Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime (14 page)

When he reached the office door, Bucket opened it slowly, dreading the shrieking squeak of rusty hinges that would alert his quarry. But the squeak never came, and Bucket crept inside. He took ginger, hesitant steps, mindful of the floorboards and the not-insubstantial strain his bulk placed upon them. He turned, closed the door, then pushed on into the darkness.

A low, fluttering glow spilled out from a room at the back of the office. As Bucket inched toward the source of the light—candles atop Scrooge's own desk, he was certain—he passed Cratchit's cramped work nook. Resting on the clerk's precarious perch of a desk were an unused candle and a box of lucifer matches. The detective picked them up and brought them to the ready as he crept forward.

He paused just outside Scrooge's sanctum, listening to a low, scratchy noise from around the corner: a pen moving across paper. Then he struck the match, lit the candle and stepped into the room.

"Working late, are we?"

The detective's theatrical entrance had the desired effect. The man seated at Scrooge's desk jumped to his feet popeyed with fright.

"Oh . . . it's you, Inspector," Bob Cratchit said. He eased himself back down into Scrooge's seat with a smile that looked as out of place on his sallow face as jingle bells on a crocodile. "You gave me quite a scare! Yes . . . yes, I am working late. There were a few things that needed to be put in order before Scrooge's accounts are handed over to whoever—"

"What sort of things?" Bucket cut in. He nodded at the ledger spread out before Cratchit. It was the same wax-splattered account book the detective had seen there when he'd made his search of the office hours before. "From the lock on that ledger book, I'd guess Mr. Scrooge intended that only
he
should make changes to the balances inside."

"Well, yes . . . you're right." Cratchit's grin began to flicker like the candlelight that barely illuminated the room. "But Scrooge fell behind on the bookkeeping. There were changes he never got around to writing down."

"Payments, I assume?"

Cratchit's smile finally snuffed out completely.

"Yes . . . payments," the clerk said, his gaze dropping to the fresh ink that still glistened on the ledger book's pages. When he looked back up again, his eyes were wild with fear and remorse. "You must believe me, Inspector, I—!"

Bucket silenced him with a clucked
tut-tut
and a waggle of his upraised forefinger. "You don't have to explain. I know you didn't mean to harm Mr. Scrooge—at least not in the physical sense. You merely hoped to inflict a few small wounds upon his pocketbook through some surreptitious . . . editing, shall we say? Your duties have included copying Mr. Scrooge's letters, so you've had ample opportunity to master the forging of his handwriting. But getting access to his ledgers proved a thornier problem. Mr. Scrooge kept them under lock and key. So you planned to make the changes while he was in an opium-induced stupor. You could tell him afterwards that he suffered from some kind of episode—an excuse you could also use if he ever questioned your changes. 'Don't you remember, sir? Mr. Smith paid us in full the day you had your spell. Mr. Jones, as well.' And so on. I assume you were to be rewarded for your trouble. A percentage of the debts you erased, perhaps?"

As he unspooled his deductions, Bucket was overcome by a growing sense of triumph that flew past smugness all the way to ecstasy. Not only did his forefinger tingle with a barely contained elation, his entire body seemed to throb with pleasure. The feeling grew so powerful, in fact, that the detective found it difficult to continue speaking.

"But something went wrong . . . didn't it, Mr. Scratchit? I don't know how you madministered the yummyop . . . administered the opium, but it didn't effect Mr. Plan as you'd scrooged. Mr. Spoon as you'd praged. Memar Scroo ash oo glanged."

Bucket put his free hand to his forehead and took a deep breath. Three separate sensations were trying to crowd their way into his brain all at once, and the only way he could accommodate them was to have them form a line and enter one at a time.

The first came by way of his ears, which sent word that a sound not unlike giggling was escaping from his own lips.

The second had been sent by his nose, which wished to inform him that an overpowering odor of opium smoke had been detected very close nearby.

The third came from his eyes.

"Master Bucket," they were trying to tell him. "Please note that Mr. Cratchit is grinning again—and a most malevolent grin it is."

By the time this last report reached his consciousness, however, Bucket found that Cratchit had disappeared entirely, replaced somehow by a remarkably large and malicious-looking gingerbread man.

"You're right, Inspector," the menacing pastry said. "I'd assumed the opium would render Scrooge unconscious, or at least malleable. Instead, he became agitated, convinced ghosts were tormenting him, and he ran babbling out of the office. With the old man causing a commotion out front, I could hardly take the time to sit here altering the books as I pleased. So I slipped away, planning to return the next work day and act as though nothing had happened. You can imagine my surprise—if not sorrow—when you showed up to inform me that Scrooge had gotten himself killed. Fortunately, you graced me with enough coin to pay for a quick cab back here so I could finish my work tonight."

As he spoke, the gingerbread man turned black around the edges, as if left in the oven too long. The scorched dough grew fuzzy, then became fur, and Cratchit was again transformed, this time into a deer. But no ordinary deer—a reindeer with blood-stained antlers and a nose that blazed as red as the unholy fires of Hell.

"As for the how of it, you hold the answer in your hand," the reindeer said. "Candles with opium suffused into the wick and wax, placed on Scrooge's desk. I got the idea from an Edgar Allan Poe story—'The Imp of the Perverse.' I was actually rather surprised to find that it worked. How fortunate for me that a moment ago you should pick up and light one of my spares."

The deer rose from his seat and started around the desk. The walls behind him writhed and shifted, coalescing into a sinister tableau of glowering, green-haired ogres with termites in their smiles, and the detective barely even noticed the object—long, shiny and sharp—clutched somehow in the reindeer's hooves.

"Quite effective up close, isn't it?" the reindeer said. "And quite pleasurable, if you give yourself over to it. Which I do frequently, being an opium-eater myself. That's how I originally fell into Scrooge's debt—and his servitude. I've been the man's slave for four years. I begged him to release me from my debt, or at least pay me a fair wage so I could have some hope of paying the debt down. I even filled his ears with heart-breaking tales of a desperate wife, a starving family, a crippled son. All rubbish, by the way. My wife ran off years ago, and I've never been cursed with a brat that can prove its right to call me 'father.' But even if Scrooge believed my lies—and I've no idea if he did or didn't—it wouldn't have mattered to him. As long as he owned my debt, he owned me."

The deer drew ever closer, but Bucket was finding it harder and harder to glean meaning from the animal's words.

"The only way for me to free myself was to free some of Scrooge's other victims . . . for a fee," the reindeer said. "I had to
flu-fluba
my life back. And now that I've
tartinka gardinka
death on my head, I have no reason not to
bells bailey drummer-boy petals
. I'm sorry, Inspector. I find I must
bing bumble zuzu dentist. Dolly Madison? Mommy's little piggy
."

The reindeer said more, but the words weren't even sounds to Bucket any longer. They were globules of mulled cider, dark and steaming hot, that hovered in the air before Bucket's eyes. Bucket giggled again and brought his forefinger up to touch one of the quivering brown spheres.

"Curious," the forefinger said. "There's nothing there."

The reindeer came to a stop before Bucket and raised one of its hooves—the one holding the shiny object.

A candy cane shimmering with sugar.

No, a beautiful crystalline icicle.

"No, no!" Bucket's forefinger screamed. "That's a letter opener! Sharp! Pointy! Bloody hell!"

As the rest of the detective was still far too woozy to react, the finger had to take matters in hand itself.

It shot out and jabbed the reindeer in the eye.

"
Argh
!
Kissed by a dog
!" the reindeer yelped (or seemed to in Bucket's still-scrambled mind). Except it wasn't a reindeer anymore. It had turned back into Cratchit, and he was bringing up the letter opener again with a roar of rage, ready to plunge the sharp metal into the detective's throat.

Even with a brain broiled in opium, Bucket knew a poke in the eye wouldn't be enough to save him now. So he used the only weapon he had: the candle he still clutched in his left hand.

He rammed it as hard as he could into Cratchit's face. He was in no condition to aim his thrust, so it was pure accident that most of the candle ended up in the clerk's mouth.

Bucket couldn't be sure if he actually heard the sizzling of hot wax at the back of Cratchit's throat or if the sound was merely another product of his overstoked imagination. The man's scream, on the other hand, was indisputably real. Cratchit flailed out with the letter opener, catching Bucket on the side of the head with more fist than metal, and ran gurgling from the room.

One of the few benefits of being dosed with opium without one's knowledge is the pleasant glow it can impart to the unpleasant consequences. Which is why, when Bucket toppled to the floor, he flattened his nose with a smile, for he dreamed he was being gathered into the warm folds of Mrs. Bucket's ample bosom.

When he awoke a short time later, he was disappointed to find himself not nestled between pillows of soft flesh but staring into the bearded face of a bitterly scowling man.

"What is my name?" the man snapped.

"You . . . are . . . Dr. Charhart," Bucket answered, the words coming with difficulty. "Have you forgotten?"

"Just checking to see if the blow you took knocked any sense into you. It didn't."

The doctor stood and stalked away, and it slowly dawned on Bucket where he was: flat on his back outside the offices of Scrooge & Marley.

"Don't mind him. He got dragged out of his bed this time, and he ain't happy about it." The large, lumpy form of Constable Thicke loomed over Bucket. "Need a hand up, sir?"

"Yes, that would . . . gad!" Bucket sat bolt upright—and grew so dizzy he nearly passed out again. "Cratchit! He's gotten away!"

Thicke steadied the inspector with a hand on his shoulder. "Not to worry, sir. If you mean the gent with the candle in his mouth, we got him. Went tearing down the street just as we arrived, and I didn't have to be a detective like yourself to figure out we should give chase. Fast on his feet, he was, and I reckon he would've gotten away if he hadn't gone all queer all of sudden. Stopped dead in his tracks in front of a snowman and started screaming that the thing was alive. Had on a magic hat, he said. Or at least that's what it sounded like. It's hard to understand him. His mouth's still all waxy-like." Thicke shook his head in weary wonderment. "You do see some interesting things when you put on the blue, don't you, sir? Anyway, we found you inside looking 'bout ready to give up the ghost, so I sent one of the lads off to fetch Dr. Charhart, and there you have it."

"Well, as you can see I have my ghost fully in check, Police Constable Thicke." Bucket drew in a deep lungful of air. It was cold and rank with the smells of the city, but it swept through his brain like a broom clearing out cobwebs. "Not that I believe in ghosts, of course."

"His eyes!" a hoarse, tortured voice shrieked.

Bucket and Thicke turned to see Constable Dimm and another officer dragging Cratchit to the police ambulance.

"His horrible, horrible eyes!" Cratchit sobbed, struggling feebly as the constables shoved him in the back and padlocked the door. "Eyes made out of
coal
!"

"I must admit," Thicke said to Bucket, "I'm looking forward to reading your report."

"I daresay it will make even the works of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe seem positively mundane." Bucket slowly drew himself to his feet and began dusting himself off. "But it's a story you'll have to wait for, as will everyone at E Division. Only the good Mrs. Bucket will be graced with my tale tonight. She won't let me sleep till it's all told—and what's more, she's earned the right to hear it first. They can hold Mr. Cratchit for assaulting an officer for now. I'll write up the rest tomorrow." The detective popped his top hat onto his head. "I'm going home."

"Are you sure you're up for that, sir?"

"I'll be fine."

Bucket turned toward the ambulance. Dimm was watching him sullenly, awaiting the fate he knew he couldn't escape.

"Police Constable Dimm won't mind making a little side trip to Bloomsbury on his way to headquarters. Isn't that right, Police Constable Dimm?"

Dimm didn't say whether he minded or not (though his growl might have been considered an answer by some).

Once again, Bucket rode up top with the constable. He found the frigid slap of the wind against his face refreshing, and the opium fog that had nearly smothered his mind dispersed more with each passing gaslight. His head ached, his nose was tender and bruised, his forefinger throbbed from overuse, and he'd been subjected to fantastical, horrific visions that might scar the psyche of another man.

And Bucket was cheerful.

He knew his head would clear, his nose would heal, his forefinger would be rested and ready for the chase soon enough. He put no stock in phantasms, and the disturbing visions he'd seen held no power over him now.

His good spirits came from what he knew to be real: a bottle of sherry, a bowl of nuts, a pipe, a most excellent partner, all waiting just for him. He would stay up enjoying them until the clock struck twelve. And beyond.

NAUGHTY