A Child Lost

by Michelle Cox

  Henrietta looked at Rose and could tell that she was hesitating.

  “It’s not a bad idea, Rose,” Henrietta said gently, Mrs. Hennessey’s words about so much wasted space being a sin secretly stinging her.

  “But Billy’s not normal,” Rose said finally with a frown.

  “Not normal?” Mrs. Hennessey asked. “Whaddya mean?”

  “He’s . . . he’s backward,” Rose replied. “You know, he’s slow. He . . . he works at the electrics, but he doesn’t say much. He’s simple, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh! That all? Well, that don’t matter. Had a cousin like that. Don’t bother me none. Maybe he could even do some of the liftin’ for William, the poor thing. It’s getting harder for him to lift the kegs into place. Breweries are supposed to do it, but these days they just drop the kegs an’ go. Swine,” she muttered. “So. It’s all settled, is it?” She folded her hands, resting them on top of her plump stomach.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Rose said tentatively. “It’s very generous, Mrs. Hennessey, but I . . . Can I think about it?”

  “Course you can! But why don’t you move in tonight?”

  Rose broke into a small smile. “I’ll think about it,” she repeated, standing up abruptly. “But I should get going. Thank you. For the coffee and . . . and for the offer.”

  “You sure you have to go? All right, then. But hope you come back tonight. Bring Billy. I’ll make a stew. How’s that sound?”

  Rose didn’t say anything but seemed deep in thought as she buttoned her thin coat.

  “It’s just as much for Stan, you know,” Mrs. Hennessey reminded her. “We love him, we do; an’ this way you can have a nice wedding an’ do things the right way. You don’t want your married life to start out with a lie, do you?”

  Rose mustered up a sad smile and looked over at Henrietta as if she might cry again. “See ya round, sweets,” she said, huskily. “Say hi to the inspector,” she added before hurrying out.

  “I suppose I should go, too,” Henrietta said slowly.

  “Oh, you can’t go yet! You haven’t told me anything!” Mrs. Hennessey pleaded. “You have to tell me all about the honeymoon and how all the family’s doin’. Is it true the boys is all out east at some fancy school?”

  Henrietta took a deep breath and resigned herself to being there awhile and hoped Fritz wouldn’t mind. Quickly she tried to remember if Antonia had any committee meetings later today that might require one of the cars and Fritz’s services. Well, she reasoned, Albert, the new footman hired to replace the errant James, could always drive her in the Daimler if necessary.

  Henrietta then proceeded to catch Mrs. Hennessey up on all that had happened with each member of the family since the wedding, ending with Elsie’s going to college and meeting Gunther and even the recent search for the epileptic Liesel Klinkhammer in Dunning. Henrietta wisely decided not to go into the Madame Pavlovsky story or Mrs. Hennessey would no doubt ask so many questions, she would never escape. As it was, Dunning was more than subject enough to prompt a whole string of questions.

  “Ooh, Dunning,” said Mrs. Hennessey, taking her turn at pouring them more coffee. “Now that’s a terrible place, that is. Wouldn’t step foot in there if you paid me. Can’t believe the inspector took you along. That ain’t no place for a rat, much less a lady like you are now.”

  “Yes, it was pretty shocking,” Henrietta said, deciding not to respond any further.

  “Had a niece that worked there for a time, as a nurse,” Mrs. Hennessey said with a proud little dip of her chin. “But she quit after a while. Couldn’t take it, she said. Got a job eventually right over here at the Jefferson Park.”

  “I can’t imagine working at a place like Dunning. No wonder she quit,” Henrietta mused.

  “Not that she’s a quitter is our Ida, the poor thing. Don’t want you to think that of her. Tried to warn her before she started there, but she went ahead an’ did it anyway. Worked there almost a year, afore she quit. Didn’t want to say ‘I told you so,’ but I did tell her so. She didn’t want to talk that much about it. Only thing she would say is that something spooked her.”

  “Like what?” Henrietta asked, goose bumps suddenly rippling up her arms.

  “She never would elaborate, would Ida. Drove me crazy at the time. But something happened. Something that scared her, she said, something she wanted no part of. So she up an’ quit, just like that. Takin’ a risk, I told her. Jobs bein’ scarce an’ havin’ to take care of her ma, me brother bein’ dead these last ten years. But you can ask her yourself,” Mrs. Hennessey said, smiling placidly. “Perhaps she’ll be chattier with someone like yourself. Course that was over a year ago now—”

  “Ask her myself?” Henrietta interrupted.

  “Well, she’s going to be at our little gatherin’ for Winifred an’ Roger, ain’t she? An’ you an’ Clive will come, right? An’ Elsie, too, if she wants, like. Have to show off our grandchild to the family. Or what’s left of it anyway. Might be our only grandchild we ever get, that is unless you an’ Clive ever get busy. We might call ourselves the honorary grandparents, like, though between your ma an’ all those rich folks, we probably won’t even get a look in. No, we’re determined to show off little Prudence, though Winifred’s already told us not to make a fuss. An’ wouldn’t you know, Winifred claims that the baby looks exactly, that’s how she wrote it in her letter—exactly—like Roger’s mother. But there must be some of William there, don’t you think?” she asked, reminding Henrietta that Mrs. Hennessey was in fact merely the stepmother of the three Hennessey children, a fact that Mrs. Hennessey herself never seemed to remember, to her credit, having come into their lives when they were all still very small.

  Many times, Mrs. Hennessey had told her the story of how the three of them had looked when Mr. Hennessey brought her home to meet them all. “Like lost kittens, they were. Like wild strays. Just needed a little love is all,” she had said more than once, though Henrietta had privately reflected many times since, that the three Hennessey children, based on Mrs. Hennessey’s own tales, never seemed very grateful for having been rescued by the likes of Mrs. Hennessey, an observation which had always negatively colored Henrietta’s perception of the three of them. She was more than intrigued to meet this Winifred, of which she had heard so much over the years, and wondered if she could convince Clive to come.

  “When is it?” Henrietta asked, gathering up her things.

  “It’s to be Monday next,” she said. “’Cause that’s our slow night, as you know. Even closin’ the tap for the occasion! But you’re not goin’, are you?” Mrs. Hennessey asked, sadly. “William will be sorry to have missed you. I think he’s still asleep up there,” she said, frowning. “He sleeps later an’ later these days. I’ll just run up an’ get him, should I?”

  “I really have to be getting back, Mrs. Hennessey. Fritz has been out there waiting all this time,” she said, standing up.

  “No! He should’ve come in with you! Oh, my,” she said, distressed. “Out there in the cold all this time?”

  Henrietta could not help but let out a laugh at the thought of Fritz pulling up a chair next to Antonia and Victoria Braithewaite at the club. “He’s used to it. Even if you had asked, he would never have agreed, anyway. It’s his job to wait,” Henrietta tried to explain, though she was instantly conscious of how bad that sounded.

  “Well, I suppose you know best,” Mrs. Hennessey said doubtfully. “Before long, you won’t want to even know us!”

  Henrietta laughed again. “That’s not true,” she said, kissing the older woman on the cheek. “I’ll speak to Clive about the party. We’ll try our best. Tell Mr. Hennessey I said hello.”

  Mrs. Hennessey embraced her and finally let her go, but not before telling her one more story about a neighbor down the street and then, just when Henrietta was finally about to leave, having grown very warm standing there all bundled up, Mrs. Hennessey again delayed her by insisting she pack up some pound cake for her
. “You know, the one you used to enjoy so much?” she called over her shoulder as she hurried to the back room to get it. “Won’t take a minute!” she called. She took so long to return, however, that Henrietta began to wonder if something had happened to her.

  “Do you need any help?” Henrietta called out as she glanced at her wristwatch and pulled at her scarf.

  “No, no,” Mrs. Hennessey said, waddling back into the room carrying a brown-paper package that she handed to Henrietta. “Here you are, case you get hungry on the way, or maybe you can have it with your tea with Clive an’ his ma. I’d be glad to give her the recipe if she wants it. Whenever I make it for any doin’s at St. Sylvester’s, I always get asked at least once for the recipe, but you already know that, don’t you?” she said with a proud smile.

  Henrietta had to stifle a laugh at the image that leapt to her mind of Antonia unwrapping the pound cake wrapped in creased brown paper and serving it at Highbury. She wanted to laugh, but instead she gave Mrs. Hennessey another hug and kiss. “I will,” she promised.

  “Don’t forget about the party!” she called out, as Henrietta slipped out the door, the pound cake tucked carefully under her arm.

  As expected, Fritz had parked the Rolls halfway down the street and upon seeing her walk toward him, quickly got out of the car to open the door for her.

  “I trust you had a pleasant time, madame.”

  “Yes, thank you, Fritz,” she said. “I’m sorry it was so long. I didn’t expect it to be.”

  “No trouble at all, madame,” he said with a slight bow before walking around to the driver’s side and getting in.

  Henrietta set the bag of pound cake on the seat beside her and looked out the window at the neighborhood that used to be hers, many thoughts going through her mind as Fritz pulled out onto California. At the forefront of her mind was poor Rose’s dilemma. She felt sorry for Rose, of course, but she couldn’t help but feel sorry for Stan as well, whom she knew was being used in this situation. She could hardly blame Rose for wanting to escape her miserable situation, but would such a marriage really work? She supposed most marriages ended up being unhappy ones. She didn’t want that for Stan and Rose, but how could a marriage built on so flimsy a foundation not end up as such? Especially if Rose didn’t really like men in the first place . . .

  Henrietta watched a woman walk down the street, holding a child by the hand, until she stepped into Woolworth’s with him. Mrs. Hennessey’s playful criticism of her and Clive not “getting busy” to produce a child (and thus a pseudo-grandchild for them) had initially stung a bit, but it had dissipated when she reflected that she should have just told Mrs. Hennessey the truth, that she had been pregnant but had lost it. Surely Mrs. Hennessey would have been more than sympathetic. And now that the opportunity had passed, Henrietta desperately wished that she’d had the courage to do so, as it would have been nice to be comforted by this woman who had been more of a mother to her than Ma. Why hadn’t she? she fretted. But, then again, she reasoned, she had not really had the chance. Not with the discussion so heavily centered on Rose and Stan and also Winifred. Actually, Henrietta mused, she was surprised that talking about Winifred and her new baby was less painful than expected. Did that mean she was finally getting better? She thought she had been, but then the whole encounter with Mrs. Wojcik and Madame Pavlovsky had stirred it all up again.

  The windows were beginning to fog up, blurring her vision of the outside world they were passing, so she wiped the one nearest to her with her gloved fist and peered out. It was an uncharacteristically warm day, and the snow was beginning to finally turn slushy. She unwrapped the scarf from around her neck, her mind drifting back to Dunning and the melancholy women that had, through one circumstance or another, ended up there, a fate Henrietta felt would be worse than death. How would being committed to such a place cure anyone suffering from depression? If it wasn’t so terrible, it would be laughable in its absurdity. Her mind went to Mrs. Hennessey’s niece, then, and she wondered what it was that had scared this Ida so badly that she quit. Was it something that one of the patients had said or done? Henrietta wondered, or, her mind wandering suddenly to Nurse Harding, was it one of the staff?

  Chapter 13

  “I don’t see why the police can’t come themselves,” Mr. Tobin growled.

  “This was a legitimate crime. This woman must be stopped!”

  Clive bit his lip, trying to swallow his annoyance.

  “Don’t expect me to pay you,” Mr. Tobin went on with a scowl. “I didn’t ask for a private detective. I wanted the real police.”

  “Monetary remuneration won’t be necessary, Mr. Tobin,” Clive said thinly.

  “Eh?”

  “It means you don’t have to pay us,” Henrietta said gently.

  Mr. Tobin’s eyes darted to where she sat next to Clive on the Tobins’ front room sofa in their small brick home in the neighboring village of Northfield. “I don’t think I asked you,” he snapped.

  Clive felt a rush of heat to his face, and he had to fight the sudden desire to grab Tobin and throw him up against a wall. “That’s my wife,” he said sternly. “And you will show her the respect she deserves.”

  Mr. Tobin, apparently unaffected by Clive’s tone, merely gave him a dismissive, pitying sort of look, which was more irritating than one of anger or provocation would have been. Unfortunately, Clive knew the type sitting before him. The self-important type that craved power and attention but never seemed to get enough. He even had the look. Small, thin, balding head but for a few black strands arranged thinly on top. Thick, black-rimmed glasses with small piercing eyes that lay behind them. Small, thin mustache. This type, unable to bully other men because of their small stature, usually took their frustrations out on women, enjoying being able to laud it over and control at least someone.

  They had yet to be introduced to Mrs. Tobin, but Clive guessed she was hovering somewhere near—perhaps in the kitchen—listening and waiting to be called in by her master. She would be a certain type, too, Clive knew. Diminutive and slight, rounded shoulders and little eye contact. In a way, Henrietta’s sister, Elsie, sometimes struck him as that type—though she had admittedly seemed a little different this last time when they had seen her at Dunning. Maybe school was indeed good for her. If so, he hoped she would stay there, if nothing else than to avoid falling prey to a cruel, domineering husband, as she had so very nearly done in the form of Lieutenant Harrison-Barnes or even that cad Lloyd Aston. Clive had of course crossed paths several times with Lloyd Aston at various North Shore events, and he had secretly been glad when he heard that Elsie threw him over.

  “Let’s get one thing crystal clear, shall we?” Clive said. “I’m working in conjunction with the Winnetka police, and my wife is my partner. I’m an acting deputy, and, as it is, I’ve had the misfortune to be assigned to this case. So you can answer our questions—both of our questions—or we can walk out of here right now and stop wasting our time. Or I can take Mrs. Tobin to the station and question her privately.”

  “Fine, fine,” Mr. Tobin said, brushing Clive off as if he had commented on the weather. “Let’s get on with it, then, shall we? It’s my Elks meeting tonight, and I’m the treasurer, so I can’t be late.”

  In point of fact, before going over to question Mr. and Mrs. Tobin, Clive had made a slight detour to the Winnetka Police Station to, in fact, discuss with Davis the problem of his limited powers.

  Upon Clive and Henrietta’s arrival at the station, they had asked to see Sergeant Davis, and the officer on duty behind the main reception counter went off to find him. Within moments, Davis unexpectedly appeared, the officer trailing behind him. Without greeting them and with uncharacteristic swiftness, Davis quickly ushered them into a small antechamber off to the side of the main foyer, which looked as though it was being used as a sort of coatroom.

  “What are you doing here?” Davis asked in a low voice, his hands on his hips. “The chief’s in today.” He inclined his head tow
ard the back of the station, his gaze traveling from Clive to Henrietta as he did so. He crossed his arms in front of him, then, and flashed a rare smile at Henrietta. “Not that I mind seeing you, though.”

  “Do you mind?” Clive asked, irritated. “You make it so terribly obvious.”

  “You’d only figure it out anyway,” Frank said as he rifled through his pockets for a cigarette. “So why hide the fact that I think your wife is divine.”

  “Frank!” Henrietta said with a little laugh, her face a deeper shade of pink. “You mustn’t say such things.”

  “Why not? It’s the truth,” he said, lighting his cigarette.

  “Listen, can we get back to business?” Clive sighed. “We can’t stand here all day in the closet while you ogle my wife.”

  “I could think of worse fates,” he said as he inhaled, giving Henrietta the tiniest of winks.