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 a.s.sistance-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 quant.i.ties 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 c.o.c.kroach 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 b.u.m 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 a.s.sure 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 b.u.t.ter 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 humb.u.g.g.e.ry 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 acc.u.mulation 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.