“Pooh to polite society! When have you ever cared about such a thing, Hilda Cavanaugh, you who come down to breakfast in a kimono? You flouted all the rules by marrying my nephew, and the more I love you for it. Now you’re making him unhappy, because you’re neglecting yourself and your child, and I won’t have it. It’s time you pulled yourself together, young woman!”
The doorbell rang. Eileen, who had stayed just outside the dining room to listen, went to see who was calling at an hour when there should be no visitors, let alone two.
“But Aunt Molly!” Patrick managed to get a word in. “Hilda hasn’t been at all well. I don’t want her overworkin’ herself.”
“Overworking! May Jesus, Mary, and Joseph defend us! She’s been doing nothing for six months, and it’s time she bestirred herself. I was working in the back of the shop alongside Mr. Malloy right up until the pains started with my first, and never felt better in my life.”
The discussion was interrupted by the entrance of a tall woman who looked strikingly like Hilda, though her coronet-braided hair showed silver mixed with the gold. She strode ahead of Eileen, ignored the other people in the room, and unleashed a torrent of Swedish directed at Hilda.
“Du, Hilda! Lyssna på mig! Ingen gott kommer från att du sitter där hela tiden och tycker synd om dig själv! Du är—”
“Mama! Speak English!”
For the first time, Mrs. Johansson noticed Mrs. Malloy. Mrs. Malloy smiled, without much hope of the smile being returned. Mrs. Johansson nodded, stiffly. Neither held out a hand.
“I am sorry to—to break in,” said Mrs. Johansson in her halting English. “I yoost said, I must speak to Hilda. It is about the train crash.”
This time Aunt Molly’s smile was warmly genuine. “Why, Mrs. Johansson! That’s why I came, too. Hilda’s so good at solving problems, and the train wrecks are a big problem.”
Mama looked surprised, but unbent a trifle. “Yes, and my son, Sven, he goes on the train sometimes, for Mr. Studebaker, and it would be very bad if he would be hurt. And Hilda, she sits and does nothing—”
“Now if that isn’t just what I’ve been saying! Mr. Malloy travels by train a good deal, by that very train that was wrecked last night that he would have been on if it hadn’t been for a meeting that went way past its time, and what I think—” she paused for breath “—what I think is that Hilda needs something to take her mind off her—er—discomfort, and this would be the very thing. Now sit down, do, and let’s talk Hilda into it.”
Eileen brought fresh coffee for everyone, and they talked, Mama breaking from time to time into agitated Swedish that Hilda had to translate.
Hilda argued vehemently that she didn’t want to get involved in anything as dangerous as hunting for a train wrecker, that it might be harmful for the baby, that in any case she was prohibited by her condition from being seen in public. While she argued she ate cold ham and boiled eggs and toast and jam, and drank coffee with thick cream in it, without noticing what she was doing. Patrick noticed, and winked at Eileen.
“You wouldn’t have to go out, child,” said Aunt Molly. “Not that it would hurt you any if you did. Gracious, women have been having babies since time began, and there’s nothing indecent about it.”
“You are right, Mrs. Malloy,” said Mama. “It is foolish to say that a woman carrying a child must not be seen.”
“Mama, most of the rules of society are foolish. But they are rules, and the real ladies in South Bend are not friendly with me anyway. They would like me even less if I broke the rule.”
Aunt Molly shook her head. “My dear girl, the real ladies, ladies like Mrs. Studebaker and young Mrs. Oliver, admire you greatly. It’s only the social upstarts and those who don’t know you who turn up their noses. Let them, I say.”
But Hilda shook her head just as firmly. “No. The rule is foolish, but I will not break it. When little Kristina grows up, she will be a society lady, and I do not want people to turn their noses up at her.”
“Then,” said Molly, “use your boys, your ‘Baker Street Irregulars.’ They’ll have heard more about what’s going on than the police, or I don’t know boys.”
“Yes,” said Mama, “and Erik, he is not in school, it is summer, and his yob—job—does not take all his time, only the afternoons. He can ask questions for you.”
“And Mr. Malloy can talk to the businessmen in town, find out what the gossip is among the railroad men.”
“And I can ask around among the servants,” put in Eileen from the corner, and then blushed. “Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t ought to’ve been listening.”
Suddenly Hilda grinned. “Why should you not? I always did, when I worked at Tippecanoe Place. What is the good of being a maid if you cannot hear and learn interesting things?”
“Then it’s settled,” said Aunt Molly. “You will organize our search, tell us what you need to know, and we will be your eyes and ears while you provide the brains.”
“Now, hold your horses a minute!” Patrick, not quite sure how things had spiraled out of control, looked at the women warily. “It’s all very well, you two wantin’ Hilda’s help over this business. But Hilda’s right, it’s foolish to think that she could do anythin’ about a criminal like a wrecker. If the police and the Pinkertons haven’t found out who it is, is it likely that one woman can do anythin’ at all? Especially a woman who’s—a woman in her condition? And it could be dangerous, besides. I’ll not have her gettin’ into trouble and maybe hurtin’ herself and my son.”
Three women began to talk at once. Patrick finally put his hands over his ears. “All right. All right! Aunt Molly, you were sayin’?”
“I don’t think, Patrick dear, that it could do any harm for Hilda to put her excellent mind to work on the problem. She need not involve herself beyond that. Who knows? She might come up with an idea or two that would be of help to the official investigators.”
Mama nodded energetically. “That is what I say, too. She is young and strong. It will not hurt her to t’ink about it.”
Patrick looked at Hilda.
“I will decide,” she said briefly, and reached for a cinnamon bun. “Eileen, is there more coffee?”
Patrick showed the two guests out. “Mind you,” he said in a low voice as he opened the screen door, “I’m still not sure this isn’t a fool idea. But I don’t want you to think I’m not obliged to the both of you for givin’ Hilda somethin’ to think about. That’s the best meal she’s had in weeks, and there’s a sparkle back in her eye. Not that she shouldn’t have had that right along. I can’t understand why she’s been so down in the dumps.”
The two women looked at him pityingly. “A man would not understand,” said Mama, and Aunt Molly nodded agreement. “You have never borne a child.”
Patrick couldn’t argue with that.
Aunt Molly’s carriage was waiting on the street. She turned to Mama. “May I take you home? It’s far too hot to walk anywhere.”
“Thank you, but I go to work.” Mama straightened her back and lifted her chin.
“Then I’ll take you to work, and we can talk on the way.” Molly tucked Mama’s hand into the crook of her arm. “Wilson’s, isn’t it? I hope they’re managing to keep the place more or less comfortable in the heat. Mr. Malloy’s store is well-nigh unbearable these days.”
Patrick watched as the two climbed into the carriage and clattered away down the brick pavement. He shook his head in awe. If Molly had begun to bring Mrs. Johansson around toward a truce, it was almost a miracle. And Hilda’s revived energy—well, he might have to think again about their wild scheme.
3
RUSSIAN DISTURBANCE TO REACH CRISIS SUNDAY
—South Bend Tribune, January 21, 1905
Hilda sat at the breakfast table after everyone had left, thoughtfully nibbling at another cinnamon bun and drinking coffee. She was hot and uncomfortable, and the baby seemed to be dancing a jig. She had every excuse for going back to bed.
On the other han
d...
She put down her coffee cup and rang the bell. “Eileen, is there a cool dress I can still wear?”
Eileen nodded eagerly. “I let out the bodice of your white lawn, ma’am, and put gussets in the waist. It’ll fit you still, and it’s lovely and cool.”
“No corset,” said Hilda decidedly. “And as little underneath as is decent. And Eileen, before you help me dress, ask Mr. O’Rourke to take the carriage and find Erik and bring him to me. He is probably still at home and in bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eileen fairly danced out of the room. This was more like the mistress she knew and loved.
It took Mr. O’Rourke a while to find Erik. He had not been in bed. Too hot to sleep, he had risen at dawn and gone to the river to fish. That was fun, but cleaning the fish afterward was not. So he was happy to postpone that chore, leave his catch on ice at home, and go with Hilda’s coachman.
“You smell of fish,” was his loving sister’s greeting when he walked in her door. “And your feet are dirty. Why do you not wear shoes?”
“It’s too hot. And I was fishing—what do you expect me to smell like? Anyway, Mr. O’Rourke told me you wanted to see me right away. I thought maybe something was wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong. Please go to the scullery and wash your feet. I do not want mud on my new carpet.”
Resentfully, Erik went, and returned in a fever of curiosity. “So what did you want me for?”
Hilda chose her words carefully, having given the matter some thought. “Mama and Aunt Molly have asked me to try to learn what I can about the train wrecks that have happened in the past weeks, especially the one yesterday.”
Erik nodded. “The Twentieth Century Flyer. Goin’ seventy-five miles an hour, she was, and hit an open switch. She flew, all right—off the track and into a ditch, engine and cars and all. Then the engine caught fire, and—”
“That is enough, Erik. I have read the newspaper. It was horrible. The police and the Pinkertons are working to find the man who did this, and I am sure that I cannot be of any real help to them.”
“Why not? You’ve helped ’em before, haven’t you? Solved cases for ’em when they didn’t have no idea where to look.”
“Did not have any idea,” Hilda corrected automatically. “But that was when I could get about and talk to people. Now I cannot.”
“Why not? You can still walk, can’t you?”
Hilda winced. A farm boy knew all about obstetrics, at least with regard to cows and sheep and horses, but at fourteen, and the youngest in his family, Erik was perhaps unaware of social prohibitions. Obviously he didn’t understand that pregnancy was not to be discussed.
“It is expected that I stay home for the next few months, except to go to church,” she said, and changed the subject. “That is why I need your help. If I am to please Mama and Aunt Molly, I must at least pretend to seek information about the wrecks. Have you and your friends talked about them?”
“O’ course! Nothin’ much else goin’ on here when it’s so durned hot.”
“Erik! Your language!”
Erik grinned. “Patrick says ‘damned hot.’ I heard him.”
Hilda gritted her teeth. “Then he should not. And anyway what a grown man says and what you may say are different things. But what have you heard about the train wrecks?”
“There’s a lot o’ talk, but none of it means much. Some say it’s hoboes doin’ it, makin’ trouble ’cause they get thrown off the trains.”
Hilda frowned. “That does not sound reasonable. Most hoboes are peaceable men. And they know how to stay away from the train guards, so they will not be caught.”
Erik nodded. “That’s what I say, too. Nice guys, hoboes. They only steal when they have to.”
Erik knew something about hoboes, for they had once saved his life. They were not, perhaps, the most suitable companions for a respectable boy, but she shared his opinion that most of them were “nice guys,” though she would never have expressed it in that slangy way. “What else do your friends say?”
“Stupid stuff, mostly. One of ’em—well, Ben, you know him—he says his father says it’s probably the railroad men doin’ it themselves, to collect on the insurance.”
“Oh! But that is a wicked idea! To kill so many people, just for money!”
“Yeah, and stupid. Them railroad men—”
“Those railroad men.”
“—those railroad men are rich as kings. They don’t need the insurance money. Now, Andy, he says he’s heard talk it’s anakiss—antikris—”
“Anarchists?”
“Yeah, like the ones in Russia. You know, blowin’ stuff up and killin’ kings and stuff like that.”
Hilda hadn’t read the newspapers carefully of late, but she had the notion that Erik’s summary was somewhat less than accurate. However... “Why would they want to destroy trains? I believe what they want is to have a better government in Russia. What does that have to do with American trains?”
Erik shrugged. “Dunno. That’s what Andy’s heard, though.”
“From guests at the hotel?” Hilda knew Andy well. He was a bellboy at the Oliver Hotel, the finest in town, and often overheard interesting conversations.
“Guests, and town people who come to the hotel for dinner. Important people.”
“Hmm.” Hilda thought for a moment. “Erik, when does Andy get off work, do you know?”
“Supper time, or thereabouts.”
“And you will be at work yourself then. Do you think you could leave for a few minutes and go and ask Andy to come and see me on his way home?”
“Sure. The firehouse is only a couple of blocks from the hotel, and the horses won’t miss me for five minutes. But can’t I come, too?”
“No, you must not leave your work for so long. But if you come back tomorrow morning, I will tell you what Andy tells me, and we can make some plans.”
“Okay, I guess. Well, I reckon I better get back and clean my fish before I go to work.” Then he brightened. “Say, Hilda, can Mr. O’Rourke take me home? And I saw them cinnamon buns in the kitchen. They look awful good. Can I have one?”
When Patrick came home for lunch, he found Hilda in the parlor, dressed and with her hair braided properly. She was sitting in an overstuffed chair, surrounded by a pile of newspapers.
“Patrick! You are home. Good. What do we do with old newspapers?”
“Here, now! Do I get a kiss, darlin’ girl?”
He bent over her and got a perfunctory kiss before she questioned him again. “Newspapers, Patrick. I can find them only as far back as two weeks ago.”
“Blessed if I know what we do with ’em. Use ’em to light the fires, I suppose, or in summer to wrap the garbage. Why?”
“I am looking for the accounts of the uprisings in Russia, but I cannot find anything.”
“And why the sudden interest in Russia?”
“Andy says—you know, Erik’s friend Andy—he says there is talk that Russian anarchists are behind the train wrecks. It does not seem likely to me, but I want to read about the uprisings before I talk to Andy, and he is coming to see me this afternoon.”
“So you’re serious about this train wreck business? Hilda, I told you, it’s maybe dangerous!”
Hilda’s eyes flashed. “You told me also that it was foolish for me to think I could do anything. I am smart, Patrick. You know I am. I can sometimes find out things other people cannot. And how can there be danger when I never leave the house? Be sensible, Patrick! And find me those newspapers. There would be copies at the Tribune and Times offices, would there not, if we do not have them?”
Patrick sat down, heavily. He was extremely dubious about this whole endeavor. But—here was his Hilda back, the eager, bright-eyed, strong-willed woman he adored, ordering him about in her usual imperious fashion, looking healthier and happier than she had since January.
He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do about the papers, darlin’. Now what about me lunch?”
Patrick called in at both newspaper offices on his way back to the store. He was finding it useful, in more ways than one, to have money. Patrick Cavanaugh, fireman, might have received scant attention at the busy offices. Patrick Cavanaugh, partner in a prosperous business concern that advertised heavily, was shown every courtesy. Certainly there were extra copies of papers, back several months. Would Mr. Cavanaugh like to take them with him? Oh, of course. Well, then, a newsboy would be dispatched to the Cavanaugh home as soon as the relevant issues were compiled. No trouble at all, sir. Thank you, sir.
The papers arrived, several pounds of them going all the way back to January, and Hilda settled down to learn about unrest in Russia.
There was a good deal to learn, none of it agreeable. It seemed, at least at first, to have much more to do with labor unrest than with anarchism. A massive strike in St. Petersburg in early January had led to a fearful bloodbath, when thousands of striking workers and their families, presenting a petition to the czar, were attacked by the Russian army. Hilda read in horror about screaming men—and women and children—in the thousands, trying to flee gunfire and the murderous hooves of cavalry horses.
With a shudder, Hilda read on. It came as no surprise to learn that, on February 4, the Grand Duke Sergius, uncle to the czar, had been assassinated, blown to bits by a bomb placed in his carriage in Moscow. Spurred on, perhaps, by this success, the strike movement grew, spreading to rural districts and causing great disorder.
After that, the situation in Russia seemed to calm down for a while, or at least the unrest ceased to inspire the editors of the South Bend Tribune and Times, who moved other news to the front page. Russia’s ongoing war with Japan took pride of place in the foreign news columns, the tide turning now to favor one country, now the other.
Hilda wasn’t interested in a war on the other side of the world. She leafed quickly through several issues, making a face as she looked at the pictures of gorgeous spring and summer fashions. She could afford that sort of clothes now. If only she could wear them!
There was a bright side, however. Those lovely dresses absolutely required a corset, and Hilda had, at least for a while, the perfect excuse for not wearing the detested garment.
Murder in Burnt Orange Page 2