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.”
“Breeds true is correct, Captain. The husbands were little more than sire stallions; good blood but ruined by idleness.”
This last, about being “ruined by idleness,” was ignored by Cork, but I marked it, as well he knew.
“Young Gretchen,” Tell went on, “is also true to her namesake. A beauty, but cold as a steel blade, and as well honed. They say she is a dead shot and an adept horsewoman.”
“You have obviously been to the van Schooner Haus, as our correspondent calls it.”
“Oh, yes, on several occasions. It is truly a place to behold.”
“No doubt, Major.” Cork poured a glass of Apple Knock. “Who else lives there besides the servants?”
“The younger daughter, Wilda. of course, and the Dame’s spinster sister, Hetta van der Malin, and an ancient older brother of the dead husband-the brother is named Kaarl. I have only seen him once, but I am told he was quite the wastrel in his day, and suffers from the afflictions of such a life.”
“Mmm,” Cork murmured, offering the glass to Tell. “I change my original Amazonite observation to that of Queen Bee. Well, someone in that house feels in need of help, but we shall have to wait until tomorrow night to find out why.”