Blowing snow streamed and skittered into the old Postamt as Frau Acht, postmistress of Hasliberg, threw her shoulder against the door to close it against the bitter wind. My old bones are not up to this exercise, and surely not this late at night or in the midst of such weather, she thought morosely as she stomped her boots on the wooden floor, searching in the deep pockets of her coat for a match to light the lamp. Water puddled on the floor as the snow on her boots and outerwear melted in the relative warmth of the post office and telegraph station. Outside, the night was black and white and full of whirling flakes, lending an odd brightness to the air that seeped through the thin membrane of snow clinging to the windows of the wooden building, allowing her to see the lamp easily enough as she reached for it.
Golden light soon illuminated the room, and Frau Acht, grumbling under her breath, set the lamp back on its little table and trudged toward the telegraph machine. It was well past 10 o' clock, and she should be cozy and warm back in her house on the edge of the village, drowsing over her knitting as she listened to her husband ramble on about how severe this storm was and how the inevitable snow melt in the spring would affect the high pastures.
Instead, here she was, returning to her workplace so late at night as a favor to her young neighbors, the Frieslers, who had just welcomed a new baby a bit prematurely. The midwife had stopped by the Achts' house to ask her to telegraph Frau Friesler's parents in Bern as soon as possible, because the young woman was doing rather poorly after the birth and needed their assistance. "She hopes that her mother will come as soon as the roads are clear, as she's so weak and her husband knows so very little about how to care for such a tiny babe," the midwife had said, looking weary. Frau Acht had promised to brave the storm and return to the Postamtto send the message that night.
Now she unfolded the address from her hand, sat down before the telegraph machine with a sigh, and tapped out the message. It would arrive this very night in Bern and, she hoped, the telegraph office there would have someone working this late, and it would be delivered posthaste to the poor young woman's parents. She thought that perhaps she would stop by the Frieslers' home on her way back, if she saw a light there, to offer her personal assistance on the morrow until the new grandmother arrived. Everyone in the village took care of each other.
Her favor completed, she ran her fingers through her damp grey hair and slowly stood up. Yes, a long night's sleep would feel very good after her hike back through the blizzard and her stop at the Frieslers'.
The knock on the Postamtdoor was almost inaudible under the howl of the wind outside, but it was followed by a louder, much more authoritative knock. Frau Acht wondered who could possibly be out and about on a night like this, not to mention so vehemently asking for admission to the post office.
Grumbling again, she walked across the office and opened the front door, bracing herself for the inevitable blast of icy wind. Before her, two figures stood silhouetted against the storm, and she blinked several times as she looked at them – large figures made bulkier by the warm coats they wore. Two men, by the look of it, although their faces were shadowed under broad-brimmed hats tied onto their heads by dark scarves.
"Excuse me, please, mein liebe Frau," the taller of the two said politely. "We saw the windows of this office lit. I wonder if you can help us by answering a few questions."
"What is this regarding?" Frau Acht asked sharply, while motioning the two men to enter, the traditional hospitality of the region giving her little choice in the matter. "Are you perhaps lost? Do you require a guesthouse?"
"No, no, not lost. You are the postmistress, are you not? We are," he cleared his throat, "from the canton government in Bern, and we are carrying out an investigation."
"Indeed – an investigation into what?" Frau Acht sighed inwardly. Two canton agents at nearly 11 at night? And what were they doing here in little Hasliberg? The situation had every indication that it might be serious and that it might take a while. Her thoughts of returning quickly to her warm house and bed seemed to dissolve like the snow that was melting and dripping from the men's coats onto her wooden floor. But, ingrained as it was into her character – as it was into almost all Swiss - to respect and assist the government, she stood politely and listened.
"Four fugitives have fled the law, mein Frau. We are checking with the postmasters and postmistresses up and down the valley to find out if any of you may have seen these very dangerous people, or perhaps if they have stopped in and attempted to send a telegraph. For it is the Postamts that collect all the news of the region – you and your colleagues know everything that happens."
Something troubling gnawed at the back of Frau Acht's mind as she listened, but she didn't immediately grasp what it could be. "Who are these four? Do you have any indication that they might be hiding in or near our village?"
The shorter man was untying the scarf from around his head and removing his gloves. A bad sign, Frau Acht thought, for it told her they intended to stay a while and continue this line of questioning. "Three men and a woman, mein Frau. Traveling together." Frau Acht caught the sharp look that passed between the two men as the shorter one continued. "A tall blond man, mustache, neat, and a short dark one, unkempt, wounded in the shoulder. English. And another man and a young woman, who are, we believe, Gypsies."
"Gypsies?" snorted Frau Acht. She held no love for the lot. "We have seen no Gypsies around here recently – believe me, if we had, I would have known of it. All the village would have known of it, and I have heard nothing. And…two Englishmen? We've had none here since the summer past, when some young English hikers came through one day. They bought some cheese and bread, as I recall. The girls in the village were all a-twitter and talked of them for days. Handsome lads, a bit sunburned…"
"They may all be dressed as Gypsies," interrupted the shorter man, who was now looking at her with eyes that glittered in the lamplight. She decided that she didn't like his steady, unblinking look. It reminded her of something slimy and reptilian, and it set her nerves on edge.
"Well, nothing of that sort has happened here in Hasliberg," Frau Acht responded crisply. "I would certainly have known of a band of Gypsies in the town, snowstorm or no snowstorm. Perhaps you can check up the road in Goldern – now there, such oddnesses would fit right in. Those Golderners, now, they are a strange lot. Why, just last week Herr Laubner allowed his youngest son to join a theater troupe in Luzern. An actor, of all things! Young people should stay and help their families on the farm. He's a cheesemaker, and a very good one, who should make those boys stay and learn the trade…"
Tall Man looked up at the ceiling for a moment before interrupting Frau Acht again. "Yes, well, back to the business of the dangerous fugitives we are searching for. You are certain no strangers have attempted to send a telegraph from here?"
Frau Acht's mind was slowly grinding away on what was troubling her about this whole conversation, and all of a sudden, the gears fell into place. Of course. She stared at the two of them. "Strangers…?" she repeated slowly. "Did you say you are from the canton government in Bern?"
Every man in the Bernese cantonal government was born and bred right here in the region; that was a fact. And yet these two – they were speaking to her, a Bernese-born woman, one of their own, in a dialect she could not quite place. The people of the Bernese Oberland, in fact (though of course Frau Acht was no linguistics expert and could not have known this), spoke a unique dialect called Highest Alemannic – a very ancient, conservative form of German that had not changed much over thousands of years, tucked away in mountainous regions as it was.
She glared at her visitors. "Your way of speaking is not from around here."
Tall Man looked at his companion with a grin, and shrugged amiably. The smaller man frowned, and said, "Damn it, Leo, you win again." He smiled at Frau Acht, and again she felt a frisson of something cold and premonitory. "You have us, dear Frau. No, we're not from around here."
"Not from anywhere around here, you mean. Not from Bern. Not from Switzerland. I have heard Germans who speak as you do." She cursed herself for taking so long to notice, for the pieces to fall into place that they were not, could not, be who they said they were. And now she cursed herself further, for her quick tongue had just landed her in more trouble than she would have been had she but held it.
"How very clever of you." The short man took a step toward her, and Frau Acht backed away two steps. "Now, now, dear lady, there's nothing to be afraid of."
"What are two Germans doing here, asking about Englishmen and Gypsies? What has this to do with Hasliberg?" Her eyes darted toward the closed front door, but the two men had effectively blocked her path to it.
The Tall Man, Leo, sighed again and looked at Short Man with a mournful mien. "Heinrich, for pity's sake, these ladies remind me of my old granny. Why do we have to do this? We could just tie her up. They might not find her for a day or so."
Heinrich shook his head, his snake gaze never leaving Frau Acht's eyes. "You know what these stupid little villages are like. They'd raise the alarm within hours. And you know what the boss says."
He was pulling his leather gloves back on, and he and Leo advanced toward Frau Acht, who was opening her mouth to scream.
Leo nodded, disconsolate. "No loose ends."
He grabbed Frau Acht by the shoulders, as Heinrich's gloved hand covered her nose and mouth.
No one would know for a long time where or how Frau Acht had disappeared. It was finally assumed in the village that she had become lost in the blizzard on her way back from sending the telegraph message for Frau Friesler (whose mother did arrive within a day or two, by the way, and mother and baby both lived and thrived).
The following spring, a farmer driving his cattle to a high pasture would find Frau Acht's body, wedged between large rocks just up the hill from the Postamt, as the mountain's snows were melting.
Remarkably, during that same deadly late-November blizzard, two other postmistresses in small villages in the Nessental Valley also disappeared. Their bodies, however, were never found.
The local constabulary puzzled over the three missing women for a while, but they were able to make nothing of the mystery.
It might even have been a case for Sherlock Holmes, had Sherlock Holmes still existed in the world.
Strange things sometimes happened in these mountains; weird and unnatural things that no one could explain.
But life, as a whole, went on.