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 2024

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

INTRODUCTION copyright © Marie O’Regan & Paul Kane 2024.

HOW TO COMMIT MURDER IN A BOOKSHOP copyright © C. L. Taylor 2024.

CHRISTMAS YET TO COME copyright © Helen Fields 2024.

WHAT SHE LEFT ME copyright © Tina Baker 2024.

THE RED ANGEL copyright © Russ Thomas 2024.

O MURDER NIGHT copyright © J. T. Ellison 2024.

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS copyright © David Bell 2024.

THE MIDNIGHT MASS MURDERER copyright © Alexandra Benedict 2024.

THE WRONG PARTY copyright © Claire McGowan 2024.

UPON A MIDNIGHT CLEAR copyright © Tom Mead 2024.

LAST CHRISTMAS copyright © Fiona Cummins 2024.

THE NAUGHTY LIST copyright © Sam Carrington 2024.

INDIAN WINTER copyright © Vaseem Khan 2024. Characters used with permission of Hodder & Stoughton.

POSTMARKED MURDER copyright © Susi Holliday 2024.

FROSTBITE copyright © Samantha Hayes 2024.

A DEADLY GIFT copyright © Angela Clarke 2024.

SECRET SANTA copyright © Liz Mistry 2024.

MARLEY’S GHOST copyright © Sarah Hilary 2024.

ICARUS copyright © Belinda Bauer 2011. Originally published in The Mirror newspaper. Reprinted by permission of the author.

The authors assert the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For our dear friend Christopher Fowler,with much love.

INTRODUCTION

Marie O’Regan and Paul Kane

CHRISTMAS.

A time of loving and giving, of peace and harmony. Of goodwill towards all people… Or is it? There’s a very long tradition of crime stories being set during the festive period, highlighting the much darker side of this very special time of year.

Think back to that famous tale involving the world’s greatest consulting detective, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes: ‘The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle’ from 1892. A mystery involving a priceless jewel falling into the wrong hands that, whilst it doesn’t contain a murder as such, definitely involves a death – that of a Christmas goose! Then there’s Agatha Christie’s protagonist Hercule Poirot, set up to test his detective skills with a staged murder in ‘The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding’.

Everyone from Margery Allingham (‘The Case of the Man with the Sack’) to P. D. James (‘The Mistletoe Murder’), from Ian Rankin (‘Cinders’) and Val McDermid (‘A Traditional Christmas’) to Michael Connelly (‘Christmas Even’) and Mark Billingham (‘Underneath the Mistletoe Last Night’), has tried their hand at a seasonal crime scenario. Even the author who this book is dedicated to, Christopher Fowler, our dear friend who passed away in 2023, set tales involving his elderly detectives Bryant and May around this holiday period. And no wonder: it’s hugely popular!

So, when the idea for a Christmas crime anthology was first talked about, even though it was springtime and we were feeling anything but Christmassy, we jumped at the opportunity. The chance to put together a brand-new collection of mysteries under the banner of Death Comes at Christmas. Because, let’s face it, most crime fiction deals with death of some kind at some point or another, doesn’t it?

In the following pages you’ll find a raft of stories which tackle that topic head-on in various ways, written by the cream of crime fiction authors. C. L. Taylor (Every Move You Make) ponders how best to commit such a deed during a Christmas bookshop party, while Fiona Cummins (All of Us Are Broken) looks back at her titular ‘Last Christmas’ for clues as to how such a thing could happen. Authors who have a wealth of experience with Christmas crime fiction, Alexandra Benedict (The Christmas Jigsaw Murders) and Susi Holliday (The Party Season) offer us a unique Mass murderer and some deadly memories.

Creator of Joseph Spector Tom Mead (Cabaret Macabre), Helen Fields (Profile K) and J. T. Ellison (It’s One of Us) take us on a trip back in time for their own period Christmas tales. Tina Baker (What We Did in the Storm) and Liz Mistry (The Blood Promise) bring us back to the present with a jolt in their nail-biting entries, while Angela Clarke (Seven), Vaseem Khan (the Malabar House novels) and Sarah Hilary (Sharp Glass) focus on horrendous family gatherings to deliver their head-scratching puzzlers, and Claire McGowan (Let Me In) writes about the dangers of attending the annual office party. David Bell (Try Not to Breathe) gives us a poignant story about lost people and lost Christmases, Samantha Hayes (Mother of the Bride) raises the hairs on the back of your neck with a touch of ‘Frostbite’, Russ Thomas (Sleeping Dogs) draws on the culture of true crime podcasts for inspiration and Sam Carrington (The Girl in the Photo) tells us why you really don’t want to be on Santa’s Naughty List. Rounding off our assortment of tasty treats, Belinda Bauer (Exit) proves that you can pack an emotional punch with a short character study that will definitely stay with you long after Christmas.

Gather round your tree, sing your carols, hang your stockings, enjoy your mulled wine and turkey. But take our advice, whatever you do – watch your back this Christmas!

MARIE O’REGAN & PAUL KANE

MARCH 2024

HOW TO COMMIT MURDER IN A BOOKSHOP

C. L. Taylor

AT LEAST one of you will die tonight!” Amy, dressed as an elf, complete with hat and bells attached to the laces of her Doc Martens, is standing on a stool in the centre of the bookshop. For the last five minutes she’s valiantly tried, and largely failed, to explain the rules of the murder mystery game to the attendant readers, authors, literary agents and publishing professionals who have gathered in Paper Palace – London’s largest, oldest and most established bookshop – for their annual Christmas party.

Eleanor, Amy’s colleague and lead bookseller, looks on sympathetically. Normally their Christmas parties are more of a drink-and-mingle affair, but this year Amy suggested that they play a game instead. Her thinking was, because no one ever really mingles outside of their groups, that it might be a good way of getting their guests to interact. Eleanor couldn’t help but agree. In her experience the lesser-known writers huddle together in corners, and the well-known authors attract readers like bees to honey – well, the confident ones anyway. Most readers are of a more nervous disposition and tend to avoid interaction completely, preferring the company and safety of the books. They’re Eleanor’s favourite kind of human and she loves watching the way they reverentially drift from bookshelf to bookshelf, occasionally pausing to softly stroke a spine or carefully remove a novel from its resting place before they lovingly turn it over in their hands.

Publishing professionals are a different species. To Eleanor, who’s in her early fifties, they all look so impossibly young, thin and fresh-faced. They’re the newest recruits of course – overworked and underpaid but huge fans of literature, still so excited to acquire, market or publicise novels they love and launch them, with fanfare, out into the world. There aren’t many publishing employees that are the same age as Eleanor but those she can see have the same weary air of cynicism. They have survived the industry, possibly brought up children too, carried the weight of household tasks, and now they’re too exhausted to do anything else. There are a lot of agents in this group too. In contrast, the sales guys (both male and female) exude a confidence and bonhomie that she only wishes she had. Their laughter rings throughout the bookshop like chiming (sales) bells as they knock back the wine that the bookshop provided. Unlike their colleagues, they’ve dressed for the season in Christmas jumpers, headbands and ties.

The reaction to Amy’s murder mystery game is, understandably, mixed. The readers look horrified, the authors apprehensive and the publishing professionals and agents simply look resigned. Only Amy, the two well-known authors and the sales guys are excited about donning different personas and playing the game.

“Hello, Eleanor.” A tall grey-haired man with a ruddy complexion, generous nose and an air of dishevelment touches her on the elbow, making her jump.

“Martin, hi!” There’s genuine delight in her voice, tinged with a hint of apprehension. Back in the day – the mid-eighties to mid-nineties to be precise – Martin Rothschild was a huge name in crime fiction, up there with Elmore Leonard, Tom Clancy and Jeffrey Archer. He’s fallen out of favour since then – his blend of cynical private investigators, femmes fatales and hard-boiled storylines are no longer fashionable. While the supermarkets and Waterstones no longer stock his book, Paper Palace and a handful of other independent bookshops still place small but regular orders to cater to his diminishing band of loyal but ageing fans. Three of them were supposed to attend the party but cancelled at the last minute, citing illness, family emergencies and, in Cecile Hampton’s case, “an unfortunate reaction to an overly ripe Camembert cheese”. Eleanor didn’t ask for details.

“Christmas present for you.” Martin thrusts a beautifully wrapped parcel into her hands. She can tell immediately by its shape and weight that it’s a book.

“My latest hardback,” he says. “My last one.”

Before Eleanor can express her dismay, he adds, “It’s my own creation, in every way. I had it printed myself, commissioned a small run. I ensured it’s made of the very best quality paper with vibrant endpapers, sprayed edges, a ribbon – the works. I think that, if you’re going to bow out of publishing, you should do it in style. It’s a Yuletide tale, by the way.”

She turns the parcel over in her hands, touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Martin, this means a lot.”

Rather than respond, he gives a pursed-lipped nod then heads back into the fray, a weighty-looking plastic bag hanging from the crook of his arm.

“So those are the rules to the game!” Amy announces from across the room. Her elf hat has slipped so far back on her head that it looks like it’s trying to make its escape. “If everyone could please take a card from the table – don’t show them to each other please! – they’ll tell you all you need to know about your character, and whether you’re the murderer or not. To the victim, make sure you die in style!”

There’s a chorus of laughter, then the assembled guests drift towards the table, some more keen than others. Eleanor searches the crowd for Martin, but he appears to have disappeared, or else he’s hiding out of sight. She can’t help but feel sorry for him. After such a long career it feels wrong that he should have to self-publish his last book. Not that there’s anything wrong with self-publishing – she stocks several local self-published authors – but Martin Rothschild should have bowed out with aplomb during a celebration thrown by his publisher, given some kind of award, and maybe a re-jacketed anniversary edition of his most famous book. To end his career in such a quiet way makes her feel sad.

*   *   *

Forty-five minutes have passed since Amy invited the guests to select their characters, and the murder mystery game has descended into chaos. Almost everyone’s drunk, someone switched the festive tunes for Rage Against the Machine (which meant she had to run to turn it off before the lead singer reached the sweary chorus), and one of the literary agents, who was walking backwards to try and widen the gap between her and an aspiring author, tripped over the game’s ‘victim’, who had just that moment decided to lie on the floor and act dead. The glass of red wine the agent had been holding went flying and soaked an editorial assistant’s white dress. For the next fifteen minutes, everyone who hadn’t witnessed the incident approached the poor woman and questioned why she was walking around if she was a victim who’d been stabbed to death.

A handful of readers are still playing the game, tentatively approaching people with a notebook and pen in their hands. In contrast, the sales team are charging around the room demanding that a certain character ‘fess up’, promising books and freebies if they tell them the truth. Of the other publishing professionals, the senior editors are surreptitiously checking their watches, the agents are mingling, and the marketing and publicity girls are chatting about how much their contemporaries earn and how long they have to sit it out in their current roles before they can move on. Meanwhile, the authors are either wandering around aimlessly, talking to their agents or gossiping in small groups. The two high-profile authors, who’ve resolutely ignored each other all evening, have somehow been drawn together and are arguing loudly about the latest divisive scandal that’s hit the publishing world. As for the readers and book club members, all but a handful have slipped out of the front door and disappeared into the night. Eleanor’s been scurrying around all evening, mopping up wine spillages, rescuing book tables from being knocked over, and trying to stop random passers-by from wandering inside whenever one of her guests leaves or goes outside for a smoke.

“If everyone could gather round please!” Amy’s back on her stool, her hat abandoned, her cheeks flushed with stress. “That’s the end of the interrogation part of the game. If you could all please take a slip of paper from the table and write down who you think the murderer was, and what their motive might have been. When you’ve written it down, please fold the piece of paper in half and drop it into the Santa hat. There’s a bottle of champagne for the winner!” She waves it desperately above her head. “You’ve got five minutes to submit your answers. Just five minutes please!” From her raised vantage point she searches the crowd until her gaze falls on Eleanor. Her expression is pure Please God, let this end!

Eleanor shoots her a sympathetic glance then continues ringing in the last few alcohol-fuelled purchases through the till. When she looks up again, five minutes later, she spots guests pulling on their coats as Amy sorts through the guesses in the hat. She exhales softly. It’s nearly over, the party’s winding down. Movement in the corner of her eye makes her turn her head. Bill, one of only a handful of remaining book club members, is weaving his way through the shop carrying a tin of something in his hands. It’s mince pies, she realises, as he offers one to an author, then an agent, then a sales guy. Unusual, she’s never had him down as a Great British Bake Off type of man. Whatever his baking skills, he definitely seems to be avoiding his fellow readers. Each time they reach for the tin he swerves away. That’s not very Christian of the Reverend Bill Brown.

“Okay, everyone! It’s results time!” With the party now half-empty Amy doesn’t even bother to clamber up on her stool. The readers draw closer but authors, sales guys, editors and agents all continue on with their chats. Eleanor’s heart goes out to Amy. She’s been trying her best to make sure everyone has a good time and this is how she’s repaid? Irritated, Eleanor turns off the Christmas music, cups her hands to her mouth and bellows:

“Amy has the winner!”

The reaction is immediate. Conversations cease, apologetic faces are pulled and suddenly everyone’s feigning interest in the exhausted elf with a piece of paper in her hand. There’s a good reason why so many authors, agents and publishing staff have turned up to the Paper Palace Christmas party. With a subscription box boasting five thousand subscribers it’s enough to ensure that a hardback shoots straight into the Sunday Times Top Five on release. None of these people want a black mark against their book, client or publishing house – not when it’s Eleanor who chooses the novel for the box.

Amy flashes her a grateful smile then continues, “I’m pleased to say that a lot of you correctly guessed the murderer.” There’s a ripple of excitement (possibly faked) from the small crowd. “But only one of you guessed the motive correctly. The gardener, Ned Chambers, was indeed the murderer of Lady Elizabeth Arnold!” Several people cheer, one person claps, and one of the readers – a man called Arthur – takes a bow. “But,” Amy shouts, “it wasn’t anything to do with his prize-winning turnips.” She pauses as one of the sales guys boos. “It was because…” she leaves them hanging for a couple of seconds “…Lady Elizabeth walked in on him while he was making love to the cook, and she’d threatened to tell his wife.

“That’s right!” she adds as an excited squeak erupts from Rosie Bradford who, at eighteen, is the youngest member of the book club. “You’re the winner and this bottle of champagne is yours.” She hands it over to the blushing young girl. “Happy Christmas. Don’t drink it all at once!”

Eleanor slips from behind the counter and opens her arms wide. “On behalf of Paper Palace, I’d like to thank you all for coming along to our Christmas party. It certainly has been quite the night! I’d like to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and I hope Father Christmas brings you lots of books.”

Her speech generates nods, smiles, thank yous and a lot of Christmas greetings as the guests do up their coats and slowly file out of the shop until only Eleanor, Amy and Reverend Brown remain. Suddenly famished, she reaches inside his tin for the last remaining mince pie. Before her fingers so much as graze the soft, crumbly pastry, he whisks the tin out of reach.

“Not for you I’m afraid. I was given strict instructions.”

“By whom?” Eleanor stares at him. “I don’t think Mrs Brown would be that cruel, would she? I’m assuming it’s your wife who made them, rather than you?”

“Oh no, no, no.” The Reverend shakes his bald head briskly. “They were handed to me earlier, by a departing guest. I was told that, under no circumstances, should I give them to book club members, readers or booksellers. I did ask why but no answer was forthcoming. They were very clear – under no circumstance was I to give them to anyone who doesn’t work in—”

“Which guest?” Eleanor asks.

“Absolutely, yes. You’ll want to thank them of course. It was… um…” The Reverend frowns and touches his thumb to his chin. “It’ll come to me in a second.”

“Could you describe them? It’s important.”

“Eleanor.” Before he can answer, Amy approaches in a thin Christmas jumper and leggings, her elf costume discarded. “I’m confused.”

“About what?” Her gaze still fixed on the Reverend, Eleanor doesn’t immediately notice the card her colleague is holding out to her.

“Why did you change the rules to the game?” Amy asks.

“I’m sorry?”

“On the card. The printed instructions said one of you will die tonight but you added at least so it read at least one of you will die tonight. That’s why the game went on for as long as it did. I was waiting for someone else to drop dead.”

Eleanor peers at the card. Sure enough, someone’s added a handwritten at least to the top of the card. “That wasn’t me.” She glances at the Reverend, who shrugs.

“Nothing to do with me.”

“I thought the game was new,” Amy continues, “when it arrived in the post, but it’s obviously second-hand. If I’d known you hadn’t altered the instructions, I wouldn’t have read out the amendment. Whoever sent it to me obviously plays it differently. Maybe the second victim adds a bit of a twist?”

Eleanor’s brain is whirring, and she’s got a sick feeling in her stomach, and not because she’s hungry. “I thought the game was your idea, that you’d bought it specifically.”

Amy shakes her head. “God no, I haven’t even got my tree up yet, I’m not that organised. There was a card that came with it. It said, The Paper Palace Christmas party is nearly upon us, and I thought this might help set the mood. I thought that was a bit odd. I mean… how does a murder mystery game set the mood for a Christmas party? But then I—”

“Thought it might get our guests to mingle and interact.” Eleanor turns sharply towards the Reverend. “Have you remembered who gave them to you?”

“Yes!” The older man’s expression brightens, he’s very keen to help. “I’ve got it. It was that wonderful author. Big hit in the eighties and nineties. What’s his name? Martin… Martin something. Oh gosh. It was on the tip of my tongue a second ago, and now it’s… wait, I’ve got it! Martin Rothschild!”

My own creation, in everyway…

Heart pounding, Eleanor rushes back to the counter. You’re overreacting, says the logical part of her brain as she searches for the present Martin gave her earlier. It’s the murder mystery, it’s got you thinking about crime. But there’s no reasoning with the rush of fear that just passed through her body.

“What’s going on?” Amy joins her as Eleanor plucks at the tape on the parcel with trembling fingers.

She doesn’t reply, she can’t. She’s too focused on getting the paper off the book and—

A strangled gasp catches in her throat as she reveals the title.

“How to Commit Murder in a Bookshop,” says the Reverend, leaning over the counter, his head tilted to get a better look. “That’s prescient, given the game we just played.”

Trembling, Eleanor flips through the pages until she reaches the dedication:

To all the agents and editors who gave the thumbs down to my ideas, the sales teams who failed to get my novels into supermarkets, the marketing and publicity teams who paid my books lip service, and the authors who refused to give me a quote. This book is for you.

Too scared to read on, it takes all of Eleanor’s courage to turn the page. Voice trembling, she reads aloud:

“Chapter One.

“The perfect place to commit murder is at a party. A bookshop Christmasparty, filled with all the people who have wronged you, is even better than that. All you need is a motive, an escape plan (ideally a flight abroad, the same day), a warning delivered via a game, an unsuspecting but helpful reader, a slow-acting and untraceable poison, and some home-cooked mince pies in a tin…”

CHRISTMAS YET TO COME

Helen Fields

MARLEY WAS alive, to begin with.

He would remain that way until his body was found on New Year’s Day of the freshly birthed century. He was red-cheeked and jolly on Christmas Eve 1899, ready for the afternoon’s visitors, and dressed in a charcoal grey frock coat, a plum-coloured waistcoat, finished off with a champagne silk cravat. And if the buttons on his waistcoat were straining somewhat, then that would simply signal to his visitors how well he was doing.

“Money begets money,” he told his mirror image, tucking a few strands of hair behind his ears. He really should have visited the barber, but there was so little time and too much to do. Such were the burdens of being a successful businessman.

A mousey knock at the door irritated him, mainly because it reminded Marley of his wife, who had died the previous December. Malnutrition, the physician had claimed, which was ridiculous. She’d had access to plenty of food. The woman must have taken leave of her senses to have deliberately stopped eating. Her family hadn’t ceased hounding him since.

“In!” he commanded. It opened a crack and a young man put his face to the gap. “What is it?”

“They’re gathering in the great hall, sir. Cook is mulling the wine, and it will be ready to serve as soon as you come down.”

“Good. And tell Cook to use the smaller ladle so the wine goes further. Better that they see us offering a second cup rather than one large one.”

“Yes, Mr Marley.” His Adam’s apple was bobbing in his throat and Jonathan Marley was tempted to grab ahold of it to keep it still. The door closed softly and Marley checked his image one last time.

Sixty-five years had barely marked his face. His skin was smooth, his lips generous, the thickness of his hair undiminished by age, resembling the pictures of his father as a young man. But it was his own natural intelligence that had allowed him to take his uncle Jacob’s riches and put them to even more astute use than the old man. Jacob Marley had passed in 1836 when Jonathan was taking his first steps. His own father’s earlier death meant that the family inheritance had passed to him upon his majority. And hadn’t he done his uncle proud?

Exiting his personal chambers, making sure to close the door to keep in the warmth from the fires – one in every room, because cold was the enemy of health – Marley walked slowly down the stairs, past the entrance to the kitchens below and into the rear hallways of the Marley Memorial Workhouse.

Two small boys stood in front of the doors to the great hall, wearing matching woollen jackets and smart new trousers, faces gleaming from a recent scrubbing. As Marley approached, they lowered their heads and pushed open the doors.

Those who had been sitting stood, and those already standing put down their drinks to issue a polite round of applause as Marley meandered across the room in the direction of the enormous fireplace at the far end, surrounded by a huge wreath of winter greenery and white-berried mistletoe. Spices heated in candle wax created a fragrant cloud, and the fire’s glow enhanced the sheen of glistening carved meats and candied fruits laid out on a long table. Several of the platters were already half empty, Marley noted. His guests would strip the place clean if he let them. Still, if a little expenditure was what it took to do business then he knew better than to skimp. His uncle had been frugal, making his fortune from money lending and foreclosure, and he’d done well at it. But the younger Marley, as he thought of himself, had embraced the new age. Production was where the money might be found now, in large-scale operations needing an endless supply of cheap labour. Greenwich, where the workhouse was situated – with its docks, factories and sugar refineries – was a veritable goldmine. With financial success came greater social standing, and with that came even more business. So much so that he was contemplating opening another workhouse in south London as industry expanded in that direction.

A servant offered Marley a large cup of Smoking Bishop and he took a sip of the steaming wine before raising his hand for quiet.

“My dear guests, I thank you for joining me this afternoon for our humble Yuletide celebrations.” There were around one hundred people in the hall and it wasn’t even a fraction full, used as it was to seating five times that number for meals. “Join me in a toast if you will, to the year behind us and the year ahead. May it be even more profitable!” A cheer went up and he raised his cup high. “Now, you are invited to join me on a tour of our home for the destitute, to whom you so kindly provide employment and the benefits it brings – food, clothing, medicine and education. The Marley Memorial Workhouse is proud of the services we offer you, and grateful that we give so much to the needy.” It was, give or take a phrase, the same speech he offered every year.

*   *   *

Tim Cratchit stood close to the fire and let the heat soothe his aching leg. The rickets he’d suffered in early childhood had taken its toll, not that he wasn’t grateful for the long life he’d enjoyed since then, but the winter made him feel every one of his sixty-eight years. The inheritance he’d received from a benefactor – his deceased father’s employer – gave his family sufficient to live on, although they eschewed excess and luxury, preferring to keep a simple home. Instead, with a wife he adored and a daughter who was the light of his life, Cratchit could cope with anything except cruelty. Cruelty was the thorn beneath his skin that no needle could extract, and it was the reason for his visit to the workhouse that Christmas Eve.

The Cratchit family had heard tales of the Marley workhouse: how it was one of the few workhouses that allowed families to remain together and that school mistresses taught letters and numbers to the children. It was said that food bowls could be filled more than once, and that cheese was served on a Saturday and meat on a Sunday. Fresh milk was given to the children so that their bones might grow strong. A far cry from so many similar places that the Poor Laws controlled, where silence was mandated at all times.

Tim Cratchit wanted to believe it. He needed, perhaps desperately, to see an improvement in the behaviour of the wealthy and privileged in London after his many years of peaceful campaigning and purposeful persuasion. And yet his spirit was waning, and his daughter Adelaide was worried about him. Not that she’d ever said it out loud, but he knew.

“Father, Mr Marley is starting the tour.” They moved towards a small door at the side of the great hall. Cratchit prepared for the chill of the hallway, yet when the door opened, there was no river of cold air. The diminutive windows were covered with thick curtains to keep the winter at bay, and lanterns spilled golden light onto the stairs before them. A bottleneck formed as they went one by one to the upper floor, and Adelaide dropped back to allow him to go ahead.

“Doesn’t seem so bad,” the man behind Cratchit boomed as he hauled himself up the steps. “Don’t know what all the fuss is about from the do-gooders. Place is as warm as my home, and Marley’s not afraid to burn the candles, is he?”

“Indeed,” Cratchit replied pleasantly. “I’m pleased to see so much light. The eyes of those who inhabit these places are often the worse for such dark conditions.”

“Quite right,” came the reply amid the huffs of one who climbed fewer stairs each day than was healthy. “Poor eyesight leads to shoddy workmanship. Marley has calculated what’s in his best interests. A healthier workforce means he can charge more for their labour.”

Their first stop was a schoolroom with a teacher pointing at a slate in front of a row of boys who were dutifully repeating the letters she said aloud. They wore felt jackets over woollen shorts. It was only the second time he’d seen a workhouse providing education, and it gladdened his heart. Without teaching, those housed under the Poor Laws had no hope of anything better. Education was everything. He and his wife had begun teaching Adelaide to read as soon as she could hold a book. Perhaps, his wife said now, they had focused a little too hard on her education at the expense of her private life. Adelaide was in her mid-thirties and unmarried, and it was not for want of a pretty face or a pleasant character. She was skilled, too: accomplished at calligraphy, drawing and painting, able to reproduce the works of botanical illustrators Margaret Flockton and Arthur Church so finely that none but the original artists themselves might tell the difference between their own work and Adelaide’s reproduction, in either the artwork or the scientific notes below. Adelaide’s work brought the world’s flora and fauna inside their house so that every room resembled Adelaide’s beloved orangery at Kew Gardens.

*   *   *

Tim Cratchit moved along and rounded a corner just as Adelaide stopped to watch the lesson in progress. She leaned against the doorframe, listening to the rote learning of As, Bs and Cs as the remaining onlookers filed past her. Jonathan Marley could still be heard in the distance, instructing his crowd of well-fed followers on the comings and goings of his residents. He was something of an enigma in London society, not dissimilar to Adelaide herself.

She knew perfectly well that people regarded her as an oddity. What sort of woman did not crave the security of matrimony? She’d had enough offers, after all. Worse than that, she was a woman who appeared unconcerned by the prospect of never having children. People asked, from time to time, why she had not fulfilled her duty to marry and become a mother. Her answer was because she’d never found a place where her skills were in demand.

One of the boys glanced over at her. Adelaide offered a sweet smile and a nod of encouragement for the lesson. His eyes widened, his head whipped back to focus on the teacher, and he rubbed the back of his right leg with one hand as his lips caught up with sounds they were supposed to be making.

“We should move along, Miss,” a voice cautioned from behind Adelaide. “Mr Marley said everyone should stay together.”

Adelaide looked at the serving girl, who was wringing her hands and biting her bottom lip.

“Of course. It’s just so nice to see children learning. Are the girls taught in the same way?”

“The girls are taught sewing, laundry and housekeeping.”

“I see. May I ask your name?”

“Saddler, Miss.”

“No, your first name. I couldn’t possibly call you by your surname.”

The young woman’s cheeks reddened. “Clara.”

“Well, Clara,” she said. “Could I request a glass of water, please? A little of the salt beef seems to have caught in my throat. I’ll catch up with the group, if you could bring it to me?”

The girl shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I’ll bring some water from the kitchen.” She dashed back towards the great hall.

*   *   *

Some way ahead, Adelaide’s father was inspecting dormitories. Each bed had a pillow and blanket, and at the end of every room was a fireplace stacked high with wood. Better than all that though – a revelation, actually – was the fact that some of the rooms featured a full-size bed for a mother and smaller pallets or cots for children. Family rooms, unheard of in the workhouse system, had finally arrived. Cratchit put a hand to his chest. The thing he’d been advocating for many decades, preventing mothers from being separated from babies and young children, was a reality. It would help, he believed, in reducing infant mortality rates and maternal suicides. Time and again, doctors diagnosed hysteria in women whose children were taken from them, and after that they were fit only for Bedlam.

“Adult residents work only ten hours per day,” Marley was announcing from the head of the line, “and children below the age of fourteen work only eight. Those younger than that work only as many hours as their supervisors assess them fit to safely undertake.”

“You’re going soft, Marley!” someone called. “And asking us to put our hands in our pockets to support this? These people are lucky to have a roof over their head at all!”

Cratchit sighed. It was the same old refrain. Why help the poor? Because we are brothers, he always replied. Some more fortunate than others, granted. Some born onto straw and others onto silk, but all their blood ran red.

“Nothing more than good business,” Marley retorted. “Employ the workers I house, and you will get the finest low-cost labour on the market.”

A maid appeared at the back of the hallway carrying a glass of water and looking frantically around, which made Cratchit wonder where his daughter had got to. It was ever her way, wandering off. Adelaide was more than most men wanted to take on – too intelligent, too enquiring, too irrepressible. From the moment she could walk, she’d run them ragged with her curiosity, and they had encouraged it, little thinking of a future where she might end up alone. He felt the familiar flush of pride and sting of sadness as he imagined it.

As if he’d summoned her with his mind, Adelaide appeared behind the maid, tapped her on the shoulder, and took the glass of water with cheerful thanks. Cratchit made his way to her as Marley led them down a final set of steps and back into the great hall, stepping to the side of the doorway to shake the hand of each of his guests as they filed past him. Cratchit and Adelaide were last.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Marley extended his hand. “I do hope you and your wife found the visit informative.”

Cratchit almost managed to keep the frown off his forehead. “This is my daughter,” he corrected.

“Ah,” Marley said, extending the vowel as he turned to Adelaide and bowed. “Forgive me, Miss. Then you are unmarried?”

“Indeed,” Adelaide said, smiling pleasantly and causing Cratchit to wonder if she was feeling quite herself. “I’ve been astounded tonight, sir. You’re quite the forward thinker.”

“A rare compliment coming from a member of the fairer sex,” Marley said. “May I ask your name?”

“Adelaide, and this is my father, Timothy Cratchit.”

Marley’s smile faltered only for the briefest of moments.

“Cratchit. Of course. I hadn’t been made aware that you were visiting. Your reputation for campaigning on behalf of the less fortunate in society precedes you.”

“And we are greatly relieved and impressed that much of that work has been reflected in the changes you’ve made here, Mr Marley,” Adelaide murmured. “I’ve waited so long to visit an establishment with a classroom and proper heating, not to mention the family rooms. Whilst I would be happier if such institutions did not exist at all, I recognise that we would need to rid the world of poverty for that to become a reality.”

Marley drew himself up, chin out, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Miss Cratchit, you do your father proud. So few women are able to understand the wider world. Allow me to escort you to find a proper drink. Our cook has expertly mulled the wine this year.” He held out his arm, and Cratchit watched his daughter slip hers through. Whatever Adelaide had seen that night must have impressed her. She was no more easily charmed than a viper.

One full hour later, as the unburdened platters meant that the hall was also emptying, Cratchit made his way back to Adelaide, who was laughing at whatever story Marley was telling. She looked sheepishly at him as he approached.

“Father,” she said sweetly, “tell me it is not time for us to leave already.”

“I’m afraid it is, my dear. Your mother will be waiting. And it is Christmas Eve. There are gifts to be exchanged. I’m surprised you had forgotten.”

Adelaide looked at Marley and beamed. “I do so love Christmas. It’s my favourite time of the year.”

“The servant will find your coat and gloves, Miss Adelaide, but I wonder if I might have a private word with your father before you depart.”

“No need for that,” Cratchit said, many years past thinking Adelaide would walk away and leave men to converse behind her back. “Whatever you wish to say, Mr Marley, my daughter is equipped to hear.”

Marley moved his shoulders one at a time, and raised his chin. “Very well then. I understand that this may be forward, but I am well acquainted with your reputation and I’m sure you’re fully familiar with my status. What you may not know is that my wife sadly left this Earth after a brief illness one year ago, and we were never blessed with offspring. I have since hoped that I might meet another who could fill her shoes, and I would very much like to discuss the possibility of taking your daughter’s hand in—”

“Out of the question,” Cratchit snapped.

“I appreciate that this is unexpected, but I have been impressed by Miss Cratchit’s bearing and self-possession.”

Cratchit took a deep breath and folded his arms. Adelaide put a gentle hand out between the two men.

“Father, you’ve been taken by surprise, as have I, but I am not averse to the suggestion. I’ve waited beyond what is considered reasonable for a marriage proposal, and I believe that our campaign might be bolstered by showing others that we respect the example Mr Marley has set here.”

Cratchit stared at his daughter, lips slightly apart. “I don’t understand,” he said softly.

“It’s time for me to leave home. A decade past time, if we’re honest. Here I will have the opportunity to continue your good work.”

“I would take a house in due course,” Marley cut in. “My accommodations upstairs are comfortable, but I would not expect a new wife to live for long in such a place.”

“We should discuss this at home. It is not a matter to decide in haste—”

“I am lonely, Father. And a man who has been married before is likely to be kinder. Mr Marley can take care of me, much as you have done, and I’m grateful for his offer. More than grateful. I’m minded to accept.”

Marley took Adelaide’s hand and gripped it. Cratchit knew his tight smile would not fool his daughter, but he knew, too, that once her mind was set on something there would be no changing it.

Cratchit nodded at his offspring. “So be it. I will not withhold my consent if this is what you truly wish, Adelaide, not that my consent should be relevant at your age. You know your own mind. I would prefer only that you did not rush matters.”

“But too long a wait might be foolhardy. We none of us are guaranteed tomorrow,” Marley said, raising his eyebrows sagely.

Adelaide pressed her lips together, holding back a smile.

“Quite so, sir,” she said. “But I believe we have some terms to agree before our engagement can be formalised.”

Across the hall, the maid was coughing quietly into the crook of her arm while she gathered used cups with her free hand, her skin a slick, waxy grey. At the far end, a manservant was staring across at her, his brows drawn into a deep frown. He handed hats and scarves to a group of three men who were standing in a corner, whispering fiercely to one another and watching Marley.

“Mr Marley,” one of the men called over. “A word?”

Marley pulled a face. “Now is not the time. I can offer you an audience in the New Year.”

“Unacceptable,” another of the men said. They approached briskly. Marley stepped forward to intercept.

“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my wife-to-be, Adelaide, and her father Timothy Cratchit. I’m sure you’ve heard of his charitable and reform works.”

The men glared at Cratchit. Adelaide broke the thick silence.

“Are these friends of yours, Mr Marley?”

“Partners, of a sort,” one of them answered before Marley could speak.

“Then I would not keep you much longer. I understand that in business, even Christmas sometimes must wait. Gentlemen, may I request an hour with Mr Marley before you speak with him? Perhaps, sir, you could meet your associates thereafter?” She touched Marley’s arm gently as she put the question to him. “Is there not an inn close by that would provide a suitable venue?”

“Indeed,” Marley said, nodding. “The Sea Witch Pub is but a few minutes’ walk from here.”

The men mumbled and rolled their eyes, but did not argue and soon disappeared. Cratchit agreed to depart for home, provided the maid remained with his daughter for propriety’s sake while she and Marley finished their conversation.

“You are sure, dear one?” he whispered as he hugged her goodbye.

“Never more sure of anything, Father. It was fate that brought me here tonight. Do not worry. I will see myself home. And do not wait up! We will celebrate tomorrow.”

*   *   *

Once her father had gone, Marley took Adelaide’s hand and they stood talking before the dwindling fire.

“I have an engagement ring, Miss Adelaide, in my rooms. It was my mother’s, although I appreciate that you might wish for a newer one to be purchased.”

“Not so,” Adelaide replied. “I’m all for traditions, Mr Marley, and not a vain woman. A ring is a mark of commitment. It should remind us of family and values. I would be pleased to accept your mother’s. I can ask the maid for wine to toast with while you fetch it.”

Marley exited, and Adelaide called for more cups of mulled wine, as hot as they could come. The maid disappeared and Adelaide considered everything she’d seen that evening. Outside on the street, carol singers sang ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ and her heart soared. There was so much beauty in the world, so much potential for good. She was right where she was needed at that moment, heralding in change.

Clara brought the steaming cups and, regardless of what her father had said, Adelaide dismissed her – the girl looked fit to collapse. She stumbled on her way towards the door and was helped up by a manservant who escorted her out. Adelaide busied herself adjusting the flora of the Christmas wreath as she awaited Marley’s return.

He took the cups from her and set them on the hearth, before drawing a red velvet box from his waistcoat pocket and opening it to reveal a small but perfect pear-shaped diamond set on a gold band.

“Adelaide Cratchit, would you do me the honour – as unexpected as the evening has been – of becoming my wife?”

“I will,” she said. She allowed Marley to slip the ring on her finger. It was a little large but it flickered merrily in the firelight. She picked up the cups of wine and handed Marley his. “Let’s toast to our nuptials, and set the wedding date for a month to the day.”

“A month to the day.” He knocked the rim of his cup against hers. “I should call on your family to meet your mother. Would Boxing Day be an appropriate time?”

“Oh, we are rather overrun with charitable and church commitments this season. On Boxing Day we deliver food and coal to those who are most in need. Would you care to join us?”

“I think perhaps, then, that I should wait. It hardly seems a fitting way to spend my first hour with your family. Perhaps a day or two after New Year, once your commitments are done?”

“Perfect! And you will allow me to assist you here when we are married? I should like to be involved in the good you are doing.”

“I have a better role for you. You are so warm and welcoming, I would appreciate it if you would spread word of the changes you have seen here. I would like people to know that I keep my residents fit, healthy and fed. To encourage others to bring change, you understand.”

“I do,” Adelaide said, raising her cup once more. “To you, my husband-to-be, and to change. And to the poor who have not the power to help themselves.” She finished her wine and Marley did the same, putting his cup down and looking up at the wreath above them.

“May I kiss you beneath the mistletoe, Miss Adelaide? It seems the most fitting way to seal our happy agreement.”

She leant forward and offered him her cheek. He kissed it with lips still wet from the wine; she paused before wiping it daintily away.

“I should go. My mother will have questions about dresses and wedding feasts. And you have a meeting to attend.”

“I do,” he said with a sigh. “It will be a blessing to have a wife to take care of me.”

Marley called for a servant, and the young man appeared who had stopped the maid from stumbling, bringing both Marley’s cloak and Adelaide’s coat with him. They wrapped up against the cold and departed together, Marley heading for the Sea Witch Pub and Adelaide looking for a coach to hail. She looked over at Marley as he disappeared around a corner, then made her way back to the workhouse, knocking loudly. The same man answered, himself in a coat and ready to exit.

“I’m sorry to bother you. You’ll be aware by now that Mr Marley and I are engaged to be married. I had planned to ask him to show me his rooms, but we were carried away making arrangements. Do you think you could accompany me to them briefly? I have a gift I wish to leave there.”

“I’m not sure, Miss,” he said.

“I would not ask, but if I’m to live here until a house is purchased then I should like to see my new home. I confess, I am a little nervous.”

He bowed his head, and showed Adelaide to the back stairs and Marley’s chambers.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to check on my sister. She’s been taken proper bad.”

“Not Clara?”

“The same,” he replied, his voice cracking.

“Poor girl,” Adelaide said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He hesitated. “You could show yourself out when you’ve taken a look? I need to tell her boys that their ma is unwell. I wouldn’t normally ask but—”

“Absolutely. It will be our secret that I was ever here. I know my way back to the door. May I ask your name before you go?”

“My given name’s Perry, ’though we go mostly by surnames here.”

“Well, that’s not how I do things. Thank you, Perry. You may go.”

He left, wringing his hands, his face gloomy.

Adelaide looked around Marley’s sitting room and study, with its comfortable velvet armchairs and walnut desk. The curtains were luxurious, and the fireplace generous for the space that required heating. She didn’t bother looking into the bedroom or the bathroom. Instead, she sat at the desk. It was covered in business agreements and personal letters ready to send with Marley’s grand, swirling signature. She imagined drawing there in the light of the bay window. Adelaide lit a candle, then picked up a pen and a clean sheet of Marley’s headed paper, looked around the desk for inspiration and began to work, intent on leaving a picture of mistletoe on her fiancé’s desk to mark their first kiss.

*   *   *

Jonathan Marley’s body was discovered on New Year’s Day in the fresh century. His remains had washed ashore near the Broadness Lighthouse – swollen, battered and blackened to such an extent that he would have been unrecognisable but for the gold pocket watch, inscribed with his name, that was still fastened to his waistcoat by its chain. He was first spotted by a ragtag group of children throwing stones into the Thames and hunting the river’s edge for lost treasures. The body was more than they had bargained for, though the tale would earn them pennies at the local ale houses, enough to make up for the shock.

The police hooked the body out of the water by boat, the bank too treacherous with ice for anyone to get close. From there, Marley was rowed up the river to the dead house and inspected by the County Coroner.

The police knocked at Cratchit’s door before the London papers could put the details to press, and found Adelaide and her mother baking brown bread pudding.

“Miss Cratchit. Sorry to bother you.”

“It’s no bother,” Adelaide said brightly. “Happy New Year! Can I offer you a drink? We still have a little wine from Christmas.” The constables shifted uncomfortably on their feet until Adelaide’s face dropped. “What’s happened? Is it Father?”

Mrs Cratchit’s hand flew to her chest.

“Not Mr Cratchit, no, but I’m afraid there has been a tragedy. Mr Jonathan Marley, to whom I understand you had recently become engaged, has been found dead.”

“But… how? I don’t understand. He was due to come here and meet my mother. Surely there’s been some mistake. He was in good health when last I saw him.”

“The coroner has determined that it was not a drowning. It’s hard to say if there was an attack, forgive me for speaking so in front of you ladies, but when a body has been in the water any length of time it no longer resembles the man. Mr Marley suffered no broken bones and had not been relieved of his pocket watch, so the motive seems not to have been robbery.”

Adelaide sank into a chair and put her hands to her face. “We were to marry at the end of this month! I had begun sewing my dress.” She pointed with shaking fingers to a simple cream dress that was hanging in the corner of the room, covered in paper to protect it from the fire soot.

“I’m sorry to ask, but did his behaviour seem odd to you the last time you saw him?”

“Not at all,” she cried. “We toasted our agreement and made plans, then he went to meet some gentlemen at the Sea Witch Pub, near the glucose refinery.”

“Indeed, one of Mr Marley’s wardens said he’d set off for a meeting there, so we enquired with the landlord. It’s not unknown for their customers to end up in the Thames after an excess of drinking, but apparently Mr Marley was somewhat pensive, and left quite soon after he’d arrived. He appeared to exit rather fast: ‘like the Devil himself was chasing him’, were the landlord’s words. Perhaps his business meeting did not go so well…”

“May the poor man rest in peace,” Mrs Cratchit muttered. “How terrible.” Adelaide reached out and gripped her mother’s hand.

“As Mr Marley had his own keys to his accommodations, we know little more about his movements thereafter.”

Adelaide drew a handkerchief from her pocket. “He was my last chance. I am considered too old for matrimony already.”

“Do not cry, my love,” her mother said. “You will have other suitors. Gentlemen, unless you have any other questions, perhaps you would leave us in peace?” she asked gently.

One of them stepped forward to talk quietly to Mrs Cratchit. “It was, in fact, Mr Timothy Cratchit we were hoping to speak with.”

The front door opened as if Cratchit had been waiting for his cue. He looked around the room, took off his hat, and stepped forward to put a protective arm around his wife.

“What’s all this now? Constables, is something wrong?”

“Mr Cratchit, forgive the intrusion, but did you happen to communicate with Mr Marley between Christmas Eve night and the twenty-seventh of December?”

“Not at all. I’ve been with my family,” he explained.

“What is the point of the question, may I ask?” Mrs Cratchit was suddenly bristling.

“Father, Jonathan Marley is dead and there are outstanding questions regarding his fate,” Adelaide explained.

“Surely it is not true,” Cratchit said. “Adelaide, my dear, this is such a shock. Tell me how I can assist.”