Hilda knew perfectly well that in her position as a lady of her own household, she should address the Tippecanoe Place butler as “Williams,” but she found it hard to do. She no longer felt subservient to him, but old habits die hard. Besides, he was more apt to do as she asked if she spoke to him respectfully.
Sure enough, it was only a few minutes before the phone rang. Hilda picked it up, and when she heard John’s voice at the other end, said, “Excuse me for one minute, please.” She went to the kitchen door and peeked in. Mrs. O’Rourke, her husband, and Eileen were all sitting at the table having some iced tea and cookies. Good. She went back to the phone.
“John, can anyone hear you?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“Williams is around, trying to eavesdrop. He wants to find out why you called me.”
“Then say nothing but yes and no, and make up some story for him later.”
“Yes, I can do that.”
He certainly could, thought Hilda. John was almost as accomplished a liar as Hilda herself. “I want you to do something for me. Does anyone in the family need the carriage this morning?”
“Not for a while.”
“Probably it is too hot for anyone to want to go out. Good. Then I would like you to go down to the police station and find Sergeant Lefkowicz, and ask him to come to see me. You can use the carriage or walk, I do not care—but it is very hot to walk, I think.”
“You’re right about that, for sure.”
“It must be this morning, because the funeral is this afternoon.” She didn’t need to say whose funeral. Everyone in town know that. “Can you do that for me? And perhaps, if the family does not need you, you could come with him?” For she had just remembered that John had some acquaintance with shady dealings, and might also be of some help.
“Yes, I can do that.”
“Good. I will have something cold for you both when you come.”
Well, that was done. When John said he would do something, he did it. Now all she had to do was try to figure out an approach to the sergeant.
The last time they had spoken, he had told her in no uncertain terms to leave Vanderhoof alone. He had acted strange at the very mention of the name.
That meant he knew something, or suspected something. If they could work together, as they had in the past, perhaps they could learn more. Enough, maybe, to bring Vanderhoof to justice. Enough, maybe, to end the streak of horrible train wrecks and fires, to stop the deaths—if he was, indeed, the mastermind behind all the tragedies.
But it meant working together, of that she was sure. And the sergeant wanted Hilda out of the picture.
How could she convince him otherwise? What evidence did she have that would be of value in the investigation? What sources of information could she bring to the matter? In short, could she really help?
In the past, her assistance had been mostly with the servants, those invisible beings who came and went in the homes of the rich, did their jobs, spoke little to their employers, and knew virtually everything that went on in those households. Hilda had been one of them, had gossiped with them, had garnered information that the police could never have extracted.
Her situation was different now. She was exiled from her former world by virtue of her marriage to a well-to-do merchant, however “nouveau” Patrick’s “riche” position might be. But because she was nouveau riche, she was also exiled from the society of most of the wealthy women in town. She knew well that they had their gossip circles, their sources of information they would never pass on to the police, but she was not yet a part of their world. Perhaps, since she was an immigrant, she never would be.
But Kristina will be, she told herself fiercely. The baby kicked, and Hilda patted her belly. “You will live in a fine house,” she whispered, “and go to good schools, and you will be on their committees and go to their parties and marry one of their sons. If you want to,” she added, for the program she had just outlined sounded, actually, a bit dull for a daughter of Hilda Johansson.
However. Back to her problem. How was she to persuade Sergeant Lefkowicz that she was a valuable asset to his investigation? With no entrée into the servant world—and then she stopped and smacked herself on the head.
She had forgotten. She still had contact with servants. There was Norah, who worked for Mrs. Hibberd. There was her own family. Elsa worked at Tippecanoe Place, doing the job Hilda used to do, and Freya was just down the street at Mrs. Cushing’s. Gudrun had worked for the Birdsells for years.
And there was, oh yes, best of all, there was John Bolton. Trusted coachman at Tippecanoe Place, trusted friend to Hilda. Well, trusted, anyway, in everything that didn’t have to do with the fair sex.
With a pleased expression on her face, Hilda rang for Mrs. O’Rourke, to ask if there was any strawberry ice cream left.
23
Can I see another’s grief
And not seek for kind relief?
—William Blake, “On Another’s Sorrow,” 1789
When John arrived, however, he came alone. Hilda was a little worried about receiving him. Patrick wouldn’t be best pleased. Eileen showed him in, and Hilda met him in the hall. “Where is Sergeant Lefkowicz?” she asked anxiously.
“John, it’s so good of you to come. Let me take your hat,” he said, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes, yes, it is good of you, but where is the sergeant?”
“Strange as it may seem, he has one or two other things to do besides waiting for you to send for him. He was out. They said he might be back in an hour or two. Or he might not, if the man he was after wasn’t waiting with his hands stretched out for the handcuffs.... Do sit down, John.” Head tilted to one side, he looked from Hilda to the parlor.
Hilda capitulated. “Oh, very well, you may come in, but just for a minute. Patrick would not like it.”
“So Patrick’s telling you what to do these days, eh?” John said when he had seated himself comfortably. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Patrick looks after me. He cares about my reputation,” said Hilda primly. “He does not tell me what to do.”
“Well, forgive me for referring to a delicate subject, but just what sort of hanky-panky does he think you’re apt to get up to in your—er—at this stage of your life?”
Hilda set her lips, and then relaxed and laughed. This was John, and there was no changing him. “He does not think I would do anything wrong, not really, not ever. He is just jealous, because he knows we are friends. It is all right. I do not mind. He will not be angry when I explain.”
“So you’ve got him twisted ’round your little finger, have you?”
Hilda was not familiar with the idiom, but its meaning was plain enough. She smiled. “Yes. I am good at twisting.”
John roared with laughter. “And modest, too. Now are you going to tell me what’s so all-fired important that you have to talk to the police about it, and you don’t want Patrick to know?”
“It is not that I wish to keep a secret from Patrick. It is to protect him, John. To protect us all.” She became serious again.
She told him her theory about Vanderhoof and his possible connection with all that had happened in the past few months. “And the sergeant does not want me to talk to anyone about Mr. Vanderhoof. He says it is not safe. Everyone says this, and maybe they are right. Probably they are right. But I am tired of being told I must sit back and do nothing. This is my family involved, John. Clancy was Patrick’s cousin, and even if no one in the family liked him, he was still family.”
“And besides that, you’re bored silly trying to do nothing but sit around and wait for that baby to be born.”
“You are right, John.”
“I’m always right. Just like you. But what, my fine lady, makes you think you can figure out what the police and the Pinkertons and the railroad detectives and all haven’t? Time was when you’d sneak out and go around snooping, and then you’d put two and two together, and poof! Mystery solved! But your sneaki
ng days are over for a while. You have to sweet-talk me into running your errands for you, even.”
“But I can still think, John! I must have other people learn things for me, but I can still add up the things I learn. And that is why I need your help for more than errands.”
John gave her a sharp look. Then he looked at the clock on the mantel. “I’ve got to be getting back. Mrs. Clem and Mrs. George both have luncheons to go to, in different directions. But I have ten minutes. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want you to find out what the servants say about Mr. Vanderhoof. Do you know anyone who used to work for him, when he lived in South Bend?”
“That I do, and I could tell you in one word what they thought of him, except it’s a word I wouldn’t repeat to a lady.”
Hilda’s twinkle returned for a moment. “I could guess, I think.”
“Then your English is better than it should be—or maybe it’s worse. But you want me to find out what’s being said about him now.”
“Yes, because the servants will know what their ladies and gentlemen are saying. I want to know where he has been since he left here. I want to know what he has been doing. I want to know how much money he has, and how he got it, and—”
“Here, now! You think servants will know all that?”
“I know they will, or most of it. Or they will know what people say, and if we put together enough of what people say, we can come near to the truth. Ja?”
“Ja. By the way, that’s a very fetching thing you’re wearing. What d’you call it?”
Hilda had until that moment forgotten that she was clad in what was, essentially, underwear. “It is the new style,” she said, head high. “Now go, John. Patrick will be home for lunch soon, I think. You will bring Sergeant Lefkowicz when he is able to come?”
“I’ll do my best. I’ve a job to do, you know, employers to report to. I’m not a lady of leisure, like you.”
“But you are a man, with more freedom than I ever had as a servant. More freedom, in some ways, than I have now, even when I am not—even before. But John, remember I told you that there are risks. We are being watched, I think, Patrick and I and our family and friends. I have taken Andy into my house, because men are following him. You will be careful?”
“Now, you know me, Hilda. As many lives as a cat, and very fond of my own skin, thank you. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and I’ll get Lefkowicz to you one way or another.”
“But this morning,” she reminded him. “Or late this afternoon. There is the funeral.”
“You’re going? I’d have thought...”
“Aunt Molly wants me.” It was sufficient reason.
Hilda dithered through the rest of the morning, while Eileen sewed, frantically converting two of Hilda’s old maid’s uniforms into one mourning costume for a very pregnant lady. It wasn’t very stylish or attractive, but at least it covered her decently. Her makeshift dress would have done, if she had stayed in the background as planned. As she was going to be seen, she had to be clad in decent black.
Patrick came home for an early lunch. He had left Andy at the store. “For neither of us will be here this afternoon, and he’ll be safer there. The store’s closed for the funeral, of course, out of respect, but there’s plenty of work to do. It’s better than him hangin’ around here at loose ends.” After picking at a little food, Patrick hurried away to the Malloys’ house to accompany them to St. Patrick’s.
Hilda ate a little, too. She had no appetite, but she knew she must eat. She was growing more and more nervous about the gathering at the Malloys’, and snapped at Eileen when the poor little maid stuck her with a pin she had forgotten to remove from a sleeve. Eileen didn’t take offence. She understood her mistress very well.
After an eternity of waiting, Patrick was back with the carriage. He helped Hilda in, and they joined the waiting procession to City Cemetery.
Hilda had never been in the Catholic section before and felt a little uneasy about it, but it was not after all a church. O’Rourke pulled the carriage as close as possible to the grave.
“You’ll be all right, darlin’? You’ll not be too hot?” said Patrick as he stepped down.
Hilda felt exactly like a turkey, slowly roasting in the oven of her voluminous black garments. “I am fine, Patrick,” she lied. “Go to your family.”
The graveside service was in Latin, of course, but it followed the pattern of the familiar Swedish service, so Hilda could more or less understand what was happening. She bowed her head in her own prayers as the family scattered earth on the coffin. Her prayers were for Uncle Dan and Aunt Molly, not for Clancy. He had chosen his own way, and that way had led to this: murdered in the prime of life. His fate now was up to God, and Hilda hoped God would be merciful, for Clancy was certainly in need of mercy.
By the time the brief service was over, Hilda was genuinely about to faint. She was grateful for the tiny breeze stirred by the movement of the carriage through the streets, but of course O’Rourke kept the horses to a slow, decorous pace. Hilda would have welcomed a brisk trot.
Riggs had gone with the family to the cemetery, but had hurried home to see to final preparations of the funeral meal. He answered the door for Patrick and Hilda. “A sad day, Mr. Patrick,” he said solemnly.
There was a time when Hilda would have felt like retorting that the day Clancy Malloy was out of the picture was a day for rejoicing. She knew better now. “But now perhaps Aunt Molly and Uncle Dan can begin to remember the good times,” she said gently, remembering that Riggs, too, had lost a son.
“That’s very true, Miss Hilda,” he said, his voice trembling a little. “Very true.” The doorbell rang again. “The family is in the drawing room, if you will excuse me.”
Patrick took Hilda’s arm in a firm grip and turned her toward the drawing room.
A table was spread with cold delicacies. Hilda had eaten little, but she was too hot and miserable to be hungry. Patrick found a seat for her and presently Aunt Molly, who had been chatting to a cousin, came to her.
“Please don’t try to stand up, dear. I can see that you’re uncomfortable, but—” she lowered her voice “—you need not have worried about your dress. You look quite nice.”
Hilda wished she could say the same for Molly. Stark black did not suit her, even though the dress was beautifully made in the latest fashion, and fitted her slender figure to perfection. And Molly’s face was strained and drawn. “Aunt Molly, is Uncle Dan all right? I don’t see him.”
“No, the doctor made him go right back to bed as soon as we came back from the cemetery. He shouldn’t have gone to the grave, but—” Molly made a resigned gesture.
“I think maybe that later, when he is not so upset, the service will be a comfort to him. It is—it makes an end.”
Molly kissed Hilda on the cheek. “You are a dear child, and I’m so grateful you’re here. Now I’m going to have Agnes bring you some ice cream and some iced tea, and when all these people have gone, we can talk.”
“Oh, yes, I wanted to talk to you! But this is maybe not a good time for you. You are tired, and sad, and I do not want to bother you. Maybe tomorrow?”
Molly smiled a little. “If you want to talk about what I think you want to talk about, there aren’t all that many tomorrows left before you’ll be fully occupied with other concerns. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Hilda sighed, but inaudibly. All she really wanted in this world was to take off her clothes, sponge herself with cool water, and lie in front of an electric fan. All these things being impossible, she accepted the tray of cold food Agnes brought her and tried to wait patiently.
Cousin Mary came over and introduced herself, and they spoke for a few minutes about burials and births (Hilda’s imminent delivery being obvious), and then Mary drifted away and Hilda was left alone to wait some more.
All trials come to an end eventually. After what seemed to Hilda like hours of discomfort, broken twice by entirely necessary trips
to the lavatory, the guests finally departed, leaving Hilda and Patrick alone with Aunt Molly and Cousin Mary, who kissed Molly and begged to be excused. “Mama, I’m sorry, but I can’t stay awake another minute. Hilda, it was a great pleasure meeting you at last, and I wish you well in your confinement. I’m sure you’ll be well looked after. Patrick, if I don’t see you again before I have to go home, thank you for all you’re doing for Mama and Papa.” And then Patrick decided to go upstairs and see if Uncle Dan was sleeping or ready for talk, and it was just Hilda and Molly, each of them with a tall, frosty glass of iced tea.
“Are you sure you are not too tired?” asked Hilda. She herself was so weary she could have slept on the floor.
“I am, and so are you, but here we are, and we might as well talk. What do you need to know?”
“Well—I hope it will not make you angry, but there are things I do not understand.”
Molly nodded, and waited.
“It is about politics, you see, and I do not know a great deal about that.”
“Politics!” Molly’s eyes opened a little wider. “You surprise me. Why this sudden interest in politics?”
Hilda leaned forward as much as she was able. “Aunt Molly, I think that, somehow, politics is below all the bad things that have happened.”
It took Molly a moment to translate that. “At the bottom of everything, do you mean?”
“Yes, that is it. Always I make mistakes in English.”
“Pooh! Your English is excellent, my dear. It’s only some of the idioms that give you grief. But I don’t understand. What do fires and train wrecks have to do with politics?”
“That is what I do not know. But Sven told me something today, something so odd that I do not understand it at all. I have asked him to try to learn about Mr. Vanderhoof, where he went and what he did after he left South Bend three years ago.” She explained her interest in Vanderhoof, mentioning Clancy as little as possible. “And Sven has had no chance to talk to anyone yet, but he told me that he remembered people saying, when Mr. Vanderhoof had been gone only a little while, that he had gone to New York. And that—this is what I do not understand—that he had become involved with Tammany Hall.”
Murder in Burnt Orange Page 16
