The Twelve Crimes of Christmas (19 page)

He
drew it open to reveal a short narrow passage that was dimly lit with one
sconced 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.”

I
started to answer, when a voice called from our backs, at the passage doorway.
It was Major Tell.

“Hello,
is that you there, Cork? Have you caught the dastard?”

“Some
gall,” I said to the captain. “As if we could pull the murderer out of our
sleeves like a magician.”

“Not
yet, Major,” Cork shouted and then turned to me. “Your powers of simile are
improving, Oaks.”

“Well,”
I said, with a bit of a splutter. “Do you think magic is involved?”

“No,
you ass. Sleight of hand! The quick flick that the eye does not see nor the
mind inscribe. We’ll have to use our instincts on this one.”

He
strode off towards the house, and I followed. I have seen him rely on instinct
over hard evidence only two times in our years together, and in both cases,
although he was successful, the things he uncovered were too gruesome to
imagine.

The
shock that had descended on the van Schooner manse at midnight still lingered
three hours later, when the fires in the great fireplaces were reduced to
embers, the shocked guests had been questioned, and all but the key witnesses
had been sent homeward. Cork, after consultation with the Royal Governor, had
been given a free hand in the investigation, with Major Tell stirred in to keep
the manner of things official.

Much
to my surprise, the captain didn’t embark on a flurry of questions of all
concerned, but rather drew up a large baronial chair to the ballroom hearth and
brooded into its sinking glow.

“Two
squads of cavalry are in the neighbourhood,” Major Tell said. “If any stranger
were in the vicinity, he must have been seen.”

“You
can discount a stranger, Major,” Cork said, still gazing into the embers.

“How
so?”

“Merely
a surmise, but with stout legs to it. If a stranger came to kill, he would have
brought a weapon with him. No, the murderer knew the contents of the den’s
walls. He also seems to have known the coronation schedule.”

“The
window,” I interjected. “He could have spied the bayonet, and when the coast
was clear, entered and struck.”

“Except
for the singular fact that the snow on the ground in front of the window is
undisturbed.”

“Well,
obviously someone entered by the back passage,” Tell said. “We have the pool of
water and the blood.”

“Then
where are the wet footprints into the den, Major?”

“Boots!”
I shouted louder than I meant to. “He took off his boots and then donned them
again on leaving.”

“Good
thinking, Oaks,” Tell complimented me. “And in the process, his bloody hands
left a trace in the puddle.”

“And
what, pray, was the motive?” Cork asked. “Nothing of value was taken that we
can determine. No, we will look within this house for an answer.”

Tell
was appalled. “Captain Cork, I must remind you that this is the home of a
powerful woman, and she was hostess tonight to the cream of New York society.
Have a care how you cast aspersions.”

“The
killer had best have a care, Major. For a moment, let us consider some
facts.
Mistress Gretchen went into the den to prepare for her
coronation with the aid of—ah—”

“Lydia
Daws-Smith,” I supplied.

“So
we have one person who saw her before she died. Then these six society bucks
who were to transport her entered, and among their company was Brock van Loon,
her affianced. Seven people involved between the time we all saw her enter the
den and the time she was carried out dead.”

“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?”