Constable Ichabod
Crane leaned over, his hands against his knees, closely inspecting the corpse.
She was dressed as a pauper and appeared as such, right down to the worn soles
of her shoes and the smudges of dirt on her face.
"What we
can't figure out..." said one of the officers, coming to stand beside Ichabod.
"Is how this relates to the murder from yesterday or the one the day before or
the one the day before that. Or do they even relate?"
Ichabod stared
hard at the body, taking in every detail. It was rather refreshing to be part
of the law enforcement community now that they were adopting their new habit of
thinking before acting and examining before drawing conclusions. His influence
was finally starting to be recognized and his techniques were starting to be
followed.
Having no
moment to answer, Ichabod's eyes snapped shut and his
arm came up to cover his nose and mouth. "h'CHIHHH!"
"Bless
you." The policeman put a hand on Ichabod's shoulder.
Concernedly, "You were sneezing quite a lot yesterday, too. Coming down with a
cold, Mister Crane?"
There were,
it seemed, disadvantages to having a police force which could think. Shaking
his head, "hehh... No." He sniffed and rubbed a finger
delicately alongside his nose. Then he stood, blinking. It was startlingly cold
out today and Ichabod could smell snow in the air. Or he could have, had it not
been for the congestion. "Sir, I am absolutely certain that these cases are
related."
"Truly?"
the officer said skeptically.
"And what's
more..." said Ichabod, squatting back down beside the body, "This woman was
murdered because of one small, seemingly insignificant aspect of her person." He
pointed to the silver flute in the woman's open hand.
The officer
rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "I hate to point out the
obvious, but whoever took this woman's life left the flute. If he'd gone and done
it because of the flute, he woulda taken the flute,
right?"
Ichabod's face was screwing up with the urge to sneeze. He
breathing came in quick but silent hitches and his eyes closed. And though he
tried valiantly to fight them, the sneezes came anyway. "hehChh! hahhChuhh!
Heh-ehh-hahCHIHHHH!" Ichabod pulled
his handkerchief out and snuffled into it, feeling more sneezes on their way
already. "I..." He sniffed hard and looked up at the officer. "I ab certaid that whoever did this
is dot a 'he'. Ehhh-HITChhh!"
"Really now? How can you tell?"
"Well, it
is the... the... hehhh... it is due to the... ehh-HIH!" He pinched his nose hard through the cloth, but it was no
use. "HIHChhh! Hetchhh! Hih-IHCh!
IhChhh! IhShhhh!"
"Never mind,"
sighed the officer. He turned to one of the other constables and began talking.
"ihh-HIHShh! ehhhChh!"
Ichabod's eyes began to tear up and he stood and took
a few steps back, leaning against the shop front.
The woman's
body had been left out in the open, and Ichabod knew from experience that meant
the murderer wanted the work seen. But it was a horrible thing to find so close
to Christmas. Such a terrible tragedy.
"A woman?" Several other officers, as well as the lead
inspector on the case, had assembled around him now, probably drawn by the
sound of sneezy Ichabod.
Ichabod
rubbed at his nose through his handkerchief but nodded. "Undeniably.
A... uhhh-CHEHH! H'Shhh!"
The
inspector cleared his own throat, wanting to get on with it. "Is there anything
you can tell us about this? Apart from the fact that she was
stabbed to death somewhere else?" Ichabod had already explained that much, based on the victim's pale façade and the lack of
blood on the surrounding ground.
In his
position as consultant and examiner, Ichabod was used to being called in on
strange cases where his talents could not be utilized. These killings, however
mysterious, did not seem to need further examination. An autopsy would tell him
nothing, just as it had not for the first two murders. But that did not mean he
did not notice things that others overlooked.
Ichabod
reached down and gently rolled the woman's body over onto her side. Beneath
her, the cobblestone street was bare, without a trace of blood. The image of a
woman stabbing the victim popped into his head. He closed his eyes, imagining
her draining the blood and then painting these streaks before depositing the
body there. The thought made him rather light-headed.
As did the sneezes. "hihh-CHIII! hehhChhh! hihhChhh! Heh-ehh-hehhChehhh!" He blinked up at the police.
"Go home,"
the inspector said. "Take care of that cold of yours."
"It is dot
a cold." Ichabod's senses returned to him, and he
felt confident to stand without concern about fainting. "But I will take by
leave. I shall codtact you if I discover adythig bore."
The
inspector, who looked as though he had not understood much of that, waved his
hand dismissively, giving Ichabod official leave.
Ichabod made
his way down the streets, already bustling with morning activity. He found a
respectable-looking bench and sat upon it while he sneezed
the rest of his sneezes out then blew his nose thoroughly. Ichabod folded his
handkerchief and slid it into his breast pocket, simultaneously pulling out his
pocket watch. He consulted it and smiled. He would be just in time. Clearing
his throat, he straightened and headed towards the bakery.
He spotted
Young Masbeth, who was on his way out, and smiled. Quickening his pace, he made
it to the bakery just as Katrina was leaving as well. Dressed in a stunning
green dress, she was hard to miss even had he not been looking for her. The
Young Masbeth held the door open for her, but Ichabod reached over and took her
packages. "Ichabod!" she exclaimed gleefully. She leaned forward to kiss him in
greeting but caught only his cheek as he turned his head to the side.
He cupped
his hand to his face, unable to get to his handkerchief in time, what with the
parcels in his arms. "hihChihhh!"
"Bless
you," she said, going from pleased to concerned in
one. "Darling, are you coming down with a cold?" She knew how easily he could
catch a chill.
Ichabod
shook his head. "No. Not this time. heh!" His breaths caught. "hihKSh! hehChh!"
Young
Masbeth looked up at Katrina and she returned his expression of worry. "Are you
finished with your case? May we return home? I should be cooking all day if I'm
to finish in time for Christmas Eve dinner."
They walked
home to their small townhouse on the edge of town, and Ichabod went at once for
a fresh handkerchief in the bedroom dresser drawer. As he blew his nose,
Katrina entered and stood her ground in front of him.
Gently she
pressed the back of her palm against his forehead. "You're not feverish," she
observed.
"Correct."
He blew his nose again.
She eyed
him, her eyes large and still filled with concern. "Yet you look exhausted.
You've been working so hard on this case. And they had you up and about very
early this morn," she said.
Young
Masbeth, who always woke first to start the fire in the stove, had been roused
from his pallet just before dawn. He had answered the door still in his pajamas
and had called for his master to let him know they had visitors, but did so
between body-shaking yawns. Ichabod understood why he'd been pulled out of bed
so early, but had wished to stay snuggled under the covers with Katrina longer.
"Why do you
not take a nap?" she suggested. "One of us will wake you before dinner is
served."
He laughed
at the absurdity of that even as he pulled off his shoes. "I am certain I will
be up before then, my dear," he said. He slipped into bed fully clothed and was
asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. His dreams were sweet.
*
Ichabod
stretched and yawned before throwing off the covers. It felt very late in the
day, but he did not realize how late until he'd headed down the stairs and the
scents of dinner struck him. He found the table already set, courtesy of Young
Masbeth of course, and several side dishes were already finished and upon it.
"Well
hello, sleepy head!" Katrina said with a giggle as she came into the dining
room from the kitchen with a platter full of ham. "Feeling better?"
Ichabod
nodded. "Can I help you carry anything more?"
"This is
the very last of it," she said, setting it down on the table as Young Masbeth
came in with two more covered pots. Ichabod pulled the chair out for his wife,
and she sat down. Ichabod waited until Young Masbeth had taken his place as
well before sitting down at the head of the table and reaching for a knife to slice
the ham.
"The dinner
looks wonderful," he said as she lifted the lids to reveal mashed potatoes,
beans, and rolls. "I'm famished."
"Understandably
so," Katrina said with a smile. "You slept right through lunch and worked through
breakfast."
"Oh!"
exclaimed the Young Masbeth at once. "How is the case?"
Katrina
seemed interested in the details as well. "It isn't witchcraft after all, is
it?"
Ichabod
shook his head. One of the reasons he had been called in on it in the first
place was the suspicion of witchcraft, which had been raised because of a
multitude of aviary killings taking place before the first victim had been
discovered. People had found the caucuses of everything from simple egg-laying
chickens to majestic swans and no one had known what to make of it. Ichabod
hadn't really, either, but he and Katrina had consulted books and could find no
reference to killing so many birds. "I still don't believe it is," he said.
"But we're not much closer to finding out who the murderer
is. I maintain that we must examine motive... but that is difficult when there is
no apparent connection among the victims, apart from their being dead at the
same woman's hands."
Young
Masbeth, who was a growing boy and always had to slow his eating in order to
keep up with Ichabod and Katrina, sighed. "I do hope you can find the murderer
before she kills again."
Ichabod
nodded in agreement. "So do I, my good man. So do I." He sat back in his chair with a deep, thoughtful sigh. The
sounds of the city streets at sundown filled his ears. There were horses
pulling carriages and passersby hurrying home with last minute purchases. There
was also the soft, beautiful sound of singing.
"How do you
know the murderer is a woman, Ichabod?" Katrina inquired.
But Ichabod
did not answer her. Perhaps he did not even hear her. His ears were tuned to
the song and he wore a quizzical expression. "Hark! Christmas Carolers," he
said. He rose from the table, moving his napkin from lap to beside his plate. And
he moved towards the parlor window. He threw open the sash and let the harmony
of voices in.
Katrina
came and joined him, snuggling up to his side and slipping her arms around his
middle. He put one of his around her shoulders and closed his eyes, listening.
Masbeth left
the dining area, chewing and swallowing. "Pardon my intrusion. Dinner is
growing cold, nice as the music is."
Ichabod
nodded. "I daresay my portion will go colder still." He turned to his wife. "Katrina,
Dear, I think I may have just solved this case." His hand covered one of hers
and squeezed tightly. "I promise to be back before the morning meal. I am sorry
I must leave."
She shook
her head. "Masbeth, go fetch Ichabod's things." She
kissed him softly and stroked his forehead. "Stay well and safe, Ichabod."
*
Through
lightly falling snow, Ichabod made his way quickly to a bookstore, then to the
station. He chuckled recent reports to be sure, then
went to round-up the other officers involved in the case. They were not on
duty, however, but he knew well where they could be found.
"This had
better be important, Constable Crane," the inspector said, narrowing his eyes
at Ichabod over the pew. Ichabod assembled a handful of officers, pulling them
out of the Church just before Christmas Eve services were to begin.
"I believe
it is of the utmost importance," he said, building up to the explanation. "It
is about... a book!"
A
smattering of laughter met this declaration. "A book?"
The officer gestured behind them at the open doors of the church. "In a house
of God there is only one book that is important."
Ichabod
nodded respectfully. "Yes, I understand. But in this case, this book is more important." He held up a bound copy of Mirth without Mischief. "The irony is
that our murderer is both mirthful and mischievous."
"What is
that? A book of witchcraft?" The inspector reached for
it, but Ichabod pulled the book out of his grasp and began to flip through it.
"Hardly,"
he said, shaking his head. Ichabod licked his index finger just before turning
each page, until he found the page he was looking for. "Ah-ha!
Here it is!" As the officers leaned in to look at the page, Ichabod pressed the
pages to his chest, drawing their attention back to him and his words. "I was
listening to Christmas carolers when the music jogged my memory. It was one
song, adapted from a memory and forfeits game that I had remembered reading
about in this very volume." He twirled the book around dramatically, putting
the pages on display.
They all crowded together to read the pages. "The Twelve
Days of Christmas?" said one of them skeptically.
"Exactly!" Ichabod declared triumphantly. "This explains the
murders as well as the slaughter of the birds. First we have a partridge, then a
turtledove, then a French hen..."
"We can read," said the inspector.
"Yes,"
Ichabod continued. "But nearly seven days ago a jeweler reported a small gold
ring stolen overnight from his store. I checked the official report not ten
minutes ago. And then one must look at the bodies. First a milkmaid who lived
on the outskirts of town, next a woman who was to participate as a dancer in
the Christmas day pageant, then a landowner who was out for his morning ride,
and then last night it was a young flautist."
He paused
to be sure everyone was following him, and found that he had their complete attention.
"I surmise that tonight the killer shall strike again, by killing a drummer.
This will be out last attempt to stop her."
"The only
drummers I can think about are those providing the music for the services
tonight," the inspector said, glancing inside. "So she must be here. And are
you sure it is a woman? These are such ghastly crimes."
"I am
certain," he said with a nod. "She should be inside now, waiting until after
the services for her target. And I believe I will be able to identify her." He
cleared his throat. "Stay with me, gentlemen!"
Ichabod
marched inside but moved slowly down the center isle. He looked was nervous as
he glanced at each of the women sitting in the pews. They looked curious and
confused, but none looked ready to run or break into a murderous rampage.
He was
starting to doubt his reasoning when he felt his nose tickle. His nostrils
twitched as he followed the scent towards the right, to the second row. A woman
sat there, staring straight ahead, her fists clenched. Ichabod pointed to her, then pulled out his handkerchief. He buried his nose in it
just in time. "ehhh-Chhh!"
The sound echoed greatly. "hihhTChhh!"
The woman
sprang to her feet, ready to run, but several officers seized her and explained
she was wanted for the recent murders. "No!" she screamed, fighting to pull
free. "I have to finish his gift!" she cried, staring over at the other side of
the room.
A man stood
up, looking appalled. "Josephine! I am already engaged. I could not possibly
love you the way you wish! To do this..."
"I will
teach you to play with my affections!" she said, screaming threats she could no
longer live up to. The officers pulled her into the isle. Ichabod got a glimpse
of a gold ring on her ringfinger. "I will give you a
Christmas you'll never forget!"
"IHChhh! Hih-HIHCh! H'KShhh!
H'Chihhh!" As the woman passed Ichabod, the scent
intensified all the more. His eyes watered and his nose tickled relentlessly. It
was all he could do to catch his breath in-between sneezes and to keep from
passing out.
Ichabod
brought up the rear of the procession as the officers led the woman from the
Church. Ichabod had motioned to the man as well, and so he was being brought
along as well for questioning. But Ichabod was certainly not in any condition
to be the one asking the questions. "HIHShh! EHHChhh!
HehChh! Chihh! HihhChihh! Sniff! IhhhChhh!" Besides, he
had done his part in solving the crime. He had identified and produced the culprit
and had prevented one more murder. It was time for him to head home. "ihhH'Chhh! Kshhh!" And it was
time for him to get another handkerchief.
Ichabod did
not make it up the stairs to his dresser this time, however. He was stopped in
the foyer by Katrina. "What has happened? You sound awful."
"There's dothig for it," Ichabod said, rubbing his sodden
handkerchief at his nose. "It was a decessary evil id
order to stob... stob... heh-ehh-IHChh! K'Chh! Hitchhh! ehhChhh!"
Katrina
took him by the hand and led him over to sit down in a large armchair. She
knelt down before him. "Go put the kettle on for tea right away," she told
Masbeth, who ran to do so. Then she pulled out the handkerchief she kept between
her bosoms and held it to Ichabod's nose.
"Thadk you," he snuffled, meeting her eyes. And though she
could not see his mouth, she knew he was smiling.
"So you
found the killer?" she asked with interest.
He sniffed
hard and nodded. "Yes. She was taked idto... idto cust..."
His eyelids fluttered shut and he pitched forward. "hehh-CHIH!"
"Bless,"
she said comfortingly. As he took the handkerchief from her, she reached up and
kissed his forehead. "Rest your voice. A shake of the head or nod will do just
fine." He smiled at her again and then blew his nose.
"She is in
police custody?" He nodded. "Before she could harm another?" He nodded again. "And
this terrible sneezing has something to do with it?"
"It..." his
face fell and he buried his nose in the handkerchief. "ihhShh! ehhChhh!"
The tea arrived
not long after, and Ichabod inhaled its steam as much as sipped it. The
incessant tickle in his nose weakened.
"So how did
you figure it out, Sir?" Young Masbeth asked.
"The
murders followed The Twelve Days of Christmas game, which meant the next target was a drummer, most likely one performing at the Church.
I surmised the murderer would be in attendance, as so many in this city attend
Christmas Eve services. The murderer wore a specific scent. It rubbed off on
her victims when she moved the bodies. It was easy enough to identify her. Just
not so easy to talk once I'd done so," he smiled sheepishly, sniffled, and took
another sip of tea. By the time he had drained the cup, the urge to sneeze had
disappeared completely. Katrina still insisted he take a warm bath before bed.
Epilogue
"Unless I'm
much mistaken, there is one present left," said Ichabod, nodding towards the
box beneath the Christmas tree. They were seated around it in their pajamas
still.
Young
Masbeth retrieved the box, read the tag, and handed it to Katrina. "For me?"
she said, grinning with anticipation. She looked up at Ichabod. "But you
already gave me a book."
"That was a
red herring, Katrina. Go ahead and open it."
She slipped
the purple ribbon off and lifted the lid. Then she peered inside to find... "Nothing. It is empty."
Ichabod
nodded. "I thought you might like to pick out something special when we go into
town tomorrow. Anything you would like. I want you to be happy."
"Thank you.
How very practical of you," she said with a smile. She was bound her golden
hair back with the ribbon. "Now that I think of it, there is a certain perfume I have had my eye on."
Ichabod's eyes widened. "Anything but that!" he corrected,
shock and dread in his voice. But then he caught her eye and saw without a
doubt that she was joking. As he pulled her up onto his lap and wrapped his
arms around her in a hug, he began to laugh.