The House of Closed Doors (20 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

I
n the days that followed, I could not eat or concentrate on my work. It was only after Lizzie gave me a surprisingly sharp talking-to about not having enough milk for Sarah that I began forcing myself to swallow mouthful after mouthful of food at every meal and drink the milk she brought me. I was determined to nurse Sarah for as long as possible. Weaning meant separation.

Tess seemed unhappy too and was quieter than usual. If I had felt more energetic I might have asked her what ailed her, but I was too wrapped up in the prospect of having to flee the Farm before August.

“You are both very quiet.” A ray of evening sunlight made the red tints in Mrs. Lombardi’s hair glow as she stood in the doorway, notebook in hand.

“And you are tired, Mrs. Lombardi.” Tess stopped sewing and peered over the top of her spectacles. She was right: Mrs. Lombardi’s eyes were dull, and her sweet mouth turned down a little at the corners.

“There is a great deal to do.” The matron moved a pile of pillowcases from the chair nearest to us and sat down. “Without a superintendent, Mr. Schoeffel and I have far more letters to write.” She illustrated the point by holding out her hand, which was smeared with ink.

“And you are unhappy because the governors were cross with you,” said Tess. I held up my hand to prevent her from saying more, but Mrs. Lombardi smiled.

“You are perceptive, Tess. Yes, it has been an ordeal. I have had to admit that I was at fault for not supervising Jo’s departure properly.”

“But you were sick.” I became aware that I was sewing my hem crooked, and stopped to reach for my scissors. My back was aching; how long had I been sitting there? We still had the linen for five beds to finish, and the light was fading. I yawned and rubbed my eyes.

Mrs. Lombardi touched my hand lightly. “I came to tell you both to come and have some supper. I saw Lizzie with Sarah in the refectory, and she told me that neither of you had eaten.”

My stomach growled at the mention of supper. Tess, who loved to eat, obediently laid down her sewing and rose from her chair.

“I think the governors are not choosing a superintendent on purpose” was her next remark. “They do not think it is hard work to write letters.”

Indeed, I thought, the governors had seemed to care very little for the affairs of the Farm when they had visited. I had seen them passing through the scrubbed corridors, talking of the political news of the day and only occasionally paying attention to Mrs. Lombardi’s explanations. I had listened hard as they spoke to one another, trying to catch names, and had been disappointed to learn that Lysander Goodman was the frail old gentleman; an unlikely Ly-lee. So I was as much in the dark as ever. And I dared not stay too long in the governors’ presence; Stepfather glanced frequently in my direction and his looks were not welcoming.

T
he day on which we were to receive our new, privileged residents was almost upon us, and we almost had the linens ready for the rooms. I supervised the hanging of the curtains, relying mainly on Blackie for this task. The bedrooms now looked bright and pleasant, while the padding had been stripped off the walls of the four small cells, and they were being used as storage rooms and utility rooms.

The stain left by Jo’s body worked its way back up through the wood and had to be scrubbed down again before the floor was painted throughout the whole wing. The paint was thick, and nothing more showed; but I avoided the vicinity of that particular room.

On the Saturday before the new arrivals came, I was constantly busy and infuriated that Blackie was nowhere to be found. I muttered imprecations under my breath as I bustled from one room to another, making sure all the bed linens were in place. The windows were open to let out any remaining smells of paint, and the warm air of early summer wafted in with the melodies of birds and the sounds of the livestock in the fields. Also, there was a smell of the hencoop and the manure pile, but I was used to that.

I could hear shouting in the distance; the farm workers must be busy. Lucky to be outside, I thought, instead of shut in as I was. I banged the doors crossly as I carried in yet another pile of sheets‌—‌where on earth was Blackie when I needed him? Lizzie came and went with Sarah to show me that her second tooth had broken the skin of her tender gums. The birds sang, and I worked on.

The shouting started up again but nearer the Women’s House this time. Now I could hear the cries of women as well and Mr. Schoeffel’s voice giving directions. I crossed to the window at the rear of the House and looked out.

Four men carried an old shutter on which something had been laid. Something covered with a piece of canvas from one of the barns. Something that resembled a human body.

I shouted, I don’t remember what. A blond head moving alongside the men looked up. It was Donny, and he was crying.

“Donny!” I shouted as loud as I could. “What has happened?”

He raised a hand toward me, and I saw that he was holding a shapeless black hat that shone with the grease of long years’ use. “Blackie,” he said through his tears.

W
e sat in Mrs. Lombardi’s small sitting room: Mr. Schoeffel, Mrs. Lombardi, Tess, and I. Tess was sitting in a corner on a blanket spread on the floor, watching Sarah who had learned to roll about.

I offered the wineglass to Mrs. Lombardi again. “Please take it,” I said. “You have had a terrible shock.”

Mrs. Lombardi took a tiny sip of the brandy and wiped impatiently at a tear that tracked down her face. “I am not usually so emotional.”

“You have been under great strain in the last few months.” Mr. Schoeffel’s deep, German voice was comforting.

“And you were fond of Blackie, I know,” I said, putting the wineglass carefully on the mantlepiece. “We all were.”

Mrs. Lombardi took a deep, shuddering breath and turned to face Mr. Schoeffel. “How did he die?” she asked.

“My friend, you cannot possibly want to concern yourself with that,” Mr. Schoeffel said slowly. “You are already upset enough.” I felt a frown gather on my face. It seemed to me that Mr. Schoeffel was trying to exclude Mrs. Lombardi from their shared responsibility, and that made me indignant. Besides, Blackie was dead‌—‌the third sudden death in this place in a matter of months. Was no one else thinking about that?

“I am quite all right. I would like to know how he died,” said Mrs. Lombardi, an edge of obstinacy coming into her voice.

“He was found at the back of the hay barn,” said Mr. Schoeffel. “He was lying face down, and it was clear‌—‌forgive me, Mrs. Lombardi‌—‌that he had vomited. Other than that, I would say that he died quite quickly. This was found underneath him.”

He crossed to the desk and picked up a bottle he had previously placed there. It was a plain clear glass bottle with a swing top, of the sort that was used for many kinds of liquid. I held out my hand for it, and he gave it to me.

It was quite empty, dry inside, but when I sniffed at it there was a faint smell of alcohol, resembling the kind that was used to disinfect wounds.

“What is it?” Mrs. Lombardi asked.

“I may be wrong,” said Mr. Schoeffel, “but I think it may be dazzle. Which means we need to talk to Joos Vervoordt.”

I knew the name; he was the man who delivered our firewood. “Why?” I asked, puzzled.

“Because he makes it. It’s a kind of moonshine,” said Mr. Schoeffel, his mouth pulled down in distaste. “Nasty stuff. Called dazzle because they say that if you drink a whole bottle, you go blind. Joos got into big trouble with the superintendent once for giving half a bottle to a couple of orderlies. Those men were sick for days.”

I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Tess had scooped Sarah up and left the room with her. I turned my attention back to the bottle, which looked so innocuous in the sunlight streaming into the room.

“Do you think it’s possible that he drank too much of it?” Mrs. Lombardi asked.

“Blackie? I’d be surprised,” said Mr. Schoeffel. “He was not so stupid. And Joos is a careful man. He learned his lesson with those orderlies. I don’t think he’d hand over a large enough dose of the stuff to kill someone.”

“We must talk to him,” Mrs. Lombardi said firmly. “It is pointless to speculate. Tomorrow we will give poor Blackie a Christian burial, and then I shall ask my husband to bring Joos here. He knows him well.”

“And the police?” I asked. “The constable should be informed.”

“Of course. And I shall have a physician look at the body, naturally.” Mrs. Lombardi hesitated over the bottle, but then wrapped it carefully in a clean cloth and locked it into a drawer in her desk.

Mr. Schoeffel grunted with apparent amusement, and I felt my resentment grow. “Very correct, my ladies, but when a notorious drunk dies of drink, we do not have to look so far for a cause,
nicht wahr
? The physician will say drink, and the constable will say drink, and that is an end of it.”

As much as I wished it otherwise, I knew he was right. And nobody but Tess and me realized that the only person who knew the identity of the father of Jo’s child was silenced. And he had hinted at more secrets still. I wondered how much I had lost by not giving him that whiskey.

TWENTY-FIVE

J
oos Vervoordt was a young man, tall and raw-boned, with sunken cheeks and eyes and a feral look. He glared at us defiantly as Mrs. Lombardi produced the bottle.

“Is this one of yours, Joos?” Pastor Lombardi’s voice held a stern note.

“I didn’t give it to him,” said Joos. He had a slight Dutch accent and a deep bass voice that was astonishing coming from such an emaciated body.

“It’s your moonshine,” said Mr. Schoeffel flatly. “I know the type of bottle, Joos. I remember it from when you got into trouble before.”

Joos threw Mr. Schoeffel a resentful look and turned back to the Lombardis.

“I won’t deny it’s one of my bottles,” he said. “And I won’t deny that my liquor was in it. But you’re not holding me to blame for the old bastard’s death. First of all, there was nowhere near enough in there to hurt anyone, especially Blackie.
God verdomme
, the man had been drinking my stuff for years.”

“Do not blaspheme,” said the Pastor, and at the same time Mr. Schoeffel exclaimed, “Hah! I always thought he was finding some way to drink.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the tall Dutchman. “What kind of
verdammte
idiot are you that you were giving firewater to Blackie after all that trouble you had before?”