The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 1 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  “I’m afraid your being honoured is misplaced, my old son,” he said. “The invitation was written by a skilled hand, possibly an Ephrata penman, hired for such work. But our names have been fitted in by a less skilled writer. The author of the note has by some means invited us without the hostess’ knowledge. Our sub rosa bidder must be in some dire difficulty, for she does not dare risk discovery by signing her name.”

  “Her?”

  “No doubt about it. The hand is feminine and written in haste. I thought it odd that a mere boy should deliver this. It is usually the task of a footman, who would wait for a reply. This is truly intriguing – an impending calamity stalking the wealthy home in which she lives.”

  “How can you be sure of that, sir?”

  “I can only surmise. She had access to the invitations and she says ‘calamity for us,’ which implies her family. Hello.” He looked up suddenly as the door opened and a serving girl entered with a tray, followed by a man in royal red. “Sweet Jerusalem!” Cork got to his feet. “Major Tell in the flesh! Sally, my girl, you had better have Marshall send up extra Apple Knock and oysters. Tell, it is prophetic that you should appear just as a new puzzle emerges.”

  Prophetic indeed. Major Philip Tell is a King’s agent-at-large, and he invariably embroiled us in some case of skulduggery whenever he was in our purlieu. But I bode him no ill this time, for he had nothing to do with the affair. In fact, his vast knowledge of the colonial scene might prove helpful.

  “Well, lads,” Tell said, taking off his rogueloure and tossing his heavy cloak onto a chair. “I knew Christmas would bring you to New York. You look fit, Captain, and I see Oaks is still at his account books.”

  When Cork told him of our invitation and the curious accompanying note, the officer gave a low whistle. “The van Schooners, no less! Well, we shall share the festivities, for I am also a guest at the affair. The note is a little disturbing, however. Dame Ilsa is the mistress of a large fortune and extensive land holdings, which could be the spark for foul play.”

  “You think she sent the note?” I asked.

  “Nonsense,” Cork interjected. “She would not have had to purloin her own invitation. What can you tell us of the household, Major?”

  I don’t know if Tell’s fund of knowledge is part of his duties or his general nosiness, but he certainly keeps his ear to the ground. No gossip-monger could hold a candle to him.

  “The family fortune was founded by her grandfather, Nils van der Malin – patroon holdings up the Hudson, pearl potash, naval stores, that sort of old money. Under Charles the Second’s Duke of York grant, Nils was rewarded for his support with a baronetcy. The title fell in the distaff side to Dame Ilsa’s mother, old Gretchen van der Malin. She was a terror of a woman, who wore men’s riding clothes and ran her estates with an iron first and a riding crop. She had a young man of the Orange peerage brought over as consort, and they produced Ilsa. The current Dame is more genteel than her mother was, but just as stern and autocratic. She, in turn, married a van Schooner – Gustave, I believe, a soldier of some distinction in the Lowland campaigns. He died of drink after fathering two daughters, Gretchen and her younger sister, Wilda.

  “The line is certainly Amazonite and breeds true,” Cork said with a chuckle. “Not a climate I would relish, although strong women have their fascination.”

  “Breeds true is correct, Captain. The husbands were little more than sire stallions; good blood but ruined by idleness.”

  This last, about being “ruined by idleness,” was ignored by Cork, but I marked it, as well he knew.

  “Young Gretchen,” Tell went on, “is also true to her namesake. A beauty, but cold as a steel blade, and as well honed. They say she is a dead shot and an adept horsewoman.”

  “You have obviously been to the van Schooner haus, as our correspondent calls it.”

  “Oh, yes, on several occasions. It is truly a place to behold.”

  “No doubt, Major.” Cork poured a glass of Apple Knock. “Who else lives there besides the servants?”

  “The younger daughter Wilda, of course, and the Dame’s spinster sister, Hetta van der Malin, and an ancient older brother of the dead husband – the brother is named Kaarl. I have only seen him once, but I am told he was quite the wastrel in his day, and suffers from the afflictions of such a life.”

  “Mmm,” Cork murmured, offering the glass to Tell. “I change my original Amazonite observation to that of Queen Bee. Well, someone in that house feels in need of help, but we shall have to wait until to-morrow night to find out why.”

  “Or who,” I said.

  “That,” Cork said, “is the heart of the mystery.”

  The snow started falling soon after dinner that night and kept falling into the dawn. By noon of the 24th, the wind had drifted nature’s white blanket into knee-high banks. When it finally stopped in the late afternoon, New York was well covered under a blotchy sky. The inclemency, however, did not deter attendance at the van Schooner Ball.

  I had seen the van Schooner home from the road many times, and always marveled at its striking architecture, which is in the Palladio style. The main section is a three-storey structure, and it is flanked by one-storey wings at both sides.

  The lights and music emanating from the north wing clearly marked it a ballroom of immense size. The front entrance to the main house had a large raised enclosure which people in these parts call a stoop. The interior was as rich and well appointed as any manse I have ever seen. The main hall was a gallery of statuary of the Greek and Roman cast, collected, I assumed, when the family took the mandatory Grand Tour.

  Our outer clothes were taken at the main door, and we were escorted through a sculptured archway across a large salon towards the ballroom proper. We had purposely come late to avoid the reception line and any possible discovery by Dame van Schooner. We need not have bothered. There were more than 200 people there, making individual acquaintance impossible. Not that some of the guests were without celebrity. The Royal Governor was in attendance, and I saw General Seaton and Solomon deSilva, the fur king, talking with Reeves, the shipping giant.

  It was difficult to determine the identity of the majority of the people, for most wore masks, although not all, including Cork and myself. Tell fluttered off on his social duties, and Cork fell to conversation with a man named Downs, who had recently returned from Spanish America and shared common friends there with the Captain.

  I helped myself to some hot punch and leaned back to take in the spectacle. It would be hard to say whether the men or the women were the more lushly bedizened. The males were adorned in the latest fashion with those large, and, to my mind, cumbersome rolled coat cuffs. The materials of their plumage were a dazzling mixture of gold and silver stuffs, bold brocades, and gaudy flowered velvets. The women, not to be outdone by their peacocks, were visions in fan-hooped gowns of silks and satins and fine damask. Each woman’s tête-de-moutin back curls swung gaily as her partner spun her around the dance floor to madcap tunes such as “Roger de Coverly,” played with spirit by a seven-piece ensemble. To the right of the ballroom entrance was a long table with three different punch bowls dispensing cheer.

  The table was laden with all manner of great hams, glistening roast goose, assorted tidbit meats and sweets of unimaginable variety. Frothy syllabub was cupped up for the ladies by liveried footmen, while the gentlemen had their choice of Madeira, rum, champagne, or Holland gin, the last served in small crystal thimbles which were embedded and cooled in a silver bowl mounded with snow.

  “This is most lavish,” I said to Cork when he disengaged himself from conversation with Downs. “It’s a good example of what diligent attention to industry can produce.”

  “Whose industry, Oaks? Wealth has nothing more to do with industry than privilege has with merit. Our hostess over there does not appear to have ever perspired in her life.”

  He was true to the mark in his observation, for Dame van Schooner, who stood chatting with the Governor ne
ar the buffet, was indeed as cold as fine-cut crystal. Her well-formed face was sternly beautiful, almost arrogantly defying anyone to marvel at its handsomeness and still maintain normal breathing.

  “She is a fine figure of a woman, Captain, and, I might add, a widow.”

  He gave me a bored look and said, “A man would die of frostbite in her bedchamber. Ah, Major Tell, congratulations! You are a master at the jig!”

  “It’s a fantastical do, but good for the liver, I’m told. Has the mysterious sender of your invitation made herself known to you?”

  “Not as yet. Is that young lady now talking with the Dame one of her daughters?”

  “Both of them are daughters. The one lifting her mask is Gretchen, and, I might add, the catch of the year. I am told she has been elected Queen of the Bal, and will be crowned this evening.”

  The girl was the image of her mother. Her sister, however, must have followed the paternal line.

  “The younger one is Wilda,” Tell went on, “a dark pigeon in her own right, but Gretchen is the catch.”

  “Catch, you say.” I winked at Cork. “Perhaps her bedchamber would be warmer?”

  “You’ll find no purchase there, gentlemen,” Tell told us. “Along with being crowned Queen, her betrothal to Brock van Loon will probably be announced this evening.”

  “Hand-picked by her mother, no doubt?” Cork asked.

  “Everything is hand-picked by the Dame. Van Loon is a stout fellow, although a bit of a tailor’s dummy. Family is well landed across the river in Brueckelen. Say, they’re playing “The Green Cockade,” Captain. Let me introduce you to Miss Borden, one of our finest steppers.”

  I watched them walk over to a comely piece of frippery and then Cork and the young lady stepped onto the dance floor. “The Green Cockade” is one of Cork’s favourite tunes, and he dances it with gusto.

  I drifted over to the serving table and took another cup of punch, watching all the time for some sign from our mysterious “hostess,” whoever she was. I mused that the calamity mentioned in the note might well have been pure hyperbole, for I could not see how any misfortune could befall this wealthy, joyous home.

  With Cork off on the dance floor, Tell returned to my side and offered to find a dance partner for me. I declined, not being the most nimble of men, but did accept his bid to introduce me to a lovely young woman named Lydia Daws-Smith. The surname declared her to be the offspring of a very prominent family in the fur trade, and her breeding showed through a delightfully pretty face and pert figure. We were discussing the weather when I noticed four footmen carrying what appeared to be a closed sedan chair into the hall and through a door at the rear.

  “My word, is a Sultan among the assemblage?” I asked my companion.

  “The sedan chair?” She giggled from behind her fan. “No, Mr. Oaks, no Sultan. It’s our Queen’s throne. Gretchen will be transported into the hall at the stroke of midnight, and the Governor will proclaim her our New Year’s Sovereign.” She stopped for a moment, the smile gone. “Then she will step forward to our acclaim and, of course, mandatory idolatry.”

  “I take it you do not like Gretchen very much, Miss Daws-Smith.”

  “On the contrary, sir. She is one of my best friends. Now you will have to excuse me, for I see Gretchen is getting ready for the crowning, and I must help her.”

  I watched the young girl as she followed Gretchen to the rear of the hall where they entered a portal and closed the door behind them. Seconds later, Lydia Daws-Smith came back into the main hall and spoke with the Dame, who then went through the rear door.

  Cork had finished his dance and rejoined me. “This exercise may be good for the liver,” he said, “but it plays hell with my thirst. Shall we get some refills?”

  We walked back to the buffet table to slake his thirst, if that were ever possible. From the corner of my eye I caught sight of the Dame re-entering the hall from the rear door. She crossed over to the Governor and was about to speak to him when the orchestra struck up another tune. She seemed angry at the intrusion into what was obviously to have been the beginning of the coronation. But the Dame was ladylike and self-contained until the dancing was over. She then took a deep breath and nervously adjusted the neckline of her dress, which was shamefully bare from the bodice to the neck.

  “Looks like the coronation is about to begin,” Major Tell said, coming up to us. “I’ll need a cup for the toast.”

  We were joking at the far end of the table when a tremendous crash sounded. We turned to see a distraught Wilda van Schooner looking down at the punch bowl she had just dropped. The punch had splashed down her beautiful velvet dress, leaving her drenched and mortified.

  “Oh-oh,” Tell said under his breath. “Now we’ll hear some fireworks from Dame van Schooner.”

  True to his prediction, the Dame sailed across the floor and gave biting instructions to the footmen to bring mops and pails. A woman, who Tell told me in a whisper was Hetta van der Malin, the Dame’s sister, came out of the crowd of tittering guests to cover her niece’s embarrassment.

  “She was only trying to help, Ilsa,” the aunt said as she dabbed the girl’s dress with a handkerchief.

  The Dame glared at them. “You’d better help her change, Hetta, if she is going to attend the coronation.”

  The aunt and niece quickly left the ballroom and the Dame whirled her skirts and returned to the Governor’s side. I overheard her say her apologies to him and then she added, “My children don’t seem to know what servants are for. Well, shall we begin?”

  At a wave of her hand, the orchestra struck up the “Grenadier’s March,” and six young stalwarts lined up in two ranks before the Governor. At his command, the lads did a left turn and marched off towards the rear portal in the distinctive long step of the regiment whose music they had borrowed for the occasion.

  They disappeared into the room where Gretchen waited for transport, and within seconds they returned, bearing the ornate screened sedan chair. “Aah’s” filled the room over the beauty and pageantry of the piece. I shot a glance at Dame van Schooner and noted that she was beaming proudly at the impeccably executed production.

  When the sedan chair had been placed before the Governor, he stepped forward, took the curtain drawstrings, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our New Year’s Queen.”

  The curtains were pulled open and there she sat in majesty. More “aah’s” from the ladies until there was a screech and then another and, suddenly, pandemonium. Gretchen van Schooner sat on her portable throne, still beautiful, but horribly dead with a French bayonet through her chest.

  “My Lord!” Major Tell gasped and started forward toward the sedan chair. Cork touched his arm.

  “You can do no good there. The rear room, man, that’s where the answer lies. Come, Oaks.” He moved quickly through the crowd and I followed like a setter’s tail on point. When we reached the door, Cork turned to Tell.

  “Major, use your authority to guard this door. Let no one enter.” He motioned me inside and closed the door behind us.

  It was a small room, furnished in a masculine manner. Game trophies and the heads of local beasts protruded from the walls and were surrounded by a symmetrical display of weaponry such as daggers, blunderbusses, and swords.

  “Our killer had not far to look for his instrument of death,” Cork said, pointing to an empty spot on the wall about three feet from the fireplace and six feet up from the floor. “Move with care, Oaks, lest we disturb some piece of evidence.”

  I quickly looked around the rest of the chamber. There was a door in the south wall and a small window some ten feet to the left of it.

  “The window!” I cried. “The killer must have come in – ”

  “I’m afraid not, Oaks,” Cork said, after examining it. “The snow on the sill and panes is undisturbed. Besides, the floor in here is dry. Come, let’s open the other door.”

  He drew it open to reveal a short narrow passage that was dimly lit with one s
conced candle and had another door at its end. I started toward it and found my way blocked by Cork’s outthrust arm.

  “Have a care, Oaks,” he said. “Don’t confound a trail with your own spore. Fetch a candelabrum from the table for more light.”

  I did so, and to my amazement he got down on his hands and knees and inched forward along the passageway. I, too, assumed this stance and we crept along like a brace of hounds.

  The polished planked floor proved dry and bare of dust until we were in front of the outer door. There, just inside the portal, was a pool of liquid.

  “My Lord, it is blood!” I said.

  “Mostly water from melted snow.”

  “But, Captain, there is a red stain to it.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Bloody snow and yet the bayonet in that woman’s breast was driven with such force that no blood escaped from her body.”

  Cork got to his feet and lifted the door latch, opening the passageway to pale white moonlight which reflected off the granules of snow. He carefully looked at the doorstoop and then out into the yard.

  “Damnation,” he muttered, “it looks as if an army tramped through here.”

  Before us, the snow was a mass of furrows and upheavals with no one set of footprints discernible.

  “Probably the servants coming and going from the wood yard down by the gate,” I said, as we stepped out into the cold. At the opposite end of the house, in the left wing, was another door, obviously leading to the kitchen, for a clatter of plates and pots could be heard within the snug and frosty windowpanes. I turned to Cork and found myself alone. He was at the end of the yard opening a slatted gate in the rear garden wall.

  “What ho, Captain,” I called ahead, as I went to meet him.

  “The place abounds in footprints,” he snarled in frustration.

  “Then the killer has escaped us,” I muttered. “Now we have the whole population of this teeming port to consider.”

  He turned slowly, the moonlight glistening off his barba, his eyes taking on a sardonic glint. “For the moment, Oaks, for the moment. Besides, footprints are like empty boots. In the long run we would have had to fill them.”