Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

“Well, there is an affection between them, sirs, but the fact is that the portrait hung in the Grand Salon until the Dame ordered it destroyed.”

“When was this, Trask?”

“Two days ago. ‘Trask,’ she said to me, ‘take that abomination out and burn it.’ Strange, she did like it originally, then, just like that, she hated it. Of course, Miss Hetta wouldn’t let me burn it, so we spirited it in here, where the Dame never comes.”

“Ha, you see I was right, Oaks. Thanks for settling the argument, Trask. Where is Major Tell’s room?”

“Right next to yours, if you’ll follow me, gentlemen.”

Tell’s chamber was at the back of the house, where we found him sitting in the unlighted room, looking out at the moonlit yard.

“Nothing yet, Major?” Cork asked, walking to the window to join him.

“Not a sign or a shadow. I have men hiding at the front and down there near the garden gate and over to the left by the stable. Do you really expect him to make a move?”

“Conjecture coasts us nothing, although I have more information now.”

Although the room was bathed in moonlight, as usual I was in the dark. “Would either of you gentlemen mind telling me what this is all about? Who is coming?”

“Going would be more like it,” the major said.

“Going-ah, I see! The killer hid himself in the house somewhere and you expect him to make a break for it when everyone is bedded down. But where could he have hidden? Your men searched the den and passageway for secret panels, did they not?”

“Ask your employer,” Tell said. “I am only following his orders-hold on, Cork, look down by the passage door.”

I looked over Cork’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of a cloaked figure in a cockade, moving among the shadows towards the stable.

“Our mounts are ready, Major?” Tell nodded. “Excellent. Let us be off.”

As I followed them downstairs, I remarked on my own puzzlement. “Why are we going to follow this scoundrel? Why not stop him and unmask him?”

“Because I know who our mysterious figure is, Oaks. It is the destination that is the heart of the matter,” Cork said as we hurried into the ballroom and back to the den door.

Once inside, I saw that Tell had placed our greatcoats in readiness, and we bustled into them. Cork walked over to the weapon wall and looked at two empty hooks.

“A brace of pistols are gone. Our shadow is armed, as expected,” he said.

“I’ll take this one,” I said, reaching for a ball-shot handgun.

“No need, Oaks,” Cork said. “We are not the targets. Come, fellows, we want to be mounted and ready.”

The night was cold as we waited behind a small knoll twenty yards down from the stable yard. Suddenly the doors of the stable burst open and a black stallion charged into the moonlight, bearing its rider to the south. “Now, keep a small distance but do not lose sight for a second,” Cork commanded, and spurred his horse forward.

We followed through the drifts for ten minutes and saw our quarry turn into a small alley. When we reached the spot, we found the lathered mount tied to a stairway which went up the side of the building to a door on the second-story landing. With Cork in the lead, we went up the cold stairs and assembled ourselves in front of the door. “Now!” Cork whispered, and we butted our shoulders against the wood paneling and fell into the room.

Our cloaked figure had a terrified man at gunpoint. The victim was a man in his forties, coiled into a corner. I was about to rush the person with the pistols, when the tricornered hat turned to reveal the chiseled face and cold blue eyes of Dame Ilsa van Schooner.

“Drop the pistols, Madam; you are only compounding your problem,” Cork said firmly.

“He murdered my child!”

“I swear, Dame Ilsa!” The man groveled before her. His voice was foreign in inflection. “Please, you must hear me out. Yes, I am scum, but I am not a murderer.”

Cork walked forward and put his hands over the pistol barrels. For a split second, the Dame looked up at him and her stern face went soft. “He’s going to pay,” she said.

“Yes, but not for your daughter’s death.”

“But only he could have-” She caught herself up in a flash of thought. Her lips quivered, and she released the pistol butts into Cork’s control. He took her by the arm and guided her to a chair.

The tension was broken, and I took my first look about. It was a large and comfortable bachelor’s room. Then I saw the work area at the far end-with an easel, palettes, and paint pots.

“The painter! He’s Jan der Trogue, the one who painted the portrait.”

“You know about the painting?” the Dame said with surprise.

I started to tell her about seeing it in her sister’s sitting room, but never got it out. Der Trogue had grabbed the pistol that Cork had stupidly left on the table and pointed it at us as he edged towards the open door. “Stay where you are,” he warned. “I owe you my life, sir.” He bowed to Cork. “But it is not fitting to die at a woman’s hands.”

“Nor a hangman’s,” Cork said. “For you will surely go to the gallows for your other crime.”

“Not this man, my fine fellow. Now, stay where you are, and no one will get hurt.” He whirled out onto the landing and started to race down the stairs. Cork walked to the door. To my surprise, he had the other pistol in his hand. He stepped out onto the snowy landing.

“Defend yourself!” Cork cried. Then, after a tense moment, Cork took careful aim and fired. I grimaced as I heard der Trogue’s body tumbling down the rest of the stairs.

Cork came back into the room with the smoking pistol in his hand. “Be sure your report says ‘fleeing arrest,’ Major,” he said, shutting the door.

“Escape from what? You said he didn’t kill the girl! This is most confusing and, to say the least, irregular!”

“Precisely put, Major. Confusing from the start and irregular for a finish. But first to the irregularity. What we say, see, and do here tonight stays with us alone.” He turned to the Dame. “We will have to search the room. Will you help, since you have been here before?”

“Yes.” She got up and started to open drawers and cupboards. She turned to us and held out a black felt bag which Cork opened.

“Gentlemen, I give you the van der Malin Chain, and quite exquisite it is.”

“So he did steal it,” I said.

“In a manner of speaking, Oaks, yes. But, Madam, should we not also find what you were so willing to pay a king’s ransom for?”

“Perhaps it is on the easel. I only saw the miniature.”

Cork took the drape from the easel and revealed a portrait of a nude woman reposing on a couch.

“It’s Gretchen!” I gasped. “Was that der Trogue’s game? Blackmail?”

“Yes, Mr. Oaks, it was,” the Dame said. “I knew it was not an artist’s trick of painting one head on another’s body. That strawberry mark on the thigh was Gretchen’s. How did you know of its existence, Captain? I told no one, not even my sister.”

“Your actions helped tell me. You ordered your own portrait burned two days ago, the same day your sister sent me a note and an invitation to the Masque.”

“A note?”

“Portending calamity,” I added.

“Oh, the fool. She must have learned about my failure to raise enough cash to meet that fiend’s demands.”

“Your sudden disdain for a fine portrait betrayed your disgust with the artist, not with the art. Then Wilda told us that you had planned to have your daughters painted by the same man, and, considering the time elapsed since your portrait was finished, I assumed that Gretchen’s had been started.”

“It was, and he seduced her. She confessed it to me after I saw the miniature he brought to me.”