The Ghost of Christmas Past

by Rhys Bowen

  “We always sing some old European carols from my childhood,” Cedric said. “Do you know ‘Silent Night’?”

  I’d heard Sid and Gus sing it and joined in the English version. Then Cedric and Winnie sang it in German. They both had good voices and it sounded so pure and evocative in the original language.

  “And this is another old German carol, but we always sang it in Dutch,” Cedric said, looking up from the piano. “My childhood favorite. It’s a simple tune with simple words, so do join in.” He started to sing “Kling Klokjee Klingelingeling.” It had an appealing tune and we tried to sing along. Cedric alone sang the Dutch words of the verse, but as he came to the last line a little voice added, “Kling klojkle kling,” finishing off the phrase for him.

  It was Ivy. Cedric stopped and stared at her. “How do you know that song?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” Ivy went bright red.

  “Perhaps she learned it from the nuns at the orphanage,” my mother-in-law said, smiling down at the embarrassed girl. “I know they have German nuns there. They probably sang it in German to the children.”

  “Yes,” Ivy agreed. “That must have been it.”

  “Well, I’m glad I have someone to sing it with me,” Cedric said. “Come and stand by the piano and you can join me.”

  “Oh, no, please. I don’t remember.…” Ivy stammered.

  “You’re making the child uncomfortable, Cedric,” Daniel’s mother said. “Let’s sing something we all know. How about ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’? We can all sing along to that one.”

  And we did.

  Twenty-four

  The next morning Daniel took the carriage and went into Scarborough. He had been planning to telegraph police headquarters, but at the last moment he changed his mind. “I think I’ll go in myself,” he said. “There are certain parties at headquarters who would not exactly put themselves out for me. I, on the other hand, can get things done.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be all right here?”

  “Of course,” I said. “It’s a fine day. The children can play outside.”

  The grip on my shoulder tightened. “Just don’t…” he started to say. I understood him all too well. Don’t poke my nose where it wasn’t wanted. And be careful.

  “You won’t forget to ask about Henry Wheaton, will you?” I said.

  “I’ve not much else to go on,” Daniel said. “Ada Smith, who lived in a basement room somewhere near the harbor in an Irish neighborhood. That could account for half of Boston. If only the girl could have given me the name of a particular store or business. Surely there were advertisements all over the wharf.”

  “You know, Gus was not sure she came from Boston. She asked her a few questions and apparently Charlotte didn’t get the answers right.”

  “Interesting,” he said. “But if she didn’t really come from Boston then where the devil do we start looking? And why would the girl lie to us?”

  “Because she doesn’t want Ada Smith to be found and to get into trouble?” I suggested.

  He frowned. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s part of a criminal gang and is pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes.”

  “One thing that might be useful: Ada Smith told Charlotte she was dying and she didn’t want Charlotte to watch her die. It’s quite possible she has checked herself into a hospital now that Charlotte has gone.”

  “Good point,” Daniel said. “I’ll definitely try the hospitals.”

  He kissed me and off he went. For us it was a somber morning. Cedric had telephoned the doctor, who came to write a death certificate for Great-Aunt Clara. I was tempted to share my suspicions with him, but he seemed to be an old friend of Cedric’s family, and frankly I didn’t see what could be achieved at this moment by suggesting that foul play might have been involved. The certificate was signed in two seconds and he left, commenting that she had lived a good, long life, and what better than to go up to heaven on the birthday of Our Lord.

  He must have then dispatched the undertaker, who arrived in a black draped carriage and carried out the body in a coffin. Funeral arrangements were discussed. I made sure I kept the children out of the way. The weather held up, allowing the younger generation to play outside, taking turns with skis and snowshoes and enjoying a snowball fight. By luncheon time the body had gone, and we enjoyed a good meal of leftover cold meats, chicken soup, and baked potatoes. I tried to observe the members of the household one by one to see if they were relieved that Aunt Clara’s death certificate had been signed with no problems, but they were all talking about her freely, discussing her favorite hymns for the funeral and the fact that she would be buried in the family vault that had such a fine view across the Tappan Zee.

  After the meal Liam fell asleep with no problem. The jigsaw puzzle was finished in the afternoon and we were playing charades before the evening meal when Daniel returned. He looked quite weary, as I suppose one does after a train ride to the city and back. He accepted a glass of whiskey from Cedric.

  “Any luck?” Cedric asked.

  “I have put in a request to the Boston police to follow up on Ada Smith, including women recently admitted to the hospitals. We’ll have to wait and see. Oh, but I did find out something interesting. My wife suggested I look into Henry Wheaton.”

  “Why would she do that?” Cedric demanded.

  “Because his name had come up, when your poor great-aunt confused him with me. And your aunt said he used to come to visit all the time and then he stopped. So I wondered if he could have anything at all to do with the kidnapping.”

  “Absolute rubbish,” Cedric said angrily. “Henry Wheaton was just a friend from my youth. He and I grew apart years ago. Nothing to do with this at all.”

  “So did you find out anything about him?” Aunt Florence asked.

  “I did,” Daniel said. “He’s dead. At least a man with the same name is dead.”

  I heard a little intake of breath from someone in the room.

  “Do we know how he died?” Cedric asked, his voice taut now.

  Daniel nodded. “His body was found in the Hudson, downstream from here after the ice melt in the spring. Naturally his face was quite unrecognizable, because presumably he’d been in the water for quite a while, but they were able to identify him by his tailor’s label in his suit jacket and the laundry mark on his shirt.”

  “How long ago was this?” Aunt Florence asked.

  “It was the spring of 1897,” Daniel said. “Rather significant, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure there are several fellows with the same name,” Cedric said. “Not necessarily my old pal. As I remember it he was going back to Buffalo, where he came from. We could check.…”

  I had been watching faces and I saw that Winnie had turned quite pale. Now she was looking down at her hands in her lap, her fingers plucking nervously at the silk.

  Aunt Florence sighed. “Well, it looks as if we’ll never come to the truth now. And I suppose we should ask ourselves why we should try. We have our dear girl back with us. Do we need to cause ourselves more grief by digging up unpleasant memories?”

  “You may be right, Aunt Florence,” Cedric said. “And I don’t see how my poor pal Henry winding up in the Hudson could have anything at all to do with this.”

  “I could think of several reasons,” I said. Heads turned sharply toward me. I saw Daniel frown at me, but I continued, “Perhaps your friend happened to stumble upon the kidnappers. He recognized your daughter. He tried to intervene and save her and was knocked out and thrown into the frigid water for his bravery.”

  “Yes,” Cedric said. “That would be the way Henry behaved. He would have risked his life for Charlotte.”

  “We should drink a toast to honor his memory,” Aunt Florence said.

  Cedric filled glasses with sherry or whiskey. He raised his. “To my good friend Henry. May he rest in peace.”

  We drank, silently. Then the dinner gong roused us from the somber mood. We went in to a magnificen
t rib roast of beef with all the trimmings, and by the time we reassembled around the fire we were chatting pleasantly again, the gloom of Daniel’s news forgotten. Or was it? I noticed that Winnie hardly said a word. The fire burned low. We went up to bed.

  “You seem to have hit the nail on the head somehow with Henry Wheaton,” Daniel commented as he unhooked the back of my dress for me. “The news of his death clearly rattled them. And then your explanation of his sacrifice and act of bravery was well accepted.”

  “Too well,” I said. “I think at least some of them know more than they want to share.”

  “You still think that this Henry fellow took the child?”

  “Had something to do with her kidnapping,” I said. “And not as the hero.”

  “It’s unlikely we’ll ever find out now,” Daniel said. “I wonder if Cedric still wants me to dig deeper, to find the truth about Ada Smith and proof that this girl is his daughter?”

  “We’ll have to see. I don’t know about you, but I would like to go home as soon as possible. I’ve found this whole experience unsettling.” I put on my robe and went down the hall to the bathroom. As I approached the landing I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I didn’t want to be seen in my bathrobe so I shrank back into the shadow between lamps. I saw Winnie come up the stairs and turn toward her side of the house, then Cedric appeared behind her and grabbed her arm.

  “You say anything and you know what can happen, don’t you?” he whispered to her. “I can easily do it and I will, if necessary.”

  Winnie shook her arm free. “You caused all of this,” she said. “It’s about time you took your share of the blame.”

  Then she stalked ahead of him down the hall and into darkness.

  Twenty-five

  The next morning we awoke to dreadful weather. The snow had turned to driving sleet, washing away much of the white covering from the gardens and peppering the windows. I had secretly been hoping that we could leave and go home, but there was no way I’d want to travel in this weather. And I realized I did want to get to the truth. The detective in me could not just leave things as they were and walk away.

  I washed and dressed Liam and went down to breakfast. No sign of Winnie or Cedric, but Daniel’s mother and Aunt Florence were eating a hearty meal, chattering away and enjoying each other’s company. Ivy sat at the other end of the table next to Charlotte, neither of them talking. Bridie went immediately to join them.

  “I’m afraid we’re all stuck indoors today,” I said. “I wonder if there are any board games or drawing materials to keep you occupied?”

  “There were games and things in the old nursery,” Bridie said.

  “Have you been there yet, Charlotte?” I asked. “Have you seen your old nursery?”

  “Yes. Mother showed me yesterday. I’m afraid I didn’t remember a thing.”

  “You were probably so shocked and terrified by what happened to you that you blotted everything from your memory,” I said.

  “Can we go up there and play?” Bridie asked. “Liam loved riding the horse.”

  “We should probably ask Mrs. Van Aiken first,” I said. “She might want to keep everything as it was. Go and amuse yourselves in the big room by the fire first and we’ll wait until Mrs. Van Aiken comes down.”

  We finished breakfast. Liam was settled on the rug with his horse and cart and the bear, and the girls set up various shops selling nuts for him to deliver in his cart. I smiled as I watched them all engrossed in the game, the big ones enjoying it as much as my two-year-old. He needs brothers and sisters to play with, I thought. Maybe next year I’ll be lucky and we’ll have another child.

  When the clock struck ten and there was no sign of Winnie a shiver of alarm went through me. I couldn’t help thinking of two days ago when Great-Aunt Clara hadn’t appeared and Aunt Florence went up to find she had died. And Cedric’s threatening behavior from the night before worried me. I had to go up and see for myself. I left the children and crept up the stairs. I turned left instead of right and made my way down the hall to the very end. I tapped on the door, suddenly realizing that I’d feel really foolish if it opened. What could I say to Winnie? That I wanted to know if she was all right? She had a houseful of servants she could summon if she wanted anything, as well as an efficient aunt.

  There was no sound. I opened the door cautiously. The room was empty. The bed was made as if it hadn’t been slept in. Was it possible that Winnie had run away? Surely not when her beloved daughter had just been found. Or had she been taken away? A flash of conversation came back to me: Cedric had hinted that his wife might be losing her sanity. I knew all too well how easy it was to have a woman committed to an insane asylum on the word of a husband. But surely Cedric would not do something like that, especially not now with guests in his house?

  As I came out of the room I met a maid carrying a jug of water.

  “Have you seen your mistress this morning?” I asked.

  She nodded shyly. “Yes, ma’am. I brought up her breakfast, a while ago. She didn’t feel like coming down. She had one of her headaches. So I took her up a boiled egg and some coffee. And when I came up to get the dirty dishes she was already up and dressed. So I made the bed.”

  I was going to go back downstairs to see whether Winnie might be in one of the other rooms, the library maybe, or writing letters in a quiet sitting room, but on the landing I paused. At that moment Cedric passed below me. I saw him enter the gallery, asking in jovial tones, “And how is everyone this morning? No snowball fights today, I’m afraid.”

  This somewhat reassured me and I realized that I had not yet seen the famous nursery. I went up one more flight. The first door was to a simple bedroom where Ivy had been sleeping. I saw her snow globe on the bedside table and smiled at the joy such a small thing had given her. Then I went on down the hall until I opened a door and stepped into a big, beautiful nursery. It had tall windows and on a fine day the sun must have flooded the room with light. The rocking horse was indeed magnificent and had pride of place in the window. There was a child-sized table and chairs painted white with flowers on them. There was a doll buggy and a wooden doll bed, and a row of china dolls and stuffed animals sat on a daybed. There were books on shelves and even a child’s piano. Everything a little girl could dream of. My eyes scanned the room and then I started, almost letting out a cry. Winnie stood in the far corner, holding a big rag doll in her arms, tears running down her cheeks.

  I went over to her. “Winnie, my dear. What is wrong?” I asked gently.

  She shook her head, unable to talk. “It’s nothing,” she said when she could compose herself.

  “Of course it’s more than nothing.” I touched her arm gently. “Would it help to tell me about it? Is there anything I can do?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone. I made a promise.”

  My grip on her arm tightened. “Winnie, do you think you might be in danger?”

  She looked up sharply. “Because you might feel safer if somebody else knew what is troubling you. And my husband is a respected police captain.”

  She shook her head again. “I can’t.”

  “It’s not my business to pry,” I said, “but I could tell you were upset by Henry Wheaton’s death.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I was. I am.”

  “I thought he might be somehow involved in Charlotte’s disappearance,” I said. “In fact I suspect that he and your sister…”

  “My sister?” she stared at me incredulously. “What has my sister to do with it? My sister was gone long before I married.”

  I saw then that I might have gotten it wrong. I led her across the room and seated her on one of the small chairs; then I knelt on the carpet beside her. “You were in love with Henry Wheaton?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “But you think he took your child? He kidnapped Charlotte?”

  “I know he did,” she said.

  “You know he took her?” It was my
turn to sound incredulous.

  She nodded. “I took her out to him. He was waiting for her in the garden and I sent her to him.”

  “Why?” I had not imagined this.

  “Because he was her father,” she said.

  “Henry Wheaton was Charlotte’s father?”

  She nodded. “I suppose I can tell you the truth. Nothing matters now. I kept quiet all these years because I feared for his life when all this time he was dead.” Tears rolled down her cheeks again.

  “You feared for his life?”

  She nodded. “Cedric told me that if I ever tried to contact Henry, he’d accuse him of being the kidnapper and he’d make sure that Henry was hanged.”

  “But why did you give your child to Henry? It’s clear that you adored her.”

  “Two reasons,” she said. “One was that I was beginning to fear for her safety, and another that I wanted to be with him. I wanted us to be together and happy.”

  “So your husband knew that he wasn’t the child’s father?” I asked.

  She gave a brittle laugh. “It was his idea. He arranged the whole thing.” She paused, took a deep breath, and went on, “I suppose I should explain. I was eighteen when I married Cedric. I had no mother. I had been sent to the seminary because my father disliked my aunt’s influence on us. So I knew nothing of the world, or of men. My father and Cedric arranged the match between them. I didn’t object. He was a handsome man with a fine estate and a position in society. It was only after I married him that I discovered he was … that he couldn’t…” Her face flushed bright red and she couldn’t say the words.

  “That he could not perform the usual husband’s duties?” I finished for her.