The Twelve Crimes of Christmas (18 page)

“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 tomorrow 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 twenty-fourth, 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-story structure, and it is flanked by one-story 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 two-hundred
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-mouton
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 near the buffet, was indeed as cold as fine-cut
crystal. Her well formed face was sternly beautiful, almost arrogantly defying
any one 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 Ball, 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?” Cord 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
favorite 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 reentering 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.”