Ebenezer Scrooge And The Boxing Day Murders

Mrs. Dilber, Laundry Maid: I been wit’ old Scrooge all his life: I washed his diapers, and his piss-stained sheets, and his cod-piece all crusty and yellow. But I’m done cleaning his messes now. I seen him born, and now I seen him dead. It was me what found them, he and his wife, stabbed full of holes like swiss cheese, drained bone white they was. I’ll never get the blood out of them sheets. You couldn’t get two pence for any of it now. May as well burn the whole lot: sheets, mattress, bed clothes… But Semy wants everything tidied up neat and proper like. Semy can kiss my ass if he wants me to scrub them sheets.

Semy Harsehole, Butler: Yes, I joined the Scrooge Household after his conversion. I was his valet, at first, but as we added more staff, I was promoted to Butler. I shall not discuss any of Mr. Scrooge’s affairs, other than I heartily welcomed his wife, Mrs. Davenport-Scrooge, as I was certain it would usher in an era of stability. As for the complaints lodged by staff, I side with Mr. Scrooge in all these matters. To wit, please direct Mrs. Dilber to meet me in the laundry, as I am still the butler and I have something for her ass if those sheets have not been washed clean.

Kelly Doolittle, Housekeeper: He said we have no reason to complain? That’s all well and good for Mr. Arsehole, but I saw several improprieties, and what happened to the Scrooges doesn’t surprise me. I don’t want to say they had it coming, but to stab two people that many times, one must be rather angry. And Mr. Scrooge riled up most of the staff at one time or another. I’ve heard all about his rebirth after being visited upon by ghosts, but when I was hired, the veneer of kindness had been rubbed clean off. I’ve worked for wealthy people all my life, and it’s always grand as long as they get what they want, and keep their money in the bargain. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was Mr. Arsehole himself that butchered those people in their bed. Arsehole has the key to every room in the house. Ask him about his nocturnal dalliance with a certain maid, and the recent cut in staff wages.

Sebastian Cockburne, Scrooge’s Valet: I liked Ebenezer. He took me on when no one else would, and treated me fairly. Now Mrs. Davenport-Scrooge, she was a fucking bitch if ever there was. But I didn’t have to deal with her, did I? As long as Ebenezer got what he needed… Yeah, part of what he needed was visits from Rosie Palmer. I liked her just fine, if you know what I mean. I’ll never understand why he didn’t just shove that dried up old Davenport out the door and spend the rest of his days with Rosie Palmer.

Keira Bickerton, Lady Davenport’s Maid: It’s just so horrible to be killed in your own bed—by a servant, no less. Of course I think it was one of them. They all hated Lady Davenport, whom I’ve proudly served for twenty years. How she became enchanted with that cruel man, I’ll never understand. Despite Scrooge’s public generosity, there was a coldness in his heart towards the staff, whereas Lady Davenport, or rather, Mrs. Scrooge, had true kindness for everyone. It was I who urged her to dismiss Mr. Cockburne, a couth and vulgar man who led Mr. Scrooge astray with that filthy Rosie Palmer. And I’m not revealing any secrets when I inform you that Coutts, the footman, is an ex-convict.

Seymour Coutts, Footman: The only property that ever went missing while I was on the job was the silver spoon Bickerton shoved up her own ass because she was too good to squat and shit like the rest of us. And no, I didn’t like Scrooge’s holier than thou wife, or anybody, really. Fuck ’em all, I say. Except Cockburne. I got hired on account of him and I’d do anything for him… Yeah, I’d stab Scrooge and his stupid cow of a wife if Cockburne asked, but he didn’t ask. We had a good thing there in the house. Why’d we want to go fuck it all up by stabbing the money?

Gracie McCracken, Housemaid: I admit I was about to be dismissed. I’d had relations with Mr. Harsehole, but we’d both come to our senses and put a stop to it. That vile creature, Dilber, blackmailed us and informed Scrooge when we refused to pay. So they were putting us both out. What? Oh, yes, Mr. Harsehole, as butler, was given a few more weeks until a replacement was arranged. Sadly, I’m returning to the workhouse because of several outstanding debts, and my prospects are bleak, at best. But I wouldn’t murder them over that. And I certainly wouldn’t use a knife to kill them. I’m a housemaid: I would have set their bed on fire while they slept.

Chloe Chapman-Kitchen, Cook: If you ask me, old Scrooge was asking for it with those Boxing Day gifts. Some ribbons, a few buttons and one mince-meat pie? I thought he was joking, but nobody laughed. I think he needed another visit from them ghosts what set him straight five years ago, but too late for that. Scrooge made a show of reform, but really he just learned to hide the cruelty, just like I learned long ago to hide the spoiled meat with plenty of salt and pepper. Me and the girls, that’s Phoebe and Maisie, we think it could’ve been any of the lot. They were all pissed off about the Boxing Day gift. Except wee Harry Swallow, of course. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, even if I served it to him in his soup.

Harry Swallow, Houseboy: I seen who done it. I had diarrhea that night, I think from the mince-meat pie, so I snuck upstairs to use Mr. Scrooge’s fancy shitter—he’d never know—when I saw the killers go into the Scrooges’ bed chamber. It was half a dozen of them, the butler, the housekeeper, the valet, the footman, the housemaid, and the laundress, each visiting in turn, unawares that someone had already stabbed those poor souls. First was Seymour, and I heard the groans, so I stayed where I was, scared to death. Then the rest came, one after the other, like terrible ghosts come to steal the Scrooges’ souls. I haven’t slept more than a wink since it happened, and I promised myself I wouldn’t say anything, but now Old Scrooge and his wife, Lady Davenport, they visit me in the night, urging me to exact their revenge. They appear in their blood-stained bed clothes, with cuts and gaping wounds, chanting, “Harry, avenge us. Avenge us!” Please, sir, tell me how to make them stop.

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