A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  The drapes did make it easier to creep around the edge of the room while keeping an eye out for Louise. Mrs. Benchley was nowhere to be seen. But I saw Mr. Benchley as he endured the chatter of one of the lesser Vanderbilts.

  “It’s an outrage!” the lesser Vanderbilt insisted. “Bombs at the opera, the mayor shot, this newspaper business, and now death threats.”

  A few moments later, I saw Lucinda Newsome standing silent between Mrs. Hayes-Smith and Emily Tyler. I paused, thinking Louise might find refuge in this group. Mrs. Hayes-Smith was an earnest little woman who thought herself shy, despite the fact she monopolized every conversation. Emily was a flighty, pretty girl permanently on the verge of a giggle, and only Lucinda’s deep seriousness held her at bay as Mrs. Hayes-Smith said, “But what are all these rights these suffragettes want? I’m sure I have enough to do as it is without them. And I think many women think as I do.”

  “Oh, I do,” giggled Emily. “Absolutely.”

  She glanced at Lucinda, trying to engage her in the joke. Mrs. Hayes-Smith also gazed at her. Her voice shaking slightly, Lucinda said, “I’m afraid I don’t agree. I think no country worthy of being thought civilized can bar half its population from taking part in political life.”

  “But if women are encouraged to imagine they can have rich, rewarding lives outside the home, what will it mean for families?” said Mrs. Hayes-Smith. “The family is the bedrock of our society.”

  But Mrs. Hayes-Smith no longer had Lucinda’s attention. Something had caught her eye. I looked where she looked and saw Rose Newsome. She was managing the attentions of two eager gentlemen. One was pressing on her the drink created for her at the St. Regis Hotel, the Rose Blush. She raised a hand in polite refusal.

  “If,” said Lucinda Newsome loudly, “the family is the bedrock of our society, then the country is in very deep trouble indeed.”

  And she left Mrs. Hayes-Smith with her mouth open and Emily with her mouth covered as she tried unsuccessfully to hide her laughter. Looking around for diversion, she spotted me.

  “Jane,” she said, smiling, “what are you doing hiding among the plants?”

  Emily Tyler was not the kind of girl to trust with news of a social gaffe. The Amusing Story of the Missing Gloves would be around the room before I could reach Louise. “I need to give Mrs. Benchley a message. Have you seen her?”

  “No,” said Emily. Then, unexpectedly serious, she said, “It isn’t true, is it? What people are saying about Norrie and Charlotte?”

  As she took a step toward me, I realized her green and gold dress was familiar to me. It was not this year’s style; in fact, it was not even last year’s. The lace on the bodice was stiff with overcleaning, the cuffs frayed. I knew if I glanced down, I would see the seams where the skirt had been taken up to fit Emily’s shorter frame.

  When she heard nothing from me, Emily said, “Well, I hope it’s not true—for everyone’s sake,” and moved back into the crowd.

  The mood of the party was uneasy. The news of death threats against the family combined with the rumors of an unattractive match for Norrie had the guests on edge.

  A clumsy waiter nudged a guest with a tray, and the woman screamed in fright, apparently under the impression she had felt the cold nudge of the anarchist’s gun. Near an elaborate arrangement of Christmas roses, Helen Lauder lectured Mrs. Tyler, saying, “It’s entirely your own fault, Florence. Allow new people in and they’ll take everything. You might as well hand your silver plate over to burglars.”

  Then I spied Norrie weaving through a clutch of small tables. Revelers taking to the dance floor left their drinks behind, and Norrie was taking the glasses up one by one and drinking the remains. Drunkenness did not improve his appearance. His hair was disheveled, his face red. His clothes looked as if he had been wrestling in them.

  I looked for Charlotte nearby, but did not see her. This was odd. But it was almost eleven; perhaps she had gone upstairs to make certain she looked her best.

  I saw Rose Newsome approach. Taking the glass from Norrie’s hand, she passed it to a waiter, then instructed him to clear the rest of the glasses. Then, steeling herself, she turned to her stepson, who was, I realized, older than she was.

  She asked Norrie, “Where is Charlotte?”

  “With her grotesque mother or gargoyle sister, I suppose.”

  “Hadn’t you better find her?”

  “I have better things to do.”

  Her fingers curled briefly into a fist, then relaxed. “Go to the kitchen and have some coffee.” He laughed. “Do it, Norrie. You … you have to give the ring to Charlotte soon, and your father will want to make the announcement at midnight.”

  “‘Your father will want to make the announcement,’” Norrie mimicked her. “He should announce his own wedding. Let everyone show their joy.”

  I felt sorry for Mrs. Newsome, who was no doubt torn between giving her brattish relation the slap in the face he deserved and maintaining peace.

  “Think of Charlotte,” she said quietly. “Isn’t one broken heart enough?”

  Norrie gave a derisive bark, and with sudden force, Mrs. Newsome said, “Or if you won’t think of Charlotte, think of your father. You’ve put us in an awful position. Let’s at least try to get through it with some grace. He has enough to worry about with these threats.”

  “Threats. I say, let ’em do it. Kill us off one by one.” He made a gun of his finger and shot several guests.

  Then he took aim at his stepmother. Placing the tip of his finger between her dark eyes, he murmured, “Who will be the first to go? Why, the one who doesn’t belong…”

  I stepped out from the curtain and said, “Mr. Newsome? I’m dreadfully sorry, but Miss Benchley has been asking for you.”

  At first Rose Newsome was startled by the interruption. Then, understanding she’d been rescued, she smiled in conspiracy. “There, you see? Poor Charlotte, I suppose she wants to dance, and she’s such a charming dancer, too.”

  Calmly taking hold of his hand, she handed it to me. “Take him directly to Miss Benchley.” Then in a lower voice, “And clean him up if you can.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I promised her.

  Just as we were about to leave the ballroom, Lucinda appeared. Reaching out, she said, “Norrie, we must talk.”

  Norrie sighed. “Not if it’s the same old song. Sorry, Lu.”

  Lucinda looked frustrated—more than frustrated—by my presence, but she had no choice but to let us go. At first, Norrie seemed to find it amusing to be led by the arm by a servant. Then he saw I meant to keep my promise and became difficult. He jerked his arm out of my hand several times, but he was drunk and I was determined.

  Finally he hissed, “You touch me again and I’ll break your jaw.”

  I should have been afraid; he meant it. But there was something in his weak viciousness that put me in mind of drunks I saw on the Bowery, raging at the world for their misfortune—never thinking how much misfortune they caused others. For a moment, I forgot that I was only Jane Prescott, and said, “That would be a pretty scene.”

  We were about to test the truth of his threat when Beatrice Tyler came up behind us. Her face was flushed and her mouth was uncertain. Composing herself, she said, “Good evening, Jane. May I borrow Mr. Newsome a moment?”

  “You certainly may,” said Norrie, putting his hand out to her. She did not take it. “What?” he said, turning it over. “Don’t you want it?”

  “Do I want it back, you mean?” asked Beatrice.

  “Oh, have it for now, at least.”

  Beatrice gazed at him, then took Norrie’s hand. As the two of them made their way to the dance floor, I saw her put her lips close to his ear. After a moment, he laughed. Charlotte had chosen her opponent unwisely. Beatrice had all her mother’s wits—and twice her ruthlessness.

  * * *

  What to do? Norrie was not with Charlotte, he was with Beatrice, and it was after eleven. These three truths could result in something very u
gly by midnight. As I tried to decide whether to look for Charlotte or stop Norrie from dancing with Beatrice, a voice from behind asked, “Dance?” and a strong arm spun me around.

  It was the Irish waiter. Unthinking, I took two or three steps with him. Then I pushed him aside.

  “Rude!” he exclaimed. “And here I am about to do you a favor.”

  “What favor?” I snapped.

  “I’ve seen your little lost cow by the hors d’oeuvres. Her hooves seem a tad naked.”

  Louise! I started off, barely hearing the waiter’s cry of “You owe me, remember that!”

  Louise was indeed by the hors d’oeuvres, besieged by three gossip seekers. Her hands were behind her back, and she had that wide-eyed, trapped look I knew very well. Reaching into the circle, I said, “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Louise. Miss Charlotte says you’re to come right away.”

  One of the bright-eyed chatterers said, “Charlotte? Where is she?”

  “Where she ought to be,” I said. Just then the band struck up a popular tune, and the girls were distracted by the search for dance partners.

  As I pulled her through the crowd, Louise said, “Then Charlotte is still here?”

  I stopped. “What do you mean?”

  “No one can find her. Mother’s frantic. I’ll tell her you know where she is.”

  “I don’t,” I said. “It was an excuse. To give you these.” I held out the gloves—which now seemed rather beside the point.

  My mind grappled with various necessities, settling on one: Find Charlotte.

  “Miss Louise, will you do something for me? So I can help your sister?” Louise swallowed nervously at the word “do,” but nodded. “Find Norrie Newsome. He’s dancing with Beatrice Tyler. Find him and dance with him.”

  “I’m a dreadful dancer.”

  “You’re not—and anyway, that doesn’t matter. What matters is you keep Mr. Newsome away from Miss Tyler until we can find your sister.”

  It was a lot to ask Louise Benchley. But, lifting her chin high, she advanced in the direction of the dance floor. Yes, without her gloves.

  My first task was to make certain Charlotte was still in the house. She would never have walked home—even in extreme distress. I crossed the courtyard to the Newsome garage—a cathedral of automobiles—to find O’Hara, the Benchleys’ chauffeur, fast asleep behind the wheel, an empty bottle of champagne on the floor.

  Charlotte had not left the party. So why at her moment of triumph was she nowhere to be found? Heart pounding, I reviewed the possibilities. Charlotte could be hiding, provoked by some insult of Norrie’s. Or Beatrice’s. Who, now that I thought of it, had been looking rather triumphant when she asked to “borrow” Norrie.

  It was also possible that Charlotte had already gone to the library to meet Norrie, and we were all worried over nothing.

  As I walked through the small courtyard back to the main house, I caught sight of a figure in the shadows. I strained to see if it was Charlotte. No, I decided, the shape was about the right height, but distinctly masculine. Seeing me, whoever it was turned a corner and disappeared.

  I hurried back through the kitchen, where people were beginning to work their way through the stacks of soiled plates and cutlery. As I reached the hall to the library, the clock began to strike midnight. I listened for the clinking of glasses and call for attention that would precede the announcement. But the music and the chatter of the party flowed on.

  I came to the library doors and felt a qualm. These were not things for me to meddle with. If Charlotte were in there, impatient or distraught, she would not welcome me. If even now Norrie was presenting her with his grandmother’s ring, my intrusion would be even less welcome.

  I listened for voices. I heard none.

  Turning the handle, I stepped inside the deeply carpeted room. A fire burned, the crackling flames providing the only light. Every significant family occasion, from christenings to wakes, was held there, witnessed by the family founder, James Newsome, who now hung framed in gold above the fireplace, stern-faced and patriarchal, clad in good, plain black cloth. It was a large space, with two entrances; one led to the kitchen, the other back to the ballroom. Rows of books sat importantly behind glass. Heavy curtains hid the windows. Shadows were everywhere. Suddenly nervous of venturing too far from the door, I called out, “Miss Charlotte?” Silence answered. But not, I thought, the silence of absence.

  I was about to call Charlotte’s name again when I saw it. I could not tell you why the hand lying on the floor struck me with dread. The stiffness of the fingers, the desperate stretch of the arm … this was not sleep. My heart, swollen and heavy with fear, thudded painfully as I stepped closer to see Norrie Newsome, heir to the Newsome fortune, lying dead under the fierce, judgmental eye of his ancestor.

  * * *

  Destroyed.

  The word kept sounding in my head even after I had averted my eyes from the sight of Norrie Newsome’s ruined face. In the firelight, one could see that a few teeth still hung, white streaked with blood, to identify the mouth. Two sockets red and raw could be discerned as eyes by position only. The nose was simply gone.

  The fire in the grate cracked, throwing a flare of light onto Norrie’s forehead, still high and perfect, save for the damp, dark patch at his hairline. I found myself hoping that blow had been struck first, that he had been unconscious for the rest. Stupid with shock, I kept looking at the eyes. Or what had been the eyes. Particular violence had been done to them; they were not merely crushed but … gouged.

  I forced myself to look elsewhere, down to Norrie’s shoes and back up. Silk socks, pants, even buttons, all neutral things. The hand came back into view, and my gaze jumped again. A stain. There was a pale, pasty stain on the lapel of his jacket. Sauce from dinner, I decided, and suddenly had to press the back of my fingers to my mouth and swallow something sour.

  Someone must be told. There it was—the thing to do. Mr. Benchley. He would know what to do, how to inform the Newsomes, contact the police. And it had to be done soon, while the killer could still be caught …

  A log in the fireplace popped and I cried out. My breath came fast, until it felt my lungs could not keep up. In my confusion, I felt strongly that I was not alone.

  I found myself rushing to the door that led to the stairs and down to the ballroom. My teeth were chattering, and I held my jaw rigid to stop them. My heart physically ached from beating so hard. I tried to gather myself, walk calmly.

  “Well, hello.”

  The waiter—the infernal Irish waiter. I kept walking. But he grabbed my arm.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  My answer was to try to pull free. But he held on. “You’re shaking, what’s happened?”

  “Let me go.”

  “Something’s happened, tell me.”

  “No.” I struggled. “Let me go.”

  He might have said, “Let me help you,” but I did not hear him because all of a sudden I found I could say nothing except “Let me go,” over and over, my voice rising until I sounded quite hysterical. But I couldn’t make myself stop. Even when he had let me go and was only patting the air in front of me, saying, “Yes, all right—”

  “Jane.” At the sound of Mr. Benchley’s voice, I turned to see him at the top of the stairs, tall and impressive in his evening clothes. “Is this man troubling you?”

  Fighting to keep my mind in order, I said, “No, Mr. Benchley.”

  “Go back to work,” he instructed the waiter.

  Glancing at me, the waiter said, “Yes, sir.” He slowly started making his way toward the stairs.

  “Now,” said Mr. Benchley, and the waiter disappeared through the double doors.

  I whispered, “Mr. Benchley, would you come with me, please?”

  As if I hadn’t spoken, he said, “Have you seen Miss Charlotte? No one can find her. I thought perhaps she was in the library.”

  “Mr. Benchley, you have to come with me,” I told him. Moving a little down
the hall, I gestured to the closed library door.

  But Mr. Benchley was not a man to be lured. “Jane, what is this?”

  “It’s—” I did not want to say the words aloud, but if it was necessary to get Mr. Benchley into that room before Charlotte arrived, I would. “It’s Norrie…”

  At the mention of that name, Mr. Benchley’s expression turned grim and he began striding down the hall. We were steps from the door when I heard a woman scream; we were too late. But when Mr. Benchley pushed the door open, it was not Charlotte but Rose Newsome we saw kneeling helpless by the body. The other door to the library stood open, casting an ugly yellow light into the dark room.

  “Stay away,” she screamed toward the door. “Stay away, my darling, please! You mustn’t come in.” Looking to us, her eyes wild, she whispered, “His father can’t see him like this, please, keep him away until—”

  But the yellow light was cut as Mr. Newsome appeared at the door. He stopped there, his bulky frame filling the space. He staggered a moment, then caught the oak trim of the doorway, and that kept him upright. But his jaw went slack and his knees began to buckle. Her hair coming undone and slipping down her back, Rose Newsome ran to him. Sinking with him, his wife shielded him from the awful sight, pressing his face to the black velvet of her dress. Her body shook with the force of his howls.

  Mr. Benchley instructed me to close the doors.

  * * *

  There were detectives, Mrs. Newsome informed us, on the premises. They must be found and brought to the library. She told Mr. Benchley their names and where they were stationed. Her husband did not speak, lost in his grief.

  The four of us were still in the hallway that stood between the library and the ballroom. I said tentatively, “Shall I look for Miss Charlotte?”

  Mrs. Newsome stared at me. “What do you mean, look for her?”

  His jaw rigid, Mr. Benchley said, “My daughter would seem to be—”

  Then the far door opened and a voice called out, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Is Norrie furious with me?”

  My first thought was that it was not Charlotte who walked toward us, but a different woman altogether. Then I thought, no, she only looked different. Maybe I had dreamed the events of the last two hours, and the Benchleys and Newsomes, having just finished dinner, were now on their way upstairs to dress for the ball.