By Meara Kincade
Marley was dead. Each nail in his coffin bore witness to that.
It was a dreary affair, his funeral. There were no mourners—practically no living souls save the minister, two grave diggers, and Scrooge. Yes, Scrooge. Covetous old sinner! Preoccupied solely with why Jacob couldn’t have died when coffins were cheaper.
He turned to leave, but a shadowy figure in the far corner of the graveyard gave him pause. Further inspection revealed no one there.
“Pooh!” he muttered, turning homeward. “Must be an undigested bit of beef.”
***
The next day, after spending the morning examining Marley’s papers, Scrooge lifted his old bones from his chair to leave for lunch. He jiggled his safe’s handle, ensuring it was still secured.
Satisfied, he took up his cane and crept into the main room, only to see his accountant lifting an extra lump of coal toward the fire.
“Grieves!” he growled. “What have I told you about extra coal?”
Ethel’s chestnut braid flew through the air as she spun to face her employer. “N-No superfluous—”
“Speak up, girl!” He stamped his cane.
Her green eyes darted to meet his as she raised her voice. “—waste of resources.”
Scrooge snatched the lump from her gloveless hands. “See that you don’t.” He jerked his sharp chin toward her open ledger. “Finish that before I return.”
Mumbling an acquiescence, Ethel scrambled back to her duties, her pen scratching feverishly as Scrooge stalked away. The girl still trembled, her drafty coat doing precious little to ward off winter’s chill, but perhaps she would be warmer once the old wretch left.
Downtown, Scrooge ate a simple lunch before returning to his counting house. None called out as he passed, and even the wind was too afraid to blow harshly around him.
Nearing the office, Scrooge spied two men exiting. He lengthened his stride, calling out a gruff, “Can I help—you.” The last word morphed into a growl. “As I said four months ago, I want nothing to do with your collection for the poor.”
“But please, sir,” began the first, kneading his hat brim. “We were hoping your liberality had—”
“Liberality!” He thumped his cane. “If they don’t wish to go to workhouses, let them die and decrease the surplus population!”
“But, sir,” tried the second.
“Leave me in peace!” Scrooge brandished his cane so fiercely that the solicitors prudently chose a hasty retreat.
“Fools.” He entered his establishment only to find Ethel’s post vacant.
A metallic click echoed from the back, and Scrooge’s eyes narrowed. He followed the sound to his office. Noting his account’s position before the now-open safe, he barked, “Grieves!”
She jumped, coins falling from her pockets to the floor. “Y-You’re back!”
“Give them here.” He held out his hand.
Fingers trembling, she placed the coins in his outstretched palm. “I-I—”
“Your salary’s picked my pocket half-a-crown a day these last three months, and this is how you repay me?” He jerked a gnarled finger at the safe.
Ethel shrank farther into her threadbare coat with each word.
“Consider yourself dismissed,” Scrooge snarled, crossing the room and kneeling to gently scoop up his money.
A squeak erupted from the former accountant’s lips. “But, sir! How will I survive the winter?”
“I really don’t care—your business is no affair of mine.” Each word thundered with the finality of a judge’s gavel. “Gather your things and leave.”
Shoulders slumped, Ethel shuffled away.
“Grieves.”
She stilled, hope sparking in her eyes as she faced him.
Scrooge didn’t look up. “If even one penny is missing, I’ll ensure you pay it back with interest.”
Her hope snuffed out, Ethel gathered her ratty scarf and began a dismal walk home.
***
“A good man of business,” Scrooge muttered, studying another of Marley’s meticulous accounts.
Scrooge’s gaze drifted to his safe, and he bristled. “Stupid girl. A man can’t protect what’s his in this modern age. But where else would my money be safe, if not in my own establishment?”
Ignoring the clock striking nine in the evening, he returned to his work.
Scrooge was surprised to see the next page was covered in information about a safekeeping company in Marley’s hand, accompanied by the note: Show Ebenezer.
“Hmm… Perhaps this is something…”
***
Two weeks passed after Scrooge deposited half of his money in the safekeeping company. The old wretch sat working on his ledgers again when the front door opened. He looked up to see a short young woman with a chestnut braid limp in. Only, instead of her regular timeworn attire, she wore a fur coat and silk gown.
“I fired you, Grieves.” Scrooge’s tone was frostier than the air within the counting house.
Ethel stopped at his desk. “I have some… information you’ll want.”
He huffed. “What?”
“Oh, you know,”—she shrugged, examining her nails—“about the money you gave the vault company.”
“I gave nothing.”
Ethel smiled, cruel and calculating. Gone was his mousy former employee. “Not willingly. But those papers you signed transferred ownership of your funds to my family. My cousins have it now. You remember them, I’m sure. The two solicitors.”
Scrooge leapt to his feet, eyes burning. “I’ll take you all to court!”
She withdrew a copy of the contract from her coat, slapping it onto the desk. “Ask any lawyer—he’ll tell you same as I did. Your generous donation will help create a safe home for the poor. We’ll name it Ebenezer House in your honor.”
As Ethel limped away, Scrooge slammed his fist on his desktop. “You’ll pay for this!”
She paused in the doorway. “No, Ebenezer,” she purred. “But you have… with interest. Like you said, ‘Your business is no affair of mine.’ Oh, and you’ll need this more than me.” Something landed with a thud on his desk.
The door clicked shut behind her as Scrooge sank into his chair, glowering at the ignominious lump of coal.
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It was clever how you both incorporated the Ethel Grieves character and the two men seeking donations. Definitely an unexpected twist. Well done!