by Ron Finch
“I understand you are quite well-informed about things, Mrs. Kaufman,” said Cst. Jay Jarvis.
“Oh yes, I have a great memory for things that happened a while ago, and when I was younger I had keen investigative skills. I was never involved with the police, but I tried to accumulate as much information about people as I possibly could. That way, if they got into difficulty because they couldn’t remember something, I could tell them what it was they forgot. I was also quite interested in human relationships. It’s important to know who is a friend to whom.”
Cst. Jarvis could see this might go on for some time, so he tried to interrupt gracefully. In a brief pause between words, he quickly interjected, “We’ve heard of your prodigious memory, Mrs. Kaufmann.”
At these words the old lady smiled and fell silent.
“The question I’m going to ask you,” said Jay, “has to do with the time you spent on the farm.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “That’s when my inquisitive skills were at their peak.”
Before she could get started again Jay said, “It’s about the Featherstone farm.” He spoke quickly, to avoid being interrupted himself. “It’s been a lot of years since the fire, but with the discovery of body parts in the icehouse the police have opened a murder investigation. We’re now trying to collect as much information as we possibly can about events that may have happened on the farm in the fall of 1911.”
The old woman brightened considerably. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” she said. “Ask me anything!” And to Jay’s surprise she became quiet, leaned toward him with her ear trumpet in place, and waited for the question.
“The body of a young woman was found in the ashes of the fire,” said Cst. Jarvis.
“Oh yes, poor Nancy Featherstone,” said Mrs. Kaufman interrupting the constable. “That was a tragedy.”
Cst. Jarvis knew enough not to correct Mrs. Kaufman, even if he’d been at liberty to. “I want you to test your memory,” he said. “In 1911, or before, were there any other people that worked on the farm or that helped in the house at the Featherstone property?”
Mrs. Kaufman was literally beaming. “Of course,” she said. “The Featherstones brought that young girl over from England. She was a nice girl. I think she was only about 10 years old when she came over. I would see her occasionally, but she was a very poor source of information. She would just bid me a good day, smile, and go on her way. I wasn’t sure whether she was a little bit – how do you say it? – slow, or whether she had been told not to speak to strangers. Especially me. But what would you like to know about the girl?”
“Do you recall her name?” asked Jay.
“Her name was an earful,” said Mrs. Kaufman. “Henrietta Harriet Hackelby was her given name. I got that much out of her, at least. The Featherstones called her Henny.” Mrs. Kaufman added, “But that girl left the farm for Toronto in mid-October 1910. Let me think. It was October 16, the same day my granddaughter Melody was born. I knew I could remember.”
Jay waited patiently.
“Henny was good about coming back to visit with the Featherstones. She was back the end of June 1911. But I don’t remember seeing her again after that.”
Cst. Jay Jarvis realized he’d been with the old woman for almost an hour. It had seemed considerably longer, but he had received some valuable information. It was time to leave.
“Mrs. Kaufman, it was my pleasure to meet you,” said Jay. “You’ve been a great help to me. You’re a storehouse of information.”
The old woman had started to smile and couldn’t stop. It was clear that this young Cst. Jay Jarvis was the best policeman she’d ever met. She asked him to stay for tea.
“I’m honoured by the invitation,” said Jay. “Unfortunately, I have other police duties I promised the chief I would attend to.”
Reluctantly, Mrs. Kaufman let him go.
IT WAS ABOUT 3:30 MONDAY afternoon when Cst. Smith came back to the police station to report his findings to Chief Petrovic. He told the chief that the only interview he had conducted that afternoon was with Henry Featherstone.
“I think I found out something important from Henry Featherstone this afternoon,” said Cst. Smith. “Henry told me about a girl that had been brought over from England to help the Featherstones on the farm. She helped them on the farm until sometime in 1909 or 1910. By the time she left the farm she was likely close to twenty years old. I’m sorry, but Henry couldn’t remember her name. He doesn’t think he was ever told.”
About half an hour later, Cst. Jay Jarvis arrived at the police station. He walked into the chief’s office, looked at Cst. Smith and said, “I think you rigged the coin flip. Do you have a two-headed coin?”
“Oh, you’re back from your interview with Mrs. Kaufman, are you? Did you get a word in edgewise?” asked Cst. Smith with a look of mock concern.
Cst. Smith and Chief Petrovic laughed.
“The good news is, I got some interesting information, Chief. Did you know that the Featherstones brought a girl over from England around the turn-of-the-century?”
“I do know that,” replied the chief. “Cst. Smith gave me that information half an hour ago. Were you able to find out her last name?”
“According to the local encyclopedia of events, past and current, Jenny Kaufman, the girl’s name was Henrietta Harriet Hackelby,” replied Cst. Jarvis.
“Congratulations constables. You did a good job this afternoon,” said the chief. “This information could prove valuable. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll talk to constables Herman and Franklin. They need to add the name Henrietta Harriet Hackelby to their search list.”
Friday, March 10th
THE CHIEF CALLED A special meeting for Friday afternoon, at 1:30 PM, in his office. He wanted to summarize what they had discovered so far in their investigations surrounding the disappearance of Nancy Featherstone and the murder of her parents.
Chief Petrovic started the meeting by recounting the success achieved at the start of the week by Cst. Herbert and Cst. Jarvis. Through their interviews, they had determined that a young woman, Henrietta Harriet Hackelby, had lived on the Featherstone farm until about the age of twenty.
“I passed this name on to Cst. Herman and Cst. Franklin,” said the chief. “They were to contact the Census office in Toronto to attempt to trace her whereabouts, as well as the whereabouts of Nancy Featherstone. Cst. Herman will now report on their findings to date.”
“We haven’t had any success,” said Cst. Herman. “The latest Canadian Census of 1931 did not include either name, and our contact with the Chicago Police Department did not provide us with any new information. There was no mention of a Nancy Featherstone in any incident report in Chicago from 1911 or 1912. They don’t have Nancy Featherstone’s name on file anywhere. Her name has also not appeared in any of the Chicago and area directories. The same turned out to be true for the name Henrietta Harriet Hackelby.”
Chief Petrovic said, “We have to track down all possible leads. I know it can be frustrating, but if you get to the end of a blind alley, at least you know you have to consider other possibilities. Cst. Herman and Cst. Franklin have not been able to locate either name to date. What are the other possibilities that this suggests?”
“I suppose they could either be dead or they could have changed their names,” said Cst. Jarvis.
“Very good, Jay,” said the chief. “What would be our next move?”
“We would have to check death certificates and marriage certificates, or change of name forms,” said Jay.
“To start with, we will check the records for Ontario and the Chicago area only,” said Chief Petrovic. “I want the four of you to get together on your own after this meeting to decide who will search what records. You will have to determine where the records are located. Then you will have to contact those locations by telephone. You’re to start on those searches on Monday morning.”
Chief Petrovic continued, “The Chicago Police Department got back to me late yesterday with r
egard to the whereabouts of Johnnie Polizzi and Ernie Stanzio on October 3, 1911. They were in a jail cell in Chicago for the entire month of October that year for violating parole. As far as I’m concerned, that clears them from any direct involvement in the fire or the murder of the Featherstones.”
AS A FRIDAY NIGHT TREAT, Georgie and I went to the movies. The main feature was a crime mystery, The Thin Man, starring William Powell and Myrna Loy. Georgie teased me about my choice of film. She said “You can’t give up police work even for Friday night. There are a couple of differences, though: you are not a detective yet, and I am not your wealthy wife.”
After the show, we went back to my place. There wasn’t much room, but we had our privacy. We got talking about the case and how we were having trouble locating the two women.
“What does Walter think?” said Georgie.
“I don’t know. I haven’t communicated with him lately. I’ve been busy, and I guess I have been thinking too much about you,” I said with a wink.
“Oh, you are such a sweet talker,” she replied with a better wink than mine. “I think it’s getting warm in here. But first things first: contact Walter.”
I thought, “Walter”, and I was in immediate contact with him. I started to apologize about not talking to him lately. Walter interrupted.
“Joel, time is not the same for me as it is for you. Are you any older than you were when we first met in 1928? Of course you are. Am I any older? Of course not. I’m not alive. You’re living and time is going by. Everything around you is changing. Even the house at 200 Durham Street is getting older, though much more slowly than you are. I just am.”
I had a sudden thought. “So, everything that happened while you were alive is in order like a movie, but once your life has ended it’s like time is suspended and all that had happened seems like it just happened? Is that how it works?”
As I communicated with Walter, I repeated everything out loud to Georgie so that she could follow my train of thought.
“That’s probably the best way to explain it to a person who is alive,” replied Walter.
“So you and Louise Carter and Floyd, the essence that Gwen Cummings has contact with, experience things much the same way?”
“Certainly,” answered Walter.
“I’m working on a case,” I started.
Walter interrupted me. “You’re talking about the body parts case. I wondered why you never got back to me about that. In an earlier conversation, I told you that local essences were not aware of anyone being dismembered. That could be because the victims were dead long before it happened. They were never in it state of extreme fear or anger because they were anticipating an impending dismemberment. Do you know any more about the case now?”
“I have a location,” I replied. “Our investigations have led us to believe that the Featherstones were dismembered at their farm, and that another person, a young woman, was murdered there as well. Her body was found in the fire that happened in October 1911.”
I don’t know whether an essence can get excited, but I thought I sensed agitation from Walter. I received a thought from him about a presence at the Featherstone farm.
“There is someone like me at the Featherstone farm,” said Walter. “She rarely sends out a message. I don’t even know her name. I sensed that she was disturbed recently. I can’t tell by calendar time, but I can tell by order of communications that her disturbance happened between the last time you talked to me and now.”
“I’m going out to the farm to see if I can contact her,” I said. “If she is who I think she is, I know some things that may trigger a connection. For example, her name, and possibly who murdered her. Walter, please try to contact her as soon as you can to let her know I’m coming out to the farm. Let me know if you receive a message.”
I stopped communicating with Walter and looked at Georgie. “That was quite a session,” said Georgie.
“I’m very glad you suggested contacting Walter,” I replied. “I think I need to visit the farm to try and meet the essence there. I suspect it’s Henrietta Harriet Hackelby.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday,” said Georgie. “Let’s go in the afternoon.”
I thought that was a good suggestion.
Saturday, March 11th
I DROPPED INTO FRANKLIN’S Groceries around 9 o’clock Saturday morning. I didn’t have far to go, since I lived at the back of the store, behind the wall of stacked supply boxes.
“Dad, I was wondering if I could borrow the car this afternoon to take Georgie for a ride in the country.”
“That’s not a problem, Joel,” said Mr. Franklin. “You don’t ask for the car much. I’m glad to lend it to you. Georgie’s a wonderful girl. She’ll be a fine boss.” He grinned. “It’s supposed to be a beautiful day in any case, so I’ll enjoy the ten-minute walk home. I’m leaving the store around 3 o’clock this afternoon. Your brother Ralph can handle things until closing time.”
My dad hadn’t said much about it, but I know he was still not certain what he and mom were going to do if Ralph’s tryout with the Cleveland Indians was successful and he ended up leaving Chaseford to play minor league ball in the summer. The family budget was fairly tight, and I knew my dad wasn’t sure whether they could afford to hire any paid part-time help for the store.
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL late-winter Saturday afternoon. I drove to Georgie’s house in my dad’s 1928 Model A Ford sedan and picked her up about 1:30 PM for the trip to the farm. I had called Henry Featherstone earlier in the morning to get his permission to wander around the burned-out remains of the old house on what had at one time been his uncle’s farm. He knew I was a police constable, so he wasn’t surprised by the request. He just assumed I was doing some more sleuthing.
When we arrived at the farm gate we had a pleasant surprise: the lane to the house was in drivable condition. The last time I had been to the farm, a couple of weeks previously, there’d still been a lot of snow on the lane. We’d had a few days of above-average temperature before it cooled down again this past Wednesday, so a lot of the snow had gone.
Georgie and I got out of the car and walked over to the remains of what had once been a very large home. Each of us carried a good-size walking stick so we could test the floor ahead of us while we wandered around what was left of the ground floor of the building.
“I wish I knew were the body had been found,” I said to Georgie. “That location would probably be optimal for attempting to contact Harriet, or Henny, as most people knew her.”
We used our heavy sticks to tap our way to roughly the middle of the main floor of the original structure. It was difficult to tell, exactly, because part of the second story had collapsed onto the first. We had to be very careful as we made our way around the charred chunks of the former home.
I stopped and indicated to Georgie that I was going to attempt to communicate. During my attempt to communicate, I would not be speaking, but concentrating, and Georgie would not likely hear or see anything unusual. I said I would not speak aloud to her until my communications with Henny were completed. I needed to focus all my efforts on contacting Henny.
I FOCUSED ON HENNY by sending, “Henrietta, can you hear me? Henrietta? Can you hear me?”
I sensed nothing.
“I have a special ability that allows me to communicate with troubled spirits, Henny. My friend Walter told me he would try to contact you. He’s not alive either. He had a terrible death too.”
Now I had the first feeling that something – or rather, someone – was nearby.
“I know someone killed you,” I continued. “I think you were murdered by Nancy Featherstone.”
I thought I sensed “yes”.
“Your full name is Henrietta Harriet Hackelby,” I said.
Then I sensed something unusual: laughter. It was so clear that I looked at Georgie to see if she could hear it too. Evidently not.
“That’s not my name,” came across to me exceptionally clearly. “My name is, or was
, Henrietta Harriet Allenby.”
This revelation explained why our record searches had not been successful. I guess Jenny Kaufman’s memory was not as perfect as she thought it was. We had made a poor assumption: we had assumed that an older woman’s memory had given us a name that we could treat as a fact. A lesson to be learned.
I communicated with Henny for several more minutes. Obviously, any information I could get might be helpful in solving the murders, but I would have to be careful about how I shared the information with my fellow officers. I couldn’t say, “Henrietta Harriet Allenby told me. Yes, the girl who was murdered more than twenty years ago.” If I talked that way, the authorities might decide I’d earned a vacation in a padded room.
Henny communicated to me in detail what had happened the day of the murders. She had arrived from Toronto the evening before to visit the Featherstones. She’d managed to save a little money from her job in Toronto; enough to buy a used Model T Ford. She was proud of her purchase and had wanted to show it off to the Featherstones. When Henny arrived, she immediately noticed Nancy’s different behaviour. Henny told me that she recalled most of the conversation she’d had with Nancy when they were by themselves that evening.
It went as follows:
“Are you feeling okay, Nancy?” Henny had asked.
“I feel terrific, as long as I have a good snort of cocaine.” Nancy had giggled and said, “You can’t say anything about the cocaine to my mom and dad. They’d just get extremely upset. How about you, Henny? Do you want some to snort?”
“No thanks, I’m not into that,” Henny had replied.
“Good, because I’m running out, and when I run out, I’ll be the meanest person you’ve ever met,” Nancy had said. “You don’t want to be around here when my supply is gone.”
