by Michelle Cox
“Well spotted, Inspector.”
Clive eased the car into the lane and slowly proceeded down it. It seemed to stretch on and on, with no buildings or signage in sight. Eventually, they came to a fork in the road, but there were no signs there, either, to indicate what lay down each path. After pausing for a moment, Clive chose the road to the right. It began as the main road had, surrounded by trees, but as they continued along, the trees began to thin somewhat, and they saw glimpses of what looked to be a rather large lake to their left. It reminded Henrietta of the massive estates she had seen in England on their honeymoon; Linley Castle in particular.
They eventually left the woods completely, the vista further opening up to reveal a set of buildings neatly laid out, facing the lake and centered on a large column, around which the drive circled and then continued on. The building in the center looked to be a sort of chapel or a church, with several buildings symmetrically flanking it. In front of the chapel was the column and beyond that a shrub-lined mall, which ran all the way down to the lake itself, ending in a stone balustrade.
Clive pulled the car into a tiny lot where a smattering of other cars were parked and came around to open the door for Henrietta. “Ready?” he asked.
“Yes, and I know what you’re going to say,” she said, taking his arm. “Let you do the talking.”
“Not necessarily. I’ve changed, you see,” he said solemnly.
Surprised by this, she was about to comment, but he spoke before she could.
“Well, how about I do most of it?” he said, adjusting his hat as he grinned down at her.
“I knew it!” she said and couldn’t help but laugh.
As they stepped onto a stone pathway that led to the main buildings, the sun broke through the rather dense cloud cover, and Henrietta was obliged to shield her eyes as she took her first look around. She gazed at the placid lake, so smooth that it looked to be made of glass. From this angle, she could see that beyond the stone balustrade at the end of the mall were stone stairs on either side which led down to a terrace and then another below. From there, a bricked overlook emerged, at the end of which sat a sort of stone gazebo, supported by stone columns. Two piers curved out into the lake from either side of it, giving the appearance that this central gazebo, or boat house, as it appeared to be, was attempting to throw its stone arms around the lake.
Looking at it, Henrietta felt as if they had magically been transported into some foreign place, or maybe a fairy tale, and she half expected a prince or some other royal person to step out and greet them at any moment. The sun was oddly almost blinding now, so much so that she kept having to look down and, for the effort, was delighted to notice several daffodil buds poking up through the few clumps of snow that remained. In some spots farther along, where the snow had melted completely, she could see crocuses, and they cheered her immensely in a way she didn’t expect.
“This place is so big,” she said, pulling her gaze from them and looking around again. “How are we ever going to find Fraulein Klinkhammer?”
“First thing’s first,” Clive said confidently. “That looks like an administrative type of building.” He nodded toward a columned building to the right of the chapel. “Shall we?”
Henrietta nodded and again held her hand up to her eyes to study the buildings in front of them as they walked, trying to guess if their columns and domes were of a Renaissance style, or maybe Georgian. She wasn’t sure—but she was trying to learn these things. It was something Clive had said he wanted to educate her on as they traveled through Europe, but having to rush home for Alcott’s funeral put that particular bit of her education on hold for now.
They hurried up the shallow steps, and as they stepped inside what they hoped was the administration building, Henrietta was surprised at how opulent it was, again reminding her of the estates she had seen in England. This was certainly not what she imagined a seminary would be like.
They had stepped into an open courtyard of sorts in the center of a two-story building, though above them was, of course, not open air, but instead a beautiful ceiling of leaded stained glass. Doric columns lined the room, which served to support the Ionic colonnade above.
“It’s beautiful,” Henrietta whispered, her head back, observing the intricate, geometric patterns in the ceiling.
“May I help you?” snapped a young priest sitting behind a desk off to the right, catching their attention. Henrietta hadn’t even noticed him when they first came in, so mesmerized had she been with the interior.
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Clive answered as they made their way over to him.
“Yes?” The young priest eyed them carefully and seeming not overly pleased with what he saw. He had very short, dark-brown hair that looked as though it wanted to curl and very green eyes that continued to look at them disapprovingly. His face was angular and severe, making the rounded dimple in his chin look almost out of place. “Are you selling something?” he asked sharply. “Or are you here to see someone? Visiting hours are on Sundays only, from two until four. They should have told you that,” he chirped, rapidly tapping his pencil on the paper in front of him. Henrietta winced at how much the feminine inflection of his voice reminded her of Eugene.
“We’re not selling anything, and we’re not here to visit anyone,” Clive explained stiffly. “We’re looking for one of your cleaning women, I believe. A Miss Liesel Klinkhammer? Where would we find her?”
The priest’s brow furrowed. “You can’t just barge in here and talk to the staff,” he said incredulously.
“Why not?”
“Because . . . because it’s against the rules,” the priest blustered.
“Look, Father . . . ?” Henrietta said.
“Moran.”
“Father Moran, is there someone else we could talk to?” she asked politely.
“Yes, who’s in charge?” Clive demanded.
“The most Reverend Monsignor Gaspari is our rector,” Fr. Moran said irritably, as if this was information they should have known. “And he would be very annoyed to be bothered with something this trivial. Why do you want to talk to this woman, anyway? Are you family?”
“No, I’m a private detective. Clive Howard. And this is my wife, Mrs. Howard. No one’s in trouble,” he said, reaching inside his suit coat to produce one of the business cards Henrietta had surprised him with at Christmas, the sight of which now thrilled her. He handed the card to the priest. “We just have some information. Of a personal nature, shall we say. Now, we’d like to talk to her.” His eyes darted to the hallways beyond before returning his gaze to the young priest before him.
Fr. Moran examined the card in his hand. “I’d better go ask about this. Monsignor is very busy, however.”
“Well, maybe someone else could help us,” Henrietta suggested.
“No, no, no,” Fr. Moran said impatiently, still studying the card. “The monsignor will want to know about this.” He stood up, revealing his long, black cassock. “I’ll see if he can find a moment to see you. Wait here,” he said crisply and then disappeared down a hallway.
“Find a moment?” Henrietta whispered to Clive once Fr. Moran was out of earshot. “What does he possibly have to do all day? It’s not as if there’s a crowd out here.” She gestured at the palatial interior.
Clive shrugged. “It’s the usual runaround. He’ll see us,” he said confidently.
“Runaround?” Henrietta asked with a smile. “Now who’s using plebian phrases?”
Clive laughed. “Plebian? I think the word I used was ‘peasant,’ or are you trying to one-up me? I—”
“Right this way,” called Fr. Moran from somewhere down the hall, gesturing with two fingers to follow him.
“See?” Clive said under his breath, and Henrietta felt obliged to pinch his arm.
“Ow!” he mouthed, silently.
They caught up to Fr. Moran, who led them down a marble hallway with dark walnut wainscoting.
“This is highly unusual
, by the way. The monsignor is a very busy man,” he repeated without looking back at them. “I do hope this won’t take up too much of his time. We have ordinations just after Easter, and we’re all exceedingly busy. Especially the monsignor. So be quick,” he warned, pausing outside the last door in the hallway. He gave the beveled, chicken-wire glass panel on the door a quick knock and, without waiting for an answer from within, opened the door and gestured them inside. “Mrs. Middleton will see to you.”
“Mrs. Middleton?” Henrietta asked, as they stepped into a small antechamber.
“Monsignor Gaspari’s secretary,” he said, nodding at the woman cramped behind a small desk. “She’ll see to you. Good day.” He gave a quick bow and left them standing in front of Mrs. Middleton, who looked up at them from the stack of envelopes she was addressing with what could only be called apathy, or perhaps extreme boredom. She was a frail-looking woman, her shoulders rounded forward as if her thin, wispy body were not strong enough to hold them up entirely. Her eyes had a sort of haunted, miserable look to them, and her graying brown hair was tied neatly in a bun, with only a few errant tendrils having escaped to hang about her face, creased already with wrinkles. She wore a brown checked housedress and brown oxfords. Indeed, everything about Mrs. Middleton seemed dull and brown.
“You can sit down if you’d like,” she said, nodding toward two wooden chairs against the far wall, which reminded Henrietta of the principal’s office back when she had attended school. “The monsignor will be with you in a moment,” she said without any facial expression and continued to write.
Before they could even move toward the chairs, however, the door opened behind her to reveal a small man with greased, black hair lined with streaks of gray and silver spectacles.
“Mr. and Mrs. Howard, I believe?” he asked in a clipped, professional tone that reminded Henrietta of a businessman, or maybe a doctor. In fact, he only resembled a priest but for the long black robes he was dressed in. “This way, please,” he said, stepping aside for them to pass through to his inner sanctum.
“Hold my calls, Mrs. Middleton.”
“Yes, Monsignor,” she said, without looking up from her task.
Henrietta followed Clive into the office and was again surprised by what she saw. While the antechamber was cramped and small, the monsignor’s office was quite spacious. It was a round corner office with large leaded glass windows taking up almost half of the circular room, a narrow band of stained glass running above them. On one wall was a beautiful fireplace with columns carved into it in a sort of bas-relief, topped with a marble mantel. Above it hung an old oil painting of Jesus and Mary . . . or was it Jesus and Mary Magdalene? Henrietta wondered.
On the other side of the room was a very large desk, ornately carved, as well, in front of which were two tufted leather chairs. On the wall above the desk hung a large crucifix, which depicted Christ with such lifelike wounds that Henrietta became unusually unsettled by it. She tried to avert her eyes, but they kept morbidly straying back to it. She supposed that the viewer was meant to be drawn to the gruesomeness of Christ’s suffering, but she had experienced her fair share of blood and suffering for now.
“Please, sit down,” Msgr. Gaspari said with a gesture, closing the door behind them and gingerly taking a seat behind the desk. “Now, what’s this all about? Father Moran informs me that you are a private detective,” he said carefully, glancing down at Clive’s card, which had somehow found its way to a spot on the desk in front of him. “Is something wrong?” he asked, his eyes piercing each of them in turn. He had an air of shrewdness about him that reminded Henrietta of her grandfather.
“No, no one’s in trouble,” Clive answered. “It’s a very simple matter. I’m sure someone else could have answered it for us, but your Father Moran was quite insistent that we speak directly with you.”
“Yes, Father Moran is very exacting in his duty. And he was quite right to bring this to me,” he said dismissively. “Now, perhaps you’d tell me what this is all about?” he repeated with what seemed to Henrietta to be a rather insincere smile.
“We’re looking for a young woman,” Clive said, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs smoothly. “We believe she is employed here as a cleaner of some descript. Her name is Miss Klinkhammer. Liesel Klinkhammer. Ring a bell?”
Henrietta noticed the priest’s right shoulder stiffen slightly. “Hmmm,” he said calmly as he pressed his hands together, the tips of his two index fingers forming a steeple that rested against his pursed lips. A large ruby ring adorned one of his fingers, but Henrietta was instead mesmerized by his eyes, as if he could see through people and any lies they might be telling. She forced herself finally to look over at Clive, who, on the other hand, seemed amazingly unruffled by the priest’s scrutiny. Indeed, he was returning it in kind.
“There are a great many staff members, you know,” Msgr. Gaspari went on. “I’m afraid I don’t know all of their names.” He gave a small shrug. “Cigarette?” he offered Clive, as he reached for a silver cigarette case on top of his desk. He smoothly flipped it open and held it out.
Clive declined the offer with a wave of his hand, and Henrietta watched as the priest took one himself, lit it, and then inhaled deeply.
“You might recall her,” Clive said. “German immigrant? Not much English, apparently.”
Msgr. Gaspari let out a big stream of smoke through his nostrils. “Oh, her?” he said slowly. “Yes, I do recall her, as a matter of fact. Unfortunate case,” he tried to say with a smile.
“Why is that?” Clive asked.
“She’s no longer with us, I’m afraid.”
“But she was employed here?”
“Yes, if we’re talking about the same person.”
Clive gave him a wry look. “What happened?”
Msgr. Gaspari inhaled again and sat back in his chair. “She was working here for quite some time, I believe, and then she suddenly became ill. Quite seriously, as I remember. Fits or some such thing. Obviously not something we are particularly adept at unraveling here, so after one particularly bad episode, we called an ambulance to take her to the hospital.”
“Which one?” Clive asked, his eyes narrowed.
“Probably Victory Memorial,” he said blankly. “I’m not really sure, to be perfectly honest.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know,” he said, inhaling. “She didn’t come back.”
“She didn’t come back? Didn’t you find that odd?”
“Not really,” Msgr. Gaspari said, flicking some ash into an ashtray perched off to the side on his desk. “Happens all the time. It’s quite commonplace, actually.”
“For a staff member to go to the hospital and never come back?”
Msgr. Gaspari looked intently at Clive with his piercing gaze. “For the staff to quit. Especially the cleaners.”
“Why is that?”
Msgr. Gaspari gave another shrug. “You know immigrants. Always scrambling for something better.”
Clive let out a sigh. “So no one followed up? No one went to see her?”
“Not that I know of. Not in an official capacity. It wouldn’t have been seemly.”
“For a priest to visit a sick woman in the hospital?”
“For the administrator of a college to go to the bedside of one of the cleaning women,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he inhaled deeply. “I’m a very busy man, detective.”
“So I’ve been told. A number of times now.” Clive stared at him coolly, but Msgr. Gaspari did not flinch.
“She had a friend, I believe,” Henrietta said quietly, deciding finally to speak.
Msgr. Gaspari’s eyes traveled to her as if he had forgotten she was there.
“By the name of Teresa Wolanski,” Henrietta said tentatively, her heart already sinking at the realization that they would most probably not find Leisel Klinkhammer today. “She wrote a letter for Miss Klinkhammer and mailed it to Germany for her. Perhaps she went to see her in the h
ospital and might be able to tell us something. Might we speak with her? If she still works here . . . that is?”
“Like I said, Mrs. Howard,” Msgr. Gaspari said, looking at her with a touch of derision, “There’re a great many staff members. I’m not familiar with each one. However, Mrs. Middleton can find that information for you. Now, if that’s all, I’ll wish you good day. I have an appointment coming up. You were fortunate that I was able to give you even this much time.”
Henrietta judged his smile to be genuinely false now as he stood up, signaling them to do the same. He inclined his head slightly at Henrietta and held out his hand to Clive, which Clive gripped tightly.
“We may have more questions,” Clive said thinly.
“Then I’m sure you’ll be kind enough to make an appointment next time.”
“Yes, thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”
“And who did you say you were hired by?” Msgr. Gaspari asked, looking down at the ashtray as he snuffed out his cigarette.
“I didn’t say. And it isn’t pertinent, actually.”
“Ah, I see. So you’re not operating in any official police capacity?” he said slowly. “Just so I understand the whole picture.”
“Oh, I think you understand well enough, Monsignor. And I’m well connected, you should know.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Not at all. Just so you understand.”
The two stared at each other.
“You haven’t said why you’re looking for her,” Msgr. Gaspari finally said guardedly.
“No, I did not.”
“It’s a reasonable question.”
Clive held the Monsignor’s gaze for several moments before he finally spoke. “She left behind a child.”
“Ah. Typical.” Msgr. Gaspari shifted then, relaxing slightly. “Mrs. Middleton!” he shouted.
“Yes, Monsignor?” came the woman’s warbly voice from beyond the door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Howard are needing some information on one of our employees. Please help them with that if you would.”
“Yes, Monsignor.”