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.