by Jeanne Dams
To the fire station, but Hilda didn’t want to tell her that. “I must find Christmas presents for the boys,” she improvised. “And oh, Norah, I want to talk to Mr. Miller. The farmer whose barn burned?”
Norah rolled her eyes. “I’m maybe not feelin’ quite so well, but I’ve not lost the use of me brain. I know who Mr. Miller is.”
“Well, then, I found out yesterday that Mr. Miller was lying when he said he was away buying supplies on the day of the fire. Andy’s friends saw him driving back to the farm the next day, with nothing in his wagon. And no one had seen him at any of the places where he might have bought supplies or equipment. So what had he been doing? And why did he lie about it?”
“Hmm. Don’t know, but most times when a man lies it’s because he’s up to somethin’. Maybe he has a lady friend.”
“Oh!” That was one thought that had never entered Hilda’s mind. “Yes—he could have gone calling—but why in the wagon instead of taking the buggy? And why wouldn’t he just say what he was doing?”
“Maybe he has a wife someplace!” Norah pushed herself up on one elbow and looked excited. “Maybe he left her, but he’s still married, and he wants to marry someone else—his lady friend— but he can’t unless he can get rid of his wife somehow. So he has to call on the lady in secret. Or maybe—ooh, I’ve got it! He was out doin’ away with his wife, and he started the barn fire himself to burn up her body!”
Norah’s reading tended toward the sensational. Hilda was skeptical. “Well—perhaps. Perhaps he has a wife, I mean. or there is a woman involved somehow. But if there is one thing we do know, it is that Mr. Miller and the wagon were not around the farm when the fire started. And no one burned in the fire except the hired man.”
Norah lay back on the bed. “Well, if you don’t want my ideas, don’t ask. And I don’t know why you care, anyway. Me, I don’t give two hoots where the man was that day or any other day, now that the police have stopped chasin’ after Sean.”
“But Norah, I want to know. Someone started that fire and killed poor Mr. Jenkins. If the police never find out—”
“Now we’ll have none of that kind of talk here, Mrs. Cavanaugh.” The nurse rustled in, frowning. “Mrs. O’Neill should be thinking of pleasant things, not crimes and police and I don’t know what all. Let me brush your hair, dear, so you’ll look pretty and your husband can come in and see you for a moment before you have a nice sleep.” She gave Hilda a sharp look and Hilda understood she was dismissed.
She paced. Down the stairs, through the hall, into the parlor, back to the hall, the library, the dining room, Patrick’s den, back to the hall to gaze out the door. outside, the men had finished clearing paths from houses to the street and were now working on the street itself. City workers would come around eventually, but there were too few of them and far too much snow. If the people of Colfax Avenue were to be freed from their snowy prisons, their own men would have to do the work. Merchants and bankers worked alongside their servants. At the end of the block, Hilda thought she saw Schuyler Colfax, Junior, son of the vice president after whom the street had been named, taking off his hat and wiping his brow before lifting another shovelful.
Hilda resumed her pacing. Norah had given her something to think about. If a woman were involved, Mr. Miller’s absence was easily explained. Hilda didn’t accept Norah’s melodramatic embroidery of the situation, however. The simplest explanation was also, unfortunately, the most likely. If Mr. Miller was carrying on an affair with a married woman, he would certainly do it with discretion. Take the wagon, which implied business, rather than the more comfortable and conspicuous buggy. A buggy sitting in front of a house meant a caller. A wagon meant a tradesman of some sort. And if he, Miller, cared at all about the reputation of the lady in question, he would continue to lie about the matter, even when asked by the police. As long as he was demonstrably not at the farm when the fire started, it mattered little to the police where he actually was or with whom.
Unless—unless somehow James Jenkins had found out what his employer was doing on other occasions when he was absent from the farm. Suppose he had threatened to tell the woman’s husband unless—unless what? Unless Mr. Miller raised his salary, lightened his duties, paid him a sum of money?
Blackmail. Blackmailers have been killed before now, thought Hilda. And Mr. Miller could have hired someone to set his barn on fire when Jenkins was in it, drunk. It was possible, but it was thin. And, she reminded herself with a sigh, it was a creation of her own mind, without a single fact to support it.
Tomorrow she would go out and find some evidence, learn some facts, if she had to walk all the way to Sven’s and borrow his skis.
The Studebaker Bros. Manufacturing
…will erect a large and modern plant
upon [its] property for the manufacture
of automobiles.
—South Bend Tribune
December 8, 1904
22
HILDA WOKE ON Thursday morning with big plans. She would go out to Firehouse Five, on foot if necessary, and find out about the billfold and the initials that might reveal its owner. Then she intended to set her Baker Street Irregulars to work on the matter of Mr. Miller’s activities off the farm. She would have to find time to finish her list of possible Christmas presents for the Boys’ Club party, and telephone them to Mrs. Ford, and to see if any of her lists of attendees were ready, and telephone that information to Mrs. Brick or Mrs. Clem. Then she wanted to try to talk to Sergeant Lefkowicz. And somehow she was going to get herself a pair of skis. She would probably have to send away for them—were they in the Sears, Roebuck catalogue?—but she did not mean ever again to be stuck at home on a snowy day.
Sean also had plans. “Today I’m workin’ through me lunch hour, so I can leave early. The sun looks like shinin’ all day, so it’ll be a better day for findin’ work. Hilda, do you really think Studebaker’s will hire me?”
She was careful not to be too optimistic. “In Mr. Clem’s day I know they would have. He was a kind man and would always give a workman a chance. Now, I do not know for certain. But the Tribune said they’re building a new plant to make automobiles, and that means they’ll need new men. If you will find Sven, he will take you to someone who may help you.” Hilda’s older brother worked in the finishing department, painting fancy designs on wagons in the familiar Studebaker green and red, and on carriages in gold. “Oh, and ask him if he has made any toys for the Christmas party. He promised he would, and Mama and the others are maybe knitting warm things.”
Sean looked worried. “Does he—I mean, I’ve never met him, and I’m Irish, and there are some…” He trailed off, unwilling to ask openly if Sven cherished the usual prejudice against the Irish.
“He is a fair man,” said Hilda crisply. “He will not judge you because you are Irish. Tell him what jobs you have had, and he will know what you might be able to do at Studebaker’s.”
Sean paid a quick visit to his wife and daughter, Patrick kissed Hilda on the tip of her nose, and both men went off whistling cheerfully.
Hilda dressed carefully for her day, in clothing serviceable enough for riding the streetcar to the firehouse, but respectable enough for the Oliver Hotel. She did not intend to be snubbed again by a doorman uncertain of her social status.
She had adjusted her everyday hat and Eileen was handing her the fur muff that Uncle Dan had so thoughtfully given her, when the doorbell rang.
Hilda frowned. “It is very early for a caller. Barely nine o’clock.”
Eileen, looking dubious, opened the door.
Sergeant Lefkowicz stood on the porch.
“Sergeant! I was about to go out, but please come in. I wished to speak to you at some time today, so I am glad you came. I can go on my errands later.”
“There’s no need to put yourself to any inconvenience, ma’am. I’m looking for Sean O’Neill. I understand he’s staying here.”
There was no warmth in his manner. Hilda’s welcoming
smile died on her face. “Yes, he waited out the storm here, but he has gone to work. Is something wrong?”
Lefkowicz hesitated. Strictly speaking, he didn’t need to tell Hilda anything, but they were old and friendly acquaintances and had worked together on several occasions. He made up his mind. “Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry to say there is. Sergeant Applegate sent me here with a warrant for O’Neill’s arrest.”
Hilda took a step backwards. “On what charge?” she asked through stiff lips.
“Arson and murder, ma’am. The murder of James Jenkins.”
Hilda’s head felt peculiar. She let herself down on the bench seat of the hall rack and tried to take deep breaths. It wasn’t easy in a corset, but the effort steadied her. “Sean was not there when the fire was set. He was working with the other men on the next farm. You know that.”
Lefkowicz sighed. He should have said nothing. now he had to explain. “We thought we knew that, Miss Hilda. Mrs. Cavanaugh, I mean. And I believed him when he told us he knew nothing about the fire. But we’ve found new evidence, and it looks pretty bad for him, I’m afraid.”
“What new evidence?” Hilda spoke sharply. The shock was beginning to wear off and she was becoming combative again.
“His pocketknife. We sifted through the ashes pretty carefully, early this morning, and found it right there where the fire started. There’s no doubt it’s his,” he went on, raising his hand as Hilda began to speak. “One of his friends in the fire department recognized it. It’s a new one, not very pretty now, going through the fire as it has, but when it’s cleaned up it’ll be as good as the day his wife gave it to him for a birthday present, last June. It’s silver-plated, and it has his initials on it.”
He looked anxiously at Hilda. She had gone as white as paper. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Yes. I—no. I—I have a headache. Eileen, I would like some coffee. Will you have some, Sergeant?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I have to serve this warrant. O’Neill works at Black’s still?”
Hilda nodded dumbly.
Lefkowicz looked at her again. “I truly am sorry, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”
She murmured something, closed the door, and then carefully climbed the stairs without a backward look. The only thing that mattered just now was to get out of the cursed stays so she could breathe.
By the time Eileen came in with a steaming pot of coffee, Hilda had removed her outer garments and was struggling with her corset. “Let me do that for you,” said the little maid. “Inventions of the divil, stays are. Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”
Freed of her constraint, Hilda took a deep breath, and then another. “I agree with you, Eileen. I do not know why I wear them.” She wrapped herself in a warm robe and sat in front of the fire. “Oh, the coffee is good. And it will help me think. I must think, Eileen.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s a poser, isn’t it? How do you think Mr. Sean’s knife got there in the ashes?”
Hilda was touched by Eileen’s loyalty. “Then you do not think he dropped it there?”
“He couldn’t have. He was never there. He said so.” Eileen’s faith was unshakeable.
Hilda drank coffee and racked her brain. “Could he have lent it to someone? A fireman, perhaps, who might have dropped it fighting the fire? He has friends in the fire department. The sergeant said so today, and I think I already knew of it.”
“Not that knife, he wouldn’t’ve let nobody borrow. It was his favorite thing. It’s a good one, and besides, Norah gave it to him, and you know he thinks the sun rises and sets on Norah.”
“How do you know that, about the knife and how much he liked it?”
Eileen shrugged. “Family talk. If an Irishman in this town isn’t a relation, then he’s a friend of a relation, or a relation of a friend—and we all go to St. Pat’s. We all more or less know what’s goin’ on amongst the Irish. And it was a fine present, silvered and initialed and all. We reckoned Norah must’ve saved up for a long time, even if it did come from Sears, Roebuck.”
“Perhaps he lost it and someone—”
“No, ma’am. Beggin’ your pardon, but he would’ve said. He’d sooner lose his right eye than that knife.”
Hilda grimaced. “You had better not say that to anyone else, Eileen. For if he did not lose it or lend it, there seems to be only one way it could have been dropped in the barn. I would like to talk to him, learn if he went to the farm after the fire and lost it then, but I will not be able to talk to him if he is in jail. And this time I do not think it will be so easy to get him out.”
“You must, ma’am! You must get him out! He never killed nobody, and his poor lady, and the baby—what will they do? You must help him, ma’am!” Eileen was near tears.
“I will do my best, Eileen.” Hilda tried to put confidence into her voice, but Eileen’s expression told her she had not succeeded. “Do not tell Norah what has happened. There is no need for her to know just yet. Let her rest and build up her strength while she can.”
Drearily Hilda dressed again, this time in an old skirt and waist that did not require stays. Let the doorman at the Oliver Hotel think what he wanted.
She encountered Mr. O’Rourke in the drive, where he was polishing one of the brass carriage lamps. “Was you goin’ out, madam?” he asked. “On account of, the horses are needin’ some exercise.”
“I am, Mr. O’Rourke, but I was going to ride the streetcar. I do not know if the streets are clear enough for a carriage. ”
“Downtown, they are. Mr. Patrick, he walked to the store, but Mr. Malloy went in his coach, and when his coachman come back this way he stopped to chat. English, he is, but he’s not got his nose so high in the air as some of them English. He said the streets are fine as far as the river, maybe not so good on the other side.” Mr. O’Rourke, looking jaunty in his new coat and hat, seemed inclined to friendliness this morning.
“I go to Fire Station Five. It is near the river, on Sample Street.”
The coachman cocked his head. “Might be all right, might not. I reckon they’d clear the streets for the fire wagons. I’m willin’ to try if you are.”
“Thank you, Mr. O’Rourke.” Hilda nodded gravely.
“You’ll want to wait inside while I get the horses hitched up, ma’am. Perishin’ cold it is, never mind all the sunshine. And if ye can’t bring yerself to call me O’Rourke,” he added as he turned away, “me given name’s Kevin.”
There was not a great deal of traffic on the streets, and what there was moved in an eerie quiet. Snow had been shoveled off the streets, but enough was left to soften the footfalls of the horses and the rattle of steel tires against pavement. Mr. O’Rourke—Kevin, Hilda reminded herself—kept the horses to a moderate pace, but the wind still whistled past, and made Hilda very glad for the plush carriage robe tucked around her. Indeed, if she was going to travel often in winter, perhaps a carriage heater would be a good idea.
Hilda was thinking about creature comforts, deliberately thinking about them and about the beauty of the snow-covered city, to avoid thinking about other things. About Sean under arrest for murder. About Norah, who would soon be cast once more into despair, and her helpless week-old infant. What would happen to them if Sean—face it, Hilda—if Sean were hanged for murder?
“Here we are, ma’am, safe and sound. Was you wantin’ me to wait, or come back?”
Hilda roused herself from her despondent thoughts and freed herself from the carriage robe. “Wait, I think, please, Mr.—Kevin. I do not know how long I might be.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be walkin’ the horses up and down a bit, to keep ’em warm, but I’ll keep watch.” He handed her down, and she knocked on the door of the firehouse. Patrick, in his years as a fireman, had taught her that a woman did not simply walk in to the place where the men lived during their shift. A married woman could visit more readily—and with less scandal—than an unmarried girl, but there were still courtesies to be observed.
The fireman who answered
the door knew Hilda by sight, though she did not know him. The city’s firefighters, who worked together on big blazes no matter which station they belonged to, were a close-knit group. Facing death together will do that to people, and every fire was a possible death trap. So they all knew that Patrick Cavanaugh had finally won the beautiful Swedish bride he had courted for so long. They knew, too, that marriage had not dampened her enthusiasm for poking her nose into crime.
“Mrs. Cavanaugh! We’ve been expecting you. Come in, and forgive the untidiness. We had a fire early this morning, and we’re still sorting ourselves out.”
Hilda frowned. “You have expected me? But I did not tell anyone I was coming here.”
“We knew you would, though. We knew you’d find out it was one of our men found that billfold, and you’d want to know all about it. Sit down, ma’am—that there’s the best chair—and I’ll just go and get Joe Brady. He’s the one as found it.”
This was better than she had dared hope. Now if only the man’s answers were the right ones!
Joe Brady, when he came into the room, looked tired. He was shrugging into a coat, but he was unshaven and wore no collar. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not fit to be seen by a lady, but I haven’t had time to clean myself up properly.”
“Was it a bad fire, Mr. Brady?” Hilda’s voice was sympathetic. Fighting a fire in last night’s bitter cold wouldn’t have been any fun.
“Not what you’d call bad. Some fool a couple of houses down from here put ashes outside before they were dead, and the wind fanned them up and caught the shed on fire. Not much to it, but the cold was somethin’ cruel, and the wind, and we had to make sure the other houses didn’t catch, or the school.” Franklin School was just across the street from the fire station, and even at night, with no one in the building, the firemen would, Hilda knew, have done all they could to preserve it. Schools were important.
Joe Brady yawned hugely, covering his mouth with his hand and making Hilda want to yawn, too. “Sorry, ma’am. You’ll be wanting to know about the billfold.”