Naughty Nine Tales of Christmas Crime by Steve Hockensmith Page A
Authors: Steve Hockensmith
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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 buggered.
"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
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 buggered.
"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
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