Naughty: Nine Tales of Christmas Crime Page 9

  "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 to
day, 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.'"