The Adventures of Holds and Wayson

Bah Humbug

"It's sure to work, Wayson," my partner, the famous detective, Samuel Holds, said, "I guarantee it!"

I, Doctor Josh Wayson, wasn't too sure. "What makes you so certain of it?" I asked him.

He laughed before pointing a finger in the air, "Because, people are always the most generous at Christmas, and I hear this old man is loaded with cash. Why there is no doubt in my mind he will give us something."

We hadn't eaten in a day and a half and the past few nights we had done nothing but slept on the streets of England. At this point, I was open to any plan Holds had in his head.

When we came to the gray brick frozen building, the first thing we noticed was a sign bearing the names of its owners above the door "Scrooge and Marley," it said and nothing more. There was no indication of what kind of business it was, but many in town told us that it was a counting-house, not a bank, but rather a loaning institution where people and businesses alike could take out loans without any capital whatsoever. Unfortunately, places like these charged large amounts of interest and they were often not afraid of throwing the holders of their loans into debtor's prisons if they could not pay back what they owed when it was demanded of their borrowers.

From the outside of the building and its ice-covered sign, there was no telling how much or how little the proprietors of this institution had in their safe or on them, but still, it was worth a try. My hopes were so low, even a single shilling would have made my wild at this point.

Holds started our soliciting by going up to the door. As he was about to knock on the wooden structure, a smiling young gentleman came through it. He was filled with Christmas cheer and danced merrily down the sidewalk.

Holds and I both witnessed his gestures together before turning to face one another.

"Did you see that, Wayson?" My partner pointed out, "Hope!"

We entered the small shop just as the door was about to close. The first thing we noticed about the place was the temperature. It was just as cold inside the building as it was outside. It could have been warmer in the place as next to the door was a stove and a full bucket of coal not being used.

Freezing next to the door was a chubby little man sitting in a high chair and writing on a small square desk that was equally high. Both the items were taller than him. He didn't say a word to us but continued to write in his ledger. How the ink in his well was not frozen, I do not know.

About two meters away from him was an elderly gentleman seated at a larger chair and a larger desk that both were closer to the floor as he was.

"He must be the boss," Holds whispered in my ear.

We put our plan into action. As we both stepped forward, we said in unison, "Good evening, sir."

He didn't respond.

I spoke. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mister Scrooge or Mister Marley?"

Although he didn't raise his eyes to look at us, he did give us an answer. "Mister Marley has been dead these seven years. He died," there was a pause in his voice before he finished, "seven years ago this very night."

Holds opened his mouth and complimented Mister Marley's surviving partner on the continued success of their business despite the untimely departure of the other owner.

Speaking of business, that was exactly what the wrinkly old, bald-headed man wanted us to state.

Holds told the man a half-truth, but then again, half-truths are whole-lies. Nonetheless, he continued his rehearsed routine of telling the old man about how we were out collecting funds for the poor to provide them with some meat and drink and some warmth.

When Holds asked him, "What should we put you down for?" The old man responded with one word.

"Nothing."

I was inclined to ask, "You wish to be anonymous?"

"I wish to be left alone," was his response before he went into a monologue about how he supports the institution that keep the poor out of what little hair he had left on his head and how they cost him enough. 

Once he had finished his miniature monologue, I mentioned to him how many can't go to the prisons or the work-houses and how many would rather die.

"If they would rather die," he said, "then they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population."

I had heard enough of his ranting. I grabbed Holds by the arm mere moments before he could hit the old miser and pulled him out the door.

That night, Holds and I shared a December fire and a few handfuls of bread with some of the local beggars.

As we were finishing the only meal we had in two days, we heard a few bobbies laughing in the distance.

"Say now," one of the beggars said to one of the men in uniform, "what are you all laughing at us for?"

"We are not laughing at you," one of the police officers said, "we are laughing at old Scrooge."

"Scrooge?" My partner asked perking up.

"Yes," the other one said. "Why the old bloat said he had an intruder in his house tonight, but when we got there, there wasn't a soul in the place except for his, if he has one. Then, I swear, he started talking to the little furniture he had in his home. He asked us if we could see him, meaning the other person, but there was no one there except him."

When they started to laugh again, my partner poked me and asked, "Did you hear that, Wayson? Why Old Scrooge has lost it. Tomorrow, we will go to him again and ask him for money once more."

"I don't know, Holds," I said to my friend shaking my head above the fire. "If he is hallucinating, he may be even harsher with us than he was today."

The bobbies then went about their merry way, but not before telling us to put out the fire.

"I suppose," one of the beggars said before asking Holds and myself to join them in a Christmas Carol before we extinguished the flames.

As we started to sing the hymn of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," I couldn't help but feel as if we were being watched by two bystanders off in the distance, but I shook off the ghostly presence and continued to sing with The Spirit of Christmas Present that was amongst us all.

The next morning, Holds and I set out once again for Scrooge's counting-house; however, instead of us approaching Scrooge, the miser approached us.

We were taken aback by his cheerful greeting and were unsure what to think of it.

He said he wanted to contribute to our worthy cause and he whispered in my ear the amount he was willing to donate. He then instructed us to come by his office tomorrow morning to collect the funds.

As he left us, Holds begged me to tell him what the old man had said.  But I stood my ground and kept my mouth shut telling him he would have to wait till tomorrow.

"On The Feast of Stephen?" He asked.

"On The Feast of Stephen," I told him before I grabbed his arm and starting singing, "Good King Wenceslaus looked out on The Feast of Stephen.." And when we close to the church, we concluded our public concert with "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."

We were offered a seat by a small child holding a crutch and when Holds said to him, "God bless you," he responded by saying, "God bless us, everyone."