Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

“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 expression 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.