The Twelve Crimes of Christmas (17 page)

“It
fell out of his pocket. There was a lot of money in it—almost a thousand
dollars. I—I just took it.”

“And
then hid it, along with the gun, in the room of a poor innocent man,” Father
Crumlish said, trying to contain his anger. “And to make sure that Charley
would be charged with your crime, you called the police.”

“But
the police would have come after
me,”
Herbie protested, as if to justify his actions. “I read in the papers that they
were checking Everett’s properties and all his tenants. I was afraid—” The look
on Father’s face caused Herbie’s voice to trail away.

“Not
half as afraid as Charley when you kept warning him that the police would
accuse him because of his mental record, because he worked in the Liberty
Building and was going to lose his job. That’s what you did, didn’t you?”
Father asked in a voice like thunder. “You deliberately put fear into his
befuddled mind, told him he’d be put away—”

The
priest halted and gazed at the little storekeeper’s bald bowed head. There were
many more harsh words on the tip of his tongue that he might have said. But, as
a priest, he knew that he must forego the saying of them.

Instead
he murmured, “God have mercy on you.”

Then
he turned and walked out into the night. It had begun to snow again—soft,
gentle flakes. They fell on Father Crumlish’s cheeks and mingled with a few
drops of moisture that were already there.

It
was almost midnight before Big Tom Madigan rang St. Brigid’s doorbell. Under
the circumstances Father wasn’t surprised by the policeman’s late visit.

“How
did you know, Father?” Madigan asked as he sank into a chair.

Wearily
Father related the incident at the crib. “After what I heard at the Swansons
and what Casey told me, a crying child was on my mind. And then, when I saw
what looked like tears on the Infant’s face, I got to thinking about all the
homeless—” He paused for a long moment.

“Only
a few hours before, Herbie had told me how hard it was, particularly at Christmas,
to be lonely and without a real home. Charley was suspected of murder because
he was going to lose his job. But wasn’t it more reasonable to suspect a man
who was going to lose his life’s work? His whole world?” Father sighed. “I knew
Herbie never could have opened another store in a new location. He would have
had to pay much higher rent, and he was barely making ends meet where he was.”
It was some moments before Father spoke again. “Tom,” he said brightly, sitting
upright in his chair. “I happen to know that the kitchen table is loaded down
with Christmas cookies.”

The
policeman chuckled. “And I happen to know that Emma Catt counts every one of ’em.
So don’t think you can sneak a few.”

“Follow
me, lad,” Father said confidently as he got to his feet. “You’re on the list
for a dozen for Christmas. Is there any law against my giving you your present
now?”

“Not
that I know of, Father,” Madigan replied, grinning.

“And
in the true Christmas spirit, Tom”—Father Crumlish’s eyes twinkled merrily—“I’m
sure you’ll want to share and share alike.”

Father
Crumlish’s Christmas Cookies

R
ECIPE
:

3
tablespoons butter

1/2
cup sugar

1/2
cup heavy cream

1/3
cup sifted flour

1
1/4 cups very finely chopped blanched almonds

3/4
cup very finely chopped candied fruit and peels 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves

1/4
teaspoon ground nutmeg

1/4
teaspoon ground cinnamon

(1)
  
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

(2)
  
Combine butter, sugar, and cream in a saucepan
and bring to a boil. Remove from the heat.

(3)
  
Stir in other ingredients to form a batter.

(4)
  
Drop batter by spoonfuls onto a greased baking
sheet, spacing them about three inches apart.

(5)
  
Bake ten minutes or until cookies begin to
brown around the edges. Cool and then remove to a flat surface. If desired,
while cookies are still warm, drizzle melted chocolate over tops.

Y
IELD
:
About
24
cookies

—Courtesy
of the author

THE CHRISTMAS
MASQUE

by S.
S. Rafferty

Born in New England in 1930, “S.
S. Rafferty” worked as a newspaperman and free-lance writer, and was a Marine
Corps news correspondent during the Korean conflict. Following military
service, he went into the advertising business in Boston and later New York,
where he served as vice president of a major agency.

In
1977 he decided to write full time and has now published over sixty short
stories in the mystery genre. He is perhaps best known for three series
detectives: Captain Jeremy Cork, an eighteenth-century American colonial “fact
finder’’; Dr. Amos Phipps, a nineteenth-century New York criminologist known as
“The Hawk”; and Chick Kelly, a modern-day stand-up comic who delightfully mixes
detection with schtick. The Captain Cork stories were collected under the title
Fatal Flourishes,
and the other two richly deserve to be.

As
much as I prefer the steady ways of New England, I have to agree with Captain
Jeremy Cork that the Puritans certainly know how to avoid a good time. They
just ignore it. That’s why every twenty-third of December we come to the New
York colony from our home base in Connecticut to celebrate the midwinter
holidays.

I
am often critical of my employer’s inattention to his many business enterprises
and his preoccupation with the solution of crime—but I give him credit for the
way he keeps Christmas. That is, as long as I can stop him from keeping it
clear into February.

In
our travels about these colonies, I have witnessed many merry parties, from the
lush gentility of the Carolinas to the roughshod ribaldry of the New Hampshire
tree line; but nothing can match the excitement of the Port of New York. The
place teems with prosperous men who ply their fortunes in furs, potash, naval
timber, and other prime goods. And the populace is drawn from everywhere:
Sephardim from Brazil, Huguenots from France, visitors from London, expatriates
from Naples, Irishmen running to or from something. I once counted eighteen
different languages being spoken here.

And
so it was in the Christmas week of 1754 that we took our usual rooms at
Marshall’s, in John Street, a few steps from the Histrionic Academy, and let
the yuletide roll over us. Cork’s celebrity opens many doors to us, and there
was the expected flood of invitations for one frivolity after another.

I
was seated at a small work table in our rooms on December twenty-third,
attempting to arrange our social obligations into a reasonable program. My
primary task was to sort out those invitations which begged our presence on
Christmas Eve itself, for that would be our high point. Little did I realize
that a knock on our door would not only decide the issue, but plunge us into
one of the most bizarre of those damnable social puzzles Cork so thoroughly
enjoys.

The
messenger was a small lad, no more than seven or eight, and he was bundled
against the elements from head to toe. Before I could open the envelope to see
if an immediate reply was required, the child was gone.

I
was opening the message when Cork walked in from the inner bedchamber. Marshall’s
is one of the few places on earth with doorways high enough to accommodate his
six-foot-six frame.

“I
take the liberty,” I said. “It’s addressed to us both.”

“On
fine French linen paper, I see.”

“Well,
well,” I said, reading fine handscript. “This is quite an honor.”

“From
the quality of the paper and the fact that you are ‘honored’ just to read the
message, I assume the reader is rich, money being the primer for your respect,
Oaks.”

That
is not absolutely true. I find nothing wrong with poverty; however, it is a
condition I do not wish to experience. In fact, as Cork’s financial yeoman, it
is my sworn duty to keep it from our doorsill. The invitation was from none
other than Dame Ilsa van Schooner, asking us to take part in her famous
Christmas Eve Masque at her great house on the Broad Way. Considering that we
had already been invited to such questionable activities as a cockfight, a
party at a doss house, a drinking duel at Cosgrove’s, and an evening of sport
at the Gentlemen’s Club, I was indeed honored to hear from a leader of New York
quality.

Cork
was glancing at the invitation when I discovered a smaller piece of paper still
in the envelope. “This is odd,” I said, reading it:

van
Schooner Haus

22 December

Dear Sirs:

I implore you to accept
the enclosed, for I need you very much to investigate a situation of some
calamity for us. I shall make myself known at the Masque.

It
was unsigned. I passed it to the captain, who studied it for a moment and then
picked up the invitation again.

“I’m
afraid your being honored is misplaced, my old son,” he said. “The invitation
was written by a skilled hand, possibly an Ephrata penman, hired for such work.
But our names have been fitted in by a less skilled writer. The author of the
note has by some means invited us without the hostess’s knowledge. Our
sub rosa
bidder must be in some dire difficulty, for she does not
dare risk discovery by signing her name.”

“Her?”

“No
doubt about it. The hand is feminine, and written in haste. I thought it odd
that a mere boy should deliver this. It is usually the task of a footman, who
would wait for a reply. This is truly intriguing—an impending calamity stalking
the wealthy home in which she lives.”

“How
can you be sure of that, sir?”

“I
can only surmise. She had access to the invitations and she says ‘calamity for
us,’ which implies her family. Hello.” He looked up suddenly as the door opened
and a serving girl entered with a tray, followed by a man in royal red. “Sweet
Jerusalem!” Cork got to his feet. “Major Tell in the flesh! Sally, my girl, you
had better have Marshall send up extra Apple Knock and oysters. Tell, it is
prophetic that you should appear just as a new puzzle emerges.”

Prophetic
indeed. Major Philip Tell is a King’s agent-at-large, and he invariably
embroiled us in some case of skulduggery whenever he was in our purlieu. But I bore
him no ill this time, for he had nothing to do with the affair. In fact, his
vast knowledge of the colonial scene might prove helpful.

“Well,
lads,” Tell said, taking off his
rogueloure
and tossing his heavy cloak onto a chair. “I knew Christmas would bring you to
New York. You look fit, Captain, and I see Oaks is still at his account books.”

When
Cork told him of our invitation and the curious accompanying note, the officer
gave a low whistle. “The van Schooners, no less! Well, we shall share the festivities,
for I am also a guest at the affair. The note is a little disturbing, however.
Dame Ilsa is the mistress of a large fortune and extensive land holdings, which
could be the spark for foul play.”

“You
think she sent the note?” I asked.

“Nonsense,”
Cork interjected. “She would not have had to purloin her own invitation. What
can you tell us of the household, Major?”

I
don’t know if Tell’s fund of knowledge is part of his duties or his general
nosiness, but he certainly keeps his ear to the ground. No gossip-monger could
hold a candle to him.

“The
family fortune was founded by her grandfather, Nils van der Malin—patroon
holdings up the Hudson, pearl potash, naval stores, that sort of old money.
Under Charles the Second’s Duke of York grant, Nils was rewarded for his
support with a baronetcy. The title fell in the distaff side to Dame Ilsa’s
mother, old Gretchen van der Malin. She was a terror of a woman, who wore men’s
riding clothes and ran her estates with an iron fist and a riding crop. She had
a young man of the Orange peerage brought over as consort, and they produced
Ilsa. The current Dame, is more genteel than her mother was, but just as stern
and autocratic. She, in turn, married a van Schooner—Gustave. I believe, a
soldier of some distinction in the Lowland campaigns. He died of drink after
fathering two daughters, Gretchen and her younger sister, Wilda.

“The
line is certainly Amazonite and breeds true,” Cork said with a chuckle. “Not a
climate I would relish, although strong women have their fascination.”