by Jane Steen
Something seemed to click in my brain at that last remark, but I could not understand why it seemed so significant. Why me? Because I was also an unwed mother? But there were plenty of those around here.
“It was not enough to kill him,” Joos repeated stubbornly. “It was a very small amount. Do you think I would be so dwaas, so—“ he searched for the word, “—foolish?”
Pastor Lombardi turned on him suddenly. “It was poison to him,” he snapped. He glared at Joos as if he would have hit him, had he not been a man of God. “Get out of this place.”
Joos stuck his tongue into the corner of his cheek and slunk out, followed closely by Mr. Schoeffel. Which left us nowhere. Again. I had the feeling that I was standing before a gigantic spider’s web and tracing every silken thread to its source; but nowhere could I see the spider.
TWENTY-SIX
The lock on Mrs. Lombardi’s door clicked, and I straightened up from leaning against the corridor wall outside her office. Tess emerged from the room, her round face red and tearstained, and I hugged her tight to me.
“I have to work in the laundry.” Her stutter was much worse, and I had to concentrate to understand her. “It’s my punishment for giving Blackie the drink. I have to work there for three whole months. I can’t be your assistant, Nell.”
I resisted the urge to smooth her hair and dry her tears as if she were a child. Sometimes it was hard to remember that Tess was older than I.
“The time will pass quickly.” I placed my hands lightly on Tess’s shoulders and bent to look her in the face. “You will be back in the workroom before you know it.” And I would not be there; at least, I hoped I would think of a way to flee the Farm before then. And track down a killer first, said a small voice somewhere in my head. Without putting yourself or Sarah into danger. My insides churned.
“Tess.” Mrs. Lombardi’s voice was tired but kind. “It’s time to go to the refectory. Tomorrow morning you will report to Mrs. Biedermann in the laundry, to learn your new duties. Go now.”
Tess obediently turned in the direction of the refectory, her spectacles dangling from one hand as she scrubbed at her eyes with the other. Mrs. Lombardi motioned for me to enter her office, and I followed her into the large room and perched on the edge of the chair facing her desk.
Mrs. Lombardi dropped wearily into her own chair.
“Why, Nell? Why did you do this without consulting me?” Her voice held an edge of sternness, and I quailed a little at her disapproval.
“You believed that Jo and her baby died by accident,” I whispered. “You all did. The doctor and the police officer too.”
“I still believe it.” Mrs. Lombardi shifted some of her papers to one side and leaned forward. “The story you are telling me is preposterous. You have read too many novels.”
I was silent. If Mrs. Lombardi did not know by now that I didn’t like to read, I was not going to bother to explain it to her. As much as I liked her, I could see that to her I was still a foolish girl. To her mind, the existence of Sarah was proof enough that I was deficient in sense.
Mrs. Lombardi rested her chin on her hand, and her expression lightened. “Tess was adamant that you told her not to give Blackie any alcohol, Nell. Her version of events exonerates you from any blame. You may continue with your duties.” It had not occurred to me until then that I was also under the threat of punishment. I did not know what to say, so I merely ducked my head and muttered, “Thank you.”
“She hid the bottle behind the hay barn,” Mrs. Lombardi said. “She told me she had already given Blackie a bottle of beer in exchange for information.” Her voice hardened. “In your presence.”
I felt my cheeks burn, and tears pricked at the back of my eyes. I took a deep breath, not knowing whether I should defend myself—would that get Tess into even more trouble?—but Mrs. Lombardi forestalled me.
“Tess told me, Nell, that you didn’t know about the beer either.” A hint of a smile crept into her voice. “Truly, our Tess is a most ingenious young lady. I fear I have underestimated her capacities.”
At least she had seen that, I thought.
“What did Blackie tell you?” Mrs. Lombardi asked.
“That Jo’s lover was a gentleman and that he knew that gentleman’s name.”
Mrs. Lombardi’s fine, straight brows drew together in a frown.
“A gentleman?”
“A visitor to the Farm, I think.” I was reluctant to point the finger at our governors without proof.
“And Blackie knew the name and did not inform anyone?”
I was silent, but Mrs. Lombardi supplied the answer to her own question. “Because he hoped to sell the information in return for drink. I do not like to speak ill of the dead, Nell, but I am deeply dismayed at Blackie.”
Again I said nothing; at bottom I agreed with her. Because of Blackie’s “demon,” we would never know the truth about Jo’s baby.
“Tess told me,” Mrs. Lombardi said, “that she’d gone to check on the bottle two days later, and it had gone. She thought either Blackie or another of the inmates had found it and that her plan had failed. This means that the bottle was missing for two weeks before Blackie died.” She massaged her temples, her eyes squeezed shut. “The only conclusion that any of us can reasonably draw is that Blackie did indeed find it. And that Joos was mistaken—or lying—about the amount or potency of its contents. Or perhaps, even, Blackie simply died naturally, and the bottle was a mere coincidence. A mess, Nell, a tragic mess. And no way in which we can prove anything at all.”
“Does the bottle tell us nothing?” Maybe if I could look at it again, I thought, I could find a clue. But Mrs. Lombardi’s answer quenched that hope.
“I have given it to the physician. He also took Blackie—Blackie’s body.” She looked for a moment as if she would cry but drew a deep breath. “Although I do not think that, even if there were poison in the bottle, they will spend a great deal of time looking for the killer. The sheriff is ensuring that Joos’s still is broken up, and I do not think he will be allowed to remain in Prairie Haven. But Blackie was a destitute drunk, and I suspect that any investigation will be cursory at best.” She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and rose from her chair. “I wish you had confided in me, Nell.”
My head hanging, I nodded dumbly. If Mrs. Lombardi knew of the other plans I was hiding from her, she would be dismayed indeed.
TWENTY-SEVEN
With our new residents about to arrive, I finally finished preparing the linens. Which left me free to worry. I had absolutely no doubt my stepfather would ensure that his plans for Sarah’s adoption were carried out by August. Getting the two of us out of the Farm was now uppermost in my mind, superseding even my determination to find out the truth about the deaths. Which, in any case, was a blank wall: I had no clues, no evidence, and no suspects. I was not showing much promise as a bringer of justice.
As I had anticipated, the physician had judged Blackie’s death to be the result of the consumption of excessive alcohol. Joos’s admission that he had been giving Blackie his hooch for years was enough to confirm the belief that it had ultimately killed him.
“And the medical man performed a thorough examination, Nell. I did, in the end, write to him to stress your suspicions.” Mrs. Lombardi had looked sympathetic. “But he said all the signs pointed to continuous drinking. Please,” she had laid a slim hand on my arm to emphasize the point, “do not spread a rumor that there is a killer here.”
I had shaken my head. And I did not refer to the matter again in Mrs. Lombardi’s presence. I locked my suspicions in my head and carried out my work with outward diligence while I planned my escape.
Not long after Blackie’s death I had written a letter, now tucked carefully into the deep pockets of my dress. It was addressed to Rutherford’s Drapery.
I had thought about Martin Rutherford frequently while living at the Farm, almost as frequently as I had longed for Mama. With
Grandmama and Ruth gone, he was practically my only link with the past; I cared little for my younger friends in Victory. Martin was a reminder of my childhood days, a safe and reliable friend, and I wished I had confided in him that day when Bet had discovered my secret.
I was still afraid that if I told him about Sarah, he would be shocked, even angry, and I shrank from making that revelation. Yet Martin was, after all, the best person to effect my expeditious release from the Prairie Haven Poor Farm. He was fond of me, in a brotherly way; he had no mother or wife to answer to; and he owned an excellent gig and a spirited, fast horse that would make short work of the roads in this summer weather. I would have to risk his disapproval.
I had procured pen, ink, and paper from Mrs. Lombardi’s desk when she was out of the room—low cunning, I know, but I had no time to be nice about such things. I scribbled a hasty explanation that I was residing at the Poor Farm with my baby daughter and that I was desirous to escape from this place to avoid being separated from my child. “I will prepare myself for a rapid departure on the twenty-fourth of July,” I wrote to Martin, “and will be at the gate of the Poor Farm at midnight of that very day. I throw myself on your compassion and friendship.”
I blew carefully on the letter to dry the ink, regarding my scrawl with dissatisfaction. There was every chance that Martin would decide not to help me; perhaps he would even take the letter to my mother or, good heavens, my stepfather, demanding to know the meaning of my far-fetched story. Quite apart from the consideration that I somehow had to get the letter delivered in Victory, fifty miles away, with absolute certainty and yet without raising anyone’s suspicions, by-passing my stepfather who drank and gossiped with every official in our little town. I would need a miracle.
As it turned out, the miracle was stunning in its simplicity. The day came when the old ladies were to arrive, and Mrs. Lombardi instructed me to work with their attendants to ensure that they had all the linen they needed. Wanting to make a good impression, I dressed in the smartest of my work dresses and borrowed a snowy, starched apron from one of the orderlies.
And in the confusion of helping twenty senile women find their way from their carriages to their new home, it did not occur to anyone to point out that I was an inmate. Mrs. Lombardi introduced me as “our seamstress,” and I realized after a while that the attendants were treating me as an equal, even, perhaps, a superior. None of them had seen Sarah, who was with Lizzie.
At first I simply enjoyed the sensation of being treated like a respectable woman again. For so long I had been “Nell” to all around me that I had forgotten what it felt like to be addressed as “Miss Lillington.” I laughed and chatted with the attendants as I showed them the rooms and we counted the spare sheets, napkins, and pillowcases.
“And are you all staying here?” My question was entirely casual, but the answer set my heart knocking against my ribs.
“Not all of us.” The speaker had introduced herself to me as Miss Harwell, a chubby, brisk little person who was younger than the others. “Some of us are moving on to other positions. Miss Aiello,” she indicated a tall Italian girl who was trying to persuade one of the old ladies to remove her hat, “is to be married soon. And I am going straight to a new post as a private nurse in Victory today; the carter is waiting for me.” She lowered her voice. “It will be a relief, Miss Lillington, to be in a private house rather than an institution. But then you must be quite happy here.”
“Oh, my position here is also temporary,” I said with as much truth as I could muster, my mouth suddenly dry. “Tell me, Miss Harwell, do you know Victory well?”
Miss Harwell completed her count of a pile of napkins before she replied, while I held my breath. “Not at all. I understand it is a pleasant town.”
I closed my eyes for the briefest second; I believe I even sent a prayer heavenward. Then I summoned up a bright, unconcerned smile. “I wonder, Miss Harwell, if you could do me a favor.” I withdrew the letter from my pocket, willing my hand not to shake. “Could you possibly deliver this letter to Rutherford’s Drapery on Main Street? They have quite the best hat-trimmings in the county.” This was also the truth. “I have been meaning to mail it, but since you are going straight there …”
Miss Harwell glanced briefly at the front of the letter and carefully slipped it into her own pocket. “Of course, Miss Lillington. I am happy to oblige. Now, do we have enough blankets?”
I led the way to the storeroom on weak legs. I dared not talk any more about Victory or about letters or about anything that would give me away as a mere inmate. I barely breathed until the moment when we bade farewell to the Misses Aiello and Harwell and I took my leave of the other attendant, heading for the refectory to find Sarah. The nurses would soon realize their mistake when they saw me with the inmates, but I did not care. I was pretty sure that nobody had seen me give Miss Harwell the letter. Now all I had to do was to wait and hope.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The waiting was the worst part. Even with Tess absent from my side—except when we met for meals in the refectory—I did not feel as if I had enough to do. We had been so busy with the confection of linens for the old ladies’ rooms that I had become accustomed to pacing my work fast, and thus I found myself with idle hours. Sarah was becoming more and more delightful, and I was glad of the time spent playing with her, but while I laughed at her attempts to blow bubbles and form sounds that resembled words, my mind was free to build disquieting pictures. Above all, I was afraid that Martin would not come. I was sure that either my letter would never reach him by some mishap or other, or he would receive it but disdain to help me now that he knew I was a fallen woman.
I had sewn myself a thin cotton bag and stuffed it with a few necessities for Sarah: a change of clothing, some diapers, and an overstuffed doll that I had made to soothe her sore gums on our journey. I hid the bag under my bedclothes; I would take nothing for myself. The clothes I was wearing would have to be sufficient until I could procure more.
As the twenty-fourth of July approached I became restless. The nights were warm, and to be in bed before midnight meant a torment of hot, closed rooms, or flinging the casement open and instantly falling prey to a swarm of mosquitoes. Each night after I made sure that Sarah was safely asleep under her muslin net, I wandered around the outside perimeter of the Women’s House until the approaching dawn brought a touch of freshness to the air.
And that was how I found the missing piece to the puzzle of death that had visited our Farm.
The air was singing and buzzing as a million insects trilled a chorus to the darkness. As I rounded the far end of the Women’s House, treading carefully on the uneven path I could not see, I could hear the high-pitched voices of the old ladies drifting through the open windows of the Sanatorium Wing—our new name for the insane wing—far above me.
A movement alerted me that I was not alone. A few feet away I saw the outline of a man—an orderly, perhaps, taking the air. I shrank back into the shadow of the building. Inmates were expected to be in bed by ten o’clock.
I had already turned back when I realized the man was talking. I stared hard into the darkness, looking for his interlocutor, but saw nobody. Had he seen me? I froze, listening.
The voice was plaintive and somehow familiar. “I have come as you asked… Why do you keep calling to me? I cannot let you out… I cannot… He will ruin me.”
His white face was lifted to stare at the Sanatorium Wing as he listened to the soft, high voices from above. I stared harder and made out a balding, hatless head and a fringe of beard.
It just wasn’t possible. Mr. Ostrander was in Evanston, and that was—what?—at least twenty miles away, perhaps thirty. I crept closer. The plaintive voice had turned into a blubbering wail.
“He will set the captives free… but I can’t… Everyone will know.”
He moved into the pool of light from the windows, and I could see him clearly. He was dressed in rough
trousers and shirtsleeves like a laborer, his clothing dusty and smeared with the stains of grass and plants. As he moved I could see he was limping. His thin mouth was pulled into a strange grimace.
By now I was only about six feet from him, but he did not seem to notice me. I caught a privy-like smell emanating from him and wrinkled my nose. The light from the window touched a dark shadow on his neck; the bruise, I surmised, from his failed attempt at self-destruction.
He saw me at last. His arms extended, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought he would rush forward and grab me. But his arms fell back to his sides.
“You are not she,” he whispered. “You are… Nell. His stepdaughter. You had a baby as well. Is she dead too?”
My blood ran cold, but I spoke as calmly as I could. “She is quite well. Mr. Ostrander, are you looking for someone?”
“That little girl… the whore… She is up there. He shut her in,” he hissed, a stage whisper, as if he were telling me a secret.
I felt sick and at the same time breathless to hear him speak. He knew.
“Who shut Jo in, Mr. Ostrander?”
“Hiley.”
Hiley. Ly-lee.
“Hiley who?”
Mr. Ostrander gazed up at the windows and smiled.
“My old friend, Hiley Jackson. We were in the Militia together, you know.”
Oh, God. Of course. Had I ever heard my stepfather called by that nickname? It was a common enough variation of Hiram, after all. Every bone in my legs seemed to weaken.
“He won’t let me open the door.” Mr. Ostrander was crying again. “Patrick… he’ll tell about us, Patrick. He’s a devil.” His voice dropped to a hoarse murmur, barely comprehensible through the tears and snot that ran down his face. “The only perfect thing in my life… Patrick… You were the only perfect thing in my life, and he ruined it.”
