Crimson Snow Read Online Free

could. But she wanted to learn all she could, as well. There had to be, someday, a way out of servant-hood.
    She heard the newsboys more clearly as she turned a corner. “Miss Jacobs found!” one of them was shouting. “Sensational development in Jacobs disappearance!”
    Hilda hurried over, gave the boy two cents, and took a copy of the Times.
    MURDER OF POPULAR TEACHER read the headline of the biggest story on the front page. Then in smaller type, Body of Miss Sophie Jacobs Discovered in Shed.

BY HAND OF A FIEND
    â€”South Bend Tribune
    January 22, 1904
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    R OOTED TO THE SPOT, heedless of the cold or the annoyed pedestrians swirling around her, Hilda read the account.
    The body of a young woman had been found very early that morning in a cab shed not far from her rooming house. A cabman had come to hitch up his horses for the first business of the day and had found the body lying in a pool of blood. The face was so badly disfigured that the police had been unable for some time to identify the body as that of the popular young teacher. She had been dead for many hours, probably since shortly after supper the night before.
    It seemed that Mrs. Schmidt, Miss Jacobs’s landlady, did not provide board for her roomers, so the young teacher had taken her meals down the street at Mrs. Gibbs’s. After supper, Miss Jacobs started off for her home only two blocks away, accompanied for part of her walk by Mr. Robert Barrett, a local attorney.
    Hilda gasped. Mr. Barrett! Had he come to tell Colonel George something about the murder? Maybe that was why he looked so ill and distraught. Surely he couldn’t… Hilda wouldn’t let herself finish the thought. Respectable men like Mr. Barrett didn’t kill young women.
    The paper went on to say that Mr. Barrett had bidden Miss Jacobs good night and turned off toward his own home when she was but a half block from her door. She had gone only a few steps more when, at the entrance to an alley, she had been accost- ed, dragged into the alley, and beaten so severely that her skull was fractured in three places. Her clothing had been torn, and there was—Hilda shuddered—a large, bloody handprint on the bodice of her dress.
    According to the evidence in the snow, she had not died in the alley, but had been dragged, still living and still struggling, to the cab shed at the far end. There she had lain, bleeding profusely, while the final death blows had been struck.
    There was more to the story, much more, but Hilda was too sickened to continue. There was only one thought in her mind now. She must reach Erik before he heard of this. He would need her now.
    She nearly ran to the firehouse, but when she half stumbled, half slid into the stable, she saw she was too late. Erik was sitting on a bucket, scanning a copy of the Tribune. A tear trickled slowly down one cheek. When he saw Hilda, he swiped his sleeve across his face and jumped up, knocking over the bucket.
    â€œI told you! I said she was hurt and you didn’t believe me! You wouldn’t do anything, and now look!”
    There was no answer to that, not just yet. Things would have to be said, but for now she simply enfolded her baby brother in her arms, murmuring words of comfort in Swedish.
    He was in fact no longer a baby, and this was not the peaceful farm they had known years ago, when his worst hurts were scrapes and bruises that could be easily soothed with kisses and soft words. He clung to her for a moment, accepting the solace of her love and presence, but he wasn’t ready to let his grief overcome his anger. He pushed her away.
    â€œHush,” she said, as he opened his mouth to rail at her again. “This is very bad, yes, it is terrible, but now it is time to try to be sensible. You have read the story?”
    â€œNot all of it. You know I’m not so good at reading English yet!” His voice rose to a shout.
    â€œHush,” she