Krampus: The Three Sisters (The Krampus Chronicles Book 1) (22 page)

Sir Pringle was a hefty man; dressed head to toe in vertically striped long johns with white buttons that were straining to keep his large gut from bursting out the front. A blue nightcap sat high on his hairless head, leaving his thick, unkempt eyebrows to rest alone on the top of his wrinkled face.

Ward wiggled in Sir Pringle’s locked arm.

“Stop it,” Sir Pringle grumbled. “Stop moving.”

Sir Pringle brought the sword closer to Ward’s neck and nicked the skin like a razor that slipped while shaving.

“Release him,” Maggie declared, kicking her feet to avoid Clemmie and Louis who were trying to pull her back into the ash pit.

Maggie hopped out of the fireplace and stood in front of Sir Pringle and Ward. She had hoped Sir Pringle would be caught off guard by her reappearance, but she didn’t quite anticipate him to react as he did.

After seeing Maggie, Sir Pringle dropped his sword and backed into the wax-covered table, looking as though he had just seen something not of the living world.

A fat finger quivered Maggie’s direction. “You… you… you.”

The words were repeated over and over until Maggie finally asked, “What about me?”

Sir Pringle began pacing around the table, frantically muttering, “This is not real. A dream. All a vision of the mind.”

Maggie and Ward shared an uncertain look while Clemmie and Louis’ heads popped out of the fireplace hole.

“What’s happening?” Clemmie hissed.

Ward picked up the sword Sir Pringle had dropped. “I am unsure.”

“A ghost. A spirit,” Sir Pringle continued muttering.

“Who?” Ward asked.

Sir Pringle waved his hand at Maggie as he fell into one of the chairs behind the table. “You―you look… Catharine. It can’t be.”

“Catharine?” Ward repeated and glanced over at Maggie.

Maggie stepped forward and Sir Pringle jerked back in his seat.

“Grandmother Catharine?”

“Grandmother?”

“Your sister, Catharine. She is my grandmother,” Maggie explained slowly. “She married Clement Clarke Moore and had my mother, Mary.”

Sir Pringle continued to stare at Maggie with a gaping mouth.

“These are my cousins, Clemmie and Louis. They also are Clement and Catharine’s grandchildren.”

Sir Pringle glanced from Maggie to the two boys. “I wouldn’t believe it, but you look so much like Catharine. But I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

Maggie hadn’t expected to be explaining the Nikolaos of Myra, Poppel, and Van Cortlandt history again that night. But starting with Grandmother Catharine and Sidney Livingston, Maggie condensed the epic family tale into a short narrative while Sir Pringle quietly listened.

“I always knew that Clement Clarke Moore was a bad sort,” Sir Pringle spat.

“I beg your pardon?” Maggie asked, not expecting that to be his first comment.

“I never met the man. I lived in England when he married my sister and didn’t return to America until after she had died. But I knew about him. And when Moore was named the author of that Christmas poem, I sensed something was awry.”

“The poem is hardly the issue here,” Ward said, placing his hands on his hips “If we don’t find the key for the Sister Wheels, the Garrisons will see to it that the Moores and Livingstons are destroyed.”

“Is that so? And why is that my problem?” Sir Pringle said, straightening up in his chair. “Why should I help you?”

“Because you are a Van Cortlandt descendant,” Ward continued. “They will come for you as well. I assure you that they don’t want to take any chances.”

“Well, there’s no reason for them to seek me out,” Sir Pringle sniffled. “I know nothing about these Sister Wheels. But I can say with absolute certainty that the key is not here.”

“How can you be so sure?” Clemmie asked.

Sir Pringle stared confidently at Clemmie. “Because when I inherited the place, I went through the entire house, and I can tell you, there was no key.”

Maggie sighed. “Then where else could it be?”

Sir Pringle rested his fat hands on top of his belly. “You said that one of the Sister Wheels was found in the fireplace at Chelsea Manor?”

Maggie nodded.

“So it was obviously put there by Catharine and her daughter, Margaret, since they were the only ones who knew of this Pebble or Poople place.”

“Poppel,” Ward corrected firmly.

“Right, Poppel,” Sir Pringle snorted. “So if Catharine had gone through all the trouble of bringing the Sister Wheel from Sylvan Terrace to Chelsea Manor in order to carry on the family secret, wouldn’t you think she would have also taken the key and hid it somewhere in the Manor as well?”

Maggie looked over to Ward, Clemmie, and Louis. They stood silent, processing Sir Pringle’s valid point.

“But where in Chelsea Manor?” Maggie turned back to Sir Pringle. “It would be nearly impossible to find and we haven’t got much time.”

Sir Pringle stuck up his finger. “Not nearly as impossible as you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whatever we may think of your grandfather, I know my sister and I doubt she would have kept all of this from Clement Clarke Moore.”

“You think Grandfather Clement knows where the key is?” Maggie asked.

She hadn’t even considered that possibility.

“Again, I never met Moore. And I do not doubt what you say about the Christmas poem,” Sir Pringle said. “But Catharine never would have married a man she didn’t trust. She may not have told him everything, but it’s unlikely that she didn’t confide any of this to him. I know that Catharine died rather suddenly. But if this key were as important as you say it is, Catharine would have told Moore. I’m sure of it.”

“So what do you suggest?” Maggie asked.

Sir Pringle cocked one of his bushy eyebrows and curled his lip. “You have to return to Chelsea Manor.”

Ward threw up his arms in frustration. “It will take forever to get there from here. It’s a long way south and on a completely different track in the sleigh tunnel. We would have to go all the way back to Poppel to switch to the correct one.”

Sir Pringle shot up to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process.

“I have a horse and carriage,” he announced. “I can take you.”

But before the Moore grandchildren and Ward could accept the proposal, a familiar purple ball floated up from the fireplace hole that had been left open.

Ward spotted the sugarplum first and quickly dove toward the gleaming sphere. He knew its arrival likely meant bad news. So popping the sugarplum into his mouth, he gently began to chew.

Sir Pringle and the Moore grandchildren watched as Ward’s eyes filled with dread.

“What has happened?” Maggie asked nervously.

Ward took a big gulp, swallowing the rest of the sugarplum.

“War has begun in Poppel.”

hree horses came to a halt in front of the entrance to Van Cortlandt Manor. Jumping down from his horse, Albers ran over to the wooden gate and swung it open.

“Wesseling and I will keep watch here,” Albers said, grabbing the reins of his horse and steering it over to the stone wall that surrounded the estate. “I’m afraid we wouldn’t offer much assistance searching for the Sister Wheel. But we will be on the lookout and ready to ride back to the steamboat on a moment’s notice.”

“I wouldn’t say you couldn’t be of use searching for the wheel,” Henry said gruffly, sliding off his horse. “You have as good of a chance as we do at finding the blasted thing.”

Albers and Wesseling exchanged looks while Catharine shot Henry a scowl. No one appreciated Henry’s cynical attitude.

“But thank you for getting us this far,” Henry quickly recoiled. “We can handle it from here.” He then added softly, “I hope.”

Henry went over and helped Catharine down from Wesseling’s horse. With a crooked grin, Wesseling’s eyes seemed to trace the outline of Catharine’s frame as she dropped to the ground. Watching the man’s lingering gaze, Henry firmly held Catharine’s arm. But she shrugged out of his grip with an annoyed frown, unaware of what was causing Henry’s sudden intensity.

“Is there something the matter?” Wesseling asked as Henry continued to glare. But before Henry could reply, Catharine had latched onto his hand and tugged him away.

“I’m not fond of how Wesseling leers at you,” Henry whispered as the pair passed through the gated entrance.

“Oh, Henry, really,” Catharine scoffed as she trudged through the snowy path, her hand still intertwined in Henry’s. “Of all the things to get flustered about now. Don’t you think we have greater things to focus on than Wesseling’s unbecoming stares?”

“I’m just trying to protect you,” Henry said haughtily, releasing Catharine’s hand with an exaggerated yank of his wrist.

Catharine rolled her eyes. “Your assignment tonight is not to be my protector.”

Her prickly tone caught Henry off guard just as he stepped onto snowy tracks left by carriage wheels. Unable to soundly plant his feet, Henry clumsily stumbled to the ground, nearly taking Catharine down with him.

Catharine spun around and looked at Henry, her mouth curling into a smile. “Some protector,” she said in a low voice.

But before Henry could stand back up, a familiar purple sphere came floating through the trees and hovered near his spread legs.

A sugarplum.

Henry plucked it out of the air and hesitantly placed it between his lips while Catharine eyed him closely. After a few chews, Henry’s face lit up. “It’s Maggie.”

“What about Maggie?” Catharine exclaimed. “Has something happened to her?”

Henry shook his head. “She’s returning to Chelsea Manor in search of the key. And we’re to retrieve her there when the steamboat heads back to Poppel.”

Catharine let out a relieved sigh, but her face was still heavy with concern.

“Maggie will be okay,” Henry said. But Catharine’s eyes narrowed at his reassuring tone.

“How do you know?” Catharine snapped. “I don’t think any of us really understood how grave the situation had become. We just saw men slaughtered like animals. You could barely keep from heaving at the sight of the dead bodies.”

Henry looked away, embarrassed. “I had never seen death like that before,” he mumbled, his face flushing in the chilly winter air. “I had never seen death until my father passed away. And those dead men reminded me of that. He’s really all I ever think about. I don’t think seeing him die will ever leave me.”

Catharine’s features softened. “No, it doesn’t ever leave you. I witnessed my mother’s death. And I was only a year old.”

Henry turned back to Catharine. “And you still remember?”

Catharine nodded. “I never talk about those memories. But I have them. My family believes I recall nothing of that time. My mother became ill rather suddenly. And I was forbidden from her bedroom on her final day of life. That has stayed with me for the past seventeen years.”

Unexpectedly, the clouds that had been covering the moon parted. And the moon’s fresh light illuminated a path containing deeply carved carriage tracks that branched off from the main road.

“It must lead to the Manor,” Catharine whispered, helping Henry to his feet and guiding him toward the path.

The tree-lined trail curved up a hill and soon Catharine and Henry spotted Van Cortlandt Manor. The two-story rectangle building was made of red and yellow bricks that varied in size and shape, adding quaintness to the rather charming home. Its low snow-covered rooftop drooped over the white picket porch that wrapped around the second story. A wide staircase on the front of the house came down from the porch and then split into two separate stairways going opposite directions. Their rails were draped in sagging garland.