The Solace of Stars, page 8
“If you are selfish, I am as well,” Hanneke said quietly. “Whenever I attend a birth, or a baby’s baptism, my joy for the parents is edged by my longing to hold a child of my own.” Just as seeing a well-bonded married couple like the Barlows pricked her heart with regret for Fridolin’s death.
Elizabeth reached for her hand, and the two women sat in understanding silence. Hanneke inhaled the flowers’ faint earthy scent. Most of them glowed like September’s sun—goldenrod, tansy, black-eyed Susans. Deep purple asters added strength to the arrangements, and lacey white yarrow suggested grace. It helped.
At length, Elizabeth sighed. “I must assure my poor husband that all is well. He does worry.” She reached for her walking stick. “Hanneke, I invited Jacobine and her friend Dora to come to our farm tomorrow. I thought we could make a wreath for the Steckelbergs’ Erntedankfest on Saturday. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Hanneke assured her. “She needs to keep busy, and this will be a welcome diversion from chores.”
“Hans will come to fetch Jacobine in the morning, then. She can stop and see her mother on the way.” Elizabeth summoned a weak smile and hobbled away.
In the kitchen, Hanneke was relieved to learn that Karoline and her daughter were both napping upstairs. The other women had food chores well in hand, so she went back outside.
The mourners were dispersing, and she spotted Deputy Barlow guiding Ulrike toward their wagon. When he noticed Hanneke watching, however, he held up one finger: Wait. After settling his wife on the seat, he strode back.
They met beside Karoline’s enormous lilac bush, far enough away to speak without the risk of being overheard. “Anything?” Barlow asked without preamble.
“Nothing particularly helpful.” Hanneke quickly related the nebulous clues that had made Hans Goetsch suspect August of adultery.
“Lemon sweets and mention of a street in an Irish neighborhood.” Barlow snapped off a long-dead blossom and crushed it in his fist. “That’s not much to go on.”
“I know.”
“There are any number of reasons why August might have been there.” He sounded impatient.
“I agree,” Hanneke said evenly. “I’m only passing along what I heard, as instructed. Have you learned anything more about the seaman who fought with August at the Red Cockerel on market day? Did you question Caspar Wulff?”
“Frau Bauer.” His bloodshot eyes fixed her with a level gaze. “I’m unable to discuss such specifics, so I ask that you refrain from asking questions. Have you discovered anything else unusual?”
“Nein.”
Without another word, he turned and trotted back to the wagon where Ulrike was waiting.
Hanneke watched him go, remembering with some chagrin how pleased she’d been when he’d asked for her help with his investigation. She’d imagined them sharing information. Clearly, that was not going to happen. And—oh. She caught her breath with dismay. Even though she hadn’t made a conscious decision to stay silent about seeing Jacobine slip from the house, she hadn’t mentioned it.
Gracious, Hanneke thought. I’ve already broken my promise to Deputy John Barlow. Now I have lied by omission.
She pursed her lips. It didn’t feel fair to report Jacobine without talking to her first. She would initiate a frank conversation with her young friend, and then decide what to do.
So…what now? Hanneke folded her arms. Any other day she’d head for the comfort of the kitchen. Barlow’s assignment, though, meant she couldn’t fully relax with even her dearest friends.
She went instead to the shop. The sign proudly announcing Karoline Ketzler, Klempner/Tinsmith hung beside the entrance. Hanneke slipped inside and shut the door behind her.
Then she looked around, rubbing her temples. What impulse had brought her here? John Barlow had, of course, already closely examined the room. She was not going to find the killer’s calling card lying on the floor.
She sank onto the high stool in front of the workbench. One of Karoline’s hatchet stakes—small anvils with sharp edges—was set into its slot on the surface. The mallet she’d used to bend and shape a piece of tin over the anvil’s contours lay nearby. A set of her beautiful nesting heart cutters sat off to one side.
Hanneke had visited her friend here many times, often lingering for coffee and conversation. On bright days the wares displayed on shelves gleamed. Some of the intricate designs that had been punched into the tin resembled sunbursts. Other patterns reminded her of stained glass windows. The intimation of something holy, and Karoline’s companionship, had made this one of Hanneke’s favorite places.
Those memories already seemed distant, though. Karoline’s absence left a profound void. Looming shadows dulled the tin’s brilliance. Rows of heavy tools hanging from nails cast a pall. Hanneke had never noticed how many of the tools—stakes, shears, snips, soldering irons, punches, awls, compasses—might be used with deadly intent. Karoline had multiples of at least some tools, so it was impossible to tell if anything was missing.
Deputy Barlow feared that August had entered the shop, triggered an argument, and struck his wife; and that Karoline had grabbed a sharp tool and defended herself. Hanneke had rebuffed that theory outright. Today, ugly moments of doubt had crept in. Had loyalty and friendship closed her mind prematurely? Hanneke spent several minutes considering the possibility. Might some fierce convergence of terror and despair have prompted Karoline to strike the fatal blow?
“I don’t think so,” she murmured at last. She could imagine some women snapping in such a moment, but not Karoline. John Barlow was duty-bound to investigate as he saw fit. But I, Hanneke thought, have a mind of my own.
Today, during the visitation and luncheon, she’d done what he’d asked. Other than hearing about Hans’s nebulous suspicions of adultery, she’d learned nothing. In a way, that was comforting. She wanted very much to conclude that August’s killer was an outsider, not part of her community at all. Someone like Caspar Wulff, the surly tinsmith, or the earring-wearing seaman who’d punched August at the Red Cockerel.
Hanneke picked up one of the heart cutters and turned it in her hand. Barlow’s unwillingness to provide her with even a sketchy update was frustrating. He had cause to know she was capable and trustworthy. Honestly! The man could be insufferable.
But stewing about the deputy’s overzealous discretion was a waste of time. Perhaps his pride was playing a role as well. If he had nothing to report about his search for August’s killer, he wouldn’t want to say so to her.
Hanneke stood, dusted her hands on her skirt, and set her shoulders. I, she resolved, will simply have to look for more information myself.
Chapter Eight
That evening, Hanneke and Jacobine settled by the little parlor stove with their knitting. Hanneke had chosen yarn she’d dyed a lovely gold with St. John’s wort to make a lace pelerine for Karoline. She was eager to get started, but before picking up her needles, she leaned forward. “I need to speak with you.”
“Oh?” Jacobine looked up from a small tangle she was unpicking.
“Liebchen, I saw you creep from the house last night. I want to know why.”
Jacobine’s eyes widened. Surprise was quickly replaced with dismay. She didn’t respond.
“Did you visit your mother?”
The girl shook her head.
Hanneke felt a pinch of exasperation. “Then what under heaven compelled you to head into the forest at midnight? Especially after what happened to your father?”
A noisy gust of wind hit the house, causing the flames to flare wildly. Jacobine licked her lips. “Please don’t ask me.”
It had not occurred to Hanneke that Jacobine, if asked an outright question, would refuse to answer. She waited a beat before trying again. “Did you meet a young man?”
The color that stained Jacobine’s cheeks was visible even in the shadows. “Nein.”
Was she lying? Hanneke wasn’t sure. “Whatever your secret, you can confide in me. Perhaps I can help.”
“You can’t help.” The statement emerged as a whisper.
Hanneke pressed her mouth in a tight line, trying to find a different approach. “Jacobine, I promised your mother that I would keep you safe. Can you imagine how I felt when I saw you disappear into the woods?”
“I’m very sorry I frightened you.” With trembling hands, Jacobine shoved her knitting back into its basket. “I did have a good reason to go out, truly, but I’ll never do it again. Now, I need to go to bed.” With that, she scurried into the bedroom and closed the door behind her.
Hanneke was at a total loss. It was not a feeling she relished.
After a moment, she picked up her knitting. She’d chosen a simple lace pattern for the capelet. It would provide small protection from autumn winds, but Hanneke wanted Karoline to have a tangible reminder that she was loved, that she was bonded to others. Hanneke knit with intention, soothing herself with familiar stitches, thinking about Karoline and her daughter. I think of Jacobine as a child, Hanneke observed reluctantly, but I need to remember that she’s on the cusp of womanhood.
Nonetheless, Jacobine’s reticence was alarming. It also further complicates my own obligation to Barlow, Hanneke thought. Should she betray Jacobine’s trust, or John Barlow’s?
She didn’t know.
Hanneke weighed the choices. Honestly, she concluded, putting the information into his hands will not help the situation. If Jacobine wouldn’t confide in her, she certainly wouldn’t confide in John Barlow. With time, respect, and patience, Hanneke mused, I believe I can earn Jacobine’s trust.
The stove fire was burning low, so she added several logs. Her craving for warmth and light on this gloomy night overcame frugality. She wished she could surround herself with pieces of Karoline’s gleaming tinware.
Some time later, Hanneke was about to go to bed when someone thumped at the front door. A man she knew from church had driven his horse-cart to Safe Haven Farm, hoping for help for an elderly aunt. In the lantern light, his face was pinched with worry. “The lung ailment she’s been struggling with has taken a turn for the worse! Please, Frau Bauer, will you come?”
“I just need to fetch some medicinals.”
Although every farm woman had some understanding of ailments and cures, Hanneke had no formal medical training. She’d been born with an innate love of learning, however, and her spinsterhood had seeded a craving to be useful. In Pomerania, and now here, she was occasionally called upon to provide advice during an illness, help with a birthing, or assistance after a farm accident.
This time, after examining the patient, she decided that smoking dried mullein leaves was likely to soothe the woman’s lungs and help open her respiratory passages. “I—don’t—smoke—pipes!” the frail woman gasped.
“Let’s give it a try.” Hanneke smiled reassuringly as she packed the bowl of a small clay pipe with the mullein. “It’s much milder than tobacco.”
Within an hour, the patient’s breathing was less labored, less harsh. She reached a gnarled hand toward Hanneke and whispered, “Vielen Dank.”
“I’m grateful for the opportunity to help.” Hanneke looked to the nephew and his wife, hovering in the doorway. “I’ll leave the pipe, and this”—she held up a small cotton pouch—“has extra mullein leaves.”
She was dropped back at her place with a bucket of milk, a large block of cheese, and more expressions of gratitude. Dawn had not yet pearled the sky, but Hanneke sensed that it was not long away. Much as she longed to crawl under the blankets, she had things to do.
Inside, she lit a lamp but didn’t remove her cloak. The doors to Jacobine’s room were firmly closed, and Hanneke fervently hoped that girl had been sound asleep during her absence, and not wandering through the forest.
She tiptoed to the kitchen and deposited the most welcome dairy gifts in the pantry. Then she slipped some hard crackers into her pocket, filled a jug with water, and slipped out the back door. Recent events had kept her from visiting the Scheune for two days. She needed to take fresh provisions to the hidey-hole for runaway slaves in the grain barn, and Jacobine must not see her doing it.
At this time of year, the big doors on either end of the threshing floor were closed. The only other obvious entrance was a small door in the wall that faced the house. Hanneke ignored that, instead quickly walking around the barn to the back. Stone supports held the structure several feet off the ground. That design kept air circulating beneath the wheat and rye stored inside. A small hatch in the floor allowed travelers to enter from below. Bundles of grain that would never be threshed made the hatch impossible to spot from inside the barn.
The darkness was deeper inside, but she knew how to check supplies by touch alone. The water jug was not quite full, and there seemed to be less food in the small box. In truth, she didn’t remember how many rye crackers she’d left, and a little water might have simply evaporated. Nonetheless, she liked imagining someone sheltering on her property, taking what was needed but leaving the rest for some other frantic soul.
When she crawled back out from beneath the barn, soft gray light was pushing at the shadows. It revealed something unexpected dangling from a nail in the wall. What was this? Plucking it free, she studied the fragile gift. Someone had made three plaits from long strands of prairie grass, braided those together, and used another strand to tie the ends together in a manner that formed a heart shape.
Hanneke felt her spirits rise like a flock of doves. This must be a thank-you gift! In the midst of such ugliness, the acknowledgment of aid brought a mist of gratitude to her eyes. She held the heart in her palm for several long moments before gently returning the token to the nail.
Breakfast conversation was stilted and subdued. What a blessing, Hanneke thought, that Elizabeth had invited Jacobine to spend the day at the Goetsch Farm. That freed her to go look for answers.
She planned to walk to Watertown and visit the German confectionary, where the proprietor might recall August purchasing the hard-boiled lemon sweets. She was also curious to see Ballycumber Lane for herself. From there, she’d head to Caspar Wulff’s shop in Lebanon. The geography of her outing was hardly efficient, but this might be the only day without Jacobine’s company she’d have any time soon.
Hanneke arrived at the Red Cockerel before it was open for business, so she went around to the back alley and opened the kitchen door. “Guten Morgen!”
Angela turned from the counter with a delighted smile. “Hanneke! I’m glad to see you. I need to finish this biscuit dough, but help yourself to coffee.”
Hanneke removed her hat and poured herself a steaming mug. Piles of onions and damp potatoes waited on the table, so she also grabbed a cutting board and knife before settling down. Angela usually made stew for the midday crowd. “Where is everyone?”
“Gerlind took the baby for a stroll, and Adolf is running errands.” Angela hefted a sack and poured flour into her dough trough. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get away for August’s funeral. How are Karoline and Jacobine faring?”
“Not surprisingly, Karoline’s spirits are low. Jacobine’s staying with me, and she’s struggling too. Elizabeth Goetsch is keeping her busy today.”
“It’s a miserable business,” Angela said grimly. “Has Deputy Barlow discovered anything helpful?”
“Not to my knowledge. That’s why I’m here, actually.” Blinking, Hanneke swept a heap of chopped onion into a bowl. “I hope you can identify someone for me. On Tuesday afternoon, when I was trying to talk August into going home, I didn’t recognize the other men playing cards. The one he brawled with was wearing an earring, as if he once worked at sea.”
Angela grimaced. “That one. Deputy Barlow asked me about him as well.”
“Does he come here often? Do you know his name?”
“He’s come in a few times during the past month or so. I don’t know his full name, but he’s called Declan.” She enunciated the Gaelic name carefully: Day-glawn.
Hanneke leaned back, mouth open. “Are you saying the man who punched August was Irish?” Hans’s gloomy revelation echoed in her mind: A few months back, August mentioned seeing a runaway buggy on Ballycumber Lane.
“Apparently.” Angela considered her ingredients, then started mixing them with her hands.
“I’d assumed he was from Pomerania, or a neighboring region.”
Angela shrugged. “All are welcome here.”
“The strays who wander in usually sit by themselves, though,” Hanneke mused.
“He’s a house painter now. Most of the men on the crew are German, but you know how things are.”
Hanneke did. Watertown was growing at a galloping pace, and construction bosses were always in need of able bodies. “But how did an Irishman who clearly despised August come to be playing cards with him?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well.” Hanneke stood and carried her own empty mug to the dry sink. “I shall ponder that, but I must walk while doing so. I have errands here and in Lebanon today.”
“Why Lebanon?”
“Do you know of a tinsmith named Caspar Wulff? He’s been harassing Karoline for months, and Deputy Barlow is too busy to make talking to him a priority. I want to get a look at his shop. I might learn something helpful.” She set her shoulders, ready to forestall any objections.
Angela, however, kept her own counsel. “He’s only been in once or twice, so I barely know him.” She dusted her hands with flour in preparation of kneading her dough. “Funny that you should mention Wulff. I saw him coming out of the Deutsche Süßwaren yesterday.” Her mouth quirked in a wry smile. “I wouldn’t have expected a man so sour to indulge in confectionary sweets.”
Hanneke agreed, but the report perplexed her. Wulff had come to town for the market on Tuesday, so why would he return just three days later? Lebanon was seven miles away.
