Steve Hockensmith - Naughty-Nine Tales of Christmas

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."