by Jeanne Dams
What would it be like to be rich? She paused, duster in hand, and stared out the window. There was nothing to see. Dawn wouldn’t come for at least another hour. But her mind’s eye saw a house the size of Uncle Dan’s, lush with handsome furnishings. She had never even imagined being mistress of such a house, as she had never imagined being mistress of Tippecanoe Place. Such grandeur was not for poor immigrants. How would it feel, sleeping as late as she wanted in the morning, having nothing to do but give orders to servants…?
“Hah!” she said again, blinking the vision away. She’d had enough of ordering servants about right here at Tippecanoe Place. It wasn’t as easy as people thought. The under-housemaids almost never did exactly what she wanted. They arrived late and pleaded, on one pretext or another, to leave early. They broke things and skimped on the work. Hilda spent as much time checking their work and scolding them as she did on her own assigned tasks. In her own home she wanted none of that bother. Easier to do most things oneself, perhaps with a married couple to come in by day for gardening and laundry and the heaviest labor.
Her own home. Was it possible that she would ever have one? But Mama and Mrs. Cavanaugh—if they agreed on nothing else, they agreed that a marriage between Hilda and Patrick was a bad thing. And Hilda’s mind was back on the same path again, endlessly treading the weary arguments she’d had with herself scores of times.
At breakfast she ate silently, too distracted to take part in the gossip of the other servants. But when she and Janecska had gone upstairs to do the family’s bedrooms, the daily was eager to talk.
“Have you heard, Hilda?” she asked, as they made the big bed in the master bedroom.
“Heard what? The blanket, it must go down on your side. About an inch.”
“About Miss Jacobs. They say she—”
“Not so far. And smooth it properly. And the pillow on your side must be plumped.”
“Hilda, are you listening to me? Miss Jacobs met a man last night.”
Hilda’s attention was finally caught. “She could not have met a man last night. She was dead.”
“I mean the night before last, the night she died. She left her boarding house—you know she boarded with Mrs. Gibbs.”
“Yes. And roomed with Mrs. Schmidt.”
Janecska nodded, the pillow in her arms. “Just down the street. Well, anyway, on her way home after supper, she met Mr. Barrett.”
“Oh. I know that. It was in the paper.”
“Colonel George knows him, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, they know each other. Mr. Barrett visits here.”
“He’s an important man, isn’t he?”
Hilda didn’t like the way this conversation was going. “I suppose so. Most of the men who know Colonel George are important. Are you going to stand there all day hugging that pillow?”
Janecska beat it into shape and put it back on the bed. “Anyway, what I was going to tell you isn’t about Mr. Barrett. He walked with her only a little way. He’s lame, you know, so he walks slowly, and she caught up with him. They talked, only a few words, and then he went into his house and she went on. And what do you think happened then?”
“I will never know, if you do not hurry with your story!”
“Well, I thought you’d want to know, because of Erik and all, but if you don’t care—”
“Janecska, we have work to do. Please tell me, but quickly.”
Deprived of her dramatic moment, Janecska continued sullenly. “Well, she met another man, that’s what.”
Hilda shook her head impatiently. “Of course she met another man! The man who killed her. Everyone knows that!”
“Well, then, I suppose you know what he looks like!” Janecska tossed her head and went into the next room.
The temptation was too much for Hilda. She followed. “No, I do not know what he looks like. Have the police found that out already?”
“Someone saw him! A neighbor was looking out her window and saw a tall man wearing a long overcoat. And he had a light brown mustache. So there!”
There was blood on the cab wheels, the floor, the walls.
—South Bend Tribune
January 23, 1904
5
HILDA SPENT A MOMENT searching her memory for a tall man with a light brown mustache before common sense reasserted itself. “And how could she see all that? Miss Jacobs was going home after her supper. It must have been dark outside.” She gestured to the bed and turned her attention to the dressing table.
Janecska frowned and ran her duster over the carved head-board. “I don’t know…but she did. My cousin knows a woman who knows her, the woman who saw the man, I mean, and he said—my cousin, I mean—”
Hilda dismissed it with an impatient toss of her head. “I do not believe she saw anything at all. That alley, it runs from Colfax to Water Street, about halfway between Scott Street and LaPorte Avenue. There is no streetlight nearby. It is a very dark place to walk at night. If anyone saw anything, it might have been just the shape of a man, but not a mustache!”
“Well, that’s what she said she saw!” Janecska was growing cross. Her sensation wasn’t getting at all the reception she had hoped. She put the duster down and began to tug recklessly at the lace-edged sheets.
“Who is this woman who saw these things, or says she did?”
“I told you. A neighbor. She was looking out her window—”
“What window? Where? How near was she? And when did this happen?”
“How do you expect me to know all that! All I know is, that’s what she saw, and if you don’t believe it—well, you don’t have to!”
“Janecska, do you not see that it matters where she was, this woman? If she was upstairs, looking out a second-story window, she would be looking down at the man. So how could she tell if he was tall? And it matters whether the streetlight was in the direction she was looking, or to her back—”
“So you are gonna find out who the killer is? They all said you was gonna try.”
“I—who said?” Hilda stood with a silver-backed hairbrush in one hand and the polishing cloth in the other.
“Them, downstairs. Sarah and Anna and that Anton.” Janecska tossed her head. She had an eye for Anton but wouldn’t admit it, because he was German and she was Polish. “Anton says you’re famous. He says you solve all the murders around here. Just like you found out who was killing those young boys last year.”
Hilda recovered and began to polish the brush to within an inch of its life. “They are all wrong. I have no reason to try to find Miss Jacobs’s killer. What are the police for? Janecska, you have not dusted in the cracks. Pay attention to your work!”
She could squelch the young maid, but she couldn’t silence the conversation later on at the servants’ luncheon table. Mr. Williams, afflicted with a bad cold, had left the table early, so tongues wagged freely.
Maggie had heard the same story Janecska had, but in more detail. “A Mrs. Bruggner,” she said. “She lives just two doors east of the alley, at Mrs. Carpenter’s. She has the second floor, but she was visiting with Mrs. Carpenter in the first-floor parlor after supper. The parlor has a bay window on the street. When they heard the scream—”
“Scream!” said Elsie, dropping her soupspoon into the fish chowder.
“There, now, look what you’ve gone and done,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “Anyone would think you’d been brought up in a stable. You clean up that mess, girl. Not with your napkin! Go and get a cloth from the kitchen, and see you soak the tablecloth after we’ve finished eating.”
“What scream?” asked Anton, keeping to the point.
“They heard a scream, the two women,” said Maggie, “and looked out the window to see what it might be. And they saw a man stopped just at the end of the alley. He was tall and wore a long overcoat, and had a mustache.”
Hilda had the same objections she’d had before. “How could they see all that? The streetlight is far away.”
“But there was a full moon th
at night, remember? And there was fresh snow, and you know how that makes the night brighter. What with all that and the streetlight, they could see plain as plain, they said.”
“I told you,” murmured Janecska, but so quietly that Hilda wasn’t quite sure she’d heard.
Hilda knew she shouldn’t pursue the subject. She didn’t want to add more fuel to the fire of speculation about her course of action. But her curiosity got the better of her. “Did they see Miss Jacobs, too?” It was the sort of question anyone might ask, after all.
“No. At least not that I heard,” said Maggie. “They reckon she was already in the alley, running away from him.”
“Oh, he was running? Then how could the women see him so plainly?”
“No, he was just standing there, I guess.” Maggie scowled. “How do I know? I wasn’t there! If you’re so nosy, why don’t you ask some of those police friends of yours? I thought you said you weren’t going to get mixed up in it.”
“I am not. I am worried, that is all. I have four sisters who must walk to work every morning and back home every night, and this time of year it is dark for both trips. Of course I want the police to find the man who did this, and in a hurry, so that women like us can be safe again! If you are not interested, why do you talk about it so much?”
She glared at Maggie. Mrs. Sullivan sighed and pushed her chair back from the table. “I’m sure I don’t know why you two girls can’t learn to get along. Help me clear, and then you can have your rests, but don’t let me catch you taking advantage just because Mr. Williams isn’t feeling well.”
The gossip and rumor about the murder had kept Hilda from dwelling on her own problems most of the morning, but the moment she was alone in her room, they flooded back. After almost no sleep, she was tired and irritable, but she knew she was too edgy to rest. She looked longingly at her bed and then, with sudden resolution, flung her cloak over her uniform, pulled on her oldest hat, and ran back downstairs.
“I am going out for a few minutes, Mrs. Sullivan,” she called into the kitchen as she passed. “I will be back soon.”
“Where’re you headed, then?” shouted the cook, but Hilda was gone.
She hadn’t bothered with rubbers since her destination was only two blocks away. She was sorry before she was halfway down the back drive. Several inches of new snow had fallen overnight. It worked its way into her shoes and made the footing even more treacherous than the day before. She half slid the last few feet to the sidewalk and had to walk carefully the rest of the way, instead of running as she longed to do.
However, it was just as well. It meant that when she arrived at the Hibberd house she wasn’t out of breath. She went around to the kitchen door and knocked decorously.
The door was answered by the butler, who happened to be passing. He knew Hilda. His face set in a frown.
“Please, Mr. Leslie, I am sorry to bother you, but I have a message for Norah. May I see her for a moment?”
“You may not. She is out on an errand for Mrs. Hibberd.”
Hilda had prepared for this possibility. “Then would you ask her, please, sir, to stop at Tippecanoe Place on her way home? It is very important, or I would not ask.”
The butler opened his mouth, probably to ask what was so all-fired important. Hilda smiled sweetly. “I must go, sir. They will be needing me. Thank you, sir.” She turned and moved away as quickly as she could on the icy path. Mr. Leslie, she knew, was far too dignified to shout after her. She knew also that his pompous façade hid an indecisive mind. He would be almost certain that her message was frivolous, but the more he thought about it, the less certain he would become. With any luck, he’d deliver the message and she’d get to see Norah this evening.
She slipped and stumbled her way back to Tippecanoe Place, changed her stockings and dried her shoes as best she could, and went back to work, drooping with fatigue, but buoyed up by the evening’s possibilities.
More news and rumors arrived with the afternoon deliveries of groceries and meat. The police had made an arrest. No, they hadn’t, but they were looking for a college athlete with whom Miss Jacobs had quarreled. He was a Notre Dame student, a football star. No, he wasn’t, he had already graduated. He had graduated from Indiana University, not Notre Dame, and he lived in South Bend. No, Elkhart, where Miss Jacobs had lived with her parents before coming to South Bend. No, a psychic had been consulted, and she said the man in the long, dark overcoat was the one, and he was a prominent South Bend businessman. No, that was wrong, she had said…
Hilda stopped listening. She wasn’t interested in rumor. She wanted facts, and she might find a few of those later in the newspapers. Meanwhile she fixed her mind on what she was going to say to Norah, and how they could arrange a meeting to really talk.
Mr. Williams was still feeling poorly and keeping to his room when the papers arrived at the back door. The ground floor of Tippecanoe Place, which housed the dining rooms as well as the backstairs premises, was, rather oddly, a semi-basement. Since the great mansion was built into the side of a hill, the front rooms had large windows and a view, but the back door was at the bottom of a flight of steps leading down from the driveway above. One of Anton’s jobs was to keep the steps clear of debris, and in winter, of snow. Today, with Mr. Williams ailing and not on the alert, Anton had “forgotten” the task. The bottom landing was six inches deep in snow, and both the Times and the Tribune were quite wet.
Hilda, rejoicing, collected the papers and took them to the laundry. It was plainly now her duty to take over Mr. Williams’s task of ironing the papers and delivering them to Colonel George’s study. It would take longer than usual, since they were so wet, but that hardly mattered. Colonel George barely glanced at the papers, anyway, except for the financial news. She could take her time, and if in the process she happened to read some of the stories, Mr. Williams could hardly blame her for that. She set the irons to heat on the laundry stove and began to read eagerly.
The murder case was the lead story in both papers. The Tribune was critical of the police, saying that a murder on a well-traveled street should surely have been solved by now. Hilda paid scant attention. The Tribune was always critical of the police. Ever since Mayor Fogarty, a Democrat, had been elected, the Tribune had taken the view that the city was going straight to the dogs. The Times, of course, laid any shortcomings in city departments to the deplorable state of affairs Mayor Fogarty had inherited from the previous Republican administration. Aside from being offended when the Tribune published scurrilous anti-Irish cartoons on the front page, Hilda made it a policy to ignore the political posturings. She tried to winnow out facts from opinion in the stories, and concentrated on what was really important.
The irons were hot. She applied one to the front page of the Tribune and continued to read. At least one of the rumors turned out to have some basis in fact, if the paper was to be believed. The police were indeed looking for a man, said to be a college athlete, who had recently called on Miss Jacobs at her rooming house and “made himself objectionable.” There was no further information about who the man might be, or where he might be found, or indeed in what way he had offended the young teacher.
Hilda’s imagination took flight at that. The man might have done any number of things. He might have brought her an unsuitable gift, perhaps a late Christmas gift, something too expensive or too personal. Of course, if they had been alone in the room (unlikely, but possible), he might have attempted liberties, verbally or even physically. It was a pity the police had been able to learn no more, but apparently the incident had been reported in a letter from Miss Jacobs to her mother in Elkhart, and the mother was too prostrate with grief to be interviewed.
Hilda read on. Miss Jacobs had evidently struggled with her attacker, for her hair pins were strewn the length of the alley. One or two boards of the picket fence at the far end of the alley were torn loose, apparently as Miss Jacobs made a desperate attempt to prevent her captor from dragging her away. Blood stained the snow
everywhere. The police speculated that the attacker had struck Miss Jacobs a blow on the head that failed to kill her or even render her unconscious, and that several more blows were then struck in the cab shed, where blood was found on cab wheels, floor, and walls. Her underclothing was torn, her skirt was ripped from its belt, and there was a bloody handprint on her bodice. It was assumed that assault had been the motive for the murder.
Much of that was a repeat of yesterday’s information, and Hilda stopped reading. Her mind was filled with horrified speculation. The newspaper stopped short of saying that she had been raped, but then it probably wouldn’t. Such words were not used in a family publication. But torn underclothing?
A curl of smoke rose from under the iron. Hilda hurriedly removed it, pulled away the corner of paper that had been charred, and went on to the Times.
The Times was slightly more sensational in its reporting style than the Tribune. Its story listed many of the same details, but made much of the report of a psychic from Elkhart, who claimed to have handled some of Miss Jacobs’s clothing and thus obtained a clear vision of what had happened. The woman, who went by the name of Madame Rosa, claimed that a tall man in a dark overcoat was the murderer, and that he had a red mustache!
The man in the overcoat had not been mentioned yesterday in either newspaper. Hilda frowned. How, then, could Madame Rosa—or whatever her name really was—have known about him in such detail? Hilda put no stock at all in psychics or mediums or séances or any such supernatural claptrap, but how—
Then her brain took over again. The newspapers hadn’t printed the prevalent rumors, but the so-called psychic had heard them, just as Hilda had, and hadn’t scrupled to use them. Hilda snorted and removed the iron just in time to prevent another scorched page.