Naughty-Nine Tales of Christmas

HUMBUG

Scrooge was dead. There was no doubt whatever about that. Compared to his battered, shattered body, a doornail would have seemed positively rambunctious.

A doornail, after all, might be run over by a team of horses pulling a wagonload of fresh-cut Christmas trees and come away none the worse for wear. Put a frail old man to the same test, however, and he not only finds himself the worse for it, he finds himself extremely, irrefutably, irreversibly dead.

Or, to be more precise, he is found thus, as the only thing such an individual would be capable of finding himself is his eternal reward-and perhaps, as in the case of Ebenezer Scrooge, his lack of same.

Scrooge had not been a very good man. But he was, as has been so firmly established, a very dead man. And that made Inspector Bucket of the Detective Police a very curious man.

A few minutes before Scrooge was juiced beneath the wagon wheels like a shriveled grape, the detective had been heading home for his Christmas Eve supper, having just dropped off a matching pair of handcuffed jewelry thieves at E Division headquarters. He was debating whether or not to surprise the wife with a pre-Christmas present-the new collection of stories by the American master of the macabre Edgar Allan Poe-when he'd encountered Scrooge capering up and down the sidewalk talking to himself.

It was immediately apparent that this was no ordinary lunatic. Though out-of-doors in the chilly damp, the old man wore no topcoat, hat, gloves or scarf, appearing perfectly happy to cavort in the slush in a simple black business suit. His clothes were well-tailored and neat but years out of date, suggesting an owner with full pockets he was nevertheless reluctant to reach into to accommodate such a fickle thing as fashion. He also appeared to be a man of some renown, for people were stopping to stare in wide-eyed amazement and say, "Look at the old pinchpenny! Do you think his conscience has driven him mad at last?"

Bucket had just noticed the sign over a nearby warehouse door-"SCROOGE & MARLEY," it read-when the old man came scurrying up to him.

"My dear sir!" he bellowed, spewing frothy spittle that fell as softly as snow on the detective's greatcoat. "How do you do? I hope you succeeded yesterday. It was very kind of you. A merry Christmas to you, sir!"

"M-M-Mr. Scrooge?" Bucket stammered, unnerved that the old bedlamite thought him an acquaintance.

Bucket had never met the man, but he knew him by (foul) reputation. Scrooge was a usurer, a lender of money at such fantastic rates that the interest compounded not so much annually, monthly or even weekly but by the second. The almshouses were packed wall-to-fetid-wall with his former clients ("prey," some called them), and many a London child would spend Christmas shivering on the street instead of nestled before the family fireplace because a penniless father had defaulted to the pitiless Scrooge.

"Yes!" Scrooge crowed. "That is my name, and I fear it may not be pleasant to you. Allow me to ask your pardon. And will you have the goodness-" The old man pulled the detective closer and whispered in his ear. "-to accept a donation of two hundred pounds toward your most excellent charity."

Bucket realized then that Scrooge's strange behavior wasn't born of natural dementia, but arose instead from the vapors of a Chinaman's pipe: The bitter smell of opium clung to the old man's clothes.

"My dear sir, I don't know what to say to such munificence," Bucket said, peeling Scrooge's gnarled hand from his arm and giving it a hearty shake. Best to just placate the man and let him go his mad, merry way, the detective had decided. There was, after all, no law against putting poppy seed to whatever use one wished. And what's more, Bucket wanted to go home.

"Don't say anything, please," Scrooge replied, delighted. "Come and see me. Will you come and see me?"

"I will."

"Thank you." Scrooge reached up to tip his top hat to Bucket. There was no such hat upon his head, but he tipped it all the same. "I am much obliged to you. I thank you fifty times. Bless you!"

And with that Scrooge turned, took a few zigzagging steps away, and stopped before a stray cat that stared at him from the front steps of a poulterer's shop.

"Is your master at home, my dear?" Scrooge asked the cat.

"Meow."

"Where is he, my love?"

"Meow meow."

"Thank you."

And so on. There followed a brief conversation with a heap of dirty snow Scrooge addressed as "Fred" and a cart of roasted chestnuts he called "Bob," after which he christened a discarded sack of rotten potatoes "Tim" and proceeded to give it a piggy-back ride.

When the old man dropped the potatoes and darted into the street to wish a very merry Christmas to a steaming pile of horse dung, Bucket finally decided to restrain the old man for his own good. But before the detective could take a step, the tree-wagon came rolling along-and Scrooge was rolled out as flat as a Christmas cookie.

Scrooge's passing produced nary a tear from those who witnessed it. What it did yield-from Inspector Bucket, anyway-was a mixture of curiosity and guilt. The detective regretted not moving more quickly to restrain the old man, and he resolved to make amends for it by gathering up both Scrooge's body and the information needed for the inquest with as much alacrity and discretion as possible.

A half-penny secured the services of a gawking street urchin as his runner, and Bucket dispatched the lad on two errands, both of vital importance: firstly, to take news of Scrooge's death to the nearest station house; secondly, to take Bucket's wife the news that he would be late for supper. He then recruited as navvies a group of laborers repairing gas pipes nearby, directing them to move Scrooge's freshly pulped body to the curb. The driver of the tree wagon hopped down and followed them, pleading his case to Bucket.

"He ran right in front of me, he did! How was I to see him coming in this fog? It ain't my fault what happened!"

"Now, now, my friend-calm down. It's plain you're not to blame," Bucket said soothingly. A pear-shaped man of five-and-forty years, he had a softness about him that usually put others at ease-when he wanted it to. "Nevertheless, I'll need to know your name."

"My name? What for?"

"For the inquest, of course."

"Inquest? It was an accident, I tell you!"

"That is for the inquest to determine," Bucket snapped, narrowing his eyes. Suddenly, he wasn't portly. He was imposing. "Your name."

"Percy Thimblewitt, sir," the wagon driver mumbled, cringing.

Bucket smiled, and once again he seemed about as threatening as a well-stuffed pillow. "Thank you, Mr. Thimblewitt. Now… did you know the deceased?"

Thimblewitt said he did not, and once Bucket finished questioning the man (who had little to add beyond further proclamations of his freedom from fault), the detective moved on to the witnesses lingering nearby.

"Came skipping out a few minutes before you happened along, Scrooge did," said a chestnut vendor who parked his cart near Scrooge's office each evening. "Had a 'merry Christmas' for everyone in sight. Every thing, too."

"The gentleman was eccentric then?" Bucket said with a waggle of his bushy eyebrows that was meant to whisper, "An opium-eater, eh?"

"Eccentric? No, sir. Sour as spoilt milk, he was, but he weren't balmy. Not until tonight."

The other witnesses who knew Scrooge said the same: While the moneylender was notoriously understocked on scruples, there had been no indication that he was similarly short on marbles. No one picked up on Bucket's hints about a penchant for the pipe, either.

Eventually, the clatter of hooves and the steadily growing growl of wagon wheels on stone announced the approach of a police ambulance. When the driver pulled the small, boxy vehicle to a stop before Bucket, the back doors swung open and two men clambered out.

"Police Constable Thicke! Dr. Charhart!" Bucket said. "So good of you to join me tonight!"

"Sir," Thicke said, putting on his regulation stovepipe hat and straightening his blue uniform jacket as best he could over a belly twice as prodigious as Bucket's (which was hardly insubstantial in its own right). He jerked his head at the doctor and waggled his eyebrows-a warning to Bucket to brace himself.

"Good of me?" Charhart sneered. "For it to be 'good of me,' coming here would have to be voluntary!"

Dr. Crispus Charhart was a tall, lanky man with a face so overgrown with gray whiskers it would be impossible to say whether he was smiling or frowning were it not a commonly known fact that he never smiled. Despite his wild beard and fiery eyes, however, the doctor had the regal, rigid bearing of a gentleman of property and position-though perhaps one for whom both were now but a memory.

"As it so happens," he snarled, "I was dragged from my dinner simply so a man of medicine can affirm that the miserable old sod who was run over by a wagon before a dozen witnesses was killed by-gasp, shock, alarum!-being run over by a wagon. As long as I'm out here in the freezing cold, shall I write out certificates for everyone else present testifying to the fact that they are indeed still alive? It would be a task just as worthy of my time and talents, I tell you."

"It would be a fine thing, I agree, if more people would schedule their dying with our convenience in mind," Bucket replied cheerfully. "Alas, we must accommodate those rude souls who allow themselves to be shepherded from this earth at the time of Another's choosing. Such is one's lot when one signs on with Scotland Yard-or accepts a coroner's warrant, Dr. Charhart."

The doctor's eyes blazed as bright as the fire he no doubt longed to be warming himself by.

"Fine-step aside and let me at the old villain!" he snapped, pushing past Bucket before the inspector had time to move. The old man's body was lying in the gutter nearby, and Charhart stomped over and knelt down beside it.

"Do I take it that you knew the gentleman?" Bucket asked.

"Scrooge was no gentleman," the doctor muttered, seeming to take bitter pleasure from turning the corpse over so it was face-down in grimy, soupy slush. "He was a vulture, a scavenger, a carrion-eater. And if you're wondering why a true gentleman like myself would need the piddling extra pounds per annum a coroner's warrant offers, then look no further. Scrooge was nearly the ruin of me, and it is a fine Christmas gift indeed to find his ruin before me now. If I could take him home and hang him upon my tree, I tell you I would."

Charhart roughly rolled the body in the icy sludge again, as if it were a cut of meat he was breading with flour. He stared down at Scrooge's dead face for a moment, not so much examining the body, it seemed, as pausing to appreciate it. Then he stood and began wiping his hands with a hankie he produced from his pocket.

"I've seen enough," he announced. "I'm going home."

"Surely you're not done already?" Bucket protested.

"Most assuredly I am. Ebenezer Scrooge was trampled to death, and I intend to file a certificate to that effect the day after tomorrow. There remains nothing further to occupy me here."

"Oh, but questions remain, Dr. Charhart, questions remain," Bucket clucked. "Mr. Scrooge was acting in a most peculiar manner before he was killed. He was euphoric-hysterically so. I spoke with him myself, and were there mistletoe about, I do believe he would have kissed me. I wonder if you detected anything that might account for such uncharacteristic jollity?"

Charhart straightened to his full height, straining for the maximum altitude from which to peer down disdainfully upon the detective. "Exactly what sort of something are you suggesting?"

"Well," Bucket said, and he cleared his throat and leaned in closer, continuing in a conspiratorial whisper. "When I talked to Mr. Scrooge, I noticed upon him the scent of opium smoke."

Charhart responded with a mocking guffaw that he cast down upon Bucket like Zeus hurling a lightning bolt from Olympus.

"You did not!" the doctor cried.

"I did," Bucket responded calmly.

"Stuff and nonsense!"

"No, Dr. Charhart."

"Rubbish!"

"I don't believe so, Dr. Charhart."

"Poppycock! Tommyrot! Fiddle-faddle! Flapdoodle!"

Bucket waited patiently for Charhart to finish.

"If you hadn't been so eager to dunk the body in gutter-wash like a scone in tea, you might have smelled it yourself," the detective said mildly.

"Ebenezer Scrooge took but one pleasure from life, Bucket-the continual accumulation of wealth. To suggest anything to the contrary is purest humbug! Now if you are through insulting me, I will be on my way."

Bucket held up a fat forefinger and pushed it out before him like a candle to light his way. "One final question, Dr. Charhart: As you knew Mr. Scrooge, perhaps you could tell me where I might find his family. After all, we can't leave his body here in the street."

"You can throw it in the Thames for all I care!" Charhart thundered. "As for Scrooge's family, he never spoke of any save a single nephew-Fred Merriweather. A merchant of some sort. Resides in Pimlico, I believe. And that's the last thing I have to say upon the subject of Ebenezer Scrooge. I would wish you a good night, Bucket, except I don't see why I should wish for you what you've denied me."

Charhart spun on his heel and began striding quickly into the fog.

"Thank you, Dr. Charhart!" Bucket called after him. "A very happy Christmas to you and yours!"

Charhart didn't look back.

"Police Constable Dimm," Bucket said, turning to peer up at the ambulance driver. "Why don't you come down and help Police Constable Thicke get Mr. Scrooge stowed away? It seems you'll be paying a call in Pimlico!"

Dimm, a congenitally lethargic man who could barely muster the necessary vigor needed to continue breathing, began climbing down with such painstaking sluggishness an observer would have been forced to watch him for quite some time to be certain he was moving at all. This suited Bucket just fine, actually, for he had other business to attend to while Dimm and Thicke tidied up the gutter.

The detective walked towards the sign reading "SCROOGE & MARLEY" and made use of the doorway beneath it. The door was open wide, and gray tendrils of icy fog had swept into the office to curl themselves around desks and chairs like the clutching fingers of some colossal shade.

Bucket sniffed at the air, hoping to reassure himself that the scent he'd caught on the old man's clothes had been no pipe-dream of his own. But it wouldn't have mattered now had Scrooge been smoking two opium pipes while burning incense and boiling cabbage. The odors would have been long dissipated by the flow of air from outside. Indeed, Scrooge's office now smelled like the nearby London streets-which is to say, like factory smoke, horses and the unwholesome effluvia of a million souls living in close quarter.

His nose finding little to investigate, Bucket turned the job over to his eyes. After giving the rooms before them a thorough examination, they reported back thusly:

– Scrooge employed a solitary clerk, and the old man made no exception from his stinginess to accommodate this underling's comfort. (An empty coal scuttle, overflowing work desk and high, rickety stool were shoved into one, cell-like corner.)

– Scrooge was as parsimonious with his trust as he was with his coal. (The ledger books arrayed upon a shelf at the back of the office were shut tight with leather clasps and padlocks.)

– Scrooge's tight fist squeezed its owner nearly as hard as it squeezed the rest of humanity. (Scrooge's own work area was only slightly less dismal than the clerk's, and the old man had conducted his affairs by candle light rather than part with the extra coins necessary for the purchase of lamp oil.)

– Scrooge had been "burning the candle at both ends" at the very moment his sanity flickered out. (His aforementioned desk candles had melted completely, leaving tracks of yellow and brown wax slithering across the wood to pool around the edges of an open ledger.)

– 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 glumly announce 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… well, a tight spot with a woman, and I needed a few extra bob to put 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 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. "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 around, 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 blonde hair pinned up with a square-ish, 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 dust bin, perhaps?" Mrs. Merriweather suggested.

Merriweather ignored her.

"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 punchbowl 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. I offered just that to my uncle today, in the spirit of 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, to be doubly certain the job gets done-old Inspector Bucket will be back in constable's 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.

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?" 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.

"Fond? You… you think I'm…? Oh." The clerk 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!"

"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 full 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 criss-crossing 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 is 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. "Please, 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? 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. Bucket. 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 but a grunt), Bucket stepped inside his cramped-yet-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.

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 will you arrest?"

"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 wasp 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? 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.

"You have another question for me, Mrs. Bucket?"

"I do," Mrs. Bucket said. "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 would admit no such thing, "I find it rather hard to understand why anyone would want to use it on Scrooge."

"What? Ebenezer Scrooge was one of the most hated men in London!"

Mrs. Bucket nodded calmly. "Yes, he was. 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! 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. Set your mind to the right ones, and we'll soon see who's a fool!"

"Well… perhaps." Bucket 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.

"A-ha!"

"A-ha?" Mrs. Bucket asked innocently.

The inspector dashed to the coat rack in the foyer and began pulling on his overcoat and boots. "I've no time to explain-and no need, I'll warrant! By Jove, if Scotland Yard knew about you, half the force would be in blue skirts and bonnets inside a week. You ladies might not be as swift with a truncheon as us brutes, but you can be just as swift with a deduction, if given half a chance." Bucket affixed his hat upon his head and threw open the door. "But enough of my babblings! If there ever was any time to lose, I've misplaced it already!"

"Be careful, William!" Mrs. Bucket called as her husband rushed outside in such a hurry he didn't even close the door behind him.

"If duty permits, my pet!" he shouted without looking back. "If duty permits!"

Bucket spent the next seven minutes hustling up and down the streets of Bloomsbury looking for a hansom, all the while mumbling self-recriminations so acidic they could have melted the snow beneath his flying feet. Even after he finally found a free cab, Bucket's anxious, murmured curses continued throughout his ride, only coming to an end when he hopped out, collared a shivering street waif and sent the lad running to the Bow Street station house with a shiny new three-penny in his pocket. (Scrooge's clerk Cratchit had confiscated all the detective's smaller coins.)

The urchin had already dashed off, disappearing into the fog and snow swirling around the gaslights, when Bucket realized exactly how much rested on his messenger's honesty and speed. Looking across the street at his destination-the offices of Scrooge & Marley-Bucket beheld a dim light flickering behind the thin curtains in the window.

The inspector had arrived just in time to confront the culprit. But he would have to do so alone.

The hustle and bustle of the neighborhood had long given way to the eerie stillness of a late winter's night. Nevertheless, Bucket paused to look both ways before hurrying across the street. He was, after all, at the very spot where Scrooge had been crushed like a pea in a nutcracker hours before.

When he reached the office door, Bucket opened it slowly, dreading the shrieking squeak of rusty hinges that would alert his quarry. But the squeak never came, and Bucket crept inside. He took ginger, hesitant steps, mindful of the floorboards and the not-insubstantial strain his bulk placed upon them. He turned, closed the door, then pushed on into the darkness.

A low, fluttering glow spilled out from a room at the back of the office. As Bucket inched toward the source of the light-candles atop Scrooge's own desk, he was certain-he passed Cratchit's cramped work nook. Resting on the clerk's precarious perch of a desk were an unused candle and a box of lucifer matches. The detective picked them up and brought them to the ready as he crept forward.

He paused just outside Scrooge's sanctum, listening to a low, scratchy noise from around the corner: a pen moving across paper. Then he struck the match, lit the candle and stepped into the room.

"Working late, are we?"

The detective's theatrical entrance had the desired effect. The man seated at Scrooge's desk jumped to his feet popeyed with fright.

"Oh… it's you, Inspector," Bob Cratchit said. He eased himself back down into Scrooge's seat with a smile that looked as out of place on his sallow face as jingle bells on a crocodile. "You gave me quite a scare! Yes… yes, I am working late. There were a few things that needed to be put in order before Scrooge's accounts are handed over to whoever-"

"What sort of things?" Bucket cut in. He nodded at the ledger spread out before Cratchit. It was the same wax-splattered account book the detective had seen there when he'd made his search of the office hours before. "From the lock on that ledger book, I'd guess Mr. Scrooge intended that only he should make changes to the balances inside."

"Well, yes… you're right." Cratchit's grin began to flicker like the candlelight that barely illuminated the room. "But Scrooge fell behind on the bookkeeping. There were changes he never got around to writing down."

"Payments, I assume?"

Cratchit's smile finally snuffed out completely.

"Yes… payments," the clerk said, his gaze dropping to the fresh ink that still glistened on the ledger book's pages. When he looked back up again, his eyes were wild with fear and remorse. "You must believe me, Inspector, I-!"

Bucket silenced him with a clucked tut-tut and a waggle of his upraised forefinger. "You don't have to explain. I know you didn't mean to harm Mr. Scrooge-at least not in the physical sense. You merely hoped to inflict a few small wounds upon his pocketbook through some surreptitious… editing, shall we say? Your duties have included copying Mr. Scrooge's letters, so you've had ample opportunity to master the forging of his handwriting. But getting access to his ledgers proved a thornier problem. Mr. Scrooge kept them under lock and key. So you planned to make the changes while he was in an opium-induced stupor. You could tell him afterwards that he suffered from some kind of episode-an excuse you could also use if he ever questioned your changes. 'Don't you remember, sir? Mr. Smith paid us in full the day you had your spell. Mr. Jones, as well.' And so on. I assume you were to be rewarded for your trouble. A percentage of the debts you erased, perhaps?"

As he unspooled his deductions, Bucket was overcome by a growing sense of triumph that flew past smugness all the way to ecstasy. Not only did his forefinger tingle with a barely contained elation, his entire body seemed to throb with pleasure. The feeling grew so powerful, in fact, that the detective found it difficult to continue speaking.

"But something went wrong… didn't it, Mr. Scratchit? I don't know how you madministered the yummyop… administered the opium, but it didn't effect Mr. Plan as you'd scrooged. Mr. Spoon as you'd praged. Memar Scroo ash oo glanged."

Bucket put his free hand to his forehead and took a deep breath. Three separate sensations were trying to crowd their way into his brain all at once, and the only way he could accommodate them was to have them form a line and enter one at a time.

The first came by way of his ears, which sent word that a sound not unlike giggling was escaping from his own lips.

The second had been sent by his nose, which wished to inform him that an overpowering odor of opium smoke had been detected very close nearby.

The third came from his eyes.

"Master Bucket," they were trying to tell him. "Please note that Mr. Cratchit is grinning again-and a most malevolent grin it is."

By the time this last report reached his consciousness, however, Bucket found that Cratchit had disappeared entirely, replaced somehow by a remarkably large and malicious-looking gingerbread man.

"You're right, Inspector," the menacing pastry said. "I'd assumed the opium would render Scrooge unconscious, or at least malleable. Instead, he became agitated, convinced ghosts were tormenting him, and he ran babbling out of the office. With the old man causing a commotion out front, I could hardly take the time to sit here altering the books as I pleased. So I slipped away, planning to return the next work day and act as though nothing had happened. You can imagine my surprise-if not sorrow-when you showed up to inform me that Scrooge had gotten himself killed. Fortunately, you graced me with enough coin to pay for a quick cab back here so I could finish my work tonight."

As he spoke, the gingerbread man turned black around the edges, as if left in the oven too long. The scorched dough grew fuzzy, then became fur, and Cratchit was again transformed, this time into a deer. But no ordinary deer-a reindeer with blood-stained antlers and a nose that blazed as red as the unholy fires of Hell.

"As for the how of it, you hold the answer in your hand," the reindeer said. "Candles with opium suffused into the wick and wax, placed on Scrooge's desk. I got the idea from an Edgar Allan Poe story-'The Imp of the Perverse.' I was actually rather surprised to find that it worked. How fortunate for me that a moment ago you should pick up and light one of my spares."

The deer rose from his seat and started around the desk. The walls behind him writhed and shifted, coalescing into a sinister tableau of glowering, green-haired ogres with termites in their smiles, and the detective barely even noticed the object-long, shiny and sharp-clutched somehow in the reindeer's hooves.

"Quite effective up close, isn't it?" the reindeer said. "And quite pleasurable, if you give yourself over to it. Which I do frequently, being an opium-eater myself. That's how I originally fell into Scrooge's debt-and his servitude. I've been the man's slave for four years. I begged him to release me from my debt, or at least pay me a fair wage so I could have some hope of paying the debt down. I even filled his ears with heart-breaking tales of a desperate wife, a starving family, a crippled son. All rubbish, by the way. My wife ran off years ago, and I've never been cursed with a brat that can prove its right to call me 'father.' But even if Scrooge believed my lies-and I've no idea if he did or didn't-it wouldn't have mattered to him. As long as he owned my debt, he owned me."

The deer drew ever closer, but Bucket was finding it harder and harder to glean meaning from the animal's words.

"The only way for me to free myself was to free some of Scrooge's other victims… for a fee," the reindeer said. "I had to flu-fluba my life back. And now that I've tartinka gardinka death on my head, I have no reason not to bells bailey drummer-boy petals. I'm sorry, Inspector. I find I must bing bumble zuzu dentist. Dolly Madison? Mommy's little piggy."

The reindeer said more, but the words weren't even sounds to Bucket any longer. They were globules of mulled cider, dark and steaming hot, that hovered in the air before Bucket's eyes. Bucket giggled again and brought his forefinger up to touch one of the quivering brown spheres.

"Curious," the forefinger said. "There's nothing there."

The reindeer came to a stop before Bucket and raised one of its hooves-the one holding the shiny object.

A candy cane shimmering with sugar.

No, a beautiful crystalline icicle.

"No, no!" Bucket's forefinger screamed. "That's a letter opener! Sharp! Pointy! Bloody hell!"

As the rest of the detective was still far too woozy to react, the finger had to take matters in hand itself.

It shot out and jabbed the reindeer in the eye.

"Argh! Kissed by a dog!" the reindeer yelped (or seemed to in Bucket's still-scrambled mind). Except it wasn't a reindeer anymore. It had turned back into Cratchit, and he was bringing up the letter opener again with a roar of rage, ready to plunge the sharp metal into the detective's throat.

Even with a brain broiled in opium, Bucket knew a poke in the eye wouldn't be enough to save him now. So he used the only weapon he had: the candle he still clutched in his left hand.

He rammed it as hard as he could into Cratchit's face. He was in no condition to aim his thrust, so it was pure accident that most of the candle ended up in the clerk's mouth.

Bucket couldn't be sure if he actually heard the sizzling of hot wax at the back of Cratchit's throat or if the sound was merely another product of his overstoked imagination. The man's scream, on the other hand, was indisputably real. Cratchit flailed out with the letter opener, catching Bucket on the side of the head with more fist than metal, and ran gurgling from the room.

One of the few benefits of being dosed with opium without one's knowledge is the pleasant glow it can impart to the unpleasant consequences. Which is why, when Bucket toppled to the floor, he flattened his nose with a smile, for he dreamed he was being gathered into the warm folds of Mrs. Bucket's ample bosom.

When he awoke a short time later, he was disappointed to find himself not nestled between pillows of soft flesh but staring into the bearded face of a bitterly scowling man.

"What is my name?" the man snapped.

"You… are… Dr. Charhart," Bucket answered, the words coming with difficulty. "Have you forgotten?"

"Just checking to see if the blow you took knocked any sense into you. It didn't."

The doctor stood and stalked away, and it slowly dawned on Bucket where he was: flat on his back outside the offices of Scrooge & Marley.

"Don't mind him. He got dragged out of his bed this time, and he ain't happy about it." The large, lumpy form of Constable Thicke loomed over Bucket. "Need a hand up, sir?"

"Yes, that would… gad!" Bucket sat bolt upright-and grew so dizzy he nearly passed out again. "Cratchit! He's gotten away!"

Thicke steadied the inspector with a hand on his shoulder. "Not to worry, sir. If you mean the gent with the candle in his mouth, we got him. Went tearing down the street just as we arrived, and I didn't have to be a detective like yourself to figure out we should give chase. Fast on his feet, he was, and I reckon he would've gotten away if he hadn't gone all queer all of sudden. Stopped dead in his tracks in front of a snowman and started screaming that the thing was alive. Had on a magic hat, he said. Or at least that's what it sounded like. It's hard to understand him. His mouth's still all waxy-like." Thicke shook his head in weary wonderment. "You do see some interesting things when you put on the blue, don't you, sir? Anyway, we found you inside looking 'bout ready to give up the ghost, so I sent one of the lads off to fetch Dr. Charhart, and there you have it."

"Well, as you can see I have my ghost fully in check, Police Constable Thicke." Bucket drew in a deep lungful of air. It was cold and rank with the smells of the city, but it swept through his brain like a broom clearing out cobwebs. "Not that I believe in ghosts, of course."

"His eyes!" a hoarse, tortured voice shrieked.

Bucket and Thicke turned to see Constable Dimm and another officer dragging Cratchit to the police ambulance.

"His horrible, horrible eyes!" Cratchit sobbed, struggling feebly as the constables shoved him in the back and padlocked the door. "Eyes made out of coal!"

"I must admit," Thicke said to Bucket, "I'm looking forward to reading your report."

"I daresay it will make even the works of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe seem positively mundane." Bucket slowly drew himself to his feet and began dusting himself off. "But it's a story you'll have to wait for, as will everyone at E Division. Only the good Mrs. Bucket will be graced with my tale tonight. She won't let me sleep till it's all told-and what's more, she's earned the right to hear it first. They can hold Mr. Cratchit for assaulting an officer for now. I'll write up the rest tomorrow." The detective popped his top hat onto his head. "I'm going home."

"Are you sure you're up for that, sir?"

"I'll be fine."

Bucket turned toward the ambulance. Dimm was watching him sullenly, awaiting the fate he knew he couldn't escape.

"Police Constable Dimm won't mind making a little side trip to Bloomsbury on his way to headquarters. Isn't that right, Police Constable Dimm?"

Dimm didn't say whether he minded or not (though his growl might have been considered an answer by some).

Once again, Bucket rode up top with the constable. He found the frigid slap of the wind against his face refreshing, and the opium fog that had nearly smothered his mind dispersed more with each passing gaslight. His head ached, his nose was tender and bruised, his forefinger throbbed from overuse, and he'd been subjected to fantastical, horrific visions that might scar the psyche of another man.

And Bucket was cheerful.

He knew his head would clear, his nose would heal, his forefinger would be rested and ready for the chase soon enough. He put no stock in phantasms, and the disturbing visions he'd seen held no power over him now.

His good spirits came from what he knew to be real: a bottle of sherry, a bowl of nuts, a pipe, a most excellent partner, all waiting just for him. He would stay up enjoying them until the clock struck twelve. And beyond.