The Solace of Stars, page 10
Soon after she’d pulled the pan aside to keep warm, Jacobine got back. Hanneke greeted her with a hug. “Did you and Dora have a nice visit with Frau Goetsch?”
“In the morning, we made a wreath for the Steckelbergs’ Erntedankfest tomorrow.” Jacobine hung her cloak on a peg. “Then Dora and I dug rutabagas. I was glad for the opportunity to repay Frau Goetsch’s kindnesses.”
The words were innocuous, but Jacobine’s expression suggested that she had something less sanguine to share. She opened her mouth, closed it again.
Hanneke felt a new pang of worry. “Liebchen, has something happened?”
“Did you visit Mutti today?”
“I’m afraid not.” Hanneke leaned toward the cooking niche and stirred the potatoes, hoping Jacobine wouldn’t ask for an explanation.
“I did.” Jacobine sucked in her lower lip. The smattering of faint freckles on her nose and cheeks looked more pronounced than they used to, and her cheeks had hollowed as well. “Frau Bauer, I’m getting more and more worried about her. I fear she’s sinking into a dangerous melancholy.”
Hanneke pinched her lips into a tight line. Grief was inevitable, but she had seen people disappear into their own minds after a tragedy. Some gradually regained their senses. Some did not.
“Sit down,” Hanneke directed. “I’ll serve, and you can tell me all about it.”
When they’d settled, Jacobine spooned up a few green beans and pushed them around the plate with her fork. “When the Goetsches and I arrived, Mutti was sitting on the back step, just staring.”
Staring at the spot where August died? The image made Hanneke queasy.
“She would hardly talk to me. When I told her I want to go home and care for her, now that Papa has been buried, she insisted that I stay with you.” Her voice quavered. “It’s my responsibility to care for her! Why wouldn’t she want me back with her?”
“It’s difficult to fathom,” Hanneke allowed slowly, “but I suspect your mother is simply worried about your well-being. Since the killer has not yet been apprehended, she thinks you’ll be safer here with me.”
“What about her safety? I’m very grateful for the friends who are helping with chores, and keeping her company. As time goes by, though, she’ll be alone more and more often.”
“Which is worrisome,” Hanneke agreed. She reached over and squeezed Jacobine’s hand. “Now that she’s getting stronger, perhaps your mother might stay here with us. Tomorrow, I will encourage her to come. Even a few days respite would surely do her good.”
Jacobine nodded forlornly.
“You need to eat something,” Hanneke urged.
“I’m not hungry.” Jacobine studied the untouched food on her plate. “Do you mind if I go to bed? I got a headache this afternoon, and I’m exhausted.”
“Bed is the best place for you, then. Take some pumpkin seeds to nibble while I make some tea.” Motherwort, she decided. The plant was good for nervous affections.
Jacobine was sitting on the bed when Hanneke arrived with a steaming cup. “Here you are. Try to drink it all.”
“Danke.” Jacobine sniffed and wrinkled her nose, but obediently sipped. “I don’t know what I would have done without you this week.”
Hanneke perched beside her. “Having you here is a blessing,” she said honestly. “I count both you and your mother as dear friends.”
They sat in silence for several minutes before Jacobine said hesitantly, “Frau Bauer? Something else happened today.”
Hanneke braced herself for more bad news. “What’s that, Liebchen?”
“Frau Goetsch fretted about my father’s killer still going free, and she asked if I’d remembered any other details. At first, I said no, but while we were talking, something came into my mind.” Jacobine’s whisper was barely discernible. “I think…I think they struggled.”
Hanneke went very still. “Who did?”
“My father and—and whoever he was arguing with that night. I didn’t remember before, but…I think I saw them struggling.”
Lieber Gott. Had Jacobine actually witnessed her father’s murder? Hanneke’s skin prickled at the thought. She started to ask for more details, but caught herself. If Jacobine’s memories were resurfacing, they would come at their own time. “That must have been terribly difficult. I’m sorry.”
Hanneke went back to the kitchen with a heavy heart. Jacobine might have experienced an even greater shock than originally imagined, and Hanneke felt helpless. With luck, her remedies would help Jacobine sleep, but the girl’s headache was only a reflection of an anguish that pumpkin seeds and hot tea could not mend.
I need to talk to the deputy, Hanneke thought. Should she walk to the Barlow place, where she could at least leave a message with Ulrike? Hanneke was loathe to leave Jacobine alone, though, for all kinds of reasons. Besides, she had evening chores to complete before the light faded.
After shooing her geese and chickens inside for the night, Hanneke headed for the sheep pasture. “I regret being so busy of late,” she apologized, “but I shall make amends.” Her Cotswold ewes looked sturdy, but sheep were by nature timid creatures, incapable of defending themselves from predators.
She completed her daily inspection for scab-causing mites before smearing linseed oil on their faces and nostrils to discourage tormenting flies. Doing so always reminded her of the 23rd Psalm. The Shepherd’s Psalm, some called it: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. The age-old act of care steadied her.
A senior ewe had a gash on one leg, so Hanneke coaxed her into a stall. She lit a lantern, then washed the crusted wound carefully and tied a bandage in place. Instead of rising again, she lingered on the stool with one palm resting against the docile ewe. She liked wriggling her fingers against the fleece, gently picking out mud clots. She liked imagining the satisfaction of one day spinning the wool into yarn, and knitting the yarn into something useful. She liked the stillness, broken only by occasional squabbles from the chicken pen. She liked being out of the wind. Out of the house. Out of the morass, devastating close friends. Just for a little while.
After a moment, she sighed. She couldn’t hide from the worries and questions still circling her brain like barn swallows. Her encounter with Wulff had shaken her. Jacobine’s revelation about witnessing a struggle had as well.
“I need to make sense of all this,” she told the ewe, who considered her with a dubious eye. “In truth, I’m growing dubious too,” Hanneke admitted. The harder she tried to understand the circumstances leading to August’s death, the more tangled they became in her mind.
Fridolin, I need help, she told her dead husband. You knew August far better than I. What should I do?
Most often in such moments, Hanneke perceived no response. Once in a while, however, she did. She closed her eyes and sat very still.
The barn door creaked open.
Heart thudding, Hanneke leapt to her feet. The person entering her stable was certainly not Fridolin. Had Caspar Wulff come to finish what he’d started? If so, this confined space was not where she would meet him.
She stepped from the stall, peering at a shadowed figure. “Who’s there?”
“John Barlow.”
Hanneke pressed one fist over her ribs. Did Fridolin consider John Barlow the answer to her prayers? “You gave me a fright, deputy!”
“I apologize. No one answered when I knocked at the house, so I guessed I might find you here.” He walked toward the pool of light cast by her lantern. “May we talk?”
She exhaled slowly. “Actually, I was hoping you’d stop by. Jacobine’s in the house—sleeping, I hope—so we should talk here.” She hung the lantern from a nearby hook.
“What have you learned?”
Hanneke saw no need to describe her futile forays to the candy store and Ballycumber Street. “I went to Caspar Wulff’s shop today.”
“You did what?” He pulled off his hat and slapped it angrily against his thigh. “I specifically told you to—”
“Stop it!” she snapped, startling them both. “Simply stop. You asked for my help, and I am striving to provide it. I am also too weary to listen to yet another diatribe before you give me a chance to tell you what you want to know.”
Barlow’s mouth twisted sideways in a familiar expression of irritation. After a moment he said, “Very well” in a clipped voice.
Hanneke related the chronology of her visit as calmly as she could. Barlow shook his head in disgust when he heard that Wulff had stolen valuable tinware from Karoline’s shop. He muttered an oath when she described the Know-Nothing parade lamps, already crated and ready for use. After she detailed Wulff’s efforts to trap her inside, and how he’d threatened her with the soldering iron, Barlow needed to stalk up and down the aisle.
His anger was warranted, but did nothing to soothe Hanneke’s nerves. She put a hand on his arm when he rejoined her, hoping to settle him. “I regret my visit, but I did escape unharmed.”
“Do you wish to press charges?”
“Absolutely, but….” She lifted her palms. “Is there a sensible reason for me to do so? No one else witnessed Wulff’s assault.”
“It would be your word against his,” Barlow agreed gloomily.
Just as she’d known. It was galling.
She tried to refocus. “At least you have new insight into the man’s character. Karoline’s maker’s mark on the box proves its provenance, and finding it in Wulff’s shop speaks to his volatile relationship with the Ketzlers. Can you arrest him for theft?”
“I doubt it. I’ll ride to Lebanon at first light, but Wulff isn’t a fool. I expect that before you were out of sight, he disposed of this unique box you speak of.”
At least destroying the evidence distracted him from chasing me, Hanneke thought. That was poor comfort.
“And although making parade lanterns for the nativists is despicable, it is not illegal.” Barlow paused. “But if nothing else, I shall put the fear of God and the law into the man.”
Beyond him, the stable was black as a cave. I must keep another lantern out here, Hanneke thought. Winter was coming. There was too much evil in the world. She needed more light.
When he spoke again, his voice was low. “Frau Bauer, I regret my impulse to involve you in this matter.”
“I already was involved,” she observed. “And I alone am responsible for my actions.” He started to speak, so she put up a palm to forestall any further arguments. “Jacobine remembered something else. When she looked from her window, she saw August struggling with someone.”
“Does she know who it was? Any helpful details?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He rubbed his chin with thumb and forefinger. “Then that tidbit is not of much help.”
“The important thing,” Hanneke said, “is that fragments of Jacobine’s memory are resurfacing. Something more helpful may yet emerge.”
“I surely hope so,” the deputy said. “And soon. Can you press her?”
Hanneke’s shoulders hunched at the thought. “I am aware of the desperate urgency, but I am equally anxious about Jacobine’s emotional state. I believe that pressing her would do more harm than good.”
He didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t protest. “I will respect your judgment.” He settled his hat on his head. “I must get home.”
She lifted the lantern and walked the deputy to the door. He reached for the latch, then turned back to face her. “I hope you can get some rest. You’ve had a difficult day.”
Hanneke blinked. “Well…that is…yes. I have.”
“Frau Bauer, are you all right?” The deputy frowned. “Is there something you haven’t told me? Did Wulff inflict harm after all?”
“Not to my person.” She heard a tremble in her voice and took a moment to steady it. “I have been threatened before, as you know. Nonetheless, seeing Wulff brandish that hot iron….” She shuddered convulsively.
His hands fisted, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “For the love of God, woman. You possess an exceptional degree of common sense. Use it.”
The rare compliment was heartening, but the barb in his words stung. Hanneke swallowed hard. “I always endeavor to exercise caution, deputy. The incident is behind me. Now, I must focus my attention on Jacobine. Karoline entrusted her to my care.”
Barlow was quiet for a long moment. Hanneke lifted her chin. She must always present herself sensibly to the deputy, calm and capable. She braced herself for further remonstration.
At last, he said, “I’ve been tracking down the other men who were with August at the Red Cockerel. Nothing helpful has turned up yet.”
Hanneke was so astonished by that unexpected revelation that she didn’t know what to say.
Deputy John Barlow briefly placed a hand on her arm. “Take care of yourself, Frau Bauer.” With that, he disappeared into the night.
Chapter Ten
The next morning, Hanneke and Jacobine found Karoline once again sitting on her back step, hands empty. She kissed her daughter. She thanked Hanneke for the new pelerine, and tucked the light capelet over her shoulders. In some indefinable way, though, she held herself apart. Hanneke missed Karoline the whirlwind. The woman who plunged from scrubbing floors to scything grain, from delicately piercing tinplate to haggling with customers at the Viehmarkt. The woman who never hesitated to speak her mind.
Jacobine shot Hanneke a meaningful glance before shading her eyes and squinting toward the vegetable garden. “I see ripe grapes on the fence,” she said. “I’ll pick them and see if anything else needs to come in.”
Karoline nodded. The faded kerchief she’d tied under her chin covered the scabbed gash on her forehead, but couldn’t hide the green and yellow bruises around her eye.
Hanneke sat down beside her friend. A group of geese flew over the farm, so high she would never have spotted them if their plaintive honking cries hadn’t drifted to her ears. She pulled out her knitting and let her fingers find their familiar rhythm before speaking. “Jacobine and I promised to attend the Steckelbergs’ Erntedankfest this afternoon.”
“I have no interest in attending.”
That was not surprising. “No, I don’t imagine so. However, I do hope that you’ll consider coming to stay with us at my farm for a few days.”
Karoline shook her head.
“I’m concerned about you,” Hanneke told her. “Jacobine is as well. It would surely do you good to be away from this place, and—”
“Nein!”
Hanneke had not assumed she’d be successful in convincing her friend to visit, but she hadn’t expected to be shrieked at, either. She lowered her head, pretending to concentrate on the sock heel she was turning.
Karoline broke the awkward silence. “Es tut mir Leid,” she apologized quietly. “Right now, my only consolation comes from knowing that Jacobine is safe in your care, away from this place and away from me.”
But why? Hanneke wanted to ask. You two need each other. What aren’t you telling me?
“There is something else you can do to help,” Karoline said. “Would you be willing to go up to the bedroom and sort through August’s things? I can’t bring myself to do it. There’s nothing of value except his pocket watch. Please give that to Jacobine.”
The request—so small, so superficial—made Hanneke feel worse. “Of course.”
Upstairs, it didn’t take long for Hanneke to remove August’s clothes from his Schrank, fold them neatly, and stack them in a laundry basket. She’d ask Hans Goetsch to pass them on to the church for those in need. After removing a pair of wooden clogs, she spotted a small wooden box tucked into a back corner. When she opened it, she saw his pocket watch. Good.
When she lifted the timepiece, however, she realized that there was one other item in the box. Hanneke was so shocked by the find that she almost dropped it. August had hidden a dented, oval piece of bronze not much larger than a thimble beneath the watch. To her untrained eye, this medal appeared to be something a Catholic would carry to honor a saint.
The Ketzlers, like most Pomeranian Lutherans, were staunch Pietists. Generally speaking, Pietists despised Catholics. Having been raised in the same movement, it was disturbing to discover that August had hidden such a thing among his belongings. Hanneke needed a moment to suppress her instinctive reaction.
Then she tried to consider the bronze with a more pragmatic eye. Everyone who’d attended August’s funeral had been known to her. None were Catholic. Might some acquaintance have gifted the medal to August after his accident? There was a growing German Catholic congregation—St. Henry—in Watertown, but it was hard to imagine.
She took a deep breath and leaned close for more careful study. The medal featured in relief a robed and haloed man holding a Bible in his arms, gazing heavenward. Above was a line of English: St. Thomas Aquinas, Pray For Us. Below were the words St. Bernard Catholic Church.
Hanneke’s jaw slowly fell. St. Bernard was an Irish congregation.
August had brawled with a man named Declan at the Red Cockerel. August had visited a street lined with Irish boarding houses. August had owned a medal affiliated with St. Bernard Church. Had his connection to the Irish community—whatever that was—played some role in his murder?
Hanneke pressed her thumbs against her temples. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine how or why.
* * *
Clara and Charles Steckelberg were blessed with a cool but sunny afternoon for their Erntedankfest. The trees glowed russet, scarlet, and gold. The air smelled indefinably of autumn.
Hanneke and Jacobine walked around the house, where guests were gathering. Oma Pearl stood a short distance from the serving tables to greet new arrivals. “Willkommen!” she said over and over, beaming at each guest. “Willkommen zum Erntedankfest!” Her obvious pleasure made Hanneke wonder if Pearl was her actual name or simply an affectionate description of a woman so widely admired. Even Jacobine smiled to see Oma Pearl scooping up a toddler to cuddle.
When Hanneke and Jacobine approached, the old woman pressed Hanneke’s hand before placing her palms on Jacobine’s cheeks. “I’m glad you came, child. If this crowd is too festive for you, come find me. You are a lovely, strong girl. You will be well. Jawohl?” Her intense gaze held Jacobine’s until she nodded.
