AHMM, January-February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  —And finally, Scrooge had most definitely not been smoking opium on the premises. There was no pipe in sight.

  Aside from the streams of wax flowing across the desktop, Scrooge's office was a perfectly orderly (if exceptionally dark and dingy) place of business, and there was nothing to suggest it doubled as an opium den. Yet, while Bucket could be labeled agnostic on many another matter, his faith in his own senses never wavered. He was one of a new breed: a detective—one who detects. And he had smelled opium on the old man.

  So when Dimm stepped inside to announce glumly that the body was ready for “home delivery,” Bucket had an announcement of his own to make: He would be accompanying Dimm to the residence of Scrooge's nephew, Fred Merriweather.

  "A happy Christmas to you, Police Constable Thicke!” Bucket called out as the ambulance rolled away.

  "And to you and the missus, Inspector Bucket!” Thicke replied with a hearty wave. “And to you too, Dimm!"

  "Oh yes,” Dimm grumbled. “What could be merrier than spending Christmas Eve playing hansom cab for a corpse?"

  "Cheer up, Police Constable Dimm! At least you won't spend the night walking a beat like poor Police Constable Thicke back there."

  Dimm would have rolled his eyes had he the energy to do so.

  "Sure you wouldn't rather ride inside, sir?” he muttered instead. “Warmer."

  Bucket shook his head. “From what I understand, the old gentleman would make more congenial company now than ever he did in life. Nevertheless, I prefer to surround myself with more, shall we say, animated companions.” The detective paused to glance at Dimm, who sat beside him as hunched and still as a gargoyle, his only movement an occasional flick of the reins he held loosely in his limply hanging hands. “Not that I'm entirely certain you qualify as such, Police Constable Dimm. You seem so uncommonly torpid, even by your own languorous standards, I almost wonder if this ambulance carries two cadavers this evening."

  Astronomers training their telescopes upon the blue wool of Dimm's uniform tailcoat might have detected, had they been squinting fiercely enough, a slight tremor about the shoulders that would have entirely evaded the detection of the unaided human eye. This was a shrug.

  "Just ... thinking,” Dimm mumbled.

  "Ah ha! There's your problem! Constables aren't paid to think—that's what inspectors are for. Just let your mind go blank, and you'll feel better in no time, there's a good fellow."

  He gave Dimm a jovial swat on the back, certain he'd solved the younger man's problems, whatever they were. Yet something about Dimm's lugubrious manner made Bucket's forefinger twitch, as it did whenever there was an itch the detective felt compelled to scratch.

  After a moment of silence, Bucket scratched it.

  "Besides ... what have you to think about, Police Constable Dimm?"

  Dimm finally showed signs of life, actually cringing when he heard Bucket's question. “No use hiding it, I suppose; it's common enough knowledge amongst the other P.C.'s. The old man had me on the hook for a dozen guineas."

  "You owed money to Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge?"

  Dimm's chin moved an infinitesimal fraction of an inch closer to his chest—for Dimm, a vigorous nod. “It started out as just a trifle. I got into ... a tight spot with a woman, and I needed a few extra bob to make things right."

  Bucket turned to stare at the ambulance driver, unable to disguise his astonishment. Not that Dimm had become entangled in a usurer's web, mind you. Bucket simply couldn't believe the man was capable of the exertion usually required to put oneself in “a tight spot with a woman."

  "I couldn't pay it all back on time—and once you fall behind with Scrooge, there's no hope of catching up again,” Dimm continued miserably. “Now that the old blighter's dead, I'm at the mercy of whichever creditor takes over his business. Might be someone even worse than Scrooge himself."

  "Ho ho! That hardly seems possible,” Bucket said, his voice more blithesome than his thoughts.

  Whoever took on the accounts of Scrooge & Marley would be within his rights to call in the firm's chits forthwith. Anyone unable to meet their obligations would land in the workhouse.

  "Take heart, Police Constable Dimm."

  Bucket clapped his companion on the back again, intending to cheer up his brother officer by pointing out the shining silver lining in the dark cloud above. After a moment's searching, however, Bucket realized there was no such lining to point to: The P.C. was buggered.

  "I'll stand you to a drink sometime,” the detective said with a sigh, offering a small lining of his own that was, if not silver, worth at least three pence.

  After a quick stop at B Division headquarters to inquire as to the residence of one Fred Merriweather of Pimlico, Bucket and Dimm arrived at the home of Scrooge's nephew. It was a pretty if somewhat stucco-heavy townhouse in a long row of pretty if somewhat stucco-heavy townhouses, all of them radiating an aura of respectable bourgeois coziness. The Merriweather home, however, was set apart from its neighbors by the light and laughter that spilled forth from inside—the Merriweathers weren't waiting for Christmas to begin their revelries.

  Bucket shook his head sadly. He was a man with a heartfelt appreciation for laughter and high spirits, and he hated to spoil anyone's sport. Yet he had no choice.

  The law plainly stated that a body removed from a public street was to be, if possible, transported with all due haste to the family home, where convention dictated that it would lie in state until burial. Which made Bucket feel like Father Christmas in reverse: He was bringing a “gift” that would ruin a family's holiday. After all, it's hard to make merry with a cadaver in the corner.

  "I tell you, Police Constable Dimm, I wish it were a plump goose and not a flattened uncle we were here to hand over,” Bucket said as he climbed down from the ambulance.

  "You never know,” Dimm murmured. “Scrooge's nephew might welcome the latter more warmly than the former."

  Bucket lingered a moment, his forefinger tingling for reasons he couldn't fathom, before turning toward the house.

  "Is this the home of Mr. Fred Merriweather?” he asked the girl who answered upon his knocking.

  "Yes, sir,” the servant replied, casting a nervous glance over Bucket's shoulder at the police ambulance.

  "Would you be so kind as to fetch your master? I have news he may wish to hear away from his guests."

  The girl gave a quick nod and disappeared inside. A minute later, the door was opened again, this time by a huffing, puffing young man in rumpled clothes. His round, ruddy face was half grin, half frown.

  "You must excuse me, sir: We were indulging in a bit of blind-man's bluff,” the man panted. “Now, what's this about news for me?"

  "Mr. Merriweather, I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective Police, and it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge was this evening killed."

  For the first time, Bucket saw someone react to Scrooge's demise with what appeared to be actual sadness.

  "My uncle? Dead?” Merriweather swayed so severely he had to clutch the door to steady himself. “How?"

  "Run over in the street, Mr. Merriweather. By a wagon. I am sorry."

  Merriweather gave a nod almost as weak as one of Dimm's, then slowly pulled himself up straight.

  "You've brought the body then?” he said, managing a stronger nod at the ambulance.

  "That's right."

  Merriweather smiled grimly.

  "And it was such a lovely party too,” he said wistfully. “I'll send someone out to help your man move the b-body..."

  The last word seemed to catch in Merriweather's throat, and he had to hack out a cough before he could continue.

  "...move my uncle into the house. In the meantime, why don't you come in and warm yourself, Inspector?"

  Bucket offered his thanks, stepping inside and watching from the foyer while Merriweather went to break the news to the dozen or so guests filling his parlor. There were sympathetic groans and somber condolences from all aro
und, yet it seemed to Bucket as if Merriweather's friends were grieving less for old Scrooge than they were for a splendid party cut down in the prime of life. In fact, one young lady wasn't shy about saying as much.

  "That's just like your uncle, isn't it? He had to find one last way to spoil your Christmas cheer."

  Of course, Bucket knew only one person who could take the liberty of speaking so bluntly: The lady had to be Merriweather's wife. She was gaunt and sunken eyed, yet exceptionally pretty all the same, with long blond hair pinned up with a squarish gold brooch.

  "Margaret, please,” Merriweather said with reluctant reproach.

  "Yes, I know,” Mrs. Merriweather replied. “We must show respect for the dead, though, why the act of dying suddenly makes one respectable is beyond me."

  The once-gay revelers took to staring down mutely, as if admiring each other's shoes or searching for a lost earring.

  "In Scrooge's case, however, perhaps I can understand it,” Mrs. Merriweather continued. “Death could only be an improvement to him."

  "Margaret, please,” Merriweather said again. “Let us see to our guests—” His gaze darted in Bucket's direction. “—before we discuss this further."

  Mrs. Merriweather glanced at Bucket, then smiled stiffly.

  "Of course, you're right, Fred.” She turned to address her friends, who were still busying themselves with silent inspections of the carpet. “I'm sorry our evening must end on such a note. I hope we haven't robbed you all of a very merry Christmas."

  The parlor emptied quickly, with an almost frenzied hurry to don overcoats and hats before the guest of dishonor could be brought inside. Dimm and a servant appeared bearing a lumpy load on a blanket-covered stretcher just as the last guest made his escape.

  "Must you bring that in here?” Merriweather's wife snapped.

  "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Merriweather,” Bucket said. “Your husband is the only relation the gentleman had in town, I gather."

  "Or in all the world,” Merriweather said with a sigh. “Well ... wherever shall we put him?"

  "The dustbin, perhaps?” Mrs. Merriweather suggested.

  Merriweather ignored his wife's bitter jest.

  "There's room in the nursery,” he mused. “Perhaps we should leave him there until we can arrange for the undertaker to—"

  Mrs. Merriweather took a step toward her husband, her eyes suddenly alight with white-hot fury.

  "How dare you!” she spat. She whirled to face Dimm and her servant. “You will take the body to the parlor. Have Lucy clear off the table and ... and..."

  Mrs. Merriweather spun again and fled down the narrow hallway toward the back of the house, the dainty hands pressed over her face unable to smother the sound of her crying. A door slammed, swallowing her sobs.

  "Do as she asks,” Merriweather said quietly.

  Dimm and the servant trudged away, leaving Bucket and Merriweather alone in the foyer.

  "I see that your wife is not immune to grief after all,” Bucket said.

  Merriweather gaped at him, looking confused.

  "She is still wearing a mourning brooch ... and the nursery is empty,” the detective explained. “You have my condolences."

  "Thank you. And you're right—the wound runs deep in her,” Merriweather replied with a weary nod. “And my uncle ... well, if you know much of him, you know that he would not be a pillar of strength for us in our time of loss. In fact, he didn't even attend the funeral. Tonight was the first time in ages I've seen Margaret smile without a bottle of laudanum to thank for it. She finally seemed free of her sorrow, if only for a moment. For you to arrive at just that moment with...” Merriweather glanced into the parlor, where his young maid was pushing aside a punch bowl and plates of sweets and nuts so Scrooge's wool-draped carcass could be positioned atop the table like the centerpiece of a holiday feast. “Is he ... presentable?"

  "You will have need of all the undertaker's expertise if there is to be a viewing,” Bucket answered gently.

  Merriweather winced. “And to think I saw him just this afternoon as fit and full of vinegar as ever."

  "You saw your uncle today?” Bucket asked, surprised.

  "Yes. I visited him at his counting-house."

  "For what purpose?"

  "For the purpose of wishing him a happy Christmas, of course. And to invite him here tonight."

  "Really? I'm surprised Mrs. Merriweather would approve."

  "Too often we forget that Christmas is the time of redemption, Inspector,” Merriweather chided mildly. “I offered just that to my uncle today, in the spirit of the Christian forgiveness the season requires. He refused it, of course, called Christmas ‘humbug,’ and sent me on my way. And I'll admit, I was secretly glad he did so, for Margaret's sake. As it is, I didn't even have to tell her I'd been to see him."

  Bucket's forefinger began to itch, and he rubbed it absentmindedly across his chin as he spoke. “Was your uncle alone when you saw him?"

  What Bucket really meant was, “Were you alone with your uncle?” Yet he didn't wish to cause offense by giving the impression he had suspicions, which by this time he certainly did.

  "His clerk Cratchit was slaving away at his desk, as usual—poor soul,” Merriweather replied. “I've often wondered why he would remain in my uncle's employ for so long. He seems a fine enough fellow, and it's hard to imagine a more miserly master than Ebenezer Scrooge."

  "Would you happen to know where this Mr. Cratchit lives? I should like to speak with him. A mere formality, you understand. The coroner is a terrible fussbudget. If I don't have each i dotted and every t crossed—twice, mind you, just to be doubly certain the job gets done—old Inspector Bucket will be back in constables’ blue in a trice."

  "We can't have that,” Merriweather said with a small smile. “I recall Cratchit mentioning once that he'd taken his children sledding on Primrose Hill. So were I ‘old Inspector Bucket,’ I suppose I'd start looking for him in Camden Town."

  "You have the makings of a fine detective, Mr. Merriweather,” Bucket replied, nodding his approval. “Thank you for your assistance, and from here on may the season bring you and your wife only the rewards you so richly deserve."

  After collecting Dimm from the parlor (where the constable had somehow marshaled the energy to pocket large quantities of sweetmeats while wooing the maid with a steady stream of mumbled blandishments), Bucket took his leave of the Merriweather residence.

  "Why don't you stretch yourself out down below and have a rest now that there's no company to crowd you?” Dimm suggested, as he slowly hoisted himself back into the driver's seat. “I can drop you at your house on my way back to E Division."

  "Most thoughtful of you,” Bucket said, hauling himself up next to the constable. “Only you're not headed back to E Division yet. You're taking me to Y Division."

  "Y Division, sir?” Dimm blurted, suddenly looking very much awake.

  "That's right, Police Constable Dimm. Y Division. I intend to find Mr. Bob Cratchit of Camden Town, and I intend to find him tonight."

  And find him he did, thanks to two sleepy station-house sergeants who, between them, knew every man, woman, child, cat, and cockroach in North London.

  "Cricket?” mused the first sergeant.

  "Cratchit,” said the second sergeant. “Bill."

  "Bob,” the first corrected.

  "Bob,” the second conceded. “Tall bloke."

  First shook his head. “Short."

  Second waggled his hand. “More ... medium."

  "Very medium, he is,” First agreed. “Lives on Jamestown Road."

  "Noooo,” Second yawned. “Bayham Street."

  "Bayham Street it is,” First seconded. “Big flat, lots of kids."

  "Medium flat ... big kids?” Second said, sounding uncertain.

  First: “Hold on. Small flat, no kids."

  Second: “Now you've got it. Small flat, no kids."

  Third: “Wait!"

  "Third” was, in fact, Inspector Bucket. />
  "Mr. Cratchit has no children?” he said, his bushy brows knit together so firmly they looked like a pair of amorous caterpillars stealing a kiss beneath the mistletoe.

  The two sergeants nodded, finally in complete agreement.

  Bucket's forefinger began itching like a fleabite on a boil on a rash on a bum in woolen underpants two sizes too small. It itched very badly indeed.

  Twenty minutes later, said finger was curled into a fist, knocking on the rather shabby-looking door of Bob Cratchit's flat. The “very medium” man who answered was rather shabby looking himself, being attired in an unraveling sweater and tattered, fingerless gloves.

  "Yes?"

  "Mr. Bob Cratchit?"

  "Yes?"

  "I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective Police. I need to have a word with you about Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge."

  Cratchit flinched at the very mention of his employer. “Scrooge? What of him?"

  "He is dead."

  Cratchit's lips began to tremble, and his eyes took on the shimmery shine of tears barely kept in check. “No. Surely not."

  "I'm afraid so. May I come inside, Mr. Cratchit?"

  Cratchit nodded mutely, backing away from the door to let the detective into his dark, dingy, drafty room.

  "You were fond of the old gentleman then?” Bucket asked as Cratchit dropped into a rickety chair that barely looked like it could support its own weight, let alone that of a man, “very medium” or otherwise.

  The clerk looked bewildered. “Fond? You ... you think I'm...? Oh.” He took in a deep breath, then shook his head sadly. “You give me too much credit, Inspector. I feel no sorrow for Scrooge. I feel sorry for myself."

  "For yourself? Why?"

  Cratchit ran his fingers through his fair, thinning hair. “Because I'm headed to the poorhouse, that's why! How long will it take a man like me to find a new position? A week? Two weeks? A month? Yet I don't have enough in my pocket to last till New Year's!” He stared down at the stained, scuffed floorboards. “Oh, what a merry Christmas this is!"