“Except for the singular fact that the snow on the ground in front of the window is undisturbed.”
“Well, obviously someone entered by the back passage,” Tell said. “We have the pool of water and the blood.”
“Then where are the wet footprints into the den, Major?”
“Boots!” I shouted louder than I meant to. “He took off his boots and then donned them again on leaving.”
“Good thinking, Oaks,” Tell complimented me. “And in the process, his bloody hands left a trace in the puddle.”
“And what, pray, was the motive?” Cork asked. “Nothing of value was taken that we can determine. No, we will look within this house for an answer.”
Tell was appalled. “Captain Cork, I must remind you that this is the home of a powerful woman, and she was hostess tonight to the cream of New York society. Have a care how you cast aspersions.”
“The killer had best have a care, Major. For a moment, let us consider some facts. Mistress Gretchen went into the den to prepare for her coronation with the aid of-ah-”
“Lydia Daws-Smith,” I supplied.
“So we have one person who saw her before she died. Then these six society bucks who were to transport her entered, and among their company was Brock van Loon, her affianced. Seven people involved between the time we all saw her enter the den and the time she was carried out dead.”
“Eight,” I said, and then could have bit my tongue.
“Who else?” Cork demanded.
“The Dame herself. I saw her enter after Miss Daws- Smith came out.”
“That is highly irresponsible, Oaks,” Tell admonished.
“And interesting,” Cork said. “Thank you, Oaks, you have put some yeast into it with your observation.”
“You’re not suggesting that the Dame killed her own daughter!”
“Major,” Cork said, “she-animals have been known to eat their young when they are endangered. But enough of this conjecture. Let us get down to rocks and hard places. We will have to take it step by step. First, let us have a go at the footmen who carried the chair into the den before Gretchen entered.”
They were summoned, and the senior man, a portly fellow named Trask, spoke for the lot.
“No, sir,” he answered Cork’s question. “I am sure no one was lurking in the room when we entered. There is no place to hide.”
“And the passage to the back door?”
“Empty, sir. You see, the door leading to the passage was open, and I went over to close it against any drafts coming into the den. There was no one in the den, sir, I can swear to it.”
“Is the outside door normally kept locked?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Leastways, it’s supposed to be. It was locked earlier this afternoon when I made my rounds, preparing for the festivities.”
“Tell me, Trask,” Cork asked, “do you consider yourself a good servant, loyal to your mistress’s household?”
The man’s chubby face looked almost silly with its beaming pride. “Twenty-two years in the house, sir, from kitchen boy to head footman, and every day of it in the Dame’s service.”
“Very commendable, Trask, but you are most extravagant with tapers.”
“Sir?” Trask looked surprised.
“If the back-yard door was locked, why did you leave a candle burning in the passageway? Since no one could come in from the outside, no light would be needed as a guide. Certainly any one entering from the den would carry his own.”
“But Captain,” the footman protested, “I left no light in the passageway. When I was closing the inner door, I held a candelabrum in my hand, and could see clear to the other end. There was no candle lit.”
“My apologies, Trask. Thank you, that will be all.”
When the footmen had left, I said, “Yet we found a lit candle out there right after the murder. The killer must have left it, in his haste.”
Cork merely shrugged. Then he said, “So we got a little further. Major, I would like to see Miss Daws-Smith next.”
Despite the circumstances, I was looking forward to seeing the comely Miss Daws-Smith once more. However, she was not alone when she entered, and her escort made it clear by his protective manner that her beauty was his property alone. She sat down in a straight-backed chair opposite Cork, nervously fingering the fan in her lap. Brock van Loon took a stance behind her.
“I prefer to speak to this young lady alone,” Cork said.
“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?”