AHMM, January-February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "There, there, Mr. Cratchit. I'm sure it's not as bad as all that,” Bucket said. “A man with the pertinacity to work for the infamous Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge should find a new and infinitely more agreeable master soon enough. ‘Why, here comes Bob Cratchit!’ men will say. ‘If he can last all those years with old Scrooge, surely he can do anything!'” Bucket brought up his forefinger and tapped it against his thick lips. “By the by, how long did you work for Mr. Scrooge?"

  Cratchit said simply, “Four years.” His bitter tone added a bit more color, however. “Four sodding miserable bloody years,” it said.

  "And what were your duties, Mr. Cratchit?"

  "Filing, double-checking sums, copying letters—the usual for a clerk. Though I didn't receive the usual clerk's wages, I can assure you."

  Bucket glanced around at Cratchit's squalid flat, with its ramshackle furnishings, peeling wallpaper, and trails of multicolored wax drippings crisscrossing the floor.

  "Apparently not,” he said. “Which leads me to wonder why you didn't seek greener pastures, if Mr. Scrooge's were so barren."

  Cratchit looked aghast, as if Bucket had spoken some heresy. “Oh, but I couldn't! Scrooge was horribly vindictive! If he'd learned I was inquiring about employment elsewhere, he would've sacked me on the spot!"

  "I see. Tell me, Mr. Cratchit, what sort of mood was your vindictive master in today?"

  "A most peculiar one, now that you mention it. He actually wished me a merry Christmas and let me go early!"

  "And you noticed nothing else unusual?"

  Cratchit chewed his lower lip and rolled his eyes, looking like a schoolboy called upon to recite the alphabet who loses his way after j. “No. Nothing else."

  "Did you ever know Mr. Scrooge to partake of strong drink or ... other indulgences?"

  "Scrooge indulged in nothing save merciless shylocking and the occasional butter crumpet. Why do you ask?"

  Bucket described the daft antics that had climaxed in the old man's death. Cratchit listened with a dismay that slowly grew into open-mouthed horror.

  "I ... I can't believe it."

  "I ask again, Mr. Cratchit, you're certain you noticed nothing else out of the ordinary?"

  "Well, I did hear Scrooge muttering to himself all afternoon. More than usual, I mean. He often mumbled when he was going over the books. But today, his conversations with himself were a touch more spirited than most days."

  "Was this before or after Scrooge's nephew paid him a call?"

  "Scrooge's nephew?” Cratchit's eyes popped wide, then narrowed quickly, and the clerk took a moment to gnaw on a fingernail before giving a single, firm nod. “After. Yes. Definitely after."

  "Did they meet in Mr. Scrooge's office—out of your sight?"

  "Indeed, they did."

  "And how long were Mr. Merriweather and his uncle alone?"

  "A few minutes, I suppose."

  "Ah. Tell me, Mr. Cratchit—"

  Cratchit had not yet done Bucket the courtesy of offering him a seat, and the detective finally decided to take matters into his own hands (or, to be more exact, onto his own posterior). He stepped to a nearby chair and lowered himself down upon it, then immediately hopped back up when the wood beneath him groaned alarmingly.

  "Tell me, Mr. Cratchit,” Bucket began again, “what is your opinion of Mr. Merriweather?"

  Cratchit shrugged. “He seems nice enough ... maybe a little too nice. Has a tinge of brown about the nose, if you know what I mean, sir. Always wearing a smile—wearing it like a mask, I sometimes think. Just look at him and his uncle. He put up with all sorts of humbuggery from the man. And for what? So he could come around the next holiday and collect more? I think not."

  "You suspect a hidden motive?"

  Cratchit winked and pressed a finger against his nose. “How hidden is it when you're an old, rich man's only living relation? He wanted to stay in Scrooge's good graces ... as much as anyone could stay in what little grace Scrooge possessed. And the two of them would quarrel."

  "Over what, pray?"

  "Well, for one thing, Scrooge wasn't keen on Merriweather's chosen trade: some kind of imports from the East, I gathered. ‘One sunk ship and your ship is sunk,’ I heard the old man say. ‘Lending, on the other hand, will keep a smart businessman afloat for life.’”

  "Imports from the East, eh?” Bucket mused, so lost in thought he began to settle onto the flimsy wooden chair again. Its squeak of warning sent him hopping back onto his feet. “One final question, Mr. Cratchit: Do you have any children?"

  Cratchit blinked at the detective, looking almost dazed. After a moment, his lips took to quivering and his eyes to misting.

  "I don't know why you ask, sir ... but ... I do have children, yes. And prettier little angels you've never seen. But their mother ... she up and took ‘em to her father's in Brixton. ‘I love you, Bob Cratchit,’ she said, ‘but love won't feed our children.’”

  "I see,” Bucket said, with gentle sympathy. “Well. I'm sure I've taken up enough of your time this evening. I'll bid you a merry Christmas and be on my way."

  "If by some miracle this is a merry Christmas, it will be my last,” Cratchit moaned, wringing his hands. “I can't imagine much merriness in debtor's prison."

  "Now, now, Mr. Cratchit—” Bucket began, sidling toward the door.

  "The carolers may be singing of glad tidings for man, but the tidings for this man couldn't be more woeful,” Cratchit continued, staring up at Bucket with wide, round, red eyes. “I hear no Christmas carols, sir. I hear dirges."

  "Now, n—,” Bucket tried again.

  "Alas,” Cratchit broke in, “it's a blessing after all that there will be no loving family gathered ‘round me come Christmas morning. For how could I keep them from starving when I can't even keep my own stomach full? Why, I haven't even the money to buy a single hot cross bun!"

  And at last Bucket understood: He could not exit Cratchit's chambers without first paying the toll.

  "You've been very helpful, Mr. Cratchit.” Bucket scooped a few pennies, farthings, and half-farthings from his vest pocket and handed them to the clerk. “Allow me—in the spirit of the holiday."

  "Thank you, Inspector.” Cratchit eyed the small bulge that remained in Bucket's pocket, his hand still outstretched. “This should stave off starvation till Boxing Day, at least. As for my little ones ... well, I still can't so much as send them a lump of coal, but perhaps the warmth of their poor mother's love will be enough to keep them from freezing."

  Bucket sighed, dug in his finger again, and produced a sixpence. It landed atop the other coins in Cratchit's palm with a hard, cold clink.

  "Bless you,” Cratchit said, pocketing the coins with a nod that let Bucket know he'd finally been dismissed.

  The detective scurried out the door before Cratchit could change his mind and begin wheedling again. The man was so good at it, Bucket was afraid he'd leave the flat with nothing but the clothes on his back—if that.

  "Where to now, Inspector?” Dimm grumbled, as Bucket climbed back atop the ambulance with him.

  A light snow had been falling, yet the constable was too lethargic to brush any of the accumulation from his coat, and he was dusted in white from top to bottom. It looked as if pranksters had left the wagon reins in the hands of a snowman.

  "One last stop, then you're through playing hansom driver, Police Constable Dimm."

  "And where might we be going now?” Dimm asked suspiciously. “Z Division? Or do you need to interview someone in Aberdeen, perhaps?"

  "Not nearly so far,” Bucket replied cheerfully. Though he'd be leaving Camden Town more than half a shilling lighter than he'd entered it, he was in far too good a mood to let Dimm's insolence provoke him. “Bloomsbury will do, 126 Southhampton Row. The Bucket residence."

  It was a long, cold ride south to Bloomsbury, but Bucket barely felt the chill. He was warmed by thoughts of the pipe, slippers, sherry, poultry, and pudding that awaited him—not to mention the genial Mrs. Buck
et. He was warmed, too, by the glow of self-satisfaction.

  The Mystery of Ebenezer Scrooge had proved to be no mystery at all.

  After sending Dimm on his way with spirited holiday well wishes (which the constable acknowledged with a dispirited shrug), Bucket stepped inside his cramped-but-comfortable home to find his usually imperturbable wife flushed and panting.

  "Oh, William!” Mrs. Bucket exclaimed, throwing her plump arms around him. “When I saw that ambulance out front, I didn't know what to think!"

  "There, there, my pet,” Bucket said, comforting her with a squeeze and a peck on the cheek. “I'm sorry for the fright. I should've had Police Constable Dimm drop me at the corner. As you can see, there's nothing wrong with me a hot supper and a cuddle by the fire won't cure."

  Though the Buckets occasionally took in lodgers, they had none now, so the mister felt free to give the missus a playful swat on the behind as he disentangled himself from her arms and headed for the kitchen.

  "If you think you're getting out of trouble that easily after coming home three hours late on Christmas Eve...” Mrs. Bucket mock-scolded, her fists perched on her wide hips.

  "Late?” Bucket dipped his forefinger into a pot of thick, brown gravy. “Oh no—I'm early! Just look on the mantelpiece if you don't believe me."

  While the inspector loaded a plate with the roast duck, stuffing, and pudding he found warming in the oven, his wife went to the drawing room and searched the mantel. Tucked away behind a portrait of Sir Robert Peel she found a small black book bound with red ribbon: Tales by Edgar Allan Poe. Eyes gleaming, Mrs. Bucket ripped the ribbon free and practically hurled herself into the nearest chair. By the time her husband joined her in the drawing room, his round belly all the rounder for the two heaping plates of food he'd just consumed, she'd already raced through “The Gold-Bug” and “The Fall of the House of Usher,” and was plunging headlong into “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” Bucket knew it was useless to attempt to engage her in conversation until she'd finished, so he settled back into a chair of his own, propped his feet up before the fireplace, lit his pipe, and waited.

  A few minutes later, his wife heaved a contented sigh, closed her book, and looked up at Bucket with a smile.

  "Thank you, William,” she said. “So ... now you can tell me your mystery story."

  Bucket grinned back at her. There'd been no need to tell her what had kept him late. It had to be a case, and a particularly interesting one to boot. And, as with all such cases, Mrs. Bucket would want a full accounting from her husband—as well as the opportunity to test her own observations and inferences against his. And Bucket was happy to oblige her, for he'd found that his wife's conjectures stocked a far greater store of logic and insight than those of his colleagues.

  And so he told her the tale. Mrs. Bucket sat rapt throughout, not speaking a word for nearly a quarter of an hour. She merely cocked an eyebrow or murmured the occasional “hmmm” until Bucket clapped his hands together and said, “And then I came home to find my dear wife on the verge of fainting! So? What do you make of it all?"

  Something about the quizzical look in his wife's eyes tickled Bucket's forefinger like a feather.

  "Why do I get the feeling, William, that you are on the verge of making an arrest?"

  "Because you're a deucedly clever woman, and because I am on the verge of making an arrest!"

  "But ... who?"

  "Why, the nephew, of course!"

  "Mr. Merriweather?” Mrs. Bucket shook her head. “He sounds like such a nice, jovial man."

  "So he seems,” Bucket said, the tickle in his finger deepening into a disconcerting prickling. “But consider this, my plum: Mr. Fred Merriweather is the only person in the world who stands to gain by the death of Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge. The old man was hostile to the very notion of altruism ... except when under the influence of opium. So it's unlikely that Mr. Scrooge would bequeath his holdings to the church or some charitable society. And those who had cause to hate Mr. Scrooge the most—the many men in his debt—had the most to lose from his death, since their chits might simply be handed over to an even more rapacious creditor."

  Bucket paused to gauge how his reasoning was being received. His forefinger didn't like what his eyes reported: Mrs. Bucket's mouth had developed an infinitesimal tilt, one corner of her full lips curling ever so slightly upward.

  It didn't bode well. Yet Bucket forged on.

  "Second, consider the death of Mr. Merriweather's child. Not only would this deepen Mr. Merriweather's antipathy for his uncle—Mr. Scrooge didn't attend the funeral, you'll recall—but it could have created another motive for murder, as well. Even after the spirit departs, the bills remain. A long illness, a burial, a year in mourning dress—it all costs money. In fact, death is such an expensive proposition these days, I daresay most of us can't afford it! Yet when it comes time to pay the ferryman, we can't refuse, and those we leave behind must settle the tab. It's made paupers of more than one prosperous family. Perhaps Mr. Merriweather found it necessary to, shall we say, accelerate the scheduling of his inheritance."

  Bucket's forefinger was itching and sweating now, for Mrs. Bucket's smile had grown wider. But the finger had one more card up its sleeve, so to speak.

  "Third, consider the smell of opium smoke I detected upon Mr. Scrooge—and remember that Mr. Merriweather specializes in ‘imports from the East.’ Surely, a businessman with dealings in the Orient might easily develop connections with the China opium trade or the poppy fields of Afghanistan. And for what purpose did Mr. Merriweather visit his uncle's offices today? To offer ‘Christian forgiveness’ by inviting Mr. Scrooge to a holiday party hosted by a grief-stricken woman who openly loathes him? That's offering an olive branch with a bee's nest attached, wouldn't you say? Yet it gave Mr. Merriweather an excuse to be alone with his uncle for a few minutes ... and that was all the time he needed to set his fiendish plot into motion."

  Bucket leaned back in his chair and put his pipe to his lips for a triumphant puff—and only noticed then that there was no puff to be had, the tobacco's low flicker of fire having long since snuffed out.

  Mrs. Bucket's smile, on the other hand, had been kindled into full flame.

  "I'm curious, William,” Mrs. Bucket said. “By what means did Mr. Merriweather ‘set his fiendish plot into motion'?"

  Bucket's forefinger rubbed the cold curve of his pipe-bowl, as if it might relight the tobacco within through sheer friction. Blast her—and bless her—his wife had found the hole in his case, as she always did when there was a hole to be found.

  "You mean how did he administer the opium to his uncle?” he said. “That I shall discover when I return to Mr. Merriweather's home after Christmas with a search warrant."

  "I see,” Mrs. Bucket said, in a way that suggested she saw much more than her husband.

  "Perhaps you have another question, Mrs. Bucket?” the inspector said somewhat snippishly. As much as he appreciated his wife's insights in hindsight, he found it hard to suppress his vexation upon their initial delivery.

  "I do,” Mrs. Bucket replied gently. “I wonder why you assign such importance to Merriweather's access to opium via trade connections when it's so readily available through alternate means. Might a doctor not have a sample amongst his supplies? Wouldn't someone who had access to, let's say, the medical kit in a police ambulance be able to make off with some variant, such as morphine? And, my goodness—you won't find a more popular bottled remedy than laudanum, and it's little more than opium sweetened with sugar."

  For the full length of a minute, Bucket made no reply. His wife hadn't just pointed out a hole. She'd pointed out that his theory about Merriweather was nothing but hole.

  "What you say is true,” he finally admitted. “But even if this hypothetical doctor or ambulance driver or laudanum user had equal access to opium, you must admit that none would have as potent a motivation for using it."

  "Well,” Mrs. Bucket said, shrugging in a way that indicated she w
ould admit no such thing, “I find it rather hard to understand why anyone would want to use it on Scrooge."

  "What?” Bucket blurted. “Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge was probably the most hated man in London!"

  Mrs. Bucket nodded calmly.

  "Yes, he was,” she conceded. “So if he had been murdered, I should think you would have a city full of suspects to sort through. But, William, Scrooge wasn't murdered, was he? He ran into the street and was trampled by a passing wagon. His death was an accident."

  "How can you say that? The opium—!"

  "Would have made a poor murder weapon. If Scrooge's death had been the objective, surely arsenic would have made a better choice. Or any of a hundred other poisons."

  "But...” Bucket began, his forefinger poised to give his arguments renewed life through vigorous pointing and waggling. The finger quickly went limp, however, and the rest of the detective followed suit, settling back into his chair with a defeated sigh.

  "You're right,” he said. “I'm a fool."

  Mrs. Bucket reached over and gave her brooding husband a brisk (but not too forceful) swat on the arm.

  "What a thing for Inspector William Bucket to say!” she chided. “The man who unmasked the killer of Theopholus Tulkinghorn and rescued Edwin Drood from the clutches of the devious Canon Crisparkle? The man who engineered the capture of Reginald Compeyson and Tom Gradgrind? The man who pulled the secret strings that sent the fiends Orlick and Fagin to the gallows? The man who married me? A fool? I think not! You've simply been asking yourself the wrong questions tonight, that's all. Set your mind to the right ones, and we'll soon see who's a fool!"

  "Well, perhaps,” Bucket muttered. He pushed himself deeper into the cushions enveloping his broad undercarriage and tried to revive his fatigued and dejected forefinger by rubbing it across his chin(s). “So ‘the right questions’ would be..."

  "Who would have preferred to see old Scrooge drugged rather than dead, and why?” his wife finished for him.

  "Ahhhh..."

  The detective bolted to his feet with his arm upraised and his forefinger pointed skyward, as if he were a puppet hoisted aloft by a string tied to his finger.