Saving Saint Nicholas

By Kay Springsteen

A Christmastide game of cat and mouse…

 

Holly Huxley's only focus this Christmastide is helping her grandfather distribute the toys he has been making for children everywhere all year. But her employer, a band of smugglers, and a surprise connection to her past have other ideas. Not to mention the handsome inspector who keeps turning up wherever she goes…

 

It's not enough that Nelson Wolcott, inspector for the Crown, has to contend with a band of slippery smugglers, an eccentric shopkeeper, and a dog that likes to wear clothes. Now he finds himself drawn to a mysterious woman with a secret.

 

And then Saint Nicholas goes missing!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dingbat Publishing
• Release date: Dec 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223779773

Kay Springsteen

Kay Springsteen grew up in Michigan but transplanted to the south about 10 years ago and now resides in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia with her five small dogs. Two of her four children live nearby, a married son who has a daughter of his own, and one of her twins. The other twin lives just outside of USMC Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. Her oldest daughter still resides in Michigan. When she's not writing, she is transcribing and editing medical reports. Besides being an avid reader, hobbies include photography, gardening, hiking and camping, and of course spending time with her terrific G-baby. She is a firm believer in happily ever after endings and believes there is one out there for everyone; it just may not be exactly what you expect or think you want.

Book preview

SAVING SAINT NICHOLAS

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2023 KAY SPRINGSTEEN

Published in the United States of America

Dingbat Publishing

Humble, Texas

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are entirely the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons living or dead, actual locations, events, or organizations is coincidental.

Chapter One

London, December 1812

Someone was in the expansive warehouse with him. Though it was dark and he heard not a sound, Nelson Wolcott could feel the presence. If he could figure where the intruder was hiding, he would pounce. This time... he would find out what was happening to the smuggled shipments: where they came from when they were brought to this warehouse, and why he couldn’t seem to track them before they arrived in this dank, cluttered space.

The hush in the building was so complete, Nelson’s ears rang in the silence. He barely breathed, waiting for the smallest sound to give away the location of the other person.

There! Was that a sniff? Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward, groping his way along a group of crates stacked along the wall closest to the river outside. There it was again, the smallest sniff, then a shuffle. He slid his hand forward, seeking the edge of the crate he was touching.

White-hot pain struck his palm and seared its way into his wrist then up his arm. There was no suppressing the grunt that squeaked past his lips.

Several feet away, his quarry gasped. Ignoring the agony in his hand, Nelson leaped toward the sound, arms outstretched, ready to take the trespasser sneaking around the warehouse into custody.

No one was there. A flurry of movement near the door caught his attention, and Nelson raced toward it. Too late. The door slammed shut in his face, affording him not even a glimpse of the brigand.

A faint sweet scent clung in the air as Nelson gripped the door latch and lifted it. He flinched as the door creaked, though he was well aware that the target of his investigation was likely long gone.

Chill air blowing in off the Thames assaulted his face, stripping away the sweet fragrance and replacing it with a rather rank odor of fish and refuse. The nearly full moon glowed brilliant silver, the warehouse and other nearby buildings casting harsh shadows over the street and the dock just beyond. Not a soul was about, the only movement the gentle bobbing of three ships moored at the nearby dock.

Sighing with his defeat, Nelson stepped back inside the warehouse and walked to the small office at the rear, avoiding contact with any of the stacked crates and barrels by keeping to the centers of the aisles. Once in the office, he lit an oil lamp and examined his hand.

The splinter that had been his downfall was jammed deep into his right palm, a ragged tear around it and dried blood smeared across his skin.

Bloody bas— Clenching his jaw, he grasped the sliver of wood between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and gently eased it out then dropped it on the floor. With a little prodding, he felt no further pain; the splinter must have come out of his flesh whole.

Nothing else would happen tonight. His clumsiness had cost him the chance to capture whoever was moving the smuggled goods. After blowing out the lamp, Nelson locked the office then made his way back through the warehouse to the exit.

As he closed the door behind him and made to secure the latch, he glimpsed a flash of something fluttering in the breeze, a small patch of dark wool caught on a sharp edge of the doorjamb. One never knew the significance of an object found at the scene of a crime. It might be nothing, might solve the case. He plucked the ragged swatch of fabric from the frame and pushed it into his pocket.

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GASPING FOR BREATH, Holly raced through the shadows, leaving the dock behind. Though she was fairly certain no one followed, she chose a roundabout route through some of the seedier sections of London. Even in the wee hours, drunks and prostitutes still inhabited the streets. Not even the cold December air would drive such people inside, in large part because many of them had nowhere to go.

Two men raised their voices and circled one another while a skinny woman with straggly hair looked on. Holly took advantage of the distraction and ducked into an alley cut between the Exeter ‘Change and another building. The walls leaned toward each other at the top; the space at their bases was barely wide enough to accommodate her slender frame, but she knew from mapping this route a day earlier that she would fit. Perhaps it would be small enough to dissuade anyone from following.

As she emerged from the narrow space on the next street over, she took a moment to gauge her surroundings. No one was about on this less-traveled road. Keeping to the shadows, she walked a rapid pace until she reached the street that would take her to the best home she could afford on the salary she earned as a shop assistant in the employ of Mr. Preston Fernsby.

With one last glance around, she pushed open the door to the lower level of an ancient three-story townhouse. Their home likely had been the servants’ quarters of a once-respectable home, but now the original levels had been divided three ways. The place was more damp than dry, but it did keep the worst of the weather out.

She stepped inside and quickly closed the door then leaned against it, blowing out several deep breaths in relief.

Holly, my dear, wherever have you been?

A cry escaped her lips at her grandfather’s soft question. Gramp! She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the firelight’s dim glow so she could see him sitting in the wooden rocking chair by the hearth. It’s very late. You should be asleep.

He wagged a finger at her but made no move to stand. Don’t be telling me about the lateness of the hour, young Holly. I had long retired for the evening when I suddenly awoke at the sound of our door opening. Shaking his head, he clamped his jaw, which pushed his long white beard forward over his chest. I worried perhaps we were being set upon by thieves.

Holly released a sigh. She had taken such care to open and close the door quietly. She should have known Gramp’s sharp ears would pick up the slightest click of the door. His hearing only failed when it suited him. I’m sorry I woke you.

Hmph. He folded his arms across his chest, pinning her in his aged, rheumy stare. You have not yet explained what you were about at such an indecent hour.

‘Twas nothing, she insisted, shrugging out of her red woolen cloak and hanging it on the peg next to the door. I couldn’t sleep, fearing I had left Mr. Fernsby’s shop door unlocked.

Another grunt of disapproval rose from her grandfather. A gentleman should never leave a young lady alone in a shop, most especially one that deals in fine products.

I hardly think my life would be at risk for stacks of paper and parchment. A snort that would definitely be considered most unladylike slipped out. Or perhaps I might interest the blackguards in some of our best inkpots.

Gramp didn’t laugh. And yet, you felt the need to check that these stacks of stationery and ink pots were safely behind a locked door when any person of sound mind would be asleep.

Clearly, she would not be able to distract him with a bit of humor. I’m sorry, Grandfather. She stepped around a pair of battered crates, sitting one on top of the other, and walked toward the hearth then knelt in front of him. As she took his hands in hers, it struck her, as it usually did, how delicate and frail those hands had become. Once strong and sure, they were now twisted and gnarled like an apple tree after decades of bending under the weight of bearing fruit. With her thumb, she traced a prominent vein, dark blue against the pasty white. I shouldn’t have taken such a risk.

His expression softened. It’s only your safety I’m concerned with, gel. You never know to what means driven men will go for the reward of but a few coins.

Except... maybe she did. Would you like some tea? she asked gently, rising to her feet.

Thank you, but no. Gramp stood on wobbly legs. I think I shall get these old bones of mine to bed. He kissed her on the cheek then shuffled to his bedroom. As he shoved the threadbare green woolen curtain out of the way and stepped inside, he added, I love you, Holly Faith.

I love you too, Gramp.

Then he drew the curtain back. The bed creaked a few times as he settled in, then silence fell, broken only by soft pops and crackles rising from the hearth. Holly crossed to the door to double check the lock. As she turned to seek her own bed, her gaze fell upon her cloak.

A jagged tear in the red wool brought a sigh of dismay. It was in a fairly prominent place in the front near the clasp. She would have to repair the garment before she could wear it to work. It would never do to show up for her job as a clerk at Pen and Parchment Stationers on Bond Street wearing what most in that district would consider little more than a rag.

Chapter Two

Shivering, Holly drew her scarf closer around her neck and picked up her pace. All things considered, she should have worn her cloak with its torn fabric. Walking along the street in the light pelisse that was fit more for cool spring and summer days than for a blustery December day, she looked every bit as poor as she would have in the torn garment and perhaps a bit insane as well. At least wearing the cloak, she would have been warm.

Gramp had raised an eyebrow when she had shrugged into the pelisse and opened the door to their home.

My cloak has a nasty tear, she’d explained hurriedly. I shall have to repair it before I wear it again. She had stepped outside and closed the door before he could respond, unwilling to enter into a disagreement with him that she would likely lose.

Even leaving home earlier than her normal hour and walking at a clipped pace, she turned onto Bond Street to find a customer waiting outside the Stationer’s shop. Would nothing go her way this morning? She would have no time to light a fire in the hearth in order to fight the chill. Part of her wanted to walk on by the gentleman and work her way around back so she could enter unnoticed and warm herself before tending to the needs of a customer who likely had no idea what he wanted.

However, she conceded with a sigh, that would entail walking even farther in the chilled air. Not to mention, Mr. Fernsby had instructed her not to use that entrance, particularly on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The day being Thursday, that entrance was off limits, and she had no desire to lose her employment just because she wanted to avoid a customer for a few moments.

In any case, the man didn’t look particularly menacing with his well-fitting and clean clothing and his neatly trimmed, beard. The key jangled against the iron ring in her hand as she approached. With what she prayed was a pleasant smile, she nodded a greeting and placed the key in the lock. Good morning. The key turned easily, and she lifted the latch and opened the door. I’ll be with you shortly, she promised the gentleman as he followed her in.

No rush, he said, offering a smile of his own. I’ll just browse a bit. And he strolled toward the table where samples had been laid out.

Just as she’d suspected, the man clearly had no notion of what he wanted. She set about lighting a fire in the newly installed Rumford fireplace. Mr. Fernsby had explained that most of the smoke in one of these fireplaces went up and out over the city, which was a much better arrangement for a merchant who sold stationery. As the slivers of wood sparked to life, she added a bit of peat, and soon the fire was eating up the chill in the shop. Holly slid her pelisse off her shoulders and hung it on a peg just inside the back room.

With a sigh, she deemed herself ready to serve her first customer of the day.

Thank you ever so much for waiting, she said as she approached the gentleman who was fingering the edge of one of their finer parchments. How may I assist you this morning?

Good morning. My name is Nelson Wolcott, he said with a slight bow of his head. Might I inquire as to your name?

Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Wolcott. I am Miss Holly Huxley, she introduced herself with a polite inclination of her head.

His stare bordered on rudeness as he clearly took her measure before responding in a clipped tone, almost as though he had practiced the words or said them on too many occasions. I wonder if the proprietor of this establishment might be available? Chocolate brown eyes that matched the shock of hair falling across his brow swept the shop as though he expected she had been hiding the man in question and could produce him from behind a closed curtain.

Gracious! He’s certainly not the jolly sort, is he?

Mr. Fernsby generally arrives mid-morning, she replied, forcing herself to maintain her smile. I expect he will be along shortly. Perhaps I might show you something while you wait?

Actually, I should be on my way to another appointment, but I’ll return later today. I have some questions for Mr. Fernsby. I am investigating certain unsavory activities near the London Docks, you see, some of which have possibly led to this establishment.

Unsavory activities? Holly repeated, her forehead pinched with a frown as she struggled to understand. What sort of unsavory activities?

Wolcott stiffened, perhaps unused, or more likely unwilling to have his purpose called into question by a female. Nonetheless, he cleared his throat and replied, Smuggling, miss. From France.

Her breath caught as she considered the crate of perfume she had accidentally come across in the back room within the past week. It had been delivered along with their order of ink, and she’d opened it then quickly closed the crate and shoved it aside. The crate had taken leave of the stationer’s shop before the end of that day, but not before she had noted a name burned into the wood along with part of an address, which she had traced to one of the warehouses on the dock.

A shiver wandered along her spine. Although the crate was no longer on the premises, if she reported it, Mr. Fernsby would surely fall under suspicion. If he were arrested, the shop would be closed. Her job was all she had to keep her and Gramp from starving. It was the only way she could afford rent on their small home. She couldn’t lose her job. What would they do? How would they survive? Besides, she had no idea how that crate had arrived in the back room, and it was now gone.

Miss Huxley? prodded the investigator. Are you unwell? Is something amiss?

Holly shook the concerns of losing her employment from her mind and forced a weak smile. My apologies, sir. I was... troubled at the thought of criminal activity. She fluttered a hand at her neck. Why, I cannot imagine such a thing. She moved closer to him, leaning forward and allowing a quiver to enter her voice. Are we in danger?

Wolcott retreated a step. Oh... I shouldn’t think so. Not if you don’t have any dealings with the reprobates. He raised an eyebrow. You, er... don’t... do you?

Holly gasped and flattened the hand against her chest. Of course not!

Very well. He edged toward the door. I’ll just be on my way, then. He settled his hand on the doorlatch and pulled.

Oh... what agency did you say you were with? asked Holly, tilting her head as though struggling to recall. So I might inform my employer.

I didn’t. With another half-bow, he settled his hat atop his head and stepped outside, carefully closing the door behind him.

Yes... Holly murmured to the empty shop, watching through the window as Nelson Wolcott started down the street. I’m quite aware you didn’t.

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NELSON DELIBERATELY slowed his steps so as not to appear in any hurry as he strolled away from the stationer’s shop. Clearly, he would elicit no information from the flighty clerk. How she’d ever managed to acquire the position in the first place, he had no idea, much less how she’d held onto it. The chit didn’t even have sense enough to dress appropriately for cold weather.

She was lovely to look at, however, he considered, with hair that was an average nut brown that he’d thought rather plain until the fire’s gleam had brought out hints of reddish streaks in the tendrils framing her face. What might that hair look like cascading around her shoulders while she gazed at him with those eyes, the color of the clear Caribbean sky?

That was an imagining best left in the dark recesses of his mind.

Excuse me, beg pardon. A rather thin gentleman, well into his advanced years hurried toward Nelson, dancing around others walking along the street’s edge, bumping into some. Regrets and apologies, he sang out, tipping his hat as he cut off a woman in her middle years, who subjected him to a scowl.

The man was well-dressed in the latest fashion, from his collapsible top hat to his navy tailcoat and buff pantaloons tucked into black Hessian boots. A black greatcoat flapped open in the brisk breeze. In his left hand, he carried a silver-topped wooden cane that found its way against the ankles of three tattered street urchins who didn’t move out of his way quickly enough. The cane did not, however, crack the ankles of the fourth, somewhat older youngster, who nudged the fop from behind as he deftly snagged a gold pocket watch from the small outer pocket of the man’s tailcoat, barely easing the greatcoat aside to manage the maneuver.

Nice work. In a few years, the boy would be able to earn a fine living on the docks, smuggling and swindling, most likely with his band of boys who had provided the best distraction.

Ah, the merry streets of London.

As the morning wore on toward the noon hour, more shops along the marketing district unlocked their doors and streets grew more crowded. Nelson made his way in a roundabout direction to the docks. The roar of a lion drew his gaze to the Exeter Exchange as he passed, pausing his steps. Poor wretched creatures. One minute wild and running free beneath blue skies, the next confined to a cage with little room to move about and even less daylight. One of