Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

“I understand, Captain, that you are here to help us discover the fiend who did this thing, but you will have to bear with my mother’s grief.”

“To be sure. And what can you tell me, Miss Wilda?”

“I wish I could offer some clue, but my sister and I were not close-we did not exchange confidences.”

“Was she in love with Brock van Loon?”

“Love!” she cried, and then did a strange thing. She giggled almost uncontrollably for a few seconds. “That’s no word to use in this house, Captain.”

“Wilda, my dear,” a female voice said from the open door. “I think you are too upset to make much sense tonight. Perhaps in the morning, gentlemen?”

The speaker was the girl’s aunt, Hetta van der Malin, and we rose as she entered.

“Forgive our intrusion into your sitting room, ma’am,” Cork said with a bow. “Perhaps you are right. Miss Wilda looks exhausted.”

“I agree, Captain Cork,” the aunt said, and she put her arm around the girl and ushered her out the door.

“Pray,” Cork interrupted, “could you spare us some time in your niece’s stead?”

Her smile went faint, but it was a smile all the same. “How did you know this was my room, Captain? Oh, of course. Trask must have-”

“On the contrary, my eyes told me. Your older sister does not fit the image of a woman surrounded by knitting and mending and pert pillowcases.”

“No, she doesn’t. The den is Ilsa’s sitting room. Our mother raised her that way. She is quite a capable person, you know.”

“So it would seem. Miss Hetta, may I ask why you invited us here this evening?”

I was as caught off guard as she was.

“Whatever put that notion into your head? My sister dispatched the invitations herself.”

“Precisely! That’s why you had to purloin one and fill in our names yourself. Come, dear woman, the sample of your hand on the letters on your secretaire matches the hand that penned the unsigned note I received.”

“You have looked through my things!”

“I snoop when forced to. Pretence will fail you, ma’am, for the young lad who delivered this invitation will undoubtedly be found and will identify you. Come, now, you wrote to invite me here and now you deny it. I will have an answer.”

“Captain Cork,” I cautioned him, for the woman was quivering.

“Yes, I sent it.” Her voice was tiny and hollow. “But it had nothing to do with this horrible murder. It was trivial compared to it, and it is senseless to bring it up now. Please believe me, Captain. It was foolish of me.”

“You said ‘calamity’ in your note, and now we have a murder done. Is that not the extreme of calamity?”

“Yes, of course it is. I used too strong a word in my note. I would gladly have told you about it after the coronation. But now it would just muddle things. I can’t.”

“Then, my dear woman, I must dig it out. Must I play the ferret while you play the mute?” His voice was getting sterner. I know how good an actor he is, but was he acting?

“Do you know what a colligation is, Madam?”

She shook her head.

“It is the orderly bringing together of isolated facts. Yet you blunt my efforts; half facts can lead to half truths. Do you want a half truth?” He paused and then spat it out. “Your sister may have killed her older daughter!”

“That is unbearable!” she cried.

“A surmise based on a half truth. She was the last person to see Gretchen alive, if the Daws-Smith girl is to be believed. And why not believe her? If Lydia had killed Gretchen, would she then send the mother into the room to her corpse? Take the honor guards who were to carry the sedan chair: if Gretchen were alive when her mother left her, could one of those young men have killed her in the presence of five witnesses?”

“Anyone could have come in from the outside.” Miss Hetta’s voice was frantic.

“Nonsense. The evidence is against it.”

“Why would Ilsa want to kill her own flesh and blood? It is unthinkable!”

“And yet people will think it, rest assured. The whole ugly affair can be whitewashed and pinned to some mysterious assailant who stalked in the night season, but people will think it just the same, Madam.”

She remained silent now, and I could feel Cork’s mind turning from one tactic to another, searching for leverage. He got to his feet and walked over to the portrait.

“So in the face of silence, I must turn the ferret loose in my mind. Take, for example, the question of this necklace.”

“The van der Malin Chain,” she said, looking up at the portrait. “What about it?”

“If the painter was accurate, it seems of great worth, both in pounds sterling and family prestige. It’s very name proclaims it an heirloom.”

“It is. It has been in our family for generations.”

“Do you wear it at times?”

“No, of course not. It is my sister’s property.”

“Your estates are not commingled?”

“Our family holds with primogeniture.”

“I do not. Exclusive rights to a first born make a fetish of nature’s caprice. But that is philosophy, and beyond a ferret. Where is the necklace, Madam?”

“Why, in my sister’s strong box, I assume. This is most confusing, Captain Cork.”

I could have added my vote to that. I have seen Cork search for answers with hopscratch questions, but this display seemed futile.

“It is I who am confused, Madam. I am muddled by many things in this case. Why, for instance, didn’t your sister wear this necklace to the year’s most important social function? She thought enough of it to have it painted in a portrait for posterity.”

“Our minds sometimes work that way, Captain. Perhaps it didn’t suit her costume.”

Cork turned from the picture as if he had had enough of it. “I am told there is a Uncle Kaarl in the household, yet he was not in attendance at the ball tonight. Did he not suit the occasion?”

“You are most rude, sir. Kaarl is an ill man, confined to his bed for several years.” She got to her feet. “I am very tired, gentlemen.”

“I, too, grow weary, Madam. One last question. Your late niece was irritable this evening, I am told. Did something particular happen recently to cause that demeanor?”

“No. What would she have to sulk about? She was the center of attraction. I really must retire now. Good night.”

When the rustle of her skirts had faded down the silent hallway, I said, “Well, Captain, we’ve certainly had a turn around the mulberry bush.”

He gave me that smirk-a-mouth of his. “Some day, Oaks, you will learn to read between the lines where women are concerned. I am sure you thought me a bully for mistreating her, but it was necessary, and it worked.”

“Worked?”

“To a fair degree. I started on her with several assumptions. Some have more weight now, others are discounted. Don’t look so perplexed. I am sure that Hetta’s note to us did not concern Gretchen directly. She did not fear for the girl’s life in this calamity she now chooses to keep secret.”

“How is that?”

“Use your common sense, man. If she had suspected an attempt on her niece’s life, would she stand mute? No, she would screech her accusations to the sky. Her seeking outside aid from us must have been for another problem. Yes, Trask?”

I hadn’t seen the footman in the shadows, nor had I any idea how long he had been there.

“Beg pardon, Captain Cork, but Major Tell has retired to his room and would like to see you when you have a moment.”

“Thank you, Trask. Is your mistress available to us now?”

“Her maid tells me she is abed, sir.”

“A shame. Maybe you can help me, Trask. My friend and I were wondering why the Dame’s picture hangs in this small room. I say it was executed in such a large size to hang in a larger room. Mr. Oaks, however, says it was meant for Miss Hetta’s room as an expression of love between the two sisters.”