But as Blackburn passed, Charlotte caught his hands and said, “You will catch them, won’t you? The people who did this to Norrie?”
Bending down, he pressed her hands in his. “Miss Benchley, I shall not rest until the foul assailants of your fiancé have been caught, tried, and executed.”
I flinched at the word “executed”—it seemed brutal to mention death to a young woman so recently acquainted with it.
But Charlotte, for the first time since Norrie’s murder, smiled.
* * *
When the inspector had gone, I led Charlotte back upstairs. Despite the brightness of the day, her bedroom was dark, the curtains still closed. I went to open them, but she shook her head.
“Do you need anything, Miss Charlotte?” I asked.
“Yes.” Sitting down, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I need clothes.”
I glanced at the wardrobe, which I knew to be stuffed with dresses.
“I have nothing in black, and I don’t want to be seen in public until I do. And I’ll need something for the funeral.”
It was not for me to tell Charlotte that it would be irregular for her to wear mourning for Norrie Newsome. Not only were Charlotte and Norrie not married, their engagement had never been formally announced. It was by no means certain that the Benchleys would even be asked to attend the funeral.
I said carefully, “Perhaps we should wait until we hear what the funeral arrangements will be.”
She gave me a sharp look. “Norrie was to be my husband. I want people to remember that.”
Her phrasing struck me as odd, but before I could think why, we heard a cry from outside. “Newsome murder! Grisly new details! Newsome murder! Get it here first!”
Charlotte went white and gripped the shawl to her throat. I hurried down the stairs and out the servants’ entrance. On the avenue, I saw a newsboy outside the Benchley house. He was maybe six years old, dressed in short pants, which showed grimy shins. His coat was out at the elbows; his lump of a hat had been gnawed at by mice. The crowd of reporters had left with Inspector Blackburn, giving the boy free rein in the street.
He shouted, “Extra, extra! Robert Norris Newsome Jr. murdered!”
Approaching, I said, “Take your wares the next block over or I’ll call the police.”
Holding his batch of newspapers firmly under a broken shoe, he turned his back on me. “Newsome murder! Eyewitness account! Not fit for ladies or the weak of heart!”
That got him a sale from two girls. As they hurried on down the street, one opened the paper and said, “Ooh, they bashed in his face…”
I was about to tell the boy he would sell more papers if he moved a few blocks to the more crowded commercial streets when a man strolled up and said, “That’s fine, Joe, you head on downtown.” He handed him a dollar, and the boy ran off.
I knew the voice immediately, but couldn’t place the name. Then I saw the face. The happy brown eyes, the black hair coming loose from under the brim of a shabby derby. The broad, self-satisfied grin.
“It’s Jane, right?” he asked. “Jane Prescott?” He gave me a slight tip of the hat. “Michael Behan.”
“Why aren’t you waiting tables? Because you’re not a waiter. I knew you weren’t.”
“These big parties, you have to hire extra staff. Sadly, not all of them are well trained.”
“What newspaper do you work for?”
“Town Topics.”
The worst of the scandal sheets. I turned to go.
“You’ll want to talk to me, Miss Prescott.” I kept walking. “For one thing, I can make Louie stay away. Or I can make him come back. And, boy, is he loud.”
I stopped.
“Be a shame if Miss Benchley had to hear the details of her beloved’s murder shouted out in the streets.”
“What do you want?”
“To talk to you, Miss Prescott. After all, you found the body. Didn’t you?”
It’s a strange moment when you learn you are the focus of someone’s interest. Strange—and oddly compelling. I had a brief memory of the day Mrs. Armslow offered me a job, that confused, exhilarated feeling that life could be entirely different.
It could also be quite dangerous, I thought, remembering the warning I gave to Mary. “You’re right. I should talk to the police. And while I’m at it, I’ll ask them to send someone to the house. Around the time Louie’s here. Police and newsboys don’t get along very well, do they?” Running off newsboys was a favorite pastime of policemen. It didn’t require much effort, involved no danger, and yet they could say they were disposing of a public nuisance.
I started walking back to the house. Behan ran ahead of me. “Your little lady’s in the papers, Miss Prescott. And some of the things I’m hearing … well.”
“An anarchist killed Norrie Newsome, Mr. Behan.”
“There’s many who say so and some that don’t.”
That stopped me. “What do you mean?”
“Young Mr. Newsome was a complicated fellow. There’s a few people I can imagine wanting to take a swipe at him.” He lowered his voice. “Talk to me, Miss Prescott. I’d like to help.”
He sounded sincere, but the Irish are skilled at faking sympathy. Saying, “I’m sure,” I made to go around him.
He dodged left. “Mud sticks, Miss Prescott. A lady’s name shouldn’t be in the papers at all, but it’s not so bad if she comes out the pure-hearted soul robbed of her happiness and innocence by the foul hand of—”
“Is that your headline?”
“It could be,” he said. “Come on, Miss Prescott. Don’t you think a young lady could use a friend?”
“Yes, but not you,” I said and moved to turn the corner.
He pulled something from inside his coat. “Have a look at the latest edition.”
The ink was still wet, and I took it gingerly. I unfolded the paper to the front page. The newsboy had promised horrible new details, and the paper delivered on that promise. The lead story was a gory reverie on the state of Norrie Newsome’s body. Savage beating! Eyes mashed to pulp! Once-smiling mouth a broken, bloody ruin! I knew it was all true, that the eyewitness had seen what I saw. But who was the eyewitness?
Then I saw on the lower part of the left page a smaller, insinuating headline:
STRANGE NEW EVIDENCE FOUND AT THE SCENE OF THE DREADFUL CRIME!
What do Dr. Forsythe’s Pep Pills have to do with the murder of Robert Norris Newsome Jr.? Our sources tell us that a bottle of them was found near the unfortunate young man’s mutilated body. Popular among the fashionable set, Pep Pills are known to impart fresh energy, bright eyes, and a singular glow to ladies in need of renewed vim. They are not commonly used by gentlemen.
WHY WERE PEP PILLS FOUND NEAR THE BODY OF ROBERT NORRIS NEWSOME JR.?
So this was why the inspector had inquired about Pep Pills. If Town Topics knew that Mrs. Benchley was a fan of Dr. Forsythe’s remedy, it was keeping it quiet for now. And it was essential I do the same. Thrusting the paper back at him, I said, “Thank you, but no.”
He didn’t take it. “Michael Behan. Town Topics. Remember, Miss Prescott, if you ever have something to say, I’m your man.”
* * *
Normally, someone in my position should speak to no one higher than the housekeeper, who might then convey my thoughts to the mistress of the house. But we had no housekeeper, and I did not think Mrs. Benchley would make anything useful of what I had to say. Still, the family had to be warned that a newspaper had set its sights on Charlotte. So that night, I resolved to speak with the head of the household.
As a rule, servants are supposed to simply enter a room, our presence so discreet as to be unnoticeable. To request permission to enter is an intrusion into the employer’s consciousness. But I had never approached Mr. Benchley before, so I knocked. There was a long pause. Then I heard a cautious “Come in.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.” Approaching his desk, I laid the copy of Town Topics on his
desk, open to the Pep Pills story. “But a reporter gave me this, and I thought you should see it.”
Touching a finger to the very edge of the page, he pulled the paper toward him. He cast his eyes over the sheet for a few moments. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Mrs. Benchley has used the product,” I said carefully. He nodded. “I think the reporter might pursue the story further.”
Mr. Benchley pushed the paper from him. “There won’t be a story to pursue for much longer. Anarchists are careless. Someone will give him up.”
I did not think of Anna as careless, but there was no point in saying so. Careless people returned messages. Careless people told their friends what they were doing, shared their opinions of recent events. Reassured you that they had not been arrested for murder—or indeed committed murder.
To date, Anna had done none of those things.
* * *
A day later, the venerable Mrs. James Newsome arrived in New York, and it was announced that the funeral would take place at the Newsome estate in Rhinebeck. The Newsomes let it be known that they would be staying at their estate for a time after the interment. The press attention had grown intolerable. Several of New York’s finest families would be in attendance; to our great relief, the Benchleys were among those included. Charlotte and Louise were even invited to stay on after the funeral.
Given Norrie Newsome’s youth and celebrity, you might have expected his funeral to be elaborate, with a service at St. Bartholomew’s, the cream of society acting as pallbearers, and police holding back crowds eager for a glimpse of the eminent guests. You might have expected the upper class to make a great show of their power in defiance of those who wished to destroy them.
But upon her arrival, his grandmother had decided that quite enough attention had been paid to the Newsome family, and that Robert Norris Newsome Jr. would be remembered privately, among his own people. How they remembered him, what they remembered, would remain … private.
8
The Newsome mansion and its attendant gardens had once been described as “a most idyllic spot in this our fallen world,” by a particularly florid writer for The New York Times. Built under the auspices of the first Mrs. Newsome, the mansion had fifty-four rooms and was designed in the Beaux Arts style. I had seen this imposing limestone temple of wealth during my time with Mrs. Armslow. Set upon a seemingly endless flow of green lawn, the Hudson River flowing behind it, the house appeared to dominate the natural world, as if gods might emerge from behind the vast Roman columns to banish storm clouds or summon winds.
The gods were nowhere in evidence the day we arrived. Gray clouds hung heavy; the river ran icy and whitecapped; the grounds were patchy with mud and frost. The celebrated rose gardens were bare. The family vault where Norrie’s mother was interred—and where he would lie—stood some distance from the house, a pale, solitary structure with the name Newsome carved in stone.
A Pullman train had been arranged to escort the coffin and Norrie’s immediate family. Mrs. Newsome Sr. requested that close friends and members of the service travel separately; the Pullman was to be for blood relatives. There was an anxious day at the Benchleys as we waited to hear whether Charlotte would be included in the Pullman group. She was not. Norrie’s grandmother was making her influence felt.
So the Benchleys traveled separately, with their staff and luggage going ahead on the train. On the omnibus from the station, I sat squeezed in between Matchless Maude and Mr. Benchley’s valet, Jack. We were met at the back of the southern end of the house by a Mrs. Farrell, who was the housekeeper. She was an older woman, in her late forties, thin and sharp-eyed, her faded brown hair well threaded with gray. There was a disdain in her manner, and I felt accused, as if I were a butcher passing off poor meat for good or a scullery maid who’d been caught with her hand in the jewelry drawer. I could do my job without her help, but it’s useful to have the housekeeper’s goodwill when you’re visiting, as she has the power to make things like laundry easy or difficult. I wondered why I hadn’t seen her on the night of the ball. But as Charlotte told the inspector, there had been so many people. And my mind had been otherwise occupied.
Leaving Maude and Jack in the room given to the senior Benchleys, Mrs. Farrell took me to the rooms selected for the girls. Charlotte had been given a beautiful bedroom overlooking the river, and I said, “It’s very thoughtful of the Newsomes to give Miss Charlotte such a lovely room.”
Mrs. Farrell pulled the drapes open with a sharp motion. “There was a fine battle over whether to have Miss Benchley at all, I can tell you.”
“Oh?”
She crossed to the second set of windows, clearly torn between the call of discretion and the desire to put me in my place. Arrogance won, and she added, “Mrs. Newsome was completely against it.”
“Rose Newsome?” I said, surprised.
“Mrs. James Newsome,” she corrected, referring to Norrie’s grandmother. “Said Norrie had no business being engaged to her and she’d been here, it never would have happened.”
“Well, she wasn’t and it did,” I said.
“And didn’t that turn out well?” She opened the door to the bathroom, showing me the location of that essential room.
I asked, “So who should the Benchleys thank for the invitation?”
“Her.” I could see to even say the name Rose Newsome irritated the woman. “Said Norrie had chosen her to be his wife and to not have her would be to dishonor his wishes. Mrs. Newsome said that’s exactly what his wishes deserved. But like calls to like, and Rose Newsome took up for your girl.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Farrell,” I said. “I can manage from here.”
I was not a member of the household, so I did not witness the funeral, which was held the following day. Normally a funeral would be followed by a reception, but Mr. Newsome was too ill to receive a multitude of mourners, so the family and their houseguests simply returned to the estate after the service. From Louise’s window, I caught a brief glimpse of Mr. Newsome as he walked up the path. He had aged a lot in the space of a week; his face and body sagged as if anticipating his final return to the earth. His young wife held him by the arm as they made sad, careful progress into the house.
Lucinda walked with her grandmother. The old woman relied on her cane but seemed vital enough. If anything, Lucinda leaned on her, her homely face heavy with grief.
The Benchleys followed at a distance.
The evening was spent in that strange limbo that follows a big event; officially, there is nothing left to be done, and yet no one feels ready to go back to their daily lives. Everyone was exhausted and miserable. It would have been much better had they all retired to their rooms for the rest of the day. But conversation must be made, dinner served and eaten, books read, puzzles worked on, sad memories shared.
I waited in Louise’s room to hear the first footsteps on the stairs. At around nine o’clock, I heard the creak of floorboards. From the sound of it, a young woman was slowly making her way up the stairs. I went to the door. But as she came into view, I saw that it was not Charlotte or Louise. It was Lucinda Newsome. Curious as to what she was doing in the guest wing, I closed the door to a sliver.
She stood at the top of the stairs, gazing around the hallway as if she were in an unfamiliar house. Watching her, I wondered how I would style her to compensate for the weak chin; low, sloping bosom; and heavy buckteeth. Her eyes were large and fine, the dark hair thick, if a little coarse.
She was looking for something, gazing at each door for a moment before moving on. Then, stopping in front of Charlotte’s door, she opened it. From where I was, I could just see inside, Charlotte’s nightgown already laid out on the bed, her satin slippers on the floor.
Lucinda took hold of either side of the door frame, her fingers curling tensely on the oak molding. She stared hard into the room, her breath coming ragged and quick. Then she reared her head back and spit, a terse, irrevocable mark of contempt.
Then she closed the door an
d hurried back down the stairs.
* * *
The next day, the senior Benchleys left. Whether out of defiance or an unwillingness to let go of this last part of Norrie, Charlotte was determined to stay, seemingly content to sit by the parlor window, her hands resting on an unopened book.
Louise spent the morning similarly occupied. But after lunch, she came upstairs.
“I told them I wanted to take a nap,” she said. “I’ve said absolutely everything I can remember about birds—Mother told me it was the thing to talk about in the country. But no one seems interested.”
“They have their minds on other things,” I told her. “And I would imagine they don’t know any more about birds than you do.”
“And you won’t believe who’s coming to dinner tonight. Of all people…”
My mind sifted through the possible names, arriving with dread at the answer just as Louise said, “The Tylers.”
She added, “William Tyler was a pallbearer. I didn’t know he and Norrie were friends.”
“Oh, yes,” I said absently. “Mrs. Armslow’s Newport house was close to the Newsomes’, and the Tylers often came to stay. William, Beatrice, Lucinda, Emily … and Norrie spent summers together.”
I remembered one summer after I began tending to Mrs. Armslow. By then, she was unable to leave her bed. The Tylers were staying with their aunt for the month, and with three young Tylers—Beatrice, Emily, and William—and the young Newsomes often visiting, the house was full of youthful energy. I saw William Tyler more than the others because he alone visited his great-aunt every day. His father had been a favorite of hers, and she took a special interest in the son. He answered her halting questions about his school. No, he had not been accepted to this club, as his father had, but he had joined a different one with some fine fellows in it. Yes, he did play on the football team, as his father had … well, not quite on the team itself. But he was the team manager, responsible for making sure they had what they needed at matches, and next year, the coach felt he might be able to play in an actual game.
A Death of No Importance--A Novel Page 8
