Indigo Christmas (21 page)

“You must do as the nurse says,” Hilda pronounced. “You are getting better, but you are not well yet.”

“Knowin' Sean's out of danger is the best medicine,” said Norah. She shifted her position in bed and the bottle fell out of Fiona's mouth. The baby began to wail immediately. “There, hush now, darlin', here's your milk, and here's your mama, and all's well.” The last few words were sung to a lullaby tune. Hilda didn't recognize it, but the soft lilt could be nothing else.

She restrained a sigh. The scene in the room was blissful, but the world without was not. Oh, it looked like a Christmas card, but out there in the cold men were tramping through the snow, looking for work—or sitting in front of a cold hearth, perhaps drinking to keep warm and forget, for a while, their poverty and despair. Children with ragged clothes and pinched, old faces shivered as they tried to hope there would be something to eat for supper. Young women in gaudy dresses looked from their bedroom windows and lamented that this was a bad day for their sordid trade, and no business today might mean no food tomorrow. Worst of all, somewhere out there the murderer of James Jenkins walked free. And though she would never say so to Norah, Hilda knew that until the real murderer was apprehended, Sean was in danger.

Fiona, full of milk and nearly asleep, made a tiny noise between a sigh and a gurgle. Nurse Pickerell came to Norah's bedside and picked up the baby. “She needs a nice pat-down now, so she won't get a tummy-ache, don't you, darling? And then a clean diaper and a nice nap. And you need a nap, too, Mrs. O'Neill, as soon as you've had your tonic.”

Norah made a face.

“None of that, now,” said the nurse briskly. “It's doing you good, you know. You've a much better color than a day or two ago. I'll mix a little syrup into it, shall I?”

Norah shuddered. “No! Horrid as it is by itself, 'tis much worse mixed with sweet. Here, give it me quick, and then a peppermint to take the taste away.”

When the nurse had taken Fiona out of the room, Norah settled back in her bed and looked at Hilda, who had moved to the window and was staring out at the snowy world. “You've not come in just to see me, I'll wager. You're as restless as a cat in a room full of rockin' chairs. You've somethin' on your mind.”

Hilda turned back to Norah and said, “Yes, many things. There is much I should be doing today, and I can do nothing, nothing, with all this snow!”

“Ought to be used to it by now, livin' around here for—what is it now, eight years?”

“Nearly. We came to America in the spring of 'ninety-seven, and here to South Bend soon afterward. And yes, I am used to snow. At home in Sweden we had much more than this, but we had skis and sleds, and when it was very bad we had no need to leave the farm. Here in a city it is different. I want to go out, but I cannot. How I wish I had my skis!”

“And where would you be goin' if you could?”

To the fire station, but Hilda didn't want to tell her that. “I must find Christmas presents for the boys,” she improvised. “And oh, Norah, I want to talk to Mr. Miller. The farmer whose barn burned?”

Norah rolled her eyes. “I'm maybe not feelin' quite so well, but I've not lost the use of me brain. I know who Mr. Miller is.”

“Well, then, I found out yesterday that Mr. Miller was lying when he said he was away buying supplies on the day of the fire. Andy's friends saw him driving back to the farm the next day, with nothing in his wagon. And no one had seen him at any of the places where he might have bought supplies or equipment. So what had he been doing? And why did he lie about it?”

“Hmm. Don't know, but most times when a man lies it's because he's up to somethin'. Maybe he has a lady friend.”

“Oh!” That was one thought that had never entered Hilda's mind. “Yes—he could have gone calling—but why in the wagon instead of taking the buggy? And why wouldn't he just say what he was doing?”

“Maybe he has a wife someplace!” Norah pushed herself up on one elbow and looked excited. “Maybe he left her, but he's still married, and he wants to marry someone else—his lady friend— but he can't unless he can get rid of his wife somehow. So he has to call on the lady in secret. Or maybe—ooh, I've got it! He was out doin' away with his wife, and he started the barn fire himself to burn up her body!”

Norah's reading tended toward the sensational. Hilda was skeptical. “Well—perhaps. Perhaps he has a wife, I mean. or there is a woman involved somehow. But if there is one thing we do know, it is that Mr. Miller and the wagon were not around the farm when the fire started. And no one burned in the fire except the hired man.”

Norah lay back on the bed. “Well, if you don't want my ideas, don't ask. And I don't know why you care, anyway. Me, I don't give two hoots where the man was that day or any other day, now that the police have stopped chasin' after Sean.”

“But Norah, I want to
know
. Someone started that fire and killed poor Mr. Jenkins. If the police never find out—”

“Now we'll have none of that kind of talk here, Mrs. Cavanaugh.” The nurse rustled in, frowning. “Mrs. O'Neill should be thinking of pleasant things, not crimes and police and I don't know what all. Let me brush your hair, dear, so you'll look pretty and your husband can come in and see you for a moment before you have a nice sleep.” She gave Hilda a sharp look and Hilda understood she was dismissed.

She paced. Down the stairs, through the hall, into the parlor, back to the hall, the library, the dining room, Patrick's den, back to the hall to gaze out the door. outside, the men had finished clearing paths from houses to the street and were now working on the street itself. City workers would come around eventually, but there were too few of them and far too much snow. If the people of Colfax Avenue were to be freed from their snowy prisons, their own men would have to do the work. Merchants and bankers worked alongside their servants. At the end of the block, Hilda thought she saw Schuyler Colfax, Junior, son of the vice president after whom the street had been named, taking off his hat and wiping his brow before lifting another shovelful.

Hilda resumed her pacing. Norah had given her something to think about. If a woman were involved, Mr. Miller's absence was easily explained. Hilda didn't accept Norah's melodramatic embroidery of the situation, however. The simplest explanation was also, unfortunately, the most likely. If Mr. Miller was carrying on an affair with a married woman, he would certainly do it with discretion. Take the wagon, which implied business, rather than the more comfortable and conspicuous buggy. A buggy sitting in front of a house meant a caller. A wagon meant a tradesman of some sort. And if he, Miller, cared at all about the reputation of the lady in question, he would continue to lie about the matter, even when asked by the police. As long as he was demonstrably not at the farm when the fire started, it mattered little to the police where he actually was or with whom.

Unless—unless somehow James Jenkins had found out what his employer was doing on other occasions when he was absent from the farm. Suppose he had threatened to tell the woman's husband unless—unless what? Unless Mr. Miller raised his salary, lightened his duties, paid him a sum of money?

Blackmail. Blackmailers have been killed before now, thought Hilda. And Mr. Miller
could
have hired someone to set his barn on fire when Jenkins was in it, drunk. It was possible, but it was thin. And, she reminded herself with a sigh, it was a creation of her own mind, without a single fact to support it.

Tomorrow she would go out and find some evidence, learn some facts, if she had to walk all the way to Sven's and borrow his skis.

The Studebaker Bros. Manufacturing
…will erect a large and modern plant
upon [its] property for the manufacture
of automobiles.

—South Bend
Tribune
   
December 8, 1904

 

 

22

H
ILDA WOKE ON Thursday morning with big plans. She would go out to Firehouse Five, on foot if necessary, and find out about the billfold and the initials that might reveal its owner. Then she intended to set her Baker Street Irregulars to work on the matter of Mr. Miller's activities off the farm. She would have to find time to finish her list of possible Christmas presents for the Boys' Club party, and telephone them to Mrs. Ford, and to see if any of her lists of attendees were ready, and telephone that information to Mrs. Brick or Mrs. Clem. Then she wanted to try to talk to Sergeant Lefkowicz. And somehow she was going to get herself a pair of skis. She would probably have to send away for them—were they in the Sears, Roebuck catalogue?—but she did not mean ever again to be stuck at home on a snowy day.

Sean also had plans. “Today I'm workin' through me lunch hour, so I can leave early. The sun looks like shinin' all day, so it'll be a better day for findin' work. Hilda, do you really think Studebaker's will hire me?”

She was careful not to be too optimistic. “In Mr. Clem's day I know they would have. He was a kind man and would always give a workman a chance. Now, I do not know for certain. But the
Tribune
said they're building a new plant to make automobiles, and that means they'll need new men. If you will find Sven, he will take you to someone who may help you.” Hilda's older brother worked in the finishing department, painting fancy designs on wagons in the familiar Studebaker green and red, and on carriages in gold. “Oh, and ask him if he has made any toys for the Christmas party. He promised he would, and Mama and the others are maybe knitting warm things.”

Sean looked worried. “Does he—I mean, I've never met him, and I'm Irish, and there are some…” He trailed off, unwilling to ask openly if Sven cherished the usual prejudice against the Irish.

“He is a fair man,” said Hilda crisply. “He will not judge you because you are Irish. Tell him what jobs you have had, and he will know what you might be able to do at Studebaker's.”

Sean paid a quick visit to his wife and daughter, Patrick kissed Hilda on the tip of her nose, and both men went off whistling cheerfully.

Hilda dressed carefully for her day, in clothing serviceable enough for riding the streetcar to the firehouse, but respectable enough for the Oliver Hotel. She did not intend to be snubbed again by a doorman uncertain of her social status.

She had adjusted her everyday hat and Eileen was handing her the fur muff that Uncle Dan had so thoughtfully given her, when the doorbell rang.

Hilda frowned. “It is very early for a caller. Barely nine o'clock.”

Eileen, looking dubious, opened the door.

Sergeant Lefkowicz stood on the porch.

“Sergeant! I was about to go out, but please come in. I wished to speak to you at some time today, so I am glad you came. I can go on my errands later.”

“There's no need to put yourself to any inconvenience, ma'am. I'm looking for Sean O'Neill. I understand he's staying here.”

There was no warmth in his manner. Hilda's welcoming smile died on her face. “Yes, he waited out the storm here, but he has gone to work. Is something wrong?”

Lefkowicz hesitated. Strictly speaking, he didn't need to tell Hilda anything, but they were old and friendly acquaintances and had worked together on several occasions. He made up his mind. “Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry to say there is. Sergeant Applegate sent me here with a warrant for O'Neill's arrest.”

Hilda took a step backwards. “On what charge?” she asked through stiff lips.

“Arson and murder, ma'am. The murder of James Jenkins.”

Hilda's head felt peculiar. She let herself down on the bench seat of the hall rack and tried to take deep breaths. It wasn't easy in a corset, but the effort steadied her. “Sean was not there when the fire was set. He was working with the other men on the next farm. You know that.”

Lefkowicz sighed. He should have said nothing. now he had to explain. “We thought we knew that, Miss Hilda. Mrs. Cavanaugh, I mean. And I believed him when he told us he knew nothing about the fire. But we've found new evidence, and it looks pretty bad for him, I'm afraid.”

“What new evidence?” Hilda spoke sharply. The shock was beginning to wear off and she was becoming combative again.

“His pocketknife. We sifted through the ashes pretty carefully, early this morning, and found it right there where the fire started. There's no doubt it's his,” he went on, raising his hand as Hilda began to speak. “One of his friends in the fire department recognized it. It's a new one, not very pretty now, going through the fire as it has, but when it's cleaned up it'll be as good as the day his wife gave it to him for a birthday present, last June. It's silver-plated, and it has his initials on it.”

He looked anxiously at Hilda. She had gone as white as paper. “Are you all right, ma'am?”

“Yes. I—no. I—I have a headache. Eileen, I would like some coffee. Will you have some, Sergeant?”

“I'm sorry, ma'am. I have to serve this warrant. O'Neill works at Black's still?”

Hilda nodded dumbly.

Lefkowicz looked at her again. “I truly
am
sorry, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

She murmured something, closed the door, and then carefully climbed the stairs without a backward look. The only thing that mattered just now was to get out of the cursed stays so she could breathe.

By the time Eileen came in with a steaming pot of coffee, Hilda had removed her outer garments and was struggling with her corset. “Let me do that for you,” said the little maid. “Inventions of the divil, stays are. Beggin' your pardon, ma'am.”

Freed of her constraint, Hilda took a deep breath, and then another. “I agree with you, Eileen. I do not know why I wear them.” She wrapped herself in a warm robe and sat in front of the fire. “Oh, the coffee is good. And it will help me think. I must think, Eileen.”