"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!"