Crimson Snow

by Jeanne Dams

  Hilda hung the apron outside to dry. The air was very cold, but what with the sunshine and a stiff breeze Hilda thought it would dry better than inside. At sundown she threw on her cloak and ran out to retrieve the apron. It still had to be ironed before she could help serve dinner.

  The clothesline was tucked away behind the carriage house. John Bolton, the coachman, stood in the drive, unhitching the horses from the sleigh. “Bit chilly for you to be out, dressed in no more than that, isn’t it?” he said to Hilda as she hurried by. “Don’t you want to come in for a warm?”

  He made it sound like the most improper of invitations. Hilda tossed her head. “No, I do not. I am in a hurry.”

  “Huh! And too high ’n’ mighty to talk to the likes of me, now you’re to be married and a fine lady.”

  “How did you know…” She stopped short. She had no wish to be drawn into conversation.

  John shrugged. “I heard. That Irishman of yours talks nineteen to the dozen. Shouldn’t think there’s anyone in town doesn’t know by now. And speakin’ of talk, have you heard the latest?”

  “No, and I must—”

  “They’ve got new evidence in the Jacobs case.” He led the horses into the carriage house and began to curry Star, whistling tunelessly. “Thought you was in a hurry.”

  “New evidence?” Hilda stayed where she was, her hurry forgotten.

  “They’re sayin’ a big man in town, an important man, knows a lot more about this than he ought to. And they’re lookin’ at a fella stayin’ at the Oliver, too.”

  “But who—”

  “Hilda! Get in here this minute!” It was Mrs. Sullivan, calling from the back door, and her tone left Hilda no choice. She snatched the apron from the line and scurried back to the house.

  John chuckled and led the horses into their stalls.

  After a hasty conference with Anton and the hired butler, it was decided that Hilda would answer the door and admit guests while Anton took their coats. Janecska, pressed into staying on for the evening, would show the ladies upstairs to freshen their gowns and hair before descending the grand staircase in their finery.

  When Hilda opened the door to Mr. Barrett and his wife, she was shocked at their appearance. Smiling and curtseying, Hilda tried to keep dismay out of her face. Mr. Barrett looked extremely ill, much worse than he had a few days before. Mrs. Barrett, a usually handsome woman in her fifties, had deep lines in her face and bags under her eyes that Hilda had never seen before.

  “Good evening, Hilda,” said Mrs. Barrett. “Williams is still ill, then?”

  “Yes, madam. He is very ill. We are quite worried about him. Thank you for asking, madam. Janecska will take you up to the powder room, if you would like to sit here for a moment until she returns.”

  “Thank you, Hilda, but I know my way.” She touched her husband’s arm for a moment and looked him in the eye. The look said much, but Hilda was unable to interpret it. Then Mrs. Barrett gave Anton her velvet cloak and made her way, slowly, up the stairs that wound around the elevator.

  Mr. Barrett, leaning heavily on his cane, allowed himself to be divested of his coat and hat and then tried to smile at Hilda. He didn’t quite succeed. “My dear, I need to have a private word with the colonel for a moment, and my leg is not so well this evening. Do you think you could find him for me?”

  “Of course, sir. Sit down, and I will bring him to you.” She raised her eyebrows at Anton, who shrugged and tacitly agreed to cope with new arrivals until she came back.

  It wasn’t easy to find Colonel George among the swirl of guests, but Hilda finally tracked him down in the library, where he was enjoying a preprandial cigar with several of the gentlemen. Hilda murmured in his ear. He excused himself and followed her, and after a word with Mr. Barrett, the two men disappeared into Colonel George’s office and shut the door. Hilda looked at the door, her mind full of questions, but a large party of guests arrived just then and she resumed her duties.

  The dinner went well enough, she supposed. The hired butler was competent but slow, because he didn’t know the routines of the house nor the layout of the pantry. Hilda, Anton, and Janecska all helped Maggie and the butler serve. Few ate all of their tarts, Hilda noticed. Evidently Mrs. Sullivan’s light hand at pastry had, indeed, failed her.

  The evening dragged on. After the meal was over, Hilda and the butler served coffee for the ladies in the drawing room and the gentlemen in the library. In this teetotal household there was no lingering over brandy or port for the men, but they did enjoy their cigars and even the occasional cigarette.

  The ladies had finished their coffee and bonbons, and Hilda was ready to go downstairs and tackle the mountain of tasks that awaited her there, when the butler slipped into the drawing room and beckoned to her.

  “Mr. Studebaker would like to speak to you,” he whispered.

  “His name is Colonel Studebaker,” she corrected impatiently. “What does he want?”

  “How would I know? He asked me to find you. No, not that way,” as Hilda turned toward the library. “He’s in his office waiting for you.”

  “His office? When there are guests?” Hilda’s eyebrows rose, but she went as directed to the office.

  Colonel George was sitting at his desk, Mr. Barrett once more closeted with him. Hilda tapped on the open door and went in.

  “Sit down, Hilda,” said the colonel, gesturing to a chair.

  Hilda did as she was bidden, but uneasily. This was not at all the correct thing. She looked from one face to the other. Neither was informative, though her employer shifted restlessly in his chair. Neither spoke.

  “Sir,” said Hilda at last, “there is much work in the kitchen. I must—”

  “Yes,” said the colonel. He sighed and toyed with a pen, then tossed it back on the desk. “Hilda, I—that is, Mr. Barrett—we have—oh, the fact is, Hilda, Robert here finds himself in a bit of a mess, and wants your help.” He spread his hands in a gesture of impatience.

  “Mine, sir?”

  Mr. Barrett spoke. “You see, Hilda, your reputation has spread.”

  “My reputation, sir? I am a respectable woman, sir!”

  “Yes, yes,” said the colonel. “We don’t mean that kind of reputation. It’s this confounded habit you have of nosing into criminal matters. I’m not at all sure it’s becoming to a housemaid, but my wife doesn’t seem to mind, and the household is her affair, after all.” He sighed once more.

  “I see, sir.” She was beginning to.

  “Yes, well, it’s this nasty business of the schoolteacher. I think you said she was your brother’s teacher?”

  “Yes, sir, my brother Erik. He is very much upset. She was a good teacher and he loved her.”

  “Hmph. Well, the police seem to have some doubts about how good she was in some ways—but never mind that. The police have made a lot of blunders in this matter. As usual. And their chief mistake is that they are looking at Mr. Barrett. They’ve implied that since he was the last person to see her alive, he might just have been the first person to see her dead, as well.”

  Hilda looked at Mr. Barrett, her face full of pity. “Yes, sir. I thought they might think that. Myself, I do not believe it. You are a good man, sir. Not the sort who could—do those things.”

  The old man spoke. “I’m glad you think so, Hilda, because I’d like you to look into the matter for me.”

  “But, sir, I—”

  Mr. Barrett held up his hand. “You see, Daniel Malloy is a good friend of mine. I’ve been his lawyer for many years, and I know the family well. He told me all about what you did in that unfortunate business a couple of years ago, how you, virtually unaided, solved the crimes of which he had been wrongly accused.” He waited while Hilda took that in, and then continued. “The police brought Pinkerton’s men in for this business, from the time they first found the body, but they seem to be doing nothing but making a lot of fuss and learning nothing new. I—my wife is suffering a good deal over this. Would you be willing
to—to do whatever it is you do, to winnow out the facts of the matter?”

  Again Hilda looked from one man to the other. “I do not know, sir. The other times, I knew the people, or some of them. I was able to talk to my family, other servants…” She moved her hands in distress. “I know none of the people connected to Miss Jacobs. I do not know if I could help. And there is my work here. Mr. Williams is ill, and I am needed.”

  “We can hire another housemaid, Hilda,” said the colonel. “I had thought of one of your sisters, perhaps. We have no plans to entertain again for some time, so there shouldn’t be all that much to do.”

  Hilda kept a straight face. Men never had the slightest idea how much routine work was needed to keep a large house clean and running smoothly.

  Mr. Barrett spoke. “I’m not expecting miracles, child. I only know that I have no faith in the South Bend police, who may be corrupt and are certainly incompetent. And from what I’ve seen of the Pinkertons so far, they’re not much better. You are apparently able to talk to people, get them to tell you things, and you have a good head on your shoulders. Will you do what you can, as a favor to me?”

  Hilda turned to the colonel. “If I do this, may I stay on here and do what work I am able to? I have no other place to live, sir.”

  “Of course, of course. My wife would have my hide if I let you go permanently.”

  The colonel had obviously not tuned in to the servants’ gossip about Hilda and Patrick. That was good. She wanted to tell Mrs. George herself, and in her own good time. She took a deep breath. “Then—then yes, I will do it. For perhaps a week. If I cannot learn anything in a week, I will know that I can be of no help. Will you tell Mrs. Sullivan, sir? She will not be pleased. ”

  “I’ll leave that to Mrs. Studebaker,” he said hastily. “Er—starting tomorrow, then?”

  “On Monday, sir. Tomorrow I will bring one of my sisters here and show her what is to be done. Thank you, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, Mr. Barrett.”

  And she escaped to the kitchen.

  The interest in this remarkable crime

  and the horror of it have not abated.…

  —South Bend Tribune

  January 27, 1904

  10

  HILDA THOUGHT IT BEST the next morning to get up at her usual time and do her usual duties before breakfast. They were few, for Sunday was nominally a holiday, but Mrs. George had undoubtedly not yet notified the cook about Hilda’s new status. Mrs. Sullivan was going to lose her temper when she heard about it, and since she didn’t dare take out her outraged feelings on her employer, it was Hilda who would bear the brunt of them. Well, she, Hilda intended to give no offense in the meantime. With luck she’d be out of the house before the storm broke.

  Chores done and breakfast eaten, Hilda hurried to church. The day was bitter cold; her family had not waited outside the church for her. She stopped for a moment just inside the door, to calm her rapid breathing and let her eyes accustom themselves to the relative dimness, and then slipped into the pew beside her sister Gudrun just as the pastor entered.

  Since the congregation was between pastors and was therefore sharing one with an Elkhart church, the service was brief. Too brief for Hilda’s liking. There was going to be unpleasantness afterwards.

  When church was over, no one foregathered around the door. It was too cold. Civil greetings were exchanged, hats were tipped, and then every family hurried back to its own fireside, its own good Sunday dinner.

  The kitchen at Sven’s house, where the family always ate on Sundays, was small, far too small for three women. At last Gudrun shooed Hilda and Mama out to set the table. The three younger girls were huddled around the fire in the tiny parlor, enjoying a little rare leisure. Erik and Sven were outside gathering more wood. Mama and Hilda were essentially alone.

  Mama had said nothing to Hilda all morning, indeed had scarcely looked at her. Now they spread the embroidered Sunday cloth across the table in silence. Hilda set out plates on her side of the table, carefully positioning them over the darned places, and then passed the plates to Mama for her side, all in silence. They laid out cutlery in the same fashion. Hilda knew what was coming, but she was determined not to speak first. Mama was the one who was angry. Let Mama raise the subject.

  When they had folded the last threadbare napkin and set the last glass in place, Mama could no longer contain herself. “So,” she said. “You act like a member of the family now. But you are no longer my daughter.” She spoke in Swedish, and her voice was colder than the air outside.

  Hilda was stung, even though she had thought she was ready. But she had her answer. “Then I will no longer have to go out in a blizzard and look for Erik?” Hilda asked, also in Swedish. “Good. I do not know who else will do it, but if he is not my brother, why should I freeze for him?”

  Mama had expected tears or fury. She changed her tactics. “Why do you break my heart this way? Are there no Swedish boys in this town? I wish I had never come to America. This is a terrible place, where young boys are molested and young women killed, and my daughter chooses to marry a Papist.”

  “A Papist who saved Erik’s life last year. Whose uncle paid for you and Erik and the girls to come here, and in luxury, too.” Uncle Dan had paid the passage for the last four Johanssons to join the older siblings, and had done it in style, buying second-class tickets rather than the usual steerage. “Mama, I have no wish to hurt you. That is one reason I have said no to Patrick for years. But he is a good man, and he will be rich, and I love him. This is America. The world is changing. Mama, I hope you will give us your blessing. But I will marry Patrick even if you do not.”

  Tears began to gather in Mama’s eyes.

  Hilda hurried on with the rest of what she had to say. “I have other news, Mama. We will speak of Patrick later, but I have exciting news. Colonel George has given me leave to find out what I can about Miss Jacobs. That will please Erik, and he will not run away anymore.” Hilda crossed her fingers at the last words, but behind her back.

  “And,” she went on, “Mrs. George will have to have someone to take my place while I am doing this other thing. Colonel George wants one of my sisters, he said. Just think of that! Would that not be a grand opportunity for Elsa? She would make much more money than at the shirt factory and she would stay with me at Tippecanoe Place. You would not have to feed her and there would be more room in your house.”

  Mama was not to be swept away by the change of subject. “And when you go back to work, what then? She will have no job, because Wilson’s will not keep the job for her, and we will be poorer than ever.”

  “I think Mrs. George will keep her on,” said Hilda, crossing the fingers on her other hand. “Because one day soon she will need someone to take my place for good.”

  Mama started to cry in earnest.

  The Sunday meal was a dismal affair. Even Erik, usually irrepressible, picked at his food and asked to be excused at the first possible moment.

  Hilda went with him, pulling him up the stairs. “Erik, I have news, and I must not speak about it in front of Mama. She is very angry with me.”

  Erik made a face. “She’s mad at everybody, because of you.”

  “I know, and I am sorry. She will be better in time. But Erik, I must tell you. I am to investigate Miss Jacobs’s murder! Colonel George himself has asked me to. And I will need your help.”

  “Mama will not let me.”

  “Erik, you are thirteen years old. You are almost grown. It is time you stopped acting like a little boy. You run away when you are angry. You sulk. You must learn some sense, learn to do what you think is best.”

  “Everybody yells at me when I do what I want.”

  “I did not say, what you want. I said, what is best. There is a difference. You know the difference quite well.”

  She looked at him steadily, two pairs of blue eyes locked in an intense gaze. Erik’s eyes dropped first. “I guess so,” he mumbled.

  “Of course you do. Now tel
l me what you will do about Miss Jacobs.”

  He thought for a moment, and then shrugged. “I don’t know. What you tell me to, I guess.”

  Hilda nodded. “And if you think of something that I have not, you will tell me, and we will talk about it together. And what will you say to Mama?”

  “Well…she’ll be at work. I could sneak out.…” He stopped at the look on Hilda’s face. “No. I guess that’s no good. I’d better tell her I’ll be helping you. She’ll be mad.”

  “Yes. But if you want, I will be with you when you tell her. Then she will be angry with two of us, which is better than just with you.”

  Erik sighed. “I don’t think it’s such fun growing up.”

  Hilda smiled and gave him a quick hug. “You will be surprised. It is more fun than you think. Now I must go and talk to Elsa about a job at Tippecanoe Place.”

  By the end of the afternoon, all was arranged. Mama had stormed and wept, but Gudrun and (surprisingly) Sven had been on Hilda’s side. Sven’s point of view was that, since Erik had no school for a week, he would be better off helping Hilda than left to his own devices. Gudrun thought that Elsa, though young, could learn the duties of a housemaid quickly, and if the job turned into a permanency, she would be well fixed.

  Freya was a little jealous. She was older than Elsa, and an experienced maid. “Why can I not go instead?” she asked with a frown.

  “Because you have a good job, much better than Elsa’s,” said Gudrun.

  “She could take my place, instead of Hilda’s.”

  “You are the only maid in that house,” said Hilda. “There would be no one to train Elsa except that cross butler. I will have time to train her, and Mr. Williams will not trouble her for a while, because he is so ill. Besides, Freya, you are old enough to marry, and there is Gunnar Borglund, who spoke to you after church this morning, even in the cold.”