Indigo Christmas

by Jeanne Dams

  eileen was sent for once again, to build up the fire and take norah’s wet things to dry, and as she went downstairs to fill the coal scuttle, Hilda called after her. “eileen, if you can find it, bring up this morning’s Tribune when you come back.” She turned to Aunt Molly and said quietly, “There was a story in it, I think about this death. I want to read it carefully. It might tell me something new.”

  norah heard and was instantly combative. “It won’t tell you anything about Sean doin’ it, cause he didn’t!”

  “norah Murphy, do you think I would not have noticed if Sean’s name had been in the newspaper? Do not be foolish! of course the Tribune did not say he did it. I want to read what it did say, and see if there is anything that will give me an idea.”

  norah tried to get to her feet. “Then ye’ll do it? Ye’ll find out? And me name’s o’neill, now.” She was plainly feeling a little better.

  “You should not try to get up,” reproved Hilda. “I will do what I can. I do not even know where the farm is.”

  “If the fire was the one I recall,” Molly put in, “it’s actually

  quite close to Mr. Malloy’s property. You know where that is, Hilda, just south of the city limits. The city has grown so, Mr. Malloy is thinking about selling the land for building. It’s good rich soil, though—’twould be a pity to cover it with houses.”

  Hilda frowned. “Why would the police think Sean might be involved in a murder out of town?” she asked norah. “He has his work to do. He does not travel around the county.”

  “See, that’s it. He was workin’ out there, just for two days. Me cousin Barry was helpin’ build a new barn for a relation, and they needed more men, and o’ course Sean went when they asked. Barry’s family.” norah was getting teary again. “But if I’d known what was goin’ to happen, I’d have made him stay at home!”

  “But what did happen? norah, if you cry again I will leave the room!” Hilda stamped her foot.

  “An’ you’d cry too, if it was your man in jail!”

  “I would not! I would find out what had really happened! And so I will for you, if you will stop being foolish and tell me!”

  norah gave a last sniff and glared at Hilda. “Foolish, am I? It’s the police who are being foolish. There’s not one single thing to tie Sean to the man’s death, not one thing, except he’s Irish an’ ye know how they treat the Irish. An’ ye don’t need to look at me that way. I’m tellin’ ye all I know. Sean was workin’ there that day, the day the man died.”

  “not on the man’s farm?” “no, the next farm.”

  eileen returned with the coal and Hilda’s newspaper. As the fire grew warmer, norah settled more comfortably into her narrative. “See, it’s raw land yet, but me cousin Barry’s cousin on his mother’s side, he came into a bit of money and bought the land. And come spring he’s going to start farming it, but first he needs a barn.”

  Hilda nodded. That made sense. You had to have a place to keep the animals and to store the crops. City people might think a house came first, but Hilda’s family had been farmers in Sweden, and she knew the vital importance of a barn.

  “So he needed a barn,” she prompted.

  “So o’ course he got family to help. I reckon there’s enough strong Irishmen around these parts to build a dozen barns. Most of the women went, too, with food, but Sean wouldn’t let me go. He said it was too much work an’ standin’ for me now, as tired as I get these days.” Norah sniffled again at that, but a black look from Hilda stopped her tears.

  “So they was almost done with what they could do that day, an’ the walls was framed and the roof on, an’ anyway it was gettin’ too dark to see. So they was all gettin’ ready to set down to their supper when somebody smelled smoke. And they looked over across the fields an’ saw flames, an’ thick smoke risin’, an’ they thought it was a brush pile burnin’. But that was dangerous-like, what with the dry weather we’d had. The grass could’ve caught, an’ there’s some swamp land out there with mucky soil; a fire can burn along under the ground for weeks.

  “So some of the men went runnin’, thinking to stomp out the brush fire if they could, or throw dirt on it maybe. They hadn’t got no water; Barry’s cousin hasn’t dug his well yet. But when they got close enough, they saw it wasn’t brush atall, but the barn on the neighbor’s property.”

  Hilda shook her head sadly. A barn fire was hard to fight even with plenty of water. With none, or what little the men could have pumped from the well on the older farm, there was no hope at all.

  Norah nodded at Hilda’s unspoken comment. “Nothin’ they could do but watch it burn. It was too bad by the time they got there to even see if they could get the animals out. But the way it turned out, there wasn’t no animals inside. The fire brigade came, after a bit. Somebody in town saw the smoke an’ turned in the alarm, an’ they got out with a pumper wagon as fast as they could, but the barn was far past savin’ by that time and they could see no animals hadn’t tried to get out. There was only the man, though they didn’t know that till later.”

  Hilda shuddered, and Aunt Molly put a hand on her arm. “Who was the man, my dear? The owner of the farm?”

  “I don’t know. I never heard. And Sean was sad and sorry about it when he heard, like everybody, but it wasn’t nothin’ to do with them, really.”

  “Jenkins,” Hilda said. She had picked up the newspaper and was scanning the front page. “James Jenkins. He was a hired hand on the farm, it says here, not the owner. He sometimes slept in the barn.” She skimmed the rest of the story. “The coroner said it was an accident, but his brother—Mr. Jenkins’s brother Robert—is certain it was murder. He says Mr. Jenkins was robbed and then murdered. His billfold was not found on his body.”

  She looked up from the paper. “Norah,” she said slowly, “why did the police arrest Sean?”

  Norah threatened to dissolve again into tears. “Are ye say-in’ Sean robbed and killed that man? Hilda Johansson, I never thought you’d end up as bad as the police! I told you, he’s Irish and the police always—”

  Hilda looked Norah squarely in the eye. “They were all Irish, Norah. everyone there that day was Irish, except some of the firemen. You said so yourself. You will not dare to accuse me of hating the Irish. I have married into an Irish family. I know they are good people. You will tell me, Norah, why of all the Irishmen at the scene of the fire, the police have arrested Sean.” She held the gaze.

  It was Norah who broke the eye contact. She looked down at her lap. “It’s nothin’ atall, only the police takin’ a little thing an’ blowin’ it up. It doesn’t mean nothin’.”

  “What little thing?

  Norah shut her mouth firmly.

  Hilda was relentless. “What little thing?”

  “The billfold.” Norah’s voice was almost inaudible.

  “What did you say?”

  “The billfold!” Norah turned defiant. “Sean found a man’s billfold outside the barn. It wasn’t burnt, and it was a good one. Not new, but good leather, and Sean hadn’t but an old cheap one as was fallin’ apart. He asked if it belonged to anybody there, asked even the firemen, and when it wasn’t nobody’s, he kept it.”

  Hilda had to swallow before she could ask the next question. “Was there any money in it?”

  “Not a penny! Sean said so, and I believe him. I never thought ye’d be like the others, thinkin’ my man’s a thief….” She sank back, exhausted, and put a hand to her head.

  Hilda sat down on the bed, suddenly weary. “Norah, I know that you are nearly out of your mind with worry and with—well, in a time when women can get—odd—but when you are not out of your mind, you know that you are my friend, and that I trust you and Sean. But you must see that if this billfold belonged to the dead man, and Sean has it now, the police, who are not your friends and do not know and trust you, have a very good reason to put Sean in jail. And to keep him there.”

  Thank God every morning when you get up that you

  have
something to do that day which must

  be done, whether you like it or not.

  —Charles Kingsley

  Westward Ho!, 1855

  3

  NORAH WOULD HAVE broken down completely at that but for Aunt Molly’s firmness. “Now, my dear, you must not cry again,” she said, gently lifting Norah’s chin. “Look at me, Norah. Tears and sobs serve no purpose, except to make your headache worse. Oh, I can see that you have a headache. And I am very serious when I say a storm of weeping could harm your baby. Take deep breaths now—that’s it—and Hilda, have you any headache powders? Oh, of course you do, I was forgetting the bad headaches you get yourself. And you and I could do with a drop of brandy, if there’s such a thing in the house.”

  “In the kitchen, maybe, I t’ink.” Only in moments of extreme stress did Hilda revert to the Swedish accent she had taken such pains to eradicate. “I will go and look, ja?”

  “Eileen can do that,” said Molly gently. “If you’ll just ring the bell?”

  Hilda bit her lip. Once more she had betrayed her unfamiliarity with the world of the well-to-do. This was no time to worry over whether she would ever fit in. She rang the bell.

  Eileen entered the room instantly, carrying a tray with decanters and glasses. “Cook thought you might want this, ma’am,” she said. “I was just goin’ to bring it in.”

  So she had been listening at the door. Hilda shrugged. She had often done the same thing. One of the few rewards of ser-vanthood was knowing everything that went on. “T’ank you, Eileen,” she said with dignity. “And please t’ank—thank—Mrs. O’Rourke for me. It was very thoughtful of you both. And please bring also some water, and my headache powders. You know where they are?”

  Eileen bobbed a curtsey and nodded. Aunt Molly hid a smile. Hilda was learning to deal with servants, if slowly. And if she sounded, at times, just a little like Mrs. Studebaker, her former employer—well, that did no one any harm.

  Hilda, after years spent in the teetotal Studebaker household, was also learning to drink a little. She could now handle a glass of wine with a festive meal. Brandy was much stronger, she knew, so after an encouraging nod from Aunt Molly she poured only a thimbleful into each glass, added water, and handed one to Molly. “Patrick has told me this is good medicine when people are in distress. I have not tasted it, but maybe it will be good for us. Norah, you may not have any. It will make your head worse, but this—” as Eileen returned with a small box “—this will make it better. You will not like the taste, but it is good for the head.” Stirring up one of the doses of powder in a glass of water, she handed it to Norah, who sipped and made a face. “Yes, I know,” said Hilda, “but drink it all and your headache will go away.”

  Hilda took a sip out of her own glass, and made a face in turn. “Ooh! It tastes like medicine, and it burns!”

  “Yes, dear,” said Aunt Molly. “One would expect medicine to taste like medicine. And as for the burning, take another sip. It will warm you inside.”

  Outside the house, early December darkness had taken possession of the world, but the darkness was gentled by the snow. The sounds that could be heard were soft sounds, the occasional thud of horses’ hooves on the snow-covered street, the sweet jingle of sleigh bells, the laughter of distant children playing in the snow. In the room the firelight cast a glow over Norah as she sat before it. A coal dropped from the grate, landing almost noiselessly on ashes.

  Hilda roused herself. “It is getting late. Patrick will be home soon. Norah, you will stay for supper with us, and after supper we will all talk about what is to be done.”

  “But Sean—”

  “Sean will do very well where he is for one night,” said Aunt Molly. “I’d like to know the Irishman who can’t deal with a night in jail! Patrick can telephone to the police station to tell them you’re well and safe, and they’ll tell Sean, and that will relieve his mind. Now, shall we see if your clothing is dry enough to wear? Or would you rather stay as you are and have a tray sent up to you?”

  “I’ll dress, thank you, Mrs. Malloy.” The older woman’s matter-of-fact attitude was steadying Norah.

  “Child, you might as well call me Aunt Molly. I’m sure to be at least a shirt-tail cousin, if we go back far enough. And you’re next thing to a sister to Hilda. Who is my niece, so that makes me your aunt, as well. Now, then.” She glanced at Hilda, who had already reached for the bell to summon Eileen about Norah’s clothes.

  Molly smiled to herself. Yes, Hilda was learning.

  When Eileen came with the dry clothes, Molly asked her to telephone her home saying she, Molly, would be out to dinner. Then leaving Eileen to help Norah dress, Hilda and Molly walked slowly down the stairs together. “This,” Hilda articulated carefully, “is a terrible thing, Aunt Molly.”

  “It is.” Molly sighed. “I’m a little bit worried about Norah. Her color isn’t good. When she came I thought it was just the cold, but she’s warm now, and still pale. Perhaps it’s uneasiness about the baby, or about Sean. I confess, my dear, that things look very black for Sean.”

  “I believe Norah,” said Hilda, “and I believe Sean. Or—oh, Aunt Molly, I want to believe Sean. I believe that he did not kill anyone. But—they are very poor, and with the baby coming—if there was money in that billfold, Sean might have been tempted to take it. And if he did, and the police ind it out…” She gulped. She was not going to break down in tears like Norah. That would help no one. But she was very afraid.

  “There is no merit in speculation, Hilda. We must have facts. And I confess I do not see where we are to find them. We do not know for certain that the man was indeed killed rather than dying accidentally in the fire.”

  “The police must believe that is true, or they would not have arrested Sean.”

  “We do not even know that, my dear. They might have arrested him for theft. Norah knows only a little, and she is very upset. She may not have told us everything she knows, either because she is afraid or because she did not remember.”

  “It is true. She is hiding something, I think. But maybe we have asked her enough questions for now? She needs to rest.”

  “For now, yes. We must do all we can to keep her quiet and happy, though how she can be happy… However, we will talk to her again later. It may help her to talk about it calmly. And we must try to get what facts we can from other sources.”

  “I have time!” said Hilda. “I have all the time I need! I can go and talk to—”

  And there she stopped. Talk to whom?

  Hilda had become embroiled, often against her will, in the investigation of several crimes while she worked as housemaid to the Studebakers. She hadn’t found it easy. The strict rules governing a servant’s life and conduct had drastically limited her freedom. She had, however, had easy access to the vast network of servants and tradesmen who always knew more about the activities of their upper-class employers and customers than those worthies ever suspected.

  With her marriage, Hilda’s life had changed. Owing to the kindness of Patrick’s uncle Dan Malloy, Patrick was making a great deal of money as partner in a successful business. No longer a fireman, struggling to make ends meet, he could afford to buy Hilda anything her heart desired. He and Hilda were now a part of that upper class they used to serve. They lived in a fine house in the best part of town. They had servants of their own.

  Uncle Dan, a gregarious Irishman and sometime politician, had seen to it that Patrick met important men in town, and Patrick, who could charm a bird out of a tree, had adapted easily to his new life.

  Hilda hadn’t fared so well. The wives of those important men remembered Hilda as the maid who had taken their cloaks when they called upon the Studebakers, and they were not prepared now to treat her as an equal. It was all very well, they supposed, for a young Irishman to make his way up the ladder. Men were supposed to be ambitious. But for a servant girl to consider herself a lady—well, times were changing, but the wealthy ladies hoped they weren’t changing quite that fas
t. Some standards must be maintained.

  So the ladies like Mrs. Elbel called on Hilda only when they wanted her help with a project, and only when prompted by Molly Malloy. If Hilda tried to return their calls, they were “not at home.”

  The servants and tradesmen with whom she used to be on such easy terms were no better. At some deep level, they felt Hilda had betrayed them. Marry an upstart Irishman who’d come into money! Leave her old friends behind for la-di-da new ones! Well, they still had to work for their bread. They had no time to waste talking to a fine lady who came to show off her clothes and her jewels and look down on them (or so they interpreted her actions). They had better things to do with their precious free time, thank you very much.

  Hilda stopped and looked at Aunt Molly, dismay written across her face. “But—there is no one now—I am alone!”

  Molly gripped her hand. “You are not alone, Hilda Cavanaugh! It will be harder for you, yes, but you have your family still. And by that I mean, of course, Patrick’s family as well.”

  “They do not like me. Mother Cavanaugh hates me.”

  “No, Hilda, she does not. I am a mother of sons. I understand what she feels. She fears you. She fears you will take Patrick away from her, shake his religious convictions, change him. You must find a way to show her that his love for you does not change or diminish his love for her, and that your way of practicing your faith will not interfere with his different way. And one path to her trust will be to approach her for help in this matter.”

  “The last time I tried to do that,” Hilda began, but the front door opened and Patrick walked in, with snow on his shoulders but a broad smile on his face and a small package in his hand.

  “I thought I’d turn to a snowman, just walkin’ from Uncle Dan’s carriage to the door!” he exclaimed. “I’ve brought you a present, darlin’ girl.” He held out his arms and Hilda ran to them, heedless of the snow.