Crimson Snow

by Jeanne Dams

  “I’ve been out only a moment, my dear. I was visiting a friend nearby. May I see you home?”

  Hilda’s hesitation was only momentary. “You should not take the trouble, sir.”

  “No trouble. I wanted to talk to you, in any case. Shall we?”

  He offered his arm and she took it. There was certainly no reason to be afraid of this gentle man. He had taken her arm only as a courtesy. He was lame, and ill. He would do her no harm. Certainly not.

  His grip on her arm had been strong.

  She could scream now, if she had to. Her breath had come back. Moving slowly, adapting her usual brisk pace to his halting one, she allowed Mr. Barrett to guide her down the street. But when he would have moved past the back drive, she demurred.

  “It is quicker to go this way, sir, and with your leg, you should not walk farther than you need.”

  She led him to the porte-cochere entrance and let him in. The doors were not yet locked, and although she was always supposed to use the basement door, she felt that an exception could be made in this case.

  Her sigh as she stepped inside was not a sigh of relief. Or if it was, it was only because she was glad to be in a warm place. She had not been frightened. Her heart was beating fast only because of the cold and the wind. That was all.

  She led him to the library. “I will tell Colonel Studebaker that you are here, sir. And I will go down and get you something warm to drink. A cup of coffee? Or tea? Or perhaps cocoa?”

  “Thank you, my dear. A cup of nice, hot tea would be most welcome.”

  He sat down slowly, carefully, in one of the luxuriously padded leather armchairs. The chandelier overhead glowed with the soft warmth of gaslight. The fire burned brightly.

  Hilda looked at the comfortable room and the weary old man in the chair and chided herself. What harm could there be in such a frail old gentleman? She went to Colonel George’s office to inform him he had a caller, and then on down to the kitchen to make some tea.

  When she came back to the library a few minutes later, Colonel George was deep in conversation with Mr. Barrett, and Hilda was faced with a dilemma. Mr. Barrett had called, he said, to talk to her. She received callers in the servants’ room downstairs. Clearly she could not take a gentleman, a friend of the Studebakers, down there. Nor could she intrude on a private conversation. With a tray in her hands, she was in the role of servant. She had put three cups on the tray, but could she sit down and drink the hot tea she badly wanted, with Colonel George in the room?

  Her status was changing. Soon she would not be a servant, though Colonel George didn’t know that yet. The rules would have to be bent. She sailed into the room, set the tray on the table, and poured out three cups.

  “May I sit down, sir? Mr. Barrett said he wished to talk to me.”

  “Yes, certainly. He was just telling me he startled you a few minutes ago.”

  “Yes, sir, but he did not mean to.” She handed the two men their tea and then sat primly on the edge of a chair, her own cup on the table beside her. “I did not hear him. How may I help you, Mr. Barrett?”

  “It’s early days, I know, but have you anything to report to me? My wife grows more and more anxious.”

  “Well, sir, I have learned much today, but I do not know if any of it will be a help, yet.” She took a deep breath. The day seemed to have lasted for weeks, so much had happened.

  Her tea had grown cold by the time she finished relating all she had found out. The stories about Miss Jacobs and her fears, Miss Lewis and her illness. She could not quite bring herself to mention the suspicions about Miss Lewis’s absence, but from the hints she supplied, she thought perhaps the gentlemen understood. Then there was the mysterious man who left the Oliver Hotel in such an unorthodox manner, and most sinister of all, the disappearance of Nelka Chudzik. “And sir, her mother is in dire poverty,” she finished, turning to Colonel George. “Nelka’s wages were nearly all they had to live on, and now that she is gone, there is nothing. Do you think Mrs. George would allow me to take her some food, and perhaps some shoes? Hers have such holes in them that she cannot walk outside in the snow, and so cannot go to church.” The last remark was almost sure to open Colonel George’s heart and hand. The family were devout churchgoers.

  “Of course, of course. Take what you need from the kitchen, and here.” He pulled some money from his pocket and handed it to her. “Buy the poor woman some shoes. But you say the husband worked at Studebaker’s?”

  “Yes, sir. He was killed when some lumber fell on him.”

  “Then she should have a pension.”

  “Yes, sir, she did have one, but it has stopped. I think it might have been when they had to move to a different house.”

  “Ah, yes, and the company didn’t know the new address. If the checks came back, they’d have stopped sending them. Well, I’ll look into that for you, Hilda. What’s the woman’s address now?”

  “I will leave a note for you in your office, sir. Thank you. She will be very grateful.”

  “You’ve a kind heart, Hilda,” said Mr. Barrett gently. “When did you say this unfortunate young woman disappeared?”

  “It was the afternoon of the day Miss Jacobs’s body was discovered, sir.”

  Mr. Barrett sighed. “And I was alone for much of that day.”

  With no alibi. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t need to. “You came here, sir,” said Hilda. “I remember. It was in the morning.”

  “Yes. And the young woman vanished in the afternoon.” His voice was heavy.

  Colonel George snorted. “Stuff and nonsense, Robert. No one in his right mind would suspect you for a moment. You’re not the sort who goes around abducting young servant girls.”

  Mr. Barrett’s face grew even longer. “I wish I could believe that the police will be convinced of that. George, this is killing my wife. There’s never been a breath of scandal about our family before, but now her friends are snubbing her. Why, they walked right past her at church yesterday morning, pretended they didn’t see her.”

  “That is not fair, sir!” said Hilda hotly, and then put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I am sorry, sir. I should not have spoken.”

  “It’s all right, my dear. You’re my partner in this, aren’t you? Oh, and that reminds me.” He, too, reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash. “You may have some expenses. This should be enough to cover them for now. And will you buy the young woman’s mother some warm clothing, please? Only don’t tell her it comes from me. I wouldn’t want anyone to think…”

  His voice trailed off.

  Hilda rose, collected the tea things, and picked up the tray. “Thank you, sirs. I can do no more today, since it is dark. I will go down and do some of my regular work, Colonel George.”

  “I’ll speak to my wife about that,” he replied. “You look tired to death, and the house seems to be running smoothly. Why don’t you just get some rest?”

  Two people, now, had told her to rest. Two men who knew nothing of backstairs jealousies.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, and went downstairs to help with preparations for dinner.

  She was tired, she admitted as she helped set the table, stir the fire, fetch and carry and do the bidding of a temporary butler and an irritated cook. Elsa chattered volubly whenever they worked together, but Hilda replied in monosyllables. Her mind was fixed on the things Father Faherty had said and on her investigations. How would Patrick react to the idea of two weddings? And where was Nelka Chudzik? Who killed Miss Jacobs? Who and where was the man from the Oliver Hotel? What kind of wedding gown would she have? Would they be married in the summer?

  “Hilda! I’ve told you three times to dish up the soup! If you’re going to dream, don’t do it in my kitchen!”

  Hilda came back from a world of white satin and rosebuds and drearily ladled soup into the tureen.

  She had no chance to sit down until after the family dinner had been served and cleaned up and the servants could at last have their meal. She b
uttered a piece of bread and then let it drop to the plate, too tired to eat.

  “Are you too good for my soup now, girl?” Mrs. Sullivan was still in a temper. “My best cream of chicken, Mrs. Clem’s favorite, and you let it sit and get cold.”

  Hilda was also too tired to argue. She dipped her spoon into the soup, tasted it, and suddenly found herself ravenous.

  When she had eaten her fill of Mrs. Sullivan’s excellent meal, she sneaked a look at the evening papers. With no butler to take them upstairs, they were still sitting untouched on a table near the back door. There was nothing of real interest in them except a notice of Miss Jacobs’s funeral, to be held on Wednesday in Elkhart.

  Well, she needed to think of a way to go to that, but not now. Now she wanted nothing more than to go upstairs and fall into bed, but her Swedish good sense kept her in the kitchen, helping put away the china used by the family, teaching Elsa some of the finer points of her duties.

  She finally remembered to ask the cook about Mr. Williams.

  “Huh! Took you long enough to ask. He’s no better. Delirious an’ all. Mrs. George went to see him today, but she couldn’t get no sense out of him. The doctor says the crisis will come tonight.”

  “The—crisis?” Hilda’s face turned even paler than usual. She steadied herself with a hand on the kitchen table.

  The cook took a good look at her for the first time all evening, and took pity. “Here, girl, sit down before you fall down. You’re wore out, I reckon, gallivantin’ here an’ there all day. The doctor meant he’ll take a turn for the better or for the worse tonight. If his fever breaks, he’ll be on the mend. We’re all prayin’ to the blessed saints it’ll be that way.” Mrs. Sullivan cocked her head and eyed Hilda, whose views on praying to saints were well known.

  For once Hilda didn’t take the bait. “I, too, will pray,” was all she said.

  Mrs. Sullivan was alarmed. When Hilda lost her will to argue, she was unwell. “Child, go to bed. Your sister’s gettin’ along just fine, and we can do without you for a spell. Go on up. We can’t have you gettin’ sick, too.”

  Hilda obediently went, and she never knew when Elsa came up and crept into bed.

  …apparently the officers [are] as much in the dark as before….

  —South Bend Tribune

  February 4, 1904

  17

  WHEN SHE WOKE, her sister was trying to dress quietly in the dark. The alarm had not sounded, but the hands of the clock still glowed faintly. Hilda stretched a little to see; it was just past five-thirty. “It is all right,” she said. “You can light the gas.”

  Elsa gave a little shriek. “I thought you were asleep!”

  “I was, but I am not now. We must speak quietly, but you may have a light.”

  “I’m scared to. Suppose it exploded in my face.”

  Making a sound of annoyance, Hilda slipped out of bed, felt for the matches, and lit the gas lamp hanging on the wall. “If you light the match first, and then turn up the gas slowly, there is no chance that it will explode.” She reached for her undergarments.

  “So you say. Why are you getting up?”

  “I am awake. I may as well get up and work.”

  “I don’t need any help.”

  “Perhaps you do not, but if I want to help, you will allow me, will you not?”

  “I guess so. Say, Hilda, have you found out who killed Erik’s teacher yet?”

  “No.” Hilda stepped into her petticoat and buttoned it at the waist. “I have learned some things, but not enough. Elsa, are you happy working here?”

  Elsa blinked at the change of subject. “It’s all right. I told you yesterday.”

  “I am glad, because it is safe for you here. You should not be out on the streets at night. Another girl has disappeared.”

  Elsa sat down on the bed. “No! Tell me!”

  “Yes, but finish dressing, and keep your voice down. We must not wake Mrs. Sullivan. She does not rise for another half hour.”

  Hilda told Elsa about the man at the hotel, and then about Nelka Chudzik. The story lasted all the way down to the main floor. “I do not know what has happened to her, but I am very afraid. There is much I must do today, but I worry about Mama and our sisters. I do not think the police are doing enough to keep them safe.”

  “Then you must hurry up and find out who the killer is.” Elsa stopped at the cleaning closet and got out supplies. She handed Hilda a brush. “And I think you’d better talk to Sven about seeing Mama and the others home. He has friends who would do it.”

  “That does not protect all the other working girls in town,” said Hilda with a sigh.

  There was no news at servants’ breakfast about Mr. Williams. Everyone ate quietly, not daring to express their hopes or fears. Hilda decided to take a side trip to the hospital as she went about her chores this morning. The first errand, though, was to Mrs. Chudzik with the food Mrs. Sullivan had supplied.

  Hilda hadn’t thought it necessary to take along an interpreter. Mr. Lefkowicz had told the woman that Hilda would bring some food. Surely she would understand. And surely Hilda could convey by sign language that shoes and other clothing would follow.

  As it happened, she was in luck. When she knocked on the door of the pathetic little house, it was opened by a man in a black cassock. Hilda didn’t need to ask.

  “Good morning. You will be Father Marciniak. I am Hilda Johansson. Do you speak English?”

  “A little.” He bowed politely to her curtsey. “I take your basket, yes?”

  “Yes. It is food for Mrs. Chudzik, from Mrs. Studebaker.” She was glad to hand over the basket, heavy with half a ham, eggs, some bacon, flour, butter, sugar, and a few other groceries.

  “Oh, is good of you.”

  “Of Mrs. Studebaker,” said Hilda firmly. “She gave the food. I brought it only.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the priest, smiling happily. “I give to Mrs. Chudzik.” He gestured Hilda inside and called out in Polish. Immediately Mrs. Chudzik appeared, dressed in what was plainly her best to receive the priest.

  She unleashed a torrent of Polish, and then turned anxiously to Father Marciniak.

  “She says thank you,” he translated.

  Hilda smiled. Mrs. Chudzik had said a great deal more than that. “Can you tell her I will bring her some new shoes and some warm clothing later?”

  “Please?”

  “Shoes.” Hilda lifted a foot. “Clothing. A coat.” She gestured toward herself. “I will bring soon. From Mr. Studebaker.”

  “You give shoes?”

  Hilda gave it up. “Yes. And a coat. And—do you know what a pension is?”

  The priest shook his head helplessly.

  “Never mind.” She turned to go, and then remembered something Mr. Lefkowicz had said. “Father, has Mrs. Chudzik heard from Nelka? A letter, perhaps?”

  But the priest shook his head firmly at that. “No letter. Mrs. Chudzik not read.”

  “She cannot read? Not even Polish?”

  “Not read,” he repeated.

  There was no point in pursuing it further. The priest either did not understand or was not willing to tell her anything. Hilda wished she knew which.

  The January thaw was in full flow today, the air soft, the sun warm. Winter would not give in as easily as this. After so many years in South Bend Hilda knew there were storms to come. But the respite was pleasant—except for the mud.

  Now where? She needed to talk to Erik, but first she would call on Mr. Lefkowicz. She wished she knew whether he was at home or at the police station. Probably at the police station. It was unlikely he would have two days off in a row.

  He was at the station and came out to see her immediately, quelling his jeering colleagues. “I am sorry, Miss Johansson,” he said in an undertone. “They are not bad fellows, but they are rough. And I must go out on patrol soon.”

  “It does not matter. I cannot stay, either. I want you to tell Mrs. Chudzik, when you have time, that her husband’s pen
sion will be coming to her again. Colonel George will see to it. And he gave me money to buy her shoes and clothing. I told the priest that, just now, but I do not know if he understood.”

  The sergeant beamed at her. “She thinks you are an angel.”

  “She does not know my temper,” said Hilda briskly. “There is one other thing. You said you thought maybe she lied about a message from Nelka?”

  “It seemed to me that she hid something from me.”

  Hilda nodded. “I asked the priest. He said—I think he said—that she could not read, not even Polish. But I am not sure, and I thought maybe he would lie to me, too, if she told him to. Can you try to find out?”

  The sergeant stood up a little straighter. “Miss Johansson, I hope one day to be a detective. I will do what I can.”

  He held out a hand and she shook it, to more derisive cries from his fellows.

  The next stop was the hospital. It was several blocks away, but her boots were still dry, though terribly muddy. She wiped them carefully before going in the front door of the imposing brick building.

  She had never been in a hospital, and the atmosphere frightened her. It was as hushed as a church but for the busy steps of nurses bustling across the large entrance hallway. They wore veils that reminded her of nuns. But this was a Methodist hospital. Surely there were no nuns here.

  Hilda shivered a little. The building was cold, and she had no idea where to go to ask about Mr. Williams.

  “May I help you, miss?” The voice came from a sort of booth off to one side of the big room. A woman, not in nurse’s uniform, was seated behind an open window.

  “Oh! Ja. Yes. I want to see Mr. Williams.”

  “First name?”

  Hilda realized that she had no idea. In all the years she had worked under him, it had never occurred to her that the butler had a first name. “I do not know. He is butler at Tippecanoe Place, and he is very ill. I am a maid there, and I worry.”