The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

by Martin H. Greenberg et al (Ed)

  “Eight,” I said, and then could have bit my tongue.

  “Who else?” Cork demanded.

  “The Dame herself. I saw her enter after Miss Daws- Smith came out.”

  “That is highly irresponsible, Oaks,” Tell admonished.

  “And interesting,” Cork said. “Thank you, Oaks, you have put some yeast into it with your observation.”

  “You’re not suggesting that the Dame killed her own daughter!”

  “Major,” Cork said, “she-animals have been known to eat their young when they are endangered. But enough of this conjecture. Let us get down to rocks and hard places. We will have to take it step by step. First, let us have a go at the footmen who carried the chair into the den before Gretchen entered.”

  They were summoned, and the senior man, a portly fellow named Trask, spoke for the lot.

  “No, sir,” he answered Cork’s question. “I am sure no one was lurking in the room when we entered. There is no place to hide.”

  “And the passage to the back door?”

  “Empty, sir. You see, the door leading to the passage was open, and I went over to close it against any drafts coming into the den. There was no one in the den, sir, I can swear to it.”

  “Is the outside door normally kept locked?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Leastways, it’s supposed to be. It was locked earlier this afternoon when I made my rounds, preparing for the festivities.”

  “Tell me, Trask,” Cork asked, “do you consider yourself a good servant, loyal to your mistress’s household?”

  The man’s chubby face looked almost silly with its beaming pride. “Twenty-two years in the house, sir, from kitchen boy to head footman, and every day of it in the Dame’s service.”

  “Very commendable, Trask, but you are most extravagant with tapers.”

  “Sir?” Trask looked surprised.

  “If the back-yard door was locked, why did you leave a candle burning in the passageway? Since no one could come in from the outside, no light would be needed as a guide. Certainly any one entering from the den would carry his own.”

  “But Captain,” the footman protested, “I left no light in the passageway. When I was closing the inner door, I held a candelabrum in my hand, and could see clear to the other end. There was no candle lit.”

  “My apologies, Trask. Thank you, that will be all.”

  When the footmen had left, I said, “Yet we found a lit candle out there right after the murder. The killer must have left it, in his haste.”

  Cork merely shrugged. Then he said, “So we got a little further. Major, I would like to see Miss Daws-Smith next.”

  Despite the circumstances, I was looking forward to seeing the comely Miss Daws-Smith once more. However, she was not alone when she entered, and her escort made it clear by his protective manner that her beauty was his property alone. She sat down in a straight-backed chair opposite Cork, nervously fingering the fan in her lap. Brock van Loon took a stance behind her.

  “I prefer to speak to this young lady alone,” Cork said.

  “I am aware of your reputation, Captain Cork,” van Loon said defensively, “and I do not intend to have Lydia drawn into this.”

  “Young man, she is in it, and from your obvious concern for her, I’d say you are, too.”

  “It is more than concern, sir. I love Lydia and she loves me.”

  “Brock,” the girl said, turning to him.

  “I don’t care, Lydia. I don’t care what my father says and I don’t care what the Dame thinks.”

  “That’s a rather anticlimactic statement, young man. Since your betrothed is dead, you are free of that commitment.”

  “You see, Brock? Now he suspects that we had something to do with Gretchen’s death. I swear, Captain, we had no hand in it.”

  “Possibly not as cohorts. Was Gretchen in love with this fellow?”

  “No. I doubt Gretchen could love any man. She was like her mother, and was doing her bidding as far as a marriage went. The van Schooner women devour males. Brock knows what would have become of him. He saw what happened to Gretchen’s father.”

  “Her father?”

  “Gustave van Schooner,” Brock said, “died a worthless drunkard, locked away on one of the family estates up the Hudson. He had been a valiant soldier, I am told, and yet, once married to the Dame, he was reduced to a captured stallion.”

  “Quite poetic,” Cork said. “Now, my dear, can you tell me what happened when you and Gretchen entered the den this evening?”

  The girl stopped toying with the fan and sent her left hand to her shoulder, where Brock had placed his. “There’s nothing to tell, really. We went into the den together and I asked her if she wanted a cup of syllabub. She said no.”

  “What was her demeanor? Was she excited?”

  “About being the Queen? Mercy, no. She saw that as her due. Gretchen was not one to show emotion.” She stopped suddenly in thought and then said, “But now that I think back, she was fidgety. She walked over to the fireplace and tapped on the mantel with her fingers. Then she turned and said, ‘Tell the Dame I’m ready,’ which was strange, because she never called her mother that.”

  “Was she being sarcastic?”

  “No, Captain, more a poutiness. I went and gave Dame van Schooner the message. That was the last I saw of Gretchen.” Her eyes started to moisten. “The shock is just wearing off, I suppose. She was spoiled and autocratic, but Gretchen was a good friend.”

  “Hardly, Miss Daws-Smith. She had appropriated your lover.”

  “No. She knew nothing of how I felt towards Brock. We were all children together, you see—Gretchen, Wilda, Brock, and I. When you grow up that way, you don’t always know childish affection from romantic love. I admit that when plans were being made for the betrothal, love for Brock burned in me, but I hid it, Captain. I hid it well. Then, earlier this evening, Brock told me how he felt, and I was both elated and miserable. I decided that both Brock and I would go the Dame tomorrow. Gretchen knew nothing of our love.”

  “And you, sir,” Cork said to Brock, “you made no mention of your change of heart to Gretchen?”

  The fellow bowed his head. “Not in so many words. This has been coming on me for weeks, this feeling I have for Lydia. Just now, as you were talking to her, I wondered—God, how terrible—if Gretchen could have committed suicide out of despair.”

  “Oh, Brock!” Lydia was aghast at his words.

  “Come,” Cork commanded sharply, “this affair is burdensome enough without the added baggage of melodrama. Use your obvious good sense, Miss Daws-Smith. Is it likely that this spoiled and haughty woman would take her own life? Over a man?”

  Lydia raised her head and looked straight at Cork. “No. No, of course not. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Now, Mr. van Loon, when you entered the den with the others in the escort party to bring in the sedan chair, were the curtains pulled shut?”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “And no one spoke to its occupant?”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “Strange, isn’t it? Such a festive occasion, and yet no one spoke?”

  “We were in a hurry to get her out to where the Governor was waiting. Wait, someone did say, ‘Hang on, Gretchen’ when we lifted the chair. I don’t remember who said it, though.”

  “You heard no sound from inside the chair? No groan or murmur?”

  “No, sir, not a sound.”

  “Well, thank you for your candor. Oh, yes, Miss Daws-Smith, when you left Gretchen, was she still standing by the fire?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Was her mask on or off?”

  She frowned. “Why, she had it on. What a queer question!”

  “It’s a queer case, young lady.”

  The great clock in the center hall had just tolled three when Cork finished talking with the other five young men who had carried the murdered girl in the sedan chair. They all corroborated Brock’s version. All were ignorant of any expressio
n of love between Brock and Lydia, and they were unanimous in their relief that Brock, and not one of them, had been Gretchen’s intended. As one young man named Langley put it, “At least Brock has an inheritance of his own, and would not have been dependent on his wife and mother-in-law.”

  “Dependent?” Cork queried. “Would he not assume her estate under law?”

  “No, sir, not in this house,” Langley explained. “I am told it’s a kind of morganatic arrangement and a tradition with the old van der Malin line. I have little income, so Gretchen would have been no bargain for me. Not that I am up to the Dame’s standards.”

  When Langley had left, Trask, the footman, entered to tell us that rooms had been prepared for us at the major’s request. Cork thanked him and said, “I know the hour is late, but is your mistress available?”

  He told us he would see, and showed us to a small sitting room off the main upstairs hall. It was a tight and cozy chamber with a newly-stirred hearth and the accoutrements of womankind—a small velvet couch with tiny pillows, a secretaire in the corner, buckbaskets of knitting and mending.

  Unusual, however, was the portrait of the Dame herself that hung on a wall over the secretaire. It was certainly not the work of a local limner, for the controlled hand of a master painter showed through. Each line was carefully laid down, each color blended one with the other, to produce a perfect likeness of the Dame. She was dressed in a gown almost as beautiful as the one she had worn this evening. At her throat was a remarkable diamond necklace which, despite the two dimensions of the portrait, was lifelike in its cool, blue-white lustre.

  Cork was drawn to the portrait and even lifted a candle to study it more closely. I joined him and was about to tell him to be careful of the flame when a voice from behind startled me.

  “There are additional candles if you need more light.”

  We both turned to find Wilda van Schooner standing in the doorway. She looked twice her seventeen years, with the obvious woe she carried inside her. Her puffed eyes betrayed the tears of grief that had recently welled there.

  “Forgive my curiosity, Miss van Schooner,” Cork said, turning back to the portrait. “Inquisitiveness and a passion for details are my afflictions. This work was done in Europe, of course?”

  “No, sir, here in New York, although Jan der Trogue is from the continent. He is—was—to have painted all of us eventually.” She broke off into thought and then rejoined us. “My mother is with my sister, gentlemen, and is not available. She insists on seeing to Gretchen herself.”

  “That is most admirable.” Cork bid her to seat herself, and she did so. She did not have her sister’s or her mother’s coloring, nor their chiseled beauty, but there was something strangely attractive about this tall, dark-haired girl.

  “I understand, Captain, that you are here to help us discover the fiend who did this thing, but you will have to bear with my mother’s grief.”

  “To be sure. And what can you tell me, Miss Wilda?”

  “I wish I could offer some clue, but my sister and I were not close—we did not exchange confidences.”

  “Was she in love with Brock van Loon?”

  “Love!” she cried, and then did a strange thing. She giggled almost uncontrollably for a few seconds. “That’s no word to use in this house, Captain.”

  “Wilda, my dear,” a female voice said from the open door. “I think you are too upset to make much sense tonight. Perhaps in the morning, gentlemen?”

  The speaker was the girl’s aunt, Hetta van der Malin, and we rose as she entered.

  “Forgive our intrusion into your sitting room, ma’am,” Cork said with a bow. “Perhaps you are right. Miss Wilda looks exhausted.”

  “I agree, Captain Cork,” the aunt said, and she put her arm around the girl and ushered her out the door.

  “Pray,” Cork interrupted, “could you spare us some time in your niece’s stead?”

  Her smile went faint, but it was a smile all the same. “How did you know this was my room, Captain? Oh, of course. Trask must have—”

  “On the contrary, my eyes told me. Your older sister does not fit the image of a woman surrounded by knitting and mending and pert pillowcases.”

  “No, she doesn’t. The den is Ilsa’s sitting room. Our mother raised her that way. She is quite a capable person, you know.”

  “So it would seem. Miss Hetta, may I ask why you invited us here this evening?”

  I was as caught off guard as she was.

  “Whatever put that notion into your head? My sister dispatched the invitations herself.”

  “Precisely! That’s why you had to purloin one and fill in our names yourself. Come, dear woman, the sample of your hand on the letters on your secretaire matches the hand that penned the unsigned note I received.”

  “You have looked through my things!”

  “I snoop when forced to. Pretence will fail you, ma’am, for the young lad who delivered this invitation will undoubtedly be found and will identify you. Come, now, you wrote to invite me here and now you deny it. I will have an answer.”

  “Captain Cork,” I cautioned him, for the woman was quivering.

  “Yes, I sent it.” Her voice was tiny and hollow. “But it had nothing to do with this horrible murder. It was trivial compared to it, and it is senseless to bring it up now. Please believe me, Captain. It was foolish of me.”

  “You said ‘calamity’ in your note, and now we have a murder done. Is that not the extreme of calamity?”

  “Yes, of course it is. I used too strong a word in my note. I would gladly have told you about it after the coronation. But now it would just muddle things. I can’t.”

  “Then, my dear woman, I must dig it out. Must I play the ferret while you play the mute?” His voice was getting sterner. I know how good an actor he is, but was he acting?

  “Do you know what a colligation is, Madam?”

  She shook her head.

  “It is the orderly bringing together of isolated facts. Yet you blunt my efforts; half facts can lead to half truths. Do you want a half truth?” He paused and then spat it out. “Your sister may have killed her older daughter!”

  “That is unbearable!” she cried.

  “A surmise based on a half truth. She was the last person to see Gretchen alive, if the Daws-Smith girl is to be believed. And why not believe her? If Lydia had killed Gretchen, would she then send the mother into the room to her corpse? Take the honor guards who were to carry the sedan chair: if Gretchen were alive when her mother left her, could one of those young men have killed her in the presence of five witnesses?”

  “Anyone could have come in from the outside.” Miss Hetta’s voice was frantic.

  “Nonsense. The evidence is against it.”

  “Why would Ilsa want to kill her own flesh and blood? It is unthinkable!”

  “And yet people will think it, rest assured. The whole ugly affair can be whitewashed and pinned to some mysterious assailant who stalked in the night season, but people will think it just the same, Madam.”

  She remained silent now, and I could feel Cork’s mind turning from one tactic to another, searching for leverage. He got to his feet and walked over to the portrait.

  “So in the face of silence, I must turn the ferret loose in my mind. Take, for example, the question of this necklace.”

  “The van der Malin Chain,” she said, looking up at the portrait. “What about it?”

  “If the painter was accurate, it seems of great worth, both in pounds sterling and family prestige. It’s very name proclaims it an heirloom.”