PROLOGUEElsa Hagen

Late June, 1883I open my eyes. On the ceiling, a mosquito hangs trapped in the cobwebs between the beams.The bed sheets are soft against my back, but my head feels heavy as a stone when I try to lift it. Hot rays of sunlight stream through the barred windows, and my chemise clings to my skin. Painfully, I sit up, one hand pressed to my belly.Three weeks ago, I set out to rescue the person I loved most. It is clear now that I have failed.The small room holds nothing but two beds, a carafe with two glasses, and two chamber pots. On the other bed, a young woman lies asleep in a red dress—petite, with a long nose and dark hair. Another one of his victims. As I rise, my chest tightens and my hands begin to shake. I have placed my faith in the wrong person, and now certain doom awaits me.Lord, I beseech Thee—forgive the fool I have been.Aching, I stumble to the window, gripping its bars for support. Outside, beneath the blue sky, rows of oaks and elms stand in full bloom. Beyond them, meadows roll to the distant sea. Far below, on the ground, a grey hare twitches its long ears. It darts freely through the reeds of the murky moat that encircles the building where I'm locked away. Who would have thought I would envy a hare?Turning back, a gut-wrenching pain folds me in two. I sink to my knees, clutching my middle and gasping for breath.He poisoned me, and soon he will kill me.Exhausted, I seize the carafe, pour a glass of water, and drain it in a single gulp, the overflow dripping down my chemise. With the back of my hand, I wipe my mouth. My bare feet slide on the dusty floor as I lower myself to sit against the wall. Opposite me, the heavy oak door has no knob. A few deep breaths, and the truth settles in—desperate and cold. I am locked in a barred room in the middle of nowhere. Even if I screamed until my voice broke, no one would hear me.The floorboards creak outside. Rushed, heavy footsteps jolt me from my thoughts. My heart hammers as they draw closer; my stomach knots as the key turns in the lock. Even before the door opens, a reek of sweat, alcohol, and tobacco seeps into the room.I brace myself.It's him.

ONEElsa Hagen

Three weeks earlier‘Elsa! Stop whatever you’re doing,’ called the factory foreman, his voice unusually tense.The weaving machine rattled under my hands as I looked up to see him—a balding man of fifty with a thick, hairy neck, his shirt darkened by a spreading patch of sweat. I’d long trained myself not to flinch at shouting on the factory floor—the trick to keeping all ten fingers intact.As he came over, I glanced at the rows of young women like me—and the girls, some barely twelve—all producing mile upon mile of fabric. The air was thick with woollen fibres; the sweat of our labour soaked every surface. The small windows let in hardly any fresh air, and the brick walls drank in the sun’s heat. The place was an oven, and we roasted inside like chickens.‘What is it, sir?’ I asked. The foreman's usual calm demeanour made my twelve-hour shifts bearable, but his anxious face now unsettled me.
‘The police are outside. They wish to speak with you.’
‘The police?' I blinked. 'Why?’ I couldn’t think of a reason they’d want me.‘I’m sorry, dear, they wouldn’t say,’ he replied in a fatherly tone. ‘Go on. I’ll find someone else to take your place on the machine.'The police—a tidy bunch, outwardly at least. The average officer kept a well-waxed moustache so thick you could hang your coat on either side. Their baggy blue uniforms, made in Leiden’s factories, and narrow metal helmets with the royal coat of arms gave little away about their faces. Marching together through the city centre, they reminded me of a school of herring.The last time the police came to me, it was about Papa—found dead in his office after yet another fifteen-hour workday, his face smeared with ink. The police did not bring back good memories.* * *A draught from the tall windows dried the sweat on my brow. Four desks with typewriters crowded the small police station. The officer beside me typed steadily, his rhythm like a locomotive, never missing a beat. Despite the open windows, the air smelt musty and damp. Dark wooden cabinets lined the walls, and drab photographs hung askew.Mum, who had just arrived, tapped her foot on the worn rug and breathed loudly, making me more nervous. Her thoughts were plain on her face: Why have they dragged me down here? What will the neighbours think? I wanted out as soon as I knew why we were here.The squeaky door opened, and in stepped a man of about forty. Apart from his age, he looked much like the others: cheap suit, long moustache, rough skin, cheeks rosy from rivers of beer every night.‘Good morning, Mrs and Miss Hagen,’ he said. ‘I am Officer Bakker. I want to ask you a few questions about your daughter and sister, Adriana Hagen. As far as we know, she’s been working for Mr Jacob Rook, the vaccine doctor, as his maid. Is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ Mum said.
‘When was the last time you saw her?’Mum gathered her thoughts. ‘Adriana, Elsa, and I had dinner together on Sunday at my house. Is there something wrong, Officer?’
‘What does Miss Hagen look like?’
‘Like me, more or less,’ I said. ‘Why?’ Adriana was blonde, neither tall nor short, with big blue eyes, an upturned nose, and a lithe, supple figure.The officer paused, staring at us for several seconds. The only sound in the room was the steady clack of the typewriter. He turned to Mum. ‘Was your daughter happy working for Mr Rook?’‘Please, officer, why are you asking this?’ Mum said. ‘Did something happen to Adriana?’
‘Answer the question, madam.’
‘Yes.’ I cut in. ‘She was very happy there. Can you tell us now what is happening with Adriana? We are worried, officer.’The typewriter clattered on, recording every word. It was starting to grate on me.
Bakker leant back against one of the desks, the sun slanting in from behind him. I squinted, trying to read his face.‘Mr Jacob Rook was found murdered this morning in his home,’ he said.
Mum and I looked at each other, stunned.
‘Your daughter is missing,’ he added.
Mum’s face froze, her eyes darting. ‘Missing? What do you mean, officer? Is she in danger? You have to find her!’
Bakker perched on the desk and poured coffee from a kettle, spilling some onto a piece of paper. He choked back a curse.If people are messy with small things, they’re careless with the big ones, Papa used to say.
‘We had a similar case last year,’ Bakker went on. ‘A housemaid killed her master and vanished with his money.’ He paused, letting the silence work on us. ‘Mrs Hagen, had your daughter any motive to kill the deceased?’I could hardly believe my ears.
‘My daughter is not a murderer!’ Mum declared as if trying to convince herself.
‘Jacob wasn’t just her employer; he was going to be her husband,’ I said, holding back my frustration. I could still see them, hand in hand, smiling, as they told us of their engagement.
Bakker’s eyebrows rose. ‘He proposed to his maid?’
‘One month ago. They were happy, very much in love,’ I said. ‘It makes no sense.’He scratched his head. ‘Fine. We’ll take this into account,’ he said, his face unmoved, his blue eyes cold as the steel in the factory machines. He had clearly made up his mind.‘Please, Mr Bakker,’ I continued, ‘have you interrogated the anti-vaccinationists? They attacked Jacob a few weeks ago in front of our church—almost killed him.’
‘That’s Officer Bakker,’ he said sharply, turning towards the door as he buttoned his jacket. ‘And it’s up to us to decide whom we’ll question.’ He drained his cup and set it down on the coffee-stained paper.‘Can you at least tell us how Jacob died?’ I asked.
‘I cannot divulge details of the murder during an active investigation,’ Bakker said. ‘We also have a warrant to search your house. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my colleague will escort you out.’* * *On our way home from the station, Mum walked in silence, like a pilgrim on her way to a shrine. I wasn’t sure she had yet grasped what had happened.The cobblestones bruised my feet. I’d been in pain since that dreadful accident in the factory months ago, when a cart laden with finished blankets rolled over my foot. The throbbing came and went like a creditor rapping at the door.We passed by a bakery flying the Frisian flag—white and blue stripes with red lilies. Two men were unloading sacks of flour from a cart, carrying them inside, when she finally spoke.‘I lost your eldest sister to that cursed cholera epidemic before you were born. Two years ago, your father died, leaving us in poverty. I can’t survive losing Adriana as well.’I had no answer to that. As we neared home, horrid questions swarmed my mind. Who could murder Jacob, such a kind and learned young man, and why? Had the bad blood between him and the anti-vaccinationists brought about his death? And what of Adriana? Had she fled in panic, fearing the police would lay the murder at her door? Or was she herself in danger, hiding from the killers? It was too ghastly to dwell upon. The only thing I knew for certain was that my sister was no killer.Only days ago, Jacob had invited Mum and me to his house to announce their engagement. He seated Mum at the head of the table while Adriana served her best hutspot—left to simmer for hours until the carrots and onions melted into the potatoes. My beautiful sister glowed with pride and happiness. The couple were eager to marry, but had agreed to delay the wedding until Jacob finished his work on the cholera vaccine.‘I can hardly say that our wedding is more important than his work—especially when the vaccine might save millions,’ Adriana had said.
Jacob chuckled. ‘If only you were marrying a banker or a fishmonger.’* * *After what felt like an age beneath the hot sun, Mum and I reached home—a shelter for widows and old spinsters, where we had lived since Papa died. The long, single-storey building, granted by our church, stood around a communal courtyard bright with red and yellow tulips.‘Mrs Hagen,’ the neighbour greeted, hanging laundry on the line, wooden pins between her teeth.Normally polite, Mum gave no reply; she seemed lost. Unlike Papa, she was not the sort of person one turned to in a crisis.
The neighbour spat the pins into her palm. ‘The police were here with a warrant to search your house. I had to let them in.’‘All right,’ I managed. My chest burnt beneath my grey factory smock—a loose, shapeless garment we all wore to keep the wool fibres off our dresses.
Mum and I slid open our green front door and stepped inside. The kitchen was a mess, as usual—my endless shifts and Mum’s poor health saw to that. The police hadn’t improved matters.
‘Would you like some water, Mum?’ I asked.She nodded and sank into a chair, her eyes far away, as if all this were happening in some other house.
I went out to the courtyard tap, feeling prying eyes on my back. Curtains twitched; I was sure the news had already spread—policemen were not famed for their discretion. I pumped the handle until the water ran, filled up two glasses, and carried them inside. Sitting beside Mum, I watched her drink in silence, tears welling in her eyes.‘I promise you, Mum,’ I said at last, slipping an arm round her shoulders. ‘We will find Adriana, whatever it takes.’She hunched over her glass. ‘If only your father were here…’ She stared at the table for a long moment. ‘We’re finished,’ she muttered, almost to herself.The silence pressed down on me. My chest grew tight; this was too much to bear. I needed air. ‘I’ll be right back, Mum.’ I took off my white cap and stepped out, leaving the house and courtyard behind.
A cool breeze drifting in from the shore a few miles away offered some relief from the heat.The sound of the blacksmith’s hammering across the street caught my ear. The bald man, sleeves rolled up and grey with dust, was teaching his young son the trade. One day, the little lad would take his father’s place.
I took a long breath and let it out slowly. As I leant against the hot wall in my factory smock, reality struck me hard—like the swing of the blacksmith’s hammer. My sister was in grave danger and, instead of searching for the real culprit, the police were hunting her as the murderer. Without help, Adriana was hopeless.Mum and I were but two penniless women. To find Adriana, we needed someone with connections and influence. My mind went instantly to Professor Evers, the architect of the vaccine—Papa’s former mentor and Jacob’s superior. It was he who introduced Adriana to Jacob as a maid, shortly after Papa died, binding their fates together.I didn't know if Professor Evers could help us, but one thing was certain—Adriana’s time was running out with every minute we lingered in despair—beaten before we’d begun.