"I did," Bucket responded calmly.

"Stuff and nonsense!"

"No, Dr. Charhart."

"Rubbish!"

"I don't believe so, Dr. Charhart."

"Poppyc.o.c.k! Tommyrot! Fiddle-faddle! Flapdoodle!"

Bucket waited patiently for Charhart to finish.

"If you hadn't been so eager to dunk the body in gutter-wash like a scone in tea, you might have smelled it yourself," the detective said mildly.

"Ebenezer Scrooge took but one pleasure from life, Bucket-the continual acc.u.mulation of wealth. To suggest anything to the contrary is purest humbug! Now if you are through insulting me, I will be on my way."

Bucket held up a fat forefinger and pushed it out before him like a candle to light his way. "One final question, Dr. Charhart: As you knew Mr. Scrooge, perhaps you could tell me where I might find his family. After all, we can't leave his body here in the street."

"You can throw it in the Thames for all I care!" Charhart thundered. "As for Scrooge's family, he never spoke of any save a single nephew-Fred Merriweather. A merchant of some sort. Resides in Pimlico, I believe. And that's the last thing I have to say upon the subject of Ebenezer Scrooge. I would wish you a good night, Bucket, except I don't see why I should wish for you what you've denied me."

Charhart spun on his heel and began striding quickly into the fog.

"Thank you, Dr. Charhart!" Bucket called after him. "A very happy Christmas to you and yours!"

Charhart didn't look back.

"Police Constable Dimm," Bucket said, turning to peer up at the ambulance driver. "Why don't you come down and help Police Constable Thicke get Mr. Scrooge stowed away? It seems you'll be paying a call in Pimlico!"

Dimm, a congenitally lethargic man who could barely muster the necessary vigor needed to continue breathing, began climbing down with such painstaking sluggishness an observer would have been forced to watch him for quite some time to be certain he was moving at all. This suited Bucket just fine, actually, for he had other business to attend to while Dimm and Thicke tidied up the gutter.

The detective walked towards the sign reading "SCROOGE & MARLEY" and made use of the doorway beneath it. The door was open wide, and gray tendrils of icy fog had swept into the office to curl themselves around desks and chairs like the clutching fingers of some colossal shade.

Bucket sniffed at the air, hoping to rea.s.sure himself that the scent he'd caught on the old man's clothes had been no pipe-dream of his own. But it wouldn't have mattered now had Scrooge been smoking two opium pipes while burning incense and boiling cabbage. The odors would have been long dissipated by the flow of air from outside. Indeed, Scrooge's office now smelled like the nearby London streets-which is to say, like factory smoke, horses and the unwholesome effluvia of a million souls living in close quarter.

His nose finding little to investigate, Bucket turned the job over to his eyes. After giving the rooms before them a thorough examination, they reported back thusly: -Scrooge employed a solitary clerk, and the old man made no exception from his stinginess to accommodate this underling's comfort. (An empty coal scuttle, overflowing work desk and high, rickety stool were shoved into one, cell-like corner.) -Scrooge was as parsimonious with his trust as he was with his coal. (The ledger books arrayed upon a shelf at the back of the office were shut tight with leather clasps and padlocks.) -Scrooge's tight fist squeezed its owner nearly as hard as it squeezed the rest of humanity. (Scrooge's own work area was only slightly less dismal than the clerk's, and the old man had conducted his affairs by candle light rather than part with the extra coins necessary for the purchase of lamp oil.) -Scrooge had been "burning the candle at both ends" at the very moment his sanity flickered out. (His aforementioned desk candles had melted completely, leaving tracks of yellow and brown wax slithering across the wood to pool around the edges of an open ledger.) -And finally, Scrooge had most definitely not been smoking opium on the premises. (There was no pipe in sight.) Aside from the streams of wax flowing across the desktop, Scrooge's office was a perfectly orderly (if exceptionally dark and dingy) place of business, and there was nothing to suggest it doubled as an opium den. Yet, while Bucket could be labeled agnostic on many another matter, his faith in his own senses never wavered. He was one of a new breed: a "detective." One who detects. And he had smelled opium on the old man.

So when Dimm stepped inside to glumly announce that the body was ready for "home delivery," Bucket had an announcement of his own to make: He would be accompanying Dimm to the residence of Scrooge's nephew, Fred Merriweather.

"A happy Christmas to you, Police Constable Thicke!" Bucket called out as the ambulance rolled away.

"And to you and the missus, Inspector Bucket!" Thicke replied with a hearty wave. "And to you, too, Dimm!"

"Oh, yes," Dimm grumbled. "What could be merrier than spending Christmas Eve playing hansom cab for a corpse?"

"Cheer up, Police Constable Dimm! At least you won't spend the night walking a beat like poor Police Constable Thicke back there."

Dimm would have rolled his eyes had he the energy to do so.

"Sure you wouldn't rather ride inside, sir?" he muttered instead. "Warmer."

Bucket shook his head. "From what I understand, the old gentleman would make more congenial company now than ever he did in life. Nevertheless, I prefer to surround myself with more, shall we say, animated companions." The detective paused to glance at Dimm, who sat beside him as hunched and still as a gargoyle, his only movement an occasional flick of the reins he held loosely in his limply hanging hands. "Not that I'm entirely certain you qualify as such, Police Constable Dimm. You seem so uncommonly torpid, even by your own languorous standards, I almost wonder if this ambulance carries two cadavers this evening."

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 b.u.g.g.e.red.

"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 carca.s.s 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?"